Portland Oregon and M. Gira circa 2003

Journal Entry August 29 2003
So Friday.
On Friday M. Gira, the lead singer/visionary behind the Swans and Angels of Light, was playing an acoustic set at the Blackbird. I have been a big fan and admirer of Giras since 1989, when my friend Danen introduced me to their new album at that time "Children of God". (Thanks Danen) For those familiar with that album you know that there are few albums like that in any time. It truly is horror and beauty mixed. Gira has continued through the years. Up against commercial failure, private failure, financial failure, and critical indifference, he has persevered. {If you are unfamiliar with the Swans I really recommend: Children of God and Soundtracks for the Blind as a started point} The amount of music put out by different entities that Gira has been involved in number around thirty and counting. The appeal of Gira is his unabashed honesty. While so many bands wish to entertain and hope for inspiration, Gira delivers. He is not interested in entertaining in the least. His live shows are mutual purging. Fans come for an event, an exhibit. Following both Swans shows that I was lucky enough to see, I would always walk away somewhat dumbfounded my mind trying to absorb so many feelings and thoughts. I would be posed with the internal question; "What now?" It’s the same kind of feeling I have after reading a book, or seeing a Von Triers film. I am shell -shocked. At both shows of the Swans, clapping was rare. Everyone around me was in the same awe- struck stance. There just aren't many bands that can or want to do this. Gira is not rock and roll. Gira is trying to make art. True, he has a tendency towards dark themes, but there is a searching to it. It isn't all anger either like so many other bands that try for depth, but fall flat. The dark places of the soul are also the places that bring us to the light. A Christian must first admit he is a sinner before he can be saved or redeemed. An alcoholic can only be cured when he first realizes the destruction in his life. Simple anger will drive most of us to drink, fuck, destroy, but will unlikely bring us to any salvation or transcendence. Having said all of this, I'm not entirely sure that Gira has found any salvation in spite of his search. The search has taken on a life of it's own now. It seems that it has become an identity he is fearful of leaving behind. I believe he has come to a dead end and feels weary of turning back at this point. Instead, he pulls up a chair and stares at the wall, singing to it.

The week before the show I had begun reading a book my stepmother had given me. It is called, "The Sacred Romance" by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge. The book talks about a relationship between God (Jehovah, Jesus and the like, not a vague god) and man as a romance; that of two lovers. The book has been profoundly affected me. It seems to fill in a lot of gaps that for me were major obstacles in my soul. I certainly haven’t heard such honest discourse in church very often. For me, I have always believed in God, but there has always been a real crisis about the intentions of God. I have had an intellectual belief, with a major absence of faith. As I got near the end of the book, and closer to the date of the show, it occurred to me that Gira, if receptive, could really benefit from reading this book. The more I thought about it, the more convicted I felt. But how do you walk up to someone like him and give a religious book? I didn't want him to think that I was proselytizing or preaching. I didn't want it to be a symbolic act for me either; I wanted him to read the book. How do you tell someone that you only know through their work that you love them? True, by virtue of his integrity in his work, I did know him pretty well. But he doesn't know me. He doesn't know or trust my intentions. How many whackos approach this guy all the time? It didn't take me very long to talk myself out of it several times. Finally I decided that a failed attempt was better than none at all. Maybe I could be an instrument. Maybe my act would help an artist that had already given me so much. You must understand this isn't the cult of personality, I consider Gira my friend. As some may already know, Steve Martin is a good friend as well.

So I bought the book and wrote a simple inscription inside. Silly but true, I was giddy. Without really trying, I had, by this act, rekindled the adolescent anxiety I used to have before shows. The day dragged on. The clock refused to move. I had to ignore it. Take a bath, read, shave, write, clean house...check the clock..."damn". Finally I got to indifference about the show and was actually running a little later than I had planned. Of course, I was not really late at all. I found a great parking space across the street from the club. For those living in a big city you know what a precious and beautiful thing this is! As I walked up and paid, the first face I see is M. Gira. He is patiently trying to instruct some guy that he just met. He picks up each piece of merchandise and impresses on him the price and why some things are special and should be pushed. "This CD here is a limited pressing, there are only 750 in existence. The cover art is a drawing I made that a friend of mine made from a wood cut. We hand printed the covers and everyone signed it. Do you know what a woodcut is?" The guy nodded in some sort of stupefied trance. Not taking anything for granted Gira proceeds with a brief explanation. "I really need to sell this to fund the new Angels of Light album, so really push it. Tell everyone that I will sign it after the show". He then counted everything and told him the count. "Now count it yourself and make sure it's right, you are responsible for this stuff you know." Once again he got a zombie nod. "Go ahead, count it". The guy starts to count. At this point he turns to me and smiles. Strange that Gira has such a great and unguarded smile. He looks great, much better than when I met him some five or six years ago. I think to myself, "He must've quit drinking, and man, he sure looks happy". I introduce myself and tell him this isn't our first meeting. I know he won't remember me, in fact I'm hoping he won't.

