The March of History

This weekend, the Monkey House was enthralled and delighted by the success of the Baltimore Ravens in their playoff game against the Denver Broncos. With one more playoff win, the Ravens can play in Super Bowl XLVII on February 3, in New Orleans, LA. On this day in 1967, the very fist Super Bowl was played in Los Angeles, CA. The game was called the AFL-NFL World Championship, and a lot of things were different about football and the US, when the Green Bay Packers defeated the Kansas City Chiefs.

But that is not what I really want to talk to you about. Today, about a hundred years earlier (1870) to be exact, Thomas Nast published a political cartoon that gave the Democratic party its symbol: the jackass. They would prefer to refer to it as a donkey, most likely, but I think we can all agree that most Democrats, simply by nature of being politicians, are jackasses. Incidentally, four years later, Nast drew an elephant in a cartoon to represent the GOP, and, instantly, those jackasses became elephants.

That is not what I really want to talk about, either. In the world of letters, today was the day, in 1899, when California school teacher Edwin Markham published his poem, “The Man with the Hoe.” Inspired by Millet’s 1863 French painting of a similar name (only in French), the poem contains the lines, “Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave / to have dominion over sea and land”? I sometimes feel that way when I look in the mirror and watch my bulbous nose spread slowly across my face. Anyway, a great scandal occurred when Markham’s poem was reprinted in an Eastern newspaper as “The Man with the Ho.” The paper broke sales records that day, but was forced to field countless complaints later for “not delivering the goods.”

Yet, again, that is not what I really wanted to talk to you about. In 1987, Paramount used this day to announce that they would place a 30-second ad for Diet Pepsi at the front of their videocassette release of Top Gun. So, the movie that gave us “the need for speed,” and miraculously bright shots of Tom Cruise’s pearly whites, may also be responsible for the thirty-five minutes of wretched merchandising in the movie theatres, today. Thank you Paramount for every Bod commercial I have ever had to tolerate.

However, let me get to my point since the previous is not what I wanted to talk about, either. What is really on my mind is that on this day, in 1981, Omaha, Nebraska, native Bob Gibson was elected to the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame in his first year on the ballot.  This is remarkable not because of Gibson’s stellar career, his ferocious personality, nor the fact that he hails from the largest city in my current home state.  This is remarkable because this year’s Hall of Fame balloting, 32 years later, produced not one inductee.  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, not one baseball player currently being considered for inclusion was deemed worthy of the Hall.  Not Mark McGwire (again), not Roger Clemens, not Barry Bonds, not anyone. The highest vote getter, at 68% (you need 75% to get in), was Craig Biggio, a highly respected second baseman, in his first year of eligibility, whose claim to the Hall rests on his 3060 hits (a pretty good number).

And why is it that baseball's writers, who are the gatekeepers of the Hall of Fame, have found no one from among a heady list of recent stars to invite into the HoF? Well, I blame Lance Armstrong. His recent fall from grace has cast a pall upon every sportsman and woman of his era. After all, if Lance was a juicer, they all must have been, from Sammy Sosa to Smarty Jones.  And, if they were all cheating, do they belong in the pantheon of their sport?

I will let you decide. I gotta go…Oprah’s on!

A Psychedelic Presence Shining in the Park

In the chill of an early October morning, dark except for the glow of streetlights and their reflections on the low-hanging clouds spitting rain above, a vehicle navigates its way through the desolate streets. Its headlights peel back the night before it, as it passes a hedgerow on one side and a burnt out lamp on the other. Suddenly (as is always the case) a small brown rabbit leaps from the hedge, looking to make it safely to the other side of the street. It swiftly penetrates the cone of light before the vehicle, and, in that moment, frightened and naturally skittish, it realizes that the large black tires of the vehicle are about to crush it. In a split second, it redirects its course just enough to avoid being pancaked, but its back leg has been caught. The momentum of the wheel spins the rabbit up and over, around at a blink-of-an-eye speed. It lands flat on its chest and rolls away from the car. It hops, at first, back toward the hedge, then, realizing that is not its intended destination, it again turns abruptly and zigzags across the street. Safely in the grass, it surveys the damage: a broken leg, broken ribs, probably some internal damage. The prognosis is not good.

Is the moral of this story that we should stay committed to our intentions, even if it means getting crushed under the balding treads of fate? After all, the rabbit’s end is the same—perhaps quicker under the tire than panting in the grass. Or is the moral that we should look both ways before we cross? Is it that speed kills, or that a five pound rabbit has little chance to survive an encounter with a 1000 pound vehicle?

Whatever the metaphor, Matt Bauer might not only see it for what it is, but he’d most likely turn it into an atmospheric song for voice and free time banjo.

Opening for Jolie Holland last night at the Waiting room, Bauer and banjo (or guitar) lulled the audience into attentiveness with an achingly earnest voice and minimalist fingering that sketched metaphor after metaphor involving buffalo, horse, fox, and mouse, alike. Joined for three numbers by Holland and her musical partner Grey Gerston, Bauer’s fleshed out compositions were no less starkly beautiful. And Holland got into the animal act by regaling the small crowd with an amusing joke about two whales sitting in a bar.

Bauer finished his set solo, then thanked the crowd for listening. Unlike many openers, he’d captured the attention of the crowd for his entire set (except for the sloppily drunk quartet in the corner who had lost the ability to modulate their voices at all); this may have been a function of his imposingly shaved head or his fiercely long beard, but, most likely, it was his heartfelt songs, his dancing cascades (or soporific drones) of notes , and his Bonnie Prince Billy-like ability to tell a story of rending from which we can not turn our ears.

