A Letter To You

Dear Clark,

How are you doing? It’s been a long time since you and I actually talked but please know, first and foremost, that I speak about you all the time. I live in Albuquerque, New Mexico now. I am not sure if you know that. It’s amazing here. I was not so sure that when I made the decision to uproot myself and move here that it was the right decision. Sometimes I still doubt myself, wondering if rejecting all the safety and stability and steady income was worth it, but then I think about how miserable it was trying to fit myself into some capitalist ideal of happiness and how it was such a waste of time and so detrimental to my existence that I know I made the right choice. It’s not always easy, and some of the old, familiar anxiety and worry seeps in. Some of it is probably valid, I don’t really know how long I can keep this up and I worry about running out of money, but mostly, I just say fuck it to that nonsense and figure I’ll figure it out.

I found myself here in Albuquerque, Clark. It’s a feeling I can’t describe with much articulation yet. I find myself very angry at where I came from, the types of anxiety I had to navigate in our shared hometown. I try not to resent it, for you and I both know how amazing and important and special growing up in the Washington DC region was. We were blessed with a privilege to grow up in DC at the time we did. We may have missed the beginning, the primordial chemistry and biology, but I think we got very lucky roaming around Virginia and Maryland and the District when so much amazing music, history, politics and people were around. But I can’t help be upset how so much of that was taken away from us as our government grew and got more powerful and paranoid. I know, this seems strange to talk about, but I think about it a lot. So many things, bigger than myself, I realize had an external effect on me that I wasn’t aware of. I don’t want to get too philosophical with you, but there is a truth. Capitalism, power, privilege, these things effected me and my decision making and put me in a bad spot. I lost focus on what was important, despite your awesome philosophy that you shared with me so many years ago, and I got fucked up. I’m trying to fix that now.

Clark, I’ve been reckless while keeping the best intentions possible. I’ve been trying to love with abandonment of reason, to be open to the world and to have as much damn fun as possible. I am eternally lucky to have met some wonderful people here in Albuquerque who are young in years and free in spirit. I have to keep myself in check sometimes and hope that the life lessons I have inherited can provide some reasonable guidance that is full of truth and does not gloss over the evils that we are often faced with in this world. But I try to cherish everyday, sometimes I do that with too much intellect and academic reference and framing, but every breath I take now has a purpose. I want to live, not just for my life span, but forever. Life is so amazing, such a great gift that we are granted. Sadly, we give so much of it over to other people, for their goals and rewards that are at detriment to who we are. It’s total fucking madness my friend. It’s something I know you fight against, so please just consider me an ally, ready to confront all these ills that cause all this sadness. I know that with love, compassion, companionship and fun we can make this world in the image and beauty it thrives to be.

I think about Rebecca everyday as well. I feel guilt sometimes when I think about her. She so often gets lost in my story, in your story, when I tell them to the people who I meet. She is such a saint and goddess on this earth. Leaving Washington D.C. was already difficult enough to do last winter, but leaving Rebecca was especially hard. While I know that she and I will be bound together always in our hearts and souls, her companionship, friendship and love was so new and encouraging in my day-to-day life, that leaving that prematurely stings. Further, though I know she doesn’t feel this way, I can’t help but think that I serve as a small reminder that she is not able to hold you and kiss you and dance with you in her arms. We met in your absence, and I can’t forgive myself for that. But I still can not thank you enough for introducing us to each other. There are so many strong, amazing, beautiful and awesome women in my life and I am so glad that among them, Rebecca is one that I can include in my personal celebration of them all.

There are scars I carry. Some that I carry are important. Some of them still hurt and sting, but I am trying to forgive them. Some of them will never fade and I am resolved to be okay with that. Some of them came from fun despite the consequences, the manifestations of which I have to live with. They are the gradients pulled across my garden, the place where I still find solitude, strength, redemption and love. I plant the seeds, like you told me to do. They are of passions, adventure, compassion and beauty. I embrace my work with my arms, trying to be careful and tender. But I never forget that not all seeds grow, not all plants survive, no matter my effort and best intentions. I still maintain and believe that the most important part of this process is that you plant the seeds. I know that the ones that do grow are so beautiful, precious and fragile. From there, my excitement and appetite are nourished. It’s amazing. Your guidance brought me so much clarity and relief.