The first time we met was not exactly my ideal meeting scenario. In Tulsa, in 1996 (I think), Danen was there to interview him. Danen was on cloud nine. He had been at the club all day trying to get some of Gira's time, during the marathon six-hour sound check (can anyone say anal?). I wanted Danen to introduce me. Finally I did get to meet him. Now I was proudly wearing a Swans' "Burning World" tour shirt. I hadn't seen that tour, I had found it in a bargain bin at a record store. As it was hard to find any Swans merchandise, I was content to wear a tour shirt of a tour I hadn't seen. Honestly very few people asked about it, as no one knew who they were. Not the case with Gira. As Danen introduced me, Gira's eyes immediately focused on my shirt. I thought he was amazed that someone in Tulsa had such a shirt. He asked me to turn around. I did and he read the dates on the back. At this point I confessed I hadn't seen the tour that the shirt promoted. He didn't seem to hear me. "I never made a shirt like that". He shook my hand and walked off. Danen shrugged his shoulders and I was left standing with my pirated shirt that had been money out of a struggling artist's pockets. I never felt really bad about that. I was innocent. Gira wasn't mad at me he was just frustrated. I was frustrated myself later as I stood with a crowd of only about forty people for one of the most important bands of the eighties. Two years later I would see them again to a larger audience in Lawrence. Once again I talked to Gira. This time it was better, but of no real substance. He was drunk and wishing only to shake hands and say thanks for coming.

This time the meeting is less hurried and, by god, he is smiling and really interested in talking. I immediately produce the book and hand it over. He takes it. I tell him I wrote something inside. He thanks me as he tucks it into his bag. "I just wanted to give you something in return for the music you have given me." He smiles again and thanks me. I tell him I will catch him later. He says sure and moves towards the bar. As I walk away I'm pissed off at myself. Why didn't I say more? He was being friendly.

I grab a beer and sit down next to one of the most unsatisfied looking persons I have seen in a long time. He looked about forty or so. His face was pockmarked, his hair, dirty blond. He was wearing a suit like Nick Cave might. He looked like an old worn out German soldier come back from the war. Out on the town with a head full of violence and loss. He just stared forward, trying hard not to look at me right across from him. "My name is Sean, what's yours?" He didn't look at me as he muttered, "Darrel". Unfazed I said, "Nice to meet you Darrel", still staring forward, he nodded absently. I could tell that there was not going to be a replay of the night before between Carlos and me. As I sat and resigned myself to paying an unusual amount of attention to my beer, I decided that I would be mad at myself if I didn't talk to Gira again. After finishing off my beer and saying an ignored goodbye to Darrell, I headed back to the bar, and back to Gira.
"I want you to know that I gave you that book because I thought it might be of some benefit to you"
"Yeah, I was wondering, I mean what is it about?"
I described the book in the same manner as I have earlier in this e-mail.
"Really? Are you a Christian?"
"Yes I am, and I know you have struggled with God too."
"So you must be an enlightened Christian"
"Yeah I would say that"
"I saw a play a few months back in New York about some trailer trash family. I mean it was a comedy based on people in a trailer park. So the main target seemed to make fun of Christians. It made me furious. I wanted to stop the play."
"Well a lot of Christians seem to beg for parody."
"Yeah, but Jesus isn't something that should be made fun of"
"Well I hope that book is something that will help your faith."
"I could use some faith. I don't know what I believe, but there is definitely some things in the Bible I believe."
Once again I wished him well and thanked him for his perseverance in the face of so much apathy. He thanked me for the book and for coming.

I was satisfied. The conversation is the actual conversation as I remember it. The order of things may be different, and I have cut out the small talk. Some of the small talk involved me telling him he looked a lot healthier than the other two times I saw him. I found he had been battling chronic bronchitis (sp?) in Tulsa. He told me he was forty-eight and that he wasn't as resilient as he once had been. I didn't show it at the time, but his age really floored me. How could a chronic alcoholic, touring musician look so young and healthy. He looked like he was maybe 35 at best. Later I started to do a little math and realized that Children of God had come out when he was my age now! Wow! There is still time for me to do this music thing. Shit his most productive years had been in his mid-thirties and early forties. Not only that, it was music that scared me, provoked me, and was always evolving. This may seem trivial to some, but it was a revelation for me. I don't feel old necessarily, but the voices are always trying to get me to give up on my dreams and become a living dead. The voices were pissed on this night.

