Rock 'n' roll is about many things: Greed, drugs, anger, cashing in, sex, lunacy. Of course, many of us like to stew in the fantasy that it's
all about the music, man
, but think about it: When's the last time there was a band-successful or little-known-that didn't have a tinge of ugliness to it? Even the most smart, well intentioned and/or good-hearted bands suffer from some dysfunction, some malaise of ego or Jack Daniels, some dark pretension, or, occasionally, some devil-worshipping.
Which is one reason we all like it so much. We can relate. Other genres, like, say, classical or Wynton Marsalis-esque mainstream jazz, are too pristine and clean. Oh sure, these genres contain musical
sturm und drang
, but did Beethoven ever get arrested for soliciting prostitutes? Even when rock music itself is bad, there's something we can all attach to, latching on to a little piece of our own darkness that gets to emerge from the shadows and spit and curse and grow monstrously in broad daylight. While we, as everyday human beings, must stuff down our egos and appetites and repress our desires for the sake of propriety, rock stars get to burp and fart and be complete jerks with more impunity than professional athletes.
And yet, there's always a certain innocence attached to music. The initial impulse to make music may often be an impulse to exorcise demons, but the creative exuberance with which it often is attacked is something else altogether; there's something sweet in that impulse's primal nature of communication, something endearing in its desire to be heard.
Which is why my Grinch-y heart melted a little when I received not one, but two, odd little letters in my SFR mailbox this week, missives sent from younger folks who make music or are fans of music, and want to get it heard.
The first came from John of the Kidcrash, a locally born band that is more well known in circles larger than Paseo de Peralta. According to John's letter, Sweden, Germany, Canada and Mexico all have embraced the Kidcrash with more snuggly love than Santa Fe ever has, even though the group has played more than 100 shows here.
All fine and dandy, but all info that can be e-mailed in a quick press release. It doesn't hurt that the Kidcrash rock swinging, almost metal-y emo rock, with bell-like guitar riffs and impassioned vocals; but,
what made learning this information so thought-provoking was this: John's letter was an impetuously composed bit of silliness, embellished by hastily scrawled cartoons on Post-it notes. It was excited and not quite jaded, though by no means overly naive or saccharine, touching on that primal sweetness of musical impulse. And it was handwritten.
Second came a missive, also handwritten, in gorgeous calligraphy, the kind that's so beautiful it's almost impossible to read, and almost a shame to read, because it contains real words and thoughts and ideas rather than just the dream such sublime handwriting implies. It was encased in a vellum envelope decorated with almost creepy handcut images of weird art and Kama Sutra figures and I-don't-know-what. Three full
pages contained a plea from a young lady, Dana, who
implored me to come catch the open mic hosted by
beat prose (formerly akapoeticfolkman, "after I told him 'beat gravy' sounded a wee bit masturbatory," Dana writes). It was an honest letter, giving me a heads-up that sometimes the night sucks, but sometimes its magical. Usually I avoid open mics like the Plaza during Indian Market, but after a few pages, I was convinced. How could anything associated with this weird, artistic letter be bad? How could anything that inspires three pages of meticulously penned words not be worth my while?
Santa Fe's a dreamy place, to be sure, limitless in its ability to shield its inhabitants from a much larger, much more mercenary world. But even here it's easy to succumb to
grumpiness and frustration. Which is fine, because it's the delicate balance of dark and light and rough and smooth that keeps us from existing in a la-la palace built of crystals and astrology cards. And that's where these letters come in. They are related to music, so there's darkness to be exposed and underbellies to reveal, but they also embody the exuberance and excitement our musical world needs.
The Kidcrash is playing Thursday, Aug. 31 at Warehouse 21 (1614 Paseo de Peralta, $5), and the El Paseo (208 Galisteo St., 992-2848) open mics are on Tuesdays around 9:30 pm, no cover. I will attend both events. Not because I particularly enjoy open mics, not because I particularly enjoy the Kidcrash (though I do), but because, after all, who can resist bunny cartoons written on Post-It notes?
