West of Rome,
Just East of the border
In a static-y Ramada Inn,
Polishing his boots and pummeling his liver,
Steeped in the dark isolation,
Just what business does he have around here? -Vic Chesnutt

“Do you remember the first time you heard West of Rome?”

I was standing in an Athens, Georgia bar, circa 1995, when I was asked that question. My interlocutor was a complete stranger to me then, but we soon became close friends. It was the kind of question that transcended the usual music geek bar banter. Vic Chesnutt’s 1991 album was a touchstone for me in the same way that Elliott Smith’s early demos made such an enormous impression on many of my younger friends. In that way that only music can, Vic’s songs weaseled their way into my DNA. They were secret code that only I and a certain special elect understood. They were the gold standard.

And so I answered: “Yes, actually…I do remember the first time I heard West of Rome.”

Vic Chesnutt died of an overdose of muscle relaxants on Christmas Day. He was 45 years old. The rumors that he was in a coma started swirling Christmas Eve. From what I can tell it was Kristin Hersh who first let slip on her website that it was a suicide attempt. Of course that didn’t surprise a soul who knew anything about Vic’s life and career. It would have been more surprising if it had been natural causes. Chesnutt was suicidal most of his life. He talked about it openly. He wrote and sang about it. It was his own personal cross and he bore it with honesty and, yes, good humor. It was exactly that sort of paradox that made him such an essential artist.

For the uninitiated, Vic Chesnutt was born in Jacksonville in 1964 and raised in Zebulon, Georgia. There were musicians in the family. He learned to play the trumpet, messed around with the ukulele, pecked around at the guitar, and tried his hand at writing songs. He played in cover bands. But in 1983, Chesnutt’s world tilted on its axis. He was 18 years old the night he got drunk and rolled his car into an Atlanta ditch. The accident left him paralyzed from the waist down and with only partial use of his hands. After a short and ill-fated stint in Nashville, he landed in Athens. It was 1985.

When you’re tied to a wheelchair, you have plenty of time to catch up on your reading. By Chesnutt’s own rendering, he shoplifted a beat-up copy of the Norton Anthology of Poetry and immersed himself in the words of Auden, Whitman, and Dickinson. By the end of the ‘80s he was performing solo shows at the 40 Watt and was considered one of the rising stars of Athens’s fertile scene. It was Michael Stipe who took Chesnutt into the studio to record his first two albums: Little in 1990 and the seminal West of Rome in 1991. He would eventually release 13 records and perform and collaborate on many others.

Vic and I were not friends. We did, however, have mutual friends and acquaintances. We ran in some of the same circles. We crossed paths maybe four or five times in the five years I was in Athens but it was always at a bar or club and our conversations rarely went beyond the usual pleasantries. A couple of my buddies who knew him better said he could be pretty obstinate, but in my experience he was unfailingly polite and unassuming. We once had a strange conversation about the Beatles’ White Album and I was pretty certain I’d pissed him off. Later I was told he was just messing with me. And then there was one eminently forgettable evening when I ran into him at a late night watering-hole called “Lunch Paper.” We swapped shots for over an hour in complete silence. I was enduring my own little dark night of the soul and I wasn’t in any mood for conversation — even with one of my artistic heroes. He liked that just fine. When the bartender yelled “last call,” I stood up to pay and my knees went a little wobbly. I looked over at Vic and he smiled and said, “See? Every once in awhile these wheels come in handy.” Off he rolled into the heavy night.

No, my interest — my obsession, really — with Vic Chesnutt was and is with his words. And even there I want to tread lightly. Some years ago in another piece I referred to him as the “Poet Laureate of Athens, Georgia.” That implied that being a great songwriter wasn’t enough — that the popular song was somewhere down the ladder of artistic forms. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. Through the complex interplay of his words and music, Vic made pop songs that were great art. They were crystalline miniatures that somehow could encapsulate the human condition in all of its pain and absurdity and humor. He had this singular ability to take you to the abyss — to sing with brutal honesty about human frailty and failure, about going toe-to-toe with those inner demons, about hurting those we love most, and to express his anger, unhappiness, self-loathing, and self-doubt — and then with excruciating ease, turn a phrase that could double you over with laughter. By laying bare his fragile and flawed humanity, he made us all a little more human. That was his monumental talent.

His live performances were just as riveting. He seemed such a diminutive figure when he rolled out onto the stage but as soon as he started telling stories you could hear a pin drop. Even when he played the “World Famous 40 Watt Club,” in front of an audience notorious for talking over the performers, Vic ruled the roost. No one would have considered interrupting a Vic show. It just wasn’t done — even in that hipster hell.

I’ve wanted to write seriously about Chesnutt for years. I hoped one day to do a long interview with him for Verbicide. I figured that now that I was back in Georgia the opportunities to talk to his friends and family might present themselves and I could do an even longer piece. Why not? Even with his personal life in turmoil, his career was on an extraordinary trajectory. In interviews he often expressed doubts about himself and his music, but he was an avid collaborator constantly hooking up with world-class musicians who felt compelled to help him to achieve his vision. Lambchop, Widespread Panic, Bill Frisell, Van Dyke Parks, and Elf Power were just the tip of the creative iceberg.

But nothing prepared diehard fans for the sonic paradigm shift that came with the Jem Cohen-produced North Star Deserter (2007). Cohen convinced Chesnutt to record the album with a bevy of Constellation Records artists including members of Thee Silver Mt. Zion and Godspeed You! Black Emperor along with Fugazi guitarist Guy Picciotto. That same indie-rock supergroup reformed for this year’s release, At the Cut. The band took Chesnutt’s deceptively simple songs and contributed all sorts of layers and textures. That process proved incredibly inspirational to Chesnutt who reported in an interview with the music blog, Aquarium Drunkard, that the recording sessions had proven so powerful that he’d gone home and written 15 new songs.