It is a very late or very early hour now. The alluring charm of sleep finally calls to me once more. I will put myself down to bed, head facing south and sleep with calm abiding. I love you, Clark. You might never know how much you gave to me and what it is you mean to me. I am not sure I will truly ever understand the impact you have on my life. Some things are far too profound for words and fools like me chase that through a maze of language. But know I keep you close to my heart and spirit. I celebrate you in every victory and stumble. Thank you.

Eternally, I plant the seed,

Erik Gamlem

Welcome to Albuquerque

Hello Friends, Readers, Family that actually reads this. I am safe and sound in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It’s been a pretty strange trip. For one, it’s cold but sunny most of the time. I want to go out more, but when the enticing brightness gets me to emerge from my warm apartment I feel like I am being lied to and so I usually spend the next day holed up staying warm and going through the mountains of stuff I have to go through. Then I watch a bunch of TV (I watched 3 and half seasons of The Office already – lame). The experience has been kind of surreal. Both being in a new place and acknowledging the mountains of my past that I literally carried with me in the form of records, photographs, letters, notebooks, artwork is overwhelming. I need to do a bit better about getting out and about, I’ve only done a little bit of that so far, but I am going make more of an effort this week to travel and see the state and the city.

One of the things I did do last week was go to a show. I found a place called Small Engine Rez. It was an old Go-Kart repair shop that has been turned into a performance space. I felt pretty at home there actually, in the cold, amongst strangers. The kids drinking beer at DIY show was a bit weird. That happened in DC from time to time sure, but it seemed like everyone had a beer in their hand at this show. Albuquerque, from what I gathered has a burgeoning noise scene and both the first two artists, Ryan Dennison and Baby Shampoo did just that. It was interesting, but I’m not sure if I could sustain on those types of performances. We have more work to do. Vegetables were a band from Phoenix, AZ that were like Surf-Pop. They were really great and I will have to track down their 7″ which I couldn’t afford that night. I got some great shots of them too, despite having to use the built-in flash. Closing out the night was Laura Ortman who played sorta a free-form almost gothic like music. She was pretty awesome. I quite enjoyed it when she was playing violin. It was extraordinary. She was accompanied by local musician Raven Chacon, who seems to be quite prolific with his Sicksicksick Distro. They do lots of tapes which is pretty cool. I bought Laura Ortman’s tape Someday We’ll Be Together of which I will give a full review soon.

I’ve also been working on a bunch of artwork as well. One of the reasons I wanted to move out to Albuquerque was to take some time to actually work on art projects that I have been neglecting for the past year. I haven’t done much with the cards, but I am trying to draw, make stencils and do other manipulations of stuff. I’ve also been working on music as well. I wrote three songs already as well as some other manipulation/sample pieces. So the Terrible Tumors has two new demos up on my sound cloud page if your interested in checking that stuff out. I even wrote another April Decca song, which I didn’t think I would do, but it just kind of came out one day. Part of the manipulation/sample project I am working on also includes an idea I’ve had for a while, taking samples from some talking tapes and turning them into a beat. I worked a bunch New Years Eve on that, before drinking too much rum and drawing all night. So between the laziness and the cold and the watching TV I am getting my creative juices flowing. I wish it was more of stream then a drizzle, but I guess I just need to be lucky for what I am getting back.

