If you asked what the sound of my childhood is, it’s the sound of my grandmother’s portable radio. More specifically, the sound of Detroit Tigers baseball games broadcasting in the summers of my youth.
What I didn’t grasp at the time is what that particular silver rectangular Sony radio was doing. The physical aspect of being at the game, its sounds and smells in particular, were pushed through the channels with a patina of comforting AM static. A breeze and an airplane shadow on a humid, expansive Detroit day.
A child’s mind craves the pictures, the video. What these voices were portraying wasn’t news. It was about connecting you to a place, both imaginary and real. My Grandmother lived for these games, and the moment. I get it now.
The micro-gestures in the voice and the capacity for emotion. Memory. Somewhere, this is happening.
“Whatever you now find weird, ugly, uncomfortable and nasty about a new medium will surely become its signature. CD distortion, the jitteriness of digital video, the crap sound of 8-bit—all of these will be cherished and emulated as soon as they can be avoided. It’s the sound of failure: So much modern art is the sound of things going out of control, of a medium pushing to its limits and breaking apart.” – A Year With Swollen Appendices, Brian Eno, 1996
David Byrne proposes that music has always been created with the space or element of playback in mind. Namely the bigger the “room”, the more expansive the sound. Bach for the church, Adele for the earbuds.
When artists (or us) make things (pictures, paintings, writing, films) they can assume the size of the screen is actually as big as space itself. If not in content, at least in form.
The limitations of the apps and devices we use today are but a blip. Compression is the tape hiss or VHS tracking of our day, or what Brian Eno thinks are the kinds of defective charms we will miss from the previous era.
Simply put: Save your stems, your layers, your biggest lossless file.
These current considerations are technological shortcuts to reduce time/cost to transfer and ship. These aren’t reasons to limit our art.
The imperial phase of an artist is when they can seemingly do no wrong.
Whether it’s “10,000 hours” at work or just hitting the zeitgeist square on the nose, the assumption is the audience is fully invested in your success.
As far as I’m aware the name was given for the Pet Shop Boys’ run from 1986-1988 or more explicitly inside the brackets of the singles “It’s A Sin” to “Heart”.
But what other worlds does this apply to? Sports is relatively easy. We call them dynasties and can chart their zenith based on dominance (I was lucky to grow up in suburban Detroit as a basketball fan). What about architecture as defined by buildings, Fashion defined by seasons, and of course filmmakers (Spike Lee 1989-1992).
The problem with imperial phases is that they seek perfection which isn’t in sync with the realities of art. They’re also obsessed with success, which in retrospect doesn’t only account for an artists’ best work (my favorite Lee film is from 1995). Some of the greatest talents of any industry don’t apply because they never stop being great (Rei Kawakubo springs to mind).
Am now curious how we can look at imperial phases in our own lives. Or perhaps better, jettison the concept completely in favor of the long but craggy trend line that is reality.
Have been talking a lot with friends about friction lately. Friction is the time spent waiting, the having to leave your house to do something, and the certain imperfections or inconveniences that the internet wants to scrub from our lives. Even social media is shorthand for “talk to people you like or admire without having to actually talk to them.”
But what about the good stuff? Going to a movie theatre is great if you are into that. Waiting outside in line for sneakers is a tribal gathering. Vinyl is slow to arrive, heavy, and sonically imperfect. These experiences are communal, rooted in discovery, and leave the element of chance in play. Frictionless extends to dating now, something I have experienced for the first time. This form of introduction with speed and volume is exciting, but I wonder what we’re jettisoning in the process.
This isn’t to say that the frictionless is not desired. It’s great for the banal transactional bits like paying for things, but I’m loyal to projects and businesses that invoke good friction along their journey.
One of our big goals for Ghostly this year was to find a way to engage youth with the experience and wisdom of our musical and visual artist roster. We put this in motion last month with our first Ghostly Knowledge Share at the Neutral Zone in Ann Arbor.
Neutral Zone creates a positive space for Washtenaw County (where Ghostly started in Michigan back in 1999) teens to learn and develop key skills for their lives and future careers.
Ghostly artists Matthew Dear, Kllo, Mary Lattimore, Tadd Mullinix, Lord Raja, Starchild & The New Romantic, and Matthew Shlian Came together for a very special day and we hope to make this the first of many.
Big thank you to Doug Coombe who captured the day.
Rooster came from a kill shelter down South as a puppy with a damaged eye and a nervous but cute disposition. He was brought to New York where he stayed for two years in a shelter, overlooked.
Untrained and impulsive, he wasn’t an easy fit and admittedly I wasn’t sure if I even wanted a pet. When they let us take him for a walk he nearly threw my back out he pulled so hard. I believe Rooster fought his way to a home and because of our care, our community, and especially KJ’s ultimate belief in his potential, for just over a year he had a family.
Not really knowing how to be a dog, to sit and stay at first, his personality and inherent silliness emerged with each day. He was proud of his accomplishments.
With his tender stoicism and red wisp of an eye, I saw Rooster as a mythic hellhound, nobly surveying the landscape like the ghost of another era, resurrected from the beyond in search of a home.
Rooster died today and while having his own life and dreams is, for me, symbolic of second, maybe even third chances. Not only for him, but for us. We can grow and we can learn to love again. Hope is not lost.