Within weeks of wrapping up the recording of At the Cut, he went back into the studio with his longtime friend and mentor Jonathan Richman. Richman had a very different aesthetic agenda in mind. No accoutrements. Strip away all the artifice. Sit Vic in front of a microphone with just his guitar. Let him play. The result is the stellar Skitter on Take Off, an album so naked and raw you can hear Chesnutt breathing on some of the songs. As aural experience, it couldn’t be more different than either North Star or At the Cut. And yet Vic’s visceral power — the power of his words — is still there. Skitter is a quiet little album that packs an emotional wallop. The bottom-line is that 2009 witnessed the singer/songwriter at the absolute peak of his creative genius.

And now he’s gone. A suicide. In early December, in an interview with Terri Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air Chesnutt talked about his struggles. He admitted to attempting suicide “three or four times.” But as he put it, “It didn’t take.” He talked about the anger and resentment he felt when he was revived and realized that he had survived. “I’d be like, how dare you?,” he told her. “You know, how dare you people interfere in…what was obviously my life, my wish?” But then Chesnutt went on to say that as time went by — as he put distance between himself and the suicide attempt — he’d feel increasingly happy that he was alive, that he had tasks to complete before he could go.

The question that provoked Chesnutt’s frank admission concerned the song , “Flirted With You All My Life.” In the song, Chesnutt’s protagonist literally flirts with death.

I’ve flirted with you all my life,
even kissed you once or twice,
and to this day,
I swear it was nice,
but clearly I was not ready.

When you touched a friend of mine,
I thought I would lose my mind,
but I found out with time that really,
I was not ready,
no, no, cold death, cold death, oh death,
really, I’m not ready.

Gross was quick to interpret the song as “heavy” and dark. In fact in obituary after obituary written since Christmas Day, we’ve inevitably had to encounter this particular song. It is a song about suicide; Vic committed suicide; how profoundly tragic it all is. But Chesnutt pointed out just the opposite. In the Fresh Air interview he corrected Gross: “This song is a joyous song, though. I mean, it’s a heavy song, but it is a joyous song. This is a break-up song with death, you know what I mean?”

So why now? Why cash in your chips when you’re on such a hot streak? How the hell should I know? I will say this, however (and I’ll say it because it enrages me), the man was in constant pain. His disabilities worsened over the years. He endured multiple surgeries and incurred massive debts — this in spite of having health insurance. Chesnutt reportedly owed Athens Regional Medical Center as much as $70,000, and those evil parasites sent the Sheriff a-knockin’ with the good news that they were threatening to take his house. That prospect horrified him. He was afraid to go to the hospital for any further treatments. According to Chesnutt, “I mean, I could actually lose a kidney. And I mean, I could die only because I cannot afford to go in there again. I don’t want to die…just because I don’t have enough money to go in the hospital. But that’s the reality of it. You know, I have a preexisting condition, my quadriplegia, and I can’t get [decent] health insurance.”

Did the American health care system kill Vic Chesnutt? Probably not, but to argue it didn’t have some role in this sorry episode is a flat-out lie. Vic’s friend, Jem Cohen, put it this way: “Vic’s death, just so you all know, did not come at the end of some cliché downward spiral. He was battling deep depression but was also at the peak of his powers, and with the help of friends and family he was in the middle of a desperate search for help. The system failed to provide it.” A fund has been set up to help the family pay off these debts. (http://kristinhersh.cashmusic.org/vic/)

There is nothing easy about this story. There is no way to reconcile its many paradoxes. Vic was an immensely complicated person. But one thing we can say is that a righteous noise has gone out of the artistic universe. That is a loss that affects us all. Each and every one of us. Vaya con dios, Vic Chesnutt. One day maybe we’ll catch up with you out there on that lonesome stretch of highway just west of Rome.
—
Mark Huddle teaches African American History and Popular Culture at Georgia College and State University. He writes from a bunker at an undisclosed location somewhere in central Georgia. He can be contacted at mark@scissorpress.com.

Shots are filled and boredom killed
The last chance purple of dawn
Pagan roads and catacombs
Lost on the way to the heart. -Son Volt, “Exiles”

It was around 3 a.m. when the rain started. At first it was just a fine mist beading up on the cracked windshield. But by the time we hit I-77 in deepest, darkest part of West Virginia it was coming down in steady black sheets. There was an ill-wind blowing and our little car, weighed down with life’s possessions, swayed ominously with each gust. Maybe, just maybe, in a different set of circumstances — you’re well-rested, relaxed, maybe it’s daytime — you could fool yourself into saying, “This ain’t so bad.”

But then those coal-trucks high-ball it past you in the passing lane and each one of the behemoths sends a swell up that feels like it just might wash you off the road into some terrible abyss. There isn’t much of a shoulder on those mountain highways. You can’t just pull it over and wait it out. No. The die is cast. You hang on tight. You try to steer straight. You hope you’re doing the right thing. You hope for the best.

So we’re white-knuckling it down the interstate, and my car stereo was scanning the AM radio dial. It pulled up one of those jackleg preachers and he was chanting down Babylon: “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood,” he railed, “but against the RULERS, against the AUTHORITIES, against the POWERS OF THIS DARK WORLD and against the SPIRITUAL FORCES OF EVIL IN THE HEAVENLY REALMS!” Amen. As I navigated that singularly dark night of the soul, I was most definitely feelin’ the brother! There is darkness all about us. A hard rain is most definitely falling.

