30.EPILOGUE.58: September 1, 2003.
"Retreating To A Useful position (3)."
Some work is almost all
frame, which is to say that almost all of its power derives from what can
be said about it, what it can be drawn into connection with. The
great Borges story "Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote" is an extreme
example of that idea. Arthur Danto's thought experiment (the exhibition
with 12 square red paintings by different artists, for different reasons)
in The Transfiguration of the Commonplace is another. Both
of these are exercises in the conferral of value.
Is there anything in a work
that is not a frame, actually?
-- Brian Eno, A Year With Swollen Appendices
FRAME
I first encountered Brian Eno
in highschool, but at the time I didn't know who he was.
So let's go back in time:
BOOBS -- EUROPEANS -- BOOBS
When I was in Grade 7 I discovered
Heavy
Metal magazine. This was way back before Kevin Eastman, the Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles guy, bought it and turned it into a boring, unreadable,
embarrassing hunk of junk that pandered to juvenile fanboys and featured
Julie Strain on each and every cover. I'm talking about back when
the magazine was actually good.
Well, okay, maybe "good,"
here is a relative term because, on retrospect, on the whole Heavy Metal
wasn't really all that amazing-- but it did have some good stuff in it.
But it also had reams and reams of crap. But, when you're in grade
7, and you're looking at stuff you've never even seen before, let alone
understand-- even reams and reams of crap is kinda interesting, and new.
Thus, Heavy Metal
was, at the time, maybe the coolest comic magazine on the market.
It didn't really have anything to do with Heavy Metal music, as
such-- even though sometimes the magazine's editors seemed to think that
it did. And there were music reviews in the magazine, too.
Mostly, though, the reviews tended to spotlight weird prog rock and electronic
music, and punk. There wasn't much Heavy Metal, as such, in
Heavy
Metal.
In fact, the title of the
magazine was a translation from the French of Metal Hurlant-- of
which heavy Metal was trying to be an American version thereof. "Metal
hurlant" literally translates as "screaming metal." Metal Hurlant
was one of Europe's premiere comics magazines. And in Europe, where
they actually take comic books quite seriously, this actually meant something.
However, in North America, Heavy Metal was a bit of a mixed bag.
There were things from Europe-- usually poorly translated-- and by poorly
translated I mean that sometimes they were rendered almost utterly incoherent
by a translation staff that didn't seem to grasp the idea that sometimes
literally translating a text from o e language into another, word for word,
sometimes in as linear fashion as they can manage, occasionally wreaks
havoc with grammar and syntax. Sometimes the translations verged
on gibberish.
Okay, maybe they weren't
quite that bad, but the translations in Heavy Metal were at best
workmanlike-- and at worse they were garbage, with dialogue verging on
the surreal.
Anyway, as a 12 year old
boy I was more interested in all the nudity and violence these comics provided.
The finer aspects of translation mostly eluded me. And, although
I did know the translations were bad, I really didn't care as long as I
got to see some boobs.
And European comics sometimes
showed boobs. In fact, the staff of Heavy Metal liked to pander
to that fact. Heavy Metal was filled with titillating garbage.
And, wedged between the titillating garbage was the occasional legitimately
cool piece of comic art. (Stuff by Enki Bilal and Moebius, usually--
when Heavy Metal was good, it was a class act.)
(Keep in mind, though, that
as bad as some of the early Heavy Metal was, it was still Shakespeare
compared to the garbage that Eastman put into that magazine when he took
over.
And also keep in mind that
this has nothing to do with either Heavy Metal movie, both of which
are pure, unadulterated, unwatchable shit.)
And, besides, sometimes
the bad translations made the comics seem so foreign, so utterly alien,
that they made me feel kind of funny. And I loved that feeling, like
I was into something so weird and beyond everyone else that nobody in my
school would be able to keep up to me.
I was living on the periphery,
and it was a great place to be.
"CHANGES"
Anyway, right from the outset,
Heavy
Metal offered more than just poorly translated European stuff.
There was also some interesting American stuff in its pages as well.
After I bought my first
Heavy
Metal, and thoroughly devoured it, and decided that it was the coolest
thing in the world, I quickly obsessed and scoured the local comic shops
looking for back issues. Eventually I amassed a bunch of back issues
and poured over them every chance I got.
(Also, keep in mind this
was before comic shops had tons of interesting comics from all over the
world. Back when I discovered Heavy Metal there was Marvel
and DC and not much else. There were a few undergrounds floating
around, but they where just juvenile. And so I was stuck with
superheroes which I found to be disposable, interchangeable and meaningless.
