I was in Atlanta recently to catch  Dean and Britta perform their excellent “13 Most Wonderful: Songs for Andy Warhol’s Screen Tests” at the Woodruff Arts Center, and in the process had the pleasure of catching the “KAWS: DOWN TIME” exhibit at the High Museum of Art . KAWS (Brian Donnelly) grew up in my neighborhood in Jersey City Heights, so it was a particular thrill to finally see his work in person.

You can read my review of “KAWS: DOWN TIME” in this month’s Nashville Arts Magazine.

ArtNow Nashville is a fantastic new online arts website in Nashville, with reviews of art shows, films, music, theatre and more. I’m honored to be one of the arts writers, and in the past few months have had the opportunity to visit a half dozen or so exhibits in town and come back with reviews for the site.  There are great creative things going on in Nashville, and Im proud to be a part of spreading the word. You can read all of my reviews — including a book review — here.

ArtNow is an offshoot of the gorgeously designed and produced Nashville Arts print magazine. You can also read a piece I wrote for them, on the wonderful emerging artist Margaret Elliot, here.

(Book) The Illumination by Kevin Brockmeier- Imagine our pain, physical, psychological and emotional, illuminating from our bodies. If we saw each others pain, would we become more empathetic human beings? Or take it all in stride? That, to me, is the central question raised in Brockheimer’s (dystopian?) novel. And amid all that pain, there is love, represented by a book of declarations that no one seems to want to let go of. Love, somehow, can be more important to hold on to than pain, it seems. Yet we often choose the opposite.

(Film/Film Review) Poetry / Review of Poetry in the New York Times- There are several things that can draw you to a film: word-of-mouth recommendations, favorite directors or actors, enticing trailers or great reviews, et al. Earlier in the year, it was a single review of Poetry by Manohla Dargis in the New York Times that made me want to see it. It was one of the most beautiful and well written reviews I could recall. When Poetry finally arrived at The Belcourt some months later, it was for me one of the most highly anticipated films of the year (take that, War Horse). It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Thank you, Manohla.

(Film) The Artist – So entertaining I saw it twice, and brought my sister along the second time. She, for whom “black-and-white silent film” does not scream “must-see,” loved it.

(Concert) U2 360 Tour at Vanderbilt Stadium – It was everything I wanted it to be, and saved me from having to admit I had only seen U2 on the awful PopMart Tour. They brought the stadium rock show, and I was redeemed. Hell, I even enjoyed “Even Better Than The Real Thing,” a song I always skipped on Achtung Baby. And classic U2 songs aside, I forgot how much I like that song “Stay (Faraway So Close).”

(Band/Show) The David Wax Museum at the Americana Music Association Festival – The best part of attending a festival of any sort is discovery. I might be late to the game, but The David Wax Museum’s gig at the Station Inn was the find, and highlight, of the Festival for me. Thoroughly unique and highly entertaining. This year, I seemed to be really interested in things that made me happy. They made me happy. As does the video for “Born with a Broken Heart.”

(Art) Norma Jeane #Jan25 at the Venice Biennale — I got lucky this year and was in Italy at the same time as the Venice Biennale, which has long been a dream of mine to attend.  One of the few personal blog posts I wrote this year was about the exhibit by the alias known as Norma Jeane:

It’s an interactive installation meant to break down and transform over time as visitors engage with it.  It started as a tidy block of plasticine in late May (see the picture below of how it started) in the colors of the Egyptian flag: black, white and red, and its title, #Jan25 (#Sidibouzid, #Feb12, #Feb14, #Feb17…) refers to some of the most popular hashtags on Twitter during recent Egyptian and Arab world uprisings. You can still make out some of the block in the pictures, but you can also see how complete and creative chaos have taken over the room. Visitors are encouraged to take apart the block and for the most part, do whatever they please, even take some of it with them, as long as they don’t leave it in another exhibit. The result is overwhelming and moving. And sometimes it’s funny, even though what Norma Jeane is getting at is nothing but. There are love notes, “I was here” type creations, and humor.

Check out the rest of the pictures on the original post or over at My Modern Met, which was kind enough to publish them as well. And speaking of, My Modern Met may be my favorite web site discovery of the year. It’s a daily dose of beauty and inspiration.

(Film) Midnight in Paris — I’m not sure there’s a film more tailored-made for English majors then this one, but its themes are universal, even if you studied finance.  Charming, witty and funny, its a film for anyone whose ever had romantic notions about living another time. And it reminds us that the time to truly live, and the one most romantic, is of course, now. Owen Wilson is excellent in it, and the over-the-top stereotyped portrayals of famous writers and artists, especially Hemingway as played by Corey Stoll, are wonderful and hilarious. The whole cast is spot-on perfect.

