My Vacation as Parallax, Pt. 6

Rogers Park is the second neighborhood I lived in during my time in Chicago. It was
my first to visit on this vacation.

I lived in Rogers Park during one of the darkest times of my life ¹. I lived in a two-
bedroom apartment on Colombia. My roommates were great people who essentially
just took me in when my life went haywire. And they tolerated me for several
months. I slept in the living room. On a couch. It was very glamorous.

These guys- Michael and Jeremy- were incredibly gracious. They quietly tolerated the
depths of my depression and all the attendant bad behaviors.

Now. I’m going to tell you something, dear reader. It is something unpopular and
embarrassing.
The album that is most inextricably linked to that time in my mind is Parachutes by
Coldplay.

Yeah. I’m embarrassed by what you just read.
See, I don’t like Coldplay.
In fact, I dislike boring music in general. And I’ve long held to the belief that if I wish
to listen to U2, I’ll just go ahead and listen to U2 instead of some pale surrogate.

But it was different then, different for that album. ² It’s their best album. Strike that.
It’s the good album by Coldplay.

Are you buying my apology?

Whatever.

One of my roommates ³ had the Coldplay CD. It played a lot around the apartment.
I remember marveling at how the overarching tone and emotion of the album
matched my own hazy, inchoate dread and regret.
Michael said once, “I don’t know who or what made this guy so sad, but think of
how much action he’s getting now.” Because that’s how people talk in real life. And
Michael was right. Chris Martin married Gwynneth Paltrow ⁴.


Coldplay was certainly not the only music I was listening to at that time. And it
was far from the best. At The Drive In was popular at our place. And Mojave 3. And
lots of old punk stuff. I swear to god we weren’t sitting around in Polo shirts and
backwards baseball caps listening to Coldplay oh please believe me.

I should never have brought it up.

Maybe there’s a broader point to be made here. One about how music attaches to
you even when it’s not-so-good. Sometimes hearing a song often- whether by choice
or not- just works that song into your subconscious, and then your conscious, mind.
You think of a time in your past and you remember a tune even if it’s a tune you
hate.
I recall an ex-girlfriend being discovered by a mutual friend as she sat in the floor of
her bedroom sobbing while Shania Twain sang “Looks Like We Made It” on repeat ⁵.

When I lived in Rogers Park I wrote prodigiously. I sometimes worry that it was the
best writing I’ll ever get done. It’s all gone now, so I’ll never be able to review it.
I bet you, though, that those dumb Coldplay lyrics are liberally ripped off in my old
writings.
I’m glad those pages are gone now. I can’t spare any extra shame.

1 I have no real scale for darkness in my past. Honestly, dark is my go-to adjective when describing any isolated period in my adult life. Oops.^↩
2 Am I trying to convince you or am I trying to convince myself? “No comment.”^↩
3 Jeremy would want me to point out that it WAS NOT he.^↩
4 She’s grown insufferable in motherhood, sure, but when they married she was pretty special business. I blame her for Coldplay’s subsequent awfulness. She’s Coldplay’s Yoko. Nobody writes good songs when they’re happy.^↩
5 We did not make it, obviously.^↩

My Vacation as Parallax, Pt. 5

The real meat of this vacation, the longest and most potentially meaningful stretch
of it, began Friday evening.

The sign says “Chicago 30”, but that does not mean you will be in Chicago in half an
hour.
There is no good time to drive in or out of Chicago.
Every artery in and out is a seemingly endless construction project. And where are
all these cars going at all hours of the day and night?! Do people not work for a living
or have homes where they sleep?

Listening for the traffic report is fruitless. I swear, the lady who reports traffic for
WBEZ (Chicago’s NPR station) must know and despise me, for she leaves out travel
time for whichever highway I am on. Without fail.

The frustration of driving ¹ on the outskirts of Chicago did not faze me. I was coming
home.

I lived in Chicago for the better part of a decade. I didn’t grow up here, but here is
where I became a grown up ².

To my mind Chicago is a series of neighborhoods, each describing a slightly different
synecdoche of the city.
Some of the neighborhoods show me much of what I love about Chicago; some show
the things I do not. There is great creativity there, and great work for justice. There
is also darkness, great injustice.

It’s a complicated business, this walking around with eyes opened.

During my time in Chicago I lived in seven different neighborhoods. I did a lot of
wandering, a lot of floating.

I’m hoping to do some work while I’m in town.
You see, I’m writing a book and album- companion pieces- about losing something
important. A lot of references to Chicago come in during the book. The thing I’m
writing about losing I really started losing in Chicago.
I’m not here to find it again. I’m not interested in having it back, frankly.
What interests me is the trip I took when it disappeared.

I’m going to visit each of my old neighborhoods while I’m in town.
I’m going to visit the shops, restaurants, bars, and coffee shops I used to frequent.

I’m going to visit a couple of my old workplaces and lots of old friends.