After the "alternative comics" book of the mid-late 80s and early 90s things
changed. And now, in just about any comic shop, you can get stuff
that's a billion times cooler than most issues of Heavy Metal.
As well as some of the cool stuff that had been showcased in Heavy Metal.)
And so I poured over issue
after issue after issue of Heavy Metal magazine over and over and over
again. All the while amassing more back issues I'd also obsessively
study.
And then I found it.
The the holy grail.
The holy grail was in a
back issue I'd purchased a few days before in a used bookstore for a dollar.
This was in the summer between
Grades 8 and 9. Right when I was about to start highschool.
(If you'll remember, I didn't
do the "juniour high" thing. Elementary was Kindergarten to Grade
8, highschool was 9 to 12.)
The holy grail was a weird
little black and white comic with really unique-looking artwork.
The comic was about a page
long, and utterly incomprehensible. Later on in the same issue, there
was another one. Again, this other one was about a page long, and
incomprehensible. The two comics seemed to be connected, but somehow
independent. They didn't make much sense.
I stared at them, read them,
flipped between them.
They both seemed to be part
of a larger thing called "Changes" by a guy named Matt Howarth.
I could discern no plot
progression at all.
And the art looked so cool.
(It's hard to describe Howarth's
art. You just have to see it. it's unlike any other comic art
I've seen. Sometimes very detailed and other times cartoony.
His line gets thin or thick depending on the effect he wants to create.
Sometimes it's pointillist, other times kind of cubist. Sometimes
realistic and other times abstract. He's very stylistically diverse.)
Then I flipped through another
of my back issues. And there I found more installments of "Changes."
Again, they really didn't
make much sense.
Then I picked up another
back issue. Again, more "Changes."
I wondered why I hadn't
noticed them before.
BUT WHAT THE HELL DOES ALL THIS HAVE TO DO WITH BRIAN ENO?
Kind of freaked out by the sudden
discovery of something that had been there all along, I flipped through
other-- earlier and later-- issues of Heavy Metal, looking for "Changes."
In some issues I found installments of "Changes," in others I did not.
(Oh yeah, in the early days
Heavy
Metal serialized its stories. Then it didn't. Then maybe
it did again-- I'm not sure. I stopped reading it because more interesting
things came along. Now I'm not even 100% sure if it still exists.)
I put the few "Changes"
issues I had into chronological order, and read them. There were
far too many gaps between chapters to actually piece together a narrative.
But after reading the few installments I had, it did seem as if there was
something going on. A kind of a plot, and actual characters, too.
And I got the feeling that
whatever was happening in the story was really, really cool.
I became obsessed with finding
the rest of "Changes."
TAKE ME BACK TO GOOD OL' BUGTOWN
By the time I started highschool,
I'd found all the issues of heavy Metal that contained "Changes."
The plot of Changes is as
follows:
There is a place called
Bugtown. People who die in Bugtown come back to life. Because
of this, people can and will do anything to each other. Therefore,
Bugtown is a very violent place.
Bugtown is also extremely
crowded and polluted. It is also infinite.
Bugtown takes up an entire
"reality level."
In the world of "Changes,"
there are an infinite number of these "reality levels" which are in no
way like alternate universes-- although they kind of are. "Reality
levels" exist simultaneously with each other (or something), even though
they all have (or can have) different laws of physics. They are--
maybe-- an effect of individual perceptions rather than of differing sets
of physical laws. How this is different from any quantum theory of
alternate universes, where the universe an individual inhabits is the result
of his/her perceptual process locking probability into a fixed state, I
really don't understand. It's just best not to think about it too
much.
Anyway, there are infinite
number of reality levels. In theory, because there ar an infinite
number of reality levels, there is also-- in theory-- an infinite number
of everyone, and every thing. An infinity of earths, of yous and
mes, of everything. And these infinite everythings have very real,
concrete existences. Unless, of course, the rules of that reality
level dictate otherwise. (Again, how this differs from a parallel
universe theory where different universes exhibit wildly different basic
physicial and logical laws to the point where elementary mathematical constructs
like 1+1 equaling something other than 2 becomes-- in universes where the
laws of logic and math differ from ours-- a reality, is beyond me.)
And some people can cross over into different reality levels. Most
can't, but some can.
People from Bugtown, however,
can.
"Changes" concerns itself
primarily with two individuals from Bugtown, brothers named Ron and Russ.
Ron and Russ Post. They're kind of like contract killers, but really
they just like killing stuff. But you need to make money somehow.
So the solution is you become hitmen.
Ron Post is the most dangerous
and psychotic man in any and every reality level. And his brother
Russ is only slightly more balanced, and also slightly more deadly, than
Ron. Russ is only stable and safe in comparison to Ron.
