OK, I'm thinking, why not post some previous things I've written on my other blog(s) about other artists and writers? Besides, I'm pleasantly surprised to find that this blog server doesn't keep crashing like Wordpress and Blogger.

So, the following is a post from my birthday, 2005. It wanders a bit, from my birthday, to Big Sur, to Devendra Banhardt, to Jeff Buckley and Daphne Brooks; but hey, it's my party (right, Dusty?), and I'll write what I want:

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Had lovely day in the Big Sur, hangin' out with my friend, Joan, although feeling a bit sickish today for some reason. Maybe overdid it a little today, as I tend to be sensitive to the sun; night time is the best time for me.

Entry into Big Sur is almost always dramatic, because of the route up to Hurricane point, before driving down into the Sur. Hurricane Point has its own weather, which seems to be separate from all other parts of the Central Coast. Perhaps it has something to do with the depth of the ocean there, and the steep rise of the cliffs and the Santa Lucia range above them. Fog, for example, is never just "fog" there. It always comes in thickly, then gets shredded apart and separated into layers as it hits the wind. So, during that inevitable moment when you decide you HAVE to pull over to get a view of this incredible cosmic material stuff of which the world is composed -- you find yourself looking down the sheer dizzying cliffs through shreds and wisps of fog, passing over brilliantly blue or green ocean (depending on how cold it is), while breathing in great gouts of salty ocean air and wild sage...

Anyway...it's really ridiculous to try to even describe it.

There was also the Henry Miller Memorial Library (visiting the library, many years ago, I was lucky to meet his friend, Emil White, briefly, a couple years before he died), where we lingered, because it's just a very peaceful place to be, and also because of the Director, Magnus Toren's, beautiful and meditative guitar-playing, as he sat there behind the counter. He seems to be doing a good job of keeping up the place, making it a much more welcoming space for readings, film showings [2007 note: more recently, I noticed that Patti Smith, Laurie Anderson and Henry Rollins have performed there], and developing the archive collection, but they could use some help, in the form of money, poetry, art and fiction books for the library, file cabinets, and archival storage materials. Do help, if you can.

I purchased a copy of their zine, Ping Pong, the latest issue of which is being edited by Jim Maughn, who runs the New Cadence poetry series in Santa Cruz. Noticed a copy of Filipina-American "gothic" novelist, Sabina Murray's A Carnivore's Inquiry prominently displayed on their main book table. [Note: some of my poetry is going to open the 2007 issue of Ping Pong, forthcoming very soon, and I'm hoping I get to read it in the beautiful Henry Miller Memorial Library (didja hear that, Jim?)].

Later, after another pass at Hurricane point, where the sun was now a ghostly white disk shrouded in fog above the lighthouse, I attended the Devendra Banhart gig at The Attic in Santa Cruz. The Attic is a lovely open space with a small stage, surrounded by comfy couches and easy chairs, with easy access to the cafe which specializes in organic food and teas. But first I had to sit through about 45 minutes of aural, nay, physical torture with an unnamed opening band (but I think torture was the point).

Most of the reviews I've read of Banhart inevitably bring up his neo hippie/folk vibe, while making liberal references to Donovan, Nick Drake, Dylan, Tiny Tim, the Grateful Dead, the two Buckleys (Jeff & father Tim) et al.

Well, yeah. But then again, not. I guess you could say the vibe is neo-hippie/folk or somewhere thereabouts -- which is not saying much. I wouldn't go so far as to call it neo-psychedelic, as some have claimed. The bandmembers of Hairy Fairy and Bunnybrains are hairy, alright, vaguely reminiscent of The Band, and maybe better musicians than The Dead. But Devendra's voice is something all its own, I realized, when he launched into a song in Spanish (he was raised, partly, in Venezuela) passionately sung in a voice with a tremolo that bypasses the ears and goes directly to the heart, and from thence into your spinal chord.

The extreme quirkiness I heard on some online clips did not quite appear. Most of the songs were sing-along-able. I guess I naively expected at least a few songs to be only long enough to encompass the timespan of a voicemail recording (his first recorded songs were on voicemail).

Devendra lived up to Michael Gira's claim of being a generous and open musician, when he announced at the beginning of the set that all proceeds of the gig were going to the New Orleans fund, and when, about halfway through the set, he invited anyone in the audience who was prepared to do so (I think "prepared" is the operational word here), to come up and perform a song they had written themselves. A nervous young woman named Natasha came up on the stage and sang a sweet song. Fortunately, she had a lovely voice and song, and got an enthusiastic response from the crowd.

Apparently, as Dylan once did, Banhart is making the shift from acoustic to electric, if tentatively. "Shall we keep it laid back tonight?" he asks the audience. "Whatever you want!" somebody yells back, generously. So he obligingly picks up his electric. And therein lies the rub. Not wanting to be a kill-joy like those who called Dylan a sellout, I listened attentively and with an open ear (I was one of those (apparently few) who actually welcomed Dylan's turn to electric). And Devendra's songs accompanied by electric guitar ranged generally from excellent, to sort of Grateful Dead at their most mundane, which is to say, kinda bad. But -- mainly because it obscured the voice. Because, it's not just that Devendra has a thrilling voice, but it's a voice which can be subtle, surprising in its emotional tropes, and also bold and in-your-face. I wanted to hear all of that. It may have been the acoustics, or messed up sound levels, or that Devendra just doesn't quite have the the electric thing down yet, but that part of the set was a little disappointing, although, not completely. I'm still going to go out and buy one of his CDs.

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I'm curious about Daphne Brooks' new book, 33 1/3 Grace, about vocalist, Jeff Buckley. From what I can gather (and I may be wrong --we bloggers can't help but mythologize ourselves, and each other, to some degree), she appears to be a happy, hard-tokin', whiskey drinkin', free-lance writin', African American prof., raised in Nola, hanging out in the Czech music scene, Jeff Buckley fan, author of at least two books (one which I just mentioned, the other entitled Bodies in Dissent: Performing Race, Gender, and Nation in the Trans-Atlantic Imaginary, lover of punk rock. Oh, and unabashed romantic (usually a good quality, I think); she writes of J. Buckley: "The voice of movement and metamorphosis, disruption and reinvention, transgression and collaboration, revolution and cultural hybridity rearranged the landscape of our tiny rock universe in the hall that night.... Summon every rock and roll cliché that you like--the d.j. who saved my life last night, the boy who strummed my life with his words--Jeff Buckley destroyed and rebuilt my musical world in one fell swoop" (11). "

[2007 note: Daphne has a blog, The Music Issue, and her latest post is on Morrissey's recent Pasadena gig.]