(Art) de Kooning: a Retrospective at MoMA / Sanja Ivekovic: Sweet Violence at MoMA — With 200 works, the Willem de Kooning retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art is overwhelming, not to mention trying to take it in with thousands of other people. But MoMa does an excellent job in his presentation, and you go from room to room, it’s like getting an art history class on abstract expressionism, from the master of the form.  If I lived in NYC, I’d have to go back once a week for awhile, during quieter times, to really soak it in.

At the same time I saw the de Kooning retrospective, MoMa had just begun the Sanja Ivekovic exhibit, the first major museum show for the artist from the former Yugoslavia. I knew nothing about Ivekovic, but was immediately intrigued. Like de Kooning’s returning to abstractions of the female form, Ivekovic has turned to appropriating glamour magazine advertisements and celebrity magazine photos to make powerful statements about culture and feminism.

(Book) The Story of Charlotte’s Web: E.B. White and the Birth of a Children’s Classic by Michael Sims — Sims’ delightful (this really is the best word for it) book is not only a story about how E.B. White came to write the beloved children’s book, it’s also about the writing life. It was probably the most enjoyable thing I read all year.   And then I followed it by re-reading Charlotte’s Web, which was a close second (only because I read it before).

(Film) Le Quattro Volte – More like a video installation, Michelangelo Frammartino’s film has almost no dialogue as it traces the cycle of life in one small Italian town in Calabria. You’re not really sure what you’re watching at first, but then it starts to make sense, and you can’t turn away. It thrives on anticipation. Like life does, I guess. Yet, there are also times when it’s genuinely funny. Like life is, I guess.

(Film) Kinyarwanda – Every year at the Nashville Film Festival, there’s an indie film that really gets inside me. This was it. Alrick Brown’s film takes place during the horror that was the genocide in Rwanda, but he focuses his story on faith, reconciliation, forgiveness and absolution. There’s one scene. In a mosque. A young girl who feels responsible for the death of her parents asks for absolution from a priest. It might be one of the most moving moments I encountered in a film all year.

(Magazine Profile) Chris Jones profile of Mark Kelly in Esquire – Astronaut Mark Kelly, husband of representative Gabrielle Giffords, had a hell of a year. I read a lot of magazine profiles, but Chris Jones’ profile of Kelly really struck me. It’s not very long, but it’s incredibly tight and packs in more than I would think is possible in a short magazine profile. Kelly is a great American. And Jones is a great American writer.

(Film) Bill Cunningham New York - The Style section is the first part I open when I get my New York Times on Sunday. Which means Bill Cunningham’s street style photos are some of the first pictures I see each week. This warm and entertaining documentary by Richard Press reveals a man who lives to work and loves what he does. And he rides a bike. And it’s really inspiring.

Some songs I liked: “A Road Song” and “I Hate to See You Like This” from Fountains of Wayne; “Positive” by James Maddock; “Cry Cry Cry” and “Heavy Boots” by Nicole Atkins; “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele; “Closer to the Edge” by Burlap to Cashmere; “There’s a Starbucks (Where the Starbucks Used to Be) by John Wesley Harding… great video too;

Happy New Year!

But there I go, getting into the debate. Which isn’t my point. Let’s forget for a moment who is eligibile to be in the Hall and who is and isn’t in there, and instead focus on who’s not eligible yet, but will probably get in, and maybe who they should go ahead and put in now. For two reasons. One, I feel bad for these artists, because over the last ten years, or twenty years for some, they maybe dreamed of getting in. And now the thing is a joke and they probably don’t care anymore. Two,  none of them have done anything egregious yet, at least in my opinion. So I propose a new category at the Induction ceremonies: Artists That Aren’t Eligible Yet But We’re Going to Put Them in Now Before the Whole Thing Becomes a Joke. It’s off the top of my head. Feel free to add your own.

Artist: Wilco:

Why: You could argue that Uncle Tupelo should get in, since the Tweedy/Farrar collaboration launched a thousand alt-country bands, but one of them was Wilco, which has steadily demonstrated that they are maybe the greatest working American rock band now.

Artist: Sheryl Crow

Why: Because every rock female singer-songwriter since her either tries to sound like her or cites her as an influence. And every engineer tries to get his or her records to sound like her second and third. Bob Dylan calls her on the phone to give her songs. She’s the real deal and has no peer.

Artist: The White Stripes

Why: They stripped down and brought rock music back to its roots.  Meanwhile, Jack White is single-handedly saving rock music. Whatever he’s doing, you should do it.

Artist: Nirvana

Why: They saved us from MC Hammer and hair metals bands and all sorts of other nonsense. Nevermind is a Masterpiece. And In Utero is great. And influence? If you weren’t in a band yet when you heard them, you thought about forming one.

Artist: Fugazi

Why: I think they’re eligible next year. Post-punk, post-hardcore, what have you, Fugazi pretty much owns the invention of the indie and DIY rock ethic as we know it. And influenced hundreds if not thousands of hardcore bands who maybe became grunge bands or rock bands eventually.

