This week, a website that I co-founded opened its doors. It’s called Kickstarter, and it’s an easy, feel-good way to raise money to do anything: make a record, produce a book (which is what I am doing), invent an invisibility cloak, put on a show… The possibilities are endless.
Below is an explanation for what motivated us to start this, and where we hope to see it go. If you’d like to be a part of Kickstarter, just email me at yancey at kickstarter dot com. Word.
The Beatles were turned down by nearly every record label. George Lucas couldn’t find a movie studio that would make Star Wars. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein of the Washington Post were two of the only reporters assigned to cover Watergate. John Kennedy Toole went to his grave with A Confederacy of Dunces still unpublished.
Anecdotes like these have become folklore, as have their lessons: good ideas go unrecognized, experts get it wrong, perseverance prevails. All true. But as we marvel at the elixirs of skill and luck that have brought the few enormous fame and many endless heartache, it’s also worth considering that maybe this judgment system that seems to get so much so wrong is outdated. That it doesn’t speak for anyone except itself. That a good idea, well-crafted and pursued with passion, doesn’t need a gatekeeper’s stamp of approval to succeed.
The gauntlet that is fundraising (for everyone who doesn’t have a rich, benevolent uncle) sees only profit or predictability. Not art or passion or talent or an incredible story of inspiration.
Kickstarter aims to give each one of us a chance to fund our ideas, starting directly with the people who are closest to it (friends, fans, community-fellows). And it’s a way to break beyond the traditional methods — loans, investment, industry deals, grants — to discover that we can offer each other value through creation without a middleman dictating the product and terms.
Age 4 – Gets into the Beatles.
Age 6 – Writes first song, entitled “I’m A Guy Who Likes Potatoes,” a taxonomy of the ways they can be prepared. Still my finest composition.
Age 7 – Started a Beach Boys fan club consisting of me and my two cousins. No one cared as much as me.
Age 7 – Tell my dad I want to learn how to play the guitar like him. I don’t, but know he will like hearing it. Lessons commence and I am miserable.
Age 10 – Really hear hip-hop for the first time as my step-brother Tommy (he lived with his mom) makes me wear his headphones and plays “Nightmare on My Street” on his Walkmen while he dances in front of me mouthing the words. I was blown away.
Age 11 – Dad teaches me “Blackbird.” Suddenly I love playing guitar.
Age 13 – I become the replacement drummer in my dad’s Southern rock band, Rock Bottom, for the summer. We never play out, but I do develop a life-long affection for the Marshall Tucker Band.
Age 14 – Nirvana
Age 15 – I buy Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain to impress the dudes who work at the Record Exchange, my local record store. I begin buying indie rock when I can afford. I never like it, but the clerks like that I’m buying it. Or I think they do.
Age 16 – I hear “Web in Front.” Now I “get” indie.
Age 16 – Get an internship at WUVT, the Virginia Tech college radio station. Upma is the station manager and I badly want her to like me. Her favorite band is the Fall. As much as I try, I cannot get into them. We don’t click.
Age 17 – Play two songs on my guitar in front of the whole school at a choir concert: Beatles, “Girl” and Oasis, “Married With Children.” And yes, I did the pot inhales in “Girl.”
Age 18 – New Years Eve, back from college. Gang all together again at a cabin in the middle of nowhere singing “A Long December” by the Counting Crows as it turns midnight. Will never forget it.
Age 19 – Write my first piece of music criticism. It’s for a new site called Pitchfork. It’s terrible but they take it. Six weeks later I am (justifiably) fired for a really bad review of Joe Pernice’s one record as Chappaquiddick Skyline. I included more than one Ted Kennedy joke.
The subway near my apartment has elevators to get to the tracks, and as I get in one on Saturday night I hold the door for an older man who’s pushing a large potted plant on a dolly. It’s wrapped in a big plastic bag.
“That a tree?” I ask.
“Trees. I love trees,” he says. “When they sway in the wind it’s like they’re singing together." Which is an amazing thought, and I tell him so.
I ask about the tree and he says he’s coming from the home of a close friend who had died five years before. He and the man’s other friends had decided to each take a piece of the friend’s favorite tree and plant it near their homes to keep him with them.
"That’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“He was a beautiful man” he says in a way we wish someone would say about us one day.
