E.W. Harris’ Bad Ghost: Symbiosis Across Human Existence, Collective Love Praxis and The Connectedness of All Things

Artwork by Richard T. Scott – Single available on July 9, 2021 Hanging Dilettante Records: https://ewharris.bandcamp.com/

What do we owe to one another? To our symbionts? This is perhaps not quite the question asked by the narrator in E.W. Harris’ new-classic, recently sonically reimagined. But it is the question I found myself asking while listening to the new version of Bad Ghost this past week.

Maybe you too have found yourself wrestling with the big existential questions these past 16 months (or past 5-10 years). There seems to be a lot of it going around. And fair enough, I think. If the crumbling of the world’s oldest continuous democracy, an ongoing, impressively disruptive – and tragically deadly – global health crisis, the never-ending displays of violent oppression – in our own country and throughout the world – all just foregrounding humanity’s slow(ish) but obstinate walk towards its own destruction doesn’t get you thinking about the big questions then, really, what would it take?

And so this was the state of my mind, I guess, and I might assume maybe yours too. 

The original version of Bad Ghost, as far as I am familiar, was part of Mimetic Desire. A record I love and have also written about. It’s mostly acoustic guitar and vocals, layered and subtle. Lots going on in that seemingly simple production to appreciate and listen to again and again. Perhaps above all: a very pretty record. Cinematic in its beauty and lyrical content, even while maintaining it’s spare guitar-and-voice center mass. 

The new version of Bad Ghost maintains much of the acoustic guitar-plus-vocal character while adding A LOT more in the way of production and arrangement. The song is still sung in the same high register, gossamer-like in its subtle delicacy. There is still the same insistence of propulsion, driven by that familiar right hand rhythm. And it is still a very pretty song.

This new version opens with a twinkly electric guitar pattern and some very spacey sounding reverse reverb. I’d love to see what went into creating this intro. The guitar, if it is guitar, is almost electric mandolin-like in its timbre, and the backwards tape sounds that I’m attributing to a reverse reverb may actually be from the principle recording played backwards. Or a combination? I’m not sure what alchemy is happening here, but it is very effective and lovely. 

This intro bit drops off and we are immediately in the familiar sonic space of the original Bad Ghost, full of enviable and spacious reverb, while the narrator sets the stage for their own violent death on a rainy night. They were in their best red dress, you see, less like wine, more like blood. 

After learning a bit about what our narrator is wearing, our sonic landscape starts to deviate from the original version. Still driven forward by the insistent upbeat of the acoustic guitar, the twinkly line from the intro reappears, answering the vocals. This rogue band is joined by a march-like snare drum and some cinematic left hand piano riffs outlining the changes. The effect is dramatic. 

And, see, I know, like you probably know – cause you’re reading this – that the narrator is about to get shanked to death in the street. So, there is something about the acoustic guitar’s quick and upbeat-focused rhythm, the marchyness of the snare, the moody drama doom bells of the low piano notes, that transmit the unsettling sensation that you are not in control. You are being whisked away by a tide of forces that do not see you, do not care particularly about you, and are bringing you faster than you might like towards a violent end. Or someone’s violent end. A little like a few years before the pandemic when I used to have to transfer from the F to the 2 at 14th street during rush hour. This may sound like I’m saying I don’t like this moment in the song, but I love this. I did not at all or in any way enjoy the 14th street train transfer, and I would not want to get stabbed in the street, but I love that a piece of music is able to make me feel that urgency and outofcontrolness. Especially a song as pretty as this one. 

Other musical elements start to make appearances at this point. There is some sort of synth vocal harmonizer or vocoder getting deployed. It’s great fun. It’s a bit like a chorus of retrofuturist robot singers. 

I’m sorry symbiont, he says. I’ve been a bad host. I was a weak man. Now I’m a bad ghost. 

And so again I ask: What does a man, bad or good, weak or strong, owe to his symbiont? Well, I suppose it depends. 

The use of the symbiont, or symbiotic relationships generally, have a rich history in fiction. Let us turn to the internet experts for examples. No less celebrated a source than TV Tropes dot org points out that symbiosis comes in at least three distinct flavors: 

Mutualism – This is where both the host and the symbiont (or symbiote?!) benefit from the relationship. This is like Nemo and his dad keeping their sea anemone clean while the anemone keeps them safe by zapping any would-be intruders. Or perhaps more pointedly: Like the Trill cerca Deep Space 9. Specifically, Jadzia Dax.

Commensalism – One of the parties to the (perhaps not entirely unholy) union gets a benefit from the arrangement. The other is, like, meh, it’s fine, no really, I don’t mind, it’s fine, I guess? In fiction these are often just plot devices or MacGuffins. Symbionts that magically/unselfishly provide super powers (and thus the entire plot) without so much as asking for anything in return. In the more mundane world of nature, the best I could find were things like this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cymothoa_exigua. Which, I think we can all agree is more parasitism than commensalism. (Shudder.) 

Perhaps no intimate contact is ever truly neutral in the real world?

Parasitism – There is maybe a question here as to whether parasitism is a form of symbiosis or if a parasitic relationship is a separate semantic box, different and apart. This debate is not so important for our purposes, and you know what it is. One side gets what it wants/needs. The other is actively harmed by the relationship. The parasite sucking life from the host. Sound familiar? Perhaps you have experienced this? Perhaps the United States of America recently experienced this? For four long years? Also: The Alien(s) movie franchise. (Spoiler: Weyland Yutani is the real parasite, no?)

As you may expect in science-fiction, Symbionts and Parasites are frequently used allegorically and can often be mapped onto the politics of a particular place and time. Before WWII, alien parasites made frequent appearances as thinly veiled xenophobic tropes. After WWII, as the world came to recognize the horrors perpetrated by the Nazis, there was a movement towards greater humanism, and you can see this reflected in the science fiction of the time and the influx of mutualistic symbiotic relationships between beings from different worlds. Then of course came the Cold War and a trend of parasitic aliens with distinctly Russian accents started infiltrating American fiction. 

So, when I heard the re-imagined version of this song, with its classic science fiction themes, coming to us at this particularly turbulent time, I wanted to know how it mapped onto *this* challenging political environment. 

E.W. has mentioned to me, and at least hinted in some of his promotion leading up to this release, that the symbiont/host relationship in this song is specifically inspired by the character Jadzia Dax from Star Trek Deep Space 9. 

I had never watched DS9. I had absorbed, passively, some of the Next Generation in my childhood, and, somewhat more intentionally, watched quite a bit of the Original Series in my adolescence. DS9, though, had always seemed a bridge too far. But, given how much importance I was placing on the Symbiont in navigating what this song meant for us now in our current political struggles, AND the ready availability of DS9 episodes on Amazon Prime – a service to which I already subscribe – I saw little choice. I dove deep into Deep Space. 

