Layers Of Earth

Last night was my fourth Radiohead experience. As usual, the band put on a phenomenal performance, this time kicking off their North American tour at the Cruzan Amphitheatre in West Palm Beach. Outdoors, a little overcast, a packed lawn and a couple of beers in the tank set up the night.

First thing I had to do during the week or so leading up to the show was really, really listen to “In Rainbows”. If you read my earlier blog on the album, you know that I really didn’t “get” this album at the get-go. Look, I’ll admit, most Radiohead records don’t jump off and grab you right away, but “In Rainbows” was really a challenge. I knew if I listened enough, the subtleties would rise up and greet me, but here it was five months into it and I STILL wasn’t getting terribly moved by the thing. Maybe it really is a failed product of un-monitored self-indulgence, I begin to worry. So here I am with my Friend Big Tall Geoff, sitting in terrible traffic on the Florida Turnpike, in the middle of “All I Want”, and it starts to make sense, grow on me even. By the time we got into the venue, I was pretty OK with the “In Rainbows” material.

In conveying my show experience, one must understand my situation. I am legally blind, in case you don’t know. I have a little telescope that I spy on people with, but from where we were it was useless. If you are looking for me to tell you whether Thom was wearing an Obama shirt, I can’t. There was a Tibetan flag on stage apparently as Thom referred to it. He had a clever little bit about being on South Beach for 3 days and finding himself “proud to be white, pale and English, which is rare.” That was it for crowd interaction. The stage, from what I could tell, was a colorful affair, with shinny, lit vertical, shit; I don’t know what you would call them. Lots of lines of light, video behind it - nothing too exciting. Maybe I can’t see. Maybe I am desensitized to all that fancy gadgetry and would rather see them on a barge. Big Tall Geoff shrugged when I asked him about the visuals. “Kinda cool, but nothing special,” he said, adding that the video was somewhat obscured by the vertical light board. I’m sure you can find pics somewhere.

Ok, so what did they play? “In Rainbows” was pretty well covered, with the set opening with “All I Need” and followed with “Bodysnatchers”. The set took a turn with bits like “There There” and “Morning Bell”, but it was when they broke out “How to Disappear Completely” that I realized how this band was challenging the audience. There would be no “Kharma Police” tonight, which was ok with me, but I don’t know about the rest of the South Florida crowd. In other words, there was plenty of texting going on during the middle part of the set.

“Weird Fishes” presented a really weird moment where the band played the last section over again once the song ended, like a rehearsal. Thom then made some remark about how you’d think they’d get it right after all those rehearsals. That was fun.

The rest of the set was a mix of material from “The Bends” and “Kid A”. In the encore, they played the beautiful “Faust Arp” which still mystifies me musically. I don’t know HOW they keep count of that one. For the real hardcore fans, Thom took to the drums as they played “Bangers and Mash”, a fitful b-side from the Limited Edition “In Rainbows” package. Manic and probably over this crowd’s head, but rewarding for the 50 people in the crowd who recognized it.

There is one thing that I will say about Radiohead: They are the best SOUNDING band I have ever heard. I am amazed at the array of sounds produced by these guys, the execution, and the precise adherence to format, no matter the time signature or complexity. It always sounds so solid, the subtleties all there, a great sonic demonstration. I find myself just closing my eyes and drinking in the sound, and it’s never disappointed me. Ok, when I saw them open for REM many years ago, that wasn’t so good. But this show, like the previous 2 I have seen here and in Atlanta, the audio is about as good as it gets live. Maybe a bit more volume would have been cool, as my ears aren’t ringing today!

All in all, a great live show for Radiohead fans. Was I left longing? Yeah, of course. I mean, they probably could have played another hour and still not satisfied my craving for another nugget from “The Bends” or something like that. But it’s Radiohead - for me, it can never go bad.

Here is the Radiohead setlist from 5/5/08 at the Cruzan Amphitheatre in West Palm Beach:

All I Need
Bodysnatchers
There There
Reckoner
The Gloaming
Morning Bell
Nude
How To Disappear Completely
15 Steps
Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
Idioteque
Bullet Proof… I Wish I Was
Where I End And You Begin
Airbag
Everything In Its Right Place
The National Anthem
Videotape

ENCORE 1:
Optimistic
Just
Faust Arp
Exit Music (For A Film)
Bangers + Mash

ENCORE 2:
House Of Cards
Street Spirit (Fade Out)

I must digress into a bit of Battlestar Galactica geekyness here. I love the re-imagined series - it’s the best thing on T.V. that doesn’t involve racing. There is a mystery involving the identity of the final Cylon, and here is my take on that, and Cylon theory in general.