I also started on the great photograph archive project. The beginnings of which area already up at my Flickr page. That weird walk down memory lane was, quite honestly a bit unnerving as I also found a lot of personal pictures. I wasn’t wholly prepared for that. But it was good, a lot of great shows were remembered. I guess I kind of did okay. I wish I brought my camera to more shows, especially the year I decided not to. But I was burnt out. But there is a serious lack of The Dead Teenagers and Motorcycle Wars in my collection as well as The Dismemberment Plan and Q and Not U, though I did shoot a few of those shows as well, both before and after that year. I also came across the only photos I had taken of Clark Sabine in any of the bands he was in (I sadly never shot any photos of Statehood, which was dumb). It was a show in Arlington with The City The Sea. They aren’t the greatest photos I’ve ever shot. I wasn’t familiar with the band, the space or the people there, and it was not very crowded either, but they are what they are. I will scan the rest shortly and put them on flickr. It was one of the last sets of photos I came across the night I embarked on this project (which also led me to drinking a hefty serving of whiskey) and made the gut wrenching experience of re-experiencing my younger self totally worth it.

So that’s my Albuquerque update for you all. As for KYS, well I have a few more interviews completed, which should be awesome, as well as one from the archive. Not sure what’s up with the reviews at the moment. The beginning of the year is a slow time for new releases, so we shall see. I have another podcast recorded too and hopefully will get that shit up this week. I have my microphones so the sound quality of me talking is better. The content of me rambling, not so much. But you probably gathered that from this post anyway.

Be well people, thanks for stopping by and have a great 2011.

 

On Ten Years With Exotic Fever Records

It’s hard to believe that’s it’s been ten years since that unusual summer day when Exotic Fever records first came into my life. I have told this story before, once, to great comedic effect and that’s good. Everyone likes to be funny and so, like an aging comic, doing the College Orientation Circuit on my way down to the bottom, I will quickly rehash that fateful day here, permanently and forever, on the Internets.

I emerged off the red line at Brookland, a stop I had never been to before. I am not sure why I decided to take the metro on this particular day, as a drive would have been quicker, and offered me a more immediate escape had I needed one. But never the less, there I was in a new part of DC, by the train tracks and desperately looking for an address that hardly existed. When I finally stumbled upon the domicile advertised on the flier I had in my pocket (this was the days before cell phones, internets, GPS and all that pesky crap you kids have forced upon crusty fucks like me), I could hardly believe what I had gotten myself into. What lay before me, at the bottom of some  hill was a single structure, a quasi-converted shop garage surrounded by junk.

Timidly, I walked down the hill in search of any familiar face to validate my arrival, the address and the wanting fact that I might still be on planet earth. I quickly found Bonnie Schlegel, guitarist and singer for Bald Rapunzel, the treasure of my adventure for the day. She was unloading a mini-van of her instrument and still managed to give me an energetic and welcoming, hello. We chatted briefly while she unpacked her weighty possessions and at some point, awkwardly I am sure, I left he to her devices. I almost quite literally ran into a lanky man with long hair, well-worn clothes and a lot of tattoo’s. The tattoo’s were unlike I had ever seen and I engaged him on conversation. He stated that he had them done overseas while he was on tour. I asked him what band he was in and he said, “The Spirit Caravan. My names Wino”.

HOLY SHIT. Okay, look I had only ever heard of Wino at this point from Henry Rollins book “Get in the Van” and a dozen interviews with Joe Lally going on and on and on and on about this band called The Obsessed. But I knew, looking into those wise, but road worn and intoxicant ravaged eyes, that I was in the presence of a legend. Wino was nice as shit and talked a good deal about the artist and The Spirit Caravan and Joe Lally, who I had mentioned like a buffoon (I was 23 at the time if we do the math and such as it is my character to be a shy awkward punk kid it was my manner then as well). I’ve met quite a few musicians who are well-respected and legendary to guys that are more famous and more successful than they are. Most of those dudes are pricks. Wino was really humble and nice and actually had a conversation with me that wasn’t one-sided or filled with some false ego. I’ve never run into him since then, but he left a lasting impression on me.

