Month: August 2008

Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, I tell my girlfriend about my grandfather’s only rule about the cabin in Ryegate Corner, Vermont. “Turn the clocks to the walls,” he said. “Eat when you’re hungry, sleep when you’re tired.” It’s the same schedule kept by the cows at the Nelson family farm, the closest residence to the red, slope-roofed shack waiting for us 600 miles north. The drive takes roughly 13 hours and throws two unexpected hurdles: the Saw Mill Parkway, which sends us on the world’s shortest trip to Manhattan, and a fruitless search for Taco Bell, which doesn’t seem to exist in Connecticut—at least, not visible from I-84.

In retrospect, Taco Bell seems like a strange thing to crave on a trip to the land majestically called “Northeast Kingdom”—too suburban, maybe—but this is the thin line that you walk during any vacation. Can we successfully avoid our occupations, dabble in recreation and maximize relaxation? The lack of Taco Bells—and our heightened scrutiny of every sign for food—suggests we might be in over our heads.

We arrive at the cabin at 6pm and drop our bags off, then drive across the border to Woodsville, New Hampshire, to grab a bite at Woodsville Pizza, which looks like a Denny’s on the inside but turns out spectacular pies. By 9pm, we’re back at the cabin, stuffed and ready to turn the clock around.

The Northeast Kingdom feels less than regal—the town of Ryegate is overcast during the majority of our stay—but the cabin is the real draw, our castle, a hunting shack that my grandfather bought decades ago and converted into a tiny three-bedroom, one-bathroom house. Two bathrooms, actually, if you count the outhouse standing 20′ behind the cabin, and two full baths if you count the outdoor shower, a five-gallon PVC bag attached to a pulley system in a tree near the outhouse. It’s the type of setup that would impress the Clampetts, but might earn low marks from the Swiss Family Robinson.

The interior is a mix of ski lodge odds and ends and photos of past generations of occupants. On a wooden mantel above a TV that receives two stations is a picture of my grandfather using the outdoor shower. His back is to the camera, so that his pinkish rump looks at the camera lens. Next to the photo are two bare-assed imitations, one of my uncle and one of my cousin, as if imposing a third rule for cabin life: “Shower when necessary, and always at your own risk.”

We spend the first day recuperating from the drive and cooking an enormous pot of soup that lasts us nearly the entire stay. That night, we drive 40 miles northeast to Littleton; it’s the equivalent of high school kids cruising asphalt islands in suburbia, but a bit sexier, given the threat of possibly running into a moose. We sing along with Paul Curreri and Devon Sproule, a little Charlottesville in my car, and my girlfriend humors me while I play fake local, pulling over in the small town of Bath so we can look at—not really admire, but sort of gawk at—New Hampshire’s longest covered bridge beneath a stormy sky the color of steel wool.

There’s plenty to do in decent weather—the cabin is within 100 miles of the highest point in the Northeastern U.S. (Mount Washington), a spiderweb network of hiking trails and the Ben & Jerry’s factory—but we’re forced to scale back our outdoor plans. We know that we won’t swim in the Ammonoosuc River at my family’s spot or hike the La Luz Trail, but we’re reluctant to leave until we both feel strongly about doing so.

So, “vacation” starts to lean a bit towards the familiarity of “recreation.” We make repeated trips to Wells River, population 350 or so, to hunt up action. However, the weatherproof activities available to us are few in number—bowling in what looks like an old barn, or getting coffee at a Dunkin’ Donuts that may as well function as the town’s civic center—and the town is small enough that businesses keep inconsistent hours. The exception is a fairly new Super Wal-Mart, as noticeable in this town as a UFO; we grab a few films (O.K., Jack Black movies) and then retreat back through the woods to the cabin. 

For a couple days, we stay close to home —listening to music while we cook meals that are simple but feel extravagant, laughing through School of Rock and High Fidelity. You know the part in High Fidelity where John Cusack edits his list of dream jobs to include “owning a record store,” a job he already has? The vacation feels like this—like realizing you’d rather enjoy something humble than lack something spectacular.

After a final day of steady rain, we decide to leave the following morning. The end of the trip is a mess.

