At the High-tone Cafe

I've been running with a nostalgic reminiscence across the far reaches of my own personal blogfolio, and I thought I'd make it the clean sweep. So, this is a story about a show at the High-Tone Cafe, a hip little spot in Midtown Memphis, at a time in my life when I was as outgoing as I would ever be.

At the time, I had just recently forgot to take my ATM card with me after taking my cash and my reciept, and so had no access to actual cash, only the plastic kind. I had a few bucks, which is usually enough for the minimal cost of entrance to the various musical extravanganzas that are the weekend glory of Memphis town. Unfortunately, the one I was aiming at was not the usual local fair. Neko Case was coming through town and charging eighteen dollars a head.
Not to be dissuaded, I spent about thirty minutes at the Circle K next door convincing various patrons to give me cash in exchange for the use of my plastic money, so I could make it through the door of the Hi-Tone. It took some doing, even with the favorable rate of exchange I was offering. People are generally wierd about such things outside the bounds of their normal non-triangular money exchanges, but enough customers were heading next door and so wanted to help a fellow music lover in his pursuit of the experience of it live.
After finally gathering up enough actual cash money for my entrance, I headed back to the Tone feeling truimphant and ready. A quick beer at the bar and a hello or two to some casual acquaintances was enough to pass the time before the show got underway. Neko Case is just lovely and a towering inferno of country-tinged beauty, and after the first set I was half full of a spirit of desire and turning.
At the time I was doing some intensive studying of microsociology and would extoll the virtues of Goffman, Mead, and Collins at the veritable drop of the veritable hat. It was just a quiet coincidence that the couple to my left were both graduated sociologists, and we excitedly engaged our concordant love of the field; A nice moment between strangers.
The second set interrupted our delighted conversation and erupted with the downbeat buzz of all that is great about alt-country. The pedal steel intertwined with the expanding plain of her voice was the spiritual most, and I just died with the savage wonder of it all. After the show, I went out and off down the streets singing at the top of my lungs some lunatic nothings that sprouted up from my brain. When I got home, I wrote this:
A Slight History of Music, which I pimped to associated content for four short dollars for no apparent reason a year or so ago. Forgive the excessively muddled grammar and meanings in the piece, it was written in a windstorm and published in a sandstorm.

Building to Mayfield, Curtis

It's now become clear after Monday's workout that Mayfield's album Curtis (I think it was his first), it the now touchstone for intensity in dancing. Those rythmic explosions are hard to keep up with. I was winded by the second song. What a great album! It's a workout and then some.
Since then I've been totally halfway one the dance move, so let's get back to concert reviews because stories about failure suck.

lasting inhibited

I've been working solidly this week all week at the dance project, although I did forgo seeing St. Vincent tonight basically because I was freaked about having to go out in public a little bit. Really the thing was trying to get tickets from willcall at the Middle East. I wasn't sure how that process works at that spot, and I was freaked to have to try and ask around like a foolio. So I skipped it, which is lamoid spazzo, but such is life. Still I'm pretty beat down, and the show doesn't even start for another hour. Plus Saturday shows all go right up to or past when the T stops running, and the idea of actually driving someplace is a non-starter.
As to the dance project, I've been reading two books: Conditioning for Dance and Diet for Dancers. I figured the best place to start is with the basics. I've got some other stuff about movement and choreography, but I'm gonna hold off on that stuff and just try to build a solid routine of conditioning, health, and whatnot. The idea being to build dance into the very fabric of my life, as opposed to the special occasion-type deal that the live thing is. It's been good. I am willing to spend 45 minutes to an hour at it, and I've done so everyday this week without feeling taxed or stressed. Mostly I enjoy it and look forward to it, although I'm building some stretching and strength training stuff into the program so it's getting more serious. I'm trying to build slowly to a kind of eccentric professionalism and just generally get the move solid. In my past, I have trouble sticking to an exercise program on a long term duration, so that's really one of the main things; to keep at it.
Today's session was split between Rilo Kiley's Under the Blacklight and Shuggie Otis's Here Comes Shuggie Otis. I was having a bit of trouble really staying in the moment, and I was feeling a little cliched in my movement. Ultimately, it was a lacklluster day, but that's not out of keeping with how I was feeling. It can always be totally transformative, but that's the intended idea, to help to revitalize and spiritualize the self just a touch. So in that spirit, I do want to start and end dancetime with a meditational period to really help to get into the now. It is my honest intention not to overload myself here at the start of this process because that's how it always gets destroyed with too much added pressure of piled on responsibilities. So, take it slow, young one.
As an addendum, I will get back to the live concert review process, but clearly this blog has grown into both a reviewal forum and a discussion of the forward progression of the dance project. Let there be light, and there was light.