Impactivism

Climbing Mountains

Let Iron and Wine take you from the prison floor to the top of the mountain...

You can thank me later for this post

So yesterday I went to see Radiohead play in Berlin.

Radiohead. In Berlin, people. It’s OK, you can thank me later. It’s all good.

And of course I made my newest best friend Berthold come with me six hours before the show started so we would get right into the mosh pit. Even if he hadn't just met me he would have done it because he’s German, you know. They might hate you on the inside but they’re loyal as terriers. And they know how to stand up for themselves when the going gets tough. (Except, you know, when the Red Army is approaching. Then it’s best not to have any cyanide capsules casually laying around.)

Annnywaaay. A loyal race the Germans, generally speaking.

So Berthold and I go down to the park at Wuhlheide, where the concert was, and we start drinking half liters of Warsteiner a tad too quickly, and a couple of hours later we were really rolling. But there was still three or four hours to go and they hadn’t even opened the arena yet. And then I said. “Let’s go look for the band’s tour bus. I just *have* to tell Thom Yorke how much he’s changed my life.” And Berthold rolled his eyes, but I pleaded and pleaded until finally he said yes. I think it was because I told him how hot he looked in his Miesbacher.

So we go to find the tour bus, but of course there’s about 300 crazed fans hanging around it. Who are these people? Freakin’ groupies. You’re like sheep. Don’t you have any individualism? And then Berthold said I should keep my voice down a little because some of the skinheads were starting to look invitingly in my direction. 

But at least the skins were authentic. Most of these people were college-educated, tofu-eating, art-loving, Mountain Hardware-wearing pretenders. Seriously.

I mean these people weren’t true Berliners. They didn’t know how it felt, really felt, to grow up in a divided city. They didn’t live in Kreuzberg in the ‘80s, with the DDR breathing their cold communist breath around the backs of our necks while we tried to keep the Turks and the punks from fighting each other all the time. It was all we could do to lure them to the May Day protests and get them to focus their anger on the police.

But these fantards knew nothing of the blood and the sweat and the tears from that world. These freaking people were just bio-loving, child-bearing yuppies who think that Radiohead is, like, “a cool band.” These are the same people who’ve helped suck all the beautiful anguish and torment out of Prenzlauer Berg and turn it into a playground for rich new moms and gourmet restaurant-goers.

So we just left. The prospect of actually seeing Thom Yorke in person had cast quite a beautiful light in my unfocused eyes. But at this point, it all looked hopeless, and I was feeling a little down again, what with the beer and all the tranquilizers Autumn-Nikita gave me the other night at the Basbaum opening at the Eigen+Art gallery. I know. I know. But seriously, I could almost feel the spirit of Documenta in my freaking liver. I never thought my body could respond that way to art. But it might have just been the medications.

Berthold and I kind of cut down this small side road through the park near the main arena. And I see this car, and I’m thinking cool car, but how did this asshole get through security with his car?

And then, and you’re not going to believe this, I totally saw him. Right. Freakin. In. Front. Of. Me.

Of course Thom was way too cool to be on the band bus! What were we, stupid?

Before our very eyes, Thom gets out of this black ’67 BMW cabriolet that he’s just parked right in the friggin’ middle of the road. How cool is that? And at first he doesn’t see us because it looked like either he was going to lie on the grass to drink in the oneness of the summer sky or take a piss behind a tree. I don’t know.

“Thom!” I shouted. I couldn’t freakin’ believe it. I was meeting Thom Yorke.

Thom raised an eyebrow as if to look uninteresting as I rushed up to him. As if.

“First I want to say I’m sorry for my friends always saying you have such a whiny, nasally, British voice that’s like listening to fingernails scratching on a blackboard,” I blurted.

And Thom says, “Yeah. I get that sometimes. No worries, mate. Plus you can’t control what other people think.”

“Yeah, totally. And I always told them, you know, Thom’s voice is like an instrument from the angels, dude. It’s not like he just opens his mouth and, like, sings. His vocal chords emanate love and light and pain and suffering and shit. Think Nigel Kennedy’s violin when he’s playing Brahms’ violin concerto. It clouds the soul and lifts the mind. Or maybe it’s the other way round. Or something.”

