nostalgia

My things, my grand-mother’s things

admin — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 08:00:00 +0000

One of the wonderful things about living in this digital age is that you don’t have to be famous to be a real artist or a writer. You can create your vision, and then get it out into the world through the Internet if you're so inclined. And once online, you don't ever have to throw anything you create away. It can all be stored... forever.

Enter Sarah Pinder: a Toronto essayist who, for a decade now, has been a maker of zines, self-published works. And for about two bucks (Canadian currency), you can own and enjoy her brief yet insightful pondering My things, my grand-mother’s things.

What I like about Pinder’s prose is that it’s highly relatable. True, I can relate as a woman with a Depression-era grandparent who hoarded trinkets away, and as one who helped to clear those objects out of attics and basements after that seemingly ancient relative had passed on. And I can relate to her take on twenty-something nostalgia: the place when we’re not quite ready to be grown up and throw away our childhood things.

But most, if not all, people can relate to her rather haunting description of how the spaces we inhabit shape and trap our memories, not because of their own qualities, but because they become “repositories” for the things we collect along the way: “My grandmother lived in a house that was a constant archive of identity... Everything in this house was a touchstone, a trigger to summon memory... And regardless of how broken or worn things were, my grandparents’ Depression aesthetic meant that nothing was thrown out...”

This reviewer had two sets of Depression-surviving grandparents and observed two distinct reactions to the crisis. One set decided that: well, if they overcame that, they could overcome anything. They lived out their days without saving much of anything. The other parent's father became a hoarder. This man, who as a boy had shot and skinned squirrels for supper so as not to starve, secretly tucked away mountains of seemingly meaningless household items: camera film, new pens, etc. He was never content to have just one of anything after the Depression ended, and cleaning out his closets yielded hundreds, if not thousands, of things-treasures to him-that told tales of a man obsessed with getting to the bottom of how things work, and a man who lived in fear of owning absolutely nothing.

Pinder’s essay serves as a wonderful launch pad for this kind of reminiscing if you’re game. Her words seem genuine and her doodles–somewhat resembling the sketches of Shel Silverstein–might remind you of any number of seemingly frivolous objects your ancestors once collected and then subsequently left behind. “(I)t seemed callous to get rid of objects from a space that held such meaning for me, regardless of the fact that the objects I had were not the touchstones I’d hoped to use to recreate my grandmother’s life before illness,” Pinder reveals.

For more information or to purchase any of Pinder’s zines, visit her online hub Bits of String Press. My things, my grand-mother’s things was given as a lecture in October, 2009 at the Ontario College of Art and Design during a symposium called “Collectorama,” which focused on people’s obsessions with the act of collecting.

Written by: Rachel Moehl, August 31st 2010

Oompa!

admin — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Sabrina Chap

Ert Records

A few weeks back, Sabrina Chap (born Chapadjiev) contacted me to see if I wanted to review her new album, Oompa! Never one to turn down a free meal from female musicians, I obliged and she mailed me a copy (with a handwritten letter, no less — thanks, Sabrina!). While the item was in transit, Kjerstin Johnson at Bitch reviewed it for B-Sides.

Having not heard Chap before, the article gave me a good idea of what I’d be listening to. The cabaret sensibility of “Never Been a Bad Girl” suggested The Dresden Dolls (though not Evelyn Evelyn’s super-problematic crip drag) on first listen, as well as Inara George and Jolie Holland in louder moments. The emphasis on classical and ragtime instrumentation also recalled Squirrel Nut Zippers’ dedication to jump blues, jazz, polka, and swing. Both the Zippers and beloved Austin mainstay White Ghost Shivers have cultivated antiquated aural aesthetics to undermine nostalgia with biting observations, sly asides, and at times bawdy lyrics about the realities of modern life. Finally, Chap also seems to share similar feminist camp sensibilities with fellow New York-based retro revisionists Ménage à Twang. I haven’t heard Chap on KOOP’s “What’s a Girl to Do” program, but I think she’d be a perfect fit.

I don’t offer these artists up to slight Chap as derivative, but rather to put her in a larger context of artists. I believe Chap’s talents stand up on their own. I’m also interested in pursuing her written work. She’s penned some plays and edited a zine called Cliterature. She also edited Live Through This, an anthology about women who use art to work through self-destructive tendencies. The book contains interviews from Nan Goldin, bell hooks, Inga Muscio, Kate Bornstein, Eileen Myles, and Annie Sprinkle. That’s a helluva dinner party.

Most of Oompa! charmed me. The songwriting is sharp, the melodies are catchy, and Chap’s band possesses the sort of musical precision that allows it to really swing. I especially liked the self-effacing opening track “Blueprint for Destruction,” idyllic “Carolina,” reflective “Illinois,” spunky “Never Been a Bad Girl,” and the uncertain but defiantly optimistic “Boat Song,” which closes the album. “Failed Waitress/Failed Astronaut” may rank as my favorite track, as it turns the all-too-relateable subject matter of being college educated yet maligned by limited career prospects into a fun little jig. The slinky “Idiom,” which documents a clandestine hook-up with a sexy female stranger, is a close second.

