A newsletter in your inbox? From Neil???
Look, this whatchamacallit was a long time brewing and is a bit messy in a bunch of ways. Bear with me, have fun, and remember that I like you and want to hear your thoughts on my thoughts.
I got scammed by a “sound bath” but then again: maybe I didn’t? Last March our friend we’ll call Teresa (let’s avoid pointing fingers) said “Hey, there’s this sound bath happening. The Artist is someone my friend enjoyed once. Let’s go check it out.”
We thought it would be a nice yoga class style experience but in the end, it felt like a giant ripoff. Like a combination of scams. Like the Artist was happy to take our money and run with it, with zero concern for the actual audience experience, artistic or spiritual. I keep reflecting though that maybe I missed something? I don’t think I did. But I have been wrong before and I fear I’ll be wrong again in this life at some point.
The tickets were around $30 a head and came with lengthy instructions. We were to consume no alcohol nor cannabis the day before. We should hydrate. Eat a lot of protein. Come with an open mind. Take a big shit before the event. Seriously. Consider purchasing a microdose of an unscheduled organic plant medicine for consumption during the sound bath, don’t you know certain indigenous groups in Africa have used it for millennia seriously cmon try this medicine you’ve never heard of for a moderate fee? Bring a pillow and blankets. Be prepared for the greatest sound experience of your unenlightened life. Seriously, so relaxing, so enlightening, so sound. Kelsey, Teresa, and I grabbed tickets with intrigue.
On the day-of, we stressed about getting there on time. The directions made it seem like if we didn’t follow them to the letter, we’d be out of our money while shitting our pants, or worse, unbathed in sound, scumbags of spirit.
We anticipated lying down or being comfortably seated, so we brought yoga mats and a meditation pillow, but when we checked in the trustafarian usher in flowing white miscellaneous ethnic garb told us we were not to have them out. Instead, we should sit in the provided chairs. It was a deconsecrated church, gentrified into a weird hotel with eventspace in the sanctuary, coincidentally a block from where I used to live. The organizers had also tried in their email campaigns to sell us on overnight accommodations, because we’d surely be so moved and spiritualized by the soundbathing that we couldn’t make our way home. The chairs were uncomfortable, more suited for a church basement than a sanctuary.
Refreshments? Nope. Some orange slices. Some tepid water. Not even tea. A table full of the microdoses that looked MLM-y, now that we thought about it.
And then we waited for the start of the sound bath. And we waited and waited. We got restless. Everybody got restless. It seemed like maybe they hadn’t done a sound check. Our friend Teresa asked the photographer what the deal was and he shrugged, admitting that everything had been running late that day. Some white-garbed crew members puttered around, seeming self-important and also like they were doing nothing in particular to advance the experience. Dozens, if not over a hundred, potential bathers sat in wait. Some Boomers might have been relatives. Some children wriggled. Many 20-45 year olds were like us, eager to bathe and find out why The Artist needed us to consume so much protein and microdose whatever that stuff was.
Finally The Artist emerged to a smattering of applause. And she noodled her instruments. She used her voice in a microphone. I felt decidedly NOT RELAXED. I sat there, angry. Sometimes I relax to weird sounds, things that fight the category of music, music that many people find unlistenable. But this felt like trash to me. It was irritating in that it seemed aimless, not in an exploratory way, but in a killing-time way. My wallet was irritated. My lower back was irritated by the chair so I crouched along a back wall. A projection screen displayed psychedelic visuals, “Windows 95 screen saver” ones as Kelsey later put it, not anything deep or cool. What the fuck, The Artist, is this. Why am I not bathed, but waterboarded? This show was very much like how a lot of performance art and improv are depicted in sitcoms, painfully awkward for viewers and self-indulgent for The Artist. Teresa and Kelsey each silently sat in their private hells a few feet from me.
I spent the whole time tense. I was mentally writing critiques (basically this newsletter, but also shorter versions as text messages and maybe some other essay ideas, oh how I wish I’d had my phone out.) I couldn’t remember the last time I was white-hot furious at an artist. Where were we, and what was this nonsense?
After 50 minutes, the concert, or bath, ended. It was confusing. No particular ceremony had started it and no particular ritual ended it. Some people, again probably The Artist’s supportive relatives, applauded gleefully. I managed two golf claps and gave up. At least when a water bath ends, I know the water’s leaving and then has left the tub. What had we just been party to? What was The Artist’s goal with all this? I was moved to anger but nothing else.
Teresa spoke again to the photographer. He implied heavily that this afternoon experience was an elaborate setup so The Artist could have pretty photos in a big setting that would let her charge high prices at Major Companies’ wellness retreats. “Look at me, Mark, I’m a successful Artist, 10 thousand dollars please for your coders’ healths.” Her website makes a big deal about 2 companies that she’s appeared at in some capacity. We wondered if she’d been part of some skeevy coaching program that encouraged her to follow her dreams, criticism be damned. We wondered what the business plan was for the microdosing of cultural appropriation. We wondered how much money she spent on hair and makeup and musical instruments and Windows 95 emulators and white garb for her crew/apostles. We wondered who were all these other bathers.