Suddenly, from somewhere in the beyond someone yelled something akin to “Fight” and a group of people rushed towards the shouted voice. Following suit, we emerged down the final hill. At the base, in front of the train tracks that ran directly adjacent to the garage-house, was a patch of mud and two very large men squaring up, both with shit eating grins on their faces. These two hefty boys thus proceeded to engage in the art of Greco-Roman style wrasslin’, in a mud pit, next to train tracks, next to a garage. It was by far the most thing I had ever seen in my entire life and did not, in any way, shape or form reassure me that this was the right place to be. I came to see bands play and then go home.

Eventually, Bald Rapunzel played. They were breathless. To hear Bonnie Schlegel sing is to be blessed by the angels. If you have not had the pleasure, and as she has not played to an audience in ten years I suspect you have not, ensure that you do so. You will not, as they say, regret it. Accompanying Ms. Schlegel is a lady who would effectively change my life many many many times over the next ten years. My dear friend Katy Otto set upon her drum set like a happy child who has found something sinister and wicked and is so pleased by this discovery she can’t help but light up with a smile. It is a face I have seen at least a hundred times and it never feels less than it did on that day. I was taken in completely. And, have not been unleashed since.

After their set, Bonnie set upon me (and I like to pretend in this moment that I was the only person that ever had this happen too, even though I witnessed her do this to about three dozen others after me) with a CD in her hand. Ah yes, my Kryptonite even to this day. With an abundant amount of enthusiasm and smiles of sheer adulation Bonnie gave her pitch. She had started the record label, called Exotic Fever records, it was meant to be sexy and she had put out a CD by her friend Clark’s band the Halo Project and she was going around telling everyone she knew about it and how she was really proud of it and how she loved the music and would I like to buy one. And really, how could I have said no to Bonnie in that moment? She could have told me to go wrestle the two fat guys in the mud by myself and I would have.

It is now ten years since that fateful day and I have had many experiences with Exotic Fever. I helped Katy run the web site for a few years (after much loving help from our friend April) and was privy to new bands, new people and generally give a tiny bit back to DIY music and culture. I became, in a way, a bit of a defacto historian on the label, the remnants of that web site still sleeping on a hard drive in my basement as I type this. I got to participate in a few Exotic Fever fests, playing with so many wonderful people, in no particular order, Pash, Mass Movement of the Moth, Liza Kate, Kathy Cahsel, des_ark, Rachel Jacobs, Sean McArdle and so many more. Two years ago Katy was even kind enough to invite me to play one of these shows at the Black Cat in Washington DC. A small, insignificant moment for some, but for me it was one of those once in a lifetime moments.

As Exotic Fever turns ten, it becomes important to me for a different reason. Regular readers of this FLOG will no doubt recall my memorial to our dear friend Clark Sabine. The same Clark whom I have since learned convinced Bonnie to start Exotic Fever records to put out that CD by the Halo Project. It is in this way that Clark continues to contribute to the world, even though his body and being are no longer with us. People always claim that they are filled with the spirit of those that have passed or that the memory of the dead is still here. I find that shit unnerving, because often it’s not true, the memories are doctored, and the contributions are not tangible. This is not the case with Clark. His spirit is still here, it is very much alive and well, and it courses through Exotic Fever records. He planted that seed in Bonnie Schlegel, who took it and nurtured it and grew it and then handed it over to Katy Otto who has turned over the soil with love and hard work and helped along the way by great people like April Harris, Sara Klemm and Kathy Cahsel and kept that seed alive. And while this sounds like it may all be too much when talking about a label, a label whom I have barely touched on, whose significance has barely been touched upon, it is all true. This is not just a place where commerce is exchanged for product. It’s a place where friends and people and ideas and music gather and are shared into the world. Exotic Fever is a community, the only tangible community I have ever felt apart of. That’s fucking important and that’s what Clark gave to us.

So when I say to the women (and it has been so many great women that I feel selfish grandeur  even mentioning my own small role in all of this) thank you so much for everything you have given me. and thank you for growing Clark’s seed into a mighty tree that has branched out and done so much good, I mean so much more. Exotic Fever, you are beautiful. May you be well and serve the future and be nurtured by it.