I plan to treat these visits as mirrors of my loss and shame and damage. I doubt I’ll
improve greatly through the process, but I assume I’ll get some good songs out of it.

Apparently that’s all that really matters to me.


1 Sitting still.^↩
2 This is most certainly dependant on who you ask. MANY people in Chicago have known me for being quite childish, indeed.^↩

My Vacation as Parallax, Pt. 4

the River Monks

The third day of my vacation was spent largely in the car, mostly driving through Iowa.

Say what you will of Iowa. I love it. I have nothing but happy memories associated with Iowa.

I used to have many friends in Decorah and I would go visit them twice a year. We always had a lot of music and a lot of outdoors. It was a magical time.
One of my favorite bands is namelessnumberheadman. ¹ All three members have deep roots in Shawnee. Their previous iteration, the Fauves, recorded in Decorah. Their album reminds me still of my early college days. I wish I’d had that CD for my drive through Iowa.

Another musical association I have with Iowa is the brilliant Des Moines band the River Monks. In April they stopped through Shawnee to play at sips Downtown Kafe’. It was beautiful music played by sweet, gracious people. I convinced them to stick around after the shop closed and we hung out for a couple of hours. I quickly learned that I didn’t just enjoy their music, I genuinely liked the people playing it. The next night I had my first post-break-up solo show in Norman. They came to hear me since they were playing down the street later that night. It might have meant little to them, but I found their presence at my set really touching. I believe I’ll always think of them when I pass through Des Moines.

What else about Iowa?
Should I write about the Day the Music Died? There is a pretty touching memorial at the crash site, I hear. The family who owns the land there is gracious enough to allow American-music pilgrims free access to it.

That’s what I think is classical Iowan-ness.

Let me play the role of Counting Crows for a moment as I generalize a large population based on where they live:
Iowans are good, nice people. They are, by and large, friendly and intelligent and earnest.
Okay, the ones I’ve met are.
But it must be broadly so. How else could their politics be so moderately populist and sensible?

Take Richard Waack as an example. He was born just a couple of miles from the earlier mentioned crash site. He was my art teacher. I learned more from him than any teacher I’ve ever had.
He talked about music in almost every lesson. (He introduced me to Bob Dylan ².) He taught me that the real key to getting good at making art is to produce. “Make lots of art and your art gets better.”

And Corey Gingerich, another Iowan I like a lot.
He owns Anty Shanty on Main Street in Norman, OK#. He hosts concerts at his shop often, mostly during Norman’s 2nd Friday Art Walk. He’s invited me to play at his shop a few times, and I’ve loved playing there each time. Corey loves music and has spent many years in music promotion. His encouragement and embracing of my music and my performances has increased my confidence significantly.

Where do all these people learn to be so kind? Does farm and dairy work instill some sort of native bonhomme? It’s not been my experience.

No, seriously. How do they get this way? I’m asking you. I have no theories.

1 Full disclosure: They’re very long-time friends of mine, so I may be biased- but I truly love their music.^↩
2 Not literally.^↩

My Vacation as Parallax, Pt.3

My second day in Omaha was spent mostly alone. I ate lunch alone at McFosters ¹. Alone I walked to Scott and Michael’s home, past the church Scott pastors. I sat alone on their porch for a couple of hours since nobody was home and I had no key.

I’ve made a rookie mistake on this vacation. I somehow neglected to bring headphones.
Perhaps I suffered some sort of stroke while packing. ²

You see, anytime I take a trip of any sort I anticipate time spent alone, usually in public. Headphones are a must. Without them I'm left only to my thoughts. My thoughts are scattered and ugly. I need the music playing to slow them down, maybe.
But there I sat on a porch in Omaha watching bearded weirdoes cycle by with no music.
I cheated myself out of a soundtrack. Like an idiot.

In spite of- or perhaps because of- my contempt for it, the hideous Counting Crows song “Omaha” started repeating in my brain. It’s a song that so fetishises the “Midwestern-ness” of the city as to suggest that its writer has never in fact been to Omaha.
Adam Duritz- sporting the largest messianic complex in popular music since Jim Morrison- sings,
“Omaha, somewhere in middle America.
We get right to the heart of matters,
It’s the heart that matters more.”
What could that possibly mean? How could it possibly reflect the city of Omaha?
He may as well somberly croon “Old MacDonald”.

Sigh. There’s no explaining what appealed to me in the nineties.

In the evening I was no longer alone. After dinner with Scott and Michael, Travis and Linda came over for a bit. The five of us sat on the porch, enjoying the breeze and the company. We had a lovely, laid-back time.

My day spent alone lingered with me, though. And after Travis and Linda left I chose to kill the upbeat mood we had fostered by playing three very sad songs I had written about loss.
And then I went to bed.

This is how a real rock star vacations, I guess?