Together we carry the dolly down a set of stairs and keep talking. He talks about growing up with older brothers, tough times after World War II, life in Kip’s Bay. Around us people are staring: Why are we talking? Are we together? Someone explain the dynamic here.
His stories need no prompting. He shifts suddenly to taxes, how much money was taken in the ‘50s compared to today. “Maybe he’s a crazy after all” I think, disappointed, and start looking for an exit.
The train pulls up and as we get on together I say, “I’m going to pop my headphones in, but it was a real pleasure meeting you.” “You too,” he says, and we shake.
Twenty minutes later I’m getting off at 14th St and I wave, making sure he sees me as I go. He motions me back to the door hurriedly.
“My name’s Rudy Lawless. Google me,” he says. And that was it.
As I exit the station I search and find him immediately: a jazz drummer, he’s played with Art Blakey, Roy Eldridge, and Etta James. A figure in Harlem, teaches classes and evangelizes jazz. Later I tell a knowledgable friend. “You met Rudy Lawless on the subway??”
Earlier, on the Clark St. platform, I asked if I could take his picture. He posed with a flourish, and we looked together and laughed.
Do you Google yourself, Rudy Lawless? Let’s get coffee.
New York summers are pregnant. The air drips with humidity, the streets applaud the flip-flaps of determined feet, skirts draped just so over still-pale thighs, stoplights breaking out into song: "Hate It or Love It" everywhere, 50 and the Game calling all cars, Mary hollering back a block away. Around rush hour, the city curiously quiets to a whisper, as if everyone was suddenly struck mute by the comforting breeze of dusk, the dwindling sun ricocheting off the glass towers, drenching the pavement in a refracted glow that makes us all look like movie stars. Yesterday, after a thunderstorm that turned the sky opaque like a curtain-drop, a rainbow just as suddenly stretched its hues across the horizon; at a street corner in Brooklyn, a walk signal blinked forlornly as the pedestrians stared awestruck to the west.
But there's an eeriness about the start of this summer that has me on edge. Maybe it's reading books related to September 11 lately, but every nice day has me looking for low-flying aircraft. Doom is afoot. If you were in New York or Washington D.C. then, you will undoubtedly remember the absolute perfection of that day and those following it. I remember thinking that nature was taunting us, putting us in our place, showing us how beauty could persist even as the very concept seemed hopelessly gauche.
Maybe it's just the frustration of responsibility in the summer, though. This time of year we all want to revert to our skinned-knee selves. We stare out of windows, sit on stoops trying to will the sun not to set, jealously eye beach bags and flip-flops, curse the desks that cuff us from freedom. That's what getting older is blah blah blah, but who wants that racket when a sunburn is but two hours away? But the machinations of capitalism know no rest, and the gears keep turning, turning, turning.
Everyone who is anyone evacuates New York in the summers. The Hamptons develop smog from the cologne and perfume clouds, and planes take off for Florida by the minute. With the rich and famous-to-their-friends gone, the pre-War cathedrals around Central Park go dark, and the rest of the city starts roaming for sex and trouble, in that order. New York is hip-hop's capitol, and the summer is its convention. Beats come from the sidewalk, the clatter of subway tracks pick up contagious rhythms, ringtones and taxi horns harmonize and collaborate. And the tone changes by the light: "Crazy in Love" was Saturday at dusk, the night rich with potential; "Drop It Like It's Hot" that same night seven hours later, the party sparse and grasping so the mood would never let up.
Unlike Miami or Los Angeles — places where seasons are fashion, not meteorological, terms — New York summers are flings, winks across the 6 train and a lingering eye on a crosswalk. We all know it will disappear (those heavy coats always visible in our too-small closets) and yet we fight the clock anyway, relishing the sweat if nothing else. May it never end.
The last half hour of The Staircase, an eight-hour Sundance documentary about the murder trial of novelist Michael Peterson by filmmaker Jean-Xavier de Lestrade, is almost entirely without dialogue. After the court reporter reads the verdict — which sends Peterson to prison for life — she polls each juror in open court, asking if they believe the defendant to be guilty. As each of them answers in the affirmative, Lestrade cuts between the faces in the courtroom: Peterson stunned but still calculating, his daughters Margaret and Martha frozen in grief, his lawyer David Rudolf genuinely shocked by the verdict and prosecutors Jim Hardin and Freda Black no less surprised.
