Satellite of Anti-Love - Marika
A word about
'Anti-folk', a song felt ,
Hearing is a point of view
"I'll tell you a story and this is how it was,
and the way it is
but it doesn't always have
Jonathon Richman was really inspired by Iggy Pop and Elvis
Not David Byrnne,
He didn't really like David Byrnne (I know, I asked.) Markia
we think of The Talking Heads as the fore runners of American punk
So is Jonathon Richman the pre cursor to
So Au Base is a magazine outside, no sorry inside
Very inside, NYBrooklyn and the Manhattan area to be less than exact.
It's exact but not as exacting as you really need to be in order to describe the NY Scene.
Artland, Brooklyn , Joe Driscoll, Turner Cody, Aaron Wilkinsen, Moldy Peaches, Deep Sound DiverEmmy Brown on a trip to the lower Westside Kitchen, from Canada by way of Gainesville.
I know these persons,
Stories I can recall and recount,
Feeling out of bounds
In synchopation and rhythm
And verse I smile when I hear the lyrics and it brings me to places in my mind
Only I am allowed to occupy
have keys to.
This is a song, a song about a red shirt
@ Artland , Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Sunday June 16th 2002
I pull up to Artland , burnt, boiled and ready to plant my hatchet(and I do have a hatchet)
into anyone who cut me off in traffic or stepped out in front of the goddamned car again.
I remind myself , "You are in NYC, get over it find your destination, park and take a Valium."
Screw me for driving through mid-town, on a Father's Day Sunday, through Broadway Matinee central hell, where children and adults and adult/children fling their bodies at moving cars (or at least cars desperately trying to move through a street thick with bodies).
Driving through the city was a bad idea, I get lost in a maze of one way streets and block festivals. Which all makes my blood boil and rage and I remember, I'm home. After that getting lost and found is like a violent odoriffic breeze.
I pull up to Artland, finally, I get a Brooklyn Lager and water for the dog (Montana)
(after putting the Floridian ("you can tell you're from Florida" I'm not the car is, reflective , windshield shade)
I finally get to take a Valium, falling asleep directly in front of the bar .
Literally lying in wait for the show later that night.
"I don't know, I think Marika might show up? I don't know dude." I hear this while my eyes open on trying to focus in on a pair of moon boots( the snow kind, as if there was any other) in New York in the first days of summer in the city.
I think to myself, "That's gotta be Turner."
"Yo!" My dry mouth vainly tried to emit.
"I'm here," still sandy in mi boca.
I bust out.
"oh shit! I thought you weren't coming!"
"Of course I was coming, I booked the gig didn't I?" stumbling up the curb, "Plus, I drove Emmy's equipment up here for her I had to be here." I say with a shade of irritated disdain.
The next I have to ask is, "Dude? Moon Boots?"
"It's about style."
When I saw him later, stamping around, singing his songs, I totally understood, before that, it was just "that's Turner. Full o' contradictions."
He used the moon boots like another instrument. Much in the same way he uses his hair, only that's an instrument of sublimation..
He is strumming a face that's stroked him for years and is his closest confidant. The way he holds his guitar like a friendly wrestling match. You feel party to a private moment, that moment in a boys life when they wish that everyone can see them playing the guitar in front of this eternal bedroom mirror!
Whoa, okay, I can let myself get carried away. Actually listening to Turner, singing like pieces of blonde fresh cut wood always carries me away. (At one time quite literally, fleeing to the opposite end of the building. That was a different context though.)
The imaging of the words colors in tastes. It's surreal like that, just as you think you completely understood what he's saying, he moves on "that was only an idea", fucking with your head a bit, and oh, wait actually you got it, it's a storytelling through a pastiche of feelings, colorful feelings (Whew!).
This performance @ Artland, he had the visual entourage and vocal lighting of Nicole,
( and whom I quite honestly think to be one of a few muses) and Deep Sound Diver's Spencer Chakedis. Spencer styling the mandolin, and playing up to some god on the ceiling, or with himself. Always touching each other's notes like flitting birds.
"Anti-folk is about a genre a style, and a story tellingnot the catchy shit that it's been saturated with. It's about a knowledge of style. A self awareness." We discussed this at some point on another night later in the week .
Shit, it's just good songwriting and performance, of one's own inner music.
PO Box 282
New York, NY 10276
@ Artland, Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Sunday June 16th 2002
Emmy knows how to sew. Her short, pinkish orange hair pulled into pigtails the best she can. She's wearing an apron/dress/lingerie maybe the word 'lingerie' will lead you astray. So not really lingerie as much as a poking fun at what current fashion has done to the act of wearing no bra and tying your shirt to yourself. Figure it out. She has sewn it by hand, embroidering the words, 'discipline' and 'guilty', in red yarn on the front. It is an apron, it is folk art, and she, Emmy is definitely anti-folk.
I've seen varying styles of rag doll couture she has designed, wearing a different dress she had hand sewn for a series of performances and helped her hang them as an installation in The Full Circle, Gainesville. At the present time she was taking part of a workshop of concepts at the Kitchen. She's from Canada by way of Gainesville, where she's attending the MFA program for Fine Arts. She works very hard at what she does. Which span from student teaching at the University of Florida, running an Open Mike Scene at The Shamrock to globetrotting to Ecuador to record her new album.
I've seen the words "punishment" drawn on an image somewhere around her. She bears her song like the handicap of a childhood trauma, with a smile and as gracefully as the whiskey will permit.
Emmy's music has tales of things gone unsaid, and then repeated over and over, tying you up with her lyrics, and not letting you go with her eyes.
Singing in her way, her way, deeply intoned at some points. Just barely a peep at others. Reeling you in with repetition and flickers of her eyes. Repelling you, with her
concepts , daring you to look away. If ya, do she'll catch you in her own special way "What? You've never experienced intense uncomfortable intimacy? You've never been violated? Have you violated yourself? To yourself? To another? To how a boot a different subject?"
Emmy's words are very poignant and that is something that she shares with Turner, poignancy. Dramatic effect of visual recollection.
"I was hiding
under the stairs"
Coy, flirtatious, demeanor allows her words to linger a little longer on your ears. Which , when discerned can be disconcerting. Leading you underneath the back porch, crawling around in the dirt, searching for lost toys.
She sings with a rhythmic guitar punctuating her tones, of loyalty, mermaid dresses, and abandonment. Her melodies being compared to that of Difranco's and intonations of Bjork. Her childish bounce disarms you, and then as you begin to play with her you realize that this human is a very fragile thing.
Joe Driscoll ,www.joedriscoll.net, runs the singer/songwriter nights at Artland on Tuesdays and Sundays, supplying Brooklyn with a vehicle and a venue for musical expression.
Drawing in a community hungry for it's ownothers. The presence is out there, and let it be here too.
He usually gets to play and sing himself by the end of the night, which is always a refreshing light hearted treat to listen to, and to sing along with.
Wearing a basketball jersey, baggy shorts, crew cropped hair and flip flops he takes to the stage/carpet like an old friend waiting for him. He has no airs about him, and in NYC ( as with any scene I see) that is a welcome relief. You get the feeling that he just genuinely likes playing the guitar, singing with the bar patrons, and is all around chill. No cross to bear , no axe to grind. Why is he here? With no trees to hug?
He gives form to a community in the midst of taking on (yet another) shape. He supports the familial ways that making the statement of anti-folk doesn't always emit. He supplies the bar, the microphone, the sound, the tip hat, the vibe, the smile, and perhaps the couch too. He is a curious young jedi.
Copyright Labor Of Love 2oo2