Part Deux

Okay, perhaps it’s boring to read a post about the parking lot near (I hesitate to say “at”) Ikea. But it’s the internet. So I get to write it, and you get to skip it. Onto rock music, rivers and apples.

Sunday night found us back in the apartment, predictably lethargic after our outing. But I’d read about a show of possible interest: Dreamt Pyramid and Dopamine at la Sala Rosa. The Sala is one of my favorite music venues in town, and I’d not heard of either band but checking them out online, they sounded dreamy in that ponderous Montreal postrock way. Keep in mind that I really like ponderous. So much so that Carrie now asks me “how long are the songs?” when I introduce her to a new band or try to persuade her to hit a show. And so after some hemming and hawing, realizing that as of yet we have never regretted attending a rock show in this town, we headed out. Dreamt Pyramid tunred out to be a side project of Black Cannons, which was, er., less accessible than the main project. By the time I made it over to the CD table (during the break between Dopamine sets), they’d already taken their Black Cannons CDs with them, so there were no CDs to be had.

Dopamine rocked, pure and simple. They sound mellower on myspace somehow, but they’ve got a nice edge to them, and they squared a circle for me playing a cover of Pink Floyd’s 23:27 “Echoes,” which would win a prize for most ponderous rock song ever had the band Yes never existed. In high school I was in a band in called “Echoes” and we formed with the specific purpose of playing “Echoes” at the homecoming “Band Jam” my junior year. Which we did. Then we broke up. My AP History teacher, Mr. Abalan (who grew up on 50s singles), happened to be in attendance at that event. For the rest of the year, whenever he was feeling jocular, he would utter some variation on “Sterne, how could you play a 15 minute rock song?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was actually 23 minutes. Abalan was actually an amazing teacher and it’s because of him I know anything about American or European history. But that’s another story. My point is that postrock is the new slow side of prog. Math rock was the new fast side of prog, when it was new. I haven’t dusted off any of the old prog LPs in my collection (except for Larks’ Tongues in Aspic, but that was back in Pittsburgh). Not yet.

Anyway, by intermission, both Carrie and I both had those silly grins we get when we’re in the presence of something that rocks. I went over to the CD table and bought one of everything, only to discover that a complication CD I’d just purchased was mastered by “Mike Baker.” Now I happen to have an RA named Mike Baker. Coincidence? The evening ended nicely as some anonymous person bought me a bourban. Or maybe it was just the bartender. You know things are going well when you are sitting, rocking and some anonymous person buys you a bourbon. That hasn’t happened in a long time.

Despite the rain Monday we ventured out east, to the Eastern Townships. We haven’t really seen much of Quebec besides the freeways between Montreal and the border. But within a half hour from our door, we were driving up a winding country road that ran parallel to a river, through small elegant towns with luscious looking bed and breakfast places, and enjoying the countryside. The highlight was definitely the area around Mount Saint-Hilaire. Town after town was carefully manicured (no doubt because some of them featured mansions — we must have been in a playground for the rich). We eschewed the “festival de bieres et saveurs” that charged admission in Chambly (think parking on fields, big tents and lots of flea-market style wares) and instead weaved around the mountain, stopping at an antique shop (overpriced, but I’d never actually seen a photocopier for sale in an antique shop before — looked to be an 80s vintage Sharp model), a glass factory (very cheap for what you got but we resisted), and several orchards to sample the wares and in one case feed the farm animals (yes, I know that exhibit was for kids and I don’t care). I’d never tasted 10-year-old-raw-milk cheddar, which was amazing, and we took home some cider and some pickles to boot. In graduate school we expended a lot of effort exploring the countryside around Champaign-Urbana since there wasn’t much going on in town. Montreal can intoxicate and bedazzle, to be sure, but there is still something wonderful about those big open spaces. As we drove by one “for sale” sign after another, I wondered how much it would cost to buy one of those giant houses. But then, after the time it takes to have a vacation, I’d be bored. Plus the commute would be a killer.

Exploring East + Else

After collapsing Friday night from a week of advising and other new student events, we decided to take the weekend entirely off from work. Actually, decided that before collapsing.

Saturday night we hosted friends for dinner and caught Crank, which was both forumlaic in the mobster badguy action genre and entertaining in its subtle innovations. Sunday and today, we did some exploring.