I am a night driver. I have been for years. My reasons are paradoxical and probably irrelevant. Suffice it to say, I’ve just found it easier to cover long distances late at night when it’s quiet, when the highways and byways are relatively clear. You see and hear things at night you’d never encounter otherwise. Ghosts talk. But not as loudly as the voices in my head. I think. I “write.” I remember — and dream. I exorcise the demons and commune with the angels. When you have the right pile of music or when the radio scan lands on that perfect AM station, you can be transported to places unimaginable — altered landscapes that exist, and then don’t exist, and then exist again. As I’ve gotten older it has become more physically difficult to eschew sleep and just drive. But I can’t help it. I’m drawn to it. I find comfort in facing the random chaos of the dark hours.

We endured that piss-fest for hours. No respite, no quarter. In that lost time, I arm-wrestled with the duality of human experience and wondered if the Great Deluge would ever come to an end? I was redeemed. I was damned. Then just outside of Bluefield we came up over the crest of a beautiful ridge. There were mountains on both sides of us. The sun was just emerging from its cosmic slumber, the rain abruptly stopped, and there was this purple and gold light across the breadth of the horizon. It was the light you see just before the dawn but on this day Da LAWD had his crayons out. It was jaw-dropping. From the darkness comes the light. I was suddenly awash in faulty dualisms and false dichotomies.

Over an eight-week period beginning in May, our baby Iris was born after a very difficult pregnancy. Violet turned two. I went to Georgia for a job interview, and was offered and accepted a new teaching position. We managed to pack up six years of living and force marched a thousand miles to the South — redeploying just in time for me to step back into the classroom. The martial wordplay aside, a friend of mine recently sent me an email that listed the “ten most stressful things” and we’d hit four of the top five. After awhile you don’t even realize the toll that the stress is taking. You get used to dragging around that two-ton weight. It defines your experience. The world seems so black and white.

Of course this isn’t just an exercise in solipsism. We’re all struggling. These dog days of summer have been unkind to the old US of A and as usual we’ve managed to put the ugliness on display so that the entire world can bear witness. Hordes of angry white people have taken to the political stump to protest something the government calls “health care reform.” Of course what has ensued is anything but healthy debate. “You’re a socialist!” “You’re a Nazi!” They rant and rave and posture and wave their guns and then curse the make-believe liberal elite for mocking them. Right vs. wrong. Good vs. evil. False dichotomies.

Despite the fact that our health care system has completely broken down and is bankrupting the country, their only rebuttal to the proposal on the table — when they’re not making up fantasies about “death panels” — is, “Let’s find a market-based solution.” Hmm…would that be the same market-based solution that brought us sub-prime mortgages and the collapse of the housing industry? Or maybe it’s the one that crippled the financial markets and touched off the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression? Yeah, I’m sure the insurance and pharmaceutical companies will be glad to “reform” themselves — as long as they can maintain their profit margins and don’t have to insure the 37 million poor people who aren’t covered by the current system.

And let’s not pretend that the other side has it all figured out. I’m fascinated by this so-called “public option,” this government health concern that will compete with private insurance. Would this be the same government that took five days to get water to the Superdome after Katrina? Let’s not think that a change of political parties means the dawning of a new era of competence! Worse yet, this administration defines reform as the creation of ever-larger systems that will somehow allegedly provide for individual needs. Big…bigger…BIGGEST! They’ve learned nothing from our recent corporate debacles — they insist on replacing one failed paradigm with another. Newsflash: Gigantic bureaucracies respond only to their own internal logic — not to individual needs.

Me vs. You. Us vs. Them. Government vs. the Individual. Republican vs. Democrat. Corporations vs. the “Little Guy.” Patriot vs. Socialist. What passes for debate — and more often is just irrational fury — in this country begins and ends with simple distortions that are alleged to describe current “realities.” They’re gross over-simplifications dredged up by a population that’s been warped by the 24-hour news cycle and the speed of the internet and egged on by a media that is more interested in ratings and their own perverse ideologies than in fomenting reasoned discourse. Too much information and not enough ideas. Complexity is our enemy — especially when we’re frightened and trying to make sense of the world’s chaos. And now, as our economic situation lurches from one crisis to the next, as unemployment rates close in on 10 percent, people are even less interested in facing tough problems that require thoughtful, reasoned engagement and solutions. Deeper shades of black — lighter shades of white.

Now I don’t mean to get all political on ya, but, frankly, the Deluge takes many forms. It is dark and raining and we’re barreling down the interstate to nowhere. There are no Rest Areas to give us sanctuary. The die is cast. You hang on tight. You try to steer straight. You hope you’re doing the right thing. You hope for the best. The night drivers bear a special burden. They see and hear things in the dark. Ghosts talk and there is absolutely nothing simple about what they have to say. It is all about shades of gray and that’s why we always watch from the pageant from the outside. Or as Jay Farrar and Son Volt put it recently:

History repeats while the sick machine roars
Hustlers and wolves walk freely through the door
But when you go leave a smile on your face
We’re exiles now pulling out of this place.

We’re exiles now. Pulling out into the night. Damn straight.
—
Mark Huddle teaches African American History and Popular Culture at Georgia College and State University. He writes from a bunker at an undisclosed location somewhere in central Georgia. He can be contacted at mark@scissorpress.com.

In the fall of 1979 I was an angst-ridden college freshman struggling to find a place in a university culture that felt truly alien to me. I was experiencing the usual growing pains — I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. I sure as hell wasn’t sure school was for me. I didn’t look like anyone else. No one seemed to be interested in the same music or politics. I was an unabashed punk rocker and all around me it looked as if an L.L. Bean factory had exploded.

