Bird & Schneller's Sonic Arboretum 22-12-11

If someone were to ask me to describe ideal pneumonia-inducing weather, I would probably draw upon last Thursday's in Chicago as the prime example. Luckily, I only had to endure a good half-hour while waiting in a rather disorganized and disgruntled line in front of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Even if I am to potentially die from exposure, my experience one indoors was worth every bit of lung I may or may not cough up.

What I'd been standing in line for was a long awaited Andrew Bird show. I had attended one last year at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, which was quite good, but I hadn't gotten the Bird fix I needed. This year's show, which took full advantage of the Museum, was far more of a happy combination of both art and music.

As much signature to Andrew Bird as carefree head-shaking and performing barefoot, the Sonic Arboretum, as the installation is know, focused on Bird's idiosyncratic gramophone-like horn speakers (made by Ian Schneller), and how arrangement of sound can come to affect surroundings.

The show itself was quite good. Bird announced preemptively that he was a tad sick (I'd guess on account of the weather), and apologized if he had to turn to instrumental pieces only. Somehow, with the help of copious glasses of water, he pulled through, dishing out favorites like Skin Is My, Plasticities, Tables and Chairs, Lazy Projector, It's Not Easy Being Green, and something I deeply regret not to have recorded- Effigy. The open floor provided plenty of room to move around and, of course, to creep closer and closer to the stage. The horn speakers did their work as well, occasionally bursting with sound and surrounding the audience with Bird's crooning and layered instrumentals. It was a relatively short performance, but a great one. And Bird definitely deserved a full bottle of Nyquil for being able to squeeze out an encore.

The installation was rightfully stunning even long after the show had ended. As intended, the gallery of the MCA  was open to wander through as recordings of Bird playing vague instrumental tunes and harmonizing (recorded earlier by Bird in the same museum) seemed to both lead and accompany visitors through every room, while still retaining their own presence. A very particular effect was achieved. Bird himself puts it best:

"As a composer, I am interested in how one's environment and the scale of a landscape affect one's musical imagination; how seeing a storm approach, pass overhead and continue eastward can calibrate the mind to hear music beyond the 8 bar phrase. How the surrounding walls of sand stone at Zion National Park provoke their own frequencies, or the wind strumming through a field of prairie grass has its own phrasing. A steamy mossy forest in the northwest has a certain grain and texture." (Event Pamphlet)

This really did give a walk through the gallery far more dimension than one in silence, and seemed to seamlessly tie the installation in with the regular works. Schneller's speakers were a work of art on their own, serving both a stellar aesthetic and auditory purpose. If anything, the Sonic Arboretum was a sensory wonder.

(As a side-note, I strongly suggest a listen to a recording of Bird's live show at the Rio Theater earlier this year.)

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 2: “I was born in the wrong decade.”

It’s another epidemic among today’s sullen, pseudo-nostalgic plebeians to pine for life in another time period.

Somehow, many seem to be under the impression that, in the late 1800’s, life was entirely comprised of listening to Debussy and wearing frilly frocks to parties in the garden, the sole historic event of the 1940’s was the dress silhouette, and the late 1960’s were all about peace and love and John Lennon. And so on. Life was just better in the olden days. Who needs technology? Your Kindle is evil. Modern day is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Take what seems to be that uncontrollable, festering obsession with the 1940’s. Pinup bathing suits, cat-eyes, and victory rolls run rampant. Resurrected images of Casablanca, Rita Hayworth, and Rosie the Riveter reach every dark, damp corner of pop culture. 40’s vintage is chic. Go polio, war, and a myriad of various -isms! Wait, okay, maybe not that last bit. But hey, life in the 40’s wasn’t about that. It was about fashion, and victory rolls… and Casablanca.

For some reason, severe social inequalities, an overwhelming abundance of potentially deadly day-to-day situations, and crippling diseases have all been selectively omitted from our visions of history. Understandably, tuberculosis holds a slightly less pleasant connotation than Tchaikovsky’s Polonaise, but we still long to hop into a time machine and crank the lever to 1879.

