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Electric Feels in the D

Joshua Kochis Leave a comment

This weekend I attended Dlectricity – a sprawling festival exhibition of Art and Light installed within Midtown Detroit, along Woodward Ave. starting at Kirby and stretching down past the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit (affectionately known as MOCAD), the purpose being an interaction between old spaces and new media of expression, developing a sense of community, literally allowing the crowds of wide-eyed onlookers to see these public structures in a new light. Some things I saw:

Beginning at Detroit Artist’s Market where Endi Poskovic (Internationally acclaimed and prolific artist/teacher at A&D) has curated a show called Landscape and Abstraction, bringing together six Michigan printmakers whose work wanders between fields of relief, collage, reduction woodcut, hanging installation, and even prints with city lights punched out of the paper, leaving it full of holes and shadows – here also is projection on screen by another A&D teacher Heidi Kumao, shadows and video shot onto stack of books, small silhouette climbing spines like ladder rungs, well done –

on to MOCAD where two projections outside talked across from each other: a girl slowly beatboxing really barely making any noise and opposite her a dancer man in a sweat suit pop locking and turning to her occasional rat-tats and fwooms – farther behind in shack-like side building more projection on garage door, through door are shadows interacting with footage of guests donning paper and rubber masks and walking through this hall of shining mysteries, us watching from outside, adjacent to this real time journeying are shots of disco retro dancer couples, strange contrast, ritualistic but jiving, the dancers all smiles, us moving on –

big steel MOCAD doors, wander inside, pass gift shop, ponder art – I saw paintings of lacquer and varnish, garish portraits with worms of paint squirted from tube over bodies, farther in was a room of rooms, pairs of artists filling small spaces, like IP studios, I saw videos, tables of books with hanging headphones that don’t work, moldmaker casting things he likes, wants to try, saw buddhas and large quarters and rock mobiles, collections of plants, a room of hayfloor and wooden puppet at table of horrors, a room of college essays and notebook sketches and writing stapled behind plexiglass all four walls and floor – in the next room a performance, two girls on stage, purposely caked makeup, dumb wigs, blacked-out teeth, cartoons, sing karaoke ballad about freedom of self, hop around stage, having fun up there, us deciding it was about performance culture and our expectations of performers and the realities we don’t see and don’t want to – onward, pop-up shop of forgery containers in corner gallery, soup cans and boxes of crayons and spam, cigarette cartons, candy packaging, all plastic and empty with little lamps inside, free, on necklace or fishing pole stick dangle, bouncing light –

there was a bike parade in the street, wheels and wheels spinning by all a-glow, whistles and hoots and hollers from riders, music blares, mingles, moving, us following flow of bikes up Woodward  – stopping next at a big open field on Warren, perspective box confusing, supposed to distort scale, make small and tall people look same size, can’t see while inside walking through, unsure, design tent of wares, projection on wall on back of porto-potties (a woman in a blindfold sitting on a whoopee cushion over and over again, on three screens, somehow each clip a little different, done multiple times) – onward again, a glowing inflated set of four fingers gyrating in the sky, reminding of rocketship alien arms, scheming above bystanders, lighting up and spreading, buzzing, down the street hugeing projecting on façade of DIA, madness, landscapes and faces with trees and scales growing, a cube with cameras, projecting immediate audience onto various backgrounds (traffic, fields of color, crowds of people), a cathedral with echoey glowing windows, ineffective from up close, craning neck to see nothing faint glimmer of orange light above – us reaching Woodward and Kirby, turning, walking block to see Osman Khan (yet another A&D Prof) installation, a house shape in LED tubes, fluorescent, a diagonal bulb in middle occasionally blinking while house frame dims –

in addition to all this ART I saw faces, all the faces gaping and looking around, searching for meaning in awe of illuminations, seas of crowds flowing over street corners, intersections, tides of feet and eyes, heads turning in Look – and the space really was transformed, not even so much by the light itself but what the light causes which is community, everybody here for the same thing, all the souls searching for one thing or another, the real deal being something there worth searching for, this the effect of light, to make us see what we hadn’t before – and you can be sure I’ll be back next year.

Go Away, I’m Trying To Write Here

Jeannie Marie Leave a comment

I don’t think I’ve encountered anything more frustrating than writer’s block. I mean, it’s called writer’s block for a reason. But for me, writer’s block is so much more than not being able to write.

