Unanticipated Renaissance

"I don't know where it came from, it certainly wasn't in the forecast," he told her. "I only feel blessed to be here at this time, in this place."

There were atmospheric disturbances through the summer of 2009, to be sure, little fronts with meta-tags such as Beth Ditto, Lee Upton, Jay Farrar & Ben Gibbard, Florence Welch. But with the jet stream in such a ragged disarray, it was hard to know if these were summer showers or harbingers of things to come.

Somewhere around Thanksgiving, the torrent of prose got serious. Richard Powers' dazzling tribute to ecstatic daily living, Generosity. Jeanette Walls' deliciously tragic Half-Broke Horses. David Byrne's trips with his bicycle. Barbara Kingsolver's best novel yet, The Lacuna. Patti Smith's beautiful memoir of life with Robert Mapplethorpe. Spring book lists show no signs of slackening.

In late January, the musicians joined in. Xiu Xiu's Dear God I Hate Myself. Joanna Newsom's triple-disc, two-hour tribute to Victorian courtesan Lola Montez. Quasi's chaotic American Gong. Shearwater's memorial to the refugees from the Bikini Atoll. Local Natives' high harmonies. Tindersticks' turn to cowboy living. Vampire Weekend's turn to covert-agent living. The triumphant return of Gil Scott-Heron to the spoken word. Vibracathedral Orchestra's massive two-hour raga dances in six parts. Robert Pollard. Magnetic Fields. Laura Veirs. Retribution Gospel Choir. Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra. The last Jack Rose before his untimely death. The farewell kisses from Yellow Swans. And plenty of clouds on the horizon bearing names like Liars and Flobots.

The media hasn't paid much attention to a flowering of unprecedented proportions under the spring rain, maybe because it's difficult to discern any particular theme like punk, grunge, Latin American surrealism, whatever. The one unifying theme I see is the integrity and uncompromising position of the artist. This is not a renaissance designed for the benefit and convenience of consumer or patron. The books are complex packages not well-suited to either ADHD attention spans or electronic e-readers. The musical compositions are often an hour long or better, demanding a return to the old concept-album format, and ruthlessly denying being compressed into digital file formats. Gauntlets have been thrown down, and I will be eagerly awaiting to see if visual arts, film, dance, etc. follow the lead of prose and sound.

We can argue endlessly as to why this happened now - ongoing economic crisis? A move from below against digital homogenization? Not important. What is important is that you are present at the creation, watching one hundred flowers bloom at this moment, in this place.

Teaching Resilience to Future Alexanders

The maddening thing about learning that fashion designer Alexander McQueen had taken his own life was not just the notion that someone learns suicide from significant others. It certainly must have been hard for McQueen to deal with the suicide of friend Isabella Blow, and the death of his mother. The frustrating thing is trying to spread the message to the desperate that we're all feeling this blanket of exasperation and despondency from time to time, yet those of us who choose our crash helmets carefully can still find the right flowers to focus on. It is a beautiful universe, even for the sentient, and we fail every time we don't get that message out.

It seems like the important balancing act to fall back upon is to live by Richard Buckner's reminder that "kindness calls you out," while being willing to be surly and anti-social enough to speak truth to power when necessary. In the 21st century, there is no civility left to achieve that balance. Terry Tempest Williams, who just started writing a monthly column for The Progressive magazine, argues for the return of the dinner party as the place for civility. Perhaps she's right, but I keep dredging up images of dysfunctional Thanksgivings and "The Dinner is Ruined." Personally, I'd always prefer to stay at the kids' table. But if forced to break bread in the company of grownups, I think it's important to occasionally say (in a civil manner, mind you), "Your opinions indicate you're mentally disturbed, and you really should seek mental help."

What does this have to do with McQueen? A failure to leaven a universal kindness and a mad love affair with the world with an occasional brash tactic can lead to a despair that wins out in the end. This century is going to be tough, folks. We all need crash helmets. The failure of humans to be good stewards will bite us back over the coming decades, and it's important to optimize tactics for being a snarly lover of your surroundings. As Conan O'Brien warned us in his final show, that does not mean living as a cynic. It means living as though kindness could win, as though something you did mattered. Even if you don't believe it, using resilience to mimic a passionate embrace of life is better than living like Alexander McQueen. And letting kindness call you out might prevent another McQueen somewhere.

First 2008 Keepers: Giddy and Gloomy

There's been an overabundance of press buzz about the Columbia University white-boy Afro-beat band Vampire Weekend, and yes, I'd say it's mostly deserved -- with reservations. Think of English Beat or early Police filtered through Paul Simon's Graceland and you've got the idea. It's easy to listen to the new self-titled CD and say it's overproduced, with too much orchestral background -- except when you're dancing or hopping around to the three-minute arrangements. It's like the first time hearing that classic old ska band, The Selecter -- sometimes you can't help but dance.

Then there's Jamie Stewart's latest outing as Xiu Xiu, this one even more surreal than the last CD, The Air Force. Given Jamie's explicit gay politics, the title is an exercise in irony, as is the rest of the album. But it's fascinating to hear an off-the-wall piece like "Guantanamo Canto" be followed by a straightforward cover of David Bowie's/Queen's "Under Pressure," with Michael Gira sharing lead vocals with Jamie. I know a lot of people say they find Jamie's voice one big whine, his lyrics more self-obsessed than Bright Eyes', his arrangements too full of strange noises to be comfortable. But I find myself liking Silicon Valley's Xiu Xiu more with each album.