Andy Mister - Liner Notes

ANDY MISTER

2013 Andy Mister

All rights reserved. Except for short passages for purposes of review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Station Hill of Barrytown, the publishing project of the Institute for Publishing Arts, Inc., 120 Station Hill Road, Barrytown, NY 12507, New York, a not-for-profit, tax-exempt organization [501(c)(3)].

Online catalogue: www.stationhill.org
e-mail:

This publication is supported in part by grants from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.

Interior and cover design by Yuki Kites.

The author thanks the editors of the following journals where excerpts from Liner Notes originally appeared: Boston Review, The Canary, Cannibal, Five Fingers Review, /nor, Seneca Review, and Sink Review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mister, Andrew.

Liner notes / by Andy Mister.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-58177-131-2 (pbk.)

I. Title.

PS3613.I8448L56 2013

811.6dc23

2013001990

Manufactured in the United States of America

The invention of melody is the supreme mystery of man.

Claude Levi-Strauss

All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music.

Walter Pater

Hail, hail rock and roll!

Chuck Berry

BRIAN WILSON SET out to write a teenage symphony to god and laughter. He called it Dumb Angel. During the recording of Mrs. OLearys Cow, Wilson and all of the session musicians wore firemans caps. In this sense each performer has a conductorial function. Over and over, the crow cries uncover the cornfield. Did he burn the tapes because their bad vibes were responsible for a series of fires in Southern California? The lesson of Smile is that a record does not have to be heard to create a sound.

I HEARD A car door slam, then birds crashing. The actual duration between sounds is determined at the moment of playing by the performer. Outside my window the city is asleep. Across the street, a man lies in a doorway, sleeping. Its hard not to think about how he could be me. This ginseng tea makes me woozy. If this morning would become summernot a bird in sight. I tell myself the day is unfolding in words. I tell myself our love is like a pop song. A song in which our love is compared to Wuthering Heights: none of the characters are all that likeable.

WHEN I WAS sick, no one knew but the doctors. Now no one knows that Im well. What risk is there in intending a meaning? What I would do not to feel so jagged. I once heard someone on television singing about that feeling. Did she have you on your knees? I wrote an entire book on the train. In it I defined her as a force, not a person. A moment of affirmation: by accident or effort. Contact is a gift. She is wearing it. Anxiety conferred by the telephone, loves true signature. This feeling I once heard someone singing about.

ERASERHEAD IS ESSENTIALLY a film about a man afraid of becoming a father. During the filming, David Lynchs daughter Jessica was born. I felt sickened by the streaking lights: red, white, yellow, glowing against the glass. And everything was glass. I thought I would break if someone touched me. When I left for work it was still dark out, but the streetlights were off as if they knew nature had made a mistake. How do they know when its getting dark, I asked. Someone must tell them.

A BOY ON the train asked me why I have a skull on my wrist. I wondered if he meant I was going to die. He asked if it glows in the dark. Then he asked me to buy a candle for five dollars. When we went through the tunnel, I couldnt see anything. I got off at 16th and walked up Valencia. It had been threatening rain when I left, but now the sun was out. Everyone was smiling, which scared me. I kept crossing out words as I went along. The street was lined with blank spaces. I wanted to disappear into them.

AS WE LAY in bed she said, Its getting dark out, as if I were a machine. An oil stain on asphalt. A spot in the cornea. First the gray then the green washed out of the paragraph, leaving only numbers. I was trying to describe what the air felt like walking to the BART station. Now I only want to explain what it feels like when nothing happens. The weather becomes an occasion. Everyone is out in the middle of it. Today is Lincolns birthday. The weather becomes the occasion.

NICK DRAKE DELIVERED the Pink Moon tapes to a receptionist at Island Records without a word. Island didnt realize they had the album until after he had left. Shortly after its release Drake checked himself into a psychiatric hospital for five weeks. Thereafter he wrote little music and rarely ventured out except to see friends like John Martyn, who described Drake as the most withdrawn person Ive ever met.

WITH TIGHTENED THROATS we stare past the impersonal landscape: some trees, a boat cutting a path across the lake. The sky is no wider than a puddle. Its Friday the 13th. I called in sick to work. I watched the water appear and disappear. The water in my eyes. Washed green to gray. Each moment is surrounded by numbers, shining. The weather doesnt start to take shape until spring, then youll see it all around you. Scattering out from a point. That point is not you. Or me.

ON NOVEMBER 25, 1974, Nick Drake was found dead in his bedroom in his parents home after taking an overdose of antidepressants. He left no suicide note. He kept withdrawing and withdrawing until he just disappeared.

WHEN I WAS in junior high a girl I had a crush on told me about a song that actually made you feel like you were on heroin when you listened to it. That evening I asked my father if he knew the name of this song.

Heroin is all right, he said. But you should really listen to Sister Ray.

MY THROAT TIGHTENED. I crossed MacArthur to the Grand Lake Theatre. It was warmer than it had been in months. Adrift on an ocean of asphalt. In the distance the heat made a mirage floating above the street. But I wasnt going to see a movie, I was going to cash a check.

I READ A profile of Nick Drake in Entertainment Weekly while waiting in my psychiatrists office. There was a resurgence of interest in his music after the song Pink Moon was used in a Volkswagen commercial. Now stark folk songs by depressives are used to sell cars. I was secretly rather fond of the commercial. Two young couples drive to a partyin a Volkswagen, I assume. When they arrive, they see a bunch of loud, drunken kids. They turn around and just keep driving. The article was mostly about the commercial, not Drakes life.

ON MAY 10, 1980, Ian Curtis hanged himself in the kitchen of his Macclesfield home. He left a note that read: At this very moment, I wish I were dead. I cant cope anymore. He was 23 years old. A month earlier, he and his wifefrom whom he was separatedhad celebrated their daughters first birthday.

ONCE WHEN I was 13, riding home on the school bus, I drowned. I had to convince myself that I was breathing. Just for a moment. People on the street will tell you things if you stop and listen. I dont stop because I dont have any money.

THE FIRST TIME Lester Bangs listened to Sister Ray he could only hear the organ. Subsequent playings opened up whole sonic vistas he never knew were there. Because properly conceived and handled noise is not noise at all.