Context (Warning: frank talk about bodily functions below)

The hike in the Rockies was a treat. Well, a treat that came with a great deal of effort, some bowel problems and bit of pain. OK, a lot of pain, I'm not as young as I like to think I am.

It was three days of wilderness camping in bear country. Hoisting your food up 15 meter poles at night, no smelly soaps or deodorants in the tent, that kind of camping. Along with the mild danger there were spectacular views and the satisfaction of hard physical effort.

The highlight/lowlight was climbing a feature called The Notch. It's the highest elevation on the Skyline Trail. I'm not sure how many vertical meters it was but it was pretty intimidating looking at it from the bottom. I was first to the top. Not out of my usual macho sense of competition but because I needed to get away from the group.

I'd been having some bowl discomfort for an hour or two before The Notch. A bunch of years ago I was treated for Ulcerative Colitis. Basically a bad inflammation of the bowls. The treatment of non-steroid anti-inflammatories worked and my doctor felt that it wasn't likely to re-occur. Mind you everything I've read says it will come back, but I choose to believe my doctor. I still have some issues with my poop. Occasionally I just have to go, and go now, or I'm going to do it in my undies. That's how I was feeling staring up at this cliff face and wondering just were is the trail up at the top?

I took off first in the hope I could get over the ridge before everyone and poop in privacy. I made it but the climb was hard. Towards the top I was walking ten or so steps and stopping for a few seconds to let the lactate acid clear from my legs, then another ten steps, the way real climbers do in the high mountains. All the cycling paid off as I never even came close to being totally out of breath, but there's no way I could have gone any faster. My muscles just aren't in shape for walking, especially not when carrying a pack full of food, tent, cloths, water etc.

Over the top of the ridge was a truly unbelievable view. High mountains lining off into the distance, deep valleys, bright blue/green glacial lakes: awe inspiring. Unfortunately I wasn't in any position to appreciate it. No, the position I was in was squatting over a hole I'd dug with the heel of my boot.

Never has there been a more spectacular setting for a poop, but just I couldn't appreciate it. I was too busy with a basic bodily function gone bad and chasing pieces of used toilet paper as they blew up the hill in the 40kmh wind. Yah, fun.

As everyone else crested the ridge there was tired celebration and some oohing and ahhing. That got me thinking about context. For them the context was putting the worst climb of the hike behind them and being rewarded for it with a postcard-worthy view. For me it was much more internal, literally.

Another example of context confusion came later that day. We were on the decent towards the camp for that evening. One of the six of us (J) had never done anything like this before. We were all worried about her, could she do it? She often fell behind but never gave up and never lost her spirit. It was pretty interesting to watch her bounce back from such an unaccustomed effort.

One of the ways she kept her spirits up was to play tunes from here mp3 player on a tiny sound system. At one point there were three of us (not me) dancing down the side of the mountain to the sound of YMCA. It was funny and annoying at the same time.

I don't like listening to canned music in the wilderness. That kind of music is a product of civilization, of the city. I go to the mountains to get away from that kind of thing. I'd rather hear a strident bear bell and the crunching of boots on gravel than even music that I love. For me the context of the mountains in entirely wrong for that. Of course for them it was entirely appropriate. It got J through some of the harder moments of the hike.

The context in which music is heard makes a difference in how it's perceived. I not much of a fan of jazz, specifically hard bop. I can appreciate the skill of the players, but listening to it while sitting at home in a well lit room on a comfy chair just doesn't seem right. When I've seen it played live in a dark, smoky club, watching the musicians sweat as they work, well, that's exciting. Context.

I watched a friend's band play some kind of union benefit a bunch of years ago. They played the usual socialist kinda rock and roll, all very socially conscious. One of the songs was about how the rich were bad. It rubbed me the wrong way. The lead singer/guitarist was a white guy in his fifties. He was well dressed, had a neat hair cut and was playing a guitar that I would have killed to be able to afford. His amp rig was just as impressive. This was prime quality gear that a poor person couldn't afford.

Watching him sing that song left a bad taste in my mouth. I was thinking, "Yah, right buddy." and basically dismissed him as a hypocrite. Turns out I was wrong. My friend in the band told me after that he wasn't in fact rich. He'd just made the choice to spend his money on good gear and sacrificed much else to do so. But there it was, the context in which the song was presented didn't work. At least for me it didn't.

I have no idea what he could have done about it. It shouldn't matter what the performer looks like and yet it does. It shouldn't matter where you hear a song and yet it does. I like to think a truly great song will stand out, shine and move people regardless of how and where they hear it. I'm not sure most people are wired for that.

Most of us inhabit a world that encompasses all of our senses. Just because you're listening to music doesn't mean you stop smelling things. Sure, when you're concentrating the other senses take a back seat, but they're still there. I haven't the faintest idea what to do about this.

At the level I and all my musician friends are at there's no control over the venue. We can't control the context in which our music is presented. You take the gig you can get and hope for the best. You certainly can't control the situation in which someone listens to the radio or plays a CD. Mind you that's true even for the most successful musicans.

I guess the right context differs for everyone and it isn't something I should worry about. You can't make an experience perfect for everyone. Pesky people, all being different and all.