You see, I don’t get normal writer’s block. It’s not like I just sit in front of a computer for an hour trying to think of the next thing Matt from Story C would say to his best friend John. If it were that simple, I would have done NaNoWriMo every year and just put out crappy stories that no one really cares about because they’re so horrible. I mean, that is what NaNoWriMo is about.

For me, writer’s block is so much more personal. I don’t think this applies to most people because I don’t think most writers approach their writing like I do (but I could be wrong). You see, when I get writer’s block, it’s not usually about not being able to write. I’m always able to write. I’m always able to put words on a page and read them and make them sound grammatically correct. But being able to put them down well, being able to enchant people with just words on a page, and being able to say yes I made this and be proud of it terrifies me.

Because for me, writing isn’t just something I enjoy. Sure, it may have started out that way, but now that I’m in 323, now that I’m telling people I’m going to be a CW Concentrator (different than a major people), I feel the pressure not only to put out work but put out work that says I deserve to be a writer. If I don’t put out that work, I feel judged, vulnerable, like I’m just one baby step behind everyone else, like I should have learned how to use “sophisticated” instead of “fancy” already.

But most importantly, the reason why writer’s block is so frustrating, why I just want to scream and pound on the walls and rip ideas straight from my head is something so simple that most people probably don’t even realize it. I hate writer’s block because it blocks my primary form of creative expression. I don’t sing, I don’t have great fashion sense, I can’t dance to save my life, but writing, writing is mine. And when I’m so scared that I can’t even do that, can’t put my heart on a page and let the blood run down into ink, I’m angry.

But you know, that’s why I write for this blog. That’s why I’m taking three ULWR, why I push myself to take classes that I know are gonna be hard. This Shakespeare class isn’t kicking my butt for nothing. And every time I make a victory, get my grade back and get comments on it that say good job, the frustration is totally worth it.

Because for me, writer’s block pushes me to be better. And in return, I am better.

(this post brought to you by Jeannie’s anxiety over not posting on Wednesday)

(also maybe that paper on Yeats that’s due next week)

(probably more the Yeats paper)

Unrequited

WillJang Leave a comment

He, the boy, was already out of his seat, ready for his regular after supper program. She, the mother, was, an embodiment of habit through and through, sitting across from the boy, staring at, what seemed to her, an insurmountable amount of food that she had hardly touched.
“I am tired mother,” he said in his deliberately quiet voice.
She didn’t even look up and as usual the boy took her silence to be a response, yet one not specified to be approving or disapproving, but merely just a response. Not for one second did the boy believe that he fooled his mother into thinking that he went to sleep so early every night. But what did it matter to him? Once his bedroom door was closed and locked and he was comfortably sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning his eye onto the eyepiece of the telescope, no other world existed, none other than the one across the street.
The telescope that had become the boy’s vessel to a new obsession was a gift. His father left it for him, a man that he had never seen. No photo’s existed, and according to his mother, no memories either. Pointed downwards, toward the illuminated street, the telescope sat facing the bedroom’s only window. The bedroom itself was newly furnished; a space filled with a new used mattress and broken clock along with no objects of childish desire. The street was lit, with a warm light that breached the bedroom’s windows with a yellow embrace but the sky above was dark, for the streetlights that flooded the city, also erased the stars that dotted the sky, leaving only the black dome that had neither beginning nor end.
Looking through the telescope, the boy could see the bar that tonight seemed to host an appropriate level of boisterous activity. The bouncer stood guard as always, both hands in his pockets and just like every other night, the bouncer was wearing his black t-shirt and black jeans. Despite the fact that the night air had become chillier recently, not one night passed where the boy was not able to see the tattoo on the bouncers left bicep. In lieu of this tattoo, the boy had given the bouncer the name Isabelle. He couldn’t figure why there was a heart around it however, who could love someone named Isabelle?