So, like any number of 18-year-old misfits who have found themselves in similar conditions, I made my way to the one place I figured I might find sanctuary: the college radio station. My visit was not in vain. The first person I met was the news director — an avowed Communist in a Stiff Records t-shirt who was chain-smoking Marlboro Reds and waving a copy of Damned Damned Damned in my face. Ten minutes into our conversation he invited me to catch a ride with a bunch of his pals up to a Rock Against Racism benefit in Detroit. At 3 a.m. the next morning, I was in the back of a rusted-out Ford Econoline barreling northward on I-71, a Flux of Pink Indians cassette lodged in the tape player, a new comrade next to me waxing poetic on subjects ranging from the First Amendment to the virtues of anarcho-syndicalism.

By mid-morning I was in a multipurpose room near Wayne State University. I’d been pressed into service unloading amps and guitars, setting up the PA, and even taking a stint in the makeshift kitchen. The craziness that then ensued is forever burned into my consciousness: reggae bands, free jazz ensembles, and, of course, one punk band right after another. Belly dancers, jugglers on stilts, performance artists — it seemed like we were swept up in an endless stream of creativity.

But the thing that had the biggest impact that day was the politics. Trade unionists, Socialists, Communists, anarchists — one speaker after another took to the stage to rage against racism, sexism, and economic exploitation. Flyers, newspapers, and political pamphlets seemed to be a sort of currency, and for that day, at least, groups that normally wouldn’t deign to acknowledge one another’s existence made common cause in the name of social justice. For me it marked an important moment in my own political coming-of-age. Many of the ideas I’d come to intuitively were validated. I’d found a home.

April 30, 2008 marked the 30th anniversary of the “Carnival Against the Nazis,” the march and music festival staged by the British grassroots political organization Rock Against Racism (RAR) and its counterpart, the Anti-Nazi League. Organized as a protest to the growing political power of the fascist National Front, nearly 85,000 people turned out to see performances by the Clash, Steel Pulse, X-Ray Spex, and the Tom Robinson Band. By the end of 1978, Rock Against Racism had organized 300 local concerts and five carnivals, including the “Militant Entertainment Tour” that featured 40 bands. While there is probably no way to accurately gauge the impact of RAR on the 1979 national elections, there is little doubt that the National Front — a party that appeared to be surging as late as 1977 — was a spent political force. But more importantly, according to British journalist Sarfraz Manzoor, “Rock Against Racism radicalized a generation, it showed that music could do more than just entertain: it could make a difference.”

No doubt RAR had a powerful impact on the British music scene, especially punk rock. The Clash, Billy Bragg, Elvis Costello, Stiff Little Fingers, and two tone bands such as The Specials and The Beat have all acknowledged that influence. But none of the recent remembrances of the events of 1978 have bothered to speculate about the impact and influence of RAR on this side of the Atlantic. My bizarre experiences in the fall of 1979 aside, Rock Against Racism provided a template for political engagement from within the punk milieu.

It isn’t fashionable to comment on it today, but the early punk scene was rife with racism, sexism, and homophobia. More than a few observers have commented on the origins of punk as a reaction to the rise of disco and its perceived connections to the gay community. One of the great rock critic Lester Bangs’ most controversial essays was entitled “The White (Noise) Supremacists,” and surveyed the knee-jerk racism within the New York scene. When I first moved to DC in the early ‘80s, there was a flat-out civil war going on as scenesters endured one assault from racist skinheads after another. Hell, I got my ribs cracked at a Marginal Man gig in the DC Armory by some troglodyte who loathed the Thelonious Monk t-shirt I’d worn that day. And forget about attracting young women to your shows — the early punk and hardcore scenes were testosterone-fueled havens for angry young boys who just couldn’t help waving their pricks at one another. It was boring as hell and at times it was pretty scary.

In the US, Rock Against Racism was always a decidedly local affair — a true grassroots “movement.” There were dozens of benefits across the country but no national organization. Anyone who hated the violence and mindless hatred evinced by too many young kids floating around the margins of punk could organize a show; shows which almost always became sites for political networking and community building. From Anti-Racist Action in Minneapolis to the Ska Against Racism tours in the ‘90s, the punk scene became a laboratory for those who understood that every once in awhile you have to police your space. I’m old and beat down now, but honestly, one of the things that makes me proudest is that when I travel all over the country, I know that when I visit a local punk space I’m going to find welcome — good music, good friends, and an eclectic, socially-engaged brand of politics. Punk, at the street level, is the last true counter-culture — the last gasp of the Do-It-Yourself ethic that bears witness to the possibilities of a world outside the corporate marketplace.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Hell, I can romanticize just about anything about the past. So sometimes it is difficult to admit that something I love so much could have had such a dark side. By the same token — when I consider how things have in this instance changed for the better — when I recognize and acknowledge our capacities for growth, I’m left with a genuine hope for the future. In 1978, British fascists were on the verge of winning significant political power. A crazy-quilt collection of musicians and artists organized themselves and pushed back, ultimately turning the political tide and changing the face of British political history. If the impact of Rock Against Racism in the United States was far more modest, it still provided a much-needed example and model for political engagement that continues to resonate in alternative spaces across the country.
—

Winter 1984. I’d been living in the Washington, DC area for about five months. To be specific, I was living in a shitty little apartment down the street from the Dischord House in Arlington, Virginia. It’s hard for me to describe how excited I was to finally be in the “big city.” Having grown up in central Ohio I’d always figured there was a wide old world out there, and I was meant to be in it. My original intent was to go to graduate school, but I was really in search of experience. I wanted it all. Politics, literature, art, music, food.

