Wasting Light

This morning I was awoken by the sudden noise of 'word on the electronic streets' that famed musician Gotye had taken his own life. The battlegrounds of Twitter, Facebook, and the like were aflame with conjecture and crises. Suffice to say it was a rude awakening, but not for the reasons that may seem evident.

I was so fortunate as to be in a time zone such that the rumors had already been diffused. Thanks to HQ for their due diligence on that front-I cannot imagine what a task that had to have been. However, my initial reaction to the hum of scandal was of frustration. What entitlement does one assume to feel justified in creating such a tectonic detraction? And to fabricate the state of one taking their own life? As a fresh but ever growing mental health clinician, I am deeply disappointed that anyone would belie such a situation. The profound pain and hopelessness that prompt such acts are not things of which to make a mockery. My instinct is that whomever produced the distortion had little or no desire to consider the ramifications of their actions. Or perhaps they are one of those 'types' who prefer to skip their stone across the water merely to watch the ripples spread.

But no matter as to the motives of the individual. I am more interested in the deconstruction of the response to such a newsreel, be it erroneous or not. What limited scope I was privy to, I saw apparent panic and downright disconsolate reactions. Expressions of ruination had flooded the electronic air. It was as though some apocalyptic event had taken place, with sentiments similar to those of the equally resigned "Eyes Wide Open." I myself felt as some distant spectator on calamity. I was entirely emotionally detached. That's not to say I felt nothing about the unfolding discourse, but I did have the perspective of already knowing it was false. Or perhaps I am the kind who defaults to reticence in the face of troubles, as per my station in life and career.

I wonder what the state of this brief scandal looked like to the man around which it circled? Is it some harbinger of oncoming challenges? Does it augur well for him? Do the stark sentiments of grief indicate a durable and committed fan base that will assure a lifetime of financial and career prosperity? Or does it intimate a fiery current state of affairs that will soon burn down to sputtering embers?

Once again I personally feel at odds with my own fandom, are we part of a joyous reality for Wally, or a burden?

It would seem from interviews and comments that we 'fans' are sometimes seen as a dissmissably inconvenient consequence of being talented enough to warrant fame. Other times, the artist or his dutiful management seem obliged to our presence. Perhaps it is a tense balance of desiring space while also being beholden to those who have propped you up onto the shoulders of giants.


~~~c. P 2012  Photo: C. Malinowski 2011

Wizard of AUS

After listening to Mirrors for what must be the 15th full rotation, I came about a late-night thread of thought. There's an apparent vibration or magnetism that surrounds Wally De Backer, something of which he himself seems to be at least partially nescient. It begins with the consumption of the music, the deep layers of sound that draw the listener away from their immediate, more concrete reality. But the incantations only begin there....

Once subsumed into the swelling splendor of the music, there seems to be a secondary condition that overtakes those who find the music especially stirring and transcendent. There is a visceral mesmerism that rapidly takes hold. It begins in the deep recesses of the emotional centers of the brain and suffuses through to the heart, the pit of the stomach, and beyond. The listener becomes the follower, becomes the lover. The lover becomes enslaved by a sometimes unnerving connection to the art and the artist. The lover's entanglement with both creator and created becomes a spiritual accord.

I have been witness to this power. I have been terrified by it but myself unable to turn from it entirely. I have seen many others netted by the unseen forces it creates. The embers glow constantly, and when in closer interface with the music and the man, the fire is spurred on with heavy breath till the flames lick upward and tower. At times the burning is so intense it causes one to wince and recoil. Other times we stand in the pyre, welcoming the juxtaposition of agony and bliss.

What is the dark magic produced within these chants? Is the maker of the music some quiet shaman come to cull the ancient spirits? Has he sussed forth the ghosts of Beethoven, Hendrix, Lennon, and other such creators of auditory wizardry?  Has he slipped some seductive substance into his songs to erase all sense of hazard and cause the listener to bend unquestioningly to his will?

There is no denying a certain insensate, almost orgasmic experience in absorbing the music, especially those songs which touch at deep personal realities. The assumed trifecta of mind, spirit and body become magnetized to the experience. As a not wholly transient effect, the creator of the experience becomes a source of lustful energy. It cannot be denied that he who is a somewhat unremarkable figure from some angles becomes a stunning, comely, utterly specious man. It is the force of the internal brilliance coupled with the artist's own passionate experience with his work that hypnotizes. He takes on an etherial aura that remains uninterrupted. He becomes divine, in certain fashion.

I must hasten to apologize to anyone who may find this exploration unnerving. Trust me that I do, as well, which is why it seems to warrant exploration. It would seem evident from images such as these that the process of the music is itself a ravishing experience for the man who creates it. Perhaps we are merely sensing that heat and responding to it as anyone would who shares similar proclivities to the artist. It is reasonable to consider that the tantalizing power of the experience is entirely intended. What else would sufficiently decipher the throngs of impassioned followers that have fallen at his feet?

I consider myself a normally pragmatic, perhaps even starkly reticent woman. But I will not deny my experiences with this music and its maker, lest I be unctuous in my reality as a so called 'super-fan.'

I mean all but respect for Wally De Backer and those who hold him genuinely dear. I mean only to deconstruct the magnetic, almost religious pull he has on his followers. I wholly believe that his intentions are genuine, gentle and virtuous. I truly believe he only wishes to touch the heart a bit as his has been touched before. He wishes to share the glow, for that we cannot thank him enough.

But there is a strange power.....that cannot be ignored.

