something about going to Tulsa

Mr. Barnes,

I went to Tulsa once, more than 25 years ago, to visit my sister. She and her husband had just moved there so he could die near where he was born. He was diagnosed with cancer a few months into the marriage. The last time I saw him, he was in a hospital bed in Dallas, and his head was deformed and exploding with his disease. That visit was goodbye.

A few weeks later, I was pulled out of Spanish class so my family could join my widowed sister's side. I rode to Tulsa, Oklahoma in the back seat of my other sister's boyfriend's coupe—a Camaro. I felt the giddiness, nervousness, and melancholy one feels when one doesn't know what else to feel. But the mood in the Camaro was fine, with my other sister and her boyfriend magnetically alive and well. They seemed happy. Those two had great chemistry, like cocaine and alcohol.

In Tulsa, we found my parents, who had arrived from Dallas to console the inconsolable. My sister, 22, tragic, had been living with death in a strange city, and now death left her alone in that house. So she grieved, and we offered our presence as comfort. Little did I understand of sadness and grief.

something about another song and video

French synthwave musician Perturbator released a new video and single, “Death of the Soul,” from his forthcoming album, Lustful Sacraments.

The album, currently set for a late May release, explores people’s self-destructive tendencies, according to James Kent, the person behind Perturbator. You sort of get that idea, too, from the video for “Death of the Soul.” Animation depicting games are followed by noirish city night scenes lit by neon signs that flash words like “Heroin,” “Alcohol,” and “Lust”—about as subtle as a train wreck.

Kent has said, “The track takes inspiration from old school EBM a la DAF or Front 242. Valnoir has managed to perfectly pair visuals that reflect the nihilistic tone of it.” Kent wrote, performed, produced, and mixed Lustful Sacraments. The sound of “Death of the Soul” suggests the album will be consistent with the Perturbator oeuvre—dark, anxious, and cinematic, synthesized tones.

This music does little for me. Addicts without drugs feel need. Drugs can make people feel euphoria and, eventually, numb. This is the music of a machine that registers only the need and feels nothing.

a plot

I wrote an awesome book about a guy, Johnny Blast, who has to drive a truckload of drugs somewhere to save his hot wife's life. He barely makes the delivery, and then he kills the bad guys and keeps the drugs. His wife dies, though.

something about Denis Johnson's short story collection, "Jesus' Son"

The episodes in Jesus' Son hang on degenerates, but the narrator's simple, intimate diction conveys a sense of peace rather than anxiety about or perverse fascination with the damaged scenery and people at issue. This collection of short stories by American author Denis Johnson is quite good. I learned of Jesus' Son by reading the essay, "Does Recovery Kill Great Writing?," published in The New York Times Magazine in March 2018. The essay includes this quote from Johnson's collection: “The sky was torn away and the angels were descending out of a brilliant blue summer, their huge faces streaked with light and full of pity.” I was intrigued. Then the essay's author reveals, "While I was studying at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, I spent my nights at the writers’ bars on Market Street, and I spent my days reading the other writers who had gotten drunk in that town before I’d gotten drunk there: John Berryman, Raymond Carver, Denis Johnson." Having read this, when I picked up Jesus' Son, I expected Johnson's stories to boil up in America's less populated stretches of shadow and pain. Not so.
 
My favorite stories include "Dundun," "Emergency," and "Dirty Wedding." In a scene in "Dirty Wedding," the narrator, having accompanied his girlfriend to the abortion clinic, is asked to wait outside the building among pro-life protestors. Johnson writes: "It was raining outdoors and most of the Catholics were squashed up under an awning next door with their signs held overhead against the weather. They splashed holy water on my cheek and on the back of my neck, and I didn't feel a thing. Not for many years."

Note: Jesus' Son was published in 1992

(posts) the video for "You Make My Dreams" by Hall and Oates

Notes:

• The best band with the worst videos. 
• Cocaine?

something about "I Should Be Dead: My Life Surviving Politics, TV, and Addiction" by Bob Beckel

Bob Beckel's long political career included holding office as Deputy Assistant Secretary of State during the Carter Administration and managing Walter Mondale's presidential campaign. In the years since, he has gained a little more recognizability through his frequent appearances as a political analyst on the news networks. The confessional I Should Be Dead relays some difficult sequences from Beckel's youth and then efficiently details his professional life and recovery. His father's alcoholism is a defining phenomenon, and since childhood Beckel has lived his life as a survivor. Even though it is the book's selling point, Beckel's own debauchery does not occupy a lot of time in the narrative. The man was a functional addict, so you read about campaigns, and now and again Beckel reminds you that this narrator was working with generous amounts of cocaine and alcohol in his bloodstream. It is a painfully personal tale, but Beckel forgoes emotional depth and tells it with a genial directness that makes for an easy read.