After a brief pause for Gerston to tune a few instruments and stock the stage with water and wine, the headliner took the stage—just she and her musical mate—to play a languid and low-key set. The musicians had driven themselves from Denver, where they played the night before, and they looked a bit road weary, but the endearingly partisan crowd was full of encouragement. The set list, about an hour-long, included “Littlest Birds,” “Goodbye California,” “Old-fashioned Morphine,” “Alley Flowers,” and a few others, old and new. In addition, Holland played a cover of David Dondero’s “Real Tina Turner,” and a pair from Michael Hurley (one of which Gerston took the vocal lead on).

While Grey Gerston moved easily from solid-body to hollow-body to bass guitars, Holland was doing the same, as she occasionally laid her beautiful flat black Epiphone down to scratch beautifully on a uniquely-shaped fiddle. The instrumental variation aside, the key instrument to the evening was Holland’s voice, a slurry, sultry, trembling trademark that sounds less like it comes from her lungs than directly from her heart. And last night, despite the bone- and road-weariness, Holland’s voice sounded flawless. She has a sweet gift.

As well, she seems a sweet human being. In between songs, as she tuned her guitar, Holland mentioned that last time she was through town someone had given her a bracelet. “Kim?” she asked to the crowd. There, two rows back, Kim raised her hand. Holland was still wearing the bracelet. And, as can happen at some shows, this sweet exchange stayed a constant.

As Holland stumbled twice through the beginning bars of “The Future,” a song she clearly doesn’t play often live (and is played originally on piano—not guitar), but was, she said, “A request,” the crowd was at its most snuggly sweet. Holland apologized, only to be greeted from a shout from the crowd.

“That’s okay—just more show for us!”

Holland finished up her set and thanked the crowd for being “so freaking sweet.” After whale jokes, smoked-honey-dripping melodies, and earnest musical gaffes, the crowd had the same to say about her.

Arts and Humanities and Man's Inhumanity to Man (In the Form of a Sporting Event)

A big weekend is brewing here at Central Standard. After navigating another week of shepherding the churlen through the world of critical thinking, close reading, and developed writing, Monkey and I will be heading to a local book store to hear former US Poet Laureate Ted Kooser read from his latest. Monkey is especially excited about this, since she has been desultorily stalking the diminutive Mr. Kooser since we landed in this burgh. Since it is Friday, this reading will most likely be followed by an 8pm "lights out" call and some fitful sleep. Aging...it's so tragic (for us, not Kooser...although it might be tragic for him, I don't know).

Sunday will take us to Omaha, where we will see the unique-voiced Jolie Holland at the always intimate Waiting Room. It will be our first opportunity to see Ms. Holland live. She came through last year at about this time, but previous travel plans made it near to impossible to see her. I anticipate this show with the same eagerness that I might await Okkervil River...yes, I like her that much.

Of course before all of this, there is the big showdown tomorrow night, as the Huskers travel to CoMO to take on the alma mater in a little American football contest. I am sort of torn about this game. Obviously, for reasons of personal pride, I'd like to see the Tigers continue their winning ways against the scarlet and cream of Nebraska. However, the devastation that such a loss might cause among the Husker faithful in these parts makes me kind of hope that Nebraska prevails. It will make dealing with my co-workers a much less maudlin experience.

But, either way, I am seeing Jolie Holland on Sunday, so it's all good!

Jolie Holland photo from: One Way Magazine
Ted Kooser photo from: Writing Time

And Away We Go!

Tomorrow, Monkey and I are off to Omaha to board a plane for Baltimore. We'll spend a few days visiting folks in Smallville, then we'll head to the beach for a week of sun and fun (we hope for sun, anyway) on the edge of the Atlantic.

Monkey and I both spent countless summer days at the beach as small fry, so a return to the old vacation spot is often nostalgic, sometimes bittersweet, and always a reminder of some of the things we have left behind, living in the Midwest. Family notwithstanding, the proximity to the ocean is one of the finest attributes of the Land of Pleasant Living. With that proximity comes a lot of the other things Monkey and I miss, namely seafood and hurricanes. Okay, we really don't miss the hurricanes. How can we, when we have such lovely tornadoes and hail storms to deal with?

But, this week and next, we won't have to miss any of these things, as we will be knee deep in the ocean (literally) on a daily basis.

Things We Did In April

Last Saturday, Monkey and I attended a pair of films that were shown as part of the Blacks in Film Festival at the university. Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes was an interesting look at misogyny, homophobia, and hyper-masculine attitudes in modern hip-hop. With interview subjects ranging from Chuck D. to members of the Spelman College student government (who rescinded a campus invitation to Nelly over issues with his music and videos), the film was an entertaining and eye-opening look into the collective psychology of hip-hop, both as a culture and as a commodity. After that, we stuck around for WattStax, a documentary on the 1972 WattStax concert at LA Coliseum to celebrate the anniversary of the 1965 Watts riots. A blend of man-on-the-street interviews, Richard Pryor improv, and concert footage, the film was a stellar document of a place and time. However, the issues that were addressed in the film, pride, poverty, and economic empowerment, are still issues that America is grappling with today.

The weekend prior, we were invited to an Easter potluck at a friends house. It was a pleasure to have some ham. Monkey and I hadn't had a proper Easter dinner in ten years. I still didn't get any Easter pie, though. But, that's only because I didn't make any.

