The last time I saw Xavier Rudd, I wasn’t happy about it. I grumbled about it here, almost a year ago. Xavier is unfailingly amazing, but the crowd last year sucked. Just sucked. And on top of that, Xavier seemed like he was in a funk. He’d just released a much more personal, much darker album, and on stage he seemed just a bit out of sorts, like he wasn’t having the fun that he usually had with it, like whatever natural high he got from the recursive transfer of energy between himself and the crowd just wasn’t happening, or, perhaps more accurately, that the stuff he needed from the crowd to do what he does was not arriving. Xav was down, the crowd was an ocean of assholes, and I left feeling bad because he deserves better.

Cut to last night, Xav was back at First Ave. (a venue I have decidedly mixed feelings about, e.g., pretentious hipster crowd, but awesome, oiled-machine security dudes). I was worried about a repeat of last year’s downer, but right from the first note of the first song, it was apparent that Xavier was back in old form, perhaps better than old form. Playing with him were a drummer and a bass player from South Africa, and those three dudes were flat having a ball up on that stage, goofing around, giving each other fist bumps and playful jabs, smiling like crazy, taking older songs off into ten-minute jammy tangents. Xav blew into those didges and strummed those guitars with what seemed a renewed sense of purpose, as if the darker album and tour had cleansed something out of him, and now all the good stuff was free to backfill. The energy was there, the crowd was great, Xav was having a ball, and I left just feeling good. I think Xav is one of of the best, more positive things going in music right now, and last night he proved it. More than once, he deflected the audience attention away from himself and onto the two very talented musicians playing with him–the word gracious came to mind. Xav’s just a dude who loves to get up that and do what he does, and each time I’ve seen him–even that show last year–I’ve had the sense that I was watching a guy who was doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing.

After the show, they played Bob Marley over the house speakers, and in every stall in the men’s room, all the dudes were singing along to “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.” One guy, his words slurred with beer, announced, “Hey, if any of you are worryin’ about some shit, stop it. Bob says so.”

But as borderline cliche as that sentiment is, walking out of a Xav show, three so far, usually finds me feeling like, in spite of all the shit, things are gonna be cool, daddy-o.

Weird, awesome day. Yesterday K told me that there was nothing wrong with taking a day off, and today, unexpectedly, I did. Spent the morning (the early morning) recording with Where Roots Run Deep. After three hours, we had a seven track EP, which I dubbed The April EP. Our recording engineer, Anthony, was a trooper and a saint. I think even J would agree that Anthony epitomizes what it means to be a true gentleman. I doubt he’s reading this, but big ups to Menz Room Recordings regardless.

Spent the afternoon in a car with my fellow staff members, talking about the ethics of lawns, academic prose, and how our parents met. In between we played laser tag in St. Cloud, at which I fairly well wore holes in the knees of the only pair of jeans I have that fit right now (must begin exercise once semester is over).

Finished up the first crappy draft of my paper of Toni Morrison’s Beloved, which, at this point, is sort of about history and narrative and ghosts…and stuff. It’s a first draft, it sucks, but now I have something work with rather than just a blank page.

Car tested the April EP tonight, Once-style, with J, Anthony and K. Turns out the headphones we were using to playback the tracks during recording had no bass response, so the whole record is everyone else quiet and in balance in the background, and me on the booming bass, overpowering everyone. And since I’m the one who knows the songs the least, this was not an ideal situation. Plans are being made already for the May EP.

Nearing the end of House of Leaves, and wish I would have read it faster. I still think it’s great, but reading it over such a span of time (almost two months) sort of killed the momentum. I can tell it’s something that I will want to read again, but there’s a stack of awesome books at home waiting for me when I finally grab my diploma (is that even what they call that piece of paper at the college level?)in four weeks.

Now, bed, because I had to get up so early to rock, and my legs feel like pudding from all the rolling around shooting people with laser guns that looked like barcode scanners.

