March 31, 2008: Spring has arrived

It's spring. Somehow it took me over a week to notice this fact. Wait, no, I know exactly why: it's 40 degrees outside. It was even colder yesterday. Two days ago it was upwards of 70 degrees. If we go by the old saying that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, it is currently stuck in a hybrid state. Living in the South, you get used to the seasons stumbling into one another. You learn to Google the weather before getting dressed. According to Google, tomorrow will be 70 degrees again.

~*~*~

Signs you've done music too long, presented by Thursday:

- You hear someone whistling in the dining hall and think "Hey, that's Carol of the Bells. It's almost April," only to immediately follow it up with "Wait, that's the *alto* part of Carol of the Bells!"

- You're in choir working on the Brahms Requiem (I could probably stop here and it'd work) and you hear a certain part the sopranos sing in the sixth movement and think, "Hey, that's Sweeney Todd!" and are sorely tempted to burst out with "And my Lucy lies in ashes..."

- You do the same thing when watching the BBC Jane Eyre.

- You do research on said part, and find out that said part is actually based on Dies Irae, and feel the need to correct your prior statement.

And I'm not even a major.

March 24, 2008: A vignette

Someone is listening to what sounds like a children's singalong version of country, only tinnier. I don't know if the tinniness stems from the song, the laptop it's being played on, or the distance between said laptop and me.

I have fond memories of children's singalongs. We owned several when I was young, and I loved them as much as any other movie of the time. I haven't noticed the childhood-nostalgia trend shift towards these singalongs (the trend evidenced in a recent DTH article; does anyone of college age really find it odd to have Disney songs on your iPod anymore? Between nostalgia and the High School Musical effect, it's mainstream.) so I will assume they're lesser known. There were several. I seem to remember they were either Disney-made with Disney songs, or involved Muppets and had songs like Kokomo and Country Roads. I was quite surprised when I learned that "Octopus' Garden' wasn't originally composed with animation and karaoke lyrics in mind.

~*~*~

This final tag is for me more than you, but I need to buy the new Goldfrapp and the new Veda Hille. If I make it to my concert post-recital I'll end up with music afterwards too, probably.

March 20, 2008: Bad taste and good music

Plastered outside the bus stop today was a sign that bowled me over with its absolute lack of taste. Here it is:

Check out the top left. If you can't see it, it says "RIP Eve Carson". In case you haven't been following the news, she was recently shot and killed.

However, you just know they Photoshopped that on there at the last minute. How do you know? Because it is utterly slapped on and doesn't fit the design at all.

That isn't the least of it. The problem is that you have this completely tacky sign which was carpetbombed all over campus (seriously, there were THREE of these at the bus stop which can barely fit a couple people!), which is selling sex in the cheapest way possible and trying to put a nice little halo on it by paying meager tribute to Eve Carson's death. Except that it doesn't work, and it is pathetic. I'm not even going to do a Things to Bemoan section today. This overshadows anything I could possibly mention.

~*~*

I should balance that monstrosity out with something positive, so I will: Laura Marling's album, Alas I Cannot Swim. There are plenty of young female singer-songwriters coming out of the United Kingdom getting plenty of press, some of whom deserve it more than others. This album wholeheartedly deserves it. It's a modern folk album, but not by the prevailing recipe: one dollop of canned quirk, a few contemporary terms. Nor is it stylized like traditional folk music (although I do love stylized, and the old ballads weren't all that stylized back then anyway. Not as much, anyway.).

Instead, the album feels like an eloquent conversation, thoughts falling into notes as they happen, haunting and spontaneous at once. The main instrument, since this is an acoustic folk album, is guitar, but there are also surprises: the giddy surge at the end of "Ghosts," the girl-group feel of "Crawled Out Of The Sea," the propulsive percussion behind "My Manic And I".

All of this would be impressive on its own, but the fact that she's 18 just compounds that. I've been listening to "My Manic And I" on loop for the past few hours. I know how foolish it is to start considering best-of-the-year lists in March, but I would not be surprised if I blogged about this in December.

March 17, 2008: Exhibits and green

If you had asked me to tell you about Chapel Hill's local music scene, you would have gotten a pathetic, stammered attempt: "Um, well, I think Ben Folds was from here, and, uh, a bunch of bands play here sometimes," and you would get the impression that a) Chapel Hill is a musical sinkhole, and b) I am a blustering idiot who needs to talk about something else.

I have no problem with the shameless leeching off other towns' music scenes. A quick survey of my music wiki reveals artists from various countries in North America and Europe - and yes, I realize the implications of that. 31 are American; 24 are British. I haven't gotten around to sorting them by state but I am fairly confident that none of the American artists and bands are from Chapel Hill; I would have figured that out by now with the amount of music press I digest in putting together their entries. Admittedly, it doesn't list artists whose music I don't own in some form, whether CD or mp3, but my demonstrated local knowledge should imply that none of them are from here either.

