Tag Archives: Babyhead

Babyhead Angst

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Originally published on June 3, 1996

So, what's new at the Dollhouse, you ask with a wink and a nod, knowing we had long moved in concentric circles, loathing the bourgeois claim we had clumsily staked, now preparing to collapse the dot, the vanishing point of another failed artist flogging the trapeze act, already in view...

Nothing new. Your name came up more times than Jesus Christ this weekend, but nearly always was answered with an I dunno, or a muffled uhmmm...

Yeah, Lynn is cool. I just don't know what to write her in response to the Babyhead show. It was an event worth noting if only for a few days. Frankly I hate critiquing others' work, especially in a genre where I haven't mustered up much myself in the way of surpassing or suppressing it. I liked the shows, but I was glad when the last one was over. I was nearly ready to bolt, already drunk, smoked, and tired from yet another long day saith the old man busking in dungarees. Tom Howell groveled over earlier in the day with a photography project he needed me to pull off, uh, taking a picture of a fat shiny tow chain he knew I had.

It was to be a typical Howell BIG PRODUCTION with bogus color-reflective transparency drag, but he pocketed a roll of film, and we staggered off to the Babyhead Festival together. Tim met Gigi on his bike. Tom already knew most of the actors, directors, and producers of the show. Safe to say, Lynn was about the only person he didn't know, yet I'm thinking he probably did meet her at Buck Downs place this past New Year's Day. Remember? We'd planned to walk the couple of blocks there after we left Wayne Curtin's absolutely weird houseblessing that evening, but I passed out instead, having had little sleep for several days prior...

Tom was struggling to comment on her work as we were waiting for food at this Sheesh Kabob joint in Georgetown after tiring of the reception at the Clark Gallery following the fest. Noticing he didn't want to slam her, I filled in the blanks with a typical GT gust of hot air...

"Uh Lynn is an attractive and very intelligent woman, but her acting skills are certainly not ready for prime time..." Tom interrupted with a quick sigh of relief, nodded his head furiously and said, "Yes, precisely!" Tom thought Buck was a natural, however.

I could say, "Oh I liked this." Or, "I liked that." But let's just leave it the way Tom put it: It's not like everybody in the audience would be back next week to watch these flicks again. Oh well, you know me; at the time I couldn't leave it at that. I countered his remark with a perspective-kissing, "Well, I don't think too many people there would line up to see A Few Good Men again a week later either. Tom was in gear high with his Talleyrand tongue, suggesting that the Vampires Suck video we did in 1985 had measured up to the standards we saw upon the screen this night, signalling a been there, done that attitude which I guess summed it all up for both of us. Sue of course didn't have much of anything to say on the subject. Thank God. I might have begged to differ.

Truth is I guess I don't know how to give or receive praise. You know the drill. No need to bark up that tree right now. And yes, I checked out the City Paper blurbs and your picture (which I barely recognize as you), but unless no one else sends you the CP, I won't.
The artsy-bosomed women at the Clark Gallery reception however were well worth the price of staring. I knew I had to escape that place soon before I got the urge to touch. This was the same gallery which showcased our pal Scott Farnum's little portraits of Bluegrass Greats last spring. Four by sixes framed, that's 24 square inches of rough little paintings depicting genuine hill folks like Bill Monroe and Roy Acuff for which he was asking over $400 a piece after he decided to pick up the paints following a weekend trip he'd made through the Virginia Smokeys down to Nashville. I made the throw away comment that perhaps they were a bit overpriced, and Scott went ballistic on me. "Why can't you just be happy for me!" he bellowed. I was more than jizzed for him, and would have been over the top jizzy had I been able to afford one. I muttered to Sue, backing several steps away from Scott, that I thought $75 might be a more encouraging price point, not aware the freshly jacked artist could hear me, but from his 350 pound girth he shot back, "I've got that much in the frame alone." Well, hell's bells, somebody must have seen this guy coming. Nice, flat black frames, rather common, and probably six bucks a pop, but that was it, so I quickly shuffled off to another section of the gallery, pulling my red-headed baby behind me. I always made a point of supporting my artist friends when possible, but others apparently had different methods of dealing with artistic or business criticism. Scott and his wife Amy never talked to us again after that night. And by the way, since I am forwarding this to Lynn, there is news Jack might be interested in: Big Dave Weist and Marcy Dewey, less than a year after marrying each other have split. Marcy has moved to California, uh, where I dunno, but that's the latest via the Quag...

