When I Get to the Border
for Rory Danielle Wilson
I walked out into the kitchen of the trailer we inhabited in the tiny “shore” town of Marmora, NJ. A 12 minute car ride from the beach or so, but near enough to smell the salt air and be annoyed by the gulls. Camp sites like this, mere miles from the bridges to the islands which comprise the Southern New Jersey shore, are budget-friendly options for down-on-their-luck families—they pitch tents, bring in their RV’s, or (like Rory and I did) rent a trailer. The rent was absurdly cheap for the season. Less than $1000 for 4 months inhabitancy meant we spent $250 a month on rent, plus marginal utilities. When I walked out into the kitchen of our tiny, run-down trailer, wreaking of pot smoke and littered with empty beer and wine bottles, she sat on the kitchen floor, naked from the waist down, arms streaked in crimson (a goth-kid’s candy cane). She was holding a large carving knife and had cut up the rug in front of our sink and was taping it to the fridge in patterns that Duchamp would blanch at (…actually, no he wouldn’t have) and smearing the blood from the superficial cuts on her arms to add color to the canvas. She looked up at me, blank, sick, hallow grin on her bulimic face: “Look honey”, she said in an eerie sing-song, “art.”
§
On October 12th of this year, Rory Danielle Wilson—my dear friend, former lover, former fiancee—passed away. As I write this at 2:00 am in New Jersey, we still don’t know why. No indication of drugs. An inconclusive autopsy. Rory, when I knew her best and spent the most time with her, did not lead an easy life. She struggled with severe and frightening eating disorders from a time well before I knew her, she had a penchant for self-mutilation, she was a binge drinker, and after she was brutally sexually assaulted (her attacker never brought to justice), she developed a fondness for freebasing cocaine. I was no angel myself. I really liked dexedrine. And whiskey. And beer. I liked drag racing with my headlights off on dark country roads with my best friend (also named Matt), Camel Light hanging out of my mouth, bottle of Crown Royal in the passenger seat, and a tallboy of Red Dog in the hand not draped on top of the steering wheel. I was either suicidal or on serious amounts of Effexor and Lithium most of our relationship. She cheated on me. Repeatedly (I even walked in on her once). Still, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt closer or more intensely connected to another person. We saved each other’s lives in a way—if in no other way than by scaring the hell out of one another. And in the end, I never trusted anyone the way I could trust her. How could she hurt me more? What more could she take? What more could I give? The idea of having secrets just seemed foolish. The fact that she’s gone now still doesn’t seem quite real. Nothing really does when I’m aware of her absence. But then, when am I not?
§
She would’ve liked Occupy Wall St. She was never “political” in the sense of being a “political junkie”, but her father (an ardent socialist and a fiercely intelligent man) instilled in her a basic sense of fairness, a fundamental suspicion of social norms and expectations, and he tried (but failed) to prepare her for the harsh reality that life so infrequently rewards either of those traits. That failure is part of the reason she could be so sweet and such easy prey—she genuinely wanted to believe that her sense of fairness and kindess would not be seen as weakness. She never got jaded.
We attended several protests against the impending Iraq War. We petitioned. And did die-ins. And marched in gay pride parades. As she got older, she paid attention to politics more. I guess, when she died the Occupy movement was still somewhat nascent, just starting to lose it’s baby teeth, teetering on the edge of being a “movement” instead of a flash in the pan. Rory was very much of the generation(s) which spawned the Occupy movement. 28 years old, 2 years of college, certification in massage therapy & herbalism, struggling to find consistent, decent paying work, relocating a few times, trying to harness the Internet to develop her own business—always scraping by, always trying some new venture, chasing some new lead, trying to find some way to utilize her training and her talent to help people in the manner she believed did the most good. It so rarely worked out for her. College, bartending, odd jobs, the haven of her aunt’s deli, spas, private clients, her own business…Rory was a transient person. She liked moving around and being active; trying new thinks and challenging herself. But that was fortunate for her. She didn’t have much of a choice.
