Author: Jenn Hall

WAXING MY WINGS

I think that I was born with somewhat of an Icarus syndrome.

Ever since I was a tiny Jenn I’ve always loved to fly, and the fascination remains with me today. Of course, I prefer wings that are welded and made of steel as opposed to those feathered and adhered with wax, but I think you know what I mean.

There’s something about glimpsing the world from a vantage point where the people disappear, where scale shifts and geography widens, that stills me. From thousands of feet in the air the will of any one being falls away and towns, cities even, begin to show personalities in and of themselves.

Over the past several weeks I had occasion to fly from Philadelphia to Dallas to Chicago to Memphis. Such is the whirlwind of the thrifty vacationer who’ll make connections in favor of reduced airfares. The synopsis of my journey: NJ/Philly, 24 hours (after 17 hours in the car, yippee); Dallas, 2 hours; LA, 96 hours; Chicago, 5 hours; airtime, roughly 10.

While the trip was fun, and I had the perfect holiday with my family on my brief day spent in New Jersey, one of the best parts of the entire trip was looking at our city from overhead at night.

Having my first pedicure, writing a wedding ceremony, running around barefoot in a Chinese bridesmaid’s dress that didn’t quite fit me, drinking too many White Russians and spending too much money on myself in the spirit of vacation weren’t too bad either.

The grandeur of my return was probably heightened in significance due to the gut-shattering proliferation of turbulence from O’Hare to Memphis.

Even post-September 11th, I still love to fly, though I apparently represent something of a security threat in my appearance and am ALWAYS the person whose bags are randomly screened. But a small plane jostling through thunderstorms does not a happy traveler make. Even for a travel-happy Jenn.

That being said, the sight of Memphis lit up like a Lite-Brite below me was gorgeous. I saw tiny model houses with their tinier model cars in the driveway, all without conflict or trouble perceptible from such a height. Just barely could I make out the vaguest hint of some holiday lights, most likely from the more ostentatious holiday cheer types.

I haven’t yet decided whether it was this holiday display or that along the highway to the Jersey shore, cast in the glare of sleet and snow, that was more impressive. To be sure, I saw neither from my normal vantage pointÑthat of the last minute shopper who might or might not notice them on the way to Target or some such last-minute shopping Mecca.

But back to Memphis from the sky…

The lights of the bridge twinkled in the Mississippi’s eyes, and the Pyramid looked less like a debated social eyesore and more majestic, like a pyramid should be.

Trailer hitches awaiting trucks or railway assignment were piled high like so many Legos.

And our airport being the distribution capital for all airports, there were of course many other planes all around in their own holding patterns. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many planes awaiting landing in my life, with the possible exception of Newark airport.

It’s funny, what looks like a swarm of red fireflies is really millions of other things–

people, mail, cargo.

To put this all in perspective, I spent about 13 of the hours preceding my descent either in the air or languishing in various airports, but I don’t think the overhead view of the city at night would have diminished any were it only one.

Like I said, perception is a funny thing from the sky.

Ahh…the season it is. A time for hustle and bustle, as the cliché demands.

Of course, the month for last minute shopping and shopping and shopping brings with it the unfortunate dilemma of how to drive ANYWHERE without ending up in a wreck.

It seems that the would-be Santa’s of the world lose track of the little things, such as those yellow and white lines in the roads. Pedestrians dreaming of sugar plums can be seen dancing into the center of almost every intersection in the city, and I won’t even get into the logistics of trying to make one’s way through the mall…

I attempted to brave Wolfchase this weekend, and I didn’t even get to see Mr. Claus what with the intricate waltz that is walking through a mall in December. Therein is yet one more reason to patronize the small independent places of business that aren’t located in a shopping center.

But back to the driving. In the last week, I have seen more wrecks and almost wrecks than in the previous six months combined. Not that I’m the perfect driver.

When heading South on Cleveland the other day, I was reminded of a beautiful little event that occurred in my driving life not to long ago–one I thought I’d share in the light of the season. It was inspiring to me, at least.

