Space 242, Get Your Freak On, May 21, 2010

It’s hard to orchestrate an excellent conversation. It’s hard to coax a revelation through dialogue. It’s hard to make genius happen. A pure conversational conclusion develops naturally. Attempting to shape one with conscious creation is not unlike playing God, but also an interesting social experiment.

A lot of talented visual artists have a difficult time describing their creative process other than physical technique. When asked about meaning or subtext or intellectual creation, they are slide-lined when asked and tend to give no answer.

When I asked San Francisco-based photographer Mark Cross at his exhibition in Rotterdam (place-name-place drop) about any meaning in his work, he didn’t really feel that question was consequential. He implored me to make up my own meaning for his work and he would definitely endorse it.

So I have to commend Ami and The Space 242 Gallery for facilitating an exchange like this among the 100-plus artists featured in the exhibition, Get Your Freak On: Celebrating Circus Folk, Carnies and Sideshow Freaks, which had it’s closing ceremony last Friday. So, I realize my review is sort of useless at this point in time, but the art lives on. Ain’t that what’s important?

Once the ball of this conversation got rolling, it didn’t stop. It sped up in theories about the drama of the bearded lady, kaleidoscope-y art with many many freak faces spinning around, male inclination toward comic book art (no show at Space 242 contained as much female work)

It reached an extended zenith with a topic introduced by Ami herself. She expected to get more “freaky, twisted, bizarre” stuff with the topic at hand, but wound up with more submissions that were more “fun and festive.” A series of answers unearthed interesting truths.

One said “Artists identified with freaks because they both live on the fringes of society. There’s a level of sympathy.”

This hit me harder than what I expected to be the lesson or subtext featured in any poetic perspective on sideshow freaks to be pity stories, full of loss and mistreatment, Freaks and Pinocchio, on up through The Elephant Man. You know, “who’s the real freak?” kind of stuff. The classic artistic turning of the tables on the audience, who got a kick out the pain and misery of these…”freaks.”

I thought the whole exhibition would be a re-hashing of this almost jaded theme, one that’s clearly been done before.

But I got some new perspective from some artist’s statements. One talked about the historical aspect, how this sort of thing doesn’t really exist anymore. It’s very inhumane and politically incorrect. Most circus sideshows around nowadays feature feats of strength of endurance, like a skinny guy shimmying through a tennis racket or a tattooed man with a split tongue. One artist commented about how anyone can become a freak in a sideshow as long they “twist” themselves in some way, while freaks of the past didn’t have a choice. They were forced into what was essentially indentured servitude.

A Chuck Klosterman-looking artist stood up dramatically outside the circle of chairs denoting the artist’s roundtable and talked about the cynicism of modern culture killing the illusion of the sideshow freak. “People aren’t going to stare at the bearded lady anymore. They are going to say hormone treatment.”

And here’s is where I found a big chunk of meaning: Modern culture is very cynical. I doubt I’ll have to debate with anyone about that. See, even that last sentence was insanely cynical. My point being: people are sick of cynicism. They want things that are earnest, optimistic, and borderline illusory. They want things that are proud and positive. They don’t want the same vindictive and judgmental revisionist irony that’s made everyone lose trust in everything.

Yes, there are terrible things in the world and yes, it’s important to shed light on them. It’s important to get the true stories about sideshow carnival freaks, Christopher Columbus and The Alamo. But these myths, these signifiers mean more to culture than the true stories ever could.

That’s why there’s New Weird America, where artists and musicians have accepted the flaws of this country and are still groovy with it. Irony and cynicism have turned society into elitist fucks who try and stay two steps ahead of everyone and don’t trust anyone. Good old fashioned American earnestness breeds good feeling, community, and, most importantly, courage.

The powers that be in the world want people to fear one another, compete, and be malicious. They don’t want us to be proud of ourselves. The want us to be beaten down and cynical. You know why? Because cynics are never a threat to their power. Cynics never do anything. All they do is talk about the stuff they want to do and all the things they would change. Trust me, I’ve been a cynic most of my life

But since I’ve decided to be earnest, since I’ve started looking for good and happiness and illusionism, I’ve felt a lot happier. To move around a famous quote, “There is no way to happiness, happiness is the way.”

Some people might say that I am lying to myself, that if I feel troubled, I should express it. Understandable. But it’s healthier to express yourself by becoming the solutions you want to see in the world rather than talk about them. Talk gets you nowhere. Action is progress, even if you fail.

In conclusion, I don’t want things to be swept under the rug, but I don’t want pieces of dust to be shoved in my face. I want the floor properly cleaned. It can be done with earnestness and optimism, so you see.