You may wonder why I bring this up. Self deprecation without reason is, on the whole, among the weaker ways to start writing. (Also, I take too many naps!) I do have a tie-in, don't worry. UNC could never claim a shortage of libraries; one of them, Wilson Library, functions more as a museum, periodically sponsoring exhibits which are usually quite good. The last exhibit I attended there (which is a bit of a puff-term, since I have only attended one) was on British Romantic poets. Books just looked so much more fantastic back then, because they were constructed by humans and influenced by human give-a-crap, rather than the carefully calibrated incisions of machines. It was fairly comprehensive. I enjoyed it.

Today was the opening of a new exhibit featuring the poster art of Casey Burns and Ron Liberta, who designed quite a few posters for the Chapel Hill music scene about which I am woefully uneducated. (Calling myself "undereducated" would be giving myself far too much credit.) I see poster art every day, but I couldn't tell you much about it besides its most obvious function. There was a reception, which I missed, a discussion segment, and then a concert. Since I consider myself a music fan, this seemed like the sort of thing I *should* attend, but to be honest, I only decided to go yesterday. I was paralyzed by my lack of knowledge. But if you take only one thing out of this blog, ever, take this - often, the amount of fear you have about something directly correlates to how worthwhile it will be for you. Use common sense with this rule. It applies well to cultural events; it doesn't apply so well to crossing freeways or taking leisurely walks on active battlefields. You do have a brain, right?

The discussion was interesting. Having sub-gorilla artistic skills (seriously; that gorilla who was in the news for painting things has more talent in that realm than I do), poster art is not a field I'm equipped to enter. But hearing about the music in the area was interesting, even if they didn't mention anyone I knew. I looked through the posters for sale afterwards, but again, I didn't know any of the bands on them. I don't know if that's because I got there late, or because there just weren't any. It wasn't surprising, in any case, and fit the ratio of concerts offered to concerts I actually want to attend. Incidentally, none of the people in the discussion bemoaned the state of music, as various editorials had. They said it went through "ebbs and flows," and the peak was either in the 1990s or around 2000.

As for the concert, I had to leave early and only caught Billy Sugarfix, who came out in a purple marching band suit and a variety of masks - OK, not so much a variety, it was two, one red mask and one cat mask. The songs were decent to listen to, although I appreciated the one traditional folk song in the set more than the modern folk songs, on aesthetics alone. Incidentally, the "You're X and I'm Y and this is why I love you" song structure is not something I endorse. I've bemoaned it in this blog twice already as written by a certain songwriter to whom I will not give more publicity by mentioning his name. The only instance I can think of which I liked was in Kate Bush's "Get Out Of My House," at the end, where it worked as a narrative device, had a serious intent whether you interpret the song as rape or demon possession, and - most important of all - was delivered free of the ironic "Look at me and how I'm subverting traditional romantic conceits!" sense that is slathered frostinglike over most songs in the style. This song had no such trait.

~*~*~
Today is also St. Patrick's Day and I am wearing green. It isn't on purpose; in my morning routine, I invariably forget about holidays on which you are expected to alter your wardrobe. Although it sounds incredible in retrospect, the fact that I wore a green shirt with a bright chartreuse jacket was an accident. It does help, however, as forgetting to wear green today is an excuse for socially-sanctioned harassment. Hell, even if you remember to wear it, you get harassed for remembering. It happened to me in the checkout line at the store, buying cheap headphones to replace the ones I left at home. I would very much appreciate it if somebody instituted some sort of social signifier that states I don't want to be bothered with inane comments. Ah well. Happy hangovers.

March 10, 2008: Spring break

It is spring break, despite the fact that spring hasn't officially arrived yet. I have a few sparsely scheduled activities: haircuts, appointments with tech support to try and fathom how the network in this house was set up, going to friends' houses to watch a bootleg of Wicked. These, however, are sparse. I have time to fill. This means venturing out into the world, reading, and wasting time online.

Lots of people take walks in my new neighborhood. They say it's safer in such places (as if the events of the past few days just don't exist) I suppose it's scenic, in the most broad application of term. There's a fake. A fake is a lake that isn't real. Based on size, I should probably call it a fond, but that isn't as funny. There are two fake/fonds on my path. It's like a marsh, only without the marsh. I walk for a while, and eventually end up at Elon University.

There are railroad tracks by Elon University. This is the first time I can remember that I have to cross them on foot. It feels both like something people should be doing, and vaguely scary. The wood on the tracks is very rugged. Refreshingly rugged. In driver's ed, they tell you dozens of grisly stories about how badly trains can kill you. There is no train, but that doesn't keep me from worrying. I am careful not to touch the metal of the tracks for fear that I'll die from touching the third rail. (I don't. I don't even think there was one.) I cross just fine, pass the Elon School (an object of contempt) and end up downtown.