When I think back on Rory overcoming (as much as one can) her eating disorder, her drug addiction, and her cutting, I don’t think of a damaged, fucked up kid (though, she certainly was that). I also don’t think of the strong, independent, happy, quirky, unfaltering optimist that she became as a result of her recovery. I don’t think of her loving parents or her caring partner. I don’t think of the life she managed to fashion for herself out of the hell that was our late teens and early/mid twenties. I think of how a person who could encompass all of these traumas and triumphs, these calamities and conquests…I wonder how it’s possible. I think of the disillusionment she exhibited and the stubborn insistence that she would not give into it. I think of the depression and how it nearly took us from one another (respectively) and how we both got our backs up and fought it. I think of the myriad ways we were failed by the mental health system, by shrinks and insurance companies, by teachers and administrators, by her friends, her lovers, and her employers. And I think of the people who wonder what the Occupy movement are complaining about. The people who cannot comprehend the violence entailed in a 5’6, 115lb girl being able to think she is too fat and starve herself or surreptitiously sneak into a bathroom and throw up her meager meal so easily, she no longer had to use her fingers to make herself gag, but could do so on command. That she could live in a society which, despite the obvious psychological damage done to her, the marks on her face and arms and hips, would force her to prove she was assaulted. To be unable to prosecute her attacker. To have to turn to drugs because she felt as though no one else would believe her and so it was better to kill what she felt inside of herself rather than understand it. To dedicate herself so fully and so selflessly to a career designed to improve the health and well-being of others and then struggle to find ways to share her new-found balance, grace, and sense of belief in the world. And in spite of all this, to never give up, to always get back up whenever she let herself get down, to have friends and family to rely on, to demand more out of life, to demand more from authority, to hold the world she lived in to a higher standard, a standard she risked her life and her health to understand and eventually not only lived up to, but surpassed—to demand that her optimism and her sense of belief be justified and to demand of herself that she take active steps to contribute to that end each and every moment she walked forward on the road of her recovery.
Rory isn’t some tragic parable. She’s not an allegory for the disenfranchisement of the 99%. She’s a human being who lived an all too human life of pain, trauma, frustration, transcendence, joy, and possibility. It was a life ended too soon. But she is instructive, in a way; I suppose, yes she can teach us something. Her life was instructive because it was a reminder that no matter how insidious or internalized our oppression, no matter how hegemonic or inexplicable the violence we suffer, no matter how distant those other shores may be, we are always waiting at the border; we only need to take the first step to cross over. Rory managed to cross that border. She managed to overcome the alienation and trauma she lived through. And I don’t mean in the abstract, when she passed on. I mean literally. As she lived and breathed. She made a life for herself. And isn’t that what the Occupy movement is all about?
So as you congregate in the parks and plazas, as you link arms and sing songs, as you take over bridges, shut down traffic, wash the tear spray out of your eyes, bandage your scrapes, dress your bruises, and laugh and kiss (in spite of this) just remember what it is you are trying to make for yourself. A life. Do not be so satisfied as to say “this is my life”; for though it is, “this” may also be “that”; it could be “anything” or “nothing”; because life is not about the living, it’s about the making; it’s about creativity and the freedom to create; it’s about the belief that “this”, “that”, & “anything” are possible.
§
Greedy people take what’s mine
I can leave them all behind
And they can never cross that line
When I get to the border
Saw-bones standin’ at the door
Waiting till I hit the floor
He won’t find me anymore
When I get to the border
§
Mouth agape, I stopped and stared at what she had done. The vacant eyes, the smile, hollow as the bones in a bird’s wing. I looked at her arms, the blood and fabric smearing her thighs and the white tank top she had on. I looked down at her, and stammering, slightly replied, “Th..That’s…that’s great sweetie.” She looked down again and resumed cutting at the rug with the knife, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth a little. Intent. Dedicated. And at that moment I thought she had lost her mind. I backed away slowly, quietly slipping the sliding door to our bedroom shut. I locked it. I slept on the floor on the farside of the bed, unsure if the violence she inflicted on herself might be turned against me in my sleep. I covered myself completely with a blanket and wept.