Unfortunately, there are two songs on Oompa! that I can do without. “Little White House” brings to mind the nuclear family idyll espoused in Little Shop of Horrors' “Somewhere That’s Green,” which feminist-minded pop stars like Paula Cole critiqued in “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” I’m of the mind that Chap is doing similar work here, as the minor key and stately pace suggest compromised expectations. However, much like I felt with “Cowboys,” it’s hard for me to not hear this song as being condescending to its subject.

I also cringe when I hear “Ze Paris Song,” a song about a tourist trying to fit in with her surroundings while eating baguettes and brie as she reflects on the tragic men who love her and eschews the Eiffel Tower. That Chap delivers it in a put-on accent doesn’t help matters. Much like “House,” I believe Chap is being critical here. The results just rub me the wrong way.

Yet despite those minor grievances, I’d still recommend Oompa! Give it a spin on the ol’ Victrola.

Written by: Alyx Vesey, June 13th 2010

Behind the Burly Q

admin — Tue, 04 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Directed by Leslie Zemeckis

First Run Features

We can't deny that we're in the midst of a Burlesque Renaissance, at least in New York City—go to any club downtown and see for yourself. But there's also no denying that the art form has undergone a drastic change since its heyday, if not in the style of performance then in how its performers are received. Today there's something kitschy about women stripping down to pasties and shaking it 'til their tassels twirl. What was once our version of pole dancing has developed an innocent gloss with time. Nostalgia has helped us to appreciate burlesque for both its titillation and its humor, and to consider its performers not only strippers but also gifted comediennes.

In Behind the Burly Q, countless dancers from burlesque's "golden age" remind us that, even then, humor was always key, but that we shouldn't forget what the art form's really about. One former dancer recalls a remark made by her husband long after she'd stopped: "You weren't a stripper; you were in burlesque." She replied, "Well honey, what do you think I was doing in burlesque? I wasn't playing the piano."

This tongue-in-cheek attitude must have rubbed off on director Leslie Zemeckis, as she does her best to keep the film light even when approaching the darkest of subjects. Like many of those working the strip club circuit today, burlesque dancers of the thirties typically grew up underprivileged and often abused, with little hope for advancement. Some of the most famous performers, like Lili St. Cyr, carried their demons well into celebrity, falling into depression and drug use. Still, all of Zemeckis' interviewees look back on the era fondly, even when discussing their own struggles, and Zemeckis underscores their resilience with jaunty vaudevillian music throughout.

It's impossible to estimate how arousing burlesque was for audiences contemporary to its prime, but according to Behind the Burly Q, its performers were admired and courted by movie stars and politicians alike (including a young JFK). Burlesque brought them money and adoration, more than they could have garnered in any other profession available to them, and many of them truly enjoyed what they did. In fact, some dancers performed well into middle age, Ann Corio into her 80's. The film retains that same bawdy, shameless joy, while still managing to give proper reverence to its subject—and its originators.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, May 4th 2010

New Universe

admin — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 23:19:00 +0000

By Desolation Wilderness

K Records

A few years back, when I was considerably less tied down by things like work, a couple of friends and I endeavored to take a road trip from Seattle to Aurora, Colorado. Something about Desolation Wilderness' New Universe reminds me about that trip. It was about 500 degrees outside, and my car didn't have air conditioning. We drove ninety-five miles an hour the whole way there and back with all four windows down. There were frequently no other cars on the road with us–just miles and miles and miles of shimmering blacktop, dust, sagebrush, and antelope.

Desolation Wilderness sounds like pie in a creepy diner somewhere in Utah. They sound like a sweaty night camped out in a Wal-Mart parking lot in the middle of an endless sea of cattle ranches and gritty old men in Wrangler jeans. They sound like wind that blows in your car window and feels like the breath of a hot furnace. They sound like rusted springs and engine parts to a 1982 Ford pickup truck.

However, Desolation Wilderness also doesn't sound like all of those things–not really. The dust and heat and rusty springs and old trucks and creepy diners are seen only through a fine layer of Visqueen. They're like a fuzzy Super 8mm film of a picnic in 1968 (in fact, their video for “Come Over in Your Silver Car”—from their previous album White Light Strobing—looks like it is shot in 8 mm). There are no sharp edges or punchy lines delivered by vocals or guitar. Instead, both are manipulated by an endless parade of analog devices, creating a cool, dreamlike ambiance.

Desolation Wilderness’ jangly reverb-box guitar sound fits perfectly with a car ride on a hot day down a lonely road in the middle of nowhere with your feet sticking out the passenger-side window—or, at least, in a vague, hazy memory of one.

Written by: Emily S. Dunster, October 3rd 2009