Link to the (21-minute) interview:
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Why is the sky so blue? He doesn’t like words anymore, he says, but Timi Conley is clearly in love with sound. And what a wall. Berlin fell, and they are playing punk rock music on mars. Give him your money, kids. He is no more for sale than “Frank Zappa (for President”) ever was. Things ’bout to get weird.
I’m dreaming up our big pARTy now over veggie enchiladas, Reverend TC (“Timi”) Pane and me together again. See, Timi’s birthday is 8-28, mine 8-29. I was born on the same day as Michael Jackson and the dude who thought up Democracy, but that’s a different blog post. “Virgos in the Cities” it could be called, a two-day, two-city affair – check it his bday in ATL, mine in Athens…maybe…
On the cusp of Athens Slingshot Festival, March 19th-22nd in the Classic City, http://www.slingshotathens.com/, I was all set to finally review the new Kite to the Moon record, but I relapsed and back tracked into his Nerd Sexy album first, which I found for free on Spotify. Before I switch hit again, let me briefly plug that festival, because it will be amazing: TINARIWEN and KISHI BASHI are playing (look them up if you are not already in the know), there’s tech biz, electronic art, even a night of comedy. Slingshot was just a successful “demonstration” last year, and in full year one the festival has already bloomed into a four-day, full-city spectacle. Join in.
NERD SEXY by Timi Conley: Experimental. Catchy. Modern-cum-postmodern love sounds intertwined against grippingly trippy snippets. Conley displays a virtuoso knowledge of the rules and still breaks them regularly. It’s as if all the good Beck music was poured into a blender with a splash of that famous Athens, GA candied liquor, which propelled early pioneers Pylon and the B-52’s to (accidentally) break the town wide open. Big national acts like REM and Widespread Panic, and later Of Montreal of the Elephant Six Collective, sprang forth from that ruptured earth, and I was there. But that, too, is another blog post of historical reporting. Timi is the now and the future. Exciting solo debut from the frontman of Kite to the Moon and seminal Athens party band Fuzzy Sprouts is way too sexy to miss.
Timi Conley and Kite to the Moon play the Green Room in Athens, GA on Friday March 21st as part of SLINGSHOT. See y’all there. I will be the guy in the purple pants up front.
Latest in the series:
Here’s a link to a sports piece in coverage of the Atlanta Hawks; it was published locally and also by Sports Illustrated’s website: www.SI.com
My travel book says a big black sand coastline mostly washed away in an epic storm but a vibrant medium-sized city remains, on the rainy side of the Big Island. The beach basically gone, Hilo, Hawaii, is a locals’ town more than a place for tourists these years, and amongst the full-time resident world transplants are many Thai folks and their fabled flavor-providing restaurants which masses of Americans adore, my true love and I included. So, we are zooming away from the Volcano and off to old Hilo to have some Thai food. Wrapping around Hawaii.
It’s an American Sunday morning, and the farmers’ market is hiving in the central city. Fun to walk in such a sort of almost familiar setting and recognize so little of the fare for sale. We buy nothing but marvel at the fruit and seafood, saving ourselves for a taste of Thailand. It’s suddenly becoming a steamy day.
ART and POETRY a sign boasts on my sightline horizon, small buildings at the edge of the market include a gallery custom made for me. My performance there a half hour later to a few painters, gallerists and the leading in-house poet feels foreign, as I mostly perform urban edge spoken word oh so of the mainland. I buy Belsky’s book and we bid a fond adieu.
A gift shop away we buy a beautiful glass fish in several shades of blue, as the sky suddenly goes gray. Then, it lightens again as we walk in search of the perfect Hawaiian shirt. We enter the fancy Sig Zane store and see many good ones but not that perfect one. Announcing myself to the clerk as a culture writer, we become acquainted with the designer Sig Zane himself, not so busy installing a window display that he won’t break for our company. The shirt I really want is the one he wears, only available in small on the storeroom floor. Upstairs is the storage room for the whole company; he has multiple locations including one in Honolulu. Perfect pink with brown wooden buttons and white rain blowing sideways on Koa trees, it’s a great shirt and they find my size.
A few huge Hawaiians inked up and mean-mugging me in a small public park are to be avoided, scowling as if the whole pig they ate for breakfast isn’t agreeing with them or maybe they just don’t like white boys. I know I don’t either some of the time. Know me for what I am: a man of and for the people. A good white man.
The rain of this side of the island comes and we find the strip of Thai joints. A white Trustafarian eating with a pretty local lady next to us is to me the stereotype Hang Looser. I’m surface profiling him as those giants just prejudged me, but I’m not doing it with ill will.
The food is spicy and coconut milk sweet, the white wine is a nice wash down, and the rain softens enough for us to reach the rental and vacate this very real American city. We felt at its essence, and it was essentially good.