And yet I do worry about it. I want people to have that transcendent experience of the perfect song at the perfect moment. I want to bring that kind of joy to the world. Less altruistically, I don't want to put a lot of effort into creating something and have it sabotaged by things I have no control over. I don't want people to be looking at a view that has enough beauty to stun the rational centers of the mind into silence and have them miss it because they're worrying about shitting on their shirt tail.

Ah well, I've yet to write anything with that level of art so I guess it's a moot point.

I hurt

The LUC and I hiked the Skyline Trail in Jasper National Park over the weekend. 45km carrying way too much stuff uphill. Sleeping, eating and excreting in the woods.

Vitamin "I" * and the good feeling you get from getting completely away from your normal routine are the only things keeping me going right now.

Despite playing my backpack guitar only once it was a good musical experience. Back to work, more later.

*Ibuprofen

Place Holding

To those of you who come here so faithfully (all three of you) I will be writting more soon. The extra job has been eating up all of my time, but it's giving me time to think. A bad thing that, too much time to think, it leads to all sorts weird humours and vexations.

In the meantime, go create. Every action is an act of art if done with intention. The world is a big place, it can always use more beauty.

Tah.

The Wheels on the Bike Go Round and Round...

...or at least they do when I'm doing my job. Got a part time evening job wrenchin' and representin' for these fine folks. It's fun and challenging, mostly because the bikes are old and need a lot of care.

It's cutting into my practice time, but oddly I think it's going to help me be a better musician in the end. I'm learning just how much free time I really have and how much I can do with it if I stay focused. That's always been a problem for me: too much slacking.

The plan is to use this part time job to get used to being more productive. So when I leave it I'll be able to spend at least the same amount of time working on music. That's the theory anyway.

In the meantime I get paid to ride around and work on bikes, things I do for fun. Sweet.

Sharp. Really sharp.

I was just skimming a book on Jackson Pollack and it re-awakened my desire to be on the cutting edge. Unfortunately that edge is a long way from where I stand. Not like the fab D-Ray, she's so on it that I doubt she ever needs to shave her legs. Oh, and yes that is an accordion and no, it doesn't suck. You ain't never heard sounds like the ones she gets (wrangles, manipulates, outright-pillages) outta that thing!

Posture and Philosophy

We played the bikefest last weekend. Our first gig in at least a year. The whole band was a bit trepidatious; we haven't practiced much in the last couple of months. Half way through the first song there was a noticeable change in mood. It was like we all realized at the same time that: "Yes, we know how to do this!" Not only was it more fun than monkeys wearing pants, but we played better than we've done in a long, long time.

So much of music is in the brain. Assuming you've spent the time getting your hands to obey orders, a good performance comes down to attitude and mindset.

I've been practicing standing up straight. I've had bad posture since my early teens and I used to suffer terrible back spasms. None of the myriad advice I was given worked, possibly 'cause most of it didn't make sense. I mean, how exactly does pretending there's a balloon attached to your head help? I felt like I should be ducking in doorways and avoiding anyone with a lit cigarette.

The hardest part about standing up straight is remembering to do it. I have to force myself to remember when I'm taking a shower, washing dishes or playing guitar. It feels really strange, strange "down there" when I try and be more, er, erect whilst playing guitar. Something about that pelvic tilt stirs the Rock God in me. I want to stick out my tongue, put my foot up on the monitor and make the girls scream. Fortunately the ironic/sarcastic portions of my brain are overdeveloped. There's little possibility I'm going to make an ass of myself by rocking out too much. In fact other than bobbing my head there's little moving I'm going to do at all. The curse of Classical training.

I'm going to have to learn to move around a bit if we're going to gig more, and that is the plan. Or so I'm told. Play a few gigs and use the money to record in some guys livingroom studio. Sounds good to me, I'm tired of trying to make P happy with the recordings I've been doing.

The other thing I've been thinking about is philosophy. Specifically the nature of reality. Seems like I'm surrounded by new-age hippy types, all of whom are trying to convince themselves that they're more powerful than they actually are.

There's nothing wrong with self improvement and there's certainly nothing wrong with valuing one's self, but there are limits. When you start to believe that the whole universe is subject to your will, that's when you lose me. We certainly create our own circumstances by the actions we choose, but reality as a whole? No way.

To believe that would be to deny those great moments of community that happen when playing with the band. Those moments when the group rises above the sum of it's parts, when things go goosebumpy in the night. Moments like we had halfway through R ubber D uckie last weekend.
If I create the universe out of whole-cloth then everything I around me is, well, me. The others in the band couldn't be separate entities that I've managed to achieve a fleeting and wondrous connection with. At best they'd be parts of myself that I was unaware of. A worthy goal I suppose, meeting the hidden parts of ones psyche, but in this case I refuse to believe that's what's happening.

My universe is inhabited by more than just me. And I don't mean light-beings, spirit-guides or pod-people. (Well, I'm not entirely sure about the latter.) No, my universe is full of humans: strange, wondrous, almost unfathomable in their thoughts and actions. I cherish those instances of connection that go deeper than day to day communication. Those moments, that for me, come from a band in full cry, eight hands speaking with one voice. Keep your crystals, chakras, signs and spaceships-behind-the-comet, humanity is mystery enough for me.

*That's me, hiding on the left. Yup, I wear my guitar really high, another curse from a Classical upbringing. Can yah say "Rawk God"? Hmmph, me neither.