081210

“The Internet is full of music. Some of it we like, some of it we don’t. Then, there’s Phil Collins.” – Unknown

“The appropriately programmed computer with the right inputs and outputs would thereby have a mind in exactly the same sense human beings have minds.” – John Searle

So, I think my iPod can read my mind, or at least understand my moods.

Preface: Whether the device is benevolent or malevolent remains to be seen. Since it’s essentially a manmade device it is thereby removed from the sticky regulations governing human ethics, just as a gun is a gun; at once a weapon of destruction and an exciting television remote, depending on the hand that wields it. On these shaky grounds, I suppose it can be said it possesses both good and evil. Whether I snapped it in half and used the jagged ends to carve crude epithets on the foreheads of cornered strangers, or used it for its intended purpose, it’s still neutral because it can’t act on its own. Just to be on the safe side, I keep it on ‘shuffle’, the rough equivalent of ‘free will’.

My iPod plays what I refer to as ‘baseline’ when I’m doing something that doesn’t require much involvement, such as riding the Metro or walking down the street. I think of these as background songs because they are ‘just songs’. They contain very little magic and only trace amounts of passion, yet their melodies have gentle impact on my perspective, changing the way I feel about my surroundings in subtle ways, like a director moving the viewer along from scene to scene and emphasizing certain things in the frame. These songs provide the soundtrack to a movie that never seems to end.

That begs another question: how does my iPod know where I am, what’s going on around me, or even that I’m on the Metro? Damned if I know, but it does! Maybe it’s got my behavior patterns down so cold that it knows I wake up at 0645, get ready for work, and board the morning train at 0730. (I’m kinda OCD that way, so I suppose that’s one possible solution.)

Another question; if the songs in my library could be considered a means of expression and communication for my 4GB AI, am I limiting its vocabulary with the music I choose to listen to? Does it ‘like’ the same music I do, only because it’s never been exposed to anything else? Obviously an iPod has a ‘priori’ and ‘a posteriori’ knowledge, long bits of code that give it a rudimentary identity, and tell it how to interact with my computer. Do iPods come to resemble their owners in the way that pets do (in more than physical characteristics, like tacky leather carrying cases, and poor color choices?) I know there are probably far more important questions I could be asking here, but I don’t have the time. I’m on my lunch break.

In the morning, my enlightened little friend knows to play songs that drive me and motivate me, songs that compel me, propelling me along as I weave in and out of dense morning crowds of commuters as though I were skydiving through a slow motion explosion… I envision myself in freefall, a HALO jump, alighting perhaps on a giant chunk of what used to be an office building spinning gently through the morning light. I charge along the length of this tumbling platform and fling myself from the opposing edge with all the grace of an Olympic diver or a practitioner of Parkour, stepping gingerly across torn fragments of detonation-damaged I-beams as though I were crossing a quiet country brook on the moss-covered tops of common stones, the slap of fragmented dust and debris slapping against the fabric of my protective suit like raindrops on a sleepy tin roof as I continue my descent. (Sometimes I wonder what other people think about on the way to the office!)

There are songs so indescribably powerful that, when I hear them, I get the distinct impression that I’m trailing fire; long blue tongues of visible flame that seep from my skin as though I were perpetually striding through the gateway of another world, another dimension. These songs make me feel as though I were experiencing on-the-spot evolution, as though I were shedding my weakness, becoming More; swapping emotion-vulnerable flesh and blood for the impervious safety of machine-driven precision. As though the vaguely recollected fragments of a long-lost destiny were being decoded from songs and related only to me. (“This isn’t your world, you’re just passing through, you belong up there, out there…”)

There are songs so potent, so utterly overwhelming, so perfectly consuming, so wonderful that I wish scientists would hurry up and invent a way for me to climb inside them, so I could bolt the doors and stay awhile. There are songs that make me feel that time is slowing down, coming to a halt. Sometimes I catch sight of the second hand on my watch running backwards a few ticks before Greater Laws take precedence, and the Blessed Machinery of the Universe resumes authority with a quiet hum.

There are songs so heartbreakingly mournful, so absolutely barren, that I have to thrust my hand into my pocket with a gunfighter’s speed and fast-forward to the next track lest I fall to my knees, incapacitated on a busy sidewalk with great streams of tears running down my face; forced to relive some now-forgotten heartbreak, some ancient feeling of abandonment, some prior loss or rejection. Sometimes they’re not even my emotions, which makes them even harder to deal with. During those interludes, it’s as if everything were coming down around my ears at once, and a very real, very tangible, weight were bearing down hard on my shoulders, on my bones, on my heart, and on my lungs. Enough!’ I cry aloud. ‘It is too much for any one soul to deal with!’