So anyway, I think this, Battlestar Galactica’s final season,  is all a set up for the backstory driven “Caprica” series scheduled to be piloted this Fall. It is my belief that the basis of the conflict between humans, the Significant 7 and the Final 5 is all tied back to the creation of the Cylons themselves. From what we understand, the Adama’s and the Greystone’s will be the prominent families in Caprica, and I think the Cylon factions we see now represent the differing philosophies these families had when creating the Cylons. That’s right, I think the Adama’s and Greystone’s were either the creators of, or had a significant hand in the legislation that brought about the Cylons. Of course, there had to be some conflict, some philosophical difference between how these two families viewed Cylons, artificial intelligence in general and automatons and free will. It is easy to imagine a camp who believed that the Cylons were designed simply to serve (hence the “one God” monotheism held by the Significant 7), and another camp who saw them as living creatures, an evolutionary step entitled to rights and maybe even citizenship. I think the latter would be represented in the Final 5, or at least the four we have seen. The last remaining Cylon - who knows. That may be reserved for a clone of the creator of that line. We’ll see.

I think this explains how these Cylons are so different. The Final 5 that have been revealed seem to be inherently more human, more flawed and susseptible to illness. There is no philosophical quest driving them, at least to this point. The Significant 7, on the other hand, are obsessed with things that are inherently human - procreation, religeous ponderings, and what it is to “feel” something. Much, much more primative. Of the final 5 we have seen, they have demonstrated a bredth of human emotions - love, grief, hope, fear. There is little doubt that they are more evolved, or at least more “human” than the other Cylons.

So the conflict, the idea that the significant 7 can’t think or talk about the Final 5 makes sense if it was a programmed aversion, placed there by a creator who is a rival of the Final 5 creator. This means, I suspect, that the conclusion of BSG is also the culmination of another series, Caprica, with the family rivalry getting it’s final play in the quest for Earth.

Back to this idea of who is the final Cylon, I dunno. Whoever it is, I think there is another layer to it. For instance, if it were Doc Coddle, he is probably more than simply Doc Coddle. He is probably tied to the actual creation of the final 5. Or if it is Baltar, I like the idea that he programmed his own ignorance and that the 6 in his head is really a manifestation of his own guiding subconciousness, pre-programmed by him years prior. Maybe it IS an Adama, but not Lee, Zack or William… rather Grandpa Adama, perhaps the creator of the Final 5 Cylons themselves. If the Adama’s are in some way responsible for the whole Cylon mess, well, can you say “redemption”?

I met a guy from Finland once, and after a long involved conversation that spanned world politics, his country’s perchant for producing World Rally racing champions and the comparative qualities of Finnish porters, he stopped mid-sentence and questioned my upbringing. I told him I was a local product of the public school system, good parantage and a couple semesters of community college. He paused and mused that he was puzzled, because I wasn’t like most of the other American’s he had met. I wasn’t consumed with pop culture or the amero-centric worldview that had characterized the American’s he had met here or overseas. A friend on the fringes of the conversation used that moment to chime in, telling my new Finnish friend that indeed, George shouldn’t be confused with any other American.

To me, a fine complement personally, but a sad indictment of the state of America and its perception internationally. I am not that unique, I’ve since decided. There are plenty of well-read, informed introspective and outwardly open Americans who don’t see the world atlas starting with our country at the center of all things. There are thoughtful, kind, empathetic people surrounding us, overworked to distraction maybe, but they are here. I know this, because this describes myself, my family and many of my friends. If we strip away the agenda-driven issues at the margins further, I would submit that MOST Americans are a decent people, willing to work hard, endure sacrifice and entertain tolerance in order to build a better society.

But the refrain, about not being confused with some other American, stuck with me. So late one night, lubricated by a belly full of domestic craft beer and a head filled with Keith Olbermann, I struck up a progression in the inventive key of “G” and this song was born.

