Tag Archives: ryan kamstra

Tea With Chris: We Were Collaborators

Tea With Chris is a roundup of recommended links, posted every Thursday. Here are a few of our favourite things from the Internet this week:

Chris: When you read this I’ll be in Montreal, scoping out Leonard Cohen’s favourite smoked meat place, so I’m going to keep it minimalistic. This is Steve Ditko’s unyielding door.

I have way too many tote bags, but I’ll buy anything with Eileen Myles’ name on it, so … shit.

If you’re in Toronto and have even five dollars to your name tomorrow, our friend Sholem Krishtalka will do your nails.

Carl: I could spend all day browsing the galleries in this series from the great blog If Charlie Parker Was a Gunslinger, There’d Be a Lot of Dead Copycats: They Were Collaborators — which includes members of bands, the casts of plays and movies, writers and editors, producers and musicians, directors and actresses (who often make cross-referenced appearances in the blog’s other series, They Were an Item, which also contains stuff like this devastatingly sweet shot of Isherwood and Auden), art collectives and comedy teams, even ventriloquists and ventriloquial figures. (Apologies to anyone with automatonophobia.) It’s refreshing to see pictures of famous people at parties together and then reclassify them as collaborators, co-workers — a reminder that this culture stuff is not mostly just goofing off and looking pretty.

They were collaborators: Sonny Rollins and Max Roach

My friend (and co-eponymist) Carl (I just made that last word up) Zimring has one of the coolest academic specialties of anyone I know: garbage. He’s an environmental historian and studies ” how attitudes concerning waste shape society, culture, institutions, and inequalities.” He’s also an enthusiastic music head, and this week he brought those interests together in a fine short essay about (another near-sharer of our name) Karl Hendricks and his new song about a wistful hoarder:  “Why do I hold on to all this trash?/ Hanging tight to the concrete/ ’Cause I lost all the abstract. The song particularly spoke to Carl Z. this week because he is in the process of rapidly packing up — and purging — his own possessions as he is heading from Chicago to New York to take up a new post at Pratt. Good luck with the move, man.

Finally, a good way to purge the hoarded trash in your own brainpan would almost certainly be to listen to Dan Deacon’s rendition of “Call Me Maybe, Acapella, 147 Times Exponentially Layered.”

Margaux: Whales are people. Finally. Or almost finally. Or in any case, the fight is on. They are bigger and older than us and maybe, as Jeff Warren quotes Hal Whitehead, they can scan through each others bodies “So there’s no hiding what one has eaten, whether one’s sexually receptive, whether one’s pregnant, whether one’s sick. Presumably, this changes social life a lot.”  Maybe someday soon when people are on trial for not being such great people, we will be hearing the high pitched and empathetic cetaceatarium plea that people too are deserving of whalehood.

Some human music from The Fugs to go with whale reading. NOTHING. courtesy of sheila heti courtesy of janos mate

I went on Google + for the first time and found this from my other pal. It’s something.

Advertisements

Comments Off on Tea With Chris: We Were Collaborators

Filed under carl wilson, chris randle, linkblogging, margaux williamson, music

Tea With Chris: Be Not Content

Tea With Chris is a roundup of recommended links, posted every Thursday. Here are a few of our favourite things from the Internet this week:

Carl: Rudy Rucker has reissued a lost classic of ’60s acidhead lit, William Craddock’s Be Not Content, as an ebook. On the strength of his introduction, I bought it immediately – just six bucks!

I’ve been waiting for great country-soul-rock interpreter Kelly Hogan’s new album for 11 years. Like, actively waiting, pacing around and around my living room, looking at my watch. And as of today I can hear a preview on NPR of I Like to Keep Myself in Pain, featuring songs by Stephin Merritt, Vic Chesnutt, Jon Langford, Robbie Fulks, Catherine Irwin and more. And Booker T. on organ. Start listening, no excuses.

Thinking about copyright just keeps getting smarter and smarter, doesn’t it? Sigh. (Nice headline there, though, from my employer.)

Likewise, Jessica Cripin surveys the sorry state of men’s writing about masculinity. Luckily there are still novelists to read on the subject. And not just the obvious, like Chandler or Carver or some other Raymond. (Well, this one probably wouldn’t help much.) I spent the first couple of days of this week reading the Hunger Games trilogy straight through, and someone should write an analysis of how, for instance, the growth and near-destruction of the Peeta character (that name! phallic with the feminine ending) represents a voyage of negotiating masculinity and risking the boomerang-into-misogyny effect Crispin talks about. I’d go on but some of you haven’t read it yet – trust me, you’re missing out on a dozen hours of great wallowing in teenage dystopian head-trip adventure, not just sidelong gender studies.

If all of that was too grim, please let this fix it. And anything else that troubles you, ever:

Margaux: My great friend and collaborator Ryan Kamstra has launched an Indigogo campaign to help him finish his beautifully titled book, System’s Children. I am really excited about this book, and look! a painting of mine is the future cover. Your prize options for donating include an album, a book or A LIBRARY.

These two videos arrived separately in my inbox today. One regarding Canada’s WRONG-O move on Bill 78 followed by Canada’s WELL PLAYED Montreal! pots & pans action. The other, just another good day from Kanye and Jay-Z. They are best viewed as companions.

Chris: Alain Badiou, who recently published a new book about ~love~, articulates my main objection to online dating: “For me these [French dating site] posters destroy the poetry of existence. They try to suppress the adventure of love. Their idea is you calculate who has the same tastes, the same fantasies, the same holidays, wants the same number of children. [The sites] try to go back to organized marriages – not by parents but by the lovers themselves.”

Comments Off on Tea With Chris: Be Not Content

Filed under carl wilson, chris randle, linkblogging, margaux williamson

B2TW’s 100,000th Word Party: Guests Announced!