The weekend before that, I scored district writing assignments. Whoo Hoo!

And, on Wednesday of that week, Monkey and I headed out to Omaha for some sushi and The Hold Steady. The sushi was top-notch. The Hold Steady were good also. But, with a very crowded Slowdown pumping their fists and throwing beer cans, I kind of wished I was seeing them three years ago at Mojo's.

Does that make me one of those people? The ones who say, "Oh, but I liked them better when...." I guess it does. Oh, well.

Getting It Right (On The Second Try)

Recently, Nebraska has become a laughing stock across the nation, due to its less-than-perfect "Safe Haven" law. In many (almost all, I think) states of the Union, it is legal to leave a child at a hospital to be taken into the care of the state. There are usually no questions asked. In all other states, the age limit on this "safe haven" is from three days to maybe a few months. In the land of corn, they left the age limit basically undetermined. So, for the past few months, thirty or so children (all well above the age of a few months, and some near to 18) have been left on the door steps of state hospitals. One from as far away as Michigan. How's that for a well-written piece of legislation?

But, even with all the problems that the law was making for everyone involved in child welfare, the governor did not want to call a special session to get the law fixed. He said it would cost too much money. Apparently, it will cost about as much as taking care of thirty kids of various ages, since that is about the number it took for him to change his mind.

And, just the other day, they capped the age at thirty days. Which is as good as any arbitrarily settled upon age for leaving a baby behind. Well, except that it's a helluva lot better than 18 years.

Letting My Guard Down

Friday signalled the end of first term, leaving me with just a few piles of exams to grade and grades to enter before a week of school-less bliss. However, as is often the case when a high-stress job hits a lull, I immediately came down with a nasty chest cold.

A dizzy spell while I was still at school Friday afternoon alerted me to the fact that I might be feeling poorly. Plans for Friday night were scrapped, as I came home earlier than I wanted to (with papers left to grade) and went directly to bed.

I woke up Saturday morning with a chest full of crud (and a Barry White-esque voice--very sexy). Needless to say, I did little but read, lay about on the sofa, and eat a gallon of soup. This morning, I was feeling better, but decided that one more day of rest would be a good idea, so I sent Monkey off to Omaha by herself. I did finish my grading this morning, but, mostly, today was just a reprise of yesterday, with some vacuuming thrown in.

I'll have to go up to school tomorrow to do some last-minute things. Then, it's off to Oregon for a few days on Tuesday. The weather doesn't look too promising, but it rarely does for that part of the country. I am looking forward to feeling well and enjoying the Pacific Northwest.

I'll try to post tomorrow, but that should be it until November.

The Family's Unowned Boy

It's just a house burning, but it's not haunted.
It was your heart hurting, but not for too long, kid.
--Okkervil River, "Our Life is Not a Movie Or Maybe"

Watching Will Sheff on stage is mesmerizing and sometimes heart-stopping. He careens about onstage during a song's more energetic moments, crouching, kicking, spinning, ricocheting from one side of the stage to the other, curling around his battered acoustic like it is the most important and vulnerable part of himself. Then comes the inevitable moment when he stumbles, his ankles enshrouded by the serpentine cables that he has been carousing amongst, or he lunges for the mic stand to steady himself, only to discover that his hoped-for support is precariously balanced on the apron of the stage. For a slow-motion second, Sheff teeters--it's unclear whether he will stay vertical or not--only to right himself and resume his frantic pin balling. Sheff and Okkervil River always give it their all. This is the heart-stopping.

The mesmerizing comes when this thirty-two year-old man turns a certain way into the spot-light, his eyes closed, his mouth agape, his pale skin glistening with sweat, and his moppy reddish hair tousled around his face, and he looks like the most sincere child you've ever seen. He energetically strums his capoed guitar, and I can't remember if I am watching a performer who collaborates with several bands and has his name attached to recordings (and writings), or if I am standing against the wall of the old RagTag, watching a band of sixteen year-olds on Academy of Rock night. When he steps to the mic and sings, the lyrics make it clear--sometimes. Is he a skilled, mature writer, penning thematically-linked poems set to music about life, loss, love, and longing, or is he a student, addicted to purple prose? Much more often than not, Sheff is the former, but, I couldn't stop thinking last night: he's a boy...he's a man.

A typically robust set last night. Starting with The Stage Names' "A Girl in Port," the bespectacled Sheff and his band mates (including a pair of new additions to this tour (I think)), made their way through songs old and new, leaning heavily on the "mid tempo, mid-volume" side of the catalogue. Several times, the band lowered the volume, only to make it clear to me, in the swell of conversation that filled the crowded Slowdown, that maybe a lot of folks came to see the opening band, Omaha favorites Neva Denova.

The band plowed through the din, and seemed to focus on the attention and adulation they received from those patrons surrounding the stage (that was me down there--house right, behind the two big guys wearing the pork pie hats). Okkervil River has been to Omaha countless times, and it seems that Sheff remembers every one. ("Who saw us at the Junction," he asked. "Who saw us at California Taco? We've been here a million fucking times.") Moreover, it looked like the band was having a great time up there. They always do, but, last night, they seemed particular ebullient.

