The weirdest thing, though, was his Y2K essay for Rolling Stone (”Up Simba”) in which he followed the McCain campaign around for a week. A timely time to read or reread this very interesting and involved piece of non-journalist journalism on not so much theMcCain camp, but the media covering the campaign, and their relationship with the candidate and his handlers. Also worth reading as a reminder of when McCain was actually a sort of populist Republican, the whole “Maverick” schtick working on DFW and a whole lot of other intelligent, inherently skeptical people. Of course who knows what would have happened to his image had he gone on to win the 2000 primary, and the all but forgotten “Chris Duren incident” already had him looking shady, but if you take a few minutes to indulge in alternative-history narratives, just imagine the bizzaro possibilities to which a 2000 Republican nomination for McCain might have led. “Up Simba” is a wonderful, already archaic bit of waxing lyrical on the soul of American politics, and the reason for the beginnings of that archaicness can be found in “The View from Mrs. Thompson’s,” his poignant recounting of watching television with his neighbors on Sept. 11, 2001.

I have an audiobook of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, so I’ve been driving around the past week or so listening to it. When I first read the book the year it came out, I was sort of puzzled and even troubled as to why he would want to spend so much time writing about these type of men. And they are hideous. It was not at all pleasant to spend so much time in the company of so many sexually frustrated, emotionally stunted and self-deluding sociopaths, but as usual the writing was so engaging I couldn’t not read it. In the end, though, I couldn’t help but wonder what his point was.

So several years later I listen to an abridgment of the book, read by DFW himself, and I felt…  still puzzled and troubled. A little less, perhaps, and I was probably more impressed than ever with his use of language, but the self-conscious, spiraling internal monologue that is present in all of his writing seemed even more suffocating here — like I don’t want it applied to these types of minds.

I always imagined him to be the kind of guy who could never turn his mind of, who could never find a proper end to a trail of thought, and thought on how both exilerating and frustrating that might be. It happens to all of us from time to time, but his writing seemed to betray a mind that was never at rest, never satisifed with any one answer.

I found one of the ironies of Infinite Jest that a book about addiction was itself so addictive. When I read it years ago it I couldn’t wait to get home from work to pick it up again, and I would spend whole Saturday afternoons lying around reading it. Other people I know have said the same thing. I read it in my mid-20s, and I wondered with envy and awe what kind of mind it took to write such a work. It’s inevitable that the details of his death now cast a different light on all of his books, and unfortunately they all seem a little more hellish, and a lot sadder than they initially did, and that mind seems even more impressive given the internal obstacles it had to deal with.

Which was what was going on at the aforementioned show, a rare triple bill where all three bands were great, sharing similar traits but different enough from each other to stick around for the 2 a.m. wrap-up.  In between sets, all anyone could talk about was the bailout and upcoming election, and this potentially odd mix of group existential worry and political concern with killer but simple, kinda dopey rock n’ roll didn’t seem strange at all, and in many ways seemed to be the kind of night we should all have more of these days.

I’m sure I’ll see much better bands before the year is up, but I doubt I’ll have as much fun at a show.

The cliche of the bad boy, rebel artist has always stuck in my craw, in part because I’ve seen it referenced — as I’m sure you have — by personal acquaintances of questionable talent to excuse their own selfish, harmful behaviors. Davenport strikes me as someone who has zero tolerance for such immature posturing, and it’s always a pleasure to hear accounts of confident artists who hold down full-time jobs (optometry, in Meatyard’s case), have happy family lives and otherwise behave like productive, well-adjusted citizens. Our inner lives and imaginations can result in unprecedented, unpredictable works, and we need not behave amorally or consistently take advantage of people and situations to summon inspiration for material. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole.

Speaking of decent people, every time I look through Meatyard’s photographs of his friends, I end up thinking about how odd and fortunate Lexington was to have Meatyard, Davenport, Thomas Merton, Wendell Berry and the visiting Louis Zukofsky living there in the ’60s and ’70s. It seems somewhat unusual for a Southern (just barely) city of its size to have such a diverse group of original, important artists, thinkers and writers in one place at one time, without a University as the principal reason for the gathering.