We’d heard tell that the new Ikea out in Boucherville was much better than the one by the airport. We visited the airport Ikea several times after moving, and between them constantly being out of stuff, and me sitting outside one night watching one couple after another in various stages of breaking up as they tried to shove oddly shaped boxes in their cars, I’d had enough. But let’s face it: when you’ve broken enough glasses to need some more, along with a coat tree, a garlic press, and some dishtowels, there’s one place that’s going to have it all well designed and for not much money. We also had a fantasy of finding something that would function like a library cart, but that’s just a fantasy. So we believed our friends who said that Boucherville was better and set out there yesterday afternoon.

Except there’s on thing: it was Sunday of labo(u)r day weekend. There is no “day after thanksgiving” in Canada for the biggest shopping day of the year. No, I’d say that this weekend has to be one of the top shopping periods of each year. Especially if all those newspaper articles are right and the “back to school set” is the latest hot thing among retailers. And so, it is probably one of the stupidest possible decisions that we could have made to trek out to Boucherville in search of a new garlic press.

The trip itself was uneventful, except that we got to see an eastern part of the town we hadn’t seen yet, and drive out to the somewhat familiar looking eastern suburbs (we’d never been there but they look like new suburban development looks). But we would soon encounter the worst traffic jam we’d seen since moving here. The traffic began when we got to the shopping area. Bumper to bumper. Crawling, then stopping. And on and on. We weaved past the outlet stores, the coffee shops, the chain BBQ restaurant, all in name of our quest for cheap yet “designed” kitchenware. But when it came time turn left into the Ikea lot, the traffic was simply too jammed to make that possible. After rolling down the window and persuading the guy blocking traffic to move up a few inches so that the car in front of us could move (“continuez un peu, s.v.p.?”), we turned right, resigned to the idea that this was a fool’s errand (so to speak) and that we would just enjoy the ride home to the tunes of Bill Lasswell.

And then we saw it. On our way out, there was a parking spot in front of Future Shop. It’s a city block or two of parking lot to Ikea, but what the hell. We were there, and anyway, traffic was jammed on the way out the parking lot. What clinched it for me was seeing people walking by with Ikea shopping carts. So we decided to heap stupidity upon error and go on in. The trip to Ikea itself was uneventful. Miraculously, they weren’t out of everything (like the one by the airport) and we were in no position to see any breakups. We got our glasses, our garlic press and our coat tree (mysteriously named “Portis” which is apparently Swedish for “Washington Redskins Running Back With A Separated Shoulder”). Then we left and walked back to the car.

The traffic jam appeared to be better, but cars were still everywhere, facing every direction. We headed down one lane of parking lot and waited patiently. Every 15 minutes or so, we advanced about one car length. Finally, we were about to merge into the lane that led out of the parking lot to a road, and a woman rolled down her window to shout to us. She said that she had been sitting in the jam for an hour and a half, during which she had advanced from Archambault to almost in front of Future Shop (that’s a length of two “Superstore” fronts or about half a strip mall, if that’s a measurement). She suggested we turn around and try going the other way. And so we did. Ten minutes later, we were on the freeway, though I suspect it had something to do with the police finally showing up and guiding everyone else out of there.

You know how suburban roads are designed to wind around so that drivers are forced to move in a more leisurely fashion and so that traffic doesn’t flow too well or too quickly? Well, it turns out that the plan works.

(to be continued)

Speaking of School Starting

I’ve finally put the finishing touches on my sound studies syllabus, which is here, for the interested.

After messing around with various approaches, I’ve gone back to the required/recommended model, which assures that students can do a reasonable amount of reading in a week, but also points to other stuff that might be essential in the area. I’m going to add a supplemental bib, too, which will contain a list of texts I think are “essential knowledge” for the field. When I think back to the grad course packets I still refer back to, they were the cases where the professor provided a great deal more reading than I could possibly do at the time. So, there you have it.

It’s Really Starting

I arrived on campus late this afternoon after dropping Louis (Carrie’s dad) off at the airport. He was the last of our month-long string of visitors. We’ve never had so many people visit us in such a short period of time. It’s been wonderful as a social experience and in terms of taking time off. It’s been tough in the sense that, well, that’s a lot of time to have houseguests. Despite my best intentions at the beginning of the month and attempts to stay focused on writing even with guests around, I’m seven pages short of my summer writing goal at the moment with a week to go and lots of appointments. It’s going to be close. Alas, the book will not be done, but it is a hell of a lot closer than it was in April.