After shedding his standard black suit jacket (at least, it's become standard, the last couple shows I've seen), his glasses, his tie, and after running through an hour-plus set, and a first encore, the band returned for a second encore. Sheff stood at the mic, now stripped down to a hand-made t-shirt, and launched into the crowd's clear favorite of the night, the second-best American song about killing someone ever written, Don't Fall in Love With Everyone You See's "Westfall." And, as a bizarre trio of kids crowded in front of me and gyrated against each other in the most inappropriate display of enthusiasm I may have ever seen, I watched that mannish-boy up in the lights (and his mates) leave it all out on the stage...again.

Preaching to the Converted

If I held you up to fire I would see a reddish frame
Of rust around your soul's transparency
And you, you with your beauty
And I with my spleen
I'll hitchhike to your bonfire
In my suit of gasoline.
--Centro-Matic, "The Fugitives Have Won"

It's been a long time since the Monkey and I have ventured out on a school night to catch a show. It's been a longer time since we've trooped farther than fifteen minutes to see such a show. But, last night was an opportunity not to be missed. Unfortunately, only about fifty other people seemed to agree with me, and most of them had a far shorter distance to travel than Monkey or I.

The show, Centro-Matic with The Broken West, was a bargain. Eight-fifty. That was a pleasant surprise. We got to Slowdown at about a quarter after nine, and when we walked in, we were met with a pair of other surprises.

First, the floor of the hall was shut off by a large partition, just like it was when I'd been there for the Jens Lekman show a few months back. The difference this time was that no one was doing a sound check behind the panels. Tonight, as we passed through the doors, Centro-Matic's alter ego, South San Gabriel was in the midst of a laid back set of their own music. I knew they have toured this way, opening up with some SSG tunes before the opening act, but, I didn't expect them to be starting at 9pm. Judging by the length of their set, we probably only missed about half of a song. They played a pair of tunes from The Carlton Chronicles and several more that I did not recognize, all from the comfort of their chairs.

Second, there were about forty people in the bar. That was it. It was like being in somebody's basement. In that way, it was kind of cool, but, I was surprised at the low turn out, Wednesday night, or not.

After SSG, a trio, Mal Madrigal took the tiny corner stage for a half dozen classical/European influenced folk-y tunes (yawn). They were followed by The Broken West, a band that impressed me, and put me in mind of several other bands.

I have this bad habit, sometimes, of talking about bands through the medium of other bands. I always say a certain music sounds like this, or reminds me of that. It's a useful and legitimate manner of description, and it gives me a frame of reference, but, in the end, it is a thoroughly unoriginal way to describe a band. But, guess what? I kept at it last night.

The Broken West made me miss Lloyd Cole and the Commotions. They made me think of The Alarm. They have strong pop sensibilities, and I liked it. As a matter of fact, I like it much more live, as, like a wine connoisseur, I sniffed their riffs and melodies and scented strains of Arcade Fire with hints of White Rabbits, then I have ever liked any of their recordings. Go figure.

Lastly, just after Wednesday became Thursday, Will Johnson and the boys took the stage. I leaned over to Monkey in our booth (yes, it was that uncrowded (maybe 70 by the time it was headliner time) that Monkey and I got one of four booths) and remarked how each of the four bands had hardly any commonalities in style. SSG is low-key, pedal steel and electric acoustic, kind of atmospheric. Mal Madrigal, well, that was sort of a curious Joan Baez meets Django Rheinhardt kind of thing (maybe?), The Broken West we've covered. And Centro-Matic is different from, but in the finest tradition of anything ever to grace the pages of No Depression.

But, as is my wont, I digress. C-M played a solid hour set, spanning most of their recordings. Johnson's sometimes obscure, often realistic, and occasionally disgusted lyrics seemed to be well-received by the crowd. Of course, this is no surprise, since this is the band they came to see, I imagine. Highlights included "Infernoesque Grande," "Calling Thermatico," "Supercar," and "Argonne Limit Co." The band were on top of their game (they traded instruments back and forth a few times), polite (Will referred to all in attendance as "good friends"), and the sound was awesome in the shrunken space. I just wonder how the climate might have been improved by a greater turn out, some uninitiated, who may have been turned on to the stark images and melodious anger of one of the finest songwriters working today.

We stumbled out into the dawn, as the band unplugged amps and wound cables, and, after a few brushes with nodding off arrived home at about 2:30 am. Right about now, I am running on fumes after a hair over three hours of sleep last night, so...good night, all!

Stuck in the Middle

Wednesday. Hump Day. The day of the week that signals the sparkle on the calendar's horizon of a new and glorious weekend. Friday afternoon is in sight, with its promise of rest, relaxation, and the ever-present household chores. It's a day of hope; it's a day of promise. For Monkey and I, it signals a first mile post in a marathon week of events.

Tonight, we are heading to Omaha to see Centro-Matic and Broken West. Expect a full report. I am expecting Will Johnson and Co. to put on an awesome show.

Friday brings a momentous occasion, as Monkey and I celebrate our tenth anniversary! Big plans have yet to be finalized, but, we won't be traveling to KC this year. Something more "in the vicinity," we think. I already know what I am getting her, I just don't know how to deliver it.

Saturday, Will Scheff and Okkervil River come to town, touting their brand-spanking new album (released yesterday), The Stand-Ins. The review in the Times mentioned that the tracks had been recorded at the same time as OR's last album, The Stage Names. And, they gave it a good nod. Okkervil River has never disappointed, from The Blue Note to The Waiting Room. I expect the same from them at Slowdown.

And, yes, expect a full report on Sunday.

The Inexorable March of Time

On this past Friday, a dreadfully awaited email appeared in my inbox from my department head informing all that we had 13 days left before we had to get back to work. This was a horrific moment, but, we all knew it was coming. The summer is coming to an end.