Ironically, it was the food that had drawn me to Adams Morgan that particular day. I’d read a blurb in the City Paper about a place called the African Room that specialized in a host of African regional cuisines. I’d never had African food, never been to Adams Morgan, and I figured I’d check it out. Back then before it got all yuppified, Adams Morgan and its adjacent counterpart Mt. Pleasant were the focal point of the Central American refugee community that had sprung up as a result of Reagan’s secret — and not-so-secret — wars. It was a rough but vibrant piece of real estate. I remember it was freezing. I don’t think I even owned a winter coat, so I was wandering up and down the streets looking for the restaurant and cursing my own stupidity. It was likely a gust of wind knifing through me that sent me scurrying for cover in the doorway of an abandoned building. When I looked up I was staring right at the flyer for a Sonic Youth show.

That event signaled my first experience of the infamous Wilson Center. In early ’84, it was notorious for random spasms of violence. Our nation’s capital had managed to spawn a serious cohort of little fascists who loved beating the ever-lovin’ shit out of each other at punk shows; order had not yet come to DC punk. So yeah, the air of danger that hung about the place appealed to me, but even more exciting was that I was finally going to see my heroes in the flesh. I’d played their self-titled 12” over and over and over again on my college radio show to the point where I actually got death threats from locals who were convinced that no one could actually like this music, so I must be giving them the finger.

So here’s the deal. I had a hell of a time growing up, and all of my struggles were internal. I’d like to say I didn’t like who I was. You know, embrace all that angst that’s so fashionable these days. But the fact is I didn’t really know who I was. I wasn’t sure if I liked myself or disliked myself. But I did know that I wasn’t particularly comfortable in my own skin. I never felt like I belonged. I could mask my insecurities really well because I had a sense of humor and I could make people laugh, but the bottom line was I had this burning desire to find my place in the world and, at the same time, I had no faith in any club that would have me as a member. I mean, damn, if people actually liked and accepted me, how cool could they really be? I was wandering around little more than the sum of all my contradictions.

Wilson Center has taken on iconic status in the history of DC punk — it’s hallowed ground. Bad Brains, all of the early Dischord bands, they played there; and, of course, anyone passing through town had to play there, too. There is a pretty interesting mythology that has sprung up around the DC scene, but I remember it was nearly impossible to find shows. The bars refused to book the bands and the spaces that were open to new music didn’t tend to last too long. In that regard, Wilson Center was special — a temporary autonomous zone in the midst of a remarkably hostile environment. And remember, I was 23 years old, and punk rock is a young man’s game. It was (and is) about house shows in basements and garages; it’s about high school. I was over-the-hill by those standards and dependent on random flyers (like the one I’d run across that freezing day in Adams Morgan) or the occasional notice in the DC City Paper, or word of mouth from the clerk at Joe’s Record Exchange. Regardless of how much I loved the music, the cultural geography of punk rock made it somewhat forbidding — or, at the very least, a real pain in the ass to get to.

The shows at Wilson Center were in the basement of the building, a long narrow room that looked — except for the ubiquitous black paint — like any number of multi-purpose rooms in church basements just about anywhere in the country. (Check out Cynthia Connolly’s wonderful Banned In DC if you’re curious about what the place looked like.) I got to the show late. I managed to wind my way toward the very back wall, climbing over the tangle of young kids who’d crammed into the room. That was my first impression of the place. I remember thinking, Holy shit, if something goes wrong in here people are going to die. Beyond cramped, no air circulating, humid and suffocating — in a word, “heaven.”

I won’t lie to you — I don’t remember a lot of the specifics of my first SY show. I’m not one of those people who remember set-lists. Plus, it was 24 years ago, so give me break! What I do remember is their epic volume. I remember the band lurching out of one of their noisy improvs into “The Burning Spear” and it was so loud I felt like my shoulders were pinned against the wall, like my ears were bleeding, like the rhythm section was pounding my diaphragm like a veteran boxer working the body. It hurt. It hurt so good.

But the best part of the experience was the connection I felt with all of those who’d crammed into that space with me. The wall of sound the band churned up that night swept all of us into the whirlwind of a collective experience. I remember looking to the young couple standing next to me. They were holding each other’s hands so tightly that I could see the whites of their knuckles. And they were smiling, big beatific smiles. They looked at me and we all knew we were experiencing something wonderful, ecstatic, transcendent. All of the people around us were looking at each other in the same way. We all knew that this was it. All the roads in all of our lives had led to this specific moment. We were meant to be there. All my worrying about fitting in, all those anxieties about whether I was living my life the way I was supposed to be, all the baggage of my young life drifted away. I was one with the sound. I’d finally found my place in the world. When it was over no one wanted to leave. I introduced myself to my new comrades. We ended up sitting out front for hours, smoking cigarettes, telling stories. I had found my tribe.

Spring 2008. The Bonaventure Arts and Media Fair (BAM) is held in the San Damiano Room on the St. Bonaventure University campus, a cavernous space that is a deconsecrated chapel. It has a wonderful gothic feel with Catholic icons leering from the raised marble landing where the altar used to be, and beautiful stained glass windows. Oddly, the space is rarely used anymore, and for the past three years I’ve helped a group of students turn that space into a celebration of art, film, poetry and spoken word, and, of course, music. For whatever reason there hasn’t been a place in the culture here for these people. They tend to create in isolation or for one another. There is little validation for those who’ve recognized that the do-it-yourself ethic can transform one’s life and give it real meaning. So once a year we throw a big party.