I was on this particular occasion heading South on Cleveland, towards Jefferson en route to a storage facility where my best friend had stowed away her things when she left for the bright lights of Los Angeles.

At this point in my life as a Memphian, I was not yet aware of that tiny quirk wherein you can’t go left almost anywhere in the city, and especially in that part of the city. So, obviously, I went left.

In my defense, I was en route to fulfilling a favor for somebody, so I technically should have been exempt from the no left rule. I say this in jest, but I also think that it is the type of thinking that informs our collective behavior on the roads during the season of good tidings and such.

Needless to say, my bad decision was rewarded with the appearance of flashing lights, and a certain settling in the pit of my stomach that can only be translated as “damn it.”

I rolled down my window, awaiting the appearance of the harbinger of my punishment, and listened to the sound of those heavy black boots approaching. And then, something amazing happened!

With a crack and a roll, the sky poured down with the most amazing deluge I have ever been so happy to witness. Then the officer who was about to ticket me told me to forget it, and ran back to his car…I was free!

Though this was a major moment of victory for me, and I thank the kind heart of the officer who didn’t want to be wet, it’s obvious that this type of thing doesn’t happen every day.

In my particular case, I think it was payback for the time that I was pulled over by a Memphis officer in squad car #666, and given a court date of Friday the 13th. (Truly, I am not making that up!)

My point, though, is that we are subject to the laws of traffic and mortality even when we’re out doing things for othersÉso drive carefully, because I, for one, want to make it home for the holidays.

With its recent change in ownership, back in April, the Hi-Tone Café in Midtown has been serving up an increasingly eclectic entertainment menu of late.

From week to week, and with a thumbs up from Jenn, their offerings are straying beyond any one definition of cool, so to speak. I’d say that’s a good sign–a healthy city needs venues that incorporate a variety of creativity, and a good club should do just that.

This coming Sunday, that shift will lean towards the metal side with a double-bill including Jersey’s Dillenger Escape Plan and Atlanta’s Mastodon. YES!

If you like your music brash, aggressive and bad ass, then you have absolutely no excuse not to be there.

Besides, um, it’s a Sunday night. What else do you have to do, watch TV? The Simpsons are a rerun this week.

Ever since I first heard Mastodon, I’ve been a huge fan, in case you care. Sometimes, metal can fall on the cacophonous side, which for me is absolutely fine. If that’s intimidating to you, though, rest assured.

Mastodon is as heavy as they are rhythmic.

Composed of ex-members of Today is the Day, Lethargy and Social Infestation, the quartet puts on a live show that puts this relatively new band in the running to blow away many of their contemporaries. Much of this can be credited to their drummer, Brann Dailor, who is probably one of the best live drummers I’ve ever seen.

Mastodon is opening the show for The Dillenger Escape Plan. This Jersey quartet combine metal and hardcore to a blistering effect, and boast a collaboration with the now ubiquitous Mike Patton of Faith No More fame on their most recent album, entitled Irony is a Dead Scene. And isn’t it though?

I think we can blame Alanis Morissette for the death of irony. Damn her.

Anyhow, another bonus as far as The Dillenger Escape Plan is concerned is that they’ve got a song called The Mullet Burden. (I’m building a case here…are you swayed yet?)

If you haven’t heard of these bands, there are tracks all over the Internet, so sample it and then go. I’d check out the Relapse Records label website to start.

Well, I guess that’s enough biased promotion for today. Keep this in mind though–if you stay home to watch the Hollywood Christmas Spectacular instead of catching this show, I’ll be very disappointed in you.

Do you ever find yourself languishing around the house on a Friday or Saturday night, unsure of what to do?

Let’s just say you’re a bit listless and eager to be amused. You want to have a bit of fun, but don’t want to go far, and for whatever reason don’t even care what kind of triviality might pull you off of the couch for a little while.