Thanks Lynn for the truly spectacular performance. I did very much enjoy the night as my awkward nights tend to go. It's just pretty acolades don't roll off my tongue or even my keystroke finger as easily as bad beer slips down the old dry gullet. Truth is I guess I don't know how to give or receive praise. You know the drill. No need to bark up that tree right now. And yes, I checked out the City Paper blurbs and your picture (which I barely recognize as you), but unless no one else sends you the CP, I won't. Your fans will surely not let you down, buck or no buck.

GT

The Price Of Hurling Stones, Tomatoes, and Sex Toys Into The Past

cadence
The Cadence
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Date: Tue, 28 May 1996 16:26:35
From: Lynn Landry

More interesting than getting drunk with a friend and having sex, is getting drunk years later and talking about it. Or dancing around the issue. OR starting and stopping. Having a past is SO MUCH FUN.

Gabriel, my friend Rob is having a Babyhead film festival at the Biograph on Saturday, June 1. He showing a few different videos. Two have me in them and it could be so embarassing, I may never enter the eastern time zone again. I don't have all the details, but I think it being shown around 9 or 10 pm. I will find out and let you and Sue know so you can heckle me.

Landry

Scandanavian Jazz

"There are some people one loves best,
and others whom one would almost always
rather have as companions."

—Henrik Ibsen

Throw away that awful ticket stub I said. None of us
here need that can of starch. We know by heart
the meaning of fuss. Baby and the Pacifiers
are playing a gig at the Bistro to start.
Roaring inclinations.
Singsoldier.

We worked out long wars, healing our oyster eyes
with the sweaty breath of evergreen night.
That Lebanon dirt. Manic contours
agreeable to random odor,
magnificently kite.
We knew we couldn't write about
it so we danced.

The proud crystalline swans of our age,
obscuring shades,
sex and stereotype,
wars and rumors of wars,
strikes, balks, and numb nuts,
say hello every sort of way,
wrapping like a nursing maiden's delicate hands
around the seat of our desires,
our strategic pyres,
in place of inspirational jeep: glances
just aren't enough glands.

II.

              She handled
my buttocks and its karma,
so tight and competitively elite,
as I cracked the bloody march.
New Wave Morals.

Immediately I loved her, pledged
a plowboy's pitch across the pink passage
into backyard frenzies. I mulled eloquently
to myself, caught in a whim of fashion,
if I might ought caress the knotted warchest
she portrayed. Her boyfriend's face
I don't recall.

Baby, the pacifiers,
and our wormlike mirrors
responding like thoroughbred
strangers caught in the loosening moods of dawn
were mere constructions of belief.
I worried about my nature to be
direct and innocent. It drove
me to silence.

We never traded namesakes alive.
My boldness froze in cockmassacre
and toes, I twisted & smiled
acres and acres of wilted smiles
planted deeply tapping
her punk nerves sponsoring
my soaring terrain.

Her ravishionary spherical absolutes
aroused my superior being,
those victory moon bavarian breasts
(honorarium of the beasts...)
provoking the shape of things and substance,
my superior being shy,
companionless.

I danced. She rubbed her baubled paws
again along the fine tight lines my crib
drew against hocus evening shadows,
showing there can be no pretense
denying afresh the vital statistic,
no silly discourteous cocktease
stranding scalps and flirting
humor, hunger, hoary
religions that the idle
refuse to prosper.

          We easily could have
made each other blank members
of a riper version, gambling
on last night's cruise into sane
Richard Hell's visitation,
a vanity cruise highlighting
winning girls wearing nothing
but furs,
idols and onan. We became the idea
and did.

And I felt our mutual flash,
hornspun and cursive,
realizing the mediocrity
a poem of words
offers—splash—
beginning of the world
tigers and baboons
thunderbirds and the dung beetle
biting off more than a scientist
can chew,

open clash,
the meaning of her friendship ritual.

She and He
Rocking to and from
in pop style punctuated punk
continuing to
rock to and from
her unannounceable tokens
sheer succulence
well pronounced
shocking my demands on reality,
to and from, rubbing
my arm, now as important
as any zone
I could hope oversimplifyingly
would release me. Graceful
dancer bombardier
balancing virtue
and free baggage. Likelier
choices bait our laughter.
Especially in a gig
of young punk artists
rocking.

She felt herself.
Above the arms of her date.
The three of us knew the heathen pains
of fate which haunt
heaven and the pawnbroker's
pavilion. And
white hawkish sweaters
bulging through nervous nicotined
smoky husks
in the Bistro late hours.