Jay Fox - THE WALLS

And for so many this all becomes too much. It becomes too much to have to refute the beliefs of others, let alone amend our own beliefs in order to make them stronger or more accurate. We become desiccated, not passive exactly, but unaffected — not only to the news, but to the world at large. We cease to be Generation Y, and become Generation Why Bother? We fall into line with Generation X: disgraced, but without shame. Art becomes not only devoid of meaning, but of any feeling that is more complicated than heartache. The best we can produce is either bathos or satire because no one can muster anything real. The rest is just words on pages, paint on canvases, notes in measures, sex in distans . Existence itself eventually becomes white noise, static, that every once in a while interrupts the narration over the iPod. We lament the fact that we used to see odd bursts of light in the peripheries, but know that there's no point trying to find them again.

And she sits there with that certain lachrymose expression that portends northing short of this peculiar disposition in which our generation is trapped. And I cannot help but think that she, too, understands that this form of resignation is only possible in the information age, this capacity to be able to read nearly anything with the presumption that it's completely false, to be able to see art and already know whether it has been accredited as brilliant or dismissed as pretentious shit, to be able to hear music and contemplate nothing of its depth, only its parallel to some other band that can be referenced when speaking to someone “about music” (which really means “about bands,” as very little is said about the music itself, only its relation to other bands “that sound like a cross between…and…”). We acknowledge that we are missing something, that we are undergoing a process of becoming without serious effort or personal struggle. We even know that we have taken the shortcut to our identities, and that this, paradoxically enough, has become our generational identity. We're hollow: familiar with everything and knowledgeable of nothing. And though we know that there is something missing, we are too lazy and too vain to seek out its dimensions or its definition.

(And it shows in the only new form of art (or perhaps just entertainment) to have come on the scene in the past decade: Reality television. That is our contribution. An attempt at art with the absence of creative intention — the end to the debate of art imitating life or life imitating art; the final synthesis exemplified in people just like you and me.)

And so we take on the archetypes that appeal to us, as Faxo said. We assume the role of the sullen intellectual, the derisive critic, or the tortured artist. We learn to play these parts as masked hypokrites , and then complain to our compatriots about the lack of sincerity in our generation, this generation of fabricated memoirs.

And she reveals all of this without attempting to do so. She just is: the culmination of the last half-century with all of its contradictions, all of its fetishes, all of its idolatries, all of its failures. She is the most recent chapter in the American Dream. And I can't help but think of her as beautiful for this, beautiful because of her frailty, her honesty. Maybe “beautiful” is not the right word. Alluring. There's something alluring in her, something that draws you in, interests you. You are intrigued because she is so much like you even though the two of you have never exchanged a single word.

And she asks for five dollars. I give it to her. The taller member of the Onan cult, meanwhile, explains that a watched pot will inevitably boil, provided sufficient heat is applied to it. The girl stamps my hand, smiles absently, and tells me to enjoy the show in an accent of ambiguous origin. I try to think of something to say in return, a quip or something memorable, but I just nod, return the smile, and push the velvet curtain aside. I enter into a dim corridor.

Rock.

Island.

Whatever.

15.2

I remember just who the Sheeps are as soon as I see Barazov on the stage. He’s tightening up some of his toms with a chrome wrench. It radiates violet light. Every few moments he strikes one of the skins; they emit resonant implosives that sound like doom as opposed to boom or thud , though this particular noun, “thud,” would probably be the most accurate means of referring to the din tumbling around the small venue. It’s a rather shallow resonance, probably because of the sound-proofed walls, which have been adorned with that type of black foam that one sees not only in studios, but in hard cases for expensive equipment like keyboards and weapons of mass destruction as featured in those action movies where the antagonist’s thugs are not only evil, they’re also great shots and more than confidant when dealing with the authorities — they’re just completely incompetent when attempting to engage the rugged protagonist, who is a total bad-ass most of the time, but he’s also got a softer side, which is best illustrated by his passion for his resurgent and somewhat adulterous ex-wife (although he’s also being wooed by this totally hot ethnic chick, who just so happens to have been hired out to kill him by the mastermind behind the world’s most daring caper). The guitarists (one with a vintage SG the color of a maraschino cherry, the other with a semi-hollow Ibanez in black with gold trim) are attempting a sound check. SG is talking, but I cannot discern to whom he is speaking or what is being said as a consequence of the thirty simultaneous conversations that are all bleeding into one maelstrom of cacophony. Ibanez wears the solo/orgasm face even as he tunes. SG turns to Barazov with obvious frustration. Barazov, meanwhile, continues to drill at the drums absently until SG finally yells at him. Barazov looks to him with a sudden catalepsy that has various undertones that range from apologetic to just plain startled. The bassist has the face of a child who finds herself in possession of a new toy. She activates a pedal that makes her tone almost aquatic, slides way up the neck, and laughs when SG reprimands her. She turns down, says something to Barazov, and then starts laughing again. Barazov hits the crash with abandon. SG looks to him with daggers. Ibanez maintains an uneasy grin.

“Where’s your drink?” Tomas asks as I approach him, Aberdeen, and… “Oh yeah; this is Lindsay, our other roommate.”

“Pleasure,” she says with a slight bow and an extended hand. She is cute in that murine way that most straight women fail to comprehend; some men and many lesbians, however, find it irresistible. She’s like a librarian: the type of girl who is both well-read and scatterbrained enough to forget about the pencil in her hair as she explains the meaning of “tensegrity” and the brilliance behind the octet truss; who wears a long skirt and a cardigan over her blouse. Her outfit makes her look like the up-and-down type, but you eventually find yourself catching glimpses of a very different story. She becomes strabismic at the mention of acronyms like N.F.L. and M.L.B., but considers sports to be an acceptable and symbolic psychosocial (and homosocial) activity — the healthiest manifestation of libidinal aggression, provided all of the participants abide by the rules of conduct. She will assign further reading, much of it only recently translated from the original French. She wears very little makeup, smiles without showing teeth, and sports an eyebrow piercing, which says more about her than any one piece of ornamentation probably should.

“The same.” We shake. She smiles nervously (without teeth, as has been established). Aberdeen finishes his can of beer.

“So where’s your drink, man?”