Let me tell you sincerely. If this song does nothing else, if it inspires you to check out this sweet, warm corner of the Star Trek universe it will have done more than its share. Honestly, what a surprising joy that was. I thought I might skip around and watch some of the more Jadzia/Trill focused episodes, but I just ended up binge watching the whole thing. Really, enjoy. 

What I learned: Jadzia belongs to a humanoid species known as the Trill. A very select few of the Trill have symbionts implanted inside of them. To be paired with a symbiont is a great honor and is something you must actively work towards. There are trials, interviews, tests and only the absolute best candidates are matched and paired with a symbiont. Once paired, the host Trill gains all of the memory and knowledge that the symbiont has collected across its previous hosts, giving the host access to multiple lifetimes worth of information. The symbionts need Trill hosts to survive. So: Mutualism. In this relationship between host and symbiont, neither side is subsumed by the other. Each pairing creates a distinctly new being. Jadzia, despite some initial missteps, is eventually paired with a symbiont called Dax. The resultant pair is called Jadzia Dax. 

Given the influence of this particularly marxist-humanist symbiosis – and indeed tv show, seriously, check it out – on the song at hand, I think we can immediately make some educated guesses about where Bad Ghost sits in the grand history of the sci-fi symbiont. It also opens the door to an interpretation of this song that I have come to, and will freely admit is perhaps a bit of a stretch. It will also require a lot in the way of extra-textual explanation. 

But, you see, the thing is, it’s like actually the end of the world out here in the for real, and so you’ll maybe need to understand that my interpretations of art and fiction (and reality) have started to become a bit idiosyncratic and reaching as I attempt to collect them around myself like a protective balm from the darkness. 

In this spirit, I suggest to you now that Bad Ghost, in both versions, is, in the grandest possible tradition, a love song. 

What is love, anyway? What’s it got to do with it? (Do with it?) Is it truly just a second hand emotion? Like sci-fi symbiosis, it is a lot of sometimes conflicting things. If you are old and grown, then at some point you have likely experienced a feeling and called it love that was all-consuming, blinding, and perhaps a little dangerous. A rapturous kind of passionate love. But, again, if you are old and grown, you have also probably used this same word – ‘love’ – to describe a steadier kind of feeling, probably several kinds of steadier kinds of feelings with a variety of contexts and implications. 

In Joseph Campbell’s lecture on the Mythology of Love he tells a story from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad of The Primal Being which existed before thought or consciousness and was nameless with no knowledge of itself but then thought: “I.” And upon thinking this, the Being was aware of itself and immediately felt Fear since now realizing it was a self also realized it could be attacked and killed.  Then it quickly concluded that since it was the only thing in existence its fear was unfounded. There was nothing else around that could do it any harm. But this made the Being feel a Desire for other things to be around, and it split itself into the first primal couple and they produced all of the beings of the earth. Campbell suggests that one important takeaway here is that through love we engage in this same creative act, but at the same time come together, and are better able to see beyond ourselves and past the delusion of separateness to the real truth: That we are all, in fact, one thing. 

Compare this, as Campbell does, to a common interpretation of the Christian myth – that God so loved the world that they sent their son to Earth to be sacrificed for our sins.  As a kind of penance, payment, or atonement for the evil of mankind. 

But then another interpretation of the same myth, one more in line with the story of the Primal Being from the Upanishad – that God’s act of love in this story is not simply one of sacrifice in penance, but an act intended to bring mankind’s focus from worldly things back to God himself. So in this interpretation there is a mutual desire – Humankind’s desire for God’s grace, and God’s self-immolating desire for mankind’s respect and attention. (So: Mutualism.) Humankind’s love for God is reciprocated by God’s love for Humanity. And this love reveals the essential truth – that, in fact, they are not different, they are the same. One thing. The strange hybridity of Jesus in this myth also speaks to this. Not just Man. Not just God. Both, simultaneously.

Not unlike a certain Trill-symbiont hybrid referenced broadly in Bad Ghost. Jadzia Dax is not just the Trill Jadzia or the Dax symbiont. She is both, simultaneously. 

God literally becomes human, acting out their love for humanity. The Trill seek to join with a symbiont creating one combined entity, an act of at-one-ment, as a matter of spiritual quest. As an act of love. 

Love, as Roy Ayers reminds us, will bring us back together. Forever.

Let’s completely change tracks for a moment. One way to interpret Bad Ghost is as a morality play. Our hero is stabbed to death and is immediately sorry for letting down its symbiont who is now quite likely to die (or I suppose, even if it doesn’t, has to experience getting stabbed and left for dead, which it will in turn carry to its next host in a symbiotic echo of generational trauma). While the stabbing may be retribution for the picking of the antique lock in verse two, or for some other reason, the host’s confession of weakness would seem to suggest that our protagonist feels guilt and responsibility for what has happened. If this were a morality play we would expect punishment for the Host’s transgression. Certainly the stabbing may be one, but the suggestion of now having become a Bad Ghost may represent further punishment or Karmic retribution (a concept perhaps first established in the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad!). 

In this interpretation of the song the answers to my questions at the beginning of this review are simple and straightforward: What do we owe to one another/to our symbionts? To be strong, to be good.

This is a version of morality I recently heard echoed while rewatching an episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations set in Montana. Bourdain is sitting around an outdoor table eating game birds and organ meats and drinking wine and beer with a handful of colorful locals one of whom opines that, “we need more of John Wayne and those kind of guys that stand for something. That’s what I grew up with and they don’t have it now. The old saying is ‘Right is right even if nobody else is doing it, and wrong is wrong even if everybody’s doing it.’” 

Consider another morality tale that also appears in Joseph Campbell’s discussion of love myths: Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival. After having achieved secular success through noble acts of pure and spontaneous compassion, Parzival finds himself at the home of The Fisher King, a guardian of the Grail who has been rendered impotent by a Pagan spear through the genitals. (As an aside we should note that the Grail King’s impotence affects the fertility of the land, reducing his Kingdom to a wasteland. Bad Ghost utilizes a DS9 symbiont, but is still set within the Rocket City universe. E.W. Harris fans will notice the prominent placement of such a wasteland there as well.) Parzival’s purpose at the Grail King’s castle is to heal the King’s wound in the pure and natural way of his previous successes. He is faced with a test. All he needs to do (not that he is allowed to know any of these rules) is to simply ask the King about what happened to his dick/balls and all will be healed and made right and Parzival will be crowned New King of the Holy Grail. However, Parzival has been told by a knightly mentor that it is inappropriate for a knight to be too curious. And so, upon meeting the King, despite his natural inclination to ask about the bit of pagan spear hanging from the Fisher King’s groin, he heeds the words of his mentor and keeps it zipped. Because he is concerned with his image, he doesn’t follow his natural inclination, and as a result he is humiliated and banished from the Grail Castle and spends the next several years cursing God and wandering around the woods learning life lessons from forest hermits. Eventually, after much wandering, striving, cursing and learning, he gets a crack at another spiritual test, this time in the form of a Muslim brother (literally) from another mother, the two of whom, after fighting and trying to kill one another, make friends, realize they actually have the same father, and thus pass the test and are both welcomed back to the Grail Castle and made rulers of their respective kingdoms.