Last month, we announced an overdue launch party for B2TW. It’s happening on March 23, at Double Double Land; $5 will get you in the door. And now we can reveal the interesting locals who’ll be meeting for the first time onstage:

Ryan Kamstra and Alex Lukashevsky will talk about writing songs not like a man.

Jon McCurley and Michael McManus will talk about acting.

Shary Boyle and Jordan Tannahill will talk about fantasy lands (on Earth or elsewhere).

All this plus drinks, chatting, dancing (courtesy of DJ Daniel Vila) and five-minute choreographic lessons from Amelia Ehrhardt. (Topics, lines and motives of conversation are up to you.) Chris will be the host, but what will our 100,000th word be? Come and find out!

Comments Off on B2TW’s 100,000th Word Party: Guests Announced!

Filed under carl wilson, chris randle, events, margaux williamson

How Should a Person Be, Teenager Hamlet and Don’t Go to School: MFA, Oct. 14, 2010

by Carl Wilson

Tonight, in a couple of hours, three of my closest friends are holding a launch party for the results of their three respective long-term projects, a novel and a movie and an album.

They all examine the relationship of life to art, using the people and places right around them as their subjects and sources. (It’s less obvious with the album, but we tend to forget that almost always when a band plays, we’re listening to a set of dynamic relationships in space; the “community band” element of Tomboyfriend emphasizes that.) They also served as each others’ characters and aides-de-camp.

The launch party takes place in a bar basically across the street from the apartment where I lived in the years they worked on their projects. And that seems apt. I was a participant too: I played a plump, pasty-skinned, city-slickened swamp ghost in the play-within-the-movie, the “ex-husband” around the peripheries of the action of the novel, and the music critic doing what he can do for friends-within-a-band. But mostly I was in another room, at middle distance, framed by a window, finishing my own project, my own book about art and life, which likewise involved them, though mostly less visibly. I almost wish I hadn’t finished it so long ago so I could be launching it tonight too. Instead, I marked the occasion by moving out of that apartment.

There are many tests and lessons involved in being a close part but not a collaborator in other people’s projects. Some have to do with ego, with the way the bubble can envelop you in warm inclusion but then pop you out into chilly dispossession. It’s good for the metabolism to get used to the coming-and-going.

More importantly it’s really educational to be sampled – that is, to be reproduced, in snippets, to be recontextualized and rewritten, to meet a blurry third-gen doppleganger who sounds more like someone else. Most of us aren’t 1970s funk musicians so we’re probably more accustomed to being on the other side. We may be accustomed to being linked or quoted in social media, but being sampled is a more intense sense of self-displacement. To adapt to your life being sampled may be a 21st-century necessity.

That it’s a little harder than you expect gives you sympathy for some of those older artists who take the copyright issue so much more personally than the scope of the financial issues involved. There’s the nightmare vision of being disassembled and reassembled atom by atom in a Star Trek transporter, but put back together in an utterly wrong order. (See also Cronenberg’s The Fly.) Or the subtler nightmare of being reassembled perfectly and yet no longer being “right.” Yet it is also deeply meditative, allowing oneself to be copied, mistranslated: When you think, “Wait, that’s no longer myself,” the next natural step is to wonder whether it was yourself to begin with and whether there is such an animal as yourself or whether you would recognize it if you met it.

So sweetly intoxicating to dare to think not, especially when a crowd of people are daring it with you (out of bravado, perhaps, too proud to be the one to say no, but it doesn’t really matter why, only that you did). It’s becoming the done thing, perhaps, in commercial and fame-economy culture to look at reality as a liquid commodity, worth more in exchange than in savings. But when what you’re buying with it is a dispersal rather than a magnification of self, it seems different enough to matter, which may be as far away from a dominant paradigm as one is usually able to get. Anyway I’m going to let me be proud of us, tonight.

My friends have themed their event as a kind of senior prom for their collective auto-didactic artists’ post-grad education (their autonomous “MFA”), but I think of it like a wedding, perhaps because I also think of all their projects as love stories. (Any launch is like one’s wedding anyway – you are obliged to talk to every person there, you mostly miss the actual party, and you’re completely exhausted by the end.) So I’ve composed a brief epithalamium for the occasion – in places, since fair isn’t fair, reappropriating lines from their works and others. Here’s to being foxy in one another’s henhouses.

From an Extra in the Movie,
Novel and Album of Your Lives

By a simple life, I mean a life of undying fame
That I don’t have to participate in. It’s the real guilty
Pleasure – like sex with animals: Licking Crisco
Off a gibbon’s tongue. Consent doesn’t equal silence,
But you can’t make an omerta without breaking legs,
As Aunt Jemima said to Jimmy Hoffa at the Inferno Disco
Roller Rink between choruses of “Bad Girls.”

Both their mothers were out at the pro-capitalist marches,
And they needed new ideological parasols
But didn’t have the language, or the polkadots.
When buttons came in, about 1650, private life was
Completely transformed. The purpose was
To leave them
unbuttoned. Leave more
To be abandoned without visible support by the imagination.

I know you only made it with me to help you
Make it without me. And it looks suspiciously
Like we made it out alive, but that might just be Art.
(Ho ho, did any actor ever have a better name than
Art Carney? It’s all the barnumanbaileying ballyhoo
Of the old commedia long con, in one pow
Straight to the moon, where love is just a word.)

If you’re not better off than dead here, where they all
Speak Esperanto underneath the ground,
You can’t make it anywhere. It’s up to you, new yore,
To be the first generation to swear off posterity
And disappear
Down the block, red-rain slatternly with all your
Fire-engine cherries on, three emergencies to go
Unanswered but arm in arm in arm.

1 Comment

Filed under books, carl wilson, events, literature, movies, music, poetry