The downtown center of UNC is Franklin Street. Elon has a block. It's 4:45. Not much to do. I go in and have a glass of water at a coffee shop, where one of the people asks me how exams are going and I awkwardly explain that I don't go to Elon. I have a very late lunch (since I woke up very late). Then, I walk back. It killed two hours productively, which is good.

~*~*~

I also stopped at Barnes and Noble. I have less of a problem with bookstore chains than with other chains simply because they sell Good Things. (See also Amazon.) There, I narrowly averted a financial catastrophe. I'm a bit poor right now, with tax time as soon as it is and having just paid my housing deposit. Barnes and Noble decided to tempt me with various and sundry sales and displays of books.

As a book shopper, I have problems with being marketed the most obvious books. It made me look bad in a book club I'm in when I requested that we not read "cliche contemporary novels". That's narrow-minded and also hypocritical, since I read plenty of them. The displays only carried them, of course. I escaped with two books: Stardust, since I liked the film, and Then We Came To The End, after it was referred to on Passive Aggressive Notes. I'm about halfway through the latter right now. I highly recommend it. It starts out highly funny, although it is growing quite serious (which is also good).

As for things online, I am enamored with Audiosurf: http://www.audio-surf.com/ . It is one of the few games/programs I have spent money on. The concept is pure genius: a racetrack/puzzle type game, but generated with your own music. Any song imaginable. Any mp3 imaginable, in fact; people have produced some pretty crazy tracks with things like square waves and such. (Listening to them, of course, isn't too pleasant.)

Things to cherish:

- When you're driving in the rain, the rainfall makes a nice rippling pattern on the driver's window. It's pleasant to watch. Music makes it better; it's like one of those "visualizations" that come with some music programs, only natural.

March 5, 2008: Apologies in advance to Faulkner

(preamble: Last night I was in a rather lengthy discussion with Kerry about artificial intelligence and its implications for society. A grossly simplified summary of our positions would be: him for, me against. Anyway. He proposed that people without sufficient social contacts could benefit from having an AI conversation bot around, simply to keep them company. It unnerved me, but at the time I couldn't exactly pinpoint why. It was 12:30 AM at this point, so perhaps that had something to do with it...

I figured that if I am supposed to be defending the domain of humanity to produce art, hacking away at the problem through logical debate might not be the best approach. It was about this time (that would be 3:30 AM, when I was supposed to be sleeping) that I thought of Faulkner's short story "A Rose For Emily". I won't spoil it if you haven't read it - and if you haven't read it, go Google it now. (This is the second work of literature I've told people to read whose title mentions roses. Huh.)

It seems to me that the same fundamental sort of creepiness in that story applies equally well to the scenario above. Except as I wrote it, it turned into something else. To go into detail would spoil the story (Faulkner's, not mine) Now, I shall shamelessly scribble a mustache on the Mona Lisa.

I make no claims regarding the quality of the following. I suppose that degrades my argument. If anything, I can defend the domain of humanity to produce kindergarten sketches! But. Faulkner could be a quick writer but even As I Lay Dying took him a couple of weeks. And, of course, I'm no Faulkner.

(Oh! And according to some people, Faulkner is indistinguishable from the machines anyway. I was waiting for an excuse to post that gem of the Internet.)

This is a lengthy preamble. I should Just Post Already.
----
There was only one glaringly undeveloped tract of land in Benton's city limits. It squatted on the map like a slug on the sidewalk, ugly and useless, encroaching upon practicality and form and land values. Thorns and ticks loitered where boutiques and bars could have been. Three separate officials had tried to conquer it, but each was thwarted by the presence of Emily Kent.

Theoretically, the city could have forced her out long ago. It had the resources. Emily was a Kent, however, and for either Mr. Kent on the planning board to publicly oust a Ms. Kent would be civic suicide, even for one as disowned or unknown as Emily. The only acceptable way would be her freely leaving: embracing Benton's future by retreating to its sidelines.

To that end, the planning board sent a series of genially worded, crisply typed letters, which I delivered by hand; Emily had neither computer nor accessible postal system. Supposedly the property had a mailbox at one time, but I certainly didn't know where to look.

The monthly letters were my only contact with her and, I suspected, her only contact with anyone. The board unanimously chose me for the job, on the grounds that I was "naturally personable," and, as the sole female member, the "most suitable to address Ms. Kent's unique psychological needs." One of the Kents produced a yearbook claiming I was in her middle school class. I was in no position to argue any of the points.

So every week I would park my car outside the Exxon and trudge on foot down the pebbled road that led to her home. Ostensibly it was a road, but there were never tire tracks to indicate it was used as one. Whenever it rained, split branches hailed down on the path and the branches gusted ever closer to the perimeter, like a fetid iron maiden.