Feeling invigorated, I sat down next to someone (other than the aforementioned tragic Darrel) and began a conversation. Funny, that out of all the people I could have struck up a conversation with, I happened to find someone from Kansas City! We were both surprised. We started to play that weird game people play when you find out that you are from the same area (this can apply to people from the same time, same jobs, etc). The game involves trying to find an even closer connection. Both people throw out names, places, bands, hoping to find an even tighter proximity. So we blabbed about bands and people and places. It turned out we had been at the same Seven Seconds show in 1987! Our happiness and joy was overflowing. We had a history together and never knew it. Needing more, we continued to talk about bands and such. I mentioned a band from Columbia Mo called East Ash. Sadly he was ignorant of them. On the other hand, a guy sitting behind him turned around. "Did someone say something about East Ash?" "Didn't you used to live in Columbia?" Stunned I said, "Yeah for about a year back in '91" "Yeah I knew it, I'm Jason I used to work at Salt of the Earth!" "Holy shit, I remember you, weren't you in Sex in Taboo Creek?" "Yeah I was, you remember that too?" "Yeah you guys played with my band Guilty Party a few times" "Wow, yeah now I remember how I knew you" Needless to say it continued like this for a while. I hadn't seen this guy in about ten years. We talked about all the people we used to know. He told me what happened to all the people I had lost through the years and I updated him on all the people he had lost touch with. Jason and I had been around each other a lot, but we had never been real close. He had been at all the same parties, and all the same circles as me. He also worked at the coolest record store in town, which has sadly folded, due to the new college kids who see no value in an independent record store. The guy I had distantly bonded with earlier left to find better conversations he could more actively participate in. I felt a little bad. But I was happy to have connected with Jason. It really is a smaller world than we can ever believe. It turns out that Jason has a fancy job at Intel and still plays music. Talking to Jason pretty much consumed the majority of the opening band. I did listen but not intently.

Finally the moment came. Gira sat down with two glasses of Whisky and a beer. He welcomed the audience and then told them to shut up. This was taken as a joke. "I'm really quite serious, shut UP!" The scolded audience quieted down a little. I made my way up and ended up sitting on the side of the stage; a nice intimacy for those brave enough. Throughout the show the back of the club got louder and louder, why anyone would pay $10 to talk is beyond me. Around the middle of the show Gira put his guitar down mid-song, and lit up a cigarette. "I'm not going to compete with the audience. Hell I would give $10 out of my pocket for you to leave. I mean it doesn't matter I get paid either way." The people up towards the front began screaming at the back to "Shut the Fuck UP!!!" Pretty soon it got tolerably quiet and he began again. Announcing that he would play "Goddamn the Sun" the audience enthusiastically clapped. He smiled bitterly, "You're happy about hearing this song huh, it's about a good friend of mine dying."

People just don't get what Gira is about; it's not a concert, it's performance art, it isn't entertainment, it's confession; one man on stage sharing his pain and suffering. This may sound pretentious to some; it may be pretentious. But for those tuning in, it is a rare pretension, one worth experiencing. How refreshing it is when someone takes their music seriously. Not to say there weren't moments of smiling. One fan expressed his love and thanked Gira for coming and apologized for the idiots at the back. Gira responded, "I would do anything for you, come to my house I will wash your feet...of course then I would have to eat you...then I would shit you out." One girl on stage asked how many loved ones he had lost, off microphone he replied to her, "everyone". Boy was I glad I gave this guy that book. For those that are fans he did two songs off of Burning World, the one I mentioned as well as "I Remember Who You Are" (sung by him instead of Jarboe, it really made it better). He also did "New Mind" from Children of God, stamping his foot and cutting his thumb open once again. Bleed for us Michael.

After the show I got all the names and numbers of Carlos and Jason. I decided I didn't really feel like hanging out after such a show. As I got to my car, I saw that the people in front of me were working with a coat hanger on their door. I asked if I could help. They asked if I was any good at getting into cars. I assured them that I had a lot of experience with it. In fact, I have maxed out my limit of car openings with AAA several times. I don’t know what my problem is.