Isabelle’s gaze shifted, eyes staring to his left at an odd man who was walking up the street. His face was young yet he barely had a headful of gray hair that frizzled and shot in directions with an electric disorder more congruous with his youthful face. As the odd man stopped in front of the bar, a puzzled eyebrow rose on Isabelle’s face.
“Sorry, sir. But I can’t let you in. We are full tonight.”
The odd man straightened his hunched back like an animal rearing up to intimidate and replied with both words and gestures of rabid and primal fervor that seemed to extend from further beneath his disheveled exterior, “It’s cause of how I look, isn’t it you fucker?”
“Alright, keep walking. I don’t have to deal with shit like you.” As Isabelle finished what he was saying, the odd man leaned in close to his face, breathing heavily, releasing the scent of alcohol; something that Isabelle had already figured was churning inside the odd mans stomach. Somehow he knew, although its effects were lost in the maddening mystery the man’s face.
Then, with a sudden explosiveness, the odd man jabbed away with a knife, irregularly hitting home with blows that were as sporadic as a cornered animals swipes and claws. Grabbing whatever he could of his punctured torso, Isabelle fell onto the ground, kissing the street. The odd man scurried away.

The boy knew that Isabelle was not dead, he couldn’t be. His eye left the eyepiece and his body carried him onto the streets outside. Naked feet slapping on the asphalt, he hurried over to the motionless Isabelle. A pool of blood was already collecting beside and beneath the body, of what seemed to the boy now, that of a different man, one that he didn’t know. The blood was not bright red like his own when he had a nosebleed, instead, it was deep and thick, and flowing onto the black asphalt, it became even darker. The boy shook him but the man made no sound.
“Wake up. Wake up…”
The man slowly came to his senses and turned his head just enough to see the boy. But the man nothing. He only stared at the boy with eyes that spoke a language the boy had never heard but knew. The boy ran into the bar and said that the man out front was bleeding and the bartender ran out along with a couple of regulars. Before long, the red and blue flashers, atop the silent ambulance and two patrol cars, flooded the warm yellow lights.

Long before the cops and medics arrived however, the boy had already gone back inside his house and was now sitting across from his mother, whose eyes were devoid of presence, glazed with a disgusting nonchalance.
“What the fuck did you do? Those lights better not be for you.” She was smoking, puffing away, and the thick gray smoke that suffocated the air in the room made the boy choke and cough.
“Nothing. A man died.”
“Who? Do you know this person?”
The boy looked angrily at his mother and replied that he was just a man who worked at the bar. He noticed that she had eaten half of what was on her plate ad like usual; the rest was going into the trash again, buried by all the stubs and ash from the cigarettes she devoured.
Her eyes had a glint of interest that became more apparent as she worked her way through her next wave of smothering questions, “The bar? Was it the bouncer?”
However, the boy did not see his mother’s lively expressions. All he saw was smoke. His gaze shifted towards the tacky patterned kitchen floor tiles where the smoke did not reach. But the tiles themselves, transfused a sickening mood. His head began to spin. Beneath the painful white light from the fluorescent bulbs, rays that seemed to infectiously penetrate the clouds of smoke, the boy spaced out into a dizzying mental void. So he got up and ran back to his room and as he ran, he could hear his mother, but his coughing that rang in his ears muffled her words.
He locked the door and sat again on the edge of his bed, facing the telescope. He had puked before, but this vertigo, it only made him feel like he had to, the vomit never came. Fearful and frantic, the boy looked around for something, anything. Then, glaring at the telescope, he realized that he didn’t want anything in his vision except nothing. He can’t be dizzy if he sees nothing. With a weak push, the boy shoved aside the telescope and kneeled on the floor and rested his head on the windowsill and stared upwards, towards the blank black dome. And it was in this moment that he was reminded of the entirety of what he had seen that night. Wrapping his arms around himself, the boy began to cry, his watery eyes still fixed on the dome above, trying to look past the blurry black liquid in his eyes.
Still sitting in the kitchen, the mother listened to the second knock on her front door. She was already on her eighth cigarette. Another knock. They can wait. Instead of smoking it, she let the cigarette burn until it reached her fingers. She hardly endured the pain and let go quickly, letting the bud drop into the ashtray that had, by now, collected a substantial pile. When she finally opened the door, some of the smoke escaped. An expected face was before her and all she could say was nothing, she stood in silence in preparation for what was to come.