They recognize their true unity through the disguise of their apparent differentness. Which should sound like a familiar theme at this point. (This from a poem written in 1210, in Europe, during the crusades. (!))

How frustrating! And how are you supposed to know what to do anyway? Didn’t Parzifal just get lucky at the end? I mean, he tried to do the right thing the first time. A stand up dude, who probably looked a lot like a medieval John Wayne, told him not to ask too many questions, just be cool. You know, like John Wayne. So that’s what he did and for that he gets banished to the wilderness? In the end he actually tries to murder his half brother in battle, but his sword breaks on his bro’s helmet. For that he gets the Grail? Wayne himself was a supporter of Joseph McCarthy, a black-list enforcer, a member of the John Birch society, voted for Nixon. All positions that I imagine he thought were noble and honorable, even as they actively disenfranchised and marginalized people for their beliefs. Beliefs that included things like, you know, a communal connection between all people. So it’s one thing to pound the table and suggest we need people to stand for something, but the details of just what that something is seem to matter. I might pick the antique lock on the laboratory door too. Maybe it seemed important at the time. Maybe it seemed like a noble risk given the circumstances. Who’s to say what’s right?

But what if we zoom way out. Let’s take a common theme at face value for a moment. What if we are all one thing. Whether that thing is bits of a primordial being, or God, or cosmic dust, or energy, or some combinatorial substance we don’t have proper knowledge of or words for. What if we also accept that love, in all its weird, seemingly contradictory forms, does actually serve to get us closer to this truth about the nature of this connection. Maybe further, that it is this pattern of love and truth and connection that forms a kind of collective praxis. Even further, that this praxis is somehow necessary to our collective survival. Perhaps the reason that poems, songs, novels, tv shows, spiritual texts, mystic documents, 60’s era Joseph Campbell lectures, and the primary doctrines of major religions all contain similar themes that add up to we are all one, love one another and you will understand the truth, is that these are the messages we need to continually send to future generations if we are going to find a way to survive. The Fisher King was impotent and his lands lost their fertility. In Eschenbach’s telling, the King represents the fact that the Church had become an oppressive, divisive force. They acted in contradiction to their own teachings of love and connection, losing the ability to spread the message to future generations, and the result was a wasteland.

Maybe part of the solution is not to get so caught up on the details after all. I still need to see the details, and talk about the details. But I can’t let them capture me in a prison of my own construction. I need to be able to intellectualize that John Wayne was a dick. I need to be able to say: “John Wayne was a dick”, but I need to be able to say it while loving John Wayne as a part of the greater mass of things to which I am a part. And ideally, I’d like to be able to say it without getting shanked in the street in a red dress in Montana. I don’t need to believe in an afterlife, heaven, hell, reincarnation, or the existence of Dax-like symbionts to believe that the symbolism of all of these things could be useful in defining such a praxis. 

And the reason for this is that we are all of us engaged in a complicated form of symbiosis with one another. Not only with everyone currently existing, but with everyone who has ever existed and will ever exist. That unifying combinatorial substance I talked about earlier could simply be the history and future of humanity at large. The details of whether the new people now passing through are cheap Hollywood sequels of original properties or a new wave of souls on their way to an increasingly crowded afterlife aren’t actually that important. People did things a long time ago that have consequences now, and these will echo and reverberate long after we are gone. The long shadow of the bad ghost, or the giant’s shoulders that propel us to greater heights, either way, there is an impact. Some impacts are big, some ripple more subtly, but they all add up. And our very survival depends on the outcome of that calculus.

The symbiosis in Bad Ghost, like the symbiosis in DS9 represents this connectedness between all of us throughout time. Much the same as a God choosing to be born and to die as a human being symbolizes the connectedness of all things. The Host in Bad Ghost is stabbed to death in the street because of their own choices and weaknesses, but also because of the choice of the assailant to stab them. Such is the seeming arbitrariness of our existence. The sword breaks on your brother’s helmet, and he makes a choice not to stab an unarmed man, and you are both rewarded. In a perfect world, a world where all of humanity comes to realize its connection, perhaps, as in Parzival, this stabbing does not occur. Perhaps scenarios where the picking of locks on laboratory doors is a temptation also do not occur. We do not need to live, though, in a perfect world in order to survive. But we do need to work collectively towards a praxis of stating our truths while simultaneously holding our connection with one another in the front of our minds. And we will be tested regularly in our ability to do this and we will fail. Because it is very hard. And so the statement of the chorus, the dispassionate I’m sorry symbiont, I’ve been a bad host, is the calm judgement of such a failure. The Host on this day or perhaps in this lifetime did not live up to their duties to their symbiont – namely: the rest of human existence. But the Host’s failure is not determinative, the collective praxis must continue. And the way we strengthen our abilities for the next test, whether that test comes in the form of a laboratory door, an enemy knight, some guy in Montana talking about John Wayne, questions about your worthiness to host a symbiont or your next Thanksgiving meal is through the practice of the rituals of love. One such practice? The sincere apology. I’m sorry symbiont. And so Bad Ghost exists for me in this grand tradition of messages of love that we must continue to create and pass along for our future generations. It is a love song. 

So what, again, do we owe to each other? To our symbionts? The same thing that we owe to ourselves. Because, ultimately, these are all one thing. Love. 

Also, there’s this whole bonkers proggy/stadium rock section in the middle. It’s a brilliant and enjoyable record. Very nice work E.W. and Hanging Dilettante Records. Check it out: https://ewharris.bandcamp.com/

E.W. Harris’ Mimetic Desire.

Art Object

 

My friend E.W. Harris has released a beautiful new record called Mimetic Desire. You should give it a listen. You should buy it.

One of the really exciting things about this record is the quality of the songs. A number of us have been waiting for E.W. to put these songs on a record. He has been a strong songwriter for way longer than I’ve known him, but the songs he has been writing over the last four or five years are really exceptional.

The entire record is recorded with two guitars and vocals. So many vocals. A lot of the classic E.W. Harris elements are on display throughout. The record is rich with ear candy. Dense, tall stacks of harmonies and details. He finds little corners in the sonic space for subtle creatures that sneak up behind you on the third or fourth listen. You don’t hear it all at once. It surprises you over and over again. He uses a number of vocal techniques in the harmony parts adding lots of subtle character. There are textural contrasts. Moments where a smooth glassine vocal is complemented by the sudden introduction of sandpapery harmonies. There are strange whispers in the dark. There are noises from the street. There is a conspicuous lack of speak and spell. But what I mostly want to talk about is reverb.