The couple was a girl and a guy. The girl was as drunk as hell. After a few minutes of my trying, she took the hanger back in frustration and tried for about fifteen minutes while the guy and I debated the show. He enjoyed the show but thought Gira to be a little bit pretentious. He made the somewhat obvious comparison to Nick Cave. I gave my arguments and we decided we were close enough to our view on him to quit arguing and get back to getting into the car. He was wearing a Dead Milkmen shirt, so I asked him if he had seen them live. He said he had and left it at that; later he told me he was good friends with them. I guess he didn't want to drop names right away, so as not to seem like a fan-boy. He was actually in a band with Joe before the Milkmen formed. He told me it was funny because Rodney was a big homophobe and Joey was gay. Finding out Joey was gay was no big shock. But hearing that Rodney (who only rivals Jello Biafra on the liberal front) was a homophobe was a shock. Finally I was back in charge with the hanger, assuring all that although it may take some time that I would be victorious. The girl was drunk and miserable only wanting a bed soon. She was trying to think of a place close by to crash at. Eventually the street became her friend and she passed out. In about twenty minutes I was at last able to get in. She arose and praised the persistence of men as she threw up. The guy promised a night of joviality for all in exchange for my help. He gave me his number and they took off, leaving a pile of vomit in their wake.

It always feels good to help someone. I was feeling good all around. On my way home I was navigating around an island in the road, when a girl raced across the street for the island. I had to brake for her pursuer. Standing in my headlights, waving was a naked man, covered only with tattoos. The girl was laughing on the other side. I yelled an approving "woo hoo" and drove on. Wow people get naked in Oregon too. I think I can live here after all.

Consumed

I felt the greatest craving for a specific yet general species of fruit today. It is true that this fruit is especially hard on the human body. In times of it’s greatest ecstasy it is working a dark splinter of future calamity in one’s own being. It is said that some of this certain variety can cause death. What variety causes death is quite unsure. It is only known that the more concentrated varieties bring the greatest satisfaction with the greatest risk. It is strange that the further I go up the strain of varieties that I find them to be of the most beautiful color and the most complex in texture, yet somehow lacking in flavor.

I have seen this as an anomaly.

I have even taken the more sickly looking varieties hoping to discover some correlation between greater apparent disease and better overall flavor. This has not proved to be the case however. Most of them all taste the same. Still it feels good to go against the conventional wisdom. I have a reputation for choosing the most unsightly of the most deadly. This makes me a strange rebel. But there is also the initial cost that comes to mind. If we are all courting possible death, I am getting the better deal. There are some that follow in my footsteps. I have heard rumors that some believe I have found a way to the ecstasy afforded by the deadly fruits without the inherent risk. They have come up with the idea that I have staved off some consequences of the ugliness by embracing ugliness in advance. I must say that I would be tempted to believe them, if it wasn’t for the fact that I have found little evidence to the contrary. I haven’t found any “newness” in ugliness. It is all the same. I have tried both.

Today I am craving it all again. I want to try the hybrid. I will pick the most unsightly again out of habit. The runt of the strain is likely to be the closest to what I have known before. I am confident that it will be a step up, without the higher possibilities for fatality.

There is a market that I know of. You can always find a few varieties there. I know the secret way to the market. Most people don’t go there. They find some variety in the regular market. Those have additives and wax to make them more appealing. I don’t need all the marketing. I’m sold already. I’m not playing any games with myself. I know the risks, but I also believe that the risks are part of the reward. This fruit is deadly, but that is the adventure. I go further; I will be rewarded.

There is always the more cavalier of the marketers. He guarantees nothing. He only guarantees that the fruit will satisfy in some new way. He doesn’t promise paradise, only another view or understanding of it. One has to be somewhat careful of these vendors. They sell fruits that can become instantly addictive. It is in no time you find yourself consuming large amounts of God knows what while slowly starving to death.

Somehow I can’t resist the notion of getting something new before anyone else. Hell, if it really is something amazing I will help the guy market it.

I buy what I can afford. Strangely the more expensive varieties look to be the same as what I’m buying. I know that this must be a false assumption. One day I will have enough to buy the good stuff. It will be better in spite of its apparent sameness. Still I am content in what I have. The more expensive may just be marketing. I know that I have something they will never buy. I might discover something they have missed in all their personal glory.

I grip the bag tightly as I go home. There is that ever persistent feeling in my inner being that this might be the last trip to the market. Inside this bag may be the last fruit I eat. I know that there is the possibility that I might die tonight. That is always a risk that one must take. No one looks at each other in the market place. How foolish one would look buying his own death. We even pretend at times as if this was just a normal farmer’s market. “Well, after all, a man has got to eat after all”. We are all just shopping for fruit. What did you say? Strange fruit? Nonsense. It is only strange in our knowledge of it. We are fortunate to know of this market when others aren’t. The conversation is brief and dishonest. We buy our wares and hurry on our way. We are all confident in our equal conviction. No will squeal you out. You are here, I am here; there is brotherhood in shared guilt.

My bag contains some safe standbys that have long ago gone bland. I continue to eat the safe disapointment of their substance. Though it may seem strange I still expect the sweetness that their first tasting promised even now. Maybe I will stop with this new variety. Somehow I feel I won’t be satisfied. Still it is worth the risk.