Artist: Liz Phair

Why: Though never as popular as Crow, she certainly influenced an entire new wave of singer-songwriters, and brought a confessional slant to it all. You don’t hear her influence as much anymore, but it’s there.

Artist: Ani DiFranco

Why: Influence in spades.  Not to mention the DIY ethic. She is to many singer-songwriters of a contemporary folk style, what Fugazi is to hardcore and rock bands.

Artist: The Flaming Lips

Why:  They turned the stage show into an engaging experience, even on a budget early on, and did it completely unironically. Thoroughly original. It’s hard to cite influence, because there aren’t many bands that can replicate them. And “Do You Realize” gives me the chills.

Artist: John Mayer

Why: Because it’s never a bad thing that young people pick up guitars and start writing songs. Mayer’s records sound great, he recognizes his influences and heroes, is a damn good guitar player, and has inspired thousands (I’m guesstimating) of young men to buy an acoustic or electric guitar and learn how to play it so they could write some songs and win somebody’s heart. And that’s just fine in my book.

Artist: Eminem

Why: It’s hard to tell sometimes whether his songs are rock or hip-hop songs, because they feel like both simultaneously. He took lyricism to a new level. And then there’s the whole guest pop vocal on a hip-hop record thing. A hip-hop and rock game-changer.

Artist: Public Enemy

Why: Rock music took notice when It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back came out in 1988. Would there be a Rage Against the Machine without PE? Other socially minded heavy rock bands? PE had influence.

Artist: Radiohead

Why: To be honest, I can’t always tell what’s going on with Radiohead. My head just starts to hurt after awhile. But I think their approach to music, and their respect for the recording of it, is an ethos much envied and coveted by musicians and bands everyone. They made it OK for popular rock music to really experiment again. And then they threw the gauntlet down in how it was distributed.

Artist: Green Day

Why: Did anybody think after 1994′s Dookie that Green Day would really be around that long, and maybe turn into one of the most important popular rock bands of the new decade? No. But they did. And that’s why.

Artist: Beck

Why: Because he influenced a new generation of artists who realized they could make records in their kitchen, putting a bunch of studios out of business, and that was before he really got interesting.

Artist: Jay Z

Why: Because if you’re an artist of any genre and you’re not paying attention to what he’s doing, you’re missing something.

Also to consider: Jeff Buckley,The Smithereens, The Pixies, Pearl Jam, Oasis, Weezer, Aimee Mann, Ryan Adams (or Whiskeytown) …

The tree is located in the sculpture garden. Visitors are instructed to write a wish on a tag, fold it, hang it on the tree, and ask others to do the same. Periodically, and presumably, those wishes are gathered by Ono and dropped into an clear acrylic box in the gallery. There’s something eery about all these wishes piled up in the box. Approaching it and walking around it feels slightly uncomfortable at first, yet you’re drawn in. We’re not supposed to know what people wish, after all. But then you soften, because it’s hard not to smile at wishes asking for love, and hope and “more wishes.” Or “just to be happy.” Or that he would “study film,” because “he deserves it” (signed, “his mom”). You have to get close, though, to make out the writing on many of the tags, and that’s where it truly gets intimate. The box practically begs you to crouch down and start reading the wishes. And then you can’t stop and are almost crawling around it going from one wish to the next. Thousands of tags and wishes, created by thousands of visitors from all over the world, soon turn into small windows into the dreams and aspirations of individual people. And there will be more. And it’s beautiful. Because you realize that you, too,  have wishes, and are part of some kind of “wish” continuum. All of us, wishing. Something.

Did I write down a wish and hang it on the tree? You bet.

One of the most powerful — and fun — exhibits I encountered at the 2011 Venice Biennale was by the alias Norma Jeane. It’s an interactive installation meant to break down and transform over time as visitors engage with it.  It started as a tidy block of plasticine in late May (see the picture below of how it started) in the colors of the Egyptian flag: black, white and red, and its title, #Jan25 (#Sidibouzid, #Feb12, #Feb14, #Feb17…) refers to some of the most popular hashtags on Twitter during recent Egyptian and Arab world uprisings. You can still make out some of the block in the pictures, but you can also see how complete and creative chaos have taken over the room. Visitors are encouraged to take apart the block and for the most part, do whatever they please, even take some of it with them, as long as they don’t leave it in another exhibit. The result is overwhelming and moving. And sometimes it’s funny, even though what Norma Jeane is getting at is nothing but. There are love notes, “I was here” type creations, and humor. See how one visitor amended another’s creation in the last photo. And be sure to click on the panoramic shots to get a bigger sense of the room.

