baby steps (reclaiming my muse, part one)

I had this idea to do a series on Kamen Rider, a childhood hero of mine. It was supposed to show him in the bloated, washed-out state of middle age. I may still fine tune that, but, whilst playing with a couple images last night, this came out instead. Actually, it's not so far from my original vision. Kamen Rider lunges forward with his fist while our "hero," almost without moving, strikes back with his remote. I like the juxtaposition of these two extremes. It also has the clean, symmetrical feel of an old propaganda poster. I could possibly expand on this. We'll see.

bad friend. bad

I woke up this morning to an e-mail from a friend in Buffalo. I've known him since high school, and although we aren't as close as we used to be, hey, people drift. Especially when years and geographic distance are involved. At any rate, my last correspondence with this friend was sending him and his wife a gift card in December, as they'd just returned home from Colombia with an adopted baby boy. All was well, or so I thought.

Today I got a nice wake up call in the form of a ripping, sarcastic message for not calling or writing to make sure the family was okay in the wake of the plane crash near Buffalo. The operative word here is "near." Anyone who knows me knows I am a news junkie and I pay attention to details. The plane fell on one singular house in a suburb of Buffalo, and my friend and his family live inside the city proper. The plane didn't take out an entire neighborhood, let alone wreak the kind of damage an earthquake or hurricane can do to a region. It involved one freaking house in a huge metro area.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not saying this was not a tragedy. I am not the heartless bastard many of you think. I am saddened whenever I learn of something like this, and putting the families of those lost [and their reactions] on television is especially painful. In fact, it is wrong. People should be allowed to grieve in private.

That said, I never had any reason for concern that my friend or his wife or son might have been affected by this tragedy, and so I went on with my life and my thoughts as I always do. And then I awake this morning to a knife through my computer monitor, as if I am lower than scum. And believe me, I felt low. I felt fucking terrible, but, at that point, what could I do?

This is exactly why I say I'm done with people. You can be riding along in your own little pod and get blasted out of the blue by another person's drama or bad day or whatever. You'll never even see it coming. Which is not to say I'm above creating drama myself, but damn. Why does every little action, or inaction, have to be taken as a personal affront? Whatever happened to peace, love, and understanding?

I love my friends, but not today.

detective on the case

I'm not with it today. This needs a lot more detective imagery added to it, but I'm feeling off:

I have more music than I know what to do with, and probably a quarter to a third of it is composed of albums I’ve found in thrift stores. In a purely monetary sense, it’s the only way I can afford to pursue my passion for tunes. I work in a library, for crissakes. More than money, though, there’s a certain thrill in walking into a thrift store and finding that one gem amidst the piles and piles of fool’s gold. I’m a treasure hunter. I love the element of the unknown, the not knowing when I walk in just what I’ll discover or in what directions these finds will take my collection. However, it’s not for the faint-hearted. You have to be committed and persistent, and you really, truly have to know your stuff. I spend as much time reading about music as I do listening to it, and that’s saying something. Knowledge is your best tool when hunting for anything.

That said, if there’s ever a time I’ve felt the pangs of wanting a Blackberry, it’s been in a thrift store. Inevitably I’ll come upon an album or artist I don’t know and that, for whatever reason, piques my interest. How great it would be if I could jump right on the Net and access Allmusic. Ah, information at my fingertips. But refer back to paragraph one. I work in a library. A Blackberry is a luxury I’ll have to do without. Still, even without direct information, there are things you can do to increase your odds. Yeah, okay, it’s only two or three bucks. What’s the big deal if you get home and it’s sour, right? Well, that shit adds up. Just take my advice and listen.

To start with, sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. The artwork, and sometimes even the font, can tell you something about the music. Something as simple as someone holding a guitar can tell you that you aren’t dealing with electronica. You can do even better than that, though, by deciphering the style. In some cases, the artist’s clothing and hairstyle can drop hints like atomic bombs. Simply by looking at a few visual clues, you can deduce a lot.
To dig deeper, pull the sleeve out of the jewel case and do some reading. The liner notes will usually tell you what instruments are played and, just as importantly, list the personnel. Who plays on the album? Who gets listed in the thank-you section? You might find someone you know dropped in to play on one song, and that can tell you volumes.

In some cases, though, you’ve got to go more intuitive. One way I’ve increased my odds with thrift store finds is by looking at all the music on the shelf. Albums, or anything in a thrift store, rarely occur in isolation. No one takes a solitary disc to a thrift store, the same way no one drops off just one shirt. Donations to thrift stores come in boxes and bags… in VOLUME.

Take today’s find, for example. I went into the Family Thrift Store on Wesleyan Drive and found several CDs on the shelf. An album by the local band Silverscene (jangly Morrissey worshippers, those guys) was there, along with two albums by Lush, one by Moz himself, one by The Connells, and one by Teenage Fanclub. There may have been others, too, but they are escaping me. This is enough, though, to show a point. It’s highly unlikely this assemblage of shoegaze, Britpop, and janglepop took place on its own, over time. These albums represent a very particular taste in music and probably came in together, from one person’s music collection. The only mystery, to me, is that someone decided they were over these bands and dumped them. They’re timeless!

But I digress. This helped me immensely with two discs I was uncertain about, an EP and a single from a band called The Bluetones. It seemed like I’d heard of this band before, but I just wasn’t sure. Oh, if only I’d had my Blackberry! But I didn’t, and I didn’t need it, because the clues were all there like so many fingerprints and blood stains. These CDs had all come in together, and they were all indicative of someone with evolved taste buds. I walked up to the register and made the leap of faith with The Bluetones, knowing the odds were with me.

And, of course, I won.

The Day The Music Died (February 3, 1959)

Oh how our hearts yearn for you. RIP, Buddy.