If I were more disciplined about listening and writing, if I was the type that took notes as I listened to some of these records, my first notes on Mimetic Desire would have been about just how pretty the reverb is. That’s what jumped out at me immediately. This entire record has a beautiful glassy sheen in part facilitated by very, very pretty reverb. Many of us would be happy with a reverb that just gives us a little sense of depth and doesn’t draw too much attention. Many others would just soak everything indiscriminately in a suffocating sea of reverb and call it a day. But what’s happening on Mimetic Desire is different. The reverb is being used as a kind of instrument. And it’s being played really well.

It can be extremely difficult and frustrating wrangling reverb into submission. This is what it’s like: Countless hours of tweaking parameters, losing the thread of what you wanted, questioning the reason for your very existence, descending into the dark blanket of twisted madness. Tears.

So when someone is able to complete a record glossed with beautiful gorgeous reverb and apparently with their sanity still intact it is something like a magic trick. So what dark magic was E.W. using? Did he have a new plug-in? Did he find, hidden deep within the earth, some grail-like verb-item? Had he committed crimes of violence?

The answer to these questions was even more frustrating than I had imagined. He did it using the very same basic tools that I have. He’s just that good.

Is my desire for greater control over artificial reverberation authentic? Is it something that I actually cared about before I heard this record? Or is this desire itself a sort of echo? A mimetic desire?

Listen to E.W’s hot new joint HERE 

 

Then buy it. It’s really, really good. You can also buy physical copies, but he only printed a gross (that is one hundred forty-four) and the covers are literally handmade art objects. So you should hope there are still some left after the current European tour and go buy one at a show.

I am Raincloud: Vic Thrill and Rue Snider 1/9/16 at Pete’s Candystore

Back at the beginning of the year there was some talk of maybe putting together a collaborative music blog. That never quite materialized, but in anticipation of it’s potential existence I wrote of piece of review-like music quasi-journalism. I would like to free it now from the folder on my laptop where it has been living in inhumane isolation. Some updates since this was written:

1. Rue has a new record coming out on October 7th called Broken Window. Hear some singles off that here: http://ruesongs.bandcamp.com. 

2. Vic Thrill no longer plays a regular thing at Pete’s (you missed it!) But you can – and should – follow him on Twitter where he does seem to let people know where you can see his weird amazing shows. 

3. The world continues to wait for a new Vic Thrill record. 

“I am Raincloud, come drink my words.”

–   Vic Thrill

Billy Campion aka Vic Thrill comes in about half an hour after his scheduled set time. My girlfriend is with me. I lured her here with promises of an interesting set and Oasis falafel sandwiches. She is already asking things like: “Do you think he remembers he has a set tonight?” Well, this is, as I understand, a weekly gig. So I imagine he does? But we wait.

It’s worth waiting for.

Campion flies in hot with a load of stuff in his arms. He comes on like a Krishna music caveman cosmopolitan genius. A swirl of deeply eclectic foot triggered backing tracks and spiritualism. Fiddles and accordions. Tabla and sitar. Sermons on music, love, and unity delivered in a voice that sounds like it’s been through some things, and inspires heavy belief in all the words coming out of it. It is mesmerizing. It is very strange. It is undeniably cool.

I’m not the first person to write about Campion. He’s been playing rock shows in NYC since I was a small child. And we could talk about his old band The Bogmen, and about the quintessential nineties rock n roll story that I’ve heard from everyone around back then. About the national exposure, the deal, the evaporation of label attention. The deflation. Disillusionment. Dissolution. That has been detailed elsewhere. And, for me, it’s a narrative that misses the most important point. Campion is not a figment of the past. He is currently, at 44, doing the most interesting work of his career.

I’ve been to two of Campion’s shows in the past few months and the experience both times feels a little like watching a weird experimental aircraft take off. There is not a lot of faith at first that this thing is going to fly. Campion shows up late, he yells at his guitar and struggles to tune it. Some of the guitars look like improbable DIY numbers. He looks older than his nearly 45 years. He rolls on the floor and screams. He fairly twitches with boil-over energy. He dances with abandon. His voice captivates, soars, and ultimately I am convinced that this man is the absolute truth. The real deal.

Please. Take a listen, download his offerings. Give him your money. Hopefully you can help inspire him to release his long promised new album, allegedly titled Bollywood Hula Bard. I really want that to be a thing. He is at Pete’s almost every Saturday evening at 6pm.

I am Raincloud

…

Oasis break. If you find yourself in this stretch of North Brooklyn, and you’re not willing to hoof it over in the rain for an Oasis sandwich, then you have given up, man.

…

I return to Pete’s, post-falafel, still buoyed by the love-optimism absorbed during the Vic Thrill show. I pop out to the backyard to try to type some quick words into my phone about what I’d seen so far. In the rainy backyard there is only me, and a couple making out. I give them their space. I can only assume the love-vibes Vic Thrill left floating about the place had overwhelmed their sense of public decency. I get it. I forgive them. I go back inside.

I am back at Pete’s because I have set for myself an ambitious mission. I wanted to catch Vic Thrill at 6:00, and stay for Rue Snider at 11:00. Several beers later, and mission accomplished.

Rue Snider’s path is the path of folk heroism. He started playing just a few years ago and has now spent the last couple of years touring nonstop. Playing over 100 shows a year. By the time of this Pete’s homecoming, Rue has been out for four months straight. It is a level of commitment I find terrifying. And it is paying off.

 Rue is increasingly a commanding presence on the stage. His songs and banter are extremely direct and unafraid. At Pete’s he takes the stage with a pedal-operated slapback on his vocal, complemented by a fair amount of processing on his guitar. It gives Rue a forceful sound. It works as a kind of subliminal counterpoint to the bluntness of his lyrics, and the straightforward realness of his delivery.

His current relentless tour is in support of his newest record, Leaving to Returning. But he also has a new single, The New New Colossus, which is one of the ballsiest numbers I can imagine doing in the kinds of places Rue often plays. But he does it anyway. Because Rue Snider, that’s why. Getting murdered by a redneck in a North Florida saloon would just cement his run towards folk heroism anyway. Godspeed Rue. Check it out for yourself and feel his bravery:

Check out the man’s tour schedule, and look out for Rue Snider wherever you are. His tour sweeps onward in an ever-widening swath. If he hasn’t been to your town yet, he will be.

http://www.musicbyrue.com

 

Burgers.

Burgers?