There are songs in my collection now lost to me, songs I’ve shared with former lovers, songs that summon up their smiles of perfect warmth and angelic light, such adoration as I may never know again; chords and notes that contain their smells, their tastes, and their touch upon my skin like lockets worn about the neck. Those songs hurt me in ways I cannot fully describe here. Suffice to say, I find it necessary to remove them from my library altogether, until such a time as their memories have sufficiently faded and they can be released back into the wild. (Presently, my entire collections of ‘Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds’, ‘Clutch’, and ‘The Melvins’ are on temporary suspension. You’d think I’d learn to be secretive about my music, hide it away from new flames and interests, learn to protect my heart, preserve my collection. But then, I’m not the one spinning the hits, am I?)

The experiment continues…

TWM

 

12SEP08 – Dog Fashion Disco and the Spider Sandwich

While on tour in Mesa, Ariz., and opening for Insane Clown Posse clones Twizted, the rabid audience of Juggalos antagonized Dog Fashion Disco by flinging their pocket change and spitting on them. Throwing caution and excrement to the wind, Dog Fashion Disco front man Todd Smith proceeded to defecate on stage before launching it into the audience. The move incited a full blown riot, which pretty much means tear gas was involved.

I’ve gotta admit, even after reading that, I’d still have gone to see them.

Noted for combining lots of different music styles – 70s psychedelic, jazz, piano recital, circus music and vocals, among others – Dog Fashion Disco is primarily considered an avant-garde metal band. The band’s lyrical content is both esoteric and satirical, charged with references to the occult, drug use, and mutilation. Hardly surprising, considering their chief influence is everyone’s favorite genre-defying act, Mr. Bungle. While they’re often referred to as DFD, they’d originally marched under the banner ‘Hug the Retard’ but changed it in order to keep from pissing off even more people

As I entered the Otto from the side entrance, the double doors of a van near the entrance opened and a sea of red-eyed punks in black t-shirts poured out in a cloud of dense white smoke, giggling wickedly. The gorilla at the door who took my ticket wore a t-shirt that read: “There are two people fucking on the back of this shirt.” (Punch line: “Just kidding, Jesus loves you.”)

I moved past him into the room, my eyes immediately drawn to the rows of concert flyers along the walls. I’ve always loved concert art, no matter how absurd. I think there should be a national gallery somewhere where people can walk between the different rooms sipping over-priced coffee and admiring this often overlooked art form, while making insightful comments to one another regarding the use of Dom DeLuise as a Christ figure, and the recent revival of nuns in fetish gear.

I honestly didn’t do much in the way of note taking for this gig. I believe that most of what can be said about shows like this in venues like The Otto Bar have probably already been written. Instead I spent the evening enjoying myself and taking pictures of everything in the hopes that it would make sense later. Putting words to or trying to describe the show in any conventional manner is patently stupid, and there are people who do this sort of thing for a living. Essentially, my Friday night was spent in a tiny bar packed full of nice people who wanted to have some good times, drink some cold beers, listen to songs about leprosy and urination, and engage in a little naked stage diving. Where’s the harm in that?

I looked up from my notebook at one point to see the stoic face of a gruff young motherfucker in mutton chops and a ball cap scowling back at me. “Do… you… like… Clutch?” There was a certain intensity in his eyes, and I wasn’t sure how to answer, but it was clear that he expected me to. Was this some new form of speed I was being offered? “Well, I don’t know,” I replied cautiously. “Should I?” My new friend Mike was quicker on the draw in his reply, and the goat scowl changed to a moony smile. “If you guys like Clutch, you’re right with me.” Goat ambled off to the bathroom, and was not seen again for some time. (Note: I went home, looked them up three days later and bought three albums worth.)

Sensory overload. The drums explode in my chest and tickle my skin… lights begin to flash, casting strange shadows on a waiting mob attired in Mohawks and PVC pants, shaved heads, dog collars, corsets, and amusing t-shirts. How much more black is black? The Otto Bar place reminds me of a close-quarters Halloween parade with a really good soundtrack. I find a space near the back of the room with an unobstructed view of the stage and start snapping away, holding onto my friends’ Angela and Mike’s eyeglasses for safe keeping. Two songs in for DFD, and the mosh pit begins in earnest. Fireplugs in sleeveless plaid shirts start wind-milling and stomping about the sticky black swamp of the crowded dance floor in loose figure eights, like power walkers weaned on a steady diet of caribou burgers and testosterone fries, boring wide holes through the crowd as they begin shoving each other enthusiastically into the center.