I've tried to do some work over the course of the past several weeks. Immediately after our return from Italy, I wrote half of a required six-plus-page document that I need to have finished before the end of first semester. During those couple of weeks, I also did some reflecting on the previous year, and considered some changes to put into effect this coming semester, but, there is, as always, much that I wished to do that I have not. Thus, I will attempt to get some things squared away in the next week.

I have a workshop that I am required to attend as a second year teacher in the district (even though I am NOT a second year teacher, but, whatever) on Friday, Then, it's a few free days until the thirteenth. Like most school years, I look forward to getting started, meeting the new kiddos, teaching and learning; but, I really had an awesome summer, and I sort of don't want it to end. That feeling is stronger this year than ever before. I hope next summer is as awesome, but, it has a lot to live up to.

While I am considering the start of a new school year, there are some other things happening in the next few weeks that I may be looking forward to with a little less sadness. In short, three up coming area shows that I have circled on my calendar.

The first, a blast from the past, the BoDeans (w/Ha Ha Tonka) come to Omaha on Sunday. The odds of my actually going to this show are slim, but, it's an intriguing show. I had no idea these guys were still together until I read about this show. They'd been broken up for ten years before they got back together to record a new album, Resolution (none of which I've heard). Roots-style rock and roll since 1986, I imagine the new stuff is just as BoDeansian as the old stuff. Again, intriguing from a nostalgia point of view, but, I am not committed.

The second, on September 10, is Centro-matic and Broken West, also in Omaha. This is a must-see for me, since I missed Centro-matic last time they were in Lincoln (oddly enough, on August 10). I am not a huge Broken West fan. They are okay, but Centro-matic? I love those guys. I think Will Johnson is an awesome songwriter--His solo stuff is great, too . And I am not going to talk myself out of this show (which I sometimes do) just because it's a weekday or because there is another show that must be seen in Omaha that Saturday, as....

Okkervil River comes to Slowdown. I have seen this band three times in the last few years, and each time I see them is better than the time before. My last experience with them, at the Waiting Room in Omaha last Fall will be hard to exceed, but, I look forward to Will and the boys giving it their best. (By the way, I think Will Sheff is an excellent songwriter, too. Does it have something to do with the name Will?)

As always, anyone willing to make the trek has a place to stay here in Cornopolis. We'll leave a light on for you.

What Would Papa Think? (A Very Long Italian Story, Part Five)

With no prior experience as a European traveler, most of my notions of Europe, for better or worse, come from Ernest Hemingway. The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, For Whom the Bell Tolls—these were my blueprints for Europe. So, in some way, I imagine Firenze, prior to my arrival, as a place firmly stuck in an era of history that was, at least, eighty years ago. I also imagined myself strolling through it, a suave, hardened man of experience, ordering caffe and grappa from a corner bar, and reading the local leftist paper while I smoked away the morning. Other expatriated Americans would come and go, including Monkey, of course, as we whiled away the day until a late supper found us all gathered around a red-checked table in a tiny eatery, loudly debating local, national, and international politics, surrounded by bottles of wine and more grappa, tearing loaves of bread with our hands to sop up the greasy gravy of a local stew. And of course, the days would be brightly lit by a merciless sun, the evenings would seem eternally crepuscular, and the nights would be candlelit.

And, I guess, some of that came to pass. But first, we had a major museum to tour.

Let me pause here to apologize for the dearth of pictures that this entry will contain. Taking pictures in museums and churches, where we spent most of our time in Firenze, is generally frowned upon. Where it is not strictly vietato, use of a flash is clearly not acceptable. Thus, even were we able to take pictures, which we tried to do where we could, the increased exposure times made taking decent pictures difficult for two folks with limited camera skills (i.e., the Monkeys). So, until we get outside (tomorrow, really), the photojournalism is limited at best. Now, back to the show.

The Accademia is not a very big space. I believe it is part of an art institute in Firenze. It has two floors, the second of which is relatively tiny, and contains some really impressive fourteenth century triptychs and polyptichs and other devotional art in all its gilded two-dimensional glory. The first floor, while also not large, does have the irresistibly attractive centerpiece known as David.

Before one reaches David, however, a long hallway is home to other works of Michelangelo, namely, The Slaves, four unfinished pieces intended for the tomb of a megalomaniacal pope. The power of these pieces is undeniable, but, we found it interesting, in overhearing a tour guide discuss the emotional weight of these figures struggling to break out of the unfinished marble, that the interpretation of the pieces hinges on an accident. As far as Monkey and I can discern, the artist had every intention of finishing these figures. If that’s the case, can their unfinished nature be included as part of one’s interpretation of the pieces? It’s an interesting question to ponder, I think, and one that gets to the heart of meaning making and the role of the artist and the observer in that transaction. But enough about these little unfinished blocks of stone: look down the corridor there, and what do you see, looming three times larger than life itself? The anatomical perfection of David, contemplating his task and clearly certain of his victory.

Everyone has seen pictures of this immense (in size and significance) figure, but seeing it in person, as it fills the atrium of this small gallery, being able to circle it and look at it from many angles and in changing light, is an experience that really can not be described. You just have to see it, really. It’s a beautiful thing.

The remainder of the museum’s first floor is exciting enough, with some wonderfully large Renaissance canvases, but after the centerpiece, the rest is nearly just decoration.