A Memorial I Don’t Know How To Write

One year ago, On June 22, 2010, I cried for the first time in a long time. It was in front of, essentially a perfect stranger, in the middle of a giant room filled with perfect strangers. Talk about being out of my element. Through the most choked out, incoherent nonsense, I spoke to a woman, so obviously drunk on wine about what seemed like a tiny moment, but apparently was not a tiny moment. As the words came out of my mouth, the impact they had actually had on my life were pretty fucking profound. A mantra, a philosophy, words to live by if you will. They were so simple.

I can not pinpoint, in the shredded fabric that serves as my memory, when I first met Clark Sabine. I remember that I loved his band Motorcycle Wars. To get into the hows and whys is so irrelevant at this point. But anyway, it started with me begging the guys at Now! Compact Discs if my band, The Magnums, could open for Motorcycle Wars at an in store. When Ben said yes a week later, I was so excited. No one in my band cared about this show, outside it being a chance to play, but I was thrilled. I had gotten very caught up in the Motorcycle Wars vs Dead Teenagers “War”. I thought it was the best thing to ever happen to punk in DC. It made fun of how fucking serious the music scene seemed, and the whole thing was so refreshing. I will not deny that I really wanted to be a part of that. And this show, I got to be for a moment. I remember it for three things that occurred: 1) Ian Mackaye was at the show and it totally freaked me out that HE was going to watch ME play music. 2) Bonnie Schlegel tackled me during our set. 3) Clark gave my band props from the stage. It meant a lot to me, because, as vain as it sounds to write, there were a lot of people I wanted to impress that day. Like I said, there was something going on in DC and I wanted to be a part of it, and in that moment Clark made me feel like I was.

A few weeks later, I had the privileged of seeing The Motorcycle Wars at the Kansas House. The tragedy of this part of my life was that I did not have a drivers license. This was because I had gotten a DUI in September of 2000. So, part of the reason these shows have such a significant prominence in my mind is because I went to so few and it took so much effort to go. I think, by this point, I was living in Fairfax and could catch shows in Arlington before the metro closed. This was before Metro was open super late on weekends. Anyway, I digress. After the show a bunch of people walked down from Kansas House to the Galaxy Hut to drink some beers. I tagged along with a bunch of people who were, essentially faint acquaintances. Somehow, in the crowd of people I actually got caught up in a conversation with Clark. We were having a typical bar talk, deep and esoteric. At some point, he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. No joke, it was pretty much that straight forward. I said that I really wanted my band, The Magnums, to be able to tour and make records for like 7 or eight years. Nothing big, just a good, solid run. Clark said to me, “You can totally do that if you want. You just have to plant the seed. Once you plant the seed, it will grow. Maybe it won’t grow into what you want it to be, or maybe, no matter what you do it won’t grow at all. But what’s important is that you planted the seed.”

I was kicked out of the Magnums  in July of 2001. I got really drunk on Gin and had a diva moment at a show in a roller rink in Ocean City. And while I think it’s pretty ironic that I got kicked out of a rock and roll band for being an asshole, I acted like a petulant, ungrateful child that night. I guess I decided to stomp on that seed. However, a few days later, after I got over this episode and the fallout, Clark’s words totally made this not seem that bad. I had tried, I gave it everything I had and did what I could to make it grow. But what was important was I planted the seed. What was important was that I had tried in the first place. That philosophy, that mind set is perfect because it pushes you and comforts you at the same time. Things tend to grow the way they will. You just have to try and nurture them.

Clark’s death hit me really hard. A lot harder than I would have expected. I did not know him very well. I would run into him at shows from time to time and talk to him for five minutes every few months. I never hung out with him, I didn’t really know him at all. He was a guy that played in bands and was into some of the same things that I was. So my reaction to his death surprised me. I know part of it was that he was my age and he was gone. Part of it was how he died and the circumstances surrounding his illness. Clark died after a battle with Skin Cancer. You don’t think people get skin cancer, I mean unless they are those idiotic orange people that spend time under tanning beds.