The camera follows Peterson as he is handcuffed and swallowed into the courthouse's belly, trailing him and five deputies through a maze of barred doors and fluorescent lights until he reaches a police cruiser, whereupon he collapses in a mix of grief and relief, his head hanging in shame for the first time in years. Michael Peterson does not cry, but his children — back in the house where their adopted father supposedly killed their stepmother — do. Young Martha, the only child to really truly believe her father's innocence, is inconsolable, while her older siblings silently take inventory of their lives, and realize that they are left with nothing but each other and a sadness that will not wane.
Over eight episodes, The Staircase chronicled the prosecution and defense of Michael Peterson. He was accused by North Carolina law enforcement of murdering his wife Kathleen on December 9, 2001. He claimed that she simply fell down the stairs. As a novelist specializing in Vietnam fiction, Peterson's coffers are full, and so he hires a dozen or so lawyers and experts to defend his life. It doesn't take long for them to realize that he is, most likely, guilty.
A narcissist, Peterson at times seems to delight in his prosecution, in the attention that he is getting. And it's plainly obvious throughout that he believes he will get away with it. But in the privacy of his home, we see Peterson interact with his children, and his belabored responses and actions toward them reveal a tremendous amount of guilt.
When Peterson's extramarital dalliances with male escorts are revealed, the case takes a turn toward the sordid, and immediately Court TV and the like begin following it closely. Peterson's explanation is painfully extracted, as he portends that his and Kathleen's marriage was an ideal one, just that she couldn't satisfy his urges the way a hilariously frank man from a military-themed gay escort service could. But as he rationalizes his affairs, Peterson reveals too much, calling Kathleen "demanding" and "a part of every aspect of my life" in a tone that implies a venom that the defense team would rather do without.
The lawyers know that the case they have been presented is an odd one. While Peterson's explanation of a fall can't explain the amount of lacerations on his dead wife's head or the incredible amount of blood at the scene without a magic bullet-type theory, the prosecution doesn’t have much to go on to explain how else it occurred either. The case then comes down to the prosecution making the fall theory seem implausible and the defense the opposite. The inept prosecution fails spectacularly, proclaiming the murder weapon to be a mysteriously absent blowpoke. The item is found by the defense toward the end of the trial in Peterson's garage, and an examination of the metal rod proves that it was not used to kill Kathleen Peterson.
Even though Michael Peterson seems guilty, the prosecution never proves it. Instead, prosecutor Freda Black — whose sack-like dresses and obnoxious demeanor suggest a level of prissiness heretofore undiscovered — simply says the phrases "homosexual," "bisexual" and "anal sex" as often and as angrily as she possibly can, hoping to play on an uneducated jury's prejudices against carnal malfeasance. And, as the verdict suggests, it works: there is little evidence offered that damns Peterson, aside the coincidental fact that a woman he knew in Germany died by falling down the stairs 20 years prior, yet he is found guilty anyway.
Lestrade tells this story carefully, relishing in the minutiae of forensics and Peterson's bottomless well of self-congratulation. There are no epiphanies, just slow unravelings. Most fascinating is watching Peterson's high-priced defense team construct scenarios around their client's thin lies: even though everyone in the room knows that they are building a house on sand, they have makeshift props and buttresses at the ready for every situation. But they can not account for an awful judge, a man named Orlando Hudson whose cases, as a postscript says, are regularly overturned by the North Carolina Supreme Court, and a jury that seems to have little respect for the burden of proof. And so for now, Michael Peterson sits in a jail cell awaiting his appeal, dreaming of Saigon and convinced that the perfect murder is only a competent judge away.
Enough with the linking to pieces already, I know, but one more: this one on Queens of the Stone Age, which I mention solely for the last paragraph. That graf and that whole A Frames piece in its entirety (even if its bibliography was over the top) are who I am as a writer right now, and for the first time in a long time, I'm okay with that. As any writer will testify, the way the whole exercise works is that you are embarrassed by your own output no more than 14 days after finishing it. That part you thought was so funny and interesting when you first wrote it feels dumb and like you're trying too hard by the time it actually hits print. A good writer is constantly evolving, continually spotting his/her own bullshit in an attempt to find his/her voice and — most importantly — some sort of honesty/truth. That's really hard to come by. We're almost always writing in someone else's voice, even if it's an amalgamation of two cereal boxes, one TV commercial, a direct mail coupon book and two volumes of Proust. Everything bleeds, even the stuff we scoff at for poor grammar and worse ideas.
