7/25

My cd player has been broken for weeks so while it's getting repaired I've been listening to my large, if old, vinyl lp collection. Specifically records by local Boston bands from the 80's.

And one thing I couldn't help but notice was that even though they may have been crudely recorded or lack technical expertise, they all rocked like crazy. Bands like the Neats, Lyres, Del Fuegos and Scruffy the Cat played with a passion I often find lacking in younger, hip, bands of today. These bands may not have been the greatest musicians, but they more than made up for it in sheer exuberance. A combination of punk's do it yourself attitude mixed with a garage rock aesthetic, it's loud, fast, often sloppy, but with an urgency that rings true. It sounds like rock and roll.

Compared to some popular bands of today it feels like night and day. Whereas a lot of new bands have greater technical and recording chops, they seem to have drifted away from anything resembling rock and roll. As if musicians get their training now studying music theory, philosophy or poetry and then turn around and write maudlin songs based on entries in their 'journals'. It sounds so precious and cloying that I want to scream. Someone gave me a recording by Jack Johnson a few years ago and all I could think of was a guy strumming a guitar in a college coffee house trying to get laid with songs based on his bad poems. It was so self consciously sensitive (and awful) that it was a cliché.

Grizzly Bear is another band that makes me want to throw myself out a window. Given the cd Veckatimest (say what?) as a gift, I tried listening to it a bunch of times and could never get through the entire thing. At around 30 minutes into it I would shut it off so my screaming wouldn't disturb the neighbors. It was awful. Like a bad version of the Beach Boys meet choral music. I don't know what it is but it's not rock and roll. It couldn't be any more pretentious.

The thing that bothers me about this music is that it feels so disconnected from the origins of what created rock and roll. If you listen to it you hear nothing resembling blues or country or rhythm and blues, or rockabilly or soul or swing or funk or surf music or punk or anything. It doesn't make you want to dance or yell or have sex or cry or get into a fight or feel you're alive. There is no emotional component (aside from naval gazing self pity) so for me, it doesn't resonate in the least. It's soulless, like a lot of postmodern art. Something created in an insular environment that has little or no connection to everyday experience. It's a completely interior monologue. Technically proficient and theoretically based, it tries to be perfect but it lacks the emotion necessary to make it real. It's so perfect it's lifeless.

5/31

I had the chance to see Gene Smith's 'Jazz Loft Project' show a few weeks back and I must say I keep returning to it in my mind. It's the kind of photography that was dismissed out of hand in graduate school (it's black and white, old and thoroughly NOT postmodern), but the kind of work that has inspired me since I picked up a camera.

It's an incredible, if somewhat obsessive (as only Gene Smith can be), document of the loft building in NYC where Smith lived in from 1957-1965. He not only photographed the life within the building, (where musicians came to jam after gigs and parties lasted all night) but what he saw on the street as he looked out his windows. And from the enormous output, Smith photographed EVERYTHING.

1,447 rolls of film and about 40,000 pictures comprise this document, but perhaps the most interesting part of it had nothing to do with actual photographs. Smith also managed to wire the building for sound and record (via 1,740 reel to reel tapes) everything that took place within it. Included in this incredible collection is Thelonious Monk rehearsing for his legendary appearances at Lincoln Center and other various jam sessions, but also lots of things he taped off of the radio (plays, news programs, a World Series baseball game).

The exhibit displays the photographs and recordings in equal measure, which allows the viewer to completely immerse themselves in Smith's world. You get the chance to look at photographs and then listen to numerous recordings. The Monk rehearsals are breathtaking. There are also films of Smith discussing his work and various musicians talking about their experiences in the loft building during this time. It's an incredible document of a time and place that no longer exists; one that would have been lost if not for Smith's obsessive recording of everything around him.

Overall, it's one of the best shows I've seen in years and once again confirms Gene Smith's place as one of the most important documentarians in the history of photography.

4/29

It was a year ago today that I lost my dear sweet dog, Lucille. She was riddled with cancer and I had to make the awful decision to put her down. I said my goodbyes to her and then held her in my arms weeping as she drifted off to permanent sleep. It was one of the saddest and most painful days of my life. A year later my heart still aches when I think of her lovely face and all the joy she brought me.