From the Chapter 16 website, I’m proud to present “In Italy: A Troubled Father and Son Find Each Other on a Train in the Home Country,” a new essay on my relationship with my father. Hope you Enjoy!

(Film) Exit Through The Gift Shop – Elaborate art stunt or stranger-than-fiction documentary? In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Elusive street artist/prankster Banksy’s film is the most fun I’ve had at a documentary, or “documentary,” screening this year.

(Chapter of a Book) Bob Dylan in America – Sean Wilentz, Chapter 4, The Sound of 3:00 am: The Making of Blonde on Blonde, New York City and Nashville, October 5, 1965-March 10(?), 1966: For the most part, Wilentz’s book is a bit of a frustrating letdown, a scholarly assessment of Dylan’s work rife with conjecture. It should have been titled “Aaron Copland, Blind Willie Mctell and Bob Dylan in America” and published as a musicology thesis. He’s clearly a fan and scholar, and means well, and the book does have moments that sent me off to do research or on to iTunes to check out music I hadn’t heard. The highlight of the book, though, is the engrossing chapter 4, which places the reader inside those mysterious and historic Blonde on Blonde recording sessions.

(Film/Music/Liner Notes/Notebook Reproduction) The Promise: The Darkness on the Edge of Town Story – The Holy Grail for those Springsteen fans, myself included, who love Darkness on the Edge of Town above all else. The documentary on its own is a revelation, full of interviews with Springsteen, The E-Street Band and the record’s engineers that take you inside the artist’s mind, and what appears to have been grueling studio sessions to realize his vision. The box set, with the 2 CDs of tracks that didn’t make the record, a remastered Darkness and several DVDs of concert footage is a Springsteen geekfest.

(Music) The Gaslight Anthem – American Slang: There are moments when I think The Gaslight Anthem are the only band that matters right now, but I know that’s not fair, to them or the memory of The Clash. But still, it’s hard to listen to this record, which i did hundreds of times it seems this summer, and not get caught up in their energy and lust for life. They’re going for it, and taking us with them. And maybe we need that sometimes. Or at least I do.

(Film) I Am Love: Dramatic, sensual, epic and tense, Tilda Swinton and director Luca Guadagnino have created a near masterpiece. A metaphor for a changing world and an homage to great Italian cinema. The film is full of passion, style and food.

(Concert) The Hold Steady at the Exit/In: Finally seeing one of my favorite contemporary rock bands in a small club was everything I had hoped and more. The new record, while slightly uneven comparatively, is great as well.

(Art) Marina Abramovic: The Artist is Present – a new work and Career Retrospective at MOMA, NYC: I knew very little of performance artist Marina Abramovic’s work before catching this exhibit at MOMA in the spring. My relationship with art and my understanding of it changed a little that day. It was deeply affecting, and to this day, I still think about it. It’s tempting to incorrectly take in contemporary or performance art and ask “What does it mean,” but this exhibit forces you to ask “What does it mean to me?” What do I feel while experiencing this?” I only wish I could have sat across from her in the atrium. She’s a new hero.

(Book) Just Kids – Patti Smith – Every year, if I’m lucky, there’s one thing, a book or a movie usually, that I just can’t stop talking about. Something I want everyone to read or see; something I might give everyone as a gift. This year, it’s Just Kids. Smith’s memoir of her young artistic life in NYC with fellow artist Robert Mapplethorpe is astonishing in its beauty and tenderness. It’s about art, and love and New York City, and dreams we’ve all had, and maybe can still.

(Television) Mad Men Season 4 – For someone who works in television, I don’t watch it that much. But in four years, I haven’t missed an episode of Mad Men. I know this can’t go on forever. There’s bound to be an off season soon, but it hasn’t happened yet. This season, our antihero became a hero, and then an antihero again, and then did something so impulsive and out of character, we didn’t know what to think anymore. And it was beguiling.

(Book) Super Sad True Love Story – Gary Shteyngart: Hilarious and frightening, uplifting and depressing all at the same time, Shteyngart’s near-dystopian future America doesn’t seem like much of a stretch. Everyone is either Media or Credit, streaming, checking their iPhone like apparats, using the spawn of Facebook- Globalteens – and shopping at JuicyPussy and Ass Luxury. If it sounds crazy, it’s because it is. Much of this book is crazy. But it’s also tender. And as its title suggests, is a love story, albeit a sad one. A unique novel I absorbed in a two-day binge because I couldn’t let it go.

(Music) James Maddock, Sunrise On Avenue C – Every song on this former member of Wood’s independently released album makes me happy. “When the Sun’s Out” is the best summer song ever to use a harmless shoplifting incident as a backdrop for loving life. This record came out mid-to-late 2009, but I only discovered it in 2010. Thank you WFUV for introducing me to Maddock, and Maddock, thank you for coming out of whatever exile you were in to deliver this record.

