“Feed the Artist” (Issue #2 launched)

I was one of the invited guests at the launch of the second installment of the Battlefords’ only homegrown arts magazine, Feed the Artist. I contributed a brief essay to this latest issue and was impressed by the quality of the work (prose and visuals) I found throughout. It’s quite gorgeous; make sure you check it out.

Congratulations to everyone involved with Feed the Artist, the editors and artists who worked so hard to bring a dedicated arts and culture publication to the citizens of this region.

Here’s what I said to the sixty or so people who assembled at Crandleberry’s to give the magazine a grand send-off.

Thanks to everyone who attended. It was a magical evening.

* * * * *

I think it’s appropriate that we’re launching the new issue of “Feed the Artist” here, in a very public venue as opposed to a more formal setting.  While there might be benefits to holding events in clean, well-lighted places, featuring all the latest bells and whistles, there’s also something cold and antiseptic and, let’s face it, increasingly corporate about these fancy-shmancy new galleries and performing arts centers.

Some of you either participated in or were witnesses to the “Tree” piece that was conceived and created around a locale in Battleford. The natural setting became an important element within the performance. I’m also thinking about the “Flash Mobs” that have broken out in this region of late, people congregating in public places and singing and dancing while startled spectators try to take everything in.

All of this is happening outside the rarefied air of institutions and brick and mortar facilities. Because art, after all, is portable, not confined to designated areas and “safe” zones. Why not utilize non-traditional locations to tell stories and highlight the rich history and culture of this region?

Time for artists to escape museums and galleries and theaters and bookstores and re-enter public spaces, remind the citizens of our communities that we have something to say about life, the universe…and the human condition. Something essential, something they need to know if they’re to stay sane in an increasingly frantic and chaotic world.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s “Populist Manifesto” addressed some of these points nearly forty years ago, so I’ll conclude by reading an excerpt from that work (what’s an arts gathering without a manifesto?).

Populist Manifesto (Excerpt)

Poets, come out of your closets, 
Open your windows, open your doors, 
You have been holed-up too long 
in your closed worlds. 
Come down, come down 
from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills, 
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills, 
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses, 
down from your foothills and mountains, 
out of your teepees and domes. 
The trees are still falling 
and we’ll to the woods no more. 
No time now for sitting in them 
As man burns down his own house 
to roast his pig 
No more chanting Hare Krishna 
while Rome burns. 
San Francisco’s burning, 
Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning 
the fossil-fuels of life. 
Night & the Horse approaches 
eating light, heat & power, 
and the clouds have trousers. 
No time now for the artist to hide 
above, beyond, behind the scenes, 
indifferent, paring his fingernails, 
refining himself out of existence. 
No time now for our little literary games, 
no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias, 
no time now for fear & loathing, 
time now only for light & love.

-Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Copyright, 1974)

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Cliff Burns: In Performance

At long last it’s done.

My son Sam completed final edits on the film he shot of my reading back in October, 2012.  The official launch of New & Selected Poems (1984-2011) and Stromata: Prose Works (1992-2011).

It was a huge file and he had to combine footage from a couple of cameras, synch sound, touch-up glitches and try to make an author reading as visually interesting as possible. No mean feat. But he’s done a fantastic job. The kid has an amazing eye and even if you don’t think much of the prose (or performer), I think you’ll agree that this effort is striking to look at, cut and trimmed and shaped with precision. All credit to my son, Sam Burns.

Here’s the reading, in its entirety.

Sit back and hit that play button…

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Dylan deconstructs himself…leaving nothing behind

“I don’t care if it was Bob Dylan,” one disgruntled fan snarled as we lined up to make our way out of the Credit Union Center, “I thought he sucked. He absolutely sucked.”

I didn’t hear anyone protesting, no apologists willing to leap to the great man’s defense.

Rarely have I seen an audience leaving a live performance so utterly listless. They’d come for spectacle, a chance to pay tribute to one of their heroes and here they were, shaking their heads, trying to figure out why a legendarily enigmatic artist would present them with such a haphazard, irritating evening of music.

Talent certainly wasn’t the problem. Dylan’s touring band—Donnie Herron, Tony Garnier, Charlie Sexton, Stu Kimball, George Recile—are top flight musicians but they were cruelly hamstrung by Dylan’s presence, subdued, seldom breaking out of the tightly controlled box he stuck them in. The positioning and body language was instructive:  the backing band remained huddled (cowed?) on one side of the stage while Dylan crouched behind an electric keyboard on the audience’s right.