I found myself in this predicament this weekend, and somehow was enticed to go check out one of the sillier mainstays of the Memphis weekendÑkaraoke at Yosemite Sam’s.

And indeed, it’s nothing if not ridiculous, which is not a criticism exactly.

Yosemite’s has to be one of the few real dives left in the city. It seems that time stopped in this little venue quite some time ago, although that’s what lends it a certain lowbrow charm that the newer bars can’t emulate.

I mean, you’ve seen the outside of the place, haven’t you? If that paint job isn’t old school, then I don’t know what isÉ

And the karaoke? This is standard, bad, karaoke, which isn’t so bad what with the cheap, free-flowing pitchers of beer that scatter the tables en masse. In fact, I recommend a drink or two if you’re brave enough to brave the best of the worst.

It’s hard to pin down exactly what makes this cultural phenomenon so enticing. Maybe it has something to do with the media-driven culture of celebrity that pervades every moment of our lives as consumers. Is it that a moment with a microphone and some backing tracks gives us the chance to reclaim our pop idols and make them more our own?

Perhaps.

Either way, it’s fun as hellÑat least once. Plus there’s no cover, which is always a motivating factor for me. Yes, I’m cheap, and I’ll stand proud and admit it!

On the particular evening that I traveled into this odd vortex of song and parody, there were quite a few people there, eager to show off their, um, talents.

There was not-Patsy Cline, not-Garth, not-Bon Jovi, and even a not-David Allen Coe.

Come to think of it there were quite a few voyages back into the splendor of 1980’s Bon Jovi rockdom, strangely. I heard a guy over my shoulder commenting that it’s nice how it’s cool to like Bon Jovi again. As if we ever stopped.

But the latter, the David Allen Coe tune came to infect my weekend with a vengeance.

Actually, it was the Coe rendition of the Steve Goodman song, You Never Even Called Me by my Name. You probably know it. “You don’t have to call me darlin’, darlin’. You never even called me by my name…”

Of course, I had never heard it before, which probably makes me a big fat loser. In my defense, though, my parents didn’t listen to country, so I never got to hear these classics in my Yankee childhood. Only now, in my Southern youth, am I discovering such things.

No matter. When my boyfriend heard the song, he spent the rest of the weekend singing it all over the house, in the car, in the shower. Now that song is a part of me, all thanks to Yosemite Sam.

As I said, an evening in this Midtown haunt is not by any means a highbrow event.

But it is fun, and on certain weekend nights that’s really all that matters.

When I lived in Florida, a small rodent wearing tight red pants told me that if I wished upon a shooting star, my dreams would come true.

I hated that small rodent, as well as the rest of his kingdom, but I sure liked the idea of granted wishes.

Last night, of course, I had my chance to try out his philosophy, as the annual Leonid meteor shower was live in concert, right above our heads. Somehow, don’t ask me, I actually got up at 4 in the morning to witness it.

Now the song says that it makes no difference who you are, and that anything said wisher desires will come to them. As I was too lazy to get up at 3 AM and drive to a locale sans light pollution, I ultimately racked up about 8 wishes. Not too shabby for a half hour’s work, though this must pale in comparison to the gains of those in rural areas who had the potential to see up to 600 desire-granting light bursts per hour.

There’s something to be said, I guess, for life outside the big city.

November’s Leonid shower is the visual display wrought when the earth glides through the astral garbage, as it were, left behind by the Tempel-Tuttle comet.

The collision of these streams of comet residue and our atmosphere creates what we call shooting stars, and those that could be witnessed last night were from trails left behind in 1767 and 1866.

It’s kind of like earth was swimming through a celestial yard sal– if you think about it in a certain way.

I’ve always been a sucker for the stars, and especially for shooting stars. It’s like watching the outside trying to come in; the heavens knocking on our door. Meteors are like passion in motion, the flame symbolizing our curious relationship with the universe beyond.

But enough of my quasi-poetic ramblings.