This year —every year — the bands are just incredible. This year they came from New Jersey and Connecticut. There was a wonderful folk singer from Fredonia, New York, and a remarkable duo from Buffalo. I marvel at what these kids can do with really rudimentary equipment — they can make technology dance.

You’ll be glad to know that I came through the wars of identity formation just fine. Maturity can be defined as the moment that you cease giving a squat about who you are and what you’re doing. It is that moment when you can just be. And let me tell you, not really giving a shit about all that existential nonsense works just fine. That, my friends, is liberation day. But I can see the same struggles that I weathered in my students. It’s in their reticence — in the effort it takes to not draw attention to one’s self. It’s like they’re walking through a minefield — one false move, and blam-o! Someone will know just how much it all hurts.

The last band of the evening was a duo out of Buffalo called A Hotel Nourishing. I’ve been writing about music since I was 15 years old, and, honestly, words fail me in describing their music. I think the rock duo (a la the White Stripes) has quickly become one of the most cloying of rock clichés. But these guys make a righteous noise! Guitars looped, slamming peripatetic drumming, they’re at once anarchy incarnate and mathematically precise; guitarist leaping, spinning, flailing, and yet elegant; drummer rolling and tumbling, jazz touch turned sledgehammer wielding fiend. It was totally sick! And loud as hell! Swirling, crunching squalls of white noise that echoed off the church walls — the space itself became a member of the band.

I caught myself smiling — a big beatific smile. And I looked around me and everyone was smiling. (Where are my Wilson Center friends now?) Some who’d been sitting were suddenly up out of their seats, urging the band on. Hell yes, I’d been down this road before, I knew where it was going and I had a new group of friends traveling with me. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs, “This is it! All the roads in all of our lives have led to this specific moment. We are meant to be here! We are one with the sound!
Yes, I knew exactly where I was. I’d been here before. I was home. I had found my tribe.
—
Mark Huddle is the Editor of the National Affairs Desk of Verbicide. He teaches and writes from western New York. Check out his blog, “Trotsky’s Cranium,” at trotskyscranium.blogspot.com, or on Myspace at myspace.com/trotskyscranium. He can be contacted at mark@scissorpress.com.

The phone rang at 5:30 in the morning and unfortunately I was already awake to answer it. In fact, I’d been more or less conscious for 72 hours, riding out the effects of a Human Growth Hormone/Viagra cocktail. Hey, I’ll try anything twice. I couldn’t find my pants. There appeared to be blood-spatters on the walls, and road-kill of indeterminate origins on the coffee table across the room. Or was that a coonskin cap? I hazily remembered ordering the members of Verbicide’s National Affairs staff to don said lid as part of a new dress code I was instituting. That was just before they quit en masse. It took me a second to figure out what end of the phone to talk into, but then I could hear Jackson informing me that the ban on my press credentials had mysteriously been lifted, and I was once again cleared to cover the presidential campaigns. His last words: “Don’t fuck this up.”

Frankly, I was shocked. Even though I never laid a hand on Chelsea Clinton, the TRO said I wasn’t to be seen within three miles of her mother’s campaign. When word got out, the other candidates followed suit. But now I was back in the game. American presidential politics — my favorite blood sport. If you’re a crack political journalist, there’s nothing quite like being one of the “Boys on the Bus.”

Suffice it to say, I was pissed when the messenger dropped off my credentials and I found out that I was covering the Dennis Kucinich campaign. Kucinich: the closest thing to a Hobbit in the race. In fact, what does the Constitution say about Hobbits running for office? I don’t remember them even being mentioned. And anyway, Dennis and I hadn’t gotten along since I spiked his herbal tea with Jose Cuervo and hit on his wife. It wasn’t one of my better moments. But as my old grandmother used to say, beggars can’t be choosers. This was my ticket back in and I wasn’t about to blow it. The good news was I was to catch up with the campaign outside of Buffalo. The press bus was supposed to take us to some undisclosed location on the shores of Lake Erie where DK was making a big environmental speech. That was only a couple of hours away.

When I got to the scene, I was shocked to see a veritable “who’s who” of the political press. There was Wolf Blitzer, David Shuster, Chris Matthews, Nora O’Donnell, George Stephanopoulos, Cokie Roberts, and Jeff Greenfield. Even Tim Russert was there. It was mind-boggling. There hadn’t been one meaningful article written about Kucinich during the entire campaign. He’d been ignored by the so-called mainstream press and kept out of most of the debates. But here was the crème de la crème of the corporate media milling around like they were at a fraternity mixer.

“Yo, Blitzer! What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled as I got out of the cab. Wolf Blitzer had been chatting up Nora O’Donnell, but when he saw me all the blood drained from his face.

“Jesus Christ, Huddle, I thought you were dead.”

“Sorry, cowboy, the rumors of my demise were much exaggerated. Now, why don’t you tell me why you corporate parasites are here covering this sideshow?”

“Ah, we were all headed out west to cover Obama and Clinton, and our plane broke down in Cleveland. No one could get a flight out of this shithole until tomorrow, and some dumbass decided we had time to fill for tonight’s broadcasts, so here we are. What a waste of time.”

“Why is it a waste of time?” I asked. “Kucinich may not be the most compelling candidate. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even the same species. But he’s got a ton of good ideas.” For a quick second I made eye contact with Russert. He quickly went scurrying off in the other direction, no doubt remembering he owed me money.
Wolf Blitzer started to laugh. “Ideas? What ideas?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Wolf, how about he’s right on the war, right on universal healthcare, right on campaign reform. His campaign is nothing but ideas.”