I leave the outdoor lights on at the cabin by accident. We again fail to find a Taco Bell in Connecticut, and I seriously begin to wonder if Senator Joe Lieberman has it in for flat-grilled burritos. We hit the storms that sent tornados through parts of Virginia, and spend a half-hour hiding in my parents’ basement in Fredericksburg, listening for winds that sound like trains. I know it’s a half-hour because I’m using my cell phone again, watching a clock. Weeks later, a time-stamped “Notice of Enforcement Action” arrives from the State of New Jersey and informs me that I skipped a toll, then threatens to increase my fine by roughly 2,000 percent if I don’t pay within a few weeks.
 
But I’ll leave you with this: For one afternoon during our stay, we drive west to Burlington, a part of Vermont I’ve never been to, and we shake the cloud cover. We walk through a college town that feels familiar, but only enough to make us aware of how it differs from Charlottesville. We eat dumplings folded in front of us and listen to a high school band play “St. James Infirmary” during the Burlington Jazz Festival, a song that she sings and that I love. The kids try to keep time with their conductor while we sit on a bench, bodies reflecting the sun, and forget about clocks.

A four-day blur of tacos, sun, Lone Star beer, pizza and—of course—bands. That’s the short and easy description of my trip to the annual four-day live music orgy known as South By Southwest.

Austin, Texas, in mid-March, when SXSW spawns, is a Mecca for music maniacs. You can’t walk (or stumble, as you’ll likely be doing by day four) a few steps without running into a band unloading its gear. You can’t stretch out your arms without knocking some distracted hipster upside the head. And you can’t—absolutely cannot—avoid having your eardrums constantly bombarded by chord after chord, song after song, band after band and show after seemingly endless show.

The first time my feet hit the pavement on Sixth Street, the downtown strip where SXSW’s activities are the most dense, it was clear that I had reached some sort of Holy Grail-ish Xanadu. Austin touts the nickname “Live Music Capital of the World” with good reason. Blocked off from traffic and teeming with band members, bespectacled bloggers and industry types, Sixth Street was like the Downtown Mall but with music spilling out of each and every doorway.

My destination on one afternoon of the festival was The Parish, a nondescript but top-notch midsized concert hall (these come a dime a dozen in Austin) where I met up with our hometown boys in Sparky’s Flaw to catch their Mercury Records showcase. Sandwiched between oddly named U.K. rockers Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong and up-and-coming neo-soul pop star Duffy, the Flaw put on a solid show for the guest-listed crowd of Mercury folks and friends. Free record company t-shirts and CDs strewn across the rear of the venue, an open bar oozing drinks and a wealth of hobnobbing revealed the industry indulgence that laces itself through many of the festival’s sounds.

An essential part of the SXSW experience is narrowly missing something that you really wanted to see. Once I had parted from The Parish, I scurried to a nearby park to catch indie rock veterans Yo La Tengo, only to show up minutes after they had left the stage. I did, however, make it in time to lounge in the grass and listen to the experimental pop of Atlas Sound. The lesson? There’s no missing out at SXSW. You just end up seeing something different than what you had in mind.

And the unanticipated moments of SXSW emerged as its best. South of Sixth Street’s manic bustle and across the Colorado River, South Congress Avenue provided a much more lax vibe. While the music still echoed into the street, an older, laid-back contingency made the scene more of a backyard barbecue and less of a downtown blitzkrieg. Here, it seemed, were the city’s oddball veterans who embody the slogan “Keep Austin Weird.”

At Homeslice Pizza I scarfed down a few slices while watching Detroit rockers The High Strung and listened to an aging, wobbling drunk as he tried to convince me that he was the drummer for punk rock band Bad Religion (he definitely wasn’t).

Across the street, Pabst cans were doled out freely in the rear of folk art gallery Yard Dog while Canadian alt country group The Sadies teamed up with Jon Langford of the Mekons before aging and proudly amateur rock band Half-Japanese took the stage. Brothers Jad and David Fair led their group through quirky discordant punk rock tunes like “Red Dress” and “Charmed Life” while the crowd sipped on brews and enjoyed the afternoon sun. An elderly lady in the front row, who I believe was Mother Fair, rocked out despite the fact that she was supporting herself with a walker. With the audience mostly made up of married couples, old buddies and toddlers, the event was akin to a reunion of Rock ‘n’ Roll High School.

Crossing back over the river, I found myself in Waterloo Park on the festival’s final day. I navigated the sea of Wayfarer sunglasses, neon thrift store shirts and three simultaneous stages to catch Brooklyn synth-pop duo Matt & Kim, L.A. weird-rockers No Age and the spaced-out neo-psychedelics of Yeasayer. I skipped the immature pop punk of NOFX to get a good spot for The Breeders, who capped the night and my SXSW experience with a mix of old and new songs as darkness descended.