Note: I was hoping for more of a political memoir.

about the Rolling Stone article "Keith Urban's Hard Road"

Keith Urban achieved fame Down Under before relocating to Nashville, USA and hitting it big. Married to famous actress and fellow Aussie Nicole Kidman, he's a huge commercial country-rock success whose own celebrity status grew even larger recently through his casting on hit TV show "American Idol."

The famous musician is the subject of this short Rolling Stone profile with the foreshadowing subtitle, "His rise to fame, paved by talent, looks and drive, has led the country megastar to the darkest of places."

He is a legitimate songwriter and musician, but baby pacifiers have more edge than Keith Urban. The man seems charmed. So it's somewhat compelling to read about him that, "In truth, the hard times were harder than almost anyone except his wife knows, and more desperate, and more frightening, up to the point of should-I-live-or-should-I-die, with him favoring the latter. 'No, man,' he says later on, 'I didn't just walk into this gig.' And then he proceeds to open up a little bit about some of the stuff that happened."

When he opens up, we learn that Urban's darkest places are filled with piles of cocaine. From the profile:

He's going back in time, to 1998, seven years since he released his four hit records in Australia, five years since that girl called him a novelty, another long year away from success. He was at a house out in Franklin, about 20 miles south of Nashville, staring at a big pile of coke, about to embark on another one of his binges, which is how he used to roll–-a few days or weeks off, then blammo.

"I had plenty of stuff," he says. "I didn't seem able to stop. There was no stopping this time. I'd go to sleep, wake up a couple of hours later, go at it again, drinking to take the edge off. I remember thinking, 'I'm probably not going to make it until tomorrow.' And then I thought, 'Fuck it. I really don't care. It'll be a relief to not have to. I'll take an Ambien and at some point I'll pass.' I was taking everything. I remember thinking, 'Oh, good, this is the end of it, yahoo.' I was quite happy about it." He leans back in his chair, smiles and shrugs. "Well, I woke up the next day at lunchtime, in my bed, sweating, going, 'Fuck! Guess I'm not going to get to go this way.' I thought the choice to quit would be taken from me, which would be easier than me trying to do it on my own. There was coke left, so I went at it again."

And that is pretty much it. There is a discrepancy between this shoddy profile's melodramatic setup and this payoff.

How can you foreshadow "the darkest of places" and then omit the details that would really comprise a tragedy, like, how much money was he blowing every day? was his health failing somehow? what symptoms led him to think he was going to die? who was around him? was he alienated? did he have any troubles with the law? what were his days like? is there something particularly seedy about being "at a house out in Franklin, about 20 miles south of Nashville"?

Those kinds of details are missing. Instead we hear his claims that he "had plenty of stuff," didn't care, and was even "quite happy about it." (Buddy, if you have coke left in the morning, maybe you have more self-control than you think.)

Addiction is serious and I do not doubt that he suffered from it. Urban apparently had a coke problem, but that is as far this story goes.

Urban and the author similarly skip past dark places in the subject's childhood. About his father, Urban says:

"My recollection is that he was a physical disciplinarian. Ten years ago, I would have said, 'He never did anything I didn't deserve.' Now I realize it's not about deserving it." He leans forward, says, "I don't recall him ever telling me he loved me as a kid. I'd do a gig I thought was fantastic and the only thing he'd say is, 'When you speak onstage, you've got to slow down.' He never commented on anything else. And the way he disciplined me, he seemed to have forgotten about it as he got older. I don't think he was in denial, he genuinely had no recollection. 'Hitting you? I never did that!'" This comes as a bit of a shock, mainly because Urban has never publicly mentioned it before ...

Is this an allusion to child abuse? Urban uses the word "disciplined," not abuse. There is nothing dark about being disciplined.

The profile promises darkness and pain, but delivers only pithy allusions.


Notes:
I had to reread the article to verify that the author was not being sarcastic. I blame both the author and Urban for the misdirection.

about Artie Lange's "Crash and Burn"

He established himself on the standup circuit, was an original cast member on MADtv, co-starred with Norm MacDonald in the movie "Dirty Work," and sometimes is a guest on late-night talk shows, but most people know Artie Lange from his eight years on Howard Stern's radio show. Too Fat to Fish, Lange's first autobiographical book detailing his (sur)real-life adventures, camped out defiantly on best-seller lists. In Crash and Burn, his latest book, he relives the decent into the drug and alcohol addiction that nearly ruined his career and led him to attempt a violent suicide.