Anyway, I arrived on campus and any denial about the beginning of the year was shattered. Lots of “discover McGill” flags hanging next to pots of flowers, entrepreneurs selling “Harvard, America’s McGill” t-shirts at the Roddick Gates, and everywhere I went, people. Young students walking in pairs or small groups with that beginning-of-fall optimism on their faces; mixed packs of parents and students getting guided tours of the campus by earnest tour guides; tents full of people t-shirts selling god knows what; and every so often someone who looks like a grad student or a prof. The libraries, which were my destination today, remained relatively empty, though even they have subtle marks of the mass arrivals. For instance, there used to be these lovely plastic bags right next to the automatic check-out machines, at least in the Humanities and Social Sciences Library. Now? Nothing. Maybe lots of people took them, maybe someone in the library was worried about lots of people taking them. It’s tough to say.

As is usual for this time of year, the energy in the air is infectious. Though I’m a bit wiped from hosting, I’m feeling optimistic about the new year, my seminar, and everything else.

Without revealing any names, a friend of mine who resides in another province has a daughter beginning at McGill. She delivered said daughter to school this weekend. My friend was floored by the dorm — and old hotel — but also struck that within a day, her daughter had two messages on the whiteboard on her door from boys asking her to call them. Her parting gift to her daughter? Condoms.

School’s in session.

Night Time is Meme Time

I’m not normally given to insomnia, but the 3 hour nap is a big thing in the Rentschler family when vacation is in effect, and I’m more of a no-nap or 30-minute nap kind of guy. 3 hours was my downfall.

But that leaves me time for a contemplative post, thanks to Muse passing a book meme in my direction.

Now, I have a confession to make: this is probably going to be terribly boring for most of you, however many of “you” there are who read this blog. For I am not a fan of fiction, nor am I a fan of books with titles and subjects like Cod, and while I am a fan of poetry (inasmuch as one is allowed to ascribe a category like “fandom” to a high cultural phenomenon like poetry — see Henry Jenkins on that one), it’s been a long long time since I’ve read a book of it.

Most of the books I read are academic books; most of the books that move me are academic books. And what’s worse, I’m neither sorry nor embarrassed. That’s part of why I like my job. Anyway, enough preamble and onto the questions (see, I really do have a lot of time on my hands here).

Which book/s changed my life?

Jacques Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of Music. Though I have since learned that as with the works of Shakespeare, there is some question as to the actual authorship of this book, it still holds an important place in my life. So important that I own two copies, both of which I paid for. I encountered Attali’s delirious prose as an undergraduate and it was at that moment that I understood how one could ask all the questions of sound culture that people were asking of visual culture and in fact they could be asked better. Never mind that I later learned Attali was wrong on most empirical counts. He asked all the right questions at the right time, at least for me. I own two copies because my enthusiastic undergraduate self marked up the first one in dark black pen. Eventually, I wished to assign sections of Attali’s book, which required a second, clean copy. Mostly because I didn’t want anyone to see the marks on the first copy.

Michel Foucault, History of Sexuality, Volume I. No big comment on content, but there is a story here too. HofS was the scholarly equivalent of a first kiss, read early in my undergraduate career to satisfy an “honors contract” for a non-honors course at the University of Minnesota. I also have possessed two copies of the book, but consecutively. My first copy was, with encouragement of a certain TA and mentor, shoplifted from the University of Minnesota’s bookstore. I in no way condone such behavior (do as I say, not as I did) and I confess now knowing that the statute of limitations has run out on that particular crime. That was the main copy I used throughout graduate school. At some point in my professorial career, I took it with me on a plane to read (I have taught it both times I’ve done my Historiography seminar–so consider the lost sale made up for) and left it in the seat pocket. After which, I purchased a legitimate copy. Interestingly, part of the book (the biopower discussion) shows up in my MP3 manuscript, even though I tend to think of this book as more in my intellectual past than my present. It keeps coming back.

