For such a man, art is an act of
Prayer the study of it, as Blake
And praise the practice; nor does
Making from teaching, or from
The three are one. . . .
Huh. 50. How’d that happen? Gah.
Knowing ourselves, our world, our task so great,
Our time so brief, ’tis clear if we refuse
The means so limited, the tools to rude
To execute our purpose, life will fleet
And we shall fade and leave our task undone.
Yep. Fading and undone.
Now to be oneself, to remain oneself is a trickier matter than most people think. There are always gaps in our personal experience and our personal thought, and there exists a permanent temptation to stop these up with ready-made developments borrowed from some body of pre-existing doctrine.
Full of stop-gap measures, I head into my fifth decade, still barely myself. Or that’s how it seems. Oh well, here’s to Browning and Marcel (quoted above) who keep me company on the journey! And to all the others, friends, family, colleagues and students, who continue to put up with me!
Oh, I just don’t know where to begin
(“Accidents Will Happen”)
Well, the door swings back and forward from the past into the present
He’s the only singer fully to have mastered the come-hither snarl.
I was riding in my friend Tim’s compact car. We were hurtling from Gallipolis to Cincinnati, Ohio. We were going to see Elvis Costello. Tim was a fan, but from a distance. I’m not sure he ever entirely understood my devotion to Costello’s songs.
He listened to me indulgently through the din of This Year’s Model. I was trying to explain. “Other than the words of a few dead philosophers, his words mean more to me than anyone else’s.”
Why did they mean so much to me? Why do they?
I walked into a dorm room during my freshman year of college to find a new friend of mine, Jim, sitting on the far side of his bed with a guitar. He had a cassette player sitting against the wall and was playing and singing along to a song I had never heard. He seemed to be singing to the wall. When he noticed me, I asked about the song. He looked at me strangely when he told me that it was Elvis Costello. He could see the name was news to me. I left his room that evening with a bootleg cassette of Imperial Bedroom. I had no idea quite what to make of it at first. The music was so different from what I knew. But then the words began to hit me, like a spray of buckshot.
History repeats the old conceits
The glib replies, the same defeats
Keep your finger on important issues
With crocodile tears and a pocketful of tissues
I’m just the oily slick
On the windup world of the nervous tick
In a very fashionable hovel
I knew nothing about fashionable hovels, having grown up in a double-wide trailer in rural Appalachia, but I knew something about old conceits and glib replies, and about the intestine turnings of authenticity and inauthenticity. I could imagine myself an oily slick. This often feckless, rueful self-monitoring–its dry heave of self-disgust–was mine. I knew it from the inside. But it was not just what Costello expressed. It was also his expression of it. A complex irony needled through the words. Formal properties of the words themselves (other than rhyme) were being attended to, responded to, marshaled to purpose. Some game I knew and did not know was afoot among the words
I went to college with three disparate musics in my head. My father’s bluegrass, my church’s acapella hymns and my own small collection of Devo and Gary Numan albums. The latter was my attempt to find a music of my own, one that distanced itself from the living human all-too-human qualities of the other two–the murder and regret of bluegrass, the sin and salvation of the hymns. I wanted to hole up in Gary Numan’s embalmed “Cars”, in a place where I could be stable for days.
I listened to the cassette of Imperial Bedroom over and over, playing one side from beginning to end as I waited for sleep to fall each night. “Beyond Belief” became the anthem of my freshman year. It captured my dislocated fears and my feeling that my days were just a passing show, a phenomenalist’s play of welded-together sensations.
I’ve got a feeling
I’m going to get a lot of grief
Once this seemed so appealing
Now I am beyond belief
The last line exactly captured my own ambiguity, my sense that I was both the subject and the object of a frigid incredulity.
The other songs on the album mapped the failures of domesticity. The bluegrass of my youth had often enough done the same, but typically the persona presented in those songs sang self-righteously or regretfully, with a cumbersome Cumberland’s sincerity. Bluegrass can do high and lonesome, but it cannot do irony or alienation. During that freshman year I was often lonely enough, I guess; but mainly I was struggling with self-alienation. I didn’t care for my company. I could do without me.
Tim and I arrived in Cincinnati as the August sunlight stretched and turned golden. Costello was touring behind Goodbye Cruel World. My luck was good that night. Nick Lowe opened for Costello, and Lowe had Paul Carrack with him. I more or less got to see Nick Lowe and Squeeze (Lowe and Carrack performed “Tempted”) before Costello came on. Lowe mentioned at one point in his show that it was Costello’s birthday, and he played “The Rose of England” in honor of the occasion.
