Letter

I watch a weird movie about João Gilberto. In it, an obsessed nerd stalks the Brazilian legend around Rio and other places he’s lived. He talks to friends who haven’t seen the man in person in a decade or longer. He’s following in the footsteps of another fanatic who did the same without success, then died an untimely death. I love João’s singing and playing but this movie creeps me out. What do these guys hope will happen when they meet their hero? He’s given them music but that’s not enough.

I think back to 2003. Deborah bought the tickets. We didn’t know we were supposed to bring our own food and wine. In the cafeteria off to the side from the music pavilion, we bought a mediocre overpriced dinner before going to find our seats. The majority of the crowd was on the lawn with elaborate spreads, tasteful blankets, and sturdy folding chairs. The hushed songs of the old man on stage was beside the point. This was rich-people outdoor happy hour. I was a smoker then and the no-tolerance policy—you have to go outside the gate of their hallowed grounds to light up—didn’t endear me to the place. I didn’t feel welcome there and could not see any way I ever would be.

For newlyweds who didn’t really know each other this outing was one of many hurdles we couldn’t clear. Deborah didn’t understand why I hated the place so much and I couldn’t explain it or understand why she didn’t instantly sense how awful it was.

The marriage didn’t last but João’s whispered songs are never far away. In the movie, the singer’s old friends say he’s supernatural. That he knows things without being told. That he will haunt you. Why does he rarely leave his hotel room and refuse to see anyone anymore? 

I knew nothing about João when listening to him in that wealthy suburban venue. The town it’s in was just in the news because of a shooting on the Fourth of July. I don’t know much more about him after watching the movie. Neither does the filmmaker, I’d guess. In the last shot, he puts his ear to a hotel room door as his hero plays on the other side.

I don’t know Portuguese yet his songs move me. How does he do that? It’s best not to know. That word that comes up all the time, saudade, is commonly translated as longing but has to be more than that. It’s some kind of all-over emotional state. Not just a desire for a single person. Other singers sing the songs in the movie but it’s not quite the same. 

It’s no use trying to a capture another’s magic, their secret. Even if João opens his hotel door you will never get what you’re longing for. He’s given you everything he could with his song.

—I talk to the cartoonist Laura Park on Wednesday. In the meantime, listen to the one with Leor Galil or some others.

The only way I learn is by wrecking. Since relaunching my interview podcast a few months back, it’s been one thing after another. I can’t leave well enough alone. After spending long days migrating dozens of episodes going back four years from one hosting platform to another, I didn’t like the layout in the new place, so I made a whole new subsite on my art site dedicated to the show. This meant that every time I recorded a new talk I had to upload audio to two different places and tweak the formatting in each. Totally unnecessary extra busy work that was noticed by no one but me. With good reason.

I tried in vain to automate this process. Watched tutorials and read help forum articles. Either I’m too thick to understand most of the lingo or there are no good answers for what I’m trying to do because no one in their right mind is trying to do it. All I know to do is to keep hammering away at it until I can’t see straight. Then either it gets to a marginally acceptable level, or, more often, I’m just too exhausted to go on and have to accept defeat.

Then these losses eat at me. Sometime last week it dawned on me that there’s no reason for the audio episodes to appear online in two places. The free six months hosting deal was about to expire too, adding an extra motivating factor to egg me on to another bout of coding lunacy. I read a half dozen articles about attaching RSS feeds to websites. I understood perhaps a quarter of the information therein. Many of these articles of course conclude with a pitch to join this or that platform and have them do this grunt work for a lesser or greater fee. I’m trying to use fewer services rather than more, so few of these sources offered satisfying solutions.

I downloaded a plugin that claimed it would relay episodes to Apple, Spotify, and all the other places. But then, when I changed the feed code, all the episodes I’d sent out disappeared. I sat for many hours reformatting posts to work with this new thing. It felt like deja vu all over again. Two talks showed up on Apple out of sequence, but not the other twenty or so. The light was fading outside. I decided to go for a bike ride to clear my head.

It worked. In the short-term, at least. I went to a diner, ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich and read some Denis Johnson. No screens or technical mumbo-jumbo. Just a sandwich and a book. I’d ordered onion rings, got French fries but didn’t complain. Felt good to have someone else make a meaningless mistake after a whole day of making my own.

The next morning, tech support got back to me with a seeming fix for the glitch with the podcast feed. I was so grateful. But by afternoon half the episodes were still missing. I decided not to fixate on it. So many other tasks to attend to rather than an audio program that five people listen to. It’s only a matter of time though till this itch must get scratched bloody once more. 

I know myself. This is how I am. Can’t say I love it, but I more or less understand.

This is what happened the first and only time I went to Pitchfork Music Festival.

I don’t like music outside or crowds or summer. I never have. There are usually a couple bands I’m interested in, but not enough to wait through ten I don’t care about while roasting in July misery in a sea of people I don’t know but dislike on principle.

So why am I subjecting myself to it again? A couple reasons. One is that the way I lost my cool seven years ago has been eating at me this whole time. I don’t like that I couldn’t suck it up and take it. The stakes were so low. Maybe that made it easier to flake out and disappoint people who’d been generous and invited me to take part in their thing. Those people won’t be there this time, but maybe if I make it through, it’ll right the karmic imbalance a little. Two is that I have a lot of crap I’d like to get rid of. Books, art, etc. It’s sitting here gathering dust. Because I have no publisher, label, agent, manager, not even an unpaid intern, it’s on me to move this crap out.

I did Renegade Craft Fair once before. It was inside at the Bridgeport Art Center, just up the street from my place. I made a bunch of money and even scored some future commissions but it was sort of overwhelming. I was glad to have the table between myself and the endless slow-moving throng of humanity. After two days I was completely spent. I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. Thought there must be some better way to make money.

In the years since, I’ve found a few new rackets, but the art and books keep piling up, so I’m returning to the fair to hock my wares. I can’t pitch a fit and stomp out this time because I paid for a spot and don’t like repeating myself. Who knows if I’ll enjoy it at all; I’m just gonna try to survive. Hopefully I can hear Spiritualized and Low and Dry Cleaning from where I sit. Jeff Parker too. Good chance I’ll see a lot of people I know. Several friends have worked Pitchfork for years. Trying to be upbeat which doesn’t come natural. If it goes bad, at least I’m secure in the knowledge I did it to myself. No one asked me to be there so there’s no one else to blame.

Friday through Sunday, I have a table at the Renegade Craft Pop-Up. I’ll bring books, prints, bookmarks, maybe a few drawings and collages. I’ll offer to draw pets of most species. Even human.

Perhaps I’ll even see you there.

—Been listening to Daniel Villarreal’s Panamá 77 a lot. Loved his set at Thalia too.

—Wrote about Olivier Assayas’ cool new Irma Vep series and Lucy Sante’s book on how NYC got drinking water.

—Due to popular demand, my show at Rainbo will run through July 30th, so you can go back and see it for a third or fourth time, and maybe consider choosing a piece to decorate your home or office.

—I read some stuff by Denis Johnson into a microphone. Wednesday I talk to music writer Leor Galil. In the meantime, listen to the one with Marc Fischer or some others. Also, I finally found a horror movie Mallory doesn’t like!