I recently witnessed the following interaction while I was walking down the street near my apartment. A delivery driver is standing at one door down the stairs and about twenty yards away from a stoop where a woman has just walked out. He’s got his helmet on, he’s holding a bag of food, and looking at his cell phone. She says:

“Burgers?”

“…”

“Burgers?”

“…” He holds his phone up, but from where she’s standing she probably just sees a white glowing screen.

“Burgers?”

“um”

“Burgers?”

“…”

“Burgers?”

“…”

“Burgers?”

“Uh…”

“Burgers?”

“4D?”

“Burgers?”

“…”

“Hamburgers?”

“…”

“Hamburgers?”

“Oh, hamburgers?”

“Yeah, Hamburgers?”

“…”

“Hamburgers?”

That’s all I caught. I don’t know if he had the hamburgers, and I don’t really want to comment on this any further. I just wanted to share it with you.

The Harlem Halal Walk.

If you have a favorite halal cart, you are my brother.

Harlem. The temperature is only in the 80’s, but it’s suffocating humid and the August sun has an undeniable sting to it today. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sting, the man said. Or something like that? Burned out memories of Duke, the sun god. He played here. Heat and delirium.

There’s a breeze, though, and if you can escape the sun, beat it into the shade, it’s not half bad. No easy feat, though, as it’s just after noon. There is a Halal cart I like here, I’m not giving you specifics ‘cause I don’t even know if I know you man. But it is good, and it is special, and it is worth dragging yourself across the hot coal sidewalk walk and getting stung and beaten by Duke’s sun-god wrath for the good stuff from time to time.

I like the chicken and rice. Or chicken over rice. Or chicken plate or platter, depending on your local cart’s parlance. Or maybe the combination with it’s double-meat and toasted pita, especially that pita man. You can ask them if they’ll give you some toasted pita with whatever, you know, but it comes with the combination as a natural addition. No special requests necessary. And I don’t like to hassle the men who work the hot grill on the summer sidewalk about extras.

But today I ask for the lamb gyro, because from the looks of my traveling companion, I might need to eat this thing on the hoof. On the way to some air-conditioned environs. He’s not looking so good. Too much sting. Starting to swing. I don’t know where the men who work this cart are from precisely. Smart money may be on Egypt. I ask for a lamb Yee-Row. He says one lamb J-Eye-Row, you got it. Touché, halal cart man. Whitesaucehotsauce.

Jerry, Bro.

The man himself.

There is a Spanish/Mexican Restaurant – that is to say a place with Paella on one side of the menu, and carnitas on the other – near my apartment that seems lately to emanate music that is, well, hard to expect.

A couple weeks ago I walked by and from some distance away could hear the Grateful Dead. By the time I was next to it, the undeniable Jerry-ness of a long, long solo was coming down hard on me man. Like I was back in a college dorm room, tapestries and patchouli. Marijuana blown through dryer sheet toilet paper roll. Turntable. Jerry. PBR I couldn’t buy for myself. Getting yelled at by a small but incensed – on this subject at least, I mean ask him about the president and you’d get an aw man, you can’t focus on that stuff bro, its all just a conspiracy anyway, caring makes you complicit! – upper-middle-class kid with professor parents that taught at a school (pointedly) all the way across the state. Yelled at because I said, in my country ignorance, that I had never really thought of Jerry Garcia as a strong guitar player. I hadn’t. I still don’t really, to be honest. I mean, better than me, you know. But not like, makes-me-want-to-listen-to-12-minute-guitar-solos strong. Well, he informed me that I clearly hadn’t listened to enough of the Grateful Dead. Perhaps I had not. But in this moment, outside the Spanish/Mexican restaurant, I was unbalanced more by the music than the memory.

The weekend before it had been the Doors. Organ grinding away on hot summer sidewalk. Before that it was straight up contemporary Country pop. Like trucks-and-solo-cups country¹. At volume! Now, look, I’m not trying to say that a Mexican restaurant needs to be playing the pan-Latino classics that we have all become accustomed to in these settings. I’m just saying that if you pass this place up on a Wednesday afternoon, that’s what you get. But if you pass it on a Saturday, well, there seems to be an equal opportunity music thing happening on the weekends that I find interesting.

A thing that recently started there, which may coincide with the weekend music choices, is Brunch. Maybe they are just looking to tune in what the Windsor Terrace brunch crowd wants to hear? Perhaps, more terrifying, is that maybe they already found it. My neighborhood is, probably I imagine like your neighborhood, changing rapidly. It is hard sometimes to keep a bead on just who it is that I live around in the aggregate sense. But if it is the case that I have come to live in a neighborhood where the Dead, the Doors and Bro-Country is what brings people into a restaurant for mimosas and chiliquiles, then I just… Might need to spend some time meditating on some things for a while. Like why that makes we want to throw up for instance. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with that. This is going to take some work.        

FN1. By the way, Nashville is a city. I know people from the country, I’m actually from a small town myself, but I know people from the legitimate true to god country. And there is indeed a tendency there to listen to this garbage music from Nashville, but it is music made by wealthy men, on music row, in a city. Many of whom probably have places in New York. Many of whom are probably from the tri-state area and drove down one day, living on a credit card, until finally they got a break from their internship or whatever because they just wanted so bad to work in the music industry. I very nearly put scare quotes around those last two words and then thought better of it. But. Not musicians you understand, just people who dream about being in publishing, or whatever, just so long as they are in the music industry. Same temptation. Who does that? Who wants that? And the thing you want is to become successful at making money off the backs of musicians and songwriters? You would like to be a professional exploiter of talented people? What kind of a person? I’ve met some of these people. They are not very smart or interesting or nice to be around. For what it’s worth. But they live in a city. This has been a footnoted rant on class-war and geography, I hope you found it useful in some way.

Online Reviews of Online Reviews: The Bandeja Paisa Fallacy.

Chris Michael and the Terrifying Case of the Bandeja Paisa Fallacy.

 

A thing that I think happens a lot in comments and review sections is that people seem to get pulled along by the internal logic of their comment. Or maybe succumb to their own rhetoric to the point that it starts to mess with their ability to think clearly? For instance:

“The food was pretty terrible all together. Soggy chicharron, tough meat, greasy plantains, watery beans and poorly fried egg. Having one of those fails in this tipical Colombian dish is already a mistake. But having all those together can be (and was) a pretty terrifying “Bandeja Paisa” experience.”     – Luis P

Like a fever dream. What I think happened here is that they started writing out the list of complaints and, moved by the list making, felt an overpowering, if irrational, urge to comment on it. Do they really need to explain that these are all bad things, or that the sum of these bad things is worse than a single bad thing standing alone? And “terrifying”? The effect is pretty insulting. It makes me not like them. It makes me want to get the Bandeja Paisa. I’m serious, I just ordered it. I’ll let you know how it was.