The goal, then, should be to: a) write clearly b) write honestly c) write from a place that is your own. And by that last point I mean from a point of view that draws from your own experiences and prejudices, etc. It's not "write what you know," thank God, but it's something kind of close. Write where you know, or something like that. In those Queens and A Frames pieces — trite shit to be sure — I drew on my own Christian upbringing in both content and tone to gesture toward the weighty texts that I buried myself in as a kid. This isn't to say that these are great pieces or congratulate myself for turning out the 450,000,000,000th record review written this year; it's to say that after who knows how long of trying, I finally managed to write something that felt like me, in a sense, even if it's just a very small part of who I am.
I'm excited by that, of course, but at the same time it's made me wonder why I have this blog. I started it, as I noted in my very first post, to practice writing, to self-promote and to create a self-publication, complete with style guide. And while I've kept up the self-promotion (as the 3,000 "look at what I wrote here" entries and that sidebar can attest), the other two bits have been lost lately. Part of it's a day job whose demands seem to increase daily (Who wants to return to a computer after spending all day being hypnotized by one unless it's for money?) and part of it — not to get melodramatic — is Hunter S. Thompson's death. Reading the amazing amazing amazing amazing Rolling Stone issue about his life made me wonder exactly where I'm heading as a writer, and where it is that I want to end up. And I don't know the answer to that, and I don't expect it will just pop into my head one day, out of the thin blue. But I'm considering it, and trying to sort out how this blog is 'sposed to fit into the whole big mess. I'll let you know when I find out.
Thanks to my friend Rich Juzwiak — who really, really needs to start a blog — I've now come across my first listened-to-20-times-a-day single of 2005: Tori Alamaze's "Don't Cha." Google trawls bring up little, aside from this being Tori's first single, and it's released by Universal and produced by Cee-Lo. "Don't Cha" sounds like Mary J. in her hours of darkness — insecure, legs shaky, her feet nervously crossing each other, a quivering sip from a glass of wine, eyelids fluttering as she tries to maintain eye contact. Like 10cc's "I'm Not in Love," "Don't Cha" is about a narrator talking herself into a decision she doesn't want to make. After spending the majority of the track laying down her case for why she's worth catching, Tori wraps up "Don't Cha" with resignation, singing: "I know she loves you/ So I understand/ I probably be just as crazy about you/ If you where my man." It's a personal ad in song: SBW seeks MBM to leave SO for true love. Only no one responds and she's left alone in her too-big apartment and sings her troubles into his answering machine with only pitying handclaps and a keyboard drone as accompaniment. Halfway through she starts feeling strong, the rush of laying her story bare convincing her that she's doing the right thing, that she's too good for this asshole, too pretty to waste her time on some loser who doesn't even know how good she would be to him. But then comes another burst of organ, a little louder and harsher this time, and again she's frightened into a corner, suddenly talking about "maybe next lifetime" and wishing she was already there.
In early December the only thing I was listening to was hip-hop, thanks to an amazing amazing amazing (one more) amazing social history of the genre coming out in February that I was reviewing. Each chapter sent me in search of some long-forgotten single or album, and the music never failed to disappoint. While The Predator isn't mentioned in the book (Amerikkka's Most Wanted gets the ink), it's always been one of my favorite hip-hop albums, and recently I've returned to it. Though "It Was a Good Day" is heavily lit perfection, "When Will They Shoot?" is the track that wows me: that orbiting guitar loop, the Cap'n Crunch snare cracks and Cube's furious barking, as if they parked the studio in the middle of Grape Street and hit record. A+
Rising like the Phoenix from the cadaverous swamps of Hollywood Forever, Dennis Quaid eyes the world with a wary but grateful squint, his face cracking like the clay from which he came with each grin, both natural and forced. It's the best smile in Hollywood — not like Julia Roberts' "How'd they do that?" Joker grin or Harrison Ford's "I'm smarter than you!" smirk, Quaid's honest face breaks into quiet laughter with deceptive ease. It's a smile that talks white cotton panties off of virgin ingénue thighs, a smile that gets free lapdances at Hogs & Heifers, a smile that makes meter maids flinch, a smile that would've earned him at least a dozen Employee of the Month plaques at the local Ford dealership if his life had turned out differently.