~~~c. P 2012

Sounds from the Mattress Fort

As we move forward on our Wall-nuts Social Action/Story project  it seems appropriate to address the voices I am privileged to listen to each day, to attempt to represent their resonance in some basic fashion.

I spend a surprising amount of energy absorbing their thoughts, feelings, words and whimsy....yet sometimes I find some sadness in the work. So many potentially brilliant minds feeling that their contributions barely merit, if at all. I am one who feels that way, at times. Yet I beg to differ, so today I take the possible risk of briefly speaking as a conduit. Perhaps the message does not become lost amongst the assumed 'refuse'....

There are countless sources of scrutiny and cogitation out there in the grand internet ether. As we scratch the surface of it, we find ourselves oft astounded by the apparent unceasing streams. Your name blips on the radar every millisecond, it would seem. We can separate our own selves from the constant noise, you cannot entirely, can you?

Perhaps it smacks of some level of profound entitlement, or lack of self-awareness, but we would like to believe our voices matter. We would like to believe we get through...although the stark reality seems to be that although the chorus of numerous chanting one message may be more powerful than the straining vocals of one...it would seem that at some point the choir is too large to be heard. Or perhaps we are not singing in harmony, perhaps we sound deranged and rampageous to you?

Are we made of packs of wild-eyed beasts with ravenous appetites, our guts groaning for another taste of your tender ankle? Are we the pack-wolves lurking in the bushes waiting to trample you? No, we are gentle creatures, made of the same fragile fragments and flesh as you.

We are a garden of immutable orchids, weaving our tendrils about one another, enclosed within the hot, redolent greenhouse you've built around us. We come in many colors, shapes, dimensions and fragrances. The blooms grow greater and stronger because of your consequence. Like any flowers, we adorn ourselves so that perhaps our disclosure will be granted a notice by the passing butterfly.


Ah, but you are a reticent gardener! You know not what to make of your bounty?!

Or perhaps there's no room on the windowsill for more fulsome decoration.

If we could convince you to lean over and see through our lens, the view may be too much to bare. You've woven stories that stripped us naked of our secrets-you made art that exposed our deepest truths, those things we told to no one. Those closed secrets are now open secrets, because of your own candor. You accepted the challenge from which many of us recoiled-you pieced together the heart puzzle. Now, upon sharing it with us, we find ourselves feeling small and feckless-that you had to make sense of it when we could not.

Now you shoulder a grand burden, having revealed your light and melodies, like Apollo, now a symbol of deep revelations. I am sorry....it is a role hocked with terrible and beautiful labor.

Our hope is to offer our deepest gratitude, and not to sound as a gaggle of spoiled children fighting over their beloved bauble. We only wish to stand behind our animus, and lift you up above the occasional ugliness that may be shot in your direction. We will do our best to remain a part of the harmony.



~~Thank you to my Wall-nuts for constantly inspiring!~~
     c. Paige 2012

Inside the Crucible

Part of the assumed responsibilities to the Wall-nuts community is the frequent screening of interviews and articles sent to me by members before posting. I admit that in busier times I may skim a piece or, if I have previously absorbed it, I might grant it a second, albeit perfunctory, glance. regardless, it is a privilege to regularly process these found gems. I am frequently amazed at the tracking skills of my colleagues!

Recently I've come across a few older pieces from mid to late 2011 in which Wally projects what may come of the release of Making Mirrors. He speaks of the previous slow-burn tendencies of prior albums, and the transitions from self-management and production to finally having powerful others looking over his shoulder, breathing down his willowy neck. At the chronological watermark of these interviews, Wally remained unblemished by the numerous challenges of world-wide fame. Perhaps it is merely supposition, but one can almost witness the glow of naivete emitting from him. He was still just Wally, the winsome young music man from Ballnaring with the curly hair and the oddly arresting smile, sifting through the vintage tees and forty-fives at the local Op-shop.