Blitzer shook his head and smirked.

“Exactly. What the hell do ideas have to do with being president? I swear, Huddle, you sound like some schmuck right out of journalism school. There are only two candidates in the Democratic race: Clinton and Obama. Do you really think either of them has anything original to say? Shit, that’s the kiss of death anyway. Say something original and then people might actually hold you to it. I mean, honestly, have you read The Audacity Of Hope? It’s 300 pages long and there isn’t one idea in the entire book.”

I was seriously considering biting Wolf Blitzer’s ear off, but then one of Kucinich’s shills told everyone that it was time to get on the bus. We filed into the vehicle. I plopped down next to Nora O’Donnell, who suddenly looked as if she’d discovered dog shit on her pumps.

“My God!” she exclaimed. “What is that awful stench?” She was right — there was something wrong here. I began to hear protests from all over the bus.

“It’s alright, people,” Kucinich’s staffer called out. “To show his support for biofuels research, Dennis’s bus runs on cooking oil.” There was a collective groan from the assembled journalists. Stephanopoulos looked like he was going to hurl. David Shuster was screaming into his cell phone, “My $1,000 Armani suit is going to smell like I’m the damn fry cook at McDonalds!” He was right. We would all smell like French fries by the end of this journey. By the time we were on the highway, it was like a donut shop had exploded.

I turned back to Blitzer: “So, Wolf, if ideas don’t matter, how do people get themselves elected to the most powerful office in the world?” Nora O’Donnell chuckled beside me. Blitzer was shaking his head with a look of pity on his face.

“It’s all about the money, my son, all about the money. The only candidates who really matter in this race are the ones who can raise the requisite $150 to $250 million that it will take to stay in the race. It’s a war of attrition.”
In fact, he was right. At the end of 2007, 11 months before the election, the candidates had already spent more money than was spent in all of seven of the last eight presidential elections. Only the 2004 campaign was more expensive, and the candidates are on a pace to smash that record*.

“But doesn’t that mean we’re selling our highest office to the highest bidder?” I asked.

“Of course it does,” piped up O’Donnell.

“Then why don’t you people ever talk about that? Isn’t that the story of this campaign? We’re looking at the first billion dollar campaign in American history and I watch your newscasts every fucking night and you never mention it!” I realized that I was yelling at them and others were now listening. There were titters of laughter rising from all over the bus.

Blitzer started to answer, but Tim Russert cut him off.

“Huddle, you have smoked yourself retarded. Do you honestly believe that any of us would bite the corporate hand that feeds us? This is the real world, son. Oh, sure, we’ll tell you it’s all about history — that it’s about a woman and an African-American competing to be the nominee of their party. But the fact of the matter is the only thing that makes them the least bit relevant is that they can raise the hundreds of millions of dollars they’ll need to stay in the race. Hell, if Shirley Chisholm or Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton could have raised a hundred million clams, we’d be talking about them instead of Obama or Clinton.”

I started to protest, but then the bus pulled into a large parking lot connected to a strip of beachfront along Lake Erie. We filed off the bus and took our places just as Kucinich’s campaign workers finished piling up the old phone books necessary for the candidate to see over the podium.

Kucinich, ears flapping in the wind, was already making his way to the microphone when the first gull struck.
That’s right, the first gull. I didn’t actually see the attack, but it was Cokie Roberts who bore the brunt of it. The offending seagull swooped in and knocked her to the ground. It was just a fluke, right? Just a random act of nature? Hell, no. We all reeked of fried donuts and the seagulls were driven mad by the stench. To them we looked just like the breakfast bar at the local Denny’s. Before George Stephanopoulos could say, “It’s the economy, stupid!” the gulls were swarming.

Chaos ensued. I saw Chris Mathews grab Jeff Greenfield and use him as a human shield. The birds went right for his eyes. Wolf Blitzer was running for the bus but he was too slow. He fell, and suddenly gulls were on him. His screams still haunt my sleep. Nora O’Donnell was surprisingly fast in her six-inch heels. She ran down Russert and pushed him out of the way. A flock of the crazed birds were on him like a fat kid on a chocolate cake. One gull — their king, I think — was parading around the lot with Russert’s tongue in his beak.

I’ve been in war zones all over the world, but I swear this time I thought I was a goner. But then, suddenly, Dennis Kucinich leapt into the fray. His arms outstretched, he seemed to be mumbling an incantation. He was speaking in a language that I didn’t recognize. (Only later did I hear from one of his staffers that it was Elvish.) The seagulls seemed to understand. One by one they took flight, circling the beach for a few seconds and then flying off — no doubt looking for other members of the Fourth Estate to punish.

I’d like to say that there were lessons to be learned from these horrific events. Of course, those of you who follow politics will say you never heard anything about this sorry episode. And you’d be right, and that is exactly the point: there are many stories — important stories — pertaining to this campaign cycle that you’re never going to hear about. Some of those stories deal with carnage and human degradation, but most of the tales you’ll never hear about deal with ideas. Ideas, unfortunately, in a political system dominated by money, just don’t seem to matter.
—
Mark Huddle is the Editor of the National Affairs Desk of Verbicide. He teaches and writes from western New York. Check out his blog, “Trotsky’s Cranium,” at trotskyscranium.blogspot.com, or on Myspace at myspace.com/trotskyscranium. He can be contacted at mark@scissorpress.com.

