Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [18]
“The decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste,” he writes. Certainly, one result of the devaluation of cultural genius, by society at large, is theater-phobia.
The starry-eyed college kids have a less ego-driven, less hubris-laden query. “What’s it like driving all over the country playing music?”
“It’s fabulous. I can’t imagine doing anything else,” we say. “They’re putting us up in the old unused dorm hall at the other end of campus tonight. The heat isn’t too good but we get to eat in the cafeteria later for free. You can’t beat that!”
Every once in a while, when we read a hostile audience correctly, or when the news on the street meshes perfectly with the message from the stage, we strike a chord with them that we can actually feel resonating through the teeming, roiling mass before us. That enthusiasm carries an amperage that is life sustaining to us as much as or more than the money we are or are not making. It gets us through the bad nights and long treks through hazardous and unfriendly territories. That response is an audience’s spontaneous collective and unconscious way of returning the favor. We can turn them, given half a chance.
Artisans from other disciplines ask us, over beverages late at night, “Is what you guys do art?” And the honest answer is, “Sometimes.”
An artist, or, I should say, good work, can change the recipient’s life for the better. When that happens, you know it. We are fortunate that we are actually in the room to witness the transformation. Sometimes you move an entire audience, and they leave the building changed from when they entered just hours before. You don’t get paid for that, it only saves your soul.
Often it takes until four in the morning to pack up our gear and return to the motel. You don’t get twenty-four hours when you rent a hotel room, no matter what the class of the joint. Work all night and check in at four in the morning and they still want you out as soon as possible. Tell the poor slob behind the bulletproof glass, or the stodgy-faced uniformed person behind the marble countertop that you demand a “late checkout” and no matter what his or her response, the maids will be making loud noises in the hallways at seven a.m., and start banging on the door at eight. At eight thirty they use their key and enter and reenter the room every twenty minutes. You can bark at them, you can call downstairs, you can lay there buns-up naked. Some get the message, some don’t. Either way, your ass is out by eleven.
On our current trip, we will do sixteen gigs in thirteen days, then leave the van in Minneapolis and fly to Seattle, rent a car, and do another dozen shows in the Pacific Northwest. We will nearly get killed by a deer. We will travel through deforested mountains and visit volcanoes and nuclear waste dumps. We will then fly back to Minneapolis, reacquire the van, and gig our way through upstate New York, where we will nearly get killed by another deer, and then down through Pennsylvania working our way home. Al chatters quietly to himself during his shifts behind the wheel. By now, our wives are barely speaking to us. The kids won’t come to the phone.
In the van, I wrap my woolen overcoat about me like a baby blanket. I wear the darkest sunglasses I can find.
Bombs or
No Bombs,
Business as Usual
Gordo, God & Gandhi
My friend Gordon wants to talk about God. He has called me from work, and over the course of his rambling dissertation on the state of things in his life at present, wonders aloud why “nobody wants to talk about God anymore.” By “nobody,” I assume he means his peers. He wonders why it is not a topic of