“Smile and the world smiles with you. Frown, and you frown alone.”
- somebody who said “Hi!” a lot…I’m assuming

The Dirty Dishes, Wadzilla Mansion, May 8, 2010

Fans of rock music can’t help but be drawn to really talented chicks. They are few and far between. I’m not saying there are a lot of girls without talent trying and failing to play good rock music in Boston. There aren’t that many playing any rock music in any form whatsoever. One could say that rock n roll is a very masculine art form, like stand-up comedy or beer can-architecture.

So Jenny Tuite, a gorgeous axe-shredding siren, is such a fantastic find. Not for me, but for fans of rock music in general, who are a lot of guys who’ve spent a lot of time watching other guys act like guys. Women doing this, and doing it fuckloads better than most guys should make chauvinists reconsider.
Jenny is the lead singer, songwriter and guitarist for The Dirty Dishes, an inventive and original hard-rock foursome with a buttressed foundation of passionate talent. I saw them play last Saturday at Allston’s Wadzilla Mansion. The Dirty Dishes, as individuals, are focused energy beams onto their instruments, but together, they unleash a combined auditory force upon eager audiences.

I was talking with David, the lead singer of SuperVolcano, about them when I heard their set staring up. We made our way towards the basement, the actual venue space, and I asked him what to look for with this new band,
“Their lead singer, Jenny….is siiiiiick.” This last word came out of David’s mouth as an impressive falsetto, showing how much he really dug this chick’s singing.
I went into the pit and watched the show.

Of course the first thing that hit me about this girl was her radiance. She is downright gorgeous. I could get lost and find myself in her eyes. The sheen of her hair reflected the hanging lights. Her hips wore an awesome blue skirt. It exuded a powerful sexiness. Entranced and held, divinely compelled, I soaked in the woman of marble-esque beauty, her voice, her style, the way she held her rhythm guitar.
I’d assumed that the shredding lead guitar was coming from someone in the back-up band that I couldn’t see at the time, but I soon realized it was actually streaming forth from the careful, concentrated fireworks of Jenny and her fingers. She was rocking in a band in Allston, right by the Mass Pike, like nobody’s business, an ethereal Aphrodite in a sea of grungy hardened Hephaestus’ and fronting it easily, singing her dynamic heart out.

The star Jenny should be is astounding. She’d be Karen O, but with intensely involved lead guitar. She’d be Lita Ford, but much more accessible and less obviously a sex symbol (less metal as well, The Dirty Dishes sound like a slightly hard boiled Plants and Animals with a pinch of Cold War Kids)
But goddamn, with those eyes and that presence, she’d be Edie Sedgwick, Janis Joplin and Patti Smith all rolled into one beautiful, talented prophetess for the 21st century, a girl who just plain needs to be shared with the masses.

And like any amazing genius, Jenny’s completely modest about her work. When I worked up the courage to talk to her about what she though her music meant, she nervously looked at her bandmate, saying “Oh man, we suck at this shit.” And like any genius, she works hard, plugging their next gig (Harper’s Ferry, June 8, with The Grass is Green) and giving me a free CD…What a professional!

I feel guilty spending so much time talking about Jenny, neglecting the other members of the band, who were just as talented, but didn’t share the same obvious limelight as Jenny. The rhythm section, with Mike on drums and Jay on Bass, kept the beat and brought the funk so naturally that it looked odd to see them without their instruments after the show. Jay jerked his body wonderfully as he played, in time and in check with every pluck of the bass and I don’t think Mike opened his eyes once during the whole performance.
They were so into their music, a very healthy extroversion for musicians. There are some rockers for which playing releases so much for them. They can play through any stress and every audience member appreciates them for the accompanying theatrics. If you’ve ever watched footage of Pete Townshend playing with The Who, especially in the late 70’s, you can tell he got more out any Who concert than anyone else in the audience or on stage. This is what The Dirty Dishes do as well…and how!

Their synth player and occasional singer, Alex, provided a pitch-perfect counterpoint to Jenny’s stoic grace, head-banging curly brown hair so hard I think his glasses fell off a couple times. The chemistry between them was incendiary. Can I write about any rock show without using the word incendiary? Well, if it was a good show, I don’t think that would be good journalism.
So when the Dirty Dishes finished their set and all I could do was stand and clap, shaking my head like I just saw Jesus himself turning water into wine. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but that’s how I felt and that’s how I acted.

The Dirty Dishes are going places, end of story. In January, they opened for Magic Magic and….wait for it….Passion Pit! Yes, this band I saw in an Allston basement opened for the double P’s. They seem to have taken a liking to them, as a recent blog post from Pit placed The Dirty Dishes at #1 on their playlist. High praises from high places. If that ain’t a fine example of networking, I don’t know what is.
I can’t wait to see Jenny on the cover of magazines. Not just for the aesthetics of how cool that would be, but also to say, “I was there!”