It seems I might have missed the event of the summer here. Over the past few weeks I had been hearing gushing praise for a band due to play Friday & Saturday nights at a venue downtown. The tone of the praise could be described as a mix of reverence and excitement.
My own reception of this praise was a mix of embarrassment and surprise. I couldn't believe that The Klocks were an unknown entity to me yet all of Fort Smith seemed to be agog. Generally, even if I don't know their music, the band's name will at least strike a resonant chord somewhere in the recess of my head. A name like "The Klocks" seems to hold a faint residue of hipsterdom so I was naturally surprised (and relieved) to find out they were just a party band, which is to say a cover band. For some reason I'm filled with the Seinfeldian urge to tack on a "not that there's anything wrong with that" anytime I refer to someone as a "cover band."
The hidden embarrassment and subsequent relief I experienced upon finding out that The Klocks were a cover band rests largely in my perception of myself. My thought process ran somewhat close to "how could these people, my fellow Fort Smithians, know a band that I, former resident of Austin and music lover, not know about?" I'm not entirely sure what's more embarrassing, the possibility of not knowing a band or the arrogance it requires to be embarrassed about it. An additional and unfortunate subtext is the quiet slight I gave this band by being relieved they were a cover band. Evidently it's acceptable to not know them as such.
Mixed within this is the unintentional irony of altered expectations. Austinites, like many dwellers of urban areas, are spoiled by the plethora and availability of acts and venues. One expects to be able to hear a class act on any night of the week. These expectations are wholly justified. Compare this situation to Fort Smith and one might think a depression would settle over me. While at times I miss being able to run down to the Hole in the Wall on a random Wednesday night, my own expectations shifted with my move home.
Life in a smaller town, with its slower pace, serves to intensify whatever minor events occur. When someone comes to town, even a popping covers act, it warrants the attention of the masses. Due to illness I unfortunately still do not have a first hand experience of The Klocks but even this unexperienced experience illustrates the ever changing landscape of my adaption to life here in the river city.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Community of Music
Aside from casual references I generally avoid writing about music. It's not for any lack of interest in music itself but as a result of aversion towards propagating my own tastes. For some reason I feel it smacks of elitism. There is no real logic behind this since I have never been too shy to promote my affection for a film (this stance is as illogical as my distaste for blogs before creating An Arkansan Abroad) ). I've always been slightly amused with elitist inclinations, especially when it comes to something like music. This, I think, is mainly due to my own preponderance for these tendencies. Despite this, I think that I've shied away from sharing my own tastes here out of self-consciousness and not out of elitist parsimony.
As a music lover I've always been somewhat of an outcast among the majority of my friends. Of the set who actually like music, my tastes might be deemed too old fashioned. For those that don't have an interest in music (at the risk of being elitist myself I should say, "taste in music") my tastes are too out there, too avant garde. This paradox is possible not out of fact but thanks to each sets particular interests, of which the latter ingests a semi-steady diet of popular radio tunes and the former a steady diet of independent and cutting edge artists.
Ironically it seems that everyone, myself included, deems their particular taste in music superior in some way to others. This is self-evident in those who like to pride themselves on "discovering" artists or bands. Getting in on the ground floor, so to speak, grants the person a sense of cultural hipness they are unable to find in listening to more established acts. Ancillary to this, and another manifestation of elitist tendency within music lovers, is the inclination for some to stop liking an artist once they become "mainstream." Though I openly accept my guilt for multiple hypocritical elitist stances over the years, I think this is one character flaw of which I'm largely free. Sure, I might bemoan the large concerts and pine for the intimate shows of the past but I try not to begrudge an act for "making it." The confluence of music and "elitism" is a paradox. Music, like food, is a communal expression, one that is best loved with others. And preferably those "others" will be loving it with you.
Perhaps I am alone in this sentiment but all of my favorite concerts were just as influenced by the people I was with as much as the particular artist or band. That communal experience, the exchange of knowing smiles as the guitarist hits a certain note or swaying along with your girlfriend as the vocalist croons your song, always makes the event worthwhile. Whether it was screaming along to My Morning Jacket with Kasia and the Dove or watching Cookies twisting across the front of the stage at Lambert's, it has always been those closest to me who push a musical experience over the top.
As a music lover I've always been somewhat of an outcast among the majority of my friends. Of the set who actually like music, my tastes might be deemed too old fashioned. For those that don't have an interest in music (at the risk of being elitist myself I should say, "taste in music") my tastes are too out there, too avant garde. This paradox is possible not out of fact but thanks to each sets particular interests, of which the latter ingests a semi-steady diet of popular radio tunes and the former a steady diet of independent and cutting edge artists.
Ironically it seems that everyone, myself included, deems their particular taste in music superior in some way to others. This is self-evident in those who like to pride themselves on "discovering" artists or bands. Getting in on the ground floor, so to speak, grants the person a sense of cultural hipness they are unable to find in listening to more established acts. Ancillary to this, and another manifestation of elitist tendency within music lovers, is the inclination for some to stop liking an artist once they become "mainstream." Though I openly accept my guilt for multiple hypocritical elitist stances over the years, I think this is one character flaw of which I'm largely free. Sure, I might bemoan the large concerts and pine for the intimate shows of the past but I try not to begrudge an act for "making it." The confluence of music and "elitism" is a paradox. Music, like food, is a communal expression, one that is best loved with others. And preferably those "others" will be loving it with you.