But this happens to me too. I start typing out all the venom, and my black, hard, little heart starts beating fast, and then reason is just thrown right out the boat, yeah? But it’s full steam ahead time now Jack, and before I know it I’m way out there, far from shore, but see I’m mad now, right? All worked up. And so fuck it. Fuck the fucking shore. I don’t need that shit. The shore is for goddamn piece of shit review writers on Seamless who don’t understand how to delete stupid goddamn obvious ass conclusions that do absolutely nothing but alienate the reader accomplishing fuck all but encouraging me to do the EXACT FUCKING THING you were attempting to persuade me against! You can keep the FUCKING SHORE!!! You can take that whole GODDAMN COASTLINE and shove it up your fucking shitty fucking ASS you lazy, ignorant piece of shit!!!! Take it GODDAMN IT!!!!!! I’m fucking DROWNING OUT HERE!!!!!!!

And POST.

I suppose this could also be genius. Like maybe the restaurant just really wanted to push the Bandeja Paisa. So they created a fake account, then reviewed a few random places in the hood to add a sense of legitimacy. For the hardcore investigative types. I mean Serial’s given everyone that good detective fever, right? You gotta lock down the details if you’re going to pull shit like this off. It has to feel right. Maybe they wait a month or two, then write this review up where they insult the Bandeja Paisa, but also, very subtlety, the audience. The whole effect of which is, everybody is ordering the Bandeja Paisa. Since fuck that guy.

I may make a few calls. Anyone want to start a podcast where we try to get to the bottom of this thing!? I’m feeling pretty goddamn invested here!

But that may fade as I take a breath. Think about things for a minute, you know? Reflect.

 

 

Online Reviews of Online Reviews: Alfred Schnittke is the Devil.

Lucid views of hell? Yes, please and thank you.

 

Sometimes the bad reviews make you want something even more than the good reviews. For instance from June 14, 2004, the only 1 star Amazon review of the BIS recording of Alfred Schnittke’s Faust Cantata:

If you love sickness, death, darkness and decomposition, then you MUST have this CD. I bought it because so many people recommended it to me. As with nearly all of Schnittke’s music, I felt so bad after listening to it that it took me a week or so of intensive Mozart, Bach and Faure therapy to recover. It literally feels as if you’ve been gobbled up by a black cloud.

I have no doubt that Schnittke exposes some very brilliant musical ideas here. But to what end? And at the end of the day, who cares if it’s a masterpiece by the Devil, if its effect on you is a lucid experience of Hell and stains of de-composition and decay?

— A Customer

I have no idea what it could possibly mean to be literally gobbled up by a black cloud.

I’ll look past that. Even if I hadn’t been wanting to own a recording of this music for years now, this review would have sold me immediately. In fact, if I had never heard of Alfred Schnittke, I would be doing everything I could to get my hands on ANYTHING by this Schnittke guy after reading this review.

“Who cares if it’s a masterpiece by the Devil, if its effect on you is a lucid experience of Hell and stains of de-composition and Decay?” I care! Seriously? That sounds amazing. How could anyone possibly ask me that with a straight face!? That is exactly what I want all the time. How fast can I download that onto my computer and play it on repeat until my girlfriend makes me stop?

To contrast, here is one of the many 5 star Amazon reviews of the same recording:

“This is one of my favorite Schnittke CD’s.

The Ritual has a dramatic crescendo of echoing brass which becomes quiet just as dramatically.

(K)ein Sommernachtstraum begins with an innocent classical theme (Schnittke says it is inspired by Mozart and Schubert), which periodically degenerates (or evolves?) into delectable, hair-raising dissonance at surprising intervals. The humor is similar to that of Haydn’s surprise symphony, but the collapses are less predictable in their frequency and more variable in their form. Schnittke also manages to incorporate the sounds of a small chamber orchestra, a marching band, and a large symphony orchestra. The whole work is delightful.

I didn’t quite appreciate the Passacaglia as much as the other works. It starts with eerie strings, then eerie winds join in. It sounds a bit more academic than the other pieces.

The Faust cantata was a great find. The whole thing is tremendous, with incredible harmonies. Scene VI (track 9) is particularly beautiful, and Scene VII (track 10) is a particularly enjoyable, macabre tango. Is there a theramon in it?”

—Zigeunerweisen

That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t get me anywhere near as excited about getting my hands on this recording as the 1 star review. Delightful? Where are the devil, and the lucid views of hell? That’s what I want now damn it. That’s all I want now. If the person who wrote the 1 star review is psychologically damaged by listening to Schnittke, then I have to listen to Schnittke. Right now. Delightful you can get anywhere. Music that messed this other guy up for like a week, that’s hard to find.

From now on, if I really, really like something and want other people to try it too, I’m going to pretend it was the most terrible thing that has ever happened to the universe and imply that it could only have been created by the dark one himself. I will call this, The Amazon 1-Star Stratagem.

Online Reviews of Online Reviews: The Red Hot II Saga.

One day I was reading some heavily misspelled, half literate hate review of something that could not possibly have been as bad as the review itself and I thought, I should review these reviews. I never write reviews of anything, so, in this weird online space, I would easily fill the role of the critic. Never creating actual reviews of my own, but judgmentally assessing the relative value and beauty of another’s work. What could possibly go wrong? Here, then, is the first in what I hope to become a series of reviews that I call: “Online Reviews of Online Reviews”.

 Today’s episode: “The Red Hot II Saga”

I was looking through Yelp to find some interesting reviews to write about. I started by looking through some restaurant reviews, mostly of places I’d been before. It didn’t take long before I discovered something. Rarely does such an epic struggle come to you in the form of the Chinese food you ate last night, but this world, she is mysterious. For your reviewing pleasure, a review of Red Hot II from February 1, 2011:     

“The closing of the original Red Hot is a dark chapter in Park Slope lore. The story and all its gory details have been passed down to me by fellow Brooklynites – the mysterious shutting of its doors, the forty days and forty nights of tumultuous monsoon-like weather, the subsequent 7th Ave. riots by torch-wielding residents who were out for the scalps of those responsible. Whose scalps they were after is decidedly unclear, but as legend goes, they wanted those shits like Brad Pitt in Inglourious Basterds.

Then, the sky parted and the warmth of our sun had returned. Red Hot re-opened (this time with a Roman numeral II), the dining area was packed that first glorious night, and the creators of Lost cited their cathartic final scene of the series on this very event, for even they recognized this food to be heaven on earth.

Who knows really how much all of this stuff is true – it was before my time in the neighborhood – and all I can really be certain of is that Red Hot is my ultimate go-to for the more-frequent-than-is-humanly-healthy craving for satisfying Szechuan.