Ah, yes. That fucking keyboard. A good place to hide, Bob, if you can actually, y’know, play the goddamned thing. Dylan, remember, started out on keyboards with his high school band back in Hibbing, Minnesota. Unfortunately, someone should tell him that his technique hasn’t improved since he loudly and tunelessly thumped out Little Richard hits fifty-five years ago. I know a number of fine harmonica players have taken him to task for his misuse of their precious harp, but what Dylan really needs is a classically trained pianist to come along and slam a keyboard cover on his fingers. Repeatedly. His inexpert noodling, amplified and isolated, evoked continual winces throughout the 90-minute show.

I can understand taking a fresh approach to old, stale material, but Dylan’s re-inventions reduced beloved favorites like “Visions of Johanna”, “Shelter from the Storm” and, yeah, even “Blowing in the Wind” to a discordant and indistinguishable mush.  Was there a single song off his latest (B+) album, “Tempest”? If there was, I didn’t hear it. There was a perfunctory rendering of “Man in the Long Black Coat”, an epic tune casually tossed off, a forgettable five-minute abridgement. I cannot think of one song other than the opener “Watching the River Flow” that worked all the way through.

On those rare occasions when the band finally did cut loose—during extended jams on “Highway 61″ and “Levee’s Gonna Break”—we got a hint of what might have been possible, had they, like the thoroughbreds they are, been given their head and allowed to run. I found it maddening to watch superb artists diminished and under-utilized to that extent.

Only one other recent experience in the arts left me as angry and disillusioned with a revered artist and that was a viewing of Jean-Luc Godard’s “Film Socialisme”. Like Dylan, Godard has what I think is an unhealthy contempt for his audience and, as a result, “Film Socialisme” is a futile mess, a blot on a distinguished, ground-breaking career.  This attitude that you can continually flip the bird at people who pay good money and come to your work expecting to be enlightened or entertained or just not bored, exposes artists at the end of their creative rope, an acknowledgement that if you can no longer provide the goods, you might as well sell the rubes lusterless trinkets and spent tailings from exhausted mines.

I think it’s a shameful stance, childish and self-indulgent. While Dylan was under no onus to play pre-packaged, excruciatingly faithful renditions of his classics, he was obliged to at least make them recognizable versions of the originals. And though he may think of himself the consummate iconoclast and contrarian for refusing to cater to the crowd, he also revealed himself as a man no longer able to rock and roll.
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I would be remiss if I didn’t sing praises of Zimmie’s opening act, the great Mark Knopfler and his stellar accompanying band.

Now this lad knows the score.

He avoided playing all but one of his “Dire Staits”-era hits (“So Far Away”), yet left those present cheered and enlivened by his musicianship, poise and presence. He teasingly responded to those dolts who like to shout out requests from the floor (do you people know how fucking retarded you sound to everyone else), and played his heart out, generously collaborating with his musicians, recognizing their virtuoso skills.

Some of us wondered ahead of time why Dylan would choose such a celebrated artist, a headliner in his own right, to take to the stage ahead of him. Both share a love of history, epic ballads, cinematic storylines—they could well be brothers in arms.

But unlike Dylan, Mr. Knopfler has never forgotten the folks out there beyond the footlights, the steep price they paid for being there.

As he left the stage, he blew kisses to the crowd.

Contrast that to Dylan’s coldly dismissive raspberries…

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Poem for Robert Zimmerman

Bob Dylan

the troubadour arrived unheralded
the mood sullen in the crowd
he had the reputation of trickster
hat and cape & concealing cowl

he played the part of wise man
tried to bend them to his will
but his magic was much diminished
it only made them ill

he rallied his most stalwart
minions to the King
the others were left abandoned
denied a song to sing

confused and upbraided
filing from the flickering hall
no one there to guide them
catch them should they fall

the troubadour was untroubled
he’d been paid in brightest gold
fools were they who lamented
he’d grown so tired and old

for our idols owe us nothing
evince scorn for our trusting ways
in their eyes we are dupes and fools
refusing to turn the page

put your faith in butterflies
follow their aimless flight
but beware of traveling minstrels
who vanish into the night

* Completed following the Bob Dylan/Mark Knopfler concert, Credit Union Center (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan)

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My book launch is over–now watch for the movie!

A memorable evening last night: we launched my two new collections, New & Selected Poems and Stromata to an enthusiastic audience and, I add (much to my relief), there were no glitches or screwups on my part.  I read for just over 35 minutes and then took questions from those in attendance. Great questions too, folks seeking clarification on my status as an independent author and also asking me about the changes in my writing over the past 25 years, among other things.