*www.opensecrets.org/pressreleases/2008/YearEndPresidential.2.4.asp

Originally published in Verbicide issue #22

“I think I’ll call it America”
I said as we hit land
I took a deep breath
I fell down, I could not stand
Captain Arab he started
Writing up some deeds
He said, “Let’s set up a fort
And start buying the place with beads.” –Bob Dylan

I dreamt I saw Al Gore last night. And in my dream Al Gore was wearing his Nobel Prize medal and it was magic. It gave him the power of flight. Yes, Al Gore could fly in my dream and he was flying around the world saving the human race from itself. He smote the evil SUVs, and when the people were confused he showed them his PowerPoint and they were satisfied. Now they knew what they must do to save themselves. Soon the world was greener than it ever had been. All our cars ran on vegetable oil and there were more polar bears than ever before and they sang happy songs about Al Gore; songs of thanks.

Al Gore is our patron saint. Saint Al. Here at the National Affairs Desk of Verbicide Magazine and the Blue House Compound we wage a never-ending struggle for self-sufficiency. Ours is a “Do It Yourself” culture. We grow our own food. We take turns churning butter and weaving cloth. Whether we are shoveling manure for our methane-powered generators or pirating cable from the neighbors, we do our best to stay off the grid. Collectively, we walk the earth as Kwai Chang Caine in Kung Fu — doing our best to leave no footprints. We resist this culture of consumption! We reject the reification of markets! Back to the land! Back to the land! And when we are confused we ask ourselves, “What would Al Gore do?”

So how embarrassed was I when I turned up the other night for our monthly editorial meeting to find my five-month-old daughter Violet giving investment advice to the magazine’s legal adviser? Something about a hedge fund that invests in the Chinese toy industry. There was our attorney scribbling furiously as Violet schooled him on “short positions” and Asian mutual funds. “That company uses child workers that are even younger than I am! But that’s where the money is!” she said with a laugh and a slap on her fat little leg.

“Violet! What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Daddy. Larry here has a kid who needs braces. I was just cluing him in on a sure thing.”

All the blood drained from my face. “But you’re only five months old! What do you know about the stock market?”

Violet laughed and confidently readjusted her diaper. “Are you kidding? When it dawned on me that we don’t even have a PlayStation 3 in the house, I opened up an online account with eTrade. I’ve been day-trading ever since.”

“But,” I stammered, “don’t you need a credit card for that?”

She got a sheepish look on her face and looked down at the floor. “Oh, yeah…I was meaning to tell you about that. Remember that Verbicide credit card that Jackson sent you to pay off that weaver who was injured in that freak loom accident?”

“Oh my God, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I should have told you sooner. And if Jackson asks you about a rather substantial charge from Baby Gap, just tell him I’ve already transferred money from my account in the Caymans to cover it. Hey, while I’m thinking about it, what do you think about this fur-lined diaper cover? Feels good on my chafed bottom.”

As a stupid stuffed frog once reminded us, it isn’t easy being green. And it isn’t easy being a parent at the beginning of the twenty-first century — especially if you hold the increasingly unpopular position that the amount of stuff you have isn’t necessarily a measure of what kind of person you are. It is difficult to teach anyone nowadays that we can exist in harmony with this world. We live in a world of mixed messages. No matter how hard you try to instill a set of values, you are always competing with the television, the internet, and a burgeoning number of media dedicated to selling you something. The fact is, our entire economy is contingent on inculcating materialism and a consumer ethos in our youngest citizens by the earliest possible date. By God, what would happen if we taught our children to save? Or to conserve? What if we all taught them that “new” wasn’t necessarily “better?” Christ, the WTO would probably boot us out of the Capitalist Bad-Ass Club. We’d be no better than freakin’ Canada! Next stop: healthcare for poor people! The apocalypse!

For those of us who come out of the punk scene and who embrace its values (yes, snotty kid with the faux-hawk, it is actually more than a fashion statement) it has grown increasingly difficult to live the simple life — a life unencumbered by the trappings of near-constant consumption. Even the so-called “freegans” are demonized in the media because they think they might find some use for items that someone else has thrown away. Lord, I’ve been a freegan my entire life and didn’t even know it. (Little did I know that recycling old bikes, for instance, was a subversive act here in Wal-Mart Land.) We are destroying the planet but recycling is un-American. Mother Nature is on the verge of shaking off the human race like a bad case of the fleas, but it really doesn’t matter so long as you’ve had a chance to play Halo 3 before she does.

When you are a parent it is inevitable that you wonder what kind of world you’re bequeathing to your children. How do you instill the sorts of values that will ensure them a life of balance and happy good health? How do you teach them that it’s okay to daydream, or that living slow is better than fast, faster, fastest? How do I teach my baby girl that it’s all right to love her dolly for something other than its resale value on eBay?

When I look into Violet Mae’s eyes I can see for a thousand years. The heaviness of living is lifted. All that pain and uncertainty of a mature life is gone — at least for a little while. Everything is new again because for her everything is new. Every moment of every day she is remade because she is experiencing it all for the very first time. And because she lives in the moment so can I. Maybe that’s the answer to all of my questions. It isn’t what I can teach her right now but what she can teach me. Because she is new, so am I. Our adult worlds really are “full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” But when I look in my baby’s eyes I can see that simple life that seems so damned allusive. It’s right there for the taking.

There will be plenty of time, I guess, for me to do battle against the beast of American materialism. And when that time comes, I’ll be up to the task and secure in the knowledge that St. Al of Nobel has my back. In the meantime, however, I will master the lessons my baby teaches me every day.
—
Mark Huddle is the Editor of the National Affairs Desk of Verbicide. He teaches and writes from western New York. Check out his blog, “Trotsky’s Cranium,” at trotskyscranium.blogspot.com, or on Myspace at myspace.com/trotskyscranium. He can be contacted at mark@scissorpress.com.