Now that she’s gone though, I wonder if that desperate, “pathetic” creative act wasn’t art—if it wasn’t a creative personality struggling with the limitations of their own life; their shortcomings, society’s shortcomings, their fears, neuroses, and unfulfilled wants and needs. I wonder if, in that moment, much like Eliot suggested in Tradition and the Individual Talent, she wasn’t Eliot’s exemplary artist: escaping the torture of her own emotional life through one singular, determined, bold, and uncompromising attempt to create. To invent form. To struggle with content. I wonder if I weren’t stupid for being so frightened that night. Truth be told, I regret not sitting on that floor with her, drawing my own blood and taking down the curtains and cutting them up and joining her in that endeavor. I regret not taking her in my arms and holding her. I miss her terribly every moment of every day.
I guess that is the other thing Rory taught us—never wonder “what if”, only “why not?” and then act accordingly. If only I had, I’d have had the “one more night” with her that the survivors of the dead so often long for. But I can’t have that. I can only honor her memory by being a maker; a creator; an artist; a prostelytizer of the possible.
And by missing her. And loving her.
But then, that’s never changed and never will.
more infoHallowmas @ Irving Plaza
Technically an all ages show, but kids 16 & under need to have a parent or guardian to get in.
Openers include the Pleisters.
Coat check for $3.
more infoLong time no talk!
Long time no talk. Where the hell have you guys been? I call and call and you just never pick up.
Seriously, though—I’m finally back after tearing through Europe with the World/Infernos and I’m already gearing up to head back out with those whackjobs for a West Coast swing, Hallowmas festivities, and FunFunFun Fest in Austin, TX. And I know, I’ve told you this before but this time—I promise; I’ve changed (if this is starting to cause flashbacks of the last conversation you had with an ex—I apologize for any undue trauma). December and January, we will play shows. I don’t care if I have to drag a piano onto a street corner and play till I get arrested, this is happening. And YOU (yes, you) should be excited about that. Because we are—all of us—excited about seeing you, excited about entertaining you, excited about making you laugh, making you weep, making you dance, making you sing along, making you stand-in-the-back-of-some-dark-bar-with-a-too-tight-cardigan-and-black-thick-rimmed-glasses-with-yr-arms-folded-across-yr-chest-as-you-ironically-and-detachedly-judge-us-because-yr-too-cool-to-have-fun-and-too-lame-to-have-yr-own-band-(-or-have-a-good-band-at-least-)—. I (Matthew) am planning on having the band ready to throw some new material at you during these shows as well and we’re hoping to play throughout the Philly area and MAYBE, just maybe Gomorrah, I mean, New York City and Baltimore (because I read Role Models by John Waters on tour and outside of the vaguely creepy chapter on the Manson Family, it made me want to hang out in Baltimore).
In business news, beyond the Euro zone’s mounting debt crisis and American capitalism’s scorpion-in-the-desert-driven-made-by-the-heat-&-stinging-itself-to-death thing, you can now purchase our record, Emotional Alchemy on CD Baby & at Turtle Studio’s Bandcamp and will soon be able to access it on iTunes, Amazon, Spotify, last.fm and other places with an ontologically digital constitution. Stay tuned for that, I will probably append a brief (I swear) note to the news section in order to alert you, my favorite feckless consumers, to the big (that is, wholly predictable) news. [EDIT: it is now available on aforementioned websites! Post reviews if you love me!] About damned time, eh?
Stay tuned for this and details about shows. I swear—everything will be different this time.
