The Little Ones

Two Saturdays ago I saw David T. Little’s contemporary classical song cycle Soldier Songs, in which a young boy is repeatedly choked, shot, bloodied and sacrificed for theatrical effect. The next morning at church, the scripture reading and sermon concerned Abraham and Isaac.

I found Soldier Songs, at least in its staging, to be overblown and largely unbelievable, but I did nearly weep during one of its calmer, most poignant moments, when the show’s key performer David Adam Moore, having exchanged his earlier camouflage grunt attire for a tatty business suit and loosened tie, sings a mournful ode to his son who died in a foreign war.

I’ve been a theater critic and music critic for half my life, but that’s been trumped by my main gig of the past nine years—Dad.

Images of dead children are especially horrific to parents, whose own children’s lives flash before their eyes every time they hear a squeal from another room in the house. In shows and novels (hello, Stephen King) endangered children have become an overused suspense device that it would be simply boring if these unimaginative authors weren’t toying with something genuinely horrifying to the rest of us.

Rev. John Gage at the United Church on the Green in downtown New Haven reminded me that coarse if effective tales of kids about to be slaughtered are as old as the Old Testament. But he doesn’t excuse it, condone it, or brush it aside as an awkward example of other cultures operating in other eras. He faces this absurd parable head-on and takes it down with logic, critical insight and cold satire. Rev. Gage’s sermon, titled Enough is Enough, is here.

Rock Gods #142: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene

The Punk Soliloquoy, based on something overheard at the Bullfinch:

Punkier than thou, are we?
I’m in college and you’re in technical college and you’re a high school dropout?
I have a lousy job and you don’t have any job and you’re a slave.
I smoke too much and you drink too much and you have a drug habit and you’re a crack baby and you died of an overdose.
You’re a ’77 punk and you’re an ’87 punk and you’re a ’97 punk and you’re the son of a ’67 punk or the grandson of a ’57 Teddy Boy.
So I don’t rate standing next to you watching some band in this toilet?

Listening to…

Fucked Up, David Comes to Life
Having a centered, lyrical band from Canada claim the name Fucked Up is just perfect. It’s like hearing a dirty joke told by your grandmother. The expectations are different. The whole experience is fresh. I hear the title “David Comes to Life” and i don’t think of some Frankenstein fantasy, I think Michelangelo.
Even when Fucked Up rip it up, they pace themselves carefully and enunciate every word. Their growling anger seems more like indignation than an incitement to violence. There’s always something in a Fucked Up song to balance your mood—an ethereal female voice, a crisp drumbeat, creative chord changes. The band is like all those New Wave bands who got umped in with punk in the early ’80s but weren’t. This is composed, controlled stuff, a pleasure to listen to. A rose by any other name. When they coin a new genre for this stuff, “Fucked Up” won’t be the phrase that springs to mind. “Up” may be enough.

Maron With Chillin’

When I got the go-ahead from the New Haven Advocate to write a story on Air America seven or eight years ago, back when that Leftist network first aired in the New Haven area, big names like all Franken, Janeane Garofalo and chuck D were the on air talent everyone else was looking to interview. The up and comer in our region was Rachel Maddow, not yet a national presence. Some were branded by previous accomplishments, like daily show creator Liz Winstead.
I chose to hang my story on Marc Maron. As the host of the wake-up slot Morning Sedition, Maron was probably the least well known, most overlooked host from Air America’s original celeb-studded ine-up. But I’d been a fan of his for at least five years at that point, from his frequent appearances on the 12:30 a.m. talk shows to his game-changing Off Broadway theater monologue Jerusalem Syndrome.
I thought Maron was the only host on the network doing something original and not just trying to ape traditional radio chat formats. Most of his Air America peers filled most of their airtime fact- checking and causing right wing radio, so much so that I started to feel out of touch because I didn’t listen to right wing radio at all myself. (Probably not the message Air American was trying to convey.)
Maron was creepy casual in his delivery, a real change from the brash, overconfident junk types you usually get on morning radio. His scripted routines were cerebral, his interviews challenging and wide-ranging. There was no false cheer. You really felt he’d just gotten out of bed with lot on his mind.
In our phone interview, he was as Frank and free-thinking as he was on the air, open and gracious. No condescension or leaping to conclusions.
When the article ran, several other air America shows, and some syndicated liberal talk shows not on that network, sent prissy missiles pointing out how they had higher ratings, or greater reputations. Made me even prouder to have given Marc Maron a little ink.
Maron’s Morning Sedition show got canceled, as did his second and third Air America programs. Then the whole network died. I lost track of Marc Maron for a while until he resurfaced on the iTunes podcast menu with his own self produced twice-weekly program WTF. The early episodes were hysterical. The pretaped opening announcement didn’t reflect that Maron was in the process of moving from New York to California, leading to confusion and consternation from his more geographically astute fans.
Maron would go so far with his ad libbed commercial breaks that you thought they must be parodies. Did he really hawk coffee by mentioning enemas and pooping?
When he started attracting regular guests, his nonchalance and recklessness was riveting. The interviews would go off on wild tangents. When the guests wondered how Maron would edit the rambles, he’d respond as if he’d never heard of editing. Such radio verite is pretty rare, even on low- budget podcasts.
Marc Maron’ s interrogations lead you to respect certain stand-up comedians in ways you never thought you would. Jim Gaffigan agonized that he would always be known for his “Hot Pocket” routine. Movie stars invited Maron into their on-set trailers and acted like regular guys who’d gotten lucky.