One last note: In the interview, Davenport also mentions Meatyard’s fascination with dilapidated buildings, and goes on to discuss how Europeans have long commented on how shoddy and unsustainable American architecture has always been. Our early, primarily wooden houses seemed always to be in various states of disrepair, with few homeowners bothering to fix them up. It’s an interesting point, and may go some way in explaining not just Meatyard’s , but many American artists’ fascination with abandoned buildings and broken machines. There is arguable an inherrently beautiful aesthetic look to rusted out cars and abandoned buildings with sunlight flooding through broken windows, but it could also be that we live and work around such disposable, unreliable structures that we end up fetishizing them,  in some way — out of guilt or perhaps sadness — attempting to preserve them or extend them beyond their original, expired functions.

It’s one of the more fitting titles for a book I’ve ever come across; more than anyone else, as Brody makes clear, Godard drew little distinction between his life and cinema, and the last few decades of his life have been spent ruminating on this. His six part series Histoire(s) du cinema is in effect an elaborate illustration of this.

Brody himself illustrates this point by dividing and titling the chapters by the films Godard made. So a chapter entitled Pierrot Le Fou will be both about the film and his life during the period of the film’s development, shoot and reception. It’s an effective presentation that highlights how his inability to seperate film from life resulted in a fairly lonely, frequently frustrated and contentious existence.

I read Colin McCabe’s Godard bio a couple of years ago, and this one is both more in depth and offers more astute critical analysis. Any Godard fan has to acknowledge his weak points — they are just too many and too obvious. Brody does acknowledge them, but he occasionally goes too far in attempting to justify and explain the director’s repeadetly shabby treatment of lovers, friends, producers and collaborators, and his eventual morphing into a dirty old man.

Which brings me to the other sad part of this bio. It really isn’t so obvious in (most of) the films, but Brody quotes several interviews in which Godard’s increasing Anti-Semitism gives vent to some shocking statements. I won’t go into detail about his complicated relationship with Claude Lanzmann’s Shoa, or his somewhat convaluted theroy of the cinema’s failure to document the concentration camps resulting in film culture’s demise, but these and other things have led him to dwell on  Jews and the Holocaust quite a bit over the last few decades, resulting in a muddled, contradictory philosophy. Brody doesn’t give him a pass on any of this, but he does go out of his way to explain from where this thinking might have come. (Which is actually helpful and instructive, but originates from an obviously too-respectful source.)

Godard’s philosophy, such as it is, has been muddled or outright dangerously naive since his embracing of Maoism in the late ’60s (and some would say before that), but it’s his ideas about film that have kept us returning to him. I saw In Praise of Love multiple times when it played in Knoxville, and I have to say any Anti-Semitism present went right by me. For Ever Mozart was a bit more pronounced about it, but even then it was the style of the film (which I found kind of boring) I was paying attention to. I’ll also admit that as much as I love many of Godard’s films, I find  many incomprehensible or just dull, and I’ve never looked to any of them for political advice. (Though he does have interesting points to make about prostitution and capitalism, consumerism and art.)

I knew the guy could be a cranky asshole, bordered on misogyny and had suspect political belief, but his blatant Anti-Semetic statements are an unfortunate discovery. He seems to flip-flop in his thoughts about Jews, and Lanzmann and Bernard-Henri Levy seem to think he’s an anti-Semite who longs to be cured. I’m sure Godard doesn’t mind his controversial statements being dispersed more widely through Brody’s book, and if he’s upset about anything it’s that he wasn’t wholly able to get his point across through the cinema.

One quality of the film that will always stand the test of time, and guarantees it a spot in the canon, is Vittorio Storaro’s cinematography. It’s an absolutely beautiful film, capturing both the golden light of the Phillipines and the chiaroscuro with which Coppola could seem  obsessed. A few minutes after I turned it on, I saw the scene where Lance is preparing Chief’s body for a water burial, and I’d never really noticed how Coppola gets the light reflecting on the water between their two bodies, blinding the viewer and obscuring the actors, holding the shot for much longer than necessary. It’s a nice moment.

