Things about me at which my friends are amazed when disclosed.

1. I've never seen The Big Lebowski.
2. I come from a Polish family but never had polish food 'til college friends who live in Hamtramck educated me.
3. I once wanted to be a preacher.
4. I once loved really shitty country music. (No, like REALLY shitty.)
5. I've never had collard greens, ribs, or any form of duck, rabbit, or elk.
6. I know how to change oil.
7. I really believe that the government is tracking us through RFIDs and other such things through vaccines and other tools. (Though they just need facebook, already proving useful to them)
8. I still weep when I hear a young voice sing an incredible aria in an incomparable tone.
9. I've never been south of northern Tennessee (other than Hawaii, which I was sick for half of and it's like going to another country so it doesn't count), or west of the Mississippi (read above).
10. I hate. 

No, I'm not posting lyrics.

I realized today that I write far too many "lyrics" to ever put to music. The problem with these little couplets, stanzas, one-liners and phrases is that they would look ridiculous as poems. And the ideas that are deserving of their composition are so varied that they could never be put together in a single "clever" song like Dylan has done well time after time. And so they collect in little notebooks mixed with drawings and exhibition concepts that I hope will overtake the bookshelf eventually, crowding out the leftover textbooks and old Juxtapoz rags that junk it up now. But these are inactive words.

Here, now that I've given you a readable, interesting paragraph, let me confuse the shit out of you and myself and go completely off topic.

The problem with the era of the simulacra is that language and valuable/meaningful action are so vastly set apart that language becomes its own hyperreal action, set apart from valuable/meaningful action. An easy (albeit, very superficial and non-interesting) example of this is the popular facebook copy/paste status that is intended to raise awareness for one thing or another. we've all seen (or posted ourselves) that "90 percent of you won't repost this, but 2 billion people die every year of horcruxes. If you know someone who's been affected by horcruxes, put this as your status for one hour and I'm sure so many people will all of a sudden cry a cure into existence." Thing is, it's an easy way to tell people that you care. The digital world is a funny thing (here I'm jumping ahead; follow me!): you can renege on just about anything you type by indicating your tone wasn't taken in the right light. This is different from previous print-based communications because it takes place on a more immediate context and in much smaller sentences/fewer characters. Twitter statuses can be taken as poetry because they are packed with as much information as possible that anyone with a bit of wile can use to invite all sorts of interpretations. ...Hence, trolls. It's like a triple dog dare to be a troll. And anyone can do it at any time, because there is no font for sarcasm and the anonymity of the web gives so much power to play with serious people. The internet segregates and separates people just like "IRL" because it's language-based, and language is the origin of segregation. So you have well-educated people (who have been shown the tools to use language in a wide variety of ways) and poorly-educated people (who have not) communicating on a single platform--not to mention all the age differences, and they often will separate from one another, or when they clash, more virulent results are seen than when they clash IRL, because of the mask and immaterial nature of digital communication (no bodily risk is associated, usually, with online bickering). The cleverest wins online, and seems to be the ultimate goal of modern Homo Sapiens. So this is the contemporary problem. A platform for an ultimate world community to congregate is invaluable and utopian, but when it is immaterial, the results will ultimately be immaterial. ...Right?

If you actually read all that, then I congratulate you upon your mapping of my brain.

In keeping with the theme, TL;DR version: OMG the world sucks and is awesome too and it's all the internet's fault and it's just like real life dood.

What To Do, Part Two of Infinity, Or: Zombie Dreams Abound

I keep having zombie dreams. Last night I had one for the first time in months. In these dreams there are rarely zombies; in fact often times there are only half a dozen or so people at all. Mostly they consist of the struggle to ransack and seek out everything that will be useful, starting from my own home and then moving with a friend or two to a camp. Many times they are more about exploring houses, and the dreams have a very whimsical aspect. Once in a while, like last night, there will be an element of danger, but the danger isn't zombies (even though they are the reason for this societal meltdown), it's the people who scour the houses for anything useful, rob anyone who might be there, and kill them. Last night I hid in an attic at my parents' house with someone until these people left. Then it was all business, grabbing what to me were the most important items to take in whatever car we were going to find. Almost always, the people I am with, who are allies or camp-mates, are unspecific; that is, they have no identity that I know of. Last night's dream took place near the beginning of the apocalypse, but I have had some where I had been wandering the countryside with a few "friends" (no one I know in real life), mostly in cars, for perhaps years. One dream took place at night, in winter, and we searched for a house that we could settle down in for good, now that the threat was over. It was so peaceful, looking down that line of houses, some porch lights lit (which in the dream just meant that the power grid for that neighborhood was functional), and knowing that there were worlds of architecture to explore with barely any people to get in the way.