In Good Company is the best performance of Quaid's career. Then again, he's had a lousy one. Few box office hits, few standout performances and he even had to traverse Martin Short's colon. Stunt men have had better careers. Yet Quaid has hung around, picking up men in jeopardy roles in B-list flicks that require him to wear lots of olive and khaki. He's Tom Berenger with looks and a bigger paycheck.
For In Good Company, Quaid plays Dan Foreman, an advertising executive at a prominent sports magazine. He's in his 50s, he lives a comfortable life, he's well-respected. He doesn't have much, but what he has he's earned. After the company's publisher is bought by a mega-corporation, Quaid is pushed aside for sales wunderkind Carter Duryea, played by Topher Grace, who is half his age.
The film gets off track with Grace's relationship with Quaid's daughter Alex (the ever-breathy Scarlett Johansson), but otherwise its simple, play-it-straight tone works perfectly, as Grace's paper tiger persona wilts in the face of Quaid, the proverbial lion in winter. Written and directed by Paul Weitz (American Pie and About a Boy), Company balances the masculine embarrassments of Quaid and Grace well: the former being forced to confront his age, something he had usurped with his business-jock personality; the latter realizing that though his corporate ladder runs a rung higher, he may never achieve the peace that Quaid has attained. It's a tale of boys and men, and it's one of the finest pictures of the year.
Adam Sandler has a kind, generous heart. He comes from a close family, you can tell. A home where a net was always ready for his pratfalls, aspirin for his hangovers, a hug for his failures. His comedy works because there's a confidence that allows him to completely become the pawn of wily, mustachioed villains who have the world at their fingertips but no blood in their hearts. Sandler so easily becomes the loser because he himself has never been one, and his naïve grace prevents him from even acknowledging the possibility that it could ever happen to him. He has family, friends, hobbies, money and, most importantly, a big heart. Life is good and could probably be even better, but ambition does not concern him.
In the wonderful Spanglish, Sandler is the greatest chef in the United States. He's methodical. Late at night he constructs to-clog-for egg sandwiches, the yolk soaking through the bread just so. His John Clasky has the culinary world at his chopsticks, but the home life leaves much to be desired. His wife Deborah (the spectacular Téa Leoni) is manic and self-absorbed, his daughter Bernice (Sarah Steele) is sweet but overweight and under-esteemed and his mother-in-law Evelyn (Cloris Leachman) is a kind alcoholic.
John is hardly the perfect man — he is shut off and avoids confrontation to ridiculous extremes — but his generosity carries him. He's a good man surrounded by women tormented by their mothers: Deborah the victim of a drunk's selfishness, Bernice the casualty of an obsessive jogger's physical diligence. And when Deborah hires beautiful Mexican illegal immigrant/single mother Flor Moreno (Paz Vega) to be the family's new housekeeper, it's only a matter of time before John seeks redemption in the bosom of this fiery Virgin Mary.
Flor immediately dislikes the gaucheness of Deborah, the way she barks "LEFT!" at pedestrians before passing them (sometimes even two or three blocks in advance), the way she manipulates Bernice, unable to see the sweetness that lies within her plump frame, the way her white guilt completely dominates every conversation between them. She knows this woman will never be her friend, and that it's a job that could disappear in a heartbeat. She is never comfortable in their home.
But Flor's unease finds an unlikely companion in John, himself even warier of attention (a rave New York Times review of his LA restaurant upsets him greatly) to the point that he finds relief being in the presence of someone with whom he cannot communicate, thanks to a language barrier. There are hints of Bottle Rocket's Anthony and Inez in John and Flor (James L. Brooks, who wrote and directed Spanglish, produced Bottle Rocket): Anthony finds refuge for his ennui in the chirpy and inquisitive Uruguayan hotel maid Inez, falling in love with the idea of her (innocent, sweet and naïve) as much as the actual woman.
The same is true of John and Flor. John falls for her generosity, for her un-Deborah-ity, but in truth, he doesn't know her. He knows her as a housekeeper, as a woman who loves his daughter — not on her terms. This isn't his fault — Flor understands this and still requites his adoration — but it's hardly the stuff of longevity. These are the ingredients of a fling, and John and Flor both know that they are too old and even too moral for that. Some desires can never leave the backburner.