Great Expectations
Recently, I wrote in a letter to somebody new in my life that one of my favourite places to be in the world was an airport, waiting for a flight. I hesitated before I wrote that confession. Would my admittance of wanderlust make him assume false aspects of my personality, like I was never content, I was unstable, I wasn't looking for a relationship, none of which are true? This nomadic lifestyle is one of my most defining characteristics, but are love and travel incompatible?
This past week, my latest journey brought me back to Plano, Texas- where my grandparents retired twenty years ago. Plano is an odd and unsettling city, a suburb of Dallas that has become a monstrosity of itself, like pastries turned into Twinkies or Joan Rivers. Plano has turned from something quasi innocent to a sprawling, gorging city of homogeneous strip malls, housing developments and golf courses. I have a rather decent sense of direction and visual memory for places, but in the beige coloured world of Plano, I am a gps system with too much cloud coverage. Plano could drain Titian of his crimson and Klein of his blue with it's lack of flavour, colour and distinction. One of the patrons at a Veteran's Day lunch I attended with my grandparents at their church this week remarked to me happily “Plano has everything you need, stores and your church. There's no reason to leave.” Thinking back, I find it amusing she put church second and wonder how a former interior designer (she now attends a seminary) ever found inspiration in such desolation.
I haven't been to Plano in at least three years, not since my family illy thought going down there for Christmas would be a good idea. Most of my memories of my grandparents' house come from the weeks I would spend there as an adolescent during the summer, swimming and bike riding and alternatively being fed on crazy crash diets plans and Blue Bell ice cream. My grandmother kept an anally tidy home, one where my bed had to be made everyday and bare legs on a sofa were frowned upon. Walking into that same home Sunday night, however, felt like walking into Miss Havisham's bleakly deteriorating mansion. Crumbs left on the floor for the roaches, rotting food left in the fridge and old, beautiful family photographs either gone or taken off the walls, embellished with tacky plastic beads and hung haphazardly back up. My grandmother has never had the pleasure of pristine mental health but as she has entered her 80's, the thin dams of sanity have started to crumble. Her short term memory is shot, a recent development that I think might have been caused by a small stroke. My grandfather, a year her elder at 86, now takes care of her. And he was never much of a housekeeper. My lucid and highly intelligent grandfather knows what's up but is too stubborn to admit that the way they do things needs to change. Besides the bug problem, their house is still relatively clean and tidy but the worry is, for how long?
What brought me to TX was a promise I made to my grandparents to visit in November. What brought me there that particular week was a band whose tour would bring them through Dallas for two days.
The Saturday before Halloween, I dj'd The Lisps' costume party at Union Hall. North Carolina band The Physics of Meaning played and so many things about them captivated me, that I just felt a strong pull to see them again. Take that as you will. Below is what I wrote about them for The Music Slut.
There have been a lot of things on my mind lately. The After the Jump Winter Fest (which as of Thursday eve might be in peril), going away to the Virgin Islands in December (and wanting somebody to go with me besides my friends), going to Scotland for the second time in six months for Crawford's wedding in January, no phone calls, should I text, the BEST sleepover I've ever had, parking tickets, no money, SXSW...
How often does a band make you cry? How often does a performance make you feel that there is no place in the world you'd rather be? How often do you feel lucky to be in the presence of music you know will one day make more than just the handful of onlookers around you sing with joy? In the music world, those moments are far and few between and in my world, it hardly ever happens. But Tuesday night, it did.
I came to Dallas this week to... Well the party line is to visit my grandparents, which is about half true. The other half of that truth is that a band I saw at the Union Hall Halloween party I djed caught both my imagination and my heart so when it came time to book my ticket to do my granddaughterly duty this month, having my time here overlap when that band came through Dallas on their tour was fortuitous to say the least. But as the week has progressed, that initial reasoning has becoming more and more distant and last night, sitting on a dirty couch, in a dirty bar listening to the sublime The Physics of Meaning for the second night in a row, my grandparents, asleep in their bed at 9pm, was all but a faint memory.
The Physics of Meaning is really just Daniel Hart, sometimes band member of John Vanderslice and St. Vincent and life-time member of The Polyphonic Spree. Daniel was classically trained in the violin as a child and fell in love with the theatre as a teenager. His music is a reflection of those two loves, with intricate violin solos and gorgeous little tales woven throughout his songs about travel and home, both finding it and leaving it. Each set starts with all the band members on the floor but Daniel, who stands tall and graceful, mop of wavy brown hair over his eyes, as he saws his heart into his violin. As the violin solo comes to a close, the guitars and bass stand and join in the rapturous song. The set ends much the same way it began, booked marked with a haunting and stunning solo as the rest of the band slowly fade away.
The Physics of Meaning's cast of characters often changes but on this tour there is Eric and Wylie on guitar, Chris (Pattern is Movement outta Philly) on drums and Wil (lead singer of the awesome Knoxville based Senryu) on bass and the harmonies. They are all hilarious, beautiful and amazing people. I hated for them to leave me on the remainder of their tour. If you happen to see one of their shows as they wrap up their journey, make sure to buy them a drink (or a taco or something) and beg a few minutes time. And ask Eric to tell you the horse joke.