I recognize this is “Americanized” Chinese food, but forgive me for not knowing any better. And, frankly, if that’s the genre it’s to be lumped under, then so be it. Whatever the label, this is personally the best Szechuan of its kind I’ve ever had. My repeated orders will attest to that statement.

And by repeated orders, I’m referring to the fact that as a regular calling up for delivery and simply providing a phone number, then hearing the voice on the other end ask, “Same order?”, well, this couldn’t be an easier transaction.

This order in question is comprised of the following – Steamed Pork Dumplings, Scallion Pancakes, Moo Shu Chicken, and Vegetable Fried Rice. Each item is fresh, delicious, and standard-setting for my God-given palate. Call me naive if you will, but this is as good as it gets in my book. Most Szechuan dishes at other establishments are often fatty, dripping with sauce, and I’m guessing equate to a few days’ worth of Weight Watchers points. Red Hot claims to specialize in vegetarian cuisine, and while I’m far from a vegetarian myself, cleanliness and quality is prevalent across all of their offerings.

Red Hot is not the place where you will find out-dated pictures of greasy food plastered across light boards and hanging above counters where some woman in her hundreds screams to the open kitchen behind her. Perhaps this makes Red Hot less authentic for some people, but for me, I get the feeling I’m walking into someone’s cozy, low-key dining room. Because let’s be honest, at the rate I order from here, it might as well be my official second home anyway.”

                        —Dan R.

I mean. What can I say? It’s a thing of beauty this review. The heartbreak, the re-birth of the Christ-like Chinese restaurant, actual information giving you some idea of what he likes about the place, all spun together into a terrific review. Full points, Dan R. Well done.

Fascinated, I found that other reviews also documented this pivotal moment in the history of Park Slope. For instance, from June 29, 2008:

 “Red Hot has re-opened under a new name – Red Hot II. I decided to do something different by revisiting it in person with a friend, which is a new experience for me having never entered the senior Red Hot. I did however order quite frequently from them. So frequently, in fact, that they were on speed dial right between my girlfriend and my mom (that shouldn’t be appalling to you, I think we all eat more than we talk to our mothers).

I walked into this chinese restaurant and discovered something I rarely ever see in a chinese restaurant – a packed house with a wait. 5 minutes later and we had a table for two and I briefly glanced over the menu realizing it was exactly the same, so I knew what I was having. On the way over I decided to give my friend who was visiting from out of town (he lives in Manhattan) the back story on the place. He seemed shocked that one person, let alone an entire community, was so deeply effected by it’s closing. “You don’t understand the depth of a Brooklynite, do you?”, I replied.

“All you brooklyn people are fucked in the head’, he says.

“Watch it!”, says someone walking by who obviously wasn’t in tune to the whole conversation.

“And sensitive too”, he replies.

I order my usual, Kung Pao Wheat Glutens and an egg roll. He orders something off the chef’s specialties. I was surprised when a plate of Kung Pao Tofu comes out, I express quitely that it is different and the waitress picks up on it but walks away. I take a bite and its actually quite good but I am still disappointed. She comes back and takes my plate away apologizing and comes out a few minutes later with the Wheat Gluten that I had really ordered. The food was better than I remembered. The service was a bit slow and I imagine delivery is not going to be as fast as it usually is to start. I can understand this and I can give the service a pass for a little while.

There is still a mystery surrounding the closing a month or so ago. A sign said “personal reasons” on the door. Then they board up and several sources online say that they will re-open in August. But here we are, the last weekend in June and it’s reopened, remodeled, and re-staffed. At least I assume this because I’ve never been in before, however the unfamiliarity of some of the staff with the menu leads me to believe that it was re-staffed. One older asian gentlemen seems to have made the cut and his only comment was “under new management”. He said it suspiciously like there was something he knew that he wasn’t telling.

My only regret was not grabbing a take out menu. I have no idea what the new number is. The old one is disconnected and I really want to order from them tonight!”

                                    — Eric I

Speed Dial, you guys! I’m sure Eric I has figured it out in the last 5 years but, for the record, Red Hot II’s number is (718) 369-2577. You’re all very welcome.

But there is even more here. The residents are not in agreement at all. There are a number of equally long, negative reviews. And while none of them quite achieves the narrative beauty of Dan R, they are, many of them, every bit as passionate. In fact, a fair amount of the loathing and resentment in these reviews seems to be aimed at the people behind all the positive reviews. It seems that an underground Park Slope Civil War has been raging for years. Behold, from March 27, 2010:

 “Those who are familiar with my restaurant reviews may note that I tend to “poo-poo” a restaurant only when it has been guilty of causing severe gastronomic disappointment. Unfortunately, after trying this Chinese restaurant no fewer than three times, I am left with no alternative.

Frankly, I feel bad giving this place such a poor rating. On each of my visits (two of which were for take-out), the service was decidedly polite and gracious, and the restaurant had a reasonable number of people packed in. They offer the appearance of a solid dining choice, and have a vegetarian-friendly menu (a bonus for my many veggie-friends).

Unfortunately, absolutely nothing about the food justifies return visits. In fact, the only reason I even bothered repeatedly trying Red Hot II was my refusal to accept that a seemingly popular restaurant could, in fact, be anywhere near this bad.

Regardless of what I ordered, I found the food the worst of both worlds: absolutely drowned with oil, and yet simultaneously so bland that it simply couldn’t be enjoyed, even with extra soy sauce.

Does it matter if vegetables are fresh and crisp if the sheen of grease renders them incandescent? Red Hot earns the dubious honor of introducing me to broccoli that wasn’t seared in a well-seasoned wok so much as blanched in oil — and even the oil was tasteless to the point of peculiarity.

Does it matter if the wontons are a nicely balanced, delicate texture (if thin), when they are floating in broth so briny that it could have been used to dehydrate Tutankhamun’s corpse? How is it even possible for something with that much salt to have so little nuance in flavor?

Does it matter if a selection has a generous portion of chicken, if the chicken requires a bovine level of digestive prowess? By which means can one render thin slices of chicken this chewy — seriously, what did they do, cook it in a microwave, on high?

My experiences could not have simply been the result of an off night in the kitchen, because I’ve twice returned to this restaurant to give them another chance, only to end up with more punishment… which makes the establishment’s apparently loyal following all the more puzzling to me. Why bother, especially in such an otherwise culinarily gifted neighborhood?

Sorry folks. I feel guilty for this, but nothing I’ve tried here has been worth the calories… not even close. Blah.”

                        — Joe M.