I was fortunate enough to have been living in London in 1996, during the 100th anniversary  of cinema. Theaters all around town were showing classic films in celebration, and I watched a 70mm print of Apocalypse Now. The presence of the opening scene with the napalming of the forest was unlike anything I’ve seen before or since. (Later I saw three Bresson movies back to back, which as a whole were also unlike anything I’ve seen before or since.)

So yeah, it’s a mess, but a beautiful one, and one of the few marriages of European art house cinema with commercial Hollywood production. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so fascinated with a film I have so many problems with.

Speaking of messes, I finally got around to watching Jodorowsky’s Holy Mountain. I can’t unequivocally recommend it, but for once I thought the original trailer included on the DVD got it exactly right:

“Nothing in your education or experience can have prepared you for this film. It’s a film completely outside the tradition of motion picture art.

It is outside the tradition of modern theater.

It is a film outside the tradition of criticism and review.”

And how. This movie is most definitely on its own trip, and the mind boggles with each surreal set piece. It doesn’t really succeed by most objective takes on “film art,” and it doesn’t care to. There are shades of Bunuel and his religious taboo breaking/baiting, but this goes way farther and is not as grounded. I honestly can’t imagine anything like it ever being made again. Former Beatles’ manager Allen Klein must have sunk a lot of money into this thing as producer, because it’s the most epic surreal movie ever made.

Oddly, when looking in various film reference books, Jodorowsky seems to have been written out of film history. Even Amos Vogel’s otherwise comprehensive and excellent Film as a Subversive Art blackballs him. I guess with the recent release of his films on DVD he’s being reexamined/rediscovered, but you get the sense most traditional film scholars don’t really want to deal with the guy. Sure, he’s not  that great of a filmmaker, but neither is John Waters, and people can’t say enough about him.

So that old school trailer knew this day would come.

Here’s a link to the crazy ass trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_55FmpWLLM

Atlanta setlist (swiped from The Eyeball Kid blog):

Lucinda / Take me Down to the Well

Down in the hole
Falling down
Chocolate Jesus
All the World is Green
Cemetery Polka
Cause of it all / ‘Til the Money Runs Out
Such a Scream
November
Hold on
Black Market Baby
9th and Hennepin
Lie to me
Lucky Day
On the Nickel
Lost in the Harbour
Innocent when you Dream
Hoist that Rag
Make it rain
Dirt in the Ground
Get Behind the Mule
Hang Down Your Head
Jesus Gonna be Here
Singapore

Eyeball Kid
Anywhere I lay my Head

Fairly similar to the Knoxville set, with a few obvious differences. I would have loved to have heard “Chritmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis,”  and as much as I love the Rain Dogs version of “Anywhere I Lay My Head,”I would have traded the live version for “Come on up to the House.”  “Hold On” stood out as one one of the highlights, and I’ve heard the Knoxville versions of “Eyeball Kid,” “Lie to Me” and “Make It Rain” were every bit as fun and spirited as in Atlanta.  Anyway I was glad it was heavy on Mule Variations material, which more and more is looking like a career high point on the level of Rain Dogs. The show lasted 2 1/2 hours, and could have gone twice that without boring or tiring anyone in the crowd. Moreso than hanging around the house listening to his records, hearing those songs reminded me of the unbelievable strong consistency of his career, and it was a good reminder how many classic songs he’s written. What can you say; he’s one of the greats.

Since the show was an hour late in starting thanks to the ever-loathesome douchebags at Ticketmaster screwing up the seemingly-simple-but-apparently-not ticket/entry system, it ended at 11:30, which gave us just enough time to head across town to the Earl to see Boris, arriving just as the Japanese feedback worshipers were going on. Not since I saw Fellini’s 81/2 at Clarence Brown followed immediately by Jesus Lizard on the Strip back in the mid ’90s have I had such a jarring back-to-back but pleasing cultural experience. We were pretty exhausted for Boris. Still, half the show was comprised of their slow numbers or extended periods of feedback/noise (the high point being the 20-minute long closer, in which the drummer crowd surfed before exiting and letting the guitarists do the work for the last 5 minutes or so), so the show itself wasn’t terribly punishing, and their 90 minute set was over before we knew it. I swear they seemed louder at the Orange Peel last year, but I love the Earl. It’s a great small room, and perfect for the kind of  rock Boris were dishing out. Quite a change of gears from Waits, and though there’s no question as to who the desert island companion would be, Boris are great at what they do, which contrary to what a lot of haters like to claim, is pretty unique considering all the ground they cover. At their simplest, they’re a great rock band, and their dedication to exploring nosie and sound textures — especially in a live environment — is commendable.

