Dancing About Architecture

If there is a holy trinity of writers who capture the spirit of what we’re trying to do here at The Rake, we would identify them as follows: E.B. White, H.L. Mencken, and Flann O’Brien. Much to the wife’s irritation, we have taken to hauling these three separate volumes all around the house, sort of juggling between the pig farm, Baltimore, and a Dublin pub. They’re paperbacks. Taken together, they are still less burdensome than “I Am Charlotte Simmons,” which wastes under the bed.

Last Friday, we were sitting contentedly by the fireplace shuffling through these three books, having a nip of whiskey. In the back of our mind, we thought we might set down the books and do something adventurous. Earlier in the day, we’d heard that Kid Dakota was playing a concert at a bar down the street. Now we’re sort of beyond the age of rock ‘n’ roll, and well beyond the age of voluntarily marinating in cigarette smoke and overpriced cocktails, but we like what we’ve heard about this Dakota kid. When the better half got home, she cast a disapproving glance at the tower of books presently in rotation on the sideboard. We received permission to check out the kid.

We’ve been hearing for a few years about Darren Jackson, the musician who calls himself Kid Dakota, who also dabbles in a few other projects, such as the Olympic Hopefuls (great name for a band!). When the local weekly posted an MP3 last week, we got hooked right away.

One of the ongoing, low-level frustrations of toiling as a writer: You go to see a brilliant young musician. You sit there passively; he works his magic under cover of stagelight and volume; he makes your own interior strings resonate sympathetically, powerfully; your throat catches, your eyes irrigate.

And, being a writer, you immediately convert this experience into professional jealousy. Your fear is that the medium in which you work—words—just cannot compete with this. People are not reading the way they used to read, because they are being enticed away by their other senses. Film, music, dance, theater, TV, even the web—these all engage several senses at once, and they can be taken in without much participatory effort, beyond parking your butt in a point of vantage and ordering a pint. The prospect seems so much more daunting to write a thing of beauty, that can really move a reader the way a good song or a good film can do, that doesn’t instantly become tomorrow’s fish-wrap. (I’m not saying it’s easier to write a great three-minute song; just easier to imagine that it will move your auditor.)

Over the years, several people have said something along the lines of “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” (We prefer to attribute the saying to Frank Zappa, who seems the most credible candidate, and whose music was the most difficult to describe.) We see the point of this bromide. It is impossible to compete with the visceral power of music, and yet like moths to light, the music journalists—maybe more than anyone—are constantly trying to capture the numenous qualities of our most powerful art form.

And yet Zappa’s Razor has its limitations. It cannot really be applied to all writing, as you think maybe it should. Writing, as a medium, is most like visual art. It takes a certain willful act of participation from the reader. You have to be willing to spend some time in it, it could involve some work, you might not know immediately what you’re looking at. But in the end, you may be rewarded for your effort with a more memorable experience. You may even buy the damn thing for your bookshelf or your living room wall.

Still, we think we’ve hit upon the perfect new strategy: The party shuffle of literature. Pick three of your favorite books, and keep them in heavy rotation. When the going gets tough in one, move on to the next. Either come back and try again, or trade out the voulme. Listen while I tell you: You have nothing to lose but the sanity of your domestic partner. Begob, there’s my bus.—The Editor in Cheese


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