Lucille was originally my wife, Caroline's, dog and when Caroline was diagnosed with cancer and died suddenly six weeks later (at the heartbreakingly young age of 42) she became my dog. In the days, weeks, months and eventually years that followed, Lucille was my saving grace. She gave me a reason to move forward, made me laugh every day and was the best companion I could have ever asked for. I don't know how I would have survived without Lucille. When I felt like I was drowning in sorrow and grief, she kept me afloat. We spent almost every minute of every day together and I found that my ability to love her had no bounds. It grew with each day.

I think only people who own dogs can truly understand what they bring to our lives. Their good cheer and endless enthusiasm for our daily rituals coupled with unyielding and constant love is something that is hard to match and is impossible to replace. I miss her every day.

Like all the other experiences in my life, I've been forced to incorporate this into my life. You don't get over it, you just learn to live with the loss. It becomes part of who we become. It helps to define us.

When I think of Lucille now, my only wish is that she has been reunited with Caroline and they are both healthy, walking in the woods on a cool summer day.

4/25

4/10

Thankfully March and March Madness is over because I had run out of tolerance for college basketball. It's not the teams or the players, but rather the commentators, announcers and coaches that I'm completely sick of. If I had to listen to the insufferable Digger Phelps, Dick Vitale, Kevin Harlan, etc. for another day I was going to shoot myself. Plus watching the histrionics of Bruce Pearl, Coach K., Tom Izzo, Rick Pitino, John Calipari or anyone else who feels the need to race up and down the sidelines (and often onto the court) screaming at the players and referees CONSTANTLY for 40 minutes is enough to make one hate everything about college basketball. Someone needs to tell the networks and the commentators that fans like the games and not all this other manufactured and contrived drama.

On the professional side the Celtics have played so inconsistently bad that if I hadn't already lost the majority of my hair it would have fallen out in clumps this season. And I can't even accurately describe my disdain for Rasheed Wallace. What a waste of a roster spot, not to mention talent.

The only good thing that has happened is that Dennis Johnson was finally inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. Anyone who watched him during his career knew what a great player (and big game performer) he was. His induction is long overdue.

2/23

I was watching Connecticut play West Virginia in college basketball last night and I couldn't help but be weirdly fascinated with West Virginia coach Bob Huggins. Huggins, who has the distinction of not graduating a single player during the entire time he coached at Cincinnati, no longer even tries looking like a professional college coach on the sidelines during a game. While most coaches still wear a suit or coat and tie (Pat Knight at Texas Tech goes with the golf shirt) during games, Huggins wears a turtle neck shirt and a black track suit top. His hair is slicked back so the only thing keeping him from looking like Paulie Walnuts of the 'Sopranos' is a white streak.

I finally got around to seeing Harry Callahan: American Photographer at the Boston MFA yesterday and although it is fairly small (only about 40 images) it was really good. There is an elegant simplicity to his work that is very powerful and each image is perfectly composed. And after seeing so much contemporary art photography where the size of prints are enormous, it was a relief to view these small wonderfully printed photographs. Looking at each one was like viewing a short story.

2/21

It's been a few weeks but it's hard to stop thinking about graduate school. It was so intense for so long that I find it hard to reintegrate myself back into a world without papers to write or books to read. It's oddly relaxing to suddenly have nothing due on Monday or next week or next month. I feel calm and anxious at the same time.

I also keep thinking about the teachers in the program. To review and consider what I learned but mostly to really appreciate the majority of the faculty. Especially those who were generous with their opinions and knowledge. The ones who tried to help you rather than dictating the direction of your work or how you should get there. The good ones listened to your ideas and worked with you. They didn't impose their own sensibilities on you or wanted you to make work that would look like theirs.

These faculty members were actually really good teachers, not just working artists who needed a paycheck. They were the ones who went above and beyond the job's requirements. They weren't lazy, burned out, selfish or arrogant. They did much more than the minimum.

The reality is that all the students knew who was working hard and who was phoning it in. It was painfully obvious.

The great teachers will stay with me forever. I will always appreciate their kindness and generosity for the gift it was. The other lazy or disinterested ones? I can't forget them fast enough.