—MWL
P. S. — The next record is almost completely written. Isn’t that crazy?
What Do I Like/Hate About Musical Artists and Their Records; and Why Do I Feel That Way?: LIKE, pt. 1—HONEY WATTS (Liz Fullerton)
As part of a new series I’d like to start analyzing records which I doggedly love or hate, as well as records by friends of mine who I think are wonderful, I offer up this consideration of Liz Fullerton’s project Honey Watts as a first installment…
Full disclosure: I’ve been friends with Liz for a couple years and played on the Honey Watts debut record. I’ve played live with her. And I’m not going to try and evoke the pretense of objectivity here. Liz is a great artist. What I am going to do is tell you why and try to give you a context in musical pop culture history in which to place her. As a synthetic thinker and a cultural genealogist, the more interesting one’s creative lineage, the more interesting they are. This isn’t always the case but…well… here…just keep reading.
Honey Watts self titled debut marks the first studio offering of Philadelphia songwriter Liz Fullerton. Folks may know her due to her involvement with the trip hop project Dutch (featuring Stoupe of Philly rap collective Jedi Mind Tricks as DJ). And you can hear elements of Liz’s background in trip-hop on this record. But in unexpected ways. Because this record is decidedly NOT a trip hop record. What it is, is one of the most startlingly plaintive, atmospheric, and dark (as in earth-toned, not goth) folk/country records you’ll ever hear.
Sonically it hints at PJ Harvey, Under Byen, even Kate Bush just with the inclusion of very subtle and able acoustic guitar. It really blends the warmth and emotive quality of folk and country with avant-pop atmospherics. It’s got the integrity of low-fi but with the high production quality of the aforementioned artists.
It’s sonically like PJ Harvey because it uses similar ambient sounds common to much of her early work. She doesn’t use the processed beats, but a lot of the white noise Jeff generates with the Juno and the icy reverbs remind me of her early stuff.
It reminds me of Under Byen because the arrangements are sparse enough to leave space for the more plaintive/introspective moments in Liz’s voice, yet layered and not-simplistic. Liz’s instrumentation isn’t as varied as Under Byen’s though (lack of mallet percussion, conventional drum sounds).
It’s sonically like Kate Bush because so much of Kate Bush’s 1985 record Hounds of Love was influenced by Peter Gabriel’s early 80’s solo work. Gabriel was aware of the record (Hounds of Love inspired him to use Kate Bush on “Don’t Give Up” on his 1986 record So. Some of the vocal processing, some of the atmospheric/electronic pads and washes are reminiscent. Also, the way Jeff treats the piano reminds me in some ways of a less 80’s sounding version of the piano on certain songs on Hounds of Love (e.g. “Mother Stands for Comfort”). The production’s similarity with Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, and Under Byen is not surprising. Jeff Hiatt (our able producer) is a great admirer of Daniel Lanois and the other great producers of that era of avant-pop (Lillywhite, Eno, Padgham), but he adds a distinctively modern and personal spin on the production. He gives the record depth and air, grain and polish, and then let’s these seemingly conflicting elements engage in dialogue throughout the record which is why the record can be both so unsettling and so comforting.
Another interesting comparison is Coco Rosie. Emerged from the freak folk scene, but pretty early on tended to throw in dark, atmospheric electronics and even (on their last record) hip hop as a part of the production. The two girls who front the band’s voices are also similar to Liz’s (though they lack her richness and resonance) in the sense that they too revel in odd note choices and trilling, melismatic phrasing….melismatic by the way is a great adjective to use when describing some of Liz’s vocal turns. But really, these comparisons are just a way of getting you to become pre-emptively familiar. It’s difficult to really prepare for or describe the instrument that is Liz Fullerton’s voice, however.