After several hours in the Accademia, the pattern from yesterday was repeated, as we rested up for about an hour at the B&B, and then headed to a little place called Ichee ch’e ch’e (or something along those lines, spelling wise), which translates to “whatever is, is,” for dinner. Without reservations, we were seated in the center of the restaurant at a long “family style” table. Let me tell you something: in general, I hate eating “family style” (unless I am, indeed, with my own family, and, even then, I don’t always enjoy it so much, you know?). We were seated next to a couple, who were seated next to a single hippy. It turns out that the couple next to us were on their honeymoon from New York, and the hippy was a freshly minted high school grad from Cali. As we ate, another couple came in and sat next to us. We recognized them from breakfast. They were staying at the same B&B as we were. They were from Minnesota (via Omaha, believe it or not).

So, in true, Hemingwayesque fashion, we passed the eternal twilight around a red-checked table, a small tribe of very temporarily “expatriated” Americans, drinking wine, sopping up gravy and ragu, and debating, if not the future of the recently installed Italian government, at least the merits of nearby gellaterias.

Things Do Not Always Go As Planned (A Very Long Italian Story, Part One)

As is our usual habit after long journeys in which we do not take the time nor make the effort to blog in real time, we'll be visiting Italy in episodes. Our first episode begins:

Travel is an adventure. Always. Even the most mundane trip to a nearby city can be filled with wonder and unique experiences. Any time we set our feet on a path with expectations of arriving in a certain place at a certain time, there hangs the possibility, even the likelihood, that all will not go as planned. A flat tire will slow one's journey. A diversion will cause an unanticipated delay. Some form of weather will hinder one's means of transportation. It happens.

Monkey and I rose early on Sunday (the 8th), packed up the Penguin, made our way through our departure checklists, and began our journey with a short drive to Eppley Airfield in Omaha. As luck would have it, it poured buckets as we drove, but as we arrived at the airport and boarded the shuttle for our terminal, the storms abated.

We were scheduled for a flight from Omaha to Chicago, then, after a three hour lay over, or so, we were booked from Chicago to Newark. From Newark, we had a 9pm flight to Lisbon, and then a short flight to Milan, where we should have arrived at around 3pm Italian time (15:00, as they like to say). Our flight in Omaha was delayed about an hour (word on the tarmac was that one of the flight attendants was late for work), but we made it to Chicago with plenty of time to spare. Unfortunately, our flight out of Chicago was delayed. We had time between flights in Newark, so we weren't too concerned.

We boarded the plane in Chicago, where, by the way, it was also pouring buckets. We pushed back from the gate, and taxied out to the runway. The pilot told us that departures were stacked up, due to weather, and that we would leave as soon as we could (like, maybe in an hour). The plane groaned, but, we kept our cool, mostly. About two hours later, we were still sitting on the runway, and the pilot told us that departing flights had been suspended. After another hour, he said we were not going to take off, and he taxied back to the gate.

After we got to the gate and everybody started to gather their stuff, the pilot said that we were going to take off, so don't go anywhere. At this point, we had been on the plane for several hours, and there was no food on the plane. People were getting grumpy. Particularly the two kids with the young mother who had expected a short plane ride home to Newark, so didn't bring any food. Monkey offered her one of her protein bars, which she always takes for us on trips. The mother took it and thanked Monkey.

After taking on fuel or something, the pilot backed us out of the gate, but, fifteen minutes later, he pulled us back in, because the crew had gone into overtime, and, by some FAA rule or something, they had to be replaced. He gave us thirty minutes to jump off the plane and get some food, then said we were leaving, no matter what. The foodless mother hopped off and bought a bunch of bagels, which she distributed to everyone within two rows of her. That was thoughtful. But, of course, thirty minutes really wasn't as hard of a deadline as the pilot made it out to be.

Eventually, after six hours on the ground in this plane, we finally got airborne, but, by then, we had already missed our connection in Newark. We got in at about 10pm and made our way to the ticket counter to book our new flights for tomorrow. The fellow at the counter was very helpful, and, after a bit of a disagreement (a friendly one, of course), he made reservations for us on a non-stop flight the next afternoon to Milan on Continental. However, due to some wierd airline alliances or something, we had to come back to confirm our reservations before the flight. Then, he gave us a meal voucher and a free night in the local hotel.

Monkey wanted to make sure we were all set to fly, so, we planned to come back well before our scheduled flight, and hang out at the airport after we'd gotten our confirmations and boarding passes. I thought that was a fine plan. For the moment, however, we took the shuttle to the hotel, bought a couple of hotel restaurant cheeseburgers with our meal voucher, and hit the hay.

A night in Newark. We hadn't planned on that, and it certainly wasn't Florence, but, it was out of our hands. We slept, hoping that tomorrow would be a better day of travel, and knowing that, most likely, our next night's fare and lodgings would not be a cheeseburger and an Embassy Suites hotel room.

Jens Lekman Loves You

I semi-reluctantly left the Monkey in the cave and hied it over to Omaha with some buds to eat sushi and see a show (is that the only way to visit Omaha? I think that's how it worked last time, except, this time, it wasn't fifty below!). Jens Lekman, the Swedish superstar was playing Slowdown.

The sushi, by the way, at Sakura Bana, was most excellent. We may have found a winner, just fifty minutes away! The traditional sushi--tuna, salmon, and scallop, were all top notch. Especially tasty, though not true sushi, was the dragon roll: eel and cooked smelt, with avocado-wrapped rice. Mmmmm.