This past week, my latest journey brought me back to Plano, Texas- where my grandparents retired twenty years ago. Plano is an odd and unsettling city, a suburb of Dallas that has become a monstrosity of itself, like pastries turned into Twinkies or Joan Rivers. Plano has turned from something quasi innocent to a sprawling, gorging city of homogeneous strip malls, housing developments and golf courses. I have a rather decent sense of direction and visual memory for places, but in the beige coloured world of Plano, I am a gps system with too much cloud coverage. Plano could drain Titian of his crimson and Klein of his blue with it's lack of flavour, colour and distinction. One of the patrons at a Veteran's Day lunch I attended with my grandparents at their church this week remarked to me happily “Plano has everything you need, stores and your church. There's no reason to leave.” Thinking back, I find it amusing she put church second and wonder how a former interior designer (she now attends a seminary) ever found inspiration in such desolation.
I haven't been to Plano in at least three years, not since my family illy thought going down there for Christmas would be a good idea. Most of my memories of my grandparents' house come from the weeks I would spend there as an adolescent during the summer, swimming and bike riding and alternatively being fed on crazy crash diets plans and Blue Bell ice cream. My grandmother kept an anally tidy home, one where my bed had to be made everyday and bare legs on a sofa were frowned upon. Walking into that same home Sunday night, however, felt like walking into Miss Havisham's bleakly deteriorating mansion. Crumbs left on the floor for the roaches, rotting food left in the fridge and old, beautiful family photographs either gone or taken off the walls, embellished with tacky plastic beads and hung haphazardly back up. My grandmother has never had the pleasure of pristine mental health but as she has entered her 80's, the thin dams of sanity have started to crumble. Her short term memory is shot, a recent development that I think might have been caused by a small stroke. My grandfather, a year her elder at 86, now takes care of her. And he was never much of a housekeeper. My lucid and highly intelligent grandfather knows what's up but is too stubborn to admit that the way they do things needs to change. Besides the bug problem, their house is still relatively clean and tidy but the worry is, for how long?
What brought me to TX was a promise I made to my grandparents to visit in November. What brought me there that particular week was a band whose tour would bring them through Dallas for two days.
The Saturday before Halloween, I dj'd The Lisps' costume party at Union Hall. North Carolina band The Physics of Meaning played and so many things about them captivated me, that I just felt a strong pull to see them again. Take that as you will. Below is what I wrote about them for The Music Slut.
There have been a lot of things on my mind lately. The After the Jump Winter Fest (which as of Thursday eve might be in peril), going away to the Virgin Islands in December (and wanting somebody to go with me besides my friends), going to Scotland for the second time in six months for Crawford's wedding in January, no phone calls, should I text, the BEST sleepover I've ever had, parking tickets, no money, SXSW...
How often does a band make you cry? How often does a performance make you feel that there is no place in the world you'd rather be? How often do you feel lucky to be in the presence of music you know will one day make more than just the handful of onlookers around you sing with joy? In the music world, those moments are far and few between and in my world, it hardly ever happens. But Tuesday night, it did.
I came to Dallas this week to... Well the party line is to visit my grandparents, which is about half true. The other half of that truth is that a band I saw at the Union Hall Halloween party I djed caught both my imagination and my heart so when it came time to book my ticket to do my granddaughterly duty this month, having my time here overlap when that band came through Dallas on their tour was fortuitous to say the least. But as the week has progressed, that initial reasoning has becoming more and more distant and last night, sitting on a dirty couch, in a dirty bar listening to the sublime The Physics of Meaning for the second night in a row, my grandparents, asleep in their bed at 9pm, was all but a faint memory.
The Physics of Meaning is really just Daniel Hart, sometimes band member of John Vanderslice and St. Vincent and life-time member of The Polyphonic Spree. Daniel was classically trained in the violin as a child and fell in love with the theatre as a teenager. His music is a reflection of those two loves, with intricate violin solos and gorgeous little tales woven throughout his songs about travel and home, both finding it and leaving it. Each set starts with all the band members on the floor but Daniel, who stands tall and graceful, mop of wavy brown hair over his eyes, as he saws his heart into his violin. As the violin solo comes to a close, the guitars and bass stand and join in the rapturous song. The set ends much the same way it began, booked marked with a haunting and stunning solo as the rest of the band slowly fade away.
The Physics of Meaning's cast of characters often changes but on this tour there is Eric and Wylie on guitar, Chris (Pattern is Movement outta Philly) on drums and Wil (lead singer of the awesome Knoxville based Senryu) on bass and the harmonies. They are all hilarious, beautiful and amazing people. I hated for them to leave me on the remainder of their tour. If you happen to see one of their shows as they wrap up their journey, make sure to buy them a drink (or a taco or something) and beg a few minutes time. And ask Eric to tell you the horse joke.
In-store at the kickass Good Records on Monday. Dallas isn't that cool a town, but this place is in the middle of the hipper area.
Tuesday night at The Double Wide. The Double Wide is in the Bushwick of Dallas, or so it seemed. It is surrounded by lots of warehouses, it's right off the highway and somebody's car was broken into during the show, good stuff. But you really can't beat $2 well drinks and an outdoor patio with lots of seating.
Wil and DanielLabels: concerts, texas, the physics of meaning, travel, wil
posted by JK | 2:38:00 AM
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