It was just like any outdoor concert, except that, all across Austin, hundreds of other shows were taking place at the same time and thousands of ears were being fed the candy that they craved so much. And if music is candy, then SXSW is the ultimate sugar high. How else could us music hounds stay on our feet? How else would bands play as many as three or four shows a day? And why else would I, exhausted and only a few hours outside of Austin on the long drive back to Charlottesville, already be hatching a scheme to return next year?

Am I allowed to say “ass”? Too late. At least I have no trepidation about saying “freezing,” “my” and “off.”
 

Those four words came together in my mind a lot while I was in Chicago in the winter last year. No masochism was involved in the making of this situation. I went to the bitterly windy city voluntarily, after three things—one harmonic—converged. My dad’s birthday is in early February, and it was his 70th in 2007; as an architect, his favorite American city is architectural-history-laden Chicago; he’s also a music lover, and pianist extraordinaire and living legend Keith Jarrett had scheduled a rare (these days) solo concert at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall in mid-February 2007. So my brother got two tickets to the concert and arranged for him and my dad to fly from Seattle, while I got one ticket and arranged to fly from Charlottesville, and there we were for a two-days-and-three-nights birthday bash. 

Enough exposition. Back to the cold. What I’m here to do is not only talk about, but also recommend going to Chicago in the winter, especially if you’re not feeling alive, or even if you are—it’s possible, you see, in Chicago in the winter to feel even more alive than alive. I, for instance, was feeling happy that my brother and I had pulled off doing something big for my dad’s 70th—but there was more to it than that. While I was walking in the single-digit temperature with the two of them down Michigan Avenue toward The Art Institute of Chicago or ogling the storefronts along Miracle Mile, dressed like a moderately but adequately prepared Arctic explorer, confident that a pretty important body part wouldn’t slide off even under extreme duress, my happiness as if froze into place. Prone-to-wavering emotion became almost a crystallized thing I could point to, like an icicle so sharp it could break the skin over a heart. 

All this is getting chillingly abstract, I know, not to mention a tad sentimental. But there are also plenty of concrete reasons for flying midwest in the winter, instead of, say, packing your Bermuda shorts and heading to Bermuda. Take the patches of ice on the Chicago River between bridges, the patterns as if forming immense murals that belong in the Art Institute collection along with the masterpieces by Seurat and Gauguin. I’ve never beheld such natural beauty right smack in the middle of a man-made place. As if on cue, it was snowing lightly as we crossed the river at La Salle Street on our way to a blues club the night before the concert, the flakes as if catching fire in the city lights before falling further through the softer glow cast by the ice. And then the next day there was the view from Navy Pier of Lake Michigan, spreading out like an ocean under a suddenly clear sky, the near surface not far from icing over and looking, to my eyes, beautifully brittle.

All right, I admit, there was something unforgivable about the rattle of an “El” train in my ears as a cruel night wind broke across my eyes while we walked up Randolph Street on our way to dinner before the concert. But there was something bracing about it, too—the rattle as if justifying the wind the way a blues chord validates pain. It was remarkable, though, how I didn’t at any time see any pain on the faces all around me. Chicagoans are true stoics. I saw plenty of hats, of course, but only occasionally did I, as if looking in the mirror, see a section of a scarf over a mouth. I saw many a pair of jeans, and not, as far as I recall, a single pair of wool pants. Maybe the stoicism is a respect for the sheer potency of the cold there, and the joy the respect brings. Stoic joy? As in overviews of the architectural creations of Frank Lloyd Wright and Mies van der Rohe, all things seem possible in Second City in the winter.

This is getting abstract again, and probably overly romanticized. What can I say? That’s how I remember it, and if I did it all over again, I guarantee I wouldn’t run whimpering into the smoke and body heat of a blues club, rather than linger on a bridge and admire the snowflakes. It’s true, I’m not generally a hot-weather person, perhaps on account of my fair skin. As Woody Allen said, “I don’t tan, I stroke.” And I’m aware that if I resided in Buffalo or Minneapolis, I might crack as the brutal winters piled up, and start over-romanticizing the odor of sunscreen. But we’re talking a brief trip here, a chance to soak up a special situation (whether it’s a special occasion or not) before releasing yourself back into the mild, as it were. Oh come on, try it.

By the way, the concert in the toasty warm Orchestra Hall was absolutely fantastic.