Dicotomia

Decimos que no somos materialistas. Decimos que la alma es mas importante que el rostro. Decimos esto. Y en realidad? Nadie acepta consejos, pero todo el mundo admite dinero. Es la dicotomia de vida. Los dos ciclos de vida.

Concert Caveats: Jon Brion

April 23. 8:30 p.m. Largo at the Coronet. The dim yellow lighting of an intimate, hole-in-the-wall venue is reminiscent of an old coffee shop run by Yoda and inhabited by flowery, philosophical inquirers. Past performers, Fiona Apple, Elliott Smith, etc., plaster the plain beige walls as they sit at the piano, or hold a microphone, or gaze at the camera, living in a perpetual state of performance. The room is modest, but the audience pretentious. The stage adorned with royal red curtains, straddled by Christmas lights twinkling like little stars.

Jon Brion, famous for his quirky soundtracks for many a wisely elected films, Punch Drunk Love, I Heart Huckabees, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and of course, some of Kanye West's stuff, is delightfully sarcastic and sufficiently satirical. With a messy brown mane and a tan suit, he sports a slight European accent. Even without words, his mannerism is, quite funny. After a brilliant opening by guitarist Alain Johannes, Jon Brion blows me away. He first plays some of his own creations, prancing from piano to drums to bass to, my personal favorite, harmonica. Accompanied by strange background visuals (for ambiance, I'm assuming), he asks for song suggestions, proving his musical improvisational adeptness, and moves on to "jigsaw puzzling", where he loops segments of different instruments, first a drum beat, then piano and guitar tunes. He finalizes with vocals and culminates the entirely experimental song in a QUASI-MUSICAL ORGY.

So, if you're horny for worthwhile music, Jon Brion plays every month at the Largo. And let me tell you, the man is talented with his instruments.

An unfortunate observation

Currently listening to A Song for Our Fathers by Explosions in the Sky. Introduced to me by an amazing human being.

I figure morality is rarely a self-endowed characteristic.

Morality is an external entity formed by those surrounding us - society, religion, family. The only form of ownership we possess over morality is who we choose to listen to. And it seems the dominant moral force for humanity has always been a God. A God and the justice system It and Its disciples create. But what is the foundation of this justice system, other than a way to tame society of its belligerents? This system, this society of the orthodox, is reduced to a mere branching of natural selection. Oust the socially inferior, purge the world of the retards, ostracize the hormonally-imbalanced ill-behaved. Who owns the rights to this line? Despite so-claimed atheism, the very ethics of religion have largely influenced the society we live in as to encroach upon our inherent moral spheres. If I did not grow up in a Catholic household, if America was not predominantly Jesus-loving, if there were no "wrong", how then would I perceive good and bad? Genetic inheritance of inauspicious traits or criminality-inducing living conditions is not something we can all avoid. So, for those who have the misfortune of succeeding biological blasphemy or growing up in ill-fated environments, the concept of absolute morality is a pretty big "fuck you" in the face.

Strangeness

The world was never speckled with so many stars
dancing so brightly as they did last night.
Dangling above an abysmal sea of mystery,
like puppets of a parallel universe,
or perhaps,
like fishing lines cast by lonely boys and girls,
trying, trying
to catch a star, a prayer, a whim.

Do or do not.
There is no try.

Mesa de Conversacion

Currently listening to At the Chime of a City Clock by Nick Drake. Excuse the Drake inundation, he's beautiful. Music, food, and my mother are my fool-proof remedies.

The ecclectic group of students congregated at the Mesa de Conversacion. The Jesuses, the Judases, the Marys and the Peters, present, ready to drink the blood of culture and eat the bread of mazapan.

The first boy was a Global Studies Major. With hazel brown hair neatly slicked back (clearly he had put on too much gel that morning), a rosy porcelain face, and a sufficiently firm handshake, he introduced himself in a manner reminiscent of the uberconservative Republicans he had been conditioned to idolize all his life. "Hi, my name is Josh." He flashed a smile, a mouth full of straight white Orbit teeth.

The second boy was a Spanish major, Public Policy minor. Small-statured and dark-skinned, he looked like a true Mexican Boy. "Hola, me llamo Diego," he slurred in a low, sultry voice. He was taciturn, but when he did speak, we all laughed.

The next was a girl, a big girl from Chile. She had long, silky light brown hair, wrapped over her broad shoulders and down to her hips, covering the flabs of fat protruding from her shirt. A Psychology major, she hoped to probe the minds of others before they hers. She was insecure. Well. We all were.

Then there were the History Majors, the Music Majors, the Film Studies Majors, and of course,

the Science Major.

A Judas among saints. Patronized, looked down upon as a betrayer of the Arts, the Feelies, the oh-so-pragmatic actors and tears. The Science Major did not make any sense to the disciples of...Culture. The spilt salt proved it. "El Campo Sur?" Diego growled and gave a thumbs down.

"I like nonsensical lyrics and plastic hamburger phones," the future doctor stated flatly. "I like red berets and thick-rimmed unprescribed glasses. I like plaid jackets and pale skin. I like to go to stupid museums and bike when I'm high. I like ironic tees from overpriced faux-vintage stores and I go to improv shows recreationally."

Suddenly, the others nodded in approval. "The Science Major is a progenitor of culture," they whispered amongst themselves. They appointed the Science Major the seat next to the prick elephant.

A progenitor of culture, indeed.