(Art) Salvador Dali: The Late Work at the High Museum, Atlanta: I had a pedestrian understanding of Dali before this exhibit — all melting clocks, surrealism and long mustaches. But this outstanding show, complete with some of Dali’s iconic works, went deep into the artist’s work post-surrealism. Most interesting to me was discovering his early work in video art and his later embrace of Catholicism, where paintings meditated on the Madonna and Child and the crucifixion. He considered himself a Catholic without faith in those years. For someone who seemed publicly so unique and outside of the rest of us, discovering that honesty in soulful exploration is moving.

(Film) Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work: All documentary filmmakers should be as blessed as Ricki Stern and Annie Sundberg to have had as entertaining and honest a subject as Rivers. The film is raw, because Rivers is raw, opening herself up in ways I would have never expected. What you come away with is a deep understanding of a woman and an entertainer who has stayed young not because of the work she has had done, but because of the work she continues to do, obsessively and passionately. A film that’s funny, heartbreaking and inspiring. May all of our calendars stay full.

(Book) Mr. Peanut – Adam Ross:  Forget for a moment that Ross’s tour de force of a novel revolves around massive marital dysfunction and husbands who may or may not have killed their wives. The guy can write. There are times I reread entire passages just to be sure I read what I did. You’ll want to stop reading during the part in the airplane bathroom, or during the hike in Hawaii, but you won’t be able to. He’s got you. And then you won’t be able to sleep if you read it anywhere close to bedtime. It’s a scary book. But it’s frightening if you love literature the way Hitchcock films are frightening if you love film. A truly unique and exhilarating reading experience.

(Book) Eat, Pray, Love – Elizabeth Gilbert: Of course the book came out a few years ago, but the release of the movie – widely panned critically and universally dismissed by fans of the book – sparked a renewed interest. Culturally curious as I am, I set out on a quiet marathon reading. When in public killing time, or at a coffeeshop for lunch, I folded the front cover back and wished, just this once, that I had a Kindle. The verdict? Well, it overstays its welcome in spots, but ultimately, Gilbert’s a fantastic writer, and it’s hard not to get pulled into her prose and positive search for answers to her own, and the world’s, mystery. It resonated with me in many spots. I’m glad I read it. I understand the love that many have for it.

(Music) Arcade Fire – The Suburbs: Not since The Wrens’ The Meadowlands has a record sonically enveloped me so quickly. Even before you begin absorbing what the songs are about, you’re caught up in what they SOUND like they’re about. And that sound is isolation. With each listen, I’m wrapped up more. Beautiful stuff. Art on record.

(Book/Celebration) 50th Anniversary of To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee. In honor of the 50th Anniversary of it being published, I reread Lee’s novel. And reloved it. I wish we could have a nationwide book club, and that this book would show up in everyone’s mailbox, and we could all read it together. Again.

(Today marks the 25th Anniversary of Live Aid. A recollection from a Queen fan’s perspective)

I discovered the rock band Queen when I was nine years-old. I came to them younger than most, but at the same time, later than those who knew better. Freddie Mercury, Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon came to me through the airways of WNEW on a summer afternoon in 1980, while hanging out with my sister Mary in my brother Nick’s room. I say I came to them late because in 1980, Queen had just released their album, The Game. “Another One Bites the Dust” was the single that I heard on the radio, and it was my first introduction to the band. While the song remains one of their biggest and most recognizable hits, anyone who knew anything about rock music at the time knew that the band’s work on 1975′s A Night at the Opera, or ’74′s Sheer Heart Attack or even 1978′s Jazz was far superior. By the time I discovered them, they had already released a live record, 1979′s Live Killers, a sure sign that a band had been around awhile.

When I heard “Another One Bites the Dust,” I jumped up on my brother’s bed and started dancing.

“Who is that?” I shouted over the funky bass line to my sister.

“It’s Queen,” she coolly replied.

“I LOVE IT,” I shouted back.

“Nicky has their album,” she said and pulled the eight-track from my brother’s shelf.

And that was it. The combination of Mercury’s soaring vocals and May’s guitar solos were unlike anything I had ever heard before. I was a Queen fan. I lived and breathed the band from that point on, and had plenty of work to do. Once I absorbed The Game, down to knowing exactly when the eight-track would cut off mid-song, I had to track down everything else they had ever recorded.

There was a record store in the same mall in Jersey City where my Dad managed a men’s clothing store and did tailoring work. So on the days I’d go to the store to help him out, I’d take my breaks at WOW Records in search of Queen music. Right off the bat, I discovered 1974′s Queen II, a drastically different sounding record than The Game. While on The Game, the band looked tough and cool in black leather framed by a blue-silver border, Queen II had their four faces on the cover. Their hair was longer and it looked like they were wearing make-up. The inside picture had them sitting together, very close to one another, dressed all in white. Was this the same band? The music offered further complications, as the songs were full of massive choral harmonies and epic song-structures, with lyrics that referenced ogres and white queens and the seven seas of Rhye. What the hell were the seven seas of Rhye? Had the liner notes not stated the names of the band members, there was no way you could have convinced me this was the same band.