Now we return to the inescapable extant reality. We return to the molten,white-hot current that has swept up the music and inevitably, the man, in some manner. When the spark of humble genius is blended in, the mixture becomes all the more complex and potentially caustic.

We return to the stony crucible in which the artist and his art shift and boil. It is a space with unrelenting oppression, power, assumptions, expectations, criticisms and callousness. It is a place where that which came from the tender recesses of the heart and mind is objectified and stripped bare by any consumer passing by. Love, grief, frustration, joy are all repackaged and put on display for unbounded intrusion. Yet, does the art comes forth with that social contract understood? Do we have an accord, You and Us? 

There must be an astounding tension held between remaining temporal and calm when so many expect so much. As Wally said himself, there is a great deal of "space junk" floating about in the earthly orbit. How does a person reconcile that much of it may now be humming with their moniker, but they cannot expect to listen to all of it? What sounds are refuse and which are the refrain of some transient but valuable insight? What samples deserve a second glimpse? In one interview, recorded hastily in the corner of a noisy bar, Wally admits that he begrudgingly attends to his bursting email inbox, his glutted Twitter account, and often finds himself intransigent and flustered by the din of it all. It distracts him from the genuine fervor inside his mind-the music and its eager birth.

 How can one discern what is relevant when caught in the pressure and calidity of the crucible of fame?Are these very words merely more of the burning compound? Do you choose to ignore the heat and constriction, or do you use it to bring forward some sturdy, shining, alloyed creation?


~~c. P 2012

Making Many Mirrors

First order of Wall-nut business for today: A resounding Thank You to Wally and GotyeHQ for their message of appreciation. As of today, 65 international members strong, the "Wall-nut nation" is overjoyed to be some of the voices sharing the music and inspiration. We shall continue to work our hardest to represent with respect and collaboration.

                                                                                 ~~~
Some level of jest usually generates from the chatter amongst mutual enthusiasts. Among the dialogues on musical creation, the genesis of a song or the over-exposure of another, items dug from deep in the personal past of the artist punctuate the conversation. Like trinkets and talismans dusted off from trunks in the attic, these pieces of singular human history carry more meaning and message than perhaps any of us can truly comprehend.

Today, I step away from my ambiguity as the founder of the Wall-nuts, to examine what happens when a lifetime of personal exploration and collection draws to an apparent end.

Recently I was informed of the sudden failing health of my last remaining patriarch, the final elder of my family line. Born from first generation Scottish immigrants, he is an eclectic man with a sweeping personal narrative that I could never recount with genuine competency. He was a teacher of others, an artist, and an advocate to those who lived on the margins of society. He often abandoned his own Eurpoean, educated male privilege to listen to the voices who had long been silenced.

As my fellow 'nuts' assemble the available pieces of Wally's puzzle from often surprisingly insular sources, I consider to what extent are we doing justice to the gradually advancing life story of the man. Do we even have such a right, such a sanction, to attempt to understand his story? Of course, we are merely eroding the surface of the sand to reveal the most superficial relief of the structure. We try to care for it with great deference, like an anxious archeologist, gently applying one brush stroke at a time to uncover the treasure beneath. But can we ever overcome our naive comprehension of the being, or merely the marker left behind by fossilized history?

As I experience the impending end of a life, I wonder what stories the passing heart wishes remain for those still in the mortal coil. What memorial does a man aspire to when he sees his exit nigh?
 
I think back to an interview wherein Wally speaks of the image of an aging man impressing upon his youthful, inpatient kin the sterling merit of an antiquated organ propped stately in the lounge room. The younger mind finds the instrument quaint and quotidian, at best. But the old man reminisces on his long amity for the organ-it was the inspiration for song, for word, for plumbing the depths of the old man's soul. The child cannot bridge the gap to fathom what his elder recounts.

I myself may soon be sitting on the rickety bench of an aging organ that grew cobwebs and dust in the basement somewhere, having once been a source of grand sound and soulfulness. I may soon have but the stories told by technologically obsolete keys and chords.

Most of us will leave this life with only minute tales to be told, with only a few objects and images of our inner selves. Someone like Wally will someday leave behind a grand chronicle of music and imagery and inspiration. His story will be dear to many, and his passing will prompt the tears of countless eyes. But what will we have really known of him? Those of us who have not been-and may never be-genuinely dear to him as well....what will we have known?