What To Do, Part One of Infinity

Is it better to have a goal and no means or means and no goal? I don't know. 

What am I supposed to do in life? What do I want to do in life? Could the twain meet? These are the three most important questions I could have about my future (and my present and past, for they have everything to do with it). "A certain practice of life" ...have I ever done anything exceptional in my practice of life that includes art? Nothing comes to mind. I've made individuals happy while making pictures on canvas or paper, and I've felt joy in imitating shape, exploring texture and context and concept and implication and color and light, but is that really what I want to do? I think not. However, a life devoid of creative expression is a dull death. How related, entwined do my life and my art need to be, though? No matter what I do, I can't imagine it including all the facets of what I love doing. The whole life would mean my work (career!) was meaningful (as the theorists say, meaning is a tricky concept) and inextricably tied to who I am and how the world is. As much as I want to pretend that my happiness is independent from pressures of peers, family and authority, it is not, and it isn't independent of the general social statuses of cultures and facets of groups around the world (and it shouldn't be).

Maybe at my pit I will always be an absorber, an observer and listener. I will never be a teacher. I would make a horrible teacher. I will never be able to relay information to children or adults unless it's trivia. I will never be able to debate anyone. I'm too flustered, distracted, speech-impeded, and sensitive. I can have discussions with people, but cannot successfully confront debate. I could never manage or own a business (for pretty much those same reasons).

I have all sorts of romantic ideas about abandoning everything I own and everyone I know and traveling the globe doing good and learning all I can. They are frivolous ideas, but I can't dismiss their value in helping me decide what I'd be best suited to do. The free consumption of time--that's what I've really learned is ultimate freedom. I'd have to exist outside of the society as I know it in order to be such a pure consumer. More romantic ideas. Seems quite a selfish goal, when it comes down to it, right? I want to do good things. That's all I know. And I don't want to do them in the way that most professions can be twisted to say that they do good. I want to do them in impactful, empowering, direct ways. And I want to be a professional learner. A student of the Earth.

Well, I've gnawed a little bit away at this. Here's to the first step.

Cheers.

In twenty years, the future music scene of Detroit and the world (barring any apocalypse that may be in store) will look upon the musical culture creations seething from the sidewalk cracks in this city with nostalgia, curiosity and reverence. I'm serious. Be as cynical as you want (we are notoriously cynical about everything), but it's true: the art we make here is incomparable to any other place on Earth. And when the music nerds of the future geek out on our yet-to-be-named era of Detroit music (post-garage? I'm working on it) like us kids look upon the New York post-punk no-wave scene of the late 80s, they will turn to the key figure in the documentation of this time, these venues, these crazy people and the things they do.

That key figure will be undoubtably Jeff Milo.

They will pore through digital stacks of Jeff's writing, his interviews, flourished depictions of guitarists' demeanors, moments at shows described as spiritual experiences (with a monk's inspiration!), and the strange quirks of the keyboardists who can't stay on stage. 3am interviews at Dunkin' Donuts with scruffy, wild-eyed thirty-somethings will become richly romantic scenes to the musicians of the future. Because of Jeff's equal and unfettered love of both music and words, the misplaced underbelly of this town will be forever remembered in the most fantastic way; the most honest and glorious way, through his eyes.

Jeff has been writing relentlessly about Detroit music for years, keeping a blog and attending countless shows. It's his Birthday this week, and just last month he hit 1000 posts on Deep Cutz. Friends will be playing his Birthday party at the Loving Touch in Ferndale with Golden, Legendary Creatures, and Electric Fire Babies. There might be some surprises through the night, too. It's on Wednesday, and I'm sure the place will be packed. You should go and buy him a drink. I know I will.