Crash and Burn narrates Artie's debauchery and excess. While this sounds juicy, the repeated confessions of abuse, blackouts, hiding and lying to family and friends makes for a tale that is far more sad than sidesplitting. Though I'm not a Stern/Artie devotee, I'm familiar with some of the characters in the Stern show world, and easily enjoyed this fast read. When the book ends, Artie is sober, engaged, and hosting a sports and entertainment radio show called "The Artie Lange Show" (originally "The Nick & Artie Show" co-hosted by comedian Nick DiPaolo).

about Dave Mustaine's autobiography

One of the great dramas in modern American music is the feud and history between Dave Mustaine and Metallica. Mustaine played lead guitar in Metallica's original lineup and even wrote a share of the songs that launched that band's massive, successful career. But personality conflicts led Lars and James to fire Mustaine just as the band was breaking out. Mustaine went on to form Megadeth, also huge, but only half as successful as Metallica in terms of record sales. In all this, Mustaine established himself as a primary figure in the development and growth of American thrash metal, and will go down as a one of metal and hard rock's most influential guitarists.

The elegantly titled Mustaine is the muscian's autobiography. He can write it now because Megadeth ceased being relevant and dangerous a while back and Mustaine himself has emerged from the reckless rock-star life a born-again Christian and music businessman. Of course, he's certainly capable of reinventing himself and surprising us; it just seems more and more unlikely that he'll do so.

The following does the man a great injustice, but the fast and dirty Mustaine is this: He grew up poor in an unstable family with an alcoholic father; his mother moved him around a lot to escape the dad's influence, but this influenced Dave such that he grew into a misfit; the experiences impaired his ability to form lasting, healthy friendships; he started getting into music and rock bands, eventually seeing real potential with Metallica; but personality conflicts and alcohol soured his relationship with the band and they kicked him out; so Mustaine built Megadeth, and with them (and their various lineups) he lived the rock star's life, colored with bitterness. His whole life he's felt broken, more or less, and in need of fixing. His breakup with Metallica left him bitter and jealous. After multiple stints in rehab, he found Christ and has sustained living a more wholesome life as a father and husband. He intends to maintain a musical career in some form or fashion

On playing guitar and finding music:

I was pretty good at playing guitar, and I was serious about making a living at it. But that wasn't the only reason I played. It wasn't only about strutting an getting laid and trying to become famous. When I held a guitar in my hands, I felt good about myself. When I played music, I felt a sense of comfort and accomplishment that I'd never known as a child. When I replicated the songs that I loved, I felt an attachment to them and to the musicians who had composed them.

On setting off with Metallica:

It was all incredibly exciting and disorienting and vaguely unsettling. We'd been starving for days, and all of a sudden people were throwing food at us. I remember looking at myself in a mirror when I woke up one morning and noticing that my stomach was grotesquely distended. Of course, that could have had something to do with the fact that I was drunk or stoned virtually every waking moment. The party never stopped. Booze, cocaine, pot, meth--it was everywhere, and it was mine for the asking. Along with groupies, the quality and volume of which seemed to be improving by the day. We'd do an appearance or a gig, or just show up at a party, and everyone wanted to hang with us.

"You're a bad motherfucker!" they'd shout.

I'd nod approvingly. I was a bad motherfucker. And proud of it

On a period when Metallica was living and rehearsing at a space in Queens, New York City:

We'd wake up in the middle of the day, eat, drink a little bit to take the edge off the hangover, hang out, and then go back to sleep. sometime after sundown we'd wake again, like a pack of fucking vampires, and start playing. We'd rehearse for a few hours, then drink until we passed out. The next day we'd do it all over again.

On the events leading up to his being fired from Metallica:

Certainly I had no idea that my tenure in the band was about to come to an end, and that indeed plans for my dismissal were already in the works. It is a testament to my naivete--or perhaps to my alcohol-induced complacency--that even as strange things happened, I failed to take any action.

On his jealousy and bitterness about Metallica:

I know some people look at me--and I include Lars and James in this camp--and say, "Why can't you just be happy with what you've achieved?" And they're right. Selling twenty million albums is no minor accomplishment. But it's about half what Metallica has sold, and I was supposed to be part of that.

You had to be there to understand what it was like, to feel like you're changing the world. And then to have it pulled out from under you and to see and hear reminders of what might have been every single day, for the rest of your life. And know--you just fucking know--whatever you accomplish, somehow it will never be quite good enough.

