I opened my eyes and realized I had no idea what was happening. I rolled off the futon, onto the floor and made my way to the computer to check for an e-mail from Tarentel. Nothing. My shoulders shrunk. Jen had left for work early, and Monica was playing on the computer. She asked if I felt like a bagel and coffee, so I obliged and we walked up the street to Cup-A-Joe.
We sat outside in the morning sun and talked. She asked if I had read “On the Road,” and I told her I didn’t really enjoy it. We agreed that “The Dharma Bums” was better. At one point she mentioned how growing up, she often felt like Holden Caulfield. I told her I thought “Catcher in the Rye” was an overrated work from the canon of disillusioned tales of teen ennui. Between sips of coffee we debated music and the psychology behind different facets of art. She asked how I would react if, by chance, a large group of people responded positively to my book, and I found myself being placed on a pedestal. After laughing heartily at her, I responded by saying the odds of it happening were so infinitesimally small it’s not even worth thinking about. She mentioned how many people would agree, but that fate befalls various artists. I told her that even if for some unholy reason a person’s art gained mass acclaim, there’s absolutely no reason they should alter their approach to life. She said if fame were in her future she could envision herself reverting to an insulated, reclusive lifestyle to “get away from it.” I told her I didn’t see the purpose in that kind of behavior. Frankly, I think people who shy away from attention are, for the most part, doing so out of a desire to play the part of the tortured soul, thus garnering more attention. It’s all a facade, really.
The guy sitting at the table behind us let out an audible sigh and asked us what we were up to today. I told him I had a meeting and Monica said she had to work. He practically cut her off to explain that he had just started a design business called Me, and the world was just moving way too fast for him. I inquired about the kind of design, graphic or otherwise, and he just kept motoring along. He felt, as he explained, like he was “off in a rocket ship to give tennis lessons on the moon.” He asked us to watch his things (and by “things,” I mean his dog) while he ran around the corner for a pack of smokes. When he returned he continued talking about himself for a few minutes, and then cut us off to make a phone call and started talking loudly about the money he was being offered from various investors. I looked at my watch, it was 11:15. I walked to my car to grab a change of clothes out of the trunk.
We got back to the apartment and I had an e-mail from Jefre. He said we could meet at SFMoMA at noon. It was now 11:30. I threw on my clothes and ran out the door.
I arrived at a few minutes after noon and found the reception area. I was sitting for maybe twenty seconds when a young guy, unshaved with closely cropped hair entered the room. He said, “Evan?” and I said “Jeff?” He said, “hold on,” and disappeared back into a secure area for a few minutes. When he returned his arms were filled with CDs and a 12″. He handed the gifts to me and told me what each one was. The vinyl is a 30-minute noise collage called Home Ruckus. The four self-made and constructed CDs are as follows: an EP called Ghost Weight, one untitled CD-r that’s just Jefre and Jim, an EP by The ALPS, a band Jefre contributes to, and a 73-minute Jefre/Jim CD under the monikor The Holy See, called Snowing Ash.
We two walked from the museum across the street to a little indoor plaza where Jefre often meets Jim for lunch. We sat and talked for twenty minutes about the book and the different bands I’ve met with. He had a lot of questions about the passing of Michael Dahlquist. He asked what Jeff Mueller was like to talk to. He offered to get me in touch with the folks at Constellation and Alien-8 after I mentioned my interest in extending my trip to Rhode Island and Montreal. He said I was going to be “blown away” by Andrew Kenny (American Analog Set) because he’s “sharp and smart,” and studying Physics in Brooklyn. He mentioned how Jim played drums for Jeremy deVine’s band Sonna, but after the two met, Jim left Baltimore with his girlfriend and moved to SF to join Tarentel.
Jim arrived with a huge grin and an immediately noticeable down-to-earth personality. He mentioned that he worked as a web designer, so while Jefre got tea I told him about my perilous history as a programmer and Computer Science major for one year of college. We talked shop for a few minutes, he told me he works for GameSpot and we geeked out together for a few minutes before Jefre returned and I started the tape rolling.
We talked on record for about 45 minutes about a variety of different topics. The most interesting area of conversation included a chat about the more technical and intricate aspects of Tarentel. They both agreed that as of late, live shows are “hit or miss” because people in general are hesitant about bands who constantly change or evolve. People like constants, not transitory, unsure things. Jim mentioned how the band members all have parallel interests, so their compositions often try to incorporate all those different stylistic traits. Jefre said Tarentel is no longer writing proper songs, so we spoke about what practices are like. He said the ultimate goal of Tarentel is, “to find what our ideology is.” I told him that constantly searching for an ideology made for a good ideology, and he agreed, stating something about “questioning the nature of existence” that I don’t recall right now. The interview vacillated between goofy and philosophical, the atmosphere was definitely the lightest of any interview yet. There was much laughter and joking.
When Jim finished his sandwich, he took off for work. I walked back to the museum with Jefre and he offered to let me in for free so I could check out the exhibits. There were some interesting works on display. There was a floor of great photographs, including some by Dorothea Lange, Eadweard Muybridge and Walker Evans. There was a big Matisse exhibit, and adjacent wings touted Picasso, Max Ernst, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, Salvador Dali and more. The newest, biggest exhibit showcased the work of Robert Tuttle, a post-minimalist artist whose work I found to be obsessive and self-absorbed. There’s just something about a guy drawing a four-sided shape in the corner of a piece of construction paper and coloring it yellow that doesn’t make me want to laud him as an artist. One floor had a Jeremy Blake DVD narrative, another had a small semi-circular space that could fit three or four people. There were eight monitors inside and each had a 24-hour recording from inside a revolving restaurant high above the city. They were manipulated to all move at the same speed. Montreal, New York, Toronto, Chicago, New Orleans, St. Louis, Las Vegas, Seattle. Very cool.
The view from SFMoMA: ONE / TWO / THREE
I met Jen at Cup-A-Joe after work and we hung out for a while before she decided she wanted Thai food for dinner. I drank a tall glass of Anchor Steam and ate some of her rice. Then we went to a club called Edinburgh Castle Pub, where we saw two of the worst bands I’ve had the displeasure of seeing in my entire life. One was called Scarab (when they mentioned they were playing their first show outside of their garage space I thought it my duty to tell them to head back to the garage for a while), and the other was called This Band is a Ship (or This Band is a Sham, as I called them). Luckily the club had no cover charge.
A six-pack of Blue Moon later, we’re here watching a movie. Tomorrow I received an incredible invitation, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise or raise your hopes just yet.
Little baby hearts,
evan.