After looking over Joe M’s profile, I have to say I’m tempted to do a whole review just on Joe M’s Yelp account.  His profile quote is “Something like 50% of the places I’ve poo-pooed have gone out of business,” which suggests a difficulty with the whole causation/correlation thing. It also informs the gravity he implies in the opening of this review. “I’m left with no alternative,” he says. The way someone would say, “you made me do this” right before they pull the trigger. And then again at the end. “I feel guilty for this.” Because, of course, we now know from his profile that there is “something like” a 50% chance he has just doomed this place to failure. The bankruptcy gun has been fired. The dice of failure have been cast. And fully 3 sides of each of those fateful dice spell doom. Doom, people. That’s a heavy weight to have to carry around on one set of shoulders. Luckily, Joe M. (whose Yelp nickname is, I kid you not, “Joey”, as in Joe “Joey” M) says that when he’s not yelping he’s “probably working or at the gym.” I’m guessing all that gym time is just so he can measure up to the extreme burden that comes with the power of his reviews. Heavy stuff Mr. M.  Sleep well my brother.

Looking past the fantastically interesting case of Joe “Joey” M, there are a couple of other negative reviews that caught my attention while reading through the Yelp saga of Park Slope Chinese food. The tale of star crossed lovers Kezam O. and Neera J. from January 6, 2008:

“My girlfriend used to get take out from here and she acknowledges it was generally fine.

But then one day we ate in the actual restaurant. I ordered the sesame chicken, which was made with bad chicken.

To be clear, by “bad” I don’t mean to say the chicken wasn’t cooked right or I simply didn’t like it. I mean it was “off”, beyond “sell by” date, and should not have been served to people. This was very obvious.

To make matters worse, when we complained the staff were not only rude, but they insisted on charging us for the meal because we had eaten some of the broccoli. They did end up giving us a 10 percent discount, but they were not happy about it.

I probably should have called 311 and reported the incident, but didn’t.

There are a couple other very negative reviews of this place below this one which you should probably read. One mentions finding a cock roach in the food; the other finding meat in a vegetarian dish. Those reviews would seem to support the notion that a call to the health department and possibly the Department of Consumer Affairs is in order.

Needless to say, wouldn’t eat here using someone else’s stomach. Definitely won’t be going near the place again.”

                                    —Kezam O.   

 I’m not sure whether a cock roach is the same as a cockroach. But I assume it is something far, far dirtier.

But wait, another view of the tale of the bad chicken and the 10% discount, this time by the girlfriend her very own self:

“So I must preface this review by saying that when I lived in Park Slope, this was my “go-to” for good greasy Chinese delivery. It was dreamy. I was so excited that Chinese restaurants in NYC have brown rice (which Thai restaurants do not… it is the opposite in Boston, where I used to live). THe food was fast and yummy. Their sesame chicken had that perfect crispiness, even with delivery.

And then, the inevitable happened. The dream died.

My boyfriend and I went to the actual restaurant one lovely evening. We ordered the sesame chicken and something else. The other food was fine, but the chicken was BAD. It tasted like someone had frozen the chicken a day too late, and not quite fully defrosted it before cooking. It was just off. Once my boyfriend and I realized it was not right, we had already eaten half of the broccoli garnish.

Apparently eating the garnish at this restaurant equals “no taking the item off your bill”. Even if eating it would probably make you puke for a few days. We tried to return it and got all kinds of attitude from their staff. They finally consented to a 10% discount on the bill. Definitely not a Danny Meyer type of experience.

Sadly this has soured me from the restaurant and I will not return. I read a review below about people finding a roach in their food, and meat in vegetarian meals. On both occasions, any complaints were met with attitude, and less than stellar customer service. Unacceptable.”

                                    —Neera J.

Like Rashomon, but way less interesting, we get the seperate views from each member of the party. Marvelous! It would seem, though, based on their Yelp profiles, that Neera J and Kezam O have now gone their separate ways. Neera to Auckland, New Zeland, poor Kezam left lonely here in Brooklyn. Perhaps they couldn’t agree on everything the way they could on the foulness of their deep fried hunks of sauce covered chicken. The inevitable happened. The dream died. This life! She is cruel!

Eric Wilson Harris.

There is a man. He lives on Nostrand Avenue here in Brooklyn, his name is Eric Wilson Harris, and he is responsible for the creation of a fair amount of the music that I have been listening to these past few years.

What does that mean?

Well, from a technical perspective it means quite a lot of things. But let’s say that it means this man has sat in front of a computer in a small, often very hot room, and put a lot of time, thought and effort into the creation of sounds, and that these sounds are unique and beautiful in a wonderful way, and that these sounds have made their way into my life and my ears and the ears of many other people and that they have become special to us. I venture further to say that if you have not heard these sounds, if you have not had this unusual pleasure, that they would also become special to you once you had the chance to let them into your ears and your life as well.  

When listening to these sounds, it often seems as if you are listening to sounds that exist in multiple environments, multiple worlds at once. The effect is that you are forced to let go of the way that you hear and sense things out in your day to day existence and accept the impossibility of this universe, this impossible multi-world universe, created by the man who lives on Nostrand Avenue, on their own, often unspeakably beautiful terms.

If you haven’t heard these sounds, you are in both luck and the right place at the right time, because here is a sample:

And Another:

And another:

And another:

Now, there is a problem: The computer, the one that the man sits in front of in that small hot room on Nostrand Avenue for all of those thousands of hours creating these delightfully unusual, brilliantly and breathtakingly original sounds has malfunctioned. Terminally. It is dead and he needs a new one. Unfortunately, these things cost money and there is very little of that to go around in the business of being brilliant and original while producing records for local songwriters.  And so we are raising funds in his name through a Rockethub project so that he can get back to doing this thing that we all so badly need him to do. You can go here to help out:

http://www.rockethub.com/projects/32031-help-ew-harris-sci-fidelity-productions-back-on-track

Eric Wilson Harris has produced records for a whole lot of the most talented people that I know, and would like to continue doing so. If you are a musician, meeting E.W. often leads to a desire to collaborate with him. That is why nearly everyone I know here has. The reason is that there is no one else like him. His combination of talent and unique ability, his willingness to work very, very hard for not very much money, his overall benign and amiable eccentricity, make him one of a kind. A perfect original.

Let me add this, I am not a religious person. But I believe in certain ideas in a nearly religious manner. One of those ideas is justice. To want E.W to succeed is to want justice. There are other people that I could say this about, but no one deserves it more than E.W. Harris. And, see, the funny thing about ideas is that they are capable of physical, worldly manifestation, but only if you act in a way that rolls the ball in the right direction. Some things are hard, and extremely complicated. This is simple and easy. To roll the ball in the right direction, to aid E.W. in finding success, to serve the manifestation of justice, all you have to do is go to THIS WEBSITE and give a few bucks so that the man on Nostrand Avenue can go back to doing the thing that the world needs him to do. Recording sounds.

We have one week. Let’s all do the right thing. Just this once. Let’s bring down the night with our cacophony.