My ears are ringing like they’ve got bundles of electrified knitting needles jammed into each one, I’ve got a cold bottle of beer thrust deep in the hip pocket of my old camouflage pants, and a smile on my face that probably won’t fade for hours. I wondered briefly what it must be like for DFD’s front man, or any lead singer really, to stand up there looking back at an outward manifestation of himself. These people were here to listen to his band play:

When that first note of a song drops on the stage like a bomb, and the sweat-drenched face of a hot-wired crowd reacts by belting out the lyrics you wrote and going completely apeshit with joy, you might kinda get the impression they like you. When large, sweaty men take off all their clothes, clamber up onto the stage glossy with spilled beer and fling themselves tackle a-dangle into the outstretched arms of their fellow fans, it’s safe to say they’re having a good time. You don’t see that kind of shit on Oprah.

At one point, ten or eleven of the largest bruisers scurried up the steps at the back of the room, climbed out along the rail and perched there, waiting for the word to leap to the floor below before threats of show closure caused them to back down grudgingly, although one madman made the decision to jump. When the lights came up, nobody looked like as though they’d been denied a good time. Everyone stumbled toward the doors, inhaling the fresh night air and looking around them for that late night hookup. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

An hour later, we found ourselves at the Double T Diner. You can tell it’s a high class joint by the rented security hanging out near the door, and the graffiti scrawled just above the urinal: “Bush is Bin Laden’s bitch.” I ordered a farmer’s omelet and a cup of coffee. It seemed like the right thing to do.

After ten minutes of peace, the ringing in my ears had almost begun to subside. It was then that a group of kids invaded a nearby table. College-aged, they’re loud, but no one seems to care. It’s only when one of them explodes back in his chair with a yelp of surprise that things begin to pick up. Turns out he’d taken a bite of his sandwich only to see a spider fall into his lap. He trapped it under the lid of the serving platter, and there was a lot of muttering and urging exchanged before one of them attracted the attention of a busboy who summoned the manager. Naturally, the manager thinks they’re trying to pull a fast one. He shakes his head and laughed it off. Too bad spider boy doesn’t see things his way.

“Hey, everyone! I just want to say that I found a spider in my sandwich, so I probably wouldn’t eat here anymore if I were you!” The manager was red-faced, but the staff seemed fairly composed. I suspect it happened often enough. By this time, restaurant security had come running over to address the group. “Pay your bill and get out,” hissed a large black man in ODU pants and a polo shirt. His hands were up, palms out, establishing his command authority. “You’re gonna pay your damn bill, and you’re gonna leave.” The kid tried to explain his position, but the cop wouldn’t hear of it. Presently, the group grumbled toward the door. When we paid for our meals, they were waiting outside, joined by a real cop. “Say the word,” he says to the security guard, eyeing the group one at a time. “I’ll chain them up for trespassing.” The gesture was probably meant to frighten them into turning tail, but they weren’t impressed.

I called the cop aside and tried to use my considerable Jedi mind powers to explaining things to him, but the look on his face said he was set in his ways. “We get a lot of what we call ‘dine and dash’ in this area,” he assured me. “The bars let out and guys like these guys are out looking for trouble.”

“I don’t know these guys from Adam,” I replied. “But I’m telling you what I saw. That one, he’s eating his sandwich, he yelps, drops it in his lap, and traps something under the platter. Shows the busboy, busboy shows the manager, and the manager laughs it off. While I agree with you, he should have done things on the down low, but he doesn’t deserve to get locked up for finding a bug in his food. What message will this send if the papers get wind of the story?” Too little too late, the cop was set in his ways. “Thank you for your help,” he said through a condescending grimace. “Now you folks go straight home.”

Yes sir, officer, sir.

What a jerk…

The ride home was quiet; we’d been hammered into submission by the explosive energy of the show, the amount of food in our stomachs, and a late night debate about regarding the percentage of Mormons converting to Scientology vs Scientologists switching to Mormonism.

Besides, if I’d eaten a spider without knowing it, it was better him than me.