The Slowdown was lightly populated when we arrived at 9pm, and the partition between the stage and the bar was up. Behind the temporary wall, Lekman and his band were performing their sound check. Apparently, weather in Wyoming had held them up in their travels, and they had arrived in Omaha very late. We hoped that the travel traumas would not impact the band's performance.

The opening act, The Honeydrips, consisted of one George Michael meets Kurt Warner singer, with a Mac book. Push a button, here comes the music, and he's singin' his song. Occasionally, he'd don Jens' guitar, but he'd never play it. I wondered what he was on about. Was the guitar a statement of irony? Was he making a joke on himself? Was he wearing it for protection? And why during that song and not this song? I wondered these things as he picked at the air just above the guitar during the "instrumental" portions of the Mac book's performance. I remarked to my neighbor that it was like watching someone you didn't know sing karoake to songs you'd never heard. Does that sound like fun to you?

The Honeydrips raised a lot of questions about the nature of performance and the role of technology in modern music. I won't go into that now, but my showmates and I had a good discussion over the opening act on our sleepy way home.

I noticed that the place had filled up significantly, as Lekman took the stage after a short transitional period. He and his technology/sample/ computer sound guy took the stage first, both in purple (but not the SAME purple) shirts, untucked, and white calf-hugging pants and tuxedo shoes (also white); they began the opening riffs of the opening song (the names of all of which I don't know). Before the breakout, the band joined Jens, all wearing shades of purple--tunic-like tops and some form of tights or tight pants. All performers had shiny, silver keys around their necks. The additional line up consisted of all female performers: bass, drums, cello, and violin. At least visually, this was clearly a band, and they all ROCKED.

Granted, Lekman's music is unapologetically pop. And, mostly, pop is not my cup of tea. But, Lekman's style, that 60s/70s semi-soul sound, his jangly melodies about simple things (like getting a haircut, or visiting a friend), well, dammit, they just sound so good. And, last night, they sounded really good. Most endearing, however, was the feeling that we in the audience got, that Lekman and his band were genuinely happy to be performing for us, and they were really having fun up there.

It's not often you see a show where the performers look so truly enthusiastic, where the energy coming out of the crowd is absorbed and returned by the individuals under the colored lights. When it happens, you just have to love it.

When "Pocketful of Money," the final encore, was winding down, and Lekman sung to the crowd, "I'll come running with a heart on fire," the crowd sung back, "I'll come running with a heart on fire," and it was only fitting that this mutual admiration society was sharing everything, right down to the last note.

Missed Opportunities

The snow and ice fell on Monday, followed by righteous prairie winds. Monkey and I had a report from a driver that the road to Omaha was relatively treacherous and the wind was fierce. We decided not to travel out for Drive By Truckers. Perhaps we missed a great show, but a two hour plus trip one way (estimated due to conditions) followed by the same to return was not a pleasant forecast. Nor was three hours of sleep. Call me lame, but, I think we made a wise choice. Granted, I don't get to tell a story like this, but, that will just have to be okay.

Saturday's housewarming party was nice. We had more than twenty people show up. This may not seem like much, but, for us, it was a mob! Unfortunately, the party was over by 10:30. Does that mean all of our new aquaintances a) are old, b) are lame, c) secretly don't like us, or d) all of the above? Or, is there another, more benign explanation?

Slow Down/Devil Town

This should be revised further. It is missing so much, and it doesn’t sing like I want it to. But, I wanted to get it up while it was still fresh in my mind. A shout out to R and Comoprozac (two of the four hipster/oldsters)—thanks for visiting on a cold February weekend. See you at T/F!

It is painfully cold as four aging hipsters hustle up 14th Street to stand in line with the youngsters waiting to enter Slow Down to see Daniel Johnston on an Omaha Saturday night. Without saying so, each is aware of the existential state the others are in. Is this going to be a train wreck of a show? Is this legend of independent art and music going to appear to them simply as a caricature? Will the effects of drugs, mental illness, and general ill health have taken too much of a toll on this man, a man some have labeled “genius?” Do these kiddos even know who Daniel Johnston is?

A pretty, straight-haired blonde girl snaps her gum in a Crayola red wool coat and beige Uggs in front of them. She looks 16. Behind them, a short crazy-haired girl in a thick wool cap smokes noisily, her head obscured by her breath and fumes. It’s hard to tell how old she might be.

At the door, the ticket guy sees the skull cap on one of the over-thirty quartet. It reads “Obama 08.”

“Did you go to the caucus today?”
“We’re from Missouri.”
“Oh, did you vote on Tuesday?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you do?”
“What?”
“Did he win?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Cool. I heard he was up like 70-30, here.”
“Huh.”

Hipsters for Obama.

Inside, the place has that new club smell—no smoke, no urine, no stale beer. It’s clean and dark and black. Black-tiled walls, black-painted ceiling. It is deep and thin, opening out a bit wider in front of the stage, with a sunken floor area surrounded by a few tables. Hanging from the ceiling, a glow-in-the-dark tube sculpture breaks up the monotony of vents and metal rafters. A small upstairs area seats a few at tables and chairs.

It’s 9:15. They find a place near the top of the steps, about thirty feet from the stage. They are near the merch table—a couple of T-shirts for one of the bands, a few CDs and prints, a “Hi How Are You?” Johnston T-shirt—manned by a skull-capped, mascara-wearing dude with a long, thin nose and a two-day growth, who resembles a grungier, younger, more attractive Perry Farrell. Queuers at the table jostle the oldsters occasionally as they get their bearings.