Other than the words of Costello, the words of my freshman year were the words of dead philosophers, particularly Plato and Plotinus and Schopenhauer and a couple of British Idealists–Bosanquet and Bradley. Bosanquet and Bradley’s Victorian prose entranced me more perhaps than their idealism, but I styled myself in those days an expatriated latter-day British absolute idealist. I read Plato and Plotinus in a divinatory spirit, and read all of Schopenhauer’s The World as Will and Representation in one unblinking twenty-four hours. Costello played on as I read on. I was 17–and the world was my will and my representation.
I walked the campus with my head down, lost, genuinely lost, in my thoughts. The fallen leaves of a Wooster autumn scattered as I walked along. I nearly ran into a woman. She scolded me for walking with my head down. I muttered a line from Proverbs in response: “Ponder the path of thy feet.” But the truth is that the words in my head were simply more real to me than my feet or the leaves or the autumn landscape. Meaning plagued me more than being. Being was taking care of itself. Meaning I needed to tend.
Pretty words don’t mean much anymore
I don’t mean to be mean much anymore
All I see are snapshots, big shots, tender spots
mug shots, machine slots
Till you don’t know what’s what
You don’t know what you got
Costello’s songs were often slightly deranged lists, efforts to anatomize experience or to bind together its loose ends. Sometimes the lists were quite mad–sequential but otherwise disunited. It all fit my moods, sense-making and sense-unmaking in turn, witness to the daily rise and fall of my life.
My love of words drew me to Costello and deepened because of him. He has left his fingerprints on my verbal imagination. He is capable, like Lewis Carroll or James Thurber, of making nonsense so delightful that the paucity or mere parody of sense do not matter. He can write nonsense or semi-sense so moving that it slits you from your guggle to your zatch, from here to here.
You’re sending me tulips mistaken for lilies
You give me your lip after punching me silly
You turned my head till it rolled down the brain drain
II had any sense now I wouldn’t want it back again
New Amsterdam it’s become much too much
Till I have the possession of everything she touches
Till I step on the brake to get out of her clutches
Till I speak double dutch to a real double duchess
Down on the mainspring, listen to the tick tock
Clock all the faces that move in on your block
Twice shy and dog tired because you’ve been bitten
Everything you say now sounds like it was ghost-written
There’s a girl in this dress
There’s always a girl in distress
I fell in love and then got flushed by love during my freshman year. Costello’s wary love songs–with their obligatory escape hatches or hidden tunnels–matched my skittish paranoia that love stories were cautionary tales.
I won’t walk with my head bowed
Beyond caution where lovers walk
Your love walks where three’s a crowd
Beyond caution where lovers walk
Lovers walk, lovers scramble
Beyond caution where lovers walk
Lovers step, shuffle and gamble
Beyond caution where lovers walk
My father played bluegrass. Back in the 50’s, he cut classes for most of a term at Marshall University and practiced the mandolin. He had heard that Eck Gibson and the Mountaineer Ramblers, a local group of some acclaim, planned to head to the studio but without a mandolin player. My father, never ordinarily one for rash acts, showed up at the studio the day that the group was scheduled to begin recording. Dad talked his way into an audition and got the gig.
My father did not talk much. At home, when it was too dark to work, he picked up his guitar or his mandolin and played. I can hardly remember him in doors without an instrument in his hands. As a small boy, I spent many weekends at the homes of other bluegrass players, usually the lone child in the house, nursing a warming Pepsi and listening. I listened a lot. I still have a head full of bluegrass songs, songs of loneliness and homesickness and failed farms and love gone wrong, songs of dying little girls and dreadful snakes. I don’t know how much of it I understood at first but I began to understand it, and to understand something of the darker corners of the adult world.
I can no longer remember the list of songs Costello played that August night. Many of the songs on Goodbye but others too; I was especially eager for songs off Get Happy! and Trust. I had spent long hours listening to both and wondering about the cover photo on the latter. That above-his-sunglasses glance away came to seem essential to the music to me. I coveted the indirection of the music. I wanted to be told things in ways somehow consistent with my finding them out for myself. Costello’s lyrics obliged.
The sun set before the show reached its finale. Costello came out and played a few songs by himself. The band rejoined him, played another few songs and then they finished. The stage lights went down and we drove home in the dark.
The hymns that stuck with me most were hymns whose lyrics were by Isaac Watts. I especially loved his “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross”. I had no way of knowing it as a child, when the song first took up lodging in my memory, but the song is a full-on spiritual exercise. So too are many of Costello’s songs. (Perhaps this is a vestige of his Catholic upbringing?) They require that we adopt, in a way resembling Costello’s own adoption of it, the persona of the song. We are then shown the persona, often shown its tragedy, and shown it as caused by various of the character flaws of the persona.