THINGS HAPPENING

Joshua Kochis Leave a comment

so guys

this is coming a little late, but something happened in Ann Arbor a few weeks ago and now I’m feeling the need to write about it as others have written about it and should be – a progressive youthful creative act operating under the cover of a party that will go down in the journals of its leaders and participants and maybe will be rediscovered later and discussed in the Michigan Theatre at a lecture series, or maybe will just be remembered and talked about by the two hundred strong involved, which would be equally as beautiful if not more, actually probably better that way, but anyway something happened.

some context:

the artist/writer/musician/creative group of students formerly and currently known as the TeneT Collective began as and continues to be an underground zine of various media including but not limited to stories and poems and drawings and photos, the group a real raw bunch of subterraneans hangin out on porches all wide-eyed and excited, all headwise, cool, having read and known and talked about good books, all out to make things happen and make people think and feel and think maybe they should go out and express themselves too because dang it sure does look like those folks are havin a good time – and this group of doers and movers and makers got together and decided to step outside the zine for the time being to make something happen that hadn’t happened before, that wasn’t happening yet but should have been the whole time and this is how all great ideas begin –

and on the 6th of September the Happening occurred in Ann Arbor, beginning in Kerrytown (the IT house) and there were drawings all around and paper on the walls and paintings in doorways on hinges, vibes all over the place, everybody gathered and drew together, doodled as One and broke the ice and got their feet wet before being led away by Leg Champii and the Special Knees, the marchingband TeneT sector shepherding the crowd to new digs via the accordion, guitars, drums and other noisemakers; there was a woody nymph in a pale dress twirling a hoop on fire, spinning and dancing and leaving glowing tracers in the night, her and the band leading the way, a skip in their step and on the parade went down State street toward the Fuc* Boys Lair and here it reeked of Art too – there were paintings and performings and the release of a skate video set inside the Stamps studios titled BUT IS IT ART and everyone decided that it was, and on it went, this a brief stop of the Night, and further downtown Champii and the Knees marched, stopping cars in the streets, taking up whole blocks of sidewalk, onward to an underground empty parking lot where the acoustics were choice, the walls sang back, all were good and confused, the band doubled around and up and out the garage as quickly as they’d come and off we were again, making a sort of loop, only a hop and skip from the Origin, ending now at a Lamp house partay – there were lights all over, everything aglow, the lawn full of chairs and couches even all bespecked in glinty light, people teeming in rapture, the air quivering, excited, sharp, there were flashes of light and giant sparklers lit off, waved around, the fiery hoop and fairy hooper returned, swirled and dipped and hung in the air, a lad jumped through cleanly and nimble to cheers, the night went on – and then the cops came, it was only a matter of time, the crowd dispersed, webbing off into the shadowy dark to reconvene in factions, fading into Gloom and tingles, knowing they had just witnessed a Thing, one that doesn’t happen every day, having felt something new –

and to me this feels important – young people takin peers by the hands and the ears and jazzin everybody up, gettin everybody goin, feelin good, feelin light, feelin fine, feelin like dancin in streets and singin loud and lockin arms and huggin and laughin and talkin and makin MOVES, makin vibes, makin life do what they want it to and think it should, makin life, talkin about Life and Now –

so I say: watch out Annie, there’s change in the wind and more on the way –

Following “We are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace & Magic”… “…And Star Power”!

WillJang Leave a comment

Although I have arrived upon this news quite late… it turns out that Foxygen is releasing their next album. Their last album, titled “We are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace & Magic”, a lengthy and boisterous title, embodied fully their ambitiously experimental style. An album that consisted of a song as soft as San Francisco whilst having something that sounded as rough as Bowling Trophies it was certainly an eclectic album, maybe less eclectic than their previous record, “Take the Kids off Broadway” but the point being, that it was an incredibly fun and fresh record. At least it felt that way for me, someone who is not remotely close to being a music nerd. I mean ask me to name a Chuck Berry song and all I can list is “You Never Can Tell” because I watched Pulp Fiction. Am I ashamed? No, Pulp Fiction is a great fucking movie. The song is great too, but I just haven’t invested my time into exploring more of his songs. Except I guess “Johnny B Goode”, except, everyone has heard that one. I think.

Anyways…I am getting off track.

