Alejandro Magaña Aviña’s “Danza Cíclica en la Rueda de los Días” was interpreted by visual artists Sahar Hakimi, Beryl Brenner, and Elizabeth Keithline.
Stelth Ulvang’s “Echo of an End” was interpreted by dancer Micaela Mamede, poet Herbert J. Wimmer, and painter Derrick Breidenthal.
Kora Karuna’s “O Flying Book” was interpreted by painter Maria Rosa Benso and photographer Sarah Fjørtoft.
Wes Covey’s “Transmit” was interpreted by writer Calyn Kelly and sculptor Panos Dimitropoulos.
[At 80 tracks, Ball of Wax 64 is somewhat more sprawling than usual, but fortunately each work (except for the final one) has been carefully interpreted in at least one other art form. So in lieu of overly taxing our volunteer reviewers, we will share each track along with the works that followed from it, as viewable at the TELEPHONE exhibit.]
Dustin Hamman’s “Shade for Days” was interpreted by visual artists Froso Papadimitriou, Chris Ivory, and Casey Kelbaugh; and writer Charlie Levine.
TELEPHONE, as you may be aware, is a globe-spanning, multi-disciplinary art game/project begun by cat-herder extraordinaire Nathan Langston that took place over the course of the last year, and was recently made public in a gloriously rendered and beautifully usable internet exhibit. The basic gist of the project, which ended up including around 950 artists in all, was meant to resemble a giant game of telephone: one original message was sent to several artists to interpret into their chosen art form; their newly-created works were then sent to more artists to interpret (always crossing disciplines, forms, genres), and so on, until the game flipped and artists began receiving multiple works to distill into one new thing, resulting in one final piece of music. Among the poets, video artists, sculptors, painters, dancers, shrinky-dink artists (hi Patrick!) and more, over 100 musicians of countless genres took part. As I clicked through this awe-inspiring collection, particularly enjoying the wide range of music – which included old friends such as Virgin of the Birds, Brittain Ashford, and Johanna Kunin as well as complete strangers (or, as I like to think of them, “new friends”) like Dustin Hamman and Victoria Theodore – I couldn’t help thinking how lovely it would be to have all this music in one collection. Being who I am, and doing what I do, I thought, “well, I guess that’s the next Ball of Wax!” And so it will be.
Ball of Wax 64 will contain (at current count) 77 tracks of music from TELEPHONE, arranged in order of assignment. Similar to Ball of Wax 51 (Long Songs), it will be available as one enormous stream/download (over 5 hours of music); or as a physical package with hand-silkscreened cover, liner notes, and a download code (and a CD-R sampler of random selections for those who really want something to put in their CD player). It will be available for purchase via Bandcamp on Friday, June 4th. A slightly shorter version will be available at all the usual digital streaming places . . . some time after that. Maybe we’ll do some kind of internet release show or shows? That’d be fun. At the moment my logistical resources are stretched a bit thin just pulling this thing together, but we’ll see what happens. In any case, as you can see if you’ve spent even a few minutes clicking through TELEPHONE, you’re in for a treat.
Green Light Cameras plays Ball of Wax 63 off with “The Joke that Went Too Far.” This bitterly breezy tune was written in response to my prompt for Ball of Wax 62 – write a song in the immediate aftermath of the 2020 election – but, due to my lack of inbox organization and the overflow of brilliant submissions I received for that volume, I was forced to roll it over here, to the first volume of 2021.
Interestingly, the delayed release both amplifies and mutes the song’s original intent. The amplification comes from the added perspective, since December 2020, of just how far the awful, unfunny joke that was our 45th president went. On the other hand, the lack of context – appearing at the end of a collection of songs with a range of subjects and perspectives – means the listener may not apprehend just who is the target of this song’s meticulous ire. Depending on how one hears them, these words could be directed to a historical dictator, a terrible boss, a maniacal bus driver, or a high school bully. As such, though, it all still works, as an ever-unspooling list of burns (“you’re a fishing line without the hook / a dusty shelf but not the books / you’re not the clock, but the missing minute hand . . .”) set to a soothing lounge beat: poetic yet pointed, evocative yet disgusted; whoever this song is about, GLC is fucking over them – a sentiment we can all appreciate, whether about a former president or a former friend.
“Trash Man,” from Ken Cormier’s stellar new album Old King Cloud, is a thoughtful character study, a simple portrait of a man who seems to contain multitudes – and it all starts off with a brilliant AC/DC nod: “He was a trash man / he kept his motor clean / he smoked a big cigar / and ran a magazine.” Those four lines right there already tell you the subject of this song has more going on than you might think at first. Trash man, motor, cigar, sure, checks out – wait, he ran a magazine? But wait, there’s more. This publishing maven – also an ingénue, we find out later – is thoughtful, mysterious, much more than he seems at first blush, giving autograph-seeking kids heart attacks and secretly recording barbeques. Based on what I know of Ken Cormier’s work, it’s entirely possible that this whole song started as a series of words that just work together. Once you hear “he was a maven and and an ingénue / he made a secret tape recording at the barbeque” it will leave a permanent groove in your mind, and I will never hear “You Shook Me All Night Long” the same way again. But in addition to the playful flow of words, this song does tell a story. It brings you into a new world you never could have imagined, and leaves you wanting to know so much more about this trash man, his magazine, and his secret tape recordings.
And I haven’t even talked about the music yet! “Trash Man” keeps a slow, steady pace – perhaps like a garbage truck making its way down the road, or someone thoughtfully flipping through records at the store – but the melodies, progressions, and production are all classic Ken Cormier pop gold. Hell, I only just now realized this song has no chorus and it’s still catchy as hell. Who needs choruses? Not Ken Cormier.
This week marks the anniversary of the week of first dates my husband and I had 11 years ago. One of our first dates was a Ball of Wax release show. That was a bright time of new feelings rising to the surface. Anticipation. Nerves. Excitement. Dreams. That time 11 years ago stands in stark contrast to the state of the world during this year’s week of dates. Things can feel a bit stale after a year of quarantine and isolation. Suspended and stagnating in inertia, yet bathed and bubbling in anxiety. I’ve never before had so much insight into the mouse on the wheel before.
What am I going on about? I’m not quite sure, but this song by The Weird Winkers is very right now. It has a leisurely pace, giving it the feeling of friends playing folk songs in a rec hall, whilst also buckling under the perilous weight of frustration from seemingly intractable problems. The perceived futility of advocating for positive change when the tendency of inertia is to stick with what feels safe. And that it may feel safer in the middle. However, between two diverging points is a far cry from safe. When what may actually be needed is a bold gesture to span the great divide, don’t compromise when it comes to integrity – and do listen to this song.
Piano rings out into the open space, vocals and bass are up front, and guitars fill in the background with a clean and concise solo from the electric. This is a good song and I love the way Brian’s voice complements the arrangement.
“Birch Tree,” by Tomo Nakayama, is a slow, gorgeous knife, a knife that teases the skin on your belly, just above your navel, not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a little white mark so you know it has been there. It’s a musical phrase that runs its sorrowful, melancholy pace up and down your front steps over and over, its fist reaches out to knock on your door, only to fall back limp again and again. And you want to know what’s really messed up? You’re inside waiting for that god damn knock. You want to let it in. You want to feed it and bathe it and sleep with it and love it forever but it will never ever knock, never.
