"It is good to rejoice in our commonalities."

Over the weekend, Seattle Playwright's Collective mounted the fourth of the Medicine Ball series, in which I pick some poets, Dan Tarker picks some playwrights, they write to a theme, and the audience votes on which artform is superior. We started about 2 years ago, the voting thing has always been pretty tongue-in-cheek (winners get 2 buck chuck, losers get warm PBR) but it tends to be a hook that gets more folks in. Slams, etc. This time the Playwrights took it by 5 ballots over the course of a three day run.
The Medicine Ball is consistently different from all the other things I've been involved in putting together-- essentially it's introducing poetry into a theater context. In the past we've done staged readings, this time it was full staged, costumed, propped. Though it's a bit strange to be involved in such a conceptual way in such a physical undertaking ("hey guys! here's some poets! poets! write a thing, send it to these guys. see you at the show!") each time out the dialogue between playwriting and poeting seems to get more nuanced. Especially as we've got people hopping sides-- Robert Lashley wrote an incredibly powerful one act, and playwright Craig Kentworthy sent in a strong, multifaceted poem that worked on multiple levels (kind of funny they were working from the same prompt. Hmm.)
This time we also incorporated visual cues from local artists, specific word cues, and let the writers see the faces of the actors they'd be writing for. Interestingly, this led to the most serious Medicine Ball to date. There was plenty of humor, sure, but the overall tone of the night was contemplative, desperate, and punchy. I could go on about the specific choices made by writers and directors (though I gotta drop a shout out to the way Dan turned Ryan Johnson's surrealist pastiche into a helpless shrug on the ubiquity of oppressive masculinity) but ultimately, I was just stoked on the evening as a whole, and occasionally forgot I was even involved. That's one of the better parts of organizing, when you can just enjoy something as an audience member.
Of course, you get reminded reaal quick when it's time to strike the set. . .

In like squished peeps.

The new project from GI and Not Drugs.

zabrecky makes himself disappear

or if you're taking over, then it's over

LA is a city that always dangles a carrot three feet away
from the noses of its citizens. this arrives to screen,
by phone, from my friend who holds microphones and wails
in an attempt to corral all the searing noise around him
into a cohesive statement. beat. riff. rhythm. anthem,
even rising to the sky, but stopped at last by smog.
songs try their best to find their way out of the city,
in the bumping trunks of riders, in the collapsing chanteuses
somewhere just outside hollywood, the bricked off lofts
of silverlake. I can't get back there. I can't get into it.
I can't even name a street that isn't already famous,
despite the hours behind the wheel of a twelve wheeler.
Someone tells me something about Bukowski, the city making
him what he was. About sleaze and punk and availability of
everything. i think about a poem I wrote ten years ago and
how I heard the subject turned to magic after a collection
of late 90s new wave songs failed to advance his neighborhood.
he is probably on stage tonight, somewhere on the second floor
of a tall building, wearing a funny hat and introducing
women in fancy underwear to a crowd who don't have shows that night.
_________________________________________________________

the opening quote is from Robert Lashley, of Scume Eating, etc, who are in LA right now, or leaving it, on their way to Spokane. The prompt was from Theresa Mitchell, from a while back, who told me to write about a musician who influenced me. I was ostensibly going to write about Rob Zabrecky, from Possum Dixon, a band I liked in High School, but obviously, I ended up writing about LA. As you can tell from the time of day and sloppy prose style, i wrote it at work.

Thursday Night

looked sort of like this:

"I haven't heard right since we started this band."-cg

"Noise" means a lot of things to a lot of people. A "noise band" could be basically a rock band that puts their guitars through lots of pedals and never muffles their feedback. To that end, you could describe almost half of Nirvana's catalog as "noise rock." To other people, noise is a nearly entirely electronic affair, a more ambient lull, etc.
last night i read poetry with three noise bands, two of which were an entirely improv-ed affair with shouted adlibbed lyrics, guitar destruction and a healthy sense of catharsis. I'd read with My Printer Broke, (comma is part of the title) when there were violins, keyboards and such involved (many destroyed by the end of the night) but I think they did just as well as a two piece, switching instruments, etc.

I did two sets, one after My Printer Broke and one after Scumeating. As such: set 1:Neo takes the blue pill/about last night/little fear of drowning/the most important meal/beneath the cathedral/isolation therapy The last two I performed with CG making creepy sounds on the guitar, which added a certain tension to otherwise fairly quiet pieces. Set 2:Bloodmoney/Our Favorite Radio Station/Paintings of Famous Satanists For "paintings" I was joined by the last band, Waiting for the Pagans, on noise. It's more challenging to read over two noising guitars, but it was a fun collab. When WFTP played, they turned their amps up all the way and proceeded to fuck their guitars up with hammers, boots, the floor and their own faces. It was unbearably loud, harsh and pretty damn riveting. As Fiona put it "Your set was marvelous. . . and completely terrifying."

Scumeating combine elements of noise, sound-collage, space-rock, punk and disco over driving backbeats, with Robert Lashley (award winning poet and playwright) howling lines like "GET YOR CRACKHEADFRIENDDS OUTTAMYHOUSE!" It isn't something with a direct comparison, but is pretty damn awesome.

Anyway, good night. Next up: I also do weddings.

Body Party . . .

can now be found online at the current issue of beat the dust.
Thanks to David Oprava for the nomination.

Other news, Saturday was the Your Hands Your Mouth release party for issues 8 and 9. We had ten people reading in the living room. TEN. And hey, it went well. Readers (from last to first): Robert Lashley, Greg Bem, Jessica Lohafer, Jay Steingold, Chris Gusta (break!) Cate McGehee, Ryan Johnson, Caren Scott, Rainey Warren and Jake Tucker.


Phew.