Despite the confusion, I loved the songs on Queen II just as much as The Game. More discovery came soon after. I bought A Night at the Opera on cassette, Sheer Heart Attack and News of the World on vinyl. For Christmas I asked for Queen’s Jazz record, and freaked my family out by blasting the hymn “Mustapha” throughout the house. If that wasn’t enough to disturb my parents, Jazz came with a poster featuring hundreds of naked women riding bicycles. At the same time that I was trying to make sense of the progression of this band that I had just become the biggest fan of, my mom and dad were surely trying to make sense of what was happening to their son. It was quite clear, though. Their son had discovered rock n roll.

It wasn’t easy being a Queen fan in the early 80′s, especially in the Jersey City Heights neighborhood where I grew up. I quickly learned that among my friends who were also devouring rock n roll, Queen didn’t demand much respect.

“Whadda’ya a fag?” my friend Jamie asked me once.

“No,” I replied. “Why?”

“Freddie’s a fuckin’ flamer”

“No, he’s not.”

“Whadda’ya kiddin’ me? Look at him. He’s a fuckin’ fag.”

“So what?! He’s da best singer in da world. Who’s betta’?”

“David Lee Roth’s a dousan’ times betta’ den Queen. AC/DC, Black Sabbath, the Stones, why don’t ya’ listen ta some real music ya’ fuckin’ fag?”

It’s true, of course, that Freddie Mercury was gay. I knew it and everyone else knew it. But I didn’t care. If my friends couldn’t get past it, that was their problem. They were MY band. And while they weren’t as cool of a band as AC/DC or Van Halen or The Who in those peoples’ eyes, I was certain they were better than all those bands combined.

But the hardest thing about being a Queen fan in the early 80′s wasn’t even the criticism from my friends, it was the lack of memorabilia with which to outwardly express my allegiance. There were no Queen T-shirts, or posters or hats to wear and tell the world I was z Queen fan. At the local bazaar at St. Nicholas Church, there was a booth where you could win T-shirts, and there were plenty of Iron Maiden, or Van Halen or Rolling Stone shirts, but nothing with Queen on it. I had to resort to getting a T-shirt made at an airbrush painting booth on the Jersey Shore. Call it homemade fan appreciation. I was sad.

1982 and the release of Queen’s Hot Space album seems to have been one of the big reasons for the lack of readily available merchandise. The album was the band’s foray into music that was more disco or dance oriented, and America categorically rejected it. While it delivered the hit single “Body Language,” clearly the worst song the band ever recorded, its mix of sexual innuendo and genre-busting songs only added to the public’s already mixed feelings. To make matters worse, a video for the song “I Want to Break Free” featured the guys in drag. My friend Jamie had a field day with that one. It turned out that the band was mocking a British sitcom. America didn’t get it.

I had what would turn out to be my only chance to see the band live that same year, when they visited the Brendan Byrne Arena in East Rutherford, New Jersey on the Hot Space tour. My friend John, who lived down the block, was older than I was and did occasional work for ticket scalpers. He told me he had a ticket to the show if I wanted to go. I begged my mother to let me go with him.

“No,” she said definitively. “You’re too young. They do drugs and drink at those concerts, it’s not safe.”

“C’mon Ma,” I pleaded. “You know John. He said he’ll take me and take me home. Pleeeeeaaaaaase?”

It was useless. I wasn’t going. The Hot Space tour was the last time Queen ever toured the United States. They continued to release records throughout the 80′s, but were never able to break into the American market again. America didn’t want a flamboyant lead singer fronting a genre-bending band prone to sexual ambiguity, with a penchant for operatic epics, Elvis-inspired country songs and fleeting forays into funk. It didn’t matter that they were the greatest rock n roll band in the world.

My relationship to Queen had always been a personal one since I had discovered them in 1980, and after 1982, it became more so. It was as if I had to go underground with my passion and nurture it in solitude. But what was so interesting was the continuing coverage of the band in magazines like Hit Parader and Creem, which I read voraciously. There were pictures and stories about the band in Japan, the UK, and all over Europe. It looked like the band was huge everywhere else in the world but America, never mind Jersey City, New Jersey.

One of the earliest books on the event, a slim 64-pages published in 1985 by Modern Publishing. Cover price $2.25.

I continued to build my Queen music collection in my early teens, now taking the PATH train over to It’s Only Rock n Roll and Revolver Records on 8th Street in Greenwich Village, New York to purchase import copies of their records and pieces of memorabilia. I longed to share this passion with others, to be in communion with other Queen fans, wherever they were. But most importantly, I longed to see them live in concert. I came close to achieving those goals one day in the summer of 1985. July 13, 1985, to be exact. The Day the Music Changed the World.