We dine fine in the lodge and life’s good. I’m sipping a Brandy Alexander by the fireplace with my heart melting faster than the cubes. Face flushing, I’m gushing love at this little woman. I’m allowing myself to let go of the mainland of my mind and just dig my life with her. Drifting, a fog lifts and there is no looking back. Be here: Hawaii’s Volcano Village.
Looking back from the center of the volcano to the cloud forest atop and encircling it the next day. Heat hotter than last night’s jacuzzi soak, our skin searing in this vast black pit of lava burnt Earth. We walked an elevated rain forest in and will walk an elevated rain forest out – but way out here there is barely enough water to hydrate against the bouncing heat, rising in sheets.
Funny moment before was when we checked in at the National Park entrance. They had a painting of the wild-haired Hawaiian Volcano God, Pele. My companion, freer and looking naturally wilder than I’ve ever seen her, was the spitting image. We didn’t even have to say it. We just looked at the picture and each other and laughed. For basically just a white girl, she’s ambiguously exotic. American Indian blood.
We cross over the big volcano. Up-up and away into a cool light, bright green reality which could hardly be more different. The plants are flutes and fiddles, forming a forested music I’ve only ever seen or heard today. No snakes in Hawaii but plenty of other creatures. Songbirds of every imaginable color singing songs mirroring the harmonious flow of local speech pitter-patter patterns. You can’t be here and not feel it. It’s brimming with life. A tingling energy shoots up your spine like black heroin hitting a junkie’s thirsty veins. You feel it in your core.
I briefly think of my friend who lost his mind in Hawaii, reading his journal from that time. It was just too much for him. Sort of an even more unpublishable more palatable location version of the Alexander Supertramp ramblings on Alaska which became the backstory of Into the Wild. My favorite part was when they knew they were losing it, my friend and the protagonist of that good book. A Walt Whitman moment where a man goes into the wilderness and questions what we accept as reality on the other side. Society. Commerciality. Badly distorted perceptions based on greedy career-isms. All the overdeveloped destruction…And then this Earth.
I guess I came closest to that moment way up in the California mountains, living inside my book Golden State Genius, but I was always only a few days away from glitzy LA or gritty San Francisco. So, I couldn’t really let go like they did; they were more far gone.
We come across the path to a lava tube and take it. Reminds me of the time I went spelunking. A cave, of sorts, created by the red hottest essence, not solid, not liquid and pushing through the ground: a drilling snake of hot inner Earth light, leaving nothing alive in its path. I’m being changed by this.
When I was in exile. Self-staged in the far suburbs of Marietta, divorced and living alone without much to do other than eat local fruit and lettuce, longboard skate or recite poetry to a wall I’d painted red to bring fame, between bouts of writing my book manuscript in my home office and my popular MySpace sports blog down the street in my step-dude’s home office where there was an internet connection, I combed through my folks’ bookshelves pretty hard and eventually read anything that even remotely interested me.
Amongst the hundreds of books I heartily avoided in the chick-lit genre and the stacks of Hippie 1960’s and Me Generation 1970’s self-help froth, I found a memoir by a Hawaiian San Francisco poet who had moved back to the Volcano Village to run this family-owned general country store on the edge of the National Park. Mom had recommended it to me a year prior I recalled, not as a great read but as a story of a poet who moved back “home” to write. It was otherworldly and eerily familiar.
Can we ever really go home again and if we did would it still be home to us? We aren’t what we were and can only remember in part who we were at the time. I’m a Texan with only vague notions of the place reformed from stories told and adult visits to the Republic. An Atlantan, I’m a big city boy who somehow suddenly has only fuzzy half-recollections of the suburb I lived in most of my life.
Seems many moons ago I read that book as I enter what has to be the same store – it’s the only one anywhere near here – with the lady who I already know will someday be my second wife. We buy some exotic Hawaiian sweet snacks and other basic travel supplies.
We are staying in the mountains again, this time in a full on lodge. I’m reminded of the happy summer I spent living way up in the Tennessee mountains as a boy with my Nanny and Mom and siblings, after my folks had finally split for good, which was a long painful time coming. Mom would like it up here.
I so miss my Texas-y Nanny and Daddy. I miss my sweetheart sons. I miss whatever it is that we call home.
The air is getting so crisp and cool up here as the sun threatens to set, I want to pull on a sweater. I find myself hollow, sad on the inside on a cold mountain in Hawaii contemplating home. I even miss my old travel companion some, but I’m ashamed when I have to admit this to myself, because my new travel companion is perfectly great.
And then I see my future-wife see into the near edge of the oceanic depths of me and she asks, “What’s wrong?”
Here’s a “vu-ja-de”, something I have never done before. My shock white feet had not touched black sand.
Roughly abrasive and warm to the touch from soaking up the sun more than reflecting it. Reflections: the whitest sands I’ve seen are close to home, only a state away in Florida, the Panhandle’s fresh powder. And this is as otherworld as I have been. Hawaii just isn’t like anything else.