Perhaps I am alone in this sentiment but all of my favorite concerts were just as influenced by the people I was with as much as the particular artist or band. That communal experience, the exchange of knowing smiles as the guitarist hits a certain note or swaying along with your girlfriend as the vocalist croons your song, always makes the event worthwhile. Whether it was screaming along to My Morning Jacket with Kasia and the Dove or watching Cookies twisting across the front of the stage at Lambert's, it has always been those closest to me who push a musical experience over the top.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Helios & Me
Something inside me has changed over the last year. Since my travels took me to locales spread over three continents this might seem to be an obvious and somewhat understated comment. Change is of course the essence of travel, as it broadens horizons and educates.
Though I was fortunate to experience things I never dreamed I would, the change I've felt is not one of outlook. For lack of a better word, it's a "chemical" change. Something in my body has been thrown off kilter. I'm not ill, just off balance.
In the past I've been accused of having tendencies that were somewhat akin to a toddler. These have ranged from the way I walk to irritable behavior when I'm hungry. Even though I could become cranky when hungry, that reaction paled in comparison to my cantankerous nature when hot. I would become borderline dysfunctional. The fact that I was hot was all that I could think about. I was like a kitten with yarn, my focus was singular.
So you might have a better idea of what I'm trying to flesh out I should give some parameters. First, I love sports. I'm a competitor. I never shy away from athletic endeavors because of the heat. Sweat was okay when I was active. My problem was when I was inactive. When I was idle I expected a certain level of comfort and the warm temperature prevented this.
This has all changed somehow. To my own dismay I now enjoy the heat. Even though I'm blond and fair skinned, I find myself craving the sun. I drop the car windows in the summer when I would always pump the air conditioning. I sit outside to read when I once would lay on my bed under a fan.
Despite the fact that I like this "chemical" change, even though I like this "new" version of me, I'm at a loss to explain it. There are any number of scenarios that could be cast as an answer--the influence of a lover, my decision to replace my car with a bike last summer, or the act of travel itself. There is also the possibility that it is some sort of genetic or hormonal shift.
For the first time in my life I experienced what I would call an actual winter. Granted, Paris, France is a far cry from Fairbanks, Alaska but it is still a lot more of a winter than I ever saw growing up in Arkansas. There was of course the occasional snow or ice storm but I also have many memories of wearing shorts in January. The past six or seven years I spent in Austin were even warmer (a song by Brian Keane sums Austin winter up: "where the winter lasts from five to seven days"). As a result, I think that my body was not prepared for winter in Paris. It's not that it was that cold but it was constantly cold. Growing up in the south one expects a day to day variation of weather, most especially in the winter months. My own neurotic theory is that my body was sent into some sort of shock, a heat deprived trauma that induced a genetic need for the sun's warmth.
Since I will never truly know the exact origins of what sparked the changes within me, I choose to see it as one large amalgamation of influence, in other words: life. I suppose in a larger sense it doesn't matter much how a change is effected, just that personal stagnation is kept at bay. Once again I'm going to run the risk of seeming trite but my life this past year was without parallel. It had its ups and downs like ever other year but the experience was so visceral, so eidetic. Which, if you get down to it, that experience of truly living is really what I love about life. Perhaps it might even be the hidden reason for why I crave the heat now: the sensation reminds me I'm still here in this world.
Though I was fortunate to experience things I never dreamed I would, the change I've felt is not one of outlook. For lack of a better word, it's a "chemical" change. Something in my body has been thrown off kilter. I'm not ill, just off balance.
In the past I've been accused of having tendencies that were somewhat akin to a toddler. These have ranged from the way I walk to irritable behavior when I'm hungry. Even though I could become cranky when hungry, that reaction paled in comparison to my cantankerous nature when hot. I would become borderline dysfunctional. The fact that I was hot was all that I could think about. I was like a kitten with yarn, my focus was singular.
So you might have a better idea of what I'm trying to flesh out I should give some parameters. First, I love sports. I'm a competitor. I never shy away from athletic endeavors because of the heat. Sweat was okay when I was active. My problem was when I was inactive. When I was idle I expected a certain level of comfort and the warm temperature prevented this.
This has all changed somehow. To my own dismay I now enjoy the heat. Even though I'm blond and fair skinned, I find myself craving the sun. I drop the car windows in the summer when I would always pump the air conditioning. I sit outside to read when I once would lay on my bed under a fan.
Despite the fact that I like this "chemical" change, even though I like this "new" version of me, I'm at a loss to explain it. There are any number of scenarios that could be cast as an answer--the influence of a lover, my decision to replace my car with a bike last summer, or the act of travel itself. There is also the possibility that it is some sort of genetic or hormonal shift.
For the first time in my life I experienced what I would call an actual winter. Granted, Paris, France is a far cry from Fairbanks, Alaska but it is still a lot more of a winter than I ever saw growing up in Arkansas. There was of course the occasional snow or ice storm but I also have many memories of wearing shorts in January. The past six or seven years I spent in Austin were even warmer (a song by Brian Keane sums Austin winter up: "where the winter lasts from five to seven days"). As a result, I think that my body was not prepared for winter in Paris. It's not that it was that cold but it was constantly cold. Growing up in the south one expects a day to day variation of weather, most especially in the winter months. My own neurotic theory is that my body was sent into some sort of shock, a heat deprived trauma that induced a genetic need for the sun's warmth.
Since I will never truly know the exact origins of what sparked the changes within me, I choose to see it as one large amalgamation of influence, in other words: life. I suppose in a larger sense it doesn't matter much how a change is effected, just that personal stagnation is kept at bay. Once again I'm going to run the risk of seeming trite but my life this past year was without parallel. It had its ups and downs like ever other year but the experience was so visceral, so eidetic. Which, if you get down to it, that experience of truly living is really what I love about life. Perhaps it might even be the hidden reason for why I crave the heat now: the sensation reminds me I'm still here in this world.
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