Live Aid was the most ambitious live benefit concert event in history. Broadcast live to millions of homes throughout the world, the concert took place simultaneously at Wembley Stadium in London and JFK Stadium in Philadelphia. It brought together dozens of the world’s greatest bands and artists on two stages to raise money for famine relief for the poor, starving and sick in Ethiopia. Organized by Bob Geldof, who had already done the impossible with his organizing and production of the super group Band-Aid and the single “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”, the concert event featured The Who, Mick Jagger, Tina Turner, Bob Dylan, Black Sabbath, a young Madonna, Run DMC, Phil Collins, Paul Young, Judas Priest, George Thorogood, Elton John and more. Most importantly, it featured Queen.

On the morning of Live Aid, I woke up early to prepare myself in the living room. I set up a radio with a cassette deck in order to listen to the concert simulcast on WNEW and record performances I wanted to keep. I flipped on the TV, glued myself to the recliner, and sat there for the remainder of the day, waiting for Queen’s performance. There was no clear schedule as to when certain bands would be on, so I couldn’t risk moving unless I was starving or in desperate need of a bathroom break. At approximately 3:44 pm New York time, Queen hit the stage at Wembley Stadium, forever changing my life and my relationship to the band.

The band opened up with a bizarre move, by playing one of their biggest hits, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” first. Holy shit!. What kind of strange set list is this? Where can they possibly go from here? It was like they were playing their encore first! They set the bar high, and never set it down. From “Bohemian Rhapsody,” they blew right into “Radio Ga Ga,” inciting a sea of hands and handclaps through Wembley Stadium instantly. Here was Freddie in complete command, reaching every single person in the stadium to sing along to a song most of America could care less about. It was the most amazing testament to the power of music to move people I had ever seen, and have seen, to this day. Next came “Hammer to Fall,” an album cut of their 1984 album The Works, driven by Brian May’s crunchy and melodic guitar-riff. “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” had Freddie vamping it up rockabilly-style. “We Will Rock You” and “We Are the Champions” closed the set and had an entire stadium swaying back and forth. I sat there dumbfounded. What did I just see? What just happened? It was like an apparition. The entire set couldn’t have lasted more than 20 minutes. Had a band ever packed that much power and energy into that small amount of time? I don’t think so.

I saw the power of music and performance that afternoon, and what it means to give to an audience. Freddie and the boys seemed utterly ego-less that day. They had twenty minutes, and rather than start off cool and build from there, they decided to pack that time with their hits, in an almost medley-like fashion, that was unrelenting. I wondered then if they also knew they had twenty minutes of prime airtime on televisions in America, and this was their chance to show them what they were missing. The band was in their prime, and for a moment I had my wish. I was watching the same thing the world was watching, at the same time. I was finally in communion with Queen fans everywhere, who no doubt were wondering if critics and naysayers were finally catching on to what we’d known all along, that Queen were indeed the greatest rock n roll band in the world.

The day after Live Aid, I went around the corner to hang with the rest of the neighborhood kids on the corner of Reservoir Ave. and Lienau Place where we’d play bottle caps, handball, or stick ball.

“Whe’da fuck wha’ you yesterday?” Jamie asked.

“I was home watchin’ Live Aid,” I replied.

“You spent da whole day watchin’ a fuckin’ conce’t on TV?”

“Yeah. Queen wha’ on. Dey wha’ incredible.”

“Yer a fuckin’ nerd. C’mon, ya in fa’ stick ball?”

“Yeah. D’you pick sides yet?”

Perhaps it was just having seen the extraordinary documentary “The Horse Boy,” about a parents’ search for a cure for their son’s autism, that made me particularly empathetic to the plight of the narrator Christopher Boone in Mark Haddon‘s 2003 novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time. There’s a subject interviewed in the film who says that there is nothing wrong with people with autism. They’re just different kinds of human beings. That comment stuck with me as I read the book. Christopher has Asperger’s Syndome. His parents are separated. A dog has been murdered in his neighborhood and he must find out who did it. He counts cars on the way to school, their colors dictating what kind of day he’s going to have. He does math in his head to relax himself. By taking us inside Christopher’s mind, Haddon has created the most memorable character, in a book that I’ve read, since Owen Meany in John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Like everyone around Christopher, we need to have patience with him. He’s our narrator after all, and the only way we’re going to get the story. But he never asks for it. He knows his limitations and what he must do, and that’s why we empathize with him. Even when we start to sense where his detective work will lead him, we still understand his needs and support him. What’s most wonderful about the book is how, in empathizing with Christopher, we empathize with those around him as well: the father who is trying his best, the mother who had to be honest with herself, and the neighbors saying and doing the things they think are best for Christopher. The novel is an absolute joy to read. I loved it.