Now, Ron and Russ have a
group of friends they like to hang with. There's a never ending party
at their house.
Ron and Russ also go to
concerts and screw and take whatever drugs they want and do whatever else
crosses their psychotic little minds-- because when you get right down
to it, nothing can hurt them.
If Ron and Russ die they
just come back. If they screw up their brains... well, their brains
really can't get much more screwed up than they already are, really.
And, so:
Reading this stuff, I was
in heaven.
As far as a wet dreams for
an angry teen boy are concerned, it don't get any better than Bugtown.
Matt Howarth knew the score.
Kill and maim and listen to cool music and to hell with all the rules because
there are no consequences to any actions at all.
Pure amorality-- the sweetest
fruit.
Nights, I would fall asleep
trying to wish myself out of the pathetic reality level in which I'd found
myself trapped, locked into time and space and an ugly, worthless body.
And every morning I would be disappointed and angry because there was no
fucking Bugtown outside my bedroom window. I was still stuck here,
on this mundane plain of existence.
And, if I went and gunned
everyone down at school like Ron Post (how I wanted to gun everyone down
at school like Ron Post) I'd just probably go to jail.
So, instead I ground my
teeth and endured another hellish day of Grade 9.
INFO DUMP
Now, Ron and Russ also know
members of a band called The Bulldaggers. The Bulldaggers is kind
of an experimental electronic / prog outfit.
The main members are as
follows:
Savage Henry: Guitars.
Monsieur Boche: Synth.
The unseen girl: Tapes
and effects.
(There are other members,
too. It's an endlessly shifting roster. Sometimes Ron even
guests.)
Anyway, one day, the Post
brothers are assigned, by Boche, to kill the lover of his girlfriend.
Boche's girlfriend is cheating on him, see.
The Posts kill the guy--
they take him to a reality level where he can't regenerate and do him in--
but then Ron blurts out the facts of their assassination in front of Boche's
girlfriend. She, quite, naturally gets upset.
To punish the Posts for
their indiscretion, Boche gives them a drug that upsets their ability to
shift between reality levels. This pisses off the Posts, but they
vanish, careening from reality level to reality level.
It is revealed over time
that the drug Boche gives the Posts not only messes with their ability
to shift between reality levels, but will also eventually destroy their
minds. This, it turns out is an accident. Boche becomes very
frightened and tries to go into hiding. ("Tries" because it's really
hard to hide from the Post brothers.)
The "accident," it turns
out, has been engineered by Boche's girlfriend in an attempt to make the
Posts kill Boche, and then themselves die. She's mad that Boche had
her lover killed.
Then, the chase is on:
The Posts cannot control
themselves and spend chapter after chapter shiting realities like mad--
hence the seeming incoherence of the story-- while trying to get back at
Boche-- all the while dodging assassination attempts engineered by Boche's
girlfriend (who's never named, only called "The Bitch"-- which really does
fit because she is a bitch). While this is going on, Ron is going
more and more insane and Russ is actually becoming saner.
We get introduced to zillions
of characters, and variations of characters, the Bulldaggers make a record,
and the plot flies about in a wildly anarchic fashion as the Posts careen
towards their respective fates.
In the end, there's a showdown
on a wasted, frozen reality level that looks like the 9th circle of Hell,
and to save everyone Russ has to kill Ron. Russ then snaps and Ron,
in an enormous cosmic joke ascends and becomes God.
In later years, Howarth
picked up the adventures of the Post Brothers, un-deifying Ron, and making
things get even crazier. But that's all another story.
(I actually owe a huge,
unrepayable debt to Matt Howarth. He really has been crucial in shaping
my world view as well as my perspectives on art, narrative, and humour,
for decades. But I haven't actually kept up with him. I've
sorta drifted away fro Bugtown. I know Howarth's on the Net, though.)
Anyway, in one of the early
chapters, Ron and Russ are chasing Boche, and Boche escapes by shifting
onto a reality level where everyone looks like Brian Eno.
They can't kill Boche because
they can't find him, and they have no time to kill everyone in an entire
reality level, so they leave.
See, in the end all this
stuff did connect.
SOME GIRL?
At the time I had no idea who
Eno was.
The Posts simply refer to
him as "Eno," and the Eno Boche becomes is the early Eno, the Roxy Music
transvestite.
So, basically I left that
chapter wondering who this Eno girl was, but not being too concerned.
After all, "Changes" was
so weird anyway, maybe the Posts were just talking about some other character
that I'd missed, or a friend of theirs, or something....
