Me, I just drift like those spacemen in Kubrick's 2001 farther into my own lovely space filled with "vintage" paperback books (a real celebration of the ephemeral if ever there was one), DVD's, the occasional c.d. reissue (Chris Lucey makes it in a big way) or game of croquet (a gentleman's game!) and the ever expanding pool of old records, now fed by two streams (hello Tera!) instead of one. Indeed a pool that threatens to become a raging torrent that might one day cave in the floor of my back room. Hell I can geek out for hours on the color combinations on the cover of my 1966 edition of Ballard's The Impossible Man, the cartoon Elliot Gould as Philip Marlowe motion picture tie in cover of Chandler's The Long Goodbye, the curvy backside of the blonde gracing the paperback edition of Mickey Spillane's The Last Cop Out (warning the prose in that one wears out its welcome before the cover) or the first Black Cat Edition of Genet's Thief's Journal. And all the while I might be listening to Rip, Rig & Panic's 'I Am Cold', Henry Mancini's 'Peter Gunn' or Mr. Lucky LP's, the Stark Reality playing Hoagy Carmichael, or John Barry's soundtrack to Séance on a Wet Afternoon.
Time travel isn't hard, you can build your own machine right there in your living room. A willing and interested partner is a nice addition as well. Then just pick the time period and surround yourself with its sights, sounds, smells and tastes. Set your coordinate points as you see fit. Your version is probably infinitely better than the actual time (not to mention just as "real"), infused as it is with only your heavily charged symbols and filtered contents. Say, look over there, is that Bill Burroughs in a 1920's movie, part hardboiled, part sci-fi, and all the way Carney freak show? And wasn't that Gregory Corso who just flashed by in a cape spilling wine, gesticulating wildly and then vomiting in the corner at a party in Paris for Marcel Duchamp? I swear I just saw Paul and Jane Bowles trailing after ruthless Arab lovers along the streets of Tangier ready to take them in the name of Allah for everything their Nazarene money might buy, and all to the sounds of the pipes of pan.
Other times I'll slide for a spell into the world of the Smiths circa 1983/84 and all those meticulously and beautifully arranged references in interviews, lyrics and choice of color tinted cover stars, some flowers and gayness to combat all that Factory grayness. And all with paths twisting out to other music, books and films. I recently had to set a young lady straight who was accusing the Smiths of being one of the most depressing groups ever. Wow! As misguided as those who would have you believe that the Velvets were really just about junk, S&M, depravity and leather. You don't get it do you? Round these parts the Smiths get the nod for being a band with a fine sense of humor, camp and parody (usually of their own pretensions) that was liberating for all, perhaps males in particular, be they straight, gay or any other way. You don't write lyrics about the sun shining out your behind without a healthy dollop of humor, a sense of play and the ridiculous/sublime and maybe even knowledge of the cosmic joke (has nature been playing tricks on you?).
And I am not alone in my travels. I know a girl who lives in Vegas circa 1962 and she's quite content to stay there, thank you very much. She introduces me backstage at the Sands to Dino, Frank and Sammy. We dress to the nines, throw back martinis and since we're hip to the scene every once in while we sneak in the toilet for a toke. Other times she takes trips with me to the New York streets of 1982 where we watch the uptown and downtown scenes mingle to create a new music and masterpieces on trains, or Sue Brewer's boarding house where we listen to Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson and Roger Miller trade songs and shots of whiskey or the 1966 Hollywood strip where we dance to the Seeds and Love. We've found no borders yet impenetrable and no cops or bureaucratic red tape that can stand in our way. Only beautiful worlds, worlds where Sonic Youth never existed and the world is a much more honest and authentic and frankly less annoying and ironic place for it. A place where Harry Crews' books are widely read and unsullied by associations with awful Kim Gordon side projects. After all there's still Scott Walker vinyl out there to be found, played and entered into. I will say hello to Jacques Brell, Henry Miller, Ingmar Bergman and Jack Jones for you.
© 2004 William Crain