Let’s get back to those eight little symbols of chance, my reward for overcoming my sleep addiction and bringing my tired ass outside.

Wishes, of course, are simply directed energy.

Unlike the spokesman for the Magic Kingdom, I think that superstition is a means of channeling desire, of meditating on a cause so that the self naturally begins to act in ways that promote whatever said cause might be.

Maybe you think this sounds ridiculous. Creating change, of course, requires not only positive energy, but a whole lot of dedication. Action must follow a thought, if a thought is to become an actuality.

How nice it would be, though, if all of Memphis could have stood outside last night and ruminated on fixing our stalled school system, or on creating a positive way in which we might eliminate the vast problem we have with violent crime.

If a thought can change behavior, then maybe some collective thinking could help this city figure out a few of its major problems, with or without the stars.

But I don’t know–perhaps we could use the help…

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Silence…the hint of applause without any sonic repercussions?

To hear it told by some, this would be the sound of a typical Memphis crowd at a music event here in the home of Rock and the Blues.

It seems that we have developed something of a reputation in the music world as having some of the toughest audiences in the country. Which beckons the question–why? And furthermore, how, what with the vast musical heritage of our city?

Herein, though, I suspect we might find our answer.

Having lived in and around several major metropolitan areas, including Philadelphia, New York City, and Orlando, I have never seen a place where beats and measures seem so deeply ingrained into the fabric of life as in Memphis. Bars are everywhere, from the gussied up tourist spots to the down home dives that define the two extremes.

And in every single one there’s music, music, music.

Sounds good so far. Well, most of the time, depending upon where you are…

With the proliferation of places to play, there are more than a few musicians milling about, as would be expected. In fact, whether in a band or not, it seems that damn near everybody in this city is a musician on some level.

And this is precisely what makes our crowds so tough.

On one level, it’s about competition. In a city with more bands than you could shake your proverbial drum stick at, the audiences are bound to be composed largely of other bands. This translates in some cases to a participatory black-hole, where said “other” musicians don’t want to make too much of a fuss over any band but their own.

I’m going to venture to say, though, that this is less prevalent than a more positive possibility.

Could it be that the reason our crowds don’t seem as responsive as those in other cities is that in many cases we’re watching not so much as fans, but as fellow musicians?

Meaning that while we’re not running around in circles and shouting until our throats run dry, there are nevertheless many of us who are quietly analyzing the performances of others from the standpoint of craft, not sociability. And we might even be enjoying it!

I mean, this is Memphis. If there is a city that’s had a chance to get over the stardust that glitters around musicians as they are portrayed in popular culture, I’d say that we’d be it.

We’re used to musicians being good. In fact, we expect it.

And yes, it would be polite, I suppose, for our appreciation to be more vocal.

It’s hard to maintain the idea of “rock stars” being larger than life, though, when so many have wandered up and down our streets and in and out of our bars. Many of them, of course, have been locals themselves.

Humbling though it may be, the stars are people too, here in the river city. So if and when we don’t shout, be heartened. If we’re not screaming, that means we might actually be listening.

READER REACTION

hey, i liked your article on the sound of one hand

clapping. being a local musician I think you have done

a pretty good job at explaining this phenomenon! In

memphis there are simply a lot of very talented

musicians (and artists in general), and a lot of

venues. You can pretty much go anywhere on any given

day of the week and hear a great band. This probably

has more of an impact on attendance than ‘people just

not caring’ enough or cut throat competition among

bands; most musicians I know in bands are relatively

supportive of one another. I couldn’t swing a cat by

the tail (not that I would…my cats wouldn’t tolerate

it) without hitting an extremely talented artist in

this town. But it is nice when people show up at gigs!

by the way, my band (Thingamajig*) plays at

reedmeister’s on friday, november 22, 2002…it’d

really help us if you could load about 523 of your

closest friends into a car, and come on down! ha ha

ha…

thanks again for the article, it was well reasoned

chris leek

thingtone.com