I would open the door and cringe at the creak. Emily never cringed, or moved for that matter. Each time, she was burrowed into an old brown armchair which oozed foam from the sides. She would be reading, or scribbling away on papers or crossword puzzles, or staring blankly at the wall. She always wore, it seemed, the same powder-grey nightrobe. She never looked at the door or at me.

"Hello, Ms. Kent." I always greeted her this way since I knew she would not react. The first time I came, I had called her Emily. She turned slowly, like an oyster prying open its shell-halves, and then she looked at me, dust-brown hair tattered upon her cheeks, eyes lidded and lacquered by either mucus or formaldehyde. Her mouth was slack; her face sat somewhere between dim recognition and fright. I looked away. I couldn't do it. I never called her by her first name again; she was forever Ms. Kent.

"Ms. Kent, I have a letter for you from the Benton planning board."

"I do not wish to move," she would inform me with pressed syllables. Any further dialogue from me elicited the same response, intoned the same way. After the fifth visit, she dispensed with speech altogether and simply handed me two letters in compact script, the first stating "Mrs. Marsson: I do not wish to move," the second a duplicate, but omitting my name.

When my first few visits proved fruitless, the board sent me to meet with a psychologist and re-enact our encounter. Mr. Krakowski - that was his name - would pout in the corner while I pretended his frazzled eyebrows and hulklike body resembled Emily. I don't recall laughing, but I wanted to. Krakowski decided my speech was too "emotionally charged" and instructed me to eliminate any intonation, any quirk of sound that would, as he said, "shut her off."

So on my subsequent visits, I had rules. Don't mention the weather; it's obvious. Don't mention anyone else in the town; Emily would either not know them or dislike them. Be sparse; you are just a conduit. I followed the rules. I spoke each word on the exact note, enunciated every consonant, and paused a full half-second between each sentence. Emily responded with even more meticulous notes, taking second-long breaks after each word (raising her pen as if to emphasize) and dispensing with serifs: "Mrs. Marsson: I do not wish to move."

By the thirteenth visit, the board finally deemed my visits a failure. Emily, they agreed, was clearly unwilling to consent to move. A quandary. They brought Krakowski back; he quickly concluded that Emily's mental state was not conducive to legal consent. She needed regular social contact, he argued. When she interacted with people on a regular basis, she would be more open to their suggestions.

With the board's regularity of hours, none of us were free for the task. It needed delegation. A few days of advertisment brought in a candidate: an earnest University of Benton freshman.
----
(yeah, I'm still in the process of writing this. Also, apologies for my somewhat hasty exit, and no, I wasn't upset.)

March 4, 2008: I'm famous. Sort of.

Moral of the following story: Be careful what you say, because it may come back to bite you in the ass. Multiple times over.

In the introductory material of The Heady Heart Project,

"The Heady Heart Project is equally focused on the content and character of women’s art, recognizing that allegedly objective critical terms (ie “precious,” “strident” or “inaccessible”) often reinforce existing social hierarchies."

I don't recall using either of the latter two terms, but the "precious" bit is a direct reference to a post I made on the ecto list in regards to Noe Venable's 2007 album The Summer Storm Journals.

Long story short, I said my first impression was that it was precious. Apparently, this makes me the musical equivalent of Lawrence Summers. Surprising, really, when you take into account the fact that my CD collection (with physical CDs that I spent real money on) consists almost exclusively of albums by female artists. I figure I deserve a chance to defend myself.

I completely understand the point. I know that most words have surprising webs of connotations underneath them. You will, however, note two facts about my side of the story:

1) I paid money for this album, which is, I am willing to venture, doing more than 99.9% of America. (Actually, I paid money *twice* for this album, after accidentally throwing the CD away with its jewel case.)

2) It made my best of 2007 list. This is doing more than 99.999% of America. I could probably toss a few more decimal places in there and still be generous.

The problem here, I believe, is the identification of this as an "objective critical term". You can't use a first impression as an objective critical review - well, not unless you're one of the Maxim "critics". The general format of my comment was "At first I thought X, but then I came around to viewpoint Y, which I continue to hold." It implies a refutation of viewpoint X. Identifying X, then, as my thought-out opinion is a misinterpretation.


Perhaps it would be different if I published said post in a major publication, with a nice headline stating "Sarah's Best Albums Of 2007," but I didn't. It was a brief snippet, in a quickly-composed list for a year where I admitted I hadn't heard enough music to make a truly informed list. It certainly wasn't intended to be used - repeatedly - off-list in soundbite format.


I do support the project, even if I think there are some glaring omissions (Kate deserves at least an honorary mention.) I just wish I wasn't dragged into it as the opposition.