We went to eat nachos and debrief. I maybe had three ginger ales to settle my nerves. My takeaway was: “I can put any fucking art and/or business ideas in the world, because people are buying tickets for this and I’m part of it already, what am I afraid of, seriously, what, what, what.” (I was hangry and my back still hurt but I’m onto something.)
More recently, I attended a much-ballyhooed production at a regional performing arts venue. I’d gone in with high hopes, which were quickly dashed. Clearly tens of thousands of dollars had gone into this wild, weird (derogatory), messy show. Nothing made sense except that the creator had had a dream and decided to grind and grind until it got staged. The actors were doing their best with a truly silly script. Set designers had put in some great work. Our foursome considered leaving at intermission, but I insisted we stick around with the hope of any redemption. The second act was different but didn’t balance out the first act’s slop. This was The Artist but with a much bigger budget and team and maybe more years of sketching out a vision.
I’m mad about some of this but, at the end of the day, my takeaway for myself and everybody else is: Whatever. Let’s make our weird art. Charge money for it if you want to. People are out there selling tickets to everything, and everybody up top is WILD. This feels like the tip of the iceberg if you look around, you know? What’s grinding your gears or lighting you up (positively or negatively) like this?
Let’s try to recap the better part of a year with my usual categories but I’ll try to be quick about it.
Reading:
I’ve read more than a few articles in the past 12 months but now that Pocket is shutting down, I have a less-than-ideal way to track what I’ve read that I want to share here. (Recommend me something! Should I save them all in Notion or Obsidian? Is that too wild? Yes!) Here’s a smattering though that I think fit the timeline ?
Books of the past year include Steven Wright’s Harold (fun), Miranda July’s All Fours (wild), Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land (meh), Johann Hari’s Stolen Focus (provocative), Will Guidara’s Unreasonable Hospitality (thoughtful), Mike Madaio’s A History of Philadelphia Sandwiches (delicious; which I reviewed for Broad Street Review). I bought off eBay a copy of NetMusic which I owned about 30 years ago as I learned a lot about music online. Where else would I have read about gophering Husker Du servers? Each month I buy 1-2 new books that I hope to read and gosh that TBR pile is growing too fast. Near the top of the list: Brian Anderson’s Grateful Dead Wall of Sound masterpiece and Kelsey McKinney’s gossip textbook.
Eating:
For special occasions with the boys in the last year I ate beef things at Butcher & Singer, Rittenhouse Grill, and Del Frisco’s. My friend Tess threw a dip party inspired by Alyse Whitney. On a Cape May babymoon Kelsey and I enjoyed treats from Chez Michel, Lobster House, and the Sweet Amalia. We did a splashy brunch at La Croix and got stuffed. My notes from some time last fall refer to something called The Big Italian. Wish I knew what it was now! Presumably a sandwich, but where from? We enjoyed lots of delivery and homemade meals from pals in the weeks after Marigold arrived. We’ve done better getting to the Southeast Asian Market at FDR Park this season than years past, marginally: a standout is Sugadady’s tofu banh mi. Do you have a good recipe for shwarma-spiced cauliflower?
Beating:
Last fall I enjoyed the Sirius Sweater Weather playlist and making a playlist for labor&delivery. I alternately tell Marigold she was born to Dolly Parton, Neil Young, and Paul Simon. Over the winter, I did a lot of ambient revisits, like Aphex Twin, mum, Stars of the Lid. I got to see Phish two nights in December and two nights in July, A+++ experiences. I’ve been playing in a few Music League groups; it’s like bracket voting in response to song prompts? Somebody else explain this one! I really thought I had better notes from the past year of listening or that Spotify would help, but no.
Deleting:
This summer marks 21 years of my using Facebook so I’ve deactivated my account because lord that’s a LIFETIME. Let’s see how long this deactivation lasts—maybe forever? I went on a tear in Corning of childhood media (floppy disks of two sizes, CDs, cassettes) and tossed a lot of 90s crap. Some did come back to Philly with me and will soon go to the Internet Archive or my own external hard drives.
I lost my full-time job at First Person Arts in April. Work continues at Broad Street Review and doing some Bardhan Consulting stuff. That led to a bunch of digital and analog cleanouts. Ask me more if you’re so inclined!
Retreating:
We’ve gone camping in Jim Thorpe & Berks County for long weekends. Marigold loves wiggling around on the ground. Our extended family has brought us to Cape May Point a couple times. I’ve been lucky enough to spend a week in Corning this summer in addition to a short trip or two earlier in the year. We’ve had numerous family trips and wedding weekends, including DC and Richmond. Closer to home we’ve mostly felt too hot and sleepy to do hikes but have gotten a few in. Fox Hollow Trail was an odd duck of pavement near Paoli and not worth a special trip oops! We’ve also popped around Northbrook Trail in Haverford and Blueberry Hill in NJ (Mg’s first hike).
Meeting:
I perform every few months with The N Crowd still but that’s about it! Follow Broad Street Review for occasional other things around Philly.
Okay, I did it! I can cross this off my to-do list!!!!!!!!
Seriously please reply,
Neil