Saturday, January 27, 2007


This evening we went to go see The Books at Webster Hall. They put on a great show with their music and projected images, and the experience reaffirmed my contention that of all the forms of communication and expression that are circulating out there, there are few (if any?) that are so closely able to articulate or capture the innermost workings of the human machine quite so well. This idea was first solidified in my mind, interestingly enough, in dance class, where I'd hoped my body might be able to contort in such a way to reflect my inner thoughts on the exterior. Sadly, I was a mediocre dancer at best, and I became accutely aware of the insufficiency of my body--slowly decaying bones and sinew--to express what circulated in my lungs and thudded out down my circulatory pipelines. Now I'm not saying that The Books have perfected the form of using rhythmically timed images and music together to seal the deal. In fact, the experience in the dance hall this evening didn't even verge on euphoric. Instead, though, and this is one of those sad/quiet adult truths, it was more of a reconfirmation of something I already knew (or at least expected). That's a triumph of sorts, right? It was a grade A show, reminding us all that it's worth considering the way such simple tactics as the graphic match, certain forms of rhythmic cutting, and the same old types of juxtapositions we got tired of in Soviet Russia still have the power to move us in a certain way. I like to be moved in that direction.

No comments: