A buddhist monk walks up to a taco truck.
The guy at the window says, What do you want?
The monk says, One with everything.
Summer's coming up. Like so many people who came of age with CDs, I am a sucker for quantity. I like to look into the dull animal eyes of the future and whisper the words of Leonard Cohen: "Whatever you give me, I seem to need so much more." It's the same thing when I look into my dresser drawers. I find so many pairs of short shorts, yet so few chances to wear them. What I'm saying is, we need more music festivals in Dogville.
We need breakfast festivals, in which street artists and live-body painters can paint giant festive murals of eggs and waffles, gooey rivers of syrup and spewing fountains of orange drink. There ought to be festivals which happen early in the mornings on work days in strip malls and industrial parks with bands playing everywhere —inside shoe stores, under the awnings of food trucks and beside the order windows at fast food drive-thrus, in the abandoned cubicles of the recently laid-off, in every single government building and in as many banks and energy companies as possible, in medical-center lobbies and inside examination rooms (gowns and scrubs could be branded), and in the payloads of working cranes on construction sites. One rule of decency ought to be observed: there should never be bands in bathrooms; those are sacred places, where we all go to cry during the workweek.
There need to be festivals where musicians show their chops, wherein hundreds of bands and solo artists perform exactly the same song, note for note, over and over. Expired medicine festivals, where we come together to take our chances with expired prescriptions as well as over-the-counter cocktails.
Patriotism! We need more of it. There should be festivals on military bases, airfields, harbors, army training grounds, where everyone in attendance gets to operate the best weaponry we have so far (and we have the best). Ordinary Houstonians, like customer-service reps and boilermakers, flying jets hither and thither. Plumbers, baristas, process engineers, and adjunct professors taking turns driving tanks and firing cannons. Real-estate developers and short-order cooks, etc, operating the machinery of drone warfare. More festivals. Every day a festival. Every person a member of a street team. Every day a weekend. Cost should be no concern; we could sell the naming rights to each and every one.
Meawhile, here's a look at the trashy week ahead.
Station Sound Series
Feat. Collin Hedrick, Edison Carhuaricra, Briefcase Brad, Tsuyoshi Anzai, Megan Easely, Gerritt Wittmer
Station Museum, April 12
Curator Alex Tu presents a continuation of the Station's long-running, if intermittent, sound series in the main gallery, currently empty of art works and shorn of temporary walls. It's an early concert and an eclectic one, featuring sound artists from different countries and different experimental subcultures. Could be a lot of awkward standing around, could be fear in a grain of sand. There's some sound bathing, some kinetic sound sculptures, some home-spun experimentalism, and some stark psychological terror. Bring snacks!
Cellular Chaos, with Etched In The Eye, Dead Time, Milk Leg, Peiiste
Notsuoh, April 14
No-wave, noise rock, things that blister easily in daylight, and a general clamor of feedback classics.
White Oak Music Hall, April 14
Do you like to gamble? Do you find yourself getting dressed up awfully nice for incomplete occasions, like going out for tacos, but only that. As partially rehabilitated warmonger and world destroyer George W. Bush once said, more or less, "There's an old saying in Tennessee... you can't get fooled again."
Jonathan Toubin's Soul Clap and Dance-Off
Feat. A Fistful of Soul, The Phantom Royals, Archie and Juanita Bell, Zahira Gutierrez, Brad Moore, Darenda Weaver
April 15, Walter's Downtown
Do you know your history? Before fast fashion, in between the first age of neck beards and cuffed shorts and the current one, in that no-fly-zone between the era of hair metal bands nigh near deflowering one another live on Headbanger's Ball and the invention of Ableton Live, there was a period when people almost completely forgot how to dance. The clubs would still play music, but it was as though no one could hear it. People would just mill around looking confused, taking occasional breaks to waddle to the cigarette vending machine or to the bar to freshen up their smart drinks. And then we had a war in the Persian Gulf. Well, like they say, those who don't dance are bound to repeat history. There's a $100 cash prize for the best dancer here, and after I win the money I'm going to buy my baby some really flashy flowers. So, florists, you know the number, get at my beeper.
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