If you’ve fantasized about living in Italy (and who hasn’t?), you’ve certainly read Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun, or Ferenc Máté’s The Hills of Tuscany, or one of my favorites, Robert Hutchinson’s When in Rome. If you’ve read James Hamilton-Paterson‘s hilarious 2005 novel Cooking with Fernet Branca, though, it’s not all villas and helpful villagers and handsome guys named Marcello. Sometimes it’s shady realtors, annoying neighbors, eccentric Italian film directors, late night helicopter visits and too much of the medicinal digestivo of the title. That’s fine by me.

Hamilton-Paterson gives us the story through alternating narrators. First is the culinary adventurous, borderline-sinister Gerard Samper, a celebrity sports figure ghost writer about to embark on an autobiography of a boy-band-star wanting legitimacy. Marta is his neighbor, an emigre from Central Europe working on a film score for a famous Italian filmmaker. While Gerry is busy being appalled and irritated by just about everyone, whipping up the most ridiculous recipes — one of his early ones a Garlic and Fernet  Branca ice cream meant to scare his neighbor away — Marta is stealthily taking advantage of Gerry’s unique vocal stylings to inform her new score. We get both sides of the story. It’s Gerry that truly makes the book click and gives it its snap, while Marta provides the saner counterpoint, especially when observing Gerry.

I read the book on the beach, where I think it’s meant to be read. It’s light, laugh-out-loud funny and hits the spot. You’ll still want to live in Italy after it, perhaps even moreso. In a moment of synchronicity after, I was in a local liquor store looking to replenish my stash of the Italian digestivo Amaro — it’s hard to come by in Nashville — when the salesman and I started talking about other herbal Italian after-dinner drinks. He said, “there’s another one, like Amaro, that Italians drink. What is it? I can’t think of it.” He was racking his brain when I responded, “Fernet?” “Yes! That’s it. Fernet Branca!” I had never heard of Fernet Branca until the book

It’s been almost twenty years since Douglas Coupland published Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture and popularized a name for those post-boomers among us born between 1961 and 1981. We were cynical and sarcastic. Disaffected. We watched too much television when we were kids. Consumed too much music, gave the world MTV, Madonna and Nirvana and would be the first generation to make less than our parents. We liked The Replacements and wondered why they weren’t bigger. We were artists, by default.  So what has become of us, other than our hoping to come across a Hot Tub Time Machine? According to Jeff Gordinier in the enjoyable X Saves the World: How Generation X Got the Shaft but Can Still Keep Everything from Suckin,’ we did OK, sorta. He reminds us that much of the golden age of the internet was created by Xers. Many great world-changing non-profits are helmed by Xers, as is our nation. President Obama was born at beginning of the generation, in 1961.

If we look to Sam Lipsyte‘s novel, The Ask, we’re still cynical and sarcastic, and making less than our parents. In fact, we’re assholes. And Miles, the narrator of the book, is our living embodiment. An artist who never really succeeded — he doesn’t paint anymore, anyway — he now helps young artists reach their dreams by working in the development department of a small liberal arts college. The title of the novel refers to the all-important pitch that development folks, at universities, non-profits, cultural institutions, hospitals, etc., make to potential donors. It’s “the ask,” and the donor is “the ask.” Miles isn’t so good at it. After saying something inappropriate to the student daughter of a major donor, Miles is fired, only to be asked back when Purdy, a potential major donor and former classmate of Miles from college, personally requests him. After that, it’s all a bit convoluted. Purdy’s got a son whose legs have been blown off in the Iraq war and is blackmailing him. Miles marriage is falling apart. There’s a guy who builds decks and has an idea for a reality show. Purdy’s son crashes a cocktail party and yells, “Daddy.” It’s all too much really, and should sound the death knell for any attempt at art about the generation. We may not be that interesting. Miles knows this too, and in chapter twenty-five, Lipsyte delivers a zinger of dialogue. In a conversation with his supervisor Vargina (pronounced just like you think it is), Miles asks:

“No. I mean, if I were the protagonist of a book or a movie, it would be hard to like me , to identify with me, right?”

“I would never read a book like that, Milo. I can’t think of anyone who would. There’s no reason for it.”

Bonus “Thought on What I’ve Been Reading.”

I don’t read many business books, but every now and then, one piques my interest. Seth Godin has legions of fans, and I check in on his blog fairly often, but Linchpin is the first of his books that I’ve read. Like most other business books, there’s much that applies and much that doesn’t. While early chapters didn’t speak to me, the remainder of the book is an inspiring gem that will get you working on new projects (“projects are the new resumes,” Godin tells us) and approaching your current job with renewed vigor. We’re all artists in Godin’s view, and once we accept that,  we’ll be better prepared to work in the new economy.