And Thom’s eyes softened a little, and he said, “Thank you man. But now I have to go do the show.”

Then, just as he turned away I totally lost it and started to follow him. “Thom, you’ve helped me see through the dark when I didn’t have enough energy to create my own life and focus on what was important--me,” I gushed. “You were there when I had to get through the pain of my cat’s death alone because everyone else was wrapped up in their own selfish lives. I can’t thank you enough. You matter to me.”

And at that point I think I sort of grabbed his shoulder because next thing I know, he’s just whirled around and punched me right in the face. “Why don’t you fuck off and get your own fuckin’ life,” he says. And then Berthold is pulling me away, apologizing, saying in his most polite German accent, “I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this. It must be the mushrooms. The whole day he’s either been gushing about how amazing Radiohead is or running to the bathroom complaining of stomach cramps.”

“Those were fucking bio ’shrooms,” I spluttered as my lip started to bleed. “Bio. Because this is freakin’ Berlin, man. And this man here is a god.”

And Thom just walks away, swearing.

And at that point I think I sort of just collapsed on the ground from the awe and inspiration of it all. Next thing I remember the concert was over and I couldn’t speak any more—the warm, shiny glow of my aura was just too overwhelming.

I heard the show rocked, the energy in the crowd was amazing and that Thom was totally fired up (Berthold took pictures). And it was gratifying to know that I had a just little something to do with that.

I know you’re all saying, “No way this happened.” But it did. It totally did.

(photo credits to original photographers)

It's alright Ma, I'm only crying

So the New York Times reported Sunday that Bob Dylan is the most-cited songwriter in judicial opinions in the United States. At least according to an analysis of the "uses and misuses" of song lyrics in legal writing.

Dylan has been quoted in 26 opinions in the lower U.S. courts. Paul Simon is next, with eight (12 if you count those attributed to Simon & Garfunkel). Bruce Springsteen has five, with The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Grateful Dead (dude) and Joni Mitchell trailing.

The latest cite, by U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts--and thought to be the first use of a rock lyric in a Supreme Court decision--was in a case about whether payphone companies could sue long-distance carriers:

“The absence of any right to the substantive recovery means that respondents cannot benefit from the judgment they seek and thus lack Article III standing,” Chief Justice Roberts wrote.“ ‘When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.’ Bob Dylan, Like a Rolling Stone, on Highway 61 Revisited (Columbia Records 1965).”

As much as I love Dylan, I'm just not sure that Roberts' reliance on song lyrics instead of legal precedent is sound legal argument. Notwithstanding the obvious irony that the song lyric is about the feeling of freedom from not having possessions and not about who may sue a phone company. But hey, I'm neither a lawyer nor play one on TV.

Oh, and Roberts got the quote slightly wrong too. It's "When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose."

She sees things

Laura Veirs played a great show at San Francisco's Cafe du Nord on Tuesday. I've always thought her poetic songwriting captures meaning most of us forget to notice. This song, Galaxies, is from her 2005 album Year of Meteors.

Is that the proper way to treat a man?

Today marks the 34th anniversary of New York's draconian Rockefeller Drug Laws, which provided the model for America's longest running war: the war on drugs. Under the Rockefeller Drug Laws and the failed drug war, the United States addresses drug use and abuse as a criminal issue, not a public health issue.

As the Drug Policy Alliance points out, the results include: Harsh mandatory minimum sentences. Extreme racial disparities. Mass incarceration. Lack of affordable drug treatment. Loss of civil liberties. Destruction of families. Waste of billions of taxpayer dollars.

Music by Jim Jones from the forthcoming documentary, "Lockdown USA."

I'm falling in love all over again

Now, Leslie Feist may not know that she's my girlfriend. But that's never stopped our relationship blossoming these last few years.

I think it's finally time to just tell her once and for all. (I'm thinking a less direct approach than Borat's wedding sack, however; perhaps something a little more, well, windswept and interesting. But certainly no more having my geeky friends "anonymously" hand-deliver love poems I've written. I'm proud to say I stopped that since I turned 29.)