I’ll post some pictures ASAP but we also had two cameras running so in the next couple of weeks we’ll be uploading the entire reading on to YouTube where people can tune in and see me in action.

Without a trace of humbleness, I can tell you that there aren’t too many authors in this country who perform their work as well as I do. I take my responsibilities as an entertainer very seriously; I have been to too many readings where the authors have forgotten that they must also be performers. When I hit that podium, it’s my intention to blow people away, destroy their preconceptions, make it a night they won’t soon forget. And usually I succeed.

Thanks to everyone who came out on a chilly autumn night and an especially big THANK YOU to my production crew—Sherron, Sam, Sean, Micah—for their hard work.

Watch for the finished film, I really believe it captured one of the best readings I’ve ever done.

Man, was I hot…

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For your listening pleasure… (Blog Post #100)

Well, this is cause to celebrate.

This happens to be blog post #100 and, if that isn’t enough, later on this week this site will receive its 50,000th visit.

Wow.  That’s an overwhelming number of people coming to a blog devoted to a Canuck writer who has eschewed the big time, stubbornly maintained his singular vision with an orneriness not often seen in writing circles.

God bless you, folks.  You’re all the proof that I need to reassure myself that the indie path is the one for me and I shall continue to produce work that fits no niches or stereotypes or genres, confident that smart, discerning readers will find me…and help spread the word.

To mark this auspicious occasion I’ve recorded three of my favorite short-short stories, adding music and sound effects to enhance the experience.  Once again, Sherron lent a helping hand, pulling the whole mess together.  The final result surprised and delighted me to the extent that I think it’s safe to say there will be more such efforts in the near future.

Ah, heck, enough of my jabbering.  Have a listen to these pieces and, as always, I encourage you to leave a comment, letting me know what you think…

Cliff Burns Reading Short Stories (V.2)

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Tool: Live (The Concert at Credit Union Centre, Saskatoon)

Folks, I thought I’d seen some pretty terrific shows in my time: Pearl Jam was a blast and Arcade Fire unbelievably good and the Pixies tight and polished. I saw a performance of Buckwheat Zydeco in Vancouver years ago that I remember with great fondness—Sherron and I danced for two hours straight. And, of course, Stacey was there. God, I miss ya, chum.

I have never, ever seen anything that remotely compares to Tool. It’s not just the music, it’s the music and the musicianship and the stage presence and the visuals, all in the service of bringing to life the nightmarish musings of one Maynard Keenan.

The diminutive figure never left the small, raised platform at the rear of the stage. He didn’t once move forward to join his mates…and yet his presence dominated. When he was singing, conducting…or standing stock still, seemingly as bewitched by the music as we were. He’s the emotional core, the central defining figure. Adam gives terrific interviews and is the pleasant, human face of the band. Maynard has little truck with explanations, analysis. He can be an acerbic motherfucker (remember, he used to hang out with Bill Hicks). Impatient with the superficial interrogations of vacuous video jocks. It’s all about art, he keeps insisting (suspecting it’s falling on deaf ears).

The set list featured lots of material from “10,000 Days”, inspired jams that still managed to hit visual cues perfectly, staying in synch with the bizarre video snippets and montages constantly playing on four stage level screens and two overhead brutes. The footage is mesmerizing, the dope fiends in the audience must have been swooning. It’s grim stuff: Lovecraftian uglies, chimeras, mutants…and then a sequence with Beckett-ian figures, forsaken yet persisting, godless and inexorably bound for the abyss.

I feel privileged to have taken in the show last night at the Credit Union Centre. I’m grateful I was able to share the best musical night of my life with my two buds Laird and Jess. It was fucking cold—the windchill had to be close to -30 Celsius—but we toughed it out, didn’t we boys? And afterward we stood around and looked at each other, at a loss to explain or digest what we had just seen.

Something special happened last night. It’s 1:30 in the morning and I’m still buzzing. Can’t sleep. Trying to absorb it all. Maynard, boys: thank you. You put your heart and soul into the show…and throughout your career you’ve never compromised or catered to the expectations of others. There’s a reason I was there last night and I think it was to remind me of the importance of integrity. The members of Tool have repeatedly defended their artistic freedom and autonomy. They stuck to their guns and are now reaping the rewards. It’s a reassuring theme to take to bed with me and it might just get me to sleep tonight.

I hope…

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