On Megadeth's eventually watering down and becoming more single/pop-oriented:

I wanted a number one hit. I wanted what Metallica had, even if it meant selling a piece of my soul to the devil ... I suspected they (the producers) were making modifications, softening the Megadeth sound, and I did nothing to stop them. There would be a payoff at the end, I reasoned ... Megadeth was a phenomenon based on raw energy and talent, and when you take that and water it down, it's no longer phenomenal. It's ordinary. By trying to expand your audience, you risk alienating your core fans, and I think we did that with Cryptic Writings, and even more so with our next record, the aptly named Risk.

quickly, on Charles Baudelaire

French poet, essayist, and critic Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) fits in between the Romantics and the Modernists--he's actually credited as the first to refer to modernity as a movement and condition of life in the increasingly urbanized world. Though still considered hugely influential, Baudelaire is not in style today.

As a Romantic, he's inspired by rich emotions, gives priority to aesthetics and nature, and--this makes him tricky to read--makes allusions to classical, medieval, and exotic stories, all while revolting against industrialization. But as a Modernist, he aimed to say and represent something about his time and defy orthodoxy. For this, he became a bit of a lightening rod, slapped with labels of indecency in his life and work. He lived hard and died at 46.

I first read Artificial Paradises, a sort of meditation on the effects of wine, hashish, and opium--all substances he indulged in until near his death, and perhaps taken in some part to medicate himself while suffering gonorrhea and syphilis. This text is neither the boasting of a stoned teenager nor the cautioning of a burnout; no, it reads like a devout aristocrat--which Baudelaire was--sunning himself in his talent for writing prose while recording for posterity a slice of his life and the strength of his intellect, hopefully to the offense of the reader.

Next I read two of his books of petry, The Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen (combined in one volume by BOA Editions, Ltd.). The Flowers of Evil is Baudelaire's best-known work; here he glides beautifully over a range of subjects. And while he can summon fine porcelain words to capture the mood that strikes on a particular lovely evening, he can also express a healthy sense of disgust for things, and this I enjoy very much. The works in Paris Spleen are considered prose-poems, which are basically short, stream-of-conscious vignettes and random blurbs.

Artificial Paradises I can take or leave, but the The Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen collections proved enjoyable, though only after a couple evenings spent flipping through them over again.

Notes:
(from The Flowers of Evil)

"The Grateful Dead"
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Somewhere, in a country lush and fat with snails,
I wish that I might myself a narrow grave
Where my old bones, at leisure, could stretch out a while
And sleep, oblivious like sharks beneath the wave.

Last wills and testaments I hate, and tombs I hate;

And rather than implore the world to weep for me,
While I'm still living I'd be happy to invite
The crows to drain my blood from my carcass's debris.

O worms! black comrades without ears or even eyes,
Behold, there comes to you a free and joyful prize;
You philosophic wastrels, children of putrescence:

Within my ruins carry on without regret,
And tell me what is still to come, what novel torments
For this, my soulless corpse, this dead among the dead!

(from Paris Spleen)

"Get Drunk"
by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative! In order not to feel Time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way.

On What? Wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the porches of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the dismal loneliness of your own room your drunkenness gone or disappearing, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, ask everything that flees, everything that groans or rolls or sings, everything that speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: "Time to get drunk! Don't be martyred slaves of Time, get drunk forever! Get drunk! Stay drunk! On Wine, poetry, virtue, whatever."

about "Dry" by Augusten Burroughs

The sleeve and press around Dry calls it a memoir, but the book reads more like fiction. Burroughs aptly boosts his addiction-oriented narrative with wit and crisp prose. Result, the pages turn quickly.

In first person, Burroughs opens the tale fessing up to the professional lapses that opened the door to rehab. But his stay there is given short treatment--too short, because much of the remaining three-fifths of the memoir dote on high-schoolish accounts of doomed and/or ambiguous relationships with other men. Nevertheless, Dry is a fun, fast read, thanks to Burrough's style and real-gay charm.

about "The One: The Life and Music of James Brown" by RJ Smith

Through the ups and downs, James Brown commanded an audience. RJ Smith depicts this singular artist's flight out of poverty on the heels of Little Richard, his celebrity-identity bridging the civil rights movement and beyond, and his persistent stumble through the late-stage hard times.

Brown was born, barely, into extreme poverty, and grew up motherless, at the mercy of a hardscrabble father. His affinity for music and singing and his seemingly innate start quality got him followers and fellow musicians from early on. During the first half of his career, James Brown busted ass, working musicians into the tightest band alive, and wielding that band as his own, personal instrument. Year-round, he left it all on the stage.