1 McFosters is a weirdly political diner with excellent and surprising- if expensive- vegetarian options. I had a seitan Rueben with raw milk cheddar and kimchee instead of sauerkraut, sautéed Brussels sprouts on the side.
This in the shadow of Warren Buffett’s office building.
It’s a mad world.^↩
2 An obvious joke. I don’t pack. I shove pairs of socks equal to the number of days I’ll be travelling plus two into a shopping bag and grab whatever pants and shirts happen to be nearby.
I buy a new toothbrush on every trip I take.
I am as lost as a child.^↩

My Vacation as Parallax, Pt. 2

After seven and a half to eight and a half hours on the road¹ I arrived in Omaha at
the home of my friends Scott and Michael. We had plans to meet the only other two
friends I have in Omaha, Travis and Linda.
Each of these friends is a great and interesting and vital person. But let’s focus on
Travis for a moment.

Travis is a native of Tecumseh, OK. He moved to Omaha to attend Creighton
University.
He’s been in a lot of bands through the years. Most of them may be unfamiliar to
you, but that’s because you don’t live in Omaha². Some of his credits include Dark
Town House Band, the Black Squirrels, All Young Girls Are Machine Guns, the
Whipkey 3, and lately the Electroliners. Great bands, all.

I first learned of Travis when I moved to Tecumseh in the early nineties. He
graduated the year before leaving the high school band with slots in the saxophone
line and at bass guitar, gaps I attempted to fill. I quickly learned that no matter how
well I performed I’d remain firmly in his shadow.

I got to hang out with Travis when he would visit home for holidays and school
breaks. It turned out he wasn’t just good at playing music, he was also this energetic
and patient³ and cool and genuinely great guy.

Last year around this time my band went on a mini-tour. Travis helped us out by
getting us on a bill with his (award-winning!) trio All Young Girls Are Machine
Guns. We were sandwiched between them and another local act. Putting the pretty-
unknown touring act in the middle is apparently a common preventative measure, I
learned.

Driving to the gig Travis said, “I hope you guys don’t get Omaha’d.”


Omaha’d: v. when a little-known touring band plays with a local band that
draws fans, all of whom leave when the touring band takes the stage

All Young Girls Are Machine Guns played to a meager crowd, but my band played
to a crowd of ten (half of whom were All Young Girls Are Machine Guns and their
spouses/significant others).

Color me Omaha’d.

I was disheartened. There were few in the room where we played but the bar out
front was pretty full. Why wouldn’t they come in?
After cutting our set in half I walked outside to smoke a cigarette, angry. On my way
back in I saw that the television sets above the bar where the patrons had had their
eyes glued were a closed-circuit feed of the stage where we had played.
This crowd of bug eaters had sat fifteen feet away watching us on television rather
than sitting in front us.
Buncha weirdos.

The next day Travis sent me a very kind and encouraging message. He pointed out
that a lot of good bands don’t get audiences sometimes. I got from him that I need to
play to the crowd that shows up rather than playing with resentment for the crowd
that doesn’t.

On this trip I have no performances booked in Omaha, nor any other city. But
I’m making it a point to take a look at some of the places I’ve played in the past,
retracing my steps as I said in “Part 1”.
Wednesday night my friends and I went out in the Benson neighborhood⁴. We were
right around the corner from the Barley Street Tavern, the venue where my band
was Omaha’d last September.
I took a break from my friends for a smoke and walked down to look at the place.

It was the same.
Same wood paneling. Same bartender. Same televisions. Same mixture of beardy
hipsters and haggard townies.
But it was different.

I stood across the street and looked at the bar. What appeared was a palimpsest.
There, fading through my view of this old bar, was this: My two-piece band is now a
solo act.
Last year I had company when I went to Omaha. This year I came alone.

I can play as well as I did before, and now I can sell these sad songs possibly better
than I did. But it will always be different.
The venues I played before will always have that shadow in them.
I’ll play the songs in the venues and I’ll wonder if anybody recognizes the subtext.

They probably won’t know the details, but they’ll know something about it is real
and present to me, right?
They’ll know that my performance isn’t an act, but a way of displaying my past?

Probably not.
But if they show up I’ll play to them anyway.
And somebody’s going to feel it, whether that somebody is in the audience or on the
stage.

---

1 While on the road I obsess with the time I’m making. When I arrive at my destination, it is forgotten entirely. Ditto gas mileage.^↩
2 I am not an expert on Omaha. This was my second visit. I find the place delightful and confounding.
What I notice about Omaha is that it is nothing like what you expect. Except for when it is exactly what you expect.
Here you may eat surprising and innovative cuisine and drink excellent locally handcrafted beer before listening to several hyper-talented local bands for a very low cover charge. Then on your walk home you may, as I did, pass a 20-year-old hesher in Tap-Out shorts, black high-tops, and no shirt polishing his bowstaff skills with an old broom handle.
A little something for everybody!^↩
3 The first song I ever wrote, I co-wrote with him. Which is to say that he came up with a pretty good chord progression and I awkwardly sang one of my terrible poems over it. See? Patient!^↩
4 If you visit Omaha, make sure to go to Benson. Do. Not. Miss. Krug Park and Lot2.^↩