Quite a night.

The second set focused more on their shorter lyrical song, which I enjoyed for about 20 minutes before becoming fatigued by the sameness of the largely adolescent sexual obsessions and shock tactics on display. Much of it was amusing at first, but wore thin pretty quickly. Th eguitar playing was of course still good, but it served the songs and at times was reduced to simple strumming. There was one memorable moment when they played a song about infantcide disguised as crib death that was particularly uncomforatble, due to a baby in the audience that kept crying at the start and finish of every song. It was both an appropriately amusing and uncomfortable moment that had me squirming a bit, and was an excellent reminder that these guys just don’t give a damn about polite society and conventional mores. Since they’re both about 50 or so, it was oddly both encouraging and kind of silly to see them persist in their aggressively hostile mode. Alan seemed especially sinister, but that could well be because of the bald head and sunglasses.

Incredible musicians and true musical vanguards, I was so glad to have had a chance to see them together.  They’re national treasures, in that classic contrarian, underground  way.

Next up was for me one of the great surprises of the festival, The Linus Pauling Quartet. I know these guys have been around a while, but I’ve never heard them. I’m glad I heard them in a live setting, because my guess is I’d be largely indifferent to their records without seeing what they’re all abut live. A great understanding and command of various strains of psych, anchored in one of the strongest song-based rock sets at the fest. And I have to admit part of their charm came from seeing this group of nerdy, middle-aged white guys with guitars raise such a ruckus. It was loud and proud, but their closing Satanic number had me and several other people fleeing from the room it was so abrasive.

Major Stars were another surprise. Guitar wankery to the nth degree, with some over the top rock schtick from Wayne Rogers and the ladies of MS. The sun was setting as their set concluded around 9:30, and it added a nice touch to the whole thing. They invited everybody back to their hotel room later, but when we went by nothing seemed to be going on.

Damon and Naomi had an okay set, opening with Tim Buckley’s “Song to the Siren” and closing with two numbers assisted by Helena Espvall and Masaki Batoh. The latter two were up next as a duo, playing songs from their Drag City album. It was lovely music, and Batoh singing Son House’s “Death Letter” was a high point of the day.

Saturday began with Oneida performing at noon, which seemed especially early following the previous night’s festivities. They woke everybody up, though, first with a nearly 20-minute long “Sheets of Easter,” next with a run through of their new album, Preteen Weaponry. Excellent extended drones and riffs, and one of my favorite shows all weekend. Wooden Shjips were great, of course, playing some songs off their new record. But fatigue and hunger caused some distraction, and we left a little over halfway through their set in search of food.

Came back, surprised that it was Kinski making the beautiful racket on stage, until we saw Makoto Kawabata on stage with, which explains the AMT-style sounds we could hear in the distance. I’m used to Kinski’s slower, more mellow stuff, so this was another of the surprises. I’ll admit I was nodding off during MV+EE’s set, but that didn’t have so much to do with the music as it did the consumption of libations.

Fortunately I was in better shape for Bardo Pond, again joined by Kawabata. Previous BP shows have left me underwhelmed, but this one was a bit more inspired, and louder. Grails had a great set indoors. Not the biggest fan of their albums, live the songs worked much better for me. That drummer is ridiculously good, a little intimidating, and he even stepped up to play 12-string guitar on one song, more or less shaming everyone else in the band. If that guy doesn’t have a side project or two going, he’ll probably leave his band mates in the dust soon. Was so not in the mood for Motorpsycho, a highly-anticipated group that were fine, but by that time you’d heard so much blues-based psych rock it was a bit numbing. I think we ate during Sapat. Mono drew the biggest crowd and played an inspired set. Again, the sun was setting as they went on, and their music was a nice soundtrack as the colorful clouds and horizon gave way to a sky full of stars. Scores of people were laid out on the lawn staring at the sky as the band played. By no means my favorite performance, it still provided one of the most memorable moments of the weekend. Kohoutek sounded promising, but we left 15 minutes in due to fatigue and general music overload.