The reason why this is an exciting development is not just because I admire their music, instead, it is the fact that they were able to get past their drama, that at one point, seemed so serious that the bands core consisting of the two friends, Jonathon Rado and Sam France, was in serious risk of splitting up. It certainly puts my mind at ease knowing that these two will continue making music and have made a new record. For now…

Anyways, their new album will be called “…And Star Power”. These album titles man…
Also they have released two singles, “Cosmic Vibrations” and “How Can You Really”, the latter having a music video (attached to this post). The latter song gives me vibes of San Francisco except maybe more tame, can’t speak the same for the music video, I can’t figure out Sam France at all he is just too much of a character. I don’t really feel the energy I felt in their previous songs but that doesn’t mean I don’t like it. If anything, listening to Foxygen has made me accept that each song seems to be its own thing. So I don’t really feel the need to compare it to any previous musical endeavors they tackled.

I can’t really go in depth about the specifics regarding why I like this song, because my ability to articulate musical interests has already been stretched. So I will just end it here. I like the sound so far, maybe you will too. Only one way to find out. Hint, click the video.

 

 

The Staying Power

Jeannie Marie Leave a comment

This week, one of my favorite bands released a music video. Well, not really a music video. It was a filmed performance of a song at one of their concerts from their last tour which, sadly, I was unable to attend. And just a few days ago, this video made big news.

Why, you may ask? Because it was Panic! At The Disco singing Bohemian Rhapsody.

Now I will be the first to say that my mom raised me right when it comes to music. Even though I pretty much missed the whole “Backstreet Boys” craze thing of the 90s (but hey, I still know almost every word to “I Want It That Way” so I’m not a total loser, right?), my mom raised me on The Eagles, The Beatles, The Four Tops, Duran Duran, Steppenwolf…the list goes on. When I was 8 I could probably sing every word to “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “A Hard Day’s Night”, and at the time I didn’t think this was a big deal; I didn’t know why my mom would make me listen to these old bands when all my friends were singing Christina Aguilera at me. But as I got older, I realized that my eternal love for classics was a really, really good thing.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with our current pop music. Believe me, I will be the first to admit that I’m that one girl screaming SHAKE IT OFF, JUST SHAKE IT OFF in her room while she’s changing her sheets (but only when my roommate isn’t around, of course). Last year Katy Perry’s “Roar” was my ultimate anthem. Pop music is vital to a country’s culture; it defines how the country feels at the moment, whether it be eternally sick of I’m so happyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, or falling in love with Sia’s latest brilliance (â”Chandeliers” is seriously gorgeous). People can connect instantly by just mentioning a song they heard on the radio an hour ago.

But then where does that leave Panic! At The Disco? And where did Queen come from, and how did they get so popular? I think one of my favorite conversations revolving around music, especially when you make friends with people who like classic rock, is the “who will stay” conversation.

Starting around the 50s and 60s, brilliant artists emerged who decided to do things with music that had never been done before. Elvis swung his hips and Bob Dylan started a movement, and we remember those artists for their contribution to the art of music, even if we don’t listen to them. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who doesn’t recognize an Aerosmith song, or has never heard of Led Zepplin. But it’s a lot harder now to find artists who are breaking boundaries like these guys did because…well, these guys paved the way.

And the fact is, bands just aren’t popular anymore. Sure, you can lash out at me with about a dozen bands who put music on the radio consistently, but the majority of artists creating music are solo, which starkly contrasts with how it was from 1964 onwards.

So here you have Panic! At The Disco, a marginally popular but by no means explosive alt-pop band, covering Queen’s classic anthem? eulogy? I don’t even know how to classify the epic-ness that is “Bohemian Rhapsody”, but as I watched I seriously doubted if Brenden had the chops to perform such a heavily revered piece of art. I was pleasantly surprised that I did in fact enjoy it, but it made me wonder if my children will like Panic! At The Disco like I liked Queen. Of course, they’ll listen to it – even though I do admit to being a lover of pop I spend more time in the indie realm of music, and that’s where my children will be.

But when I introduce Death Cab for Cutie to them, will they instead be talking about that one Australian girl who tried to rap? I don’t know the answer to most of the questions I’ve asked, but I hope that the artists who work hard, who pour their blood and sweat and tears and soul into crafting lyrical and musical art, that they’ll be the ones that will be remembered – whether they come from a pop background or whether they hardly make the Billboard Top 100.

Right now, a song called “All About That Bass” is number one on the Top 100 chart. So I wonder – in ten years, will I be laughing at someone who covers it, or will I be clapping?

Special shoutout to the Billboard Top 100 for helping with some of the research…I mean really, how would I know that “All About That Bass” is number one right now?