The venue was small, very much a hipster coffee house, with a small stage and tiny booths tucked back against the walls, lit by modified lanterns with red bulbs. Sitting in there, it’s like observing a microcosm of a high school, each affiliation and allegiance signified by a parting of the hair, the style of a shirt, the flavor of a scowl, all of it very much theater. It’s a place to be seen. Or is that scene? I forget. Anyway, I”m here because I’m playing bass in a band of friends–their normal bass player couldn’t be there and I could, so it seemed that the equation balanced. The first two bands play only slightly variable styles of punk rock, all of it very angry, screamy, headachy, and fuck-you-ima-kick-your-ass-y, and I remember a time when I was younger during which I would have marinated myself in this music, this culture. But tonight, sitting in the back, waiting to unload our equipment, all the sudden I’m the cynic, the adult, the person who claims the music to be too loud, remarking to friends about how little I understand young people today.

As we were warming up, I played a lick of Rancid on my bass, and one of the kids from the second band pointed at me and made a reverent noise, and told me to keep playing, twirling his fingers to say it over the loud speakers. I didn’t, because I’m not or have I ever been his bass-playing monkey, and actually wanted to say “Listen, I was listening to Rancid when you were in sixth grade,” but what the hell is wrong with me? When did I get so bitter? A minute later, the same guy asked for “My Sharona,” and I gave it to him.

The crowd was modest after the much more popular second band, but there were a few people milling around when we started. I was so busy watching the two guitar players for cues–I had only learned all of the songs that same day, and even then I use “learn” very loosely–that I didn’t realize that the crowd was actually getting bigger. By the time I looked up, there were quite a few of them, not nearly as many as the second band, but still more than I would have thought for a band from Morris, MN that no one had ever heard of. It wasn’t punk rock, but there were kids there in the front row nodding along and grooving, as if they were enjoying something they weren’t expecting to enjoy.

After the show, there were handshakes and kind words from spectators and members of other bands, and I thought: maybe these kids are too bad. But I’m still glad I’m not going to be teaching them English.

Something that I often find myself thinking about is latency in entertainment. There have been several times that I’ve been reading a book/playing a game/watching a movie/listening to an album, and I have thought that, even though to me this is cutting edge, state of the art stuff, this book/movie/game existed in the minds of its creators perhaps years before I’d even heard of it.  It’s like an old factoid I heard awhile back that the aviation technology of the military is always something like ten years ahead of what is public knowledge. We only get to experience it when it’s done, but it’s been created over the span of years.

It’s because of this idea of latency that I like to follow creator blogs. David Jaffe is doing this now. He has periodic updates on his blog about an as of yet unannounced game his company is working on for Sony, and it’s fostered some interesting posts about his game design philosophy and the things he’s doing with this title. Of course he never references the game directly, but having that unique window into the creative process is something I really enjoy. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Neil Gaiman has done this several times on his blog (which was actually started to track his writing of American Gods). When The Graveyard Book, hit earlier this year, I actually felt more attached to it as a text because I had been following Neil’s progress, all the way from handwritting the first draft to selecting Dave McKean’s amazing cover art.

Watching the process, even when the product is only referenced obliquely, is something I enjoy as someone who makes things. It makes me wonder what others things are out there right now being created that we have no idea even exist yet.

I’ve always had a pretty good memory when it comes to song melodies and lines from movies.  There was a stretch where my partner refused to watch certain movies with me because I would whisper along with every bit of dialogue.  For all three original Star Wars movies, I can talk along with the movie, nailing the lines and the rhythm and the delivery.  It drives some people up the wall.  The other consequence of that kind of culture memory is that I can recognize songs quickly.  Tonight at Open Mic, a guy played a few notes to start a song, and I barked, laughing without being able to help myself.  Some people looked at me funny, my partner got it, and after the next bar, people realized that he was sliding into a heartfelt, folky rendition of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys.  How long has it been since I last heard that song?  Years?  Probably, but still, just from the first three notes, I remembered it.  It was like those first notes unlocked a closet of memory, because I mouthed along to the rest of the song, knowing all the words.