Consider this a negative spiritual exercise; it works through a bad, not a good example. (“No man is good for nothing; he can always serve as a bad example.” –Someone should explore the similarities between Costello and Nestroy.) The songs alert you to your own flaws or beginnings of flaws to the extent that you find the persona a good fit. Costello’s goal, I take it, is to implicate us in the world of such a persona, and to ask us if that is where, who we want to be.
The irony–sometimes transmuting into satire–in Costello’s songs is his way of flinging himself against the world without posturing. It is a function of his desire for the world to be good and his conviction that it is bad, and that he, too, would be good but is often bad. His unwillingness to acquiesce to that badness, even if it takes the relatively innocuous form of conformity or of spiritless drudging, drives the music. But his awareness of himself and of his own flaws and conformity and drudging forbid self-righteousness.
I wouldn’t see Costello live again for another 15 years or so. The next time I saw him with my wife in Atlanta, Georgia. I had grown up (some). He had grown older. But the words were still there, his and mine. When talking to my grad school teacher, Lewis White Beck, I once attributed (rightly) a distinction to the philosopher, C. I. Lewis. I called it “Lewis’ distinction”. Beck chided me. “Kelly, we are friends, but you should not refer to me by my first name in a paper.” I explained that I hadn’t; I had referred to C. I. Lewis and not Lewis White Beck. Beck looked down, embarrassed. Then, brightening, he looked up and said: “I have been using that distinction for so long I thought it was mine.” By the time I saw Costello for a second time, I had been using his words for so long I thought they were mine.
There’s a hand on a wire that leads to my mouth
I can hear you knocking but I’m not coming out
Don’t want to be a puppet or a ventriloquist
‘Cause there’s no ventilation on a critical list
Fingers creeping up my spine are not mine to resist
Toughen up, toughen up
Keep your lip buttoned up
Puzzled and perplexed by a failed love and by my failure at philosophy, I dropped out of school at the end of my freshman year. I packed my philosophy books in boxes and took them home, putting them in an empty corner of Dad’s tool shed. Months would pass before I reopened those boxes, tearing away scabs. But Get Happy! was in my tape deck all the while.
But he’s not the man you’d think that he can be
I don’t know why you can’t see
That he is only the imposter
That he is only the imposter
When I said that I was lying
I might have been lying
Never let me hear you say
You’re not trying, no, no
Borrowing a passage from Stephen MacKenna on this close, gray morning.
August 13 1908
A day of nothingness, of prehumous death: pains and laze and brainlessness. Probably I could have saved this day and given it some value, had I but frankly from the early morning proclaimed it a day of rest: it is always nobler to rest diligently than to work listlessly. Life is in activity, and if one can’t be active in work, the only living is to be lively in play. If one can’t write seriously, one can read seriously: if one can’t read long, perhaps one can think long: if one has no thoughts, one can read lightly: if one can’t read light things or talk pleasantly, then better to go to sleep, thus at last doing something seriously useful. If sin is sin by dampening life, then a morose dawdling is among the deadliest of sins; it is a very subtle shaft of the Gille nach chorp. Few acts could sink a man further from God’s service, or from the mastery of himself more fatally or more miserably, than spineless discontented actlessness.
I am reading Costello’s memoir. It has made me rethink his songs, made me aware of how I have related to them. I have always been devoted to the wordplay, the “verbal gymnastics”, in his songs. I realize now that I have been so devoted that I have often let the meaning of the song as a whole simply slip into the background. I foregrounded Costello’s words and the formal relationships among them he exploits so deftly and imaginatively. (I have no doubt he has left his fingerprints on my verbal imagination.) Reading about the circumstances of the songs has made me more aware than before of what I had let slip into the background. It made me consider again the role of the wordplay in the whole, how it serves or complicates or resists the meaning of the whole.
I have an old essay–maybe twenty years old–about Costello. I may dig it up and see if it can be reanimated in the light of these new considerations. If it can, I will share it here.
“Beauty is difficult.” So said Ezra Pound. He was not wrong.
But what did he mean? Fairly obviously, he meant that creating beauty demands self-discipline, self-denial. Of course self-discipline and self-denial can be achieved while beauty remains fugitive. Beauty cannot be taken captive simply by self-control. Pound also meant, perhaps less obviously, that living in openness to beauty and in search of it, is difficult. Beauty does not sell itself cheap, even less give itself away. To find it, to take it in, we have to be in order, fit for it. Beauty is difficult–to create and to receive.
