| I think I was at my peak here.
So was Tam Spivey. It was bliss. Dancing with the Devil, and they call it a Tacoma Ballet The e-mail went something like this (although I cannot verify the complete accuracy due to some sort of corruption of my e-mail program that’s rendered me absolutely mad – the e-mail’s are there, I just can’t fucking see them…): "I’m being interviewed by RollingStone.com and (insert your own monster media medium here – I ain’t sure which it was)…the record has been added to 150 radio stations. And the guy at the Tacoma radio station won’t play it because he says my voice rubs him the wrong way." The last part of which finds irony in the record’s title Tacoma Ballet - a reference more to the place that this double disc dose of wrong-way rubbing rock and roll was recorded than o any sort of provincial allegiance. Tamra Spivey seems pleased, subversively so. Voice schmoice I say – my guess is that that bastard in Tacoma got the shakes when he heard this fucking menacing record and never got rid of them. Hell, he likely has a tough time sleeping anymore. I mean, what the fuck is this girl Spivey howling, yowling, and yapping about? The band just riffs and riffs classic style - a blues bashing, but that girl - that girl just cuts it all to pieces with her mouth. With what comes out of the damn thing as well as how it comes out. This ain't rockroll folks feel comfortable with. And it sure as hell ain’t a bunch of post 9/11 sentimentality about the America that a true patriot supposedly could feel comfortable with – the America of Spivey’s "Welcome to America" isn't wrapped up all pretty in main street flags. And if…if there’s a grain of truth in her blasphemy, well…then…christamighty Tam, close that goddamn curtain…it’s too fucking bright out there, you're just scaring these poor people. Jesus, what were you thinking? Are you free? Are you? Well? That’s all Spivey and her consortium of rockroll musicians who collectively form Lucid Nation (that is the band – Lucid Nation – to which Tacoma Ballet is credited) are asking you. Think about it…how free are you? A lot of folks don’t want to think about it. A lot of folks wanna hang your ass just for asking it… A lot of folks…a lotta folks…a lot of fucks…a lot of fools. So imagine building yourself up into a red rage…blood rising, rising, rising. Up into your neck, your chin, your lips swell, your nose drips, your eyes go vermilion like a pair of setting blood red suns…and then opening your mouth… And out it comes… And you can’t believe it… But it feels good… And you don’t stop… You cannot stop… There’s so much… So much to spew… To vomit… To exorcise… To escape… And you think you should feel better… But you don’t… You might feel worse… So you get more pissed… You get more frustrated… Then you hear yourself… You hear what you’re screaming about… And you don’t find any comfort… You just feel worse… So you keep going… And going… It sounds like rage… But it’s as likely to be a plea… And you feel powerless… But powerful… It’s fear… It’s anger… It’s disgust… It’s distrust… It’s disappointment… It’s cathartic joy… And it’s all anguish… And angst… Where do you stop? When do you stop? Can you stop? Should you stop? You know you’re voice rubs people the wrong way, don’t you? You know your voice rubs people the wrong way. You know what it says – what it HOWLS – rubs people the wrong way. This, to quote a wise man, ain’t no picnic. That squeak – that little jump right off of a cliff right off the bat – on "Favorite Star" rubs me the wrong way too. But it feels like the right way. All over me it sets off a rush of chills. Is this whole goddamn thing a satire? A parody? A joke? Hell, it’s two discs so full of smiling menace that it seems to want to hug you while quietly trying to yank your molars right out of your fucking jawbone. Jesus, I’m tired…every time I listen, I become exhausted. And I’m not so sure I can take it anymore. "What’s the answer?" asks the first disc of these two. "What’s the question?" asks disc two. Things are backwards. Answers before questions…rage before beauty…privilege before money… How will they cope? They won’t cope. They’ll vilify. They’ll scoff. They’ll restrict. They’ll censor the moneyed way they know how. They’ll say that voices – voices from another view – rub them the wrong way. They’ll say that there have always been the maladjusted, the dissatisfied, the foolish and forlorn. They’ll wrap themselves up in flags and tragedy and look down at the un-patriotic and point a condemning finger. And people will listen and believe. Thus the rage grows – louder, longer, three discs, four discs, five discs, mountains and mountains of discs. Grow it must. Rubbing…rubbing…rubbing…always the wrong way. nathaniel West So where’s it all go from here? Where’s it all been? Might as well go back and retrace those steps, because you’re probably just rubbing them all the wrong fucking way. Don’t you want to fit in? Fit yourself in. Make it work. They won't like it anyway. A true Tacoma Ballet. I’m just tired now…very, very, very tired. |