We pick and choose certain aspects from history which appeal to us, creating a romanticized version of the past which we see in cinemas and old photographs and Marilyn Monroe t-shirts. Why? Because for some reason, we can never be content with what we have. For some reason, the far-reaching conveniences of the internet, modern transportation, and polio vaccines pale in comparison to the falsely constructed glamor of the past.

The eerie abundance of status updates phrased something along the lines of “I was born in the wrong time period” (oh, the irony) makes me wonder: given the chance, would half of these people last a day in 1776, 1879, or even 1969 without feeling the deep dark chasm lack of internet has left in their hearts? How could they possibly tweet about Napoleon’s comeback at Waterloo, or sitting around in a bomb shelter during the Battle of Britain?  More importantly, how would they feel about dying in their mid-forties?

Of course, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly turn back the clock to 1918, 1815, 1720, or even 2000 B.C, but only on the condition that I partake as an observer, and preferably for a short amount of time. There’s nothing quite like experiencing history firsthand, but it’s another thing to live in it.

What I would guess to be my attempt at such an experience is collecting its relics. It’s no question that I’m fond of old things. Hell, I spent a week’s wage on a WWI Brodie Helmet. Antiques are how I get close to history without having to actually experience it (or seek out a time machine), while still retaining modern conveniences. I would never willingly transport myself to the Western Front (not out of lack of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation), but if I can own a fragment of it, it’ll do. It’s why I enjoy a good period drama, why I do listen to Tchaikovsky and Grieg and Satie, why I have a rather wide array of old, mismatched china gathering dust on my shelf. I enjoy these little glimpses of history, but I avoid living in the past. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my current spot in the time-space continuum for any time period. Not even the Jazz Age. Sorry Hemingway.

Although very, very far from his chef d’oeuvre, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris explores quite a good and relevant point- the prettily-painted versions of history we crave to live in were once someone else’s mundane reality. Chances are, people of the forties saw the 1800’s as far more glamorous than their own time, just as discontented youths several decades from now will be collecting I-Pods and yearning for the long lost days of the newspaper and of skinny jeans, seeking to experience the past just as we do.

This longing to have been born at some other point in history can be explained, but it is neither rational not practical. It’s just another episode of selective blindness, either to the problems of the past, or the conveniences of the present. 

Unintentionally Procured Wehrmacht Mail

One of the greater miracles of Eastern Europe is the overabundance of 20th century remnants, especially of the Second World War. Lithuania especially, due to its  role as the battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, tends to have gathered quite a bit of interesting trinkets. Thus, it's really no wonder that the flea markets there are a WWII fanatic's paradise. From Wehrmacht helmets, to Soviet fighting knives, to propaganda-ridden postcards, a good Lithuanian flea market is guaranteed to vacate wallets.

Last summer's damage at the Klaipėda Sea Festival's flea market turned out quite interesting. A loot of an old Cuban cigar case and a pocketful of Lenin-blazoning Soviet lapel pins already captured, I came across a Russian man who had splayed out countless German and Soviet relics on the sidewalk. Using only hand gestures, we managed to communicate price information quite well and, somehow, I ended up with an old German letter.

In the rush and fog of my purchase I had been oblivious to the fact that I was buying a specimen of Wehrmacht Feldpost.

Feldpost, as it was known, was meant for simple, inexpensive, and secretive communication with Wehrmacht soldiers and was used by Germany throughout WWII. Addressed to an R. Flöser in Wilhelmsfeld and postmarked August 13th, 1942, this letter is clear correspondence with a soldier of the front. I somehow had the luck of choosing the least legible one of the bunch, so deciphering the exact addresses and details has proven to be quite a challenge. Not to mention the letter itself, which can only be described as a cryptic scrawl. I could guess that the letter is meant for a soldier in Battalion 23191, but my finds are truncated there. Therefore, most of my purchase remains a mystery, possibly to my benefit.

And the letter itself. Have a crack at it.