“Another American Anthem” builds on the idea of there being more to America than its consumer trappings. We don’t all agree with the privatized, unfeeling imperialism of our current administration. We can’t all be distracted into compliance, amused into apathy. I’m not that fat American tourist in the James Bond films, choking on indulgence and self-centered desires. If we break out of our pigeoned-holed, corporatly programmed interests, tear down the fences of party, religeon and musical genre preferences, we can make it a better thing for all.

I really believe that, as naive as it may seem. Rise prols, unite. Take back your country, your destiny. String up the fuckers while you’re at it. But most of all, think. Then think some more. Because there is nothing more useless, more sad, than a dumb democracy.

Enjoy the song. Pass it around. And while you’re at it, smile at a stranger…It just may make your day.

This was originally posted by me on Rowdy.com back in November of 2007…

I’ve attended several Daytona 500s, the World Series and even rushed the field after my team won the National Championship in college football. But none of them come close to the potent experience that was 1997 at the Homestead Motorsports Complex. It was one rollercoaster of emotion bookended by tragedy and triumph, experienced up close and personal.

For the 1997 Florida Dodge Dealers 400, I was setup as usual in timing and scoring, overlooking the frontstretch and pit road. I was in the back row, updating the track’s official website in real time with scoring and pictures, and making scoring one-sheets every 10 laps or so. On race day, the timing and scoring room fills up with people, mostly women, representing each team and charged with scoring their truck in handwritten form. Some are puffing on some RJR derivative (if they know what’s good for them), and getting down to the business at hand. Most are old pros at this, connected to their respective race team’s communications via headset. Everyone knows each other here. Some laugh and joke while others continue on the conversation they probably started last season. For better or worse, this is a traveling family, galvanized by the stresses of living to race. 

I noticed Andrea Nemechek there a couple of rows in front of me sitting on the aisle. She is wearing the family shirt, blue nd emblazoned with the name and number of her brother-in-law John’s truck. He had qualified 9th in the number eight.

The race was packed with rookies, and to be frank, Homestead circa 1997 was no place for an inexperienced truck racer. This was a flat, four-cornered minefield with tons of straight-away speed. You couldn’t go two wide through the corners, so you better figure out who leads on the straights. A glance down the finishing order reveals names long forgotten who never made it: Barry Bodine, Lonnie Rush, Bryan Reffner and Tammy Jo Kirk (remember “Luv-a-bles”?). Many were over their heads on this track, ill-equipped to compete. The nicely painted, aquamarine walls were scuffed many times over the race weekend.

The Florida Dodge Dealers 400 went off as scheduled, but I remember there being lots of attrition. To be honest, the race itself escapes my memory because what happened on lap 143 eclipses everything. I remember looking up at the TV monitor as this white number eight truck lost it in the middle of turn one, spun around counterclockwise half a turn, and impacted the wall. Hard. What took place in timing and scoring slows down in my memory. There is a moment, a realization. These are racing people, and they know. That is not a good impact. Hair stands on end. Everyone knows. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows.

Snapping back into reality, there is a flurry of activity. In terms of timing and scoring operations, this means a red flag. I’m biting my lower lip begging to ask how I should notate this in my scoring one-sheet, but Andrea Nemechek’s scuttling of her headset and hurried exit stops me. This is a moment to chill.

Once the trucks are halted, I end up outside, sneaking a Marlboro Light (not a Winston) and trying to listen in to my scanner. I have NASCAR’s channel programmed, but I am getting nothing but codes and things I don’t understand. I find myself standing near a woman, probably in her late 30’s, eyes red-rimmed. I had seen her before in timing and scoring. I muttered something about that not looking good, and she looks blankly at me and lights the end of her cigarette with the butt of the one she’s just finished. It was a code 2, she said. Not good. I hear the sound of the Metro-Dade Huey rescue chopper warming up in the infield.

We all know what happened to John Nemechek. He died later in the week as a result of massive head injuries suffered in that accident. But there is one thing, one moment, that stands out.

I am there, standing with the red-eyed woman, chain smoking away the stress of the moment. Suddenly, the ringmaster of timing and scoring, Betsy, comes out to where we are and beckons us and the other 15 or so people gathered there back inside. They are restarting the race. And I’ll never forget her words:

“We have to remember what is important here. We have a race to run.”

CODA

Nine months later, I see Andrea Nemechek again. This time I am in Homestead’s victory lane taking pictures of her, her husband Joe, and their brand new son, John Hunter. Joe had just won the Jiffy Lube 300, a family triumph for the ages.

I still get chills.