WTF quickly became one of the top shows in its format in its medium. Not like having a hit TV series, even on cable. Probably not even like having an Air America program. But especially given its daring content, Maron really crated something to be proud of. The guy’s obviously got an intense work ethic, too, since he’s kept up the pace for almost two years now.

Now Marc Maron’s getting the interviews and press attention and book and TV offers that largely eluded him when he was a hardworking stand-up comic and radio host. His podcast has defined him as not just a curmudgeonly commentator but a good listener and a gracious host. He’s appealing to fans who feel their support is deeply appreciated, and who send in contributions to WTF by their own free will.

This is the sort of Independence, freedom of speech, community agitating and, yes, sedition I’d like to honor this Fourth of July. Merry Marc Maron to all our readers.

Rock Gods #141: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene

The Eight Gates may be one of the only acts in our little scene this year to have to get to a gig by airplane. The band was formed after a couple of married grads from the college on the hill—Danny and Joanne Gates, who shared Suite 8 in the American Hall dorm, get it?—founded a software development company in town. Sounds cushy, but they say they’re still “a ways away” from profitability.

The gig is a birthday party for a classmate of the Gates whose ship HAS already come in. “She insisted we play just as we did five years ago, even the same instruments if possible. We’re not the only nostalgia trip at this party, so we’re going all out. Found clothes we wore then, turned up the original lyric sheets…”

A lot of bands around here wouldn’t find it troubling to dig up T-shirts they wore at gigs 20 or 30 years ago, let alone five. It’s a cross-country flight, however, so the equipment’s proving to be a problem. “The keyboards couldn’t be picked up somewhere else if we tried,” says Joanne the technological sorceress. “They were a prototype to start with, but then I modified them beyond recognition.” So they have to come as is. Insured and specially packed, at excessive cost. But when they told the party’s sponsor, all was cool.

“This is what you expect if you’re some huge band, right? And we’re this little electronics duo who never made more than a cassette demo.  We feel like royalty. Except, I guess the keyboard’s getting treated BETTER than us. But hey, we’re getting treated like ladies in waiting!”

While the Gates are gone, another keyboard duo hits the Bullfinch: For Free City, with an opening set by Himno IStemno… Land of the Brave keeps the covers flowing at Hamilton’s… Dance trio Erta Erta Erta at D’ollaire’s with about eight DJS earlier on…

Listening to…

Gayngs, Regrind EP

An almost mathematical exercise in trackbuilding, in which Gayng’s first full-length album Relayted was pulled apart into “stems.” Remixers were invited to pluck any ten stems and transform them into new tracks. What still made them Gayngs songs was everyone’s adherence to the band’s trademark 69 beat-per-minute tempo.

It ain’t Dangermouse’s Rome, but there’s a similar suspense and mystery and thematic build to these scattered yet relayted snippets of sound. More than ambient, less than lyrical, a track like “Cologne & Water” (reground by Paper Tiger) makes me want to go grab a modern movement troupe and stage a dance piece, while the Lazerbeak regrind “Sprinkle Juice” deserves to be transcribed and played live by a classical/rock ensemble.

Rock Gods #140: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene

Grains of sand at the beach. That’s what the crowd seemed like for -\ at D’ollaire’s last Friday. Sandlike not just in volume but consistency. You could wallow in them. So singer FMan did, stepping blithely out onto outstretched hands and heads as if he were waking into a pool.

Its an extraordinary thing to witness. Not just the defiance of gravity, though that’s pretty darn miraculous. The implement trust. Its an image no song can enhance, only soundtrack. We’re the proof. Except floor two songs(certainly not the hits), we have no patience for -\’s music. But boy do we live to watch.

Limited clubgoing this week. Blame holidays and vacations. A March Against the Fourth revolutionary hullabaloo is the big deal at the Bullfinch, though it’s really just a couple of solo sets by tired punks… Cook-out on the sidewalk outside Hamilton’s, but no bands inside… D’ollaire’s closed, doing their serving-to-minors penance…

The "c" word: Criticism