The first time Jeff wrote about something I was involved in, I was 19 and in a psychobilly band that was getting a little press. I never bothered remembering the name of the guy writing about Josh Daniels and the Addictions, nor had I met him. That was back when I was doe-eyed with dreadlocks and awful fiddle skills. But he saw something there that was good, and randomly popped back into my life and my boyfriend's a couple years later when he wrote some more nice words about Scottie's new band, The Rogue Satellites. Since the time that I introduced myself at the half-wall in the Garden Bowl, he has been at almost every show I have and three times more. He has written wonderful things about my current band, my friends, and people I've never met. None of the things he says are flippant or appeasing; they are sincere and he only can write what he is passionate about--who he wants other people to hear.  He has recently said of his blog (which translates to all of life),

...[T]ruth be told, inspiration to keep writing here is refreshed on an almost weekly basis; it could be the subtlest of gestures, a fleeting lyric belted out live and almost lost under piles of feedback, or the fire in someone's eyes as they emit their stories, their takes, their opinions, their plans, ...their hopes, to me, at the side of a bar or the side of a stage.

Jeff, we emit those stories to you with the most passion, the most inhibition, because we know you are listening. We know you can never stop listening. We love your determination, your care, your love of gin and half-caff coffee, your praise and promotion, your wit and ceaseless enthusiasm, and your words. You are the heart and hope of Detroit's independent musical soul, and I think I can speak on behalf of everyone you know when I say, Cheers, brother. Your Birthday should be the happiest anyone could have. You deserve a place in history as a legend of music writers. We hope you never stop, but if you stopped now, the world would still never be the same.

I feel as though my curiosity is in a sorry state. It must be reignited, as they say. Crickets may start the thirst. I think sometimes it's a gendered subject. No, it's always a gendered subject.

The Things I ACTUALLY Did at Blowout.

As someone (me) once said (about a week ago), "I have a feeling my post-blowout post is going to end up being mostly stories about me wanting to do a bunch of shit but getting drunk instead. ...Actually that sounds like my biography." Of course it's dark humor; my liver is in fine shape, even considering the damage I wreaked on it during so-called "festival kickoff weekend". But the fact that the picture above and five others almost identical to it are the only ones I took at the pre-party definitely set the bar for how the other nights would go. Granted, I became more productive in documenting, but I definitely did not do anything close to my ambitious promo/wishlist post. This is what actually happened, but you must imagine it all amplified in beer, sweat and flowers.

Wednesday:

Made it to the Majestic complex in great time; we got our wristbands and headed for the bar, where we promptly managed to stay talking to passing friends for over an hour, by which time we thought maybe we should combat any claustrophobic and budlightophobic tendencies to head upstairs for Lettercamp. Of course it was even worse than downstairs. The moment we got in there were roughly 1846 people we knew ready to give us hugs and tell us how excited/drunk/broke they were and we returned the feeling. I never listened to a note of Lettercamp, because I was outside talking to people from Sharky and the Habit and Blue Black Hours. For some reason I spent a lot of time on the deck. Then basically I saw a couple of minutes of the Julie Hecker tribute and tried to pay attention to Moon Pool and Dead Band. I liked some of what was going on with that but honestly wasn't really in their mode. Secret Twins took the stage and became the best-remembered band of the night, despite the fact that I never really looked at them and it was at the end of the night when I was drunkest and I was standing behind a pillar at the back of the room. That really says something. Dina's flying v guitar sound was awesome; they could have gone with the cutesy acoustic guitar-drums duo but they're smarter than that and got the attention they deserved. Definitely something I'll be seeing more of.

Thursday:

After loading up the gear, I headed down to Mars Bar with Steven and Scottie, where I ended up the entire night, not counting a short trip to Jet's Pizza and a brisk parade down Jos Campau at the end of the night. But that's later. We walked in while Betty Cooper was playing. I'm not going to pretend I know their history or anything but I recognize the one singer from somewhere that just can't be placed.