FIRST CONTACT
It wasn't until Grade 11 when
I went to a big used record sale under a tent, and when stumbled on vinyl
copies of Before and After Science, and Another Green World that
I realized that Eno was a real person, a guy instead of a girl, and that
he made music.
Curious, I bought the records.
After all, even in Grade
11 the Post Brothers were pretty damn cool. And if Howarth liked
Eno enough to have him guest in "Changes," well, then maybe Eno was worth
my time, too.
I played them.
WHAT IN GOD'S NAME THIS CRAP?!?, part 1
I hated them. Utterly,
totally, and completely despised them.
Words don't even describe
how much I loathed Before And After Science, and Another Green
World, so I won't even try.
WHAT IN GOD'S NAME THIS CRAP?!?, part 2
For some reason, though, in
Grade 12 I bought a cassette copy of Music For Airports. I
think part of the reason was the way the tracks had numbers instead of
titles. I thought that seemed cool.
I played it.
It bored me.
God, it bored me.
Again, another Eno thing
I hated.
And, again, words don't
even describe how much I loathed Music For Airports, so I won't
even try.
WHAT IN GOD'S NAME THIS CRAP?!?, part 3
I felt kind of confused.
After all, Matt Howarth seemed to like this guy. And I had
discovered Tangerine Dream through the Post Brothers. The Posts always
talked about going to Tangerine Dream concerts, and Tangerine Dream was
neat: lots of spacey synths and weird sequencer rhythms. I mean,
when I first heard Tangerine Dream they totally blew my mind wide open.
So was the problem with Eno, or was it with me?
So, I tried more Eno.
This time it was the Eno/Fripp Evening Star. Again, I hated
it.
Words can't describe it,
etc. etc. etc.
So I gave up. It was
Eno, not me.
Even Howarth couldn't be
right about stuff 100%.
And, after all, he seemed
to like Skinny Puppy, and I didn't like Skinny Puppy. (Actually,
I hated the horror-movie vocals-- they were just too cheezy-- but the music
was okay.) And he didn't like Laurie Anderson, and I did like Laurie
Anderson-- a hell of a lot. So I just forgot about Eno.
OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER
But:
A couple years later, I
got a cd player, and I was in the mood for some cds.
I went to a record store.
I don't know why I looked
in the Eno section-- after all I totally hated the guy-- had been trying
to like him since Grade 11 and failing each time-- but I did. And,
flipping through the Eno section, looking at all the overpriced imports--
there were a bunch of discs I hadn't seen before, a copy of Before And
After Science, and also the infamous Music For Airports-- my
eye was caught by a light purple cover sporting a muted pastel painting.
The cd was called Thursday Afternoon.
For some reason, I picked
it up, turned it over in my hands.
The track listing on the
back cover had only one item: "(1) Thursday Afternoon (61-minute
version)."
It was a cd with only one
long track. That seemed so cool.
But, I told myself, it's
Brian Eno-- who sucks, remember?
True.
And, besides, it was 35
dollars.
I put it back on the shelf.
But for some reason the
disc had a hold on me. I couldn't think of anything else.
And so, the next week, I
bought the cd, took it home, and played it.
SHIFT
My first time listening to Thursday
Afternoon was almost spiritual.
The music glowed, it shimmered.
It was utterly static, and
yet moved around, slowly, shifting itself into new patterns.
The sound was so deep it
was almost infinite. No matter how hard I listened, I could hear
new sounds.
And the sounds themselves
were amazing: a halting piano, too slow to even really be called contemplative,
too slow to almost be called music; the long, shimmering synth drone that
changed pitch almost subliminally (to really hear the pitch change I had
to listen to the cd on fast scan); a deep, relaxed, sighing sound; the
twittering of birds; and countless other shimmers, glitters, drones, and
soft sounds floating in and out of my perceptual range.
I felt like I'd shifted
realities. I felt like I was in another universe. Space and
time meant nothing to me. All that was, was here, now, and in this
music.
For the first time, I had
really heard Eno.
The hour went by like two
minutes.
SHIFT
The next week, I was back at
that same store. This time I bought Music For Airports.
It was also $35.
At home, I knelt in front
of my cd player and I put it in. I pressed PLAY.
I was about to stand when
the music started.
And then the music was over,
I realized I'd forgotten to stand. I'd spent the whole time listening
to the cd on my knees, in front of my stereo.
SHIFT
The next week, I went back for
more, but they were all gone.
When I asked the guy behind
the counter what had happened, he just shrugged.
I left the store feeling
angry and defeated.
30.EPILOGUE.58: September 1, 2003.