Explored Louisville early in the day, arrived at Terrastock just in time for Simply Saucer to be rained out. Pelt got a late start due to sound problems, but played a wonderful drone piece that brought the first standing ovation of the fest. Jack Rose and the Black Twig Pickers played a fun, well-received set of old time music. Another highlight for me. The Entrance Band delivered possibly the most controversial set. Nothing serious, just the amazing guitar leads and swinging rhythm section were nearly spoiled by the sub-high school journal entry quality of the lyrics. Dude also brought the only full-blown hippie vibe, as he warned us not to trust the Internet or our cell phones, and asked for someone to smoke him up with some ganja. Anyway, they rocked. Not in the mood for the mellow sounds of Windy and Carl after all the rock, so grabbed some food and showed up for Paik, who bombarded us with a sonic maelstrom. Another great sunset set.

The grand finale was a Kawabata solo set, and it blew minds and ears all over the place. A bowed guitar intro followed by a solo “Pink Lady Lemonade,” looped, and accompanied by a Kawabata playing over his main theme. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve every heard, even if I and most everyone else did have to hold our hands over our ears. The last half of his set was more of a pure noise piece, which actually drove me out of the room. The loudest thing I’ve ever heard, even louder than Black Dice at Pilot Light or Atari Teenage Riot at Emo’s.

Though a Terrastock newbie, I was actually sad and a little emotional when Phil McMullen got up to thank everybody and say goodbye. Good times never last, but I wish these could have lasted a little longer, and I wish it weren’t another two or possibly three years until the next Terrastock.

Thsi year it was at Louisville’s Mellwood Arts Center, the festival hosting for the first time an outdoor stage. There was also an indoor stage, with a usually smooth transition from one venue to the other. As soon as one band finished, the crowd would immediately go to the other stage, where in most cases bands were ready to play (the Pelt show being the most obvious exception). The indoor venue held around 400 people, and though 1,000 people could have easily fit on the lawn, the crowd probably never topped 400, even on Saturday night when locals kids turned out for Japanese post-Slint band Mono. It was a small crowd all weekend, you seemed to recognize most everyone by day two, and everyone was super friendly, low-key and laid-back. It was my first Terrastock, and I was surprised at the lack of scenesters; everyone there seemed to be really into the music, were there for the performances and not the event. Frankly it was a rock nerd’s dream. Lots of middle aged dudes, bald heads and pasty skin.

I went up with two friends, and we stayed at the nearby Ramada Inn. it was the closest hotel to the Arts Center, less than five minutes by car, and a lot of bands stayed there, too. We saw Oneida and Major Stars in the pool, along with some festival-goers. There were a lot of tattoos on blinding white skin and hairy beer bellies in the water, though perhaps unsurprisingly MV and EE refrained from taking a dip. My friend Ian swears he saw Georgia from Yo La Tengo (she was there performing with with Ira as Sleeping Pill) peek out from behind the curtain of the room next to us when we were outside our room smoking and talking loudly at 2 a.m., but I think he’s full of shit. Regardless, the fact that the bands were in the crowd checking out other bands, operating their own merch tables and eating continental breakfast with other hotel guests was pretty cool. Not that these people are big time celebrities or anything, but y’know. The human touch and all that.

Speaking of big time celebrities, Byron Coley was there with a bunch of expensive records. Three Les Rallizes Des Nudes LPs (priced at $50. $60 and $100), at least one of which a member of Bardo Pond bought. Plus an Ornette Coleman at Town Hall test pressing for $1200. I don’t think anyone bought that one. A $250 Maher Shalal Hash Baz record did sell, though. My traveling buddies each bought a William Basinksi LP for $25 each, and those seemed to be about the reasonably or even under-priced records there. My only purchase form the Coley collection was Pita’s Get Out record on Mego.  It’s a good record.

More on the actual bands  later…