Her voice is unique, not quite jazz, not quit country and her songwriting has a certain darkness to it at times and a certain whimsy at others. Some of these unique voices/artists you could reference: a less minimalist—i.e., maximalist—Scout Niblett; Jolie Holland; Beth Gibbons; Kate Bush; Cat Power—historically, the sort of unique approach to phrasing and the unique timbre of her voice might even reference people like Billie Holiday, Karen Dalton and Elizabeth Cotton. The reason I mention Billie Holliday, Elizabeth Cotton, and Karen Dalton is because all three singers took simple melodies (jazz standards, blues, folk/country respectively) and found ways to alter phrasing or throw in an odd note choice and make it work within an established traditional style of vocals. Those three genres (blues, jazz, folk/country) are the three operative touchstones, in a traditional standpoint, of Liz’s record. The 4th is 80’s/90’s avant-pop/trip hop (same style, different name for different decades) a la Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Massive Attack and Portishead.
The Kate Bush comparison however is particularly instructive. The vocal qualities she shares with Kate Bush are the keening quality of her upper register, the way in which her note-shaping and enunciation is used as a stragecially emotive device…the way she draws out a vowel, or muffles a a vowel, or gets a little lazy on a consonant or snaps off a crisp consonant in a quiet moment is all a way of manipulating emotion and Jeff’s treatment of her voice highlights that. BUT, the difference is while Kate Bush’s voice is VERY trebly, Liz’s voice is more resonant. That resonance and soulfulness is what reminds me of Cat Power. Beth Gibbons, the lead singer from Portishead, is another good reference because she and Liz both use the spaciousness of an arrangement (pads, drones, ambient noise) in order to develop motivic ideas thru phrasing. You can turn an odd note choice when you’ve got the sonic room and open harmonic space. Gibbons did that expertly in Portishead. Liz learned from it, I think and brought Bush’s hermeticism and sophistication to it.
Lyrically, the thing Liz does so well is find interesting ways to relate personal experience to the listener without being trapped in the singer/songwriterly “I” (a more annoying persona has yet to be developed in pop music by the way than the courageous, solitary singer/songwriter)—whether it be tragic or joyous—and write songs that clearly reflect that experience. She does so by using very hermetic imagery or very evocative, allusive language. It’s not confessional so much as it is EMOTIVE. The “I” in her lyrics is complicated by the aesthetic and imagistic edifice of the lyrics— “chattering stars”, “palace of owls”, etc. And it’s fascinating because this symbolism and dense imagery is than juxtaposed with stark declarative statements “shut their mouths”, “i don’t live here anymore”, “this day was perfect”. The whole record jumps back and forth, from song to song or within the same song between these two poles.
Lyrically, that sort of subtle hermeticism (intensely personal symbolism and stark imagery) and direct address & it’s diffuse confessionalism reminds me of Kate Bush (who hid her own thoughts about her sexual awakening within a song entitled (& about) “Wuthering Heights”), Joanna Newsom, Coco Rosie, Scout Niblett (who I mentioned earlier…she tells personal tales and wraps them in alchemical language—and there is a sort of alchemy going on in Liz’s lyrics too), and even early Peter Gabriel (I’m thinking of songs like “Here Comes the Flood”). But ultimately, what would her songwriting be without that voice. That voice is what carries these songs off into the ether. Liz knows how to use her voice and use melisma, and ambiguous voice leading, and cryptic melodicism to work as a PART of her lyrics, as an instrument within the song. It is in this way that her lyrics transcend mere poetry and become music themselves—as if transubstantiated by that voice of hers. And sure, Liz’s songs have quirks, and humor. And her voice reflects that. The difference is her voice isn’t just quirky. It’s strong and pure and displays an impeccable sense of pitch awareness, control, and resonance…but her ear for things like phrasing, melody, and note choice as a composer is what makes her voice “quirky” or unique. It’s a matter of aesthetic choice and of feeling, not some ironic hipster pose. Liz’s voice is sincere and you can hear it in every trilled vowel, every elided consonant, and every modal shift in her melody. What’s significant about that is the following: All of these things (Liz’s voice, her compositions, her lyrics) are not a gimmick—they are evidence of the surprising precociousness and unquestioned ability she displays as a composer and melodist.
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