For different, complicated reasons, some black celebrities' identities are tied to the politics of America's larger black community. Brown's did, but he was wildly inconsistent, veering from black power advocate to Nixon-endorsing spokesman. Brown was mixed up and he was his own man--a complicated soul who gave himself to the public.

Inexplicably--almost--after Brown turned 50 years old, he found himself with money problems, then, after more than half a lifetime working hard and sober, Brown started using PCP. Trouble chased him the rest of his life. Brown died in 2006, still troubled, still a star.


Note: In an afterword, RJ Smith reveals the small gang of thieves most responsible for Brown's financial ruin.

a thing about the movie "Flight" (with spoilers)

Flight follows William "Whip" Whitaker, a crackerjack airline pilot struggling to admit to his alcohol and drug addictions in the aftermath of a plane crash. Part of the immediate dilemma for the audience and for Whitaker is that (1) the crash resulted from hardware failures, not pilot error, and (2) no other pilot could have negotiated the crash landing with as much skill, and saved as many passengers' lives as he did, sober or otherwise.

The film is about one man's struggle for redemption, but what we see from our theater seat is a struggle for control of truth. In Whitaker's mind, his functionality, his brilliance excuses the behavior that so many rush to judge irresponsible. That is his truth. But under threat of litigation and penalty for the lives lost, the airline and Whitaker's other adversaries use the discourse of medical knowledge, appealing to that discipline's knowledge-making authority, which justifies policies that were violated, and deems Whitaker unfit. The co-pilot, who chooses not to reveal Whitaker's drunkenness on record, appeals to the Word of God; God reveals the Truth, and Whitaker must face that truth.

Finally, after a slew of verbal confrontations, Whitaker is faced with the most intimidating of rhetorical situations--a hearing by the National Transportation Safety Board, an independent Federal agency "charged by Congress with investigating every civil aviation accident in the United States". Here, Whitaker surrenders control of the truth. He cannot speak another lie, he says. Whitaker's truth goes from belief in himself with a confident rejection of medico-juridical labels to, ultimately, the discourse of confession. He adopts the narratives spun about him by others, and finds himself now a craven denier of truth, and no longer a hero airline pilot.

Notes

• This was a fantastic movie. Every performance is spot on; Whitaker is played to perfection by Denzel Washington, and even John Goodman's over-the-top dealer works well, providing relief from the main character's ongoing struggles and tension. And Wikipedia notes, "Flight is (Robert) Zemeckis' first live-action film since 2000's Cast Away and What Lies Beneath, and his first R-rated film since Used Cars in 1980."

• Above, quoting the NTSB's Web site regarding the agency's purpose.

Postscript: The age of your friends' anxiety

Wednesday I went on about the New York magazine piece "Listening to Xanax", calling it weak and intellectually lazy. I thought I'd pile on. The author of that piece wrote, "When news outlets began reporting that a cocktail of alcohol, Valium, and Xanax might have caused Whitney Houston’s death, it felt oddly inevitable. Coke binges are for fizzier eras; now people overdo it trying to calm down." Well, as reported everywhere yesterday, "Singer Whitney Houston's use of cocaine combined with a heart condition contributed to her accidental drowning, coroner officials said" (Los Angeles Times).

A thing about Nikki Sixx's autobiography "The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star"

Nikki Sixx is the creative force and bass player for Motley Crue, the infamous glam-ish metal band that peaked in the late 1980's, early 1990's. His journal-form autobiography, The Heroin Diaries, follows Sixx through 1986-1987, the height of the band's excesses and Sixx's drug use. Brief commentaries by witnesses and peripheral characters pepper the book, filling in details left out of the journal entries which, I suspect, were massaged or even, in cases, written after the fact for continuity's sake. The almost 20 years between then and the book's publication date (2006) are covered as bullet points in the last half-dozen pages. It's a fast read despite the predictable redundancies inherent in the life of a junkie.

As a narrative, this is the story of a man who seemed to have it all and had a lot of fun while feeling completely miserable. In bits and pieces we learn that an unfortunate but not unprecedented family drama spoiled Sixx's childhood, amounting to what you'd call abandonment issues that in part fueled his addictions. He frames the book as a cautionary tale but, realistically, its appeal lies in its modest gossip and voyeuristic value.

In theory, rock autobiographies and biographies sound like good reading. But they rarely are so, for various reasons including the fact that musicians are not often interesting people and because the genre attracts a lot of hack writing by unskilled storytellers. The best I've read was No One Here Gets Out Alive and Miles: The Autobiography.