I begin here because crucial lines on Jason Slatton’s new album, We are Nighttime Travellers, are these (borrowed from Dylan):
But I feel nothing for their game,/
Where beauty goes unrecognized
Beauty, both (the conditions of) its creation and (the conditions of) its recognition, absorbs Slatton and shapes the album. Slatton sings of a life in which beauty does not go unrecognized, and he sings of the struggles and the rewards of such a life, the task of staying fit for beauty, the task of remaining open to it.
My world is slowly spinning/
Dismantling and then beginning/
Blood shaking through a tired heart
And She Goes On
Remaining capable of beauty—its creation or its reception—means that we have to keep making ourselves new, that we cannot allow our past to enclose us. We have to become practiced beginners; able again and again to dismantle all that cushions the shock of beauty. It can be an exhausting, frightening business—a life of repetitious ‘repentance’ and renewal. Becoming tired of it leads into games in which beauty goes unrecognized—in which it is either absent, or its role is played by some stand-in, some false beauty. Something, anything less demanding. –Plato understood this better than anyone.
This need to start again, to refresh oneself, is registered several times on the album. But it is not a need frigidly to abandon the past, to deny it. No, the goal of Slatton’s personas is to master it, to find a way to understand it and internalize it so that it becomes a living part of them instead of a gathering sediment threatening to entomb them. As they work to be alive, open to beauty, they also become more complicated, more experienced. –How to retain, manage, an increasingly sophisticated naivety? The album records the struggle. It concedes implicitly that there is no perfect achievement of the goal; at best, it is a July possession: we may make it to summer, but there are still stifling days, thunderstorms. We win to lose and win again. Beauty is never done with us; we can never be done with beauty. We tire; it dims. It shines again; we reawaken. So it goes.
The dimming of beauty figures in several songs and in complicated ways.
I’m planting flowers/
In the cold, black dirt/
Just to keep the my last connection alive/
And all these gods I’m praying to/
They bring me everything but you
Did you make it out alive?/
Did you ever find your wings?/
Did you find a place to rest/
In the empty everything?
These mudtrack boots/
Are full of rain and nails/
The dark fills in/
Where the light has failed/
The neon dirt is turning/
Red as blood/
You can see your story/
Written in the mud
These moments do not finish the story, dark and muddy though they are.
Honey let in the air/
Yeah, its cold but we can drift/
All the flowers bloom/
From the light across the room/
We can watch the nighttime lift
The album acknowledges nighttime, reckons time spent in the dark. But, it is more importantly an album that acknowledges and searches for (to quote Pound once more)
The songs of We are Nighttime Travelers are meditatively paced, contemplative. They take root somewhere between the ear and the mind, in a space they grow to fill. The melodies are sweet—very sweet, but muted. The album is a series of small gestures–small gestures freighted with large meanings, like the beckoning hand of a lover. The playing is impressive throughout, sensitive and deliberate. The songcraft is impeccable. Slatton’s vocals do what is necessary and no more: they stand in front of the music but do not preen, never claim more than their due.
The songs unite thematically, as I have suggested. They unite thematically around a lofty ideal. But they do this by keeping ordinary time, by living through and valuing moments—and the details the moments house.
Paint peeling off the walls/
I think about it as it/
Falls around my feet/
A little of this kind of thing/
Goes a long, long way…
It’s the lonely silence in your place/
It’s the empty morning that I face/
It’s the way you cry/
You take me over
I kept you in my book of days/
But you come ringing back again/
Book of Days
These are songs of noticing, of taking notice. And once someone has taken notice of something, anything, there is no telling what he may notice next.
The iceberg drunks/
Are drifting slow and tired/
The silver moon hangs/
On circus wires/
Down here something is about to give/
And the barb-wire stars/
Whisper I might live
To remain capable of beauty is to own our limitations: we have to bear it in our mortality.
Everything rests on fragile bones/
Everything rests on fragile bones
Perhaps, for the gods, beauty reveals itself as neighborly, easy. But for us it is strange, a stranger. It beckons us as it keeps its distance, crooking its finger as it steps backward.
And all these gods I’m praying to/
They bring me everything but you/
Everything but you/
Everything but you
We Are Nighttime Travelers knows that the material is the vehicle of the spiritual. It knows that to be open to beauty is neither to be open to something other than a wife, a child, a song, nor is it to be open to a single characteristic of a wife, a child, a song—at the expense of all the others. It is instead a way of being open to a wife’s, a child’s, a song’s unique and unified way of being beautiful. There is a certain intimacy between a wife and her beauty, a child and her beauty, a song and its beauty. That certain intimacy is essential to beauty—and despite the fact that beauty is lofty, strange, distant, it is also somehow here among us, to be found, if we find it, in our common lives. Everything rests on fragile bones.