In any case, the new album "The Reminder," her third studio effort, is heartfelt, compelling, sometimes beautiful, and growing on me. Plus Feist knows how to hold an audience in the palm of her hand; which is why you'll find me and a few friends at the Fillmore on June 26. It's already sold out, I'm afraid, but the word is a second show will be added. So get on it if you're in the Bay Area.

Listen to "I feel it all" from Feist's just-released album.

"I don't know what I knew before. But now I know I want to win the war."

What are you against today?

And, more inspiringly, what are you for?

Party Music by The Coup is in my rotation again. There's an interesting story to the original cover art for this CD, which appeared to depict lead singer Boots Riley and Pam the Funkstress detonating a bomb at the World Trade Center. The album was scheduled to be released in September 2001; the cover was pulled after the September 11 attacks.

This song is called "Ride the Fence:"

Hope springs eternal from the Irish man's burden

I wasn’t sure if I was quite getting the depression quotient I was clearly craving from over-listening to Damien Rice’s new album “9” earlier this year.

So I’ve moved on to The Frames’ “The Cost,” which, for an album filled with so much pain, regret and sadness, is actually rather hopeful. Musically, it is powerful stuff too, and often is underscored by Colm Mac Con Iomaire's electric-fiddle-playing duels with the guitars.

I saw the Frames play the Fillmore on Saturday. They’re always a great show. True to form, lead singer Glen Hansard performed with the cracked-out intensity of the tortured Irish soul that he is.

from Bad Bone
There’s a bad bone inside of me
All my troubles started there
And all the cracks are adding up to be
A little more than you can bear
When I met you, you were bitter still
From a scar you’re never going to show
And I was cursed with a jealousy
That’s killed every love I’ve ever known

What is with us Irish, anyway?

Yet out of the ashes of loss, hopelessness and occasional anger rise the stirrings of an undefeated and resilient heart. Although the shroud of heartbreak hangs everywhere on this album, you can’t help but feel that finding (or holding on to) love is always worth another shot. And another.

Because whatever doesn’t defeat you makes you stronger, right? At the very least, perhaps, it reminds you that you are alive.

from People Get Ready
And we have all the time in the world/
To get it right
And we have all the love in the world/
To set alight

from Falling Slowly
Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice/You have a choice
You’ve made it now

Brit but u know it

Lily Allen wants you to think she's the baddest girl of Britpop.

As she writes on her blog, after failing to win any of her four nominations at the Brit awards in February, "I went out for a few drinks, assaulted some paparazzi with my stiletto and went to bed."

Allen is playing tomorrow (Monday) night at the Fillmore (it's sold out but you can always try Craigslist). Last time she was in San Francisco, she says she "had a row with some journalist cause he kept trying to make comparisons between myself and Paris Hilton saying that we both got where we are because of our families' money and connections, and the 'obvious' musical similarities. I told him he was misinformed and where to go."

Like Jem, Allen's writing is often clever and insightful, especially when recounting the vacuousness of some romantic entanglements. Her music draws on reggae, ska and hip hop for inspiration. Unlike the more affable and gracious Jem, however, Allen is arrogant and in-your-face.

But sometimes that's just what we need. And want. Innit.

An authentic voice for a snarky, disillusioned generation, or a royal fuss over absolutely nuffink?

Buried emotions

What I love about great music is that it sometimes can a) provide a crystal-clear snapshot of one’s emotions, b) hurl them back in your face and c) even prompt steps for improvement and healing.

Anger is an interesting emotion. It blindsides you sometimes. You might think, as l generally do: “I’m healthy and well-adjusted. I have some grounding and balance in my life. I have supportive friends, am connected to a good community, and have much happiness in my life. In fact, by all objective standards I’m incredibly privileged and fortunate to have it so good.”

Then, occasionally, bam.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your anger that you’ve been ignoring.”

So there are times that I feel like this:
Rootless Tree by Damien Rice (Windows Media Player stream)

Yet, there are more contemplative and peaceful times I feel like this:
Surprise Ice by Kings of Convenience (requires free Rhapsody engine install, Windows only)

Thanks, Damo and Erlend.