We are but transient creatures in this ecology. Our own time in the environment is perhaps the only truly non-renewable resource we are given. What will we have done with it when the sands run down?
I will say this-I am glad to share in your stories, and those of our common source of creative inspiration. Someday those stories may be so much more than they seem. We ought to tell them while we have time.

~~~c. P 2012

If you have a story to tell about how Wally's music touched your life or that of someone dear to you, please find The Wall-nuts on Facebook and join us in our first social action story-telling project "Many Mirrors" (c) where we give a space to those who have not yet felt free to use their voice.

Blessing and a Curse

As we delve ever deeper into the complex waters of electronic communication, I wonder what the world looks like through eyes that can never escape the view from aloft.

What features does the landscape present from such a high place as that of inescapable fame and recognition? Does reality become attenuated and blurred as it does out the window of an airplane mid flight? Or does one feel a sense of power, to see above all our heads? Would the perspective be a burden?

                                    

What sensations are evoked when thousands, millions of desultory voices like mine shout your name? Do you grow tired of your own title, of your own 'self' as you've presented it to an ever-enrapt species? What cost do you accrue assuming the empire? 

And what recompense do we-your followers-pay for the illusion of your glow? Is it an illusion, or are you truly refulgent? 

Are you one of those rare birds that perch atop the tallest tree branch and croon your most lovely, leaving packs of obsessive ornithologists at the forest floor frenetically snapping pictures. Perhaps you revel in the art of being an enigma, a wonder....a genius? Oh, or would you shrug off such a title? Would you defer to others before you whose art informed yours and excuse yourself as merely derivative of their brilliance? Are you merely a passing fancy in the glutted world of popular media? Would you say you feel as nothing more than a drop of honey in the ocean? 

Perhaps you feel distilled and reconstructed as much as your steadfast radio-exhausted single? Perhaps that is merely the nature of your paradigm. You have crafted a fresh axiom for the hearts and minds of many. What does that feel like for you? To be re-imagined within the minds of millions?

Do you recall your days as an eager younger musician bashing out whatever made sense on your drum kit with your high school friends? Do you remember how you belabored over Depeche Mode and Kate Bush albums, sensing some transcendent arc to your consumption of their art? Do you remember where you came from, mattresses piled against walls and sweltering Australian summers? Do you remember being driven by the music, and wondering how to shout your message back at the muse?

This is us....shouting back, through the cacophony. Hello.....thank you. Don't ever give up. It matters to us.



~~~on behalf of 'all'~~~c.P 2012

The Inevitable Nature

Recently I've had to sit with the occasional dualistic nature of being a fan and a supporter of fellow fans. When a tribe, of sorts, first gathers in some agreement of alliance, there is an initially positive sentiment amongst the natives. Assets may be shared, grand stories told, and the burden of struggles and challenges borne upon the shoulders of the community together, so as relieve the weight upon one. This is the image we all carry of the Utopian ideal-to join together under one unifying force. 

The reality seems to be that in the adoration of one 'idol', the natives sometimes fracture into hierarchies. Perhaps it does not systematically fragment one tribe per se, but it can cause the territories in the society to split off into quietly subversive factions. Some are given greater power, others denied it. Gatekeepers straighten their spines and stand tall at the entrance, ready to deflect weary travelers seeking shelter. Tectonic shifts in the landscape begin to rupture the joy of the original motivator.

This is the story that has been told since humans began telling them. This is the story of power and oppression, of merit and prohibition. It is the greyer shades of our nature-when we discover that we love the same love, feel the same passions, ache the same pains. We become afraid to be vulnerable to one another.

We are all equally complicit in the silent undercurrent of toil to gain some validation from powerful others or to pull a part of the power to our side. We are all victims to the cravings for merit, for recognition....for a name that resonates. We are all pleading to have the king kiss our hand when we genuflect at his feet.
In the contemporary context, the struggle to equalize or unequalize the power differential is often carried out through the diffused filters of media. The battlegrounds are electronic, now....yet another layer of challenge to our sense of personal and social safety.

In my heart of hearts I wish for a shared space, where all of the natives convene and tell their tales. I wish for the idealistic musings of the Utopia. I wish for you all to be my sisters and brothers. I wish for us all to take a drink from the fountain.

Just writing those words brings water to my eyes and hapless resignation to my heart. Do wishes become real?

I wish we could all feel the power in shared power, the potential in turning towards rather than away. I wish I myself could remember to always uphold my own hopes, to not falter in the face of challenge. I, too, am human, and fragile, and equally thirsty. I too am part of the problem, as much as I can be part of the solution. 

I suppose I have some point in my tiresome philosophical cogitating. I suppose I mean to say that I am thankful that we try, at least, to share what we are given. I am glad that we try.......and by we I mean everyone. We are all We. Perhaps, I entreat you, to let me be your collaborator and you mine. Let us create together rather than apart. Let us sing the songs with shared voices. 
I shall do my best, if you promise to do yours, too.

                                                                       ~~~~ P. 2012