Very pop-rocky, guitar driven and catchy tunes. I enjoyed it. It was confusing at first when the go-go dancers hit the tabletops; I thought, Did this band hire dancers for their set? Weird. But the two girls were hired by the venue, and as strange as the setting was, I talked to them briefly and they're nice.
The next band to hit was Robin Goodfellow. There's one on the list I got. They brought their pyramid-headed wood nymphs and strange electric folklore into the Jersey Shore bar while Superman IV played on a huge screen behind them. It was pretty incredible.
I love ^that picture^. I think it's something I'll never replicate.
Banxx was after Robin Goodfellow, but it ended up being Allan James by himself. I think I heard in passing that there was supposed to be someone else in the band but something happened to bar that. Either way, it ended up being awesome in ways (he covered Vic Chesnutt and offered hilarious banter), but awkward in others, as it became a strange lull between a couple of concept bands. Just a set order strangeness.
Then came Marco Polio and the New Vaccines. I painted Steven, a somewhat regular thing for me now. I had better start getting a stylist's salary. A couple of the 20 bouncers at the Mars Bar were alarmed at the frantics of Polio, and at one point two friends got yelled at for standing where the dancers had been doing their thing. Two new songs, very enjoyable. Black cardboard box monoliths were in the audience, and the only flop of the night was when the audience insisted on throwing said boxes around. Hard-edged boxes are far more dangerous than balloons.


After the regular set was done, they continued their last song (a classic, "Dance With Nobility") into the streets of Hamtramck, with a resident walking a dog beside us and so many of us in tow. Steven was able to make it onto the Night Move, but the failure to coordinate the whole band to get on thwarted the idea of riding to another venue. Still, the parade down Jos Campau was surreal.

Friday:

My band played first at Baker's. With the Loco Gnosis showcase, we knew there would be a built in crowd of some sort. At first we were worried.
But our fears were assuaged by the time we went up to play. The place was pretty full, and a friend recorded the whole thing, and I just have to say that sound guy was the best we've ever had. Not only could you hear the violin perfectly, the friggin' clarinet was clear as a bell. We had a lot of fun and introduced another new song. (Photo by J Michelle Dark)
As soon as we were torn down, the guerrilla Detroit Marching Band entered with all manner of drum and trumpet. It was cool to see them, though I guess some people had heard them play like ten times over the weekend and got a little sick of it. Once was just fine enough for me.
I got to see a little of Electric Lion Sound Wave, who make great sounds that coddle and surprise your ears. Since I had stayed at a single venue on Thursday, though, I was determined to go out and experience other bands/bars. First we tried Smalls, where Bars of Gold was playing. I believe Scottie is cheating on me with Brandon Moss, which is okay with me, because he's fantastic. But neither of us got a chance to see his other love, because the place was so jam-packed you could not get in the room. Seriously. So we packed that train up and went to Skipper's with some other friends to see Tare.
You should see Tare. Really. They are high-energy, spasmodic, and damn good. It's a two piece featuring members of I, Crime, but this band is nothing like the americana-rock of the latter. Switching beats, moods and tempos drastically in the middle of songs (all perfectly timed, too), they are entertaining as hell to watch. And I know, I've observed hell.
It was time to head back to Baker's, and luckily we didn't miss any band completely. I came in while Jehovah's Witness Protection Program was on their last song, the one about freedom. Anthony was able to crowd surf in the strange room, which was awesome. I was a little tuckered out, but you have to keep on keepin' on, so I got another beer and got excited for Duende!

Duende! killed. Their unique sound was well-received and, though usually the rowdiest, they were a perfect centering force for the wasted masses. Owed in equal parts to the straight and hard drum sound Laura gave, the poetry of "Jellyroll" Joel's guitar, the cut of Scott's bass, and the wildly hypnotizing vocals of Jeff, Duende rounded out my Friday perfectly, able to pull off "Tombstone Blues" in their own psych-country-punk way.

After that awesome night, I went home and slept soundly, my ears still ringing.

Saturday:

I was in Ferndale giving people sushi and making a little dough. Scottie got home around 5am after an afterparty to end all afterparties. No one got killed.