It is a mixed sense they get from the place. It is too clean, too suited-for-the-purpose to feel real, but, at the same time, it is a change of pace not having to see a show in a 100-year-old former bank with water damage, graffiti on the walls, crumbling ceilings, broken toilets, and two city condemnation notices on the peeling front door.

At about 9:30, the first performer comes on—Jake Bellows (yes, Comoprozac, of Neva Dinova). Liz Stinson, of the Lincoln Journal Star, finds Bellows “amazing” and “understated.” A wood-grain Gibson Les Paul around his neck, and the de rigeur skull cap, scraggly hair, and beard around his head, Bellows hesitantly launched into several songs that had wandering tempos, or that occasionally stopped so that Bellows might correct a chord change. The songs would trail off or end abruptly, and they seemed to have extemporaneous lyrics about “beer breath” and “hiding away” one’s love (that’s a new idea). At one point, Bellows stopped a song in order to announce that he had neglected to put anyone on his guest list and to ask someone in the back to put Kelsey, Amanda, Lisa, Isaac, and Tammy on the list. No word on whether they showed up.

His last song of the night started out as K. the Frog’s “It’s Not Easy Being Green.” However, halfway through the second verse, Bellows forgot the words, and no one in the audience could help him out. He made a sincere apology to Jim Henson for messing up his song, thusly: “Thank you, Jesus, for killing Jim Henson early.” Amazing? Yes. Understated? No.

The second band, while having no possibility to be anything but better, really turned things in a positive direction. Flowers Forever had an excellent sound, classic instruments, a bruising drummer, and the gyrating, singing, arm-waving front man, Derek Pressnall of Tilly and the Wall, who turned out to be the merch-table dude. A highlight of the set—a song with a chorus along the lines of, “We’re waiting for some change. / We’re not fucking around anymore.” Why this isn’t Obama’s campaign song, I don’t know. Another highlight—a cover of Abel Meeropol’s “Strange Fruit,” a song made popular by Billie Holiday. A lowlight of the set—a poorly arranged final song that employed saxophone. Kinda ska, kinda jazz, kinda crap.

At about 11, Daniel Johnston took the stage. Dressed in his standard gray sweat pants and a rugby shirt, his hair gray, he flipped his notebooks open beside a table full of water bottles. A few strums on his headless guitar, and he was ready to go. But, the mic was dead. A few snaps and clicks in the PA, and the mic was on. But, the guitar was not. Johnston handled it with aplomb, telling a joke in the first minute or two of the electrical problems. As the minutes dragged on, he admitted that that was the only joke he knew. Eventually, and without further issue, the technical difficulties were resolved.

Johnston played a few of his songs unaccompanied. It was sometimes hard to watch—he has pretty bad tremors—but he trooped on. His voice, while never his finest attribute, is certainly showing its age (prematurely, like the rest of him), but the spirit, the fire, is still there.

Joined by a guitar player, Johnston worked through a few more songs, including one of my personal favorites, “Grievances,” and a cover of the Beatles’ “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away.” (Did Bellows know this?) I was put in mind of later Johnny Cash—the “American” recordings—when a near-70-year-old Cash with a certainly limited technical vocal ability filled in the gaps with nuance and emotion. Johnston was trying that, and succeeding, mostly, but the Man in Sweats’ instrument has never been in the same category as the Man in Black’s.

When he returned for his final set, accompanied by a full band that looked like it was just going through the motions, Johnston’s voice was ragged. He valiantly plugged on, croaking through a half-dozen numbers, but, by then, for some, the thrill was gone. Many in the crowd exhorted Johnston to carry on, but the oldsters seemed to be hoping he would go have a cup of tea. He had done enough. He had shown that he still wore his heart on his sleeve, and, oddly enough, that his songs were more powerful when he was performing them, and he alone, than when he had a whole band to flesh the songs out. It’s just the nature of his songs and his persona.

Johnston eventually called it a night, taking his notebooks, and leaving the stage after thanking us all. He did not return for an encore.

The quartet of hipster/oldsters had split into two pairs, and the two up front moved to meet the two in the back as the band came out and invited the crowd to serenade Johnston with his own “Devil Town” as a show of thanks in lieu of an encore. Many of them did as our group bundled up and slinked back out into the cold to contemplate their own vampires and devils in the existential musings that the night had put murmuring in their private thoughts.

Stuff To Do

This is going to be an awesome weekend, if you like music and college football. Monkey and I will be heading to Omaha to check out Okkervil River and Damien Jurado at The Waiting Room. That should be pretty awesome. (By the way Comoprozac--I was at that Arcade Fire show at Mojo's back in the day.)

Tomorrow night, Monkey and I will be attending the USC-Nebraska football game. College Game Day will be here in Lincoln to whip all the already insane fans into a lather, and, with a 7pm Central start time, the tailgaters should be just near violence/spewing/passing out stage. I look forward to a less-than-competitive football game, made entertaining by first half hi-jinx in the stands. (Oh, Comoprozac, did I mention I saw Arcade Fire at Mojo's?) This, with Notre Dame-Michigan vying for winless status, could be the finest college football weekend I have ever experienced. [Sarcasm meter calibration check: reading=HIGH.]

Sunday could only be used for such things as buying vacuum cleaners and coffee grinders, both of which gave up the ghost this week. It would be nice if I could get paid some time soon, but I guess I'll just have to wait until next month (which reminds me of the time I saw Arcade Fire at Mojo's that one time)....