Various authors, Naked Poetry. This is a collection of American surrealist poetry. I believe this book was found by my friend Wayne in a garbage can at his high school. It is possible that someone else found it and it came into Wayne’s possession. Anyway, the book was definitely in the trash and recovered. I must have been in 9th or 10th grade when it appeared in my social circle. It was passed around, though mostly it resided in the basement of Wayne’s parents’ house (which he had claimed for himself). I returned to it obsessively and found the writing absolutely electrifying. When Wayne left for college, he bequethed it to me with a very kind and mature note (given that we were basically confused teenagers at the time). After his departure I drifted into a new circle of friends and we wrote a lot of bad, high schoolist surrealist poetry of our own. But that book did more than any other book to impress upon me the power of language. I took courses on creative writing and poetry because of that book more than anything else, and learned the difference between cliché and metaphor. Which I think is one of the most useful distinctions for an academic writer to keep in mind. Maybe someday I will write a poem again that does not have silly rhymes and appear in a card to a family member. Regardless, Naked Poetry sits in the very small section of poetry and literature on one of the bookshelves in the music room.

Which book/s have I read more than once?

This is a boring academic one. All of the above. Foucault, Bourdieu, Deleuze and Guattari, Marx, Hegel (hey, that takes more than one read), Derrida, Attali (of course). Also Ms. Mentor’s Impreccable Advice for Women in Academe. I’m not kidding.

Which book/s would I like to have on a desert island?

That’s a tough one, because I would honestly rather have electricity and some recorded music. Failing that, I’ll take an anthology of poetry (though not Naked Poetry as I suspet I’d find the men’s sexism disturbing at this point), along with some books of art, possibly surrealist or perhaps an exhibition catalogue. I assume the question is about boredom, and so I’d want something that I could contemplate for a long time. A long, synthetic work of philosophy or a giant anthology of science fiction (preferably with a wide range of writers) would be a toss-up for distant third choice.

Which book/s made me laugh?

I don’t really read funny books, and some funny books, like Michael Moore’s or Don Delillo’s, don’t work for me even though they’re supposed to. I did like Richard Russo’s Straight Man for laughs, though. I also find the prose of Jacques Derrida funny, though I’m told by others that this is a troubling personal trait that I should work to eliminate. It’s probably a Jewish pun thing.

Made me cry?

I suspect there were books that made me cry as a child, but I can’t remember a case where a book made my cry.

Do I wish I had written?

I’m not covetous like that. I like it when other people write good books. I would someday like to write a book that’s actually about music as its main subject matter, and I would like the book to be beautiful to read. And I’d like to write another book that has nothing to do with music or sound (I have a gazillion outlines, we’ll see what gets written). Both seem like goals, rather than “wish I had written” sort of things.

Do I wish had never been written?

I could do without most of that neocon drivel paid for by (and written to spec for) right wing think tanks. Also the Chicken Soup for the Soul series annoys me, but if it works for other people I can’t get too upset about it.

Am currently reading?

Academic: Mark Hansen, New Philosophy for New Media; Peter Doyle Echo and Reverb; Josh Kun Audiotopia; Weheliye, Phonographies: Grooves in Sonic Afro-Modernity

On the nightstand: Gilbert, Stumbling on Happiness. Though he writes like he has a mouse in his pocket (that awful psychology-speak of “we” this and “we” that), it’s a nice synthesis of research on happiness. My motivation isn’t totally leisure based, though, since I’m looking for new ways to attack consumerist ideology in my revised undergrad course this winter.

Wanting to read?
Stuff in catalogs like: Lisa Gitelman, Always Already New; Charles Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape; Steve Wutzler, Electric Sounds; Sarah Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology and on and on. Also, The 22 Laws of Marketing.

Still Reading? Have a blog?

TAG, YOU’RE IT! (okay, I know that’s a cop out but my eyes are finally getting droopy)

Complaints Department

They’re doing road construction outside my office at school, which means that I’ve had to take several meetings somewhere else or endure the sound of one of those giant hammer things. Well, now they’re ripping up the street right in front of our place, which is not only insanely loud, but when they hit the street just right, our place shakes just a little. Carrie said it started yesterday afternoon and that she couldn’t get any writing done because of it. I would have been impressed had she could.

I think we’ll be spending the day out and about, but I also take this as some kind of sign regarding that vacation I was thinking of taking before the first day of school. . . .