At his memorial, surrounded by so many “punk kids” from “the scene” I was shocked. I knew some people pretty well, but like Clark, most of them were just people I knew from seeing their band play, or working at a bar or a club or something mundane like that. It’s strange to be in a room with so many people whose art is your life. Not just a part of your life, but is what you live and breath for. And I’m not going to lie, I felt like I was trespassing that day. I didn’t even want to go, I just felt compelled to be there. Something about all of this just drove me towards that country club out in Fairfax.

It saved my life. I believe this. After spilling my selfish guts out to Clark’s sister, through water wine eyes, she basically said that to honor her brother, she implored his friends to see a dermatologist about any moles they had. I promised her I would. If you know me well, you know I don’t make promises unless I intend to keep them. I know myself very well, and I can’t hold myself to anything. I don’t know why. But I held myself to this. And it saved my life. I’ve had two irregular moles removed and two more are being biopsied probably as I write this. I found out that I have higher risk for skin cancer.

For a year, since all this happened it’s really fucked me up to think that Clark had to die so that I could, live? Not get skin cancer? I don’t know. I can’t really articulate the sadness I feel, the confusion I feel about all this. I think about Clark everyday of my life now. This is a person I knew mostly from making a fool of himself for people with a band that broke up, what nine, ten years ago? I think about all the things in my life, about how I got to that point and it fucks with my head, because it’s all fucking coincidental. If I went over it here, this would turn into a novella and I would probably go mad. I’ve learned how fragile and precious life is. And man, that has really fucked with my head. Mostly, I feel foolish about my feelings. They seem so misplaced. The sadness and grief don’t make sense to me at all. It’s not, “logical”. I get depression. When I am depressed, that shit I understand and can cope with. This is a grief that seems so ridiculous for me to have, but I’ve never felt something so intently.

A few months ago I asked Clark’s girlfriend Rebbecca (I believe I  directed you here earlier), after my first surgery, if she would send me a picture of a tattoo of his. It’s a bare tree surrounded by a border. I always loved that tattoo. I just thought it was really great, with a fantastic image caught in a frame. It was really stark and intense. I definitely get tattoo jealous sometimes, and Clark’s tree was up there. Had he been alive, of course I would have never stolen the image, or even the concept from him. That’s just bad tattoo etiquette. And even though it doesn’t seem likely, I didn’t want to ever forget this man that I barely knew. Suddenly, he was such a part of my life, and needing such a self destructive reminder of him just seems idiotic. I grappled with actually getting it for a long long time. And in the end, aside from serving as a memorial to Clark and a reminder to me of what everything he has given me, it can be a conversation starter. I want to share Clark’s philosophy, embody it in my life as best as I can, and to me this tattoo is the visual personification of my mantra, “Plant the Seed”.

Clark, you are with me every step of the way. I am not half the man that you were, but I am trying everyday to find the hope, the joy, the passion and the energy. When I want to give in, give up and turn off, I think about you and the life that you lived and what you clearly gave to so many people in this tiny, fucked up world. It keeps me going. It keeps me in check and I can’t thank you enough. Thank you too, for bringing Rebbecca into my life. She is an amazing angel and is the living embodiment of your philosophy. Though I would give up our friendship in a second if it would negate your death and bring you back to her, I cherish her being in my life more than this crumbled language can truly express. She is rare being, and I am blessed to know her. I miss you, friend. Thank you for all that you have given me. Even in death, you do not rest. It’s remarkable and beautiful.

The photo above of Clark was taken by Leigh Kelsy. I didn’t ask her if I could use it, but her flickr page says it’s cool so long as I credit her. I am humble and grateful for this image of Clark to accompany this piece. Leigh, if you read this and are pissed, let me know and I will take the photo down.