So Crazy, It Just Might Work

Washington Square park - Colin Huggins

Image by mattedesign via Flickr

(Reposted from my music site)

There’s a Far Side cartoon I love – a group of cowboys are sitting around a campfire, one of whom has an entire baby grand piano sticking out of his back pocket. The caption reads something like “Hey, Gus, why don’t you pull that thing out and play us a couple of tunes?” I always flash back to that image when playing at open mics and other venues where acoustic guitarists are plentiful. I’m often jealous of buskers who are able to simply set up on a streetcorner, open a case, and start filling the air with sound. They make me wonder what it would be like to not need an amp, a stand, or electricity to make music anywhere.

Colin Huggins does not need to wonder about such things.

He’s a classicaly-trained pianist who calls himself “the crazy piano guy.” He lugs one of four different pianos into the streets and subways of New York City to play for passers-by on a regular basis. I just found out about him from a brief mention on a podcast I was listening to on my commute. I have never met the man (or even heard his music yet), but he’s already my new idol.

I am a fan of audacity. No, not the open-source audio recording software (although that’s pretty cool, too – even if I am having trouble using it with my newest home studio equipment, but I digress…), but the seemingly crazy stunt that shows the world how you’re living life to its fullest. What the Vlogbrothers might refer to as “decreasing worldsuck,” or just being awesome. What Colin Huggins does definitely fits there, in my opinion.

I have referred to some things I’ve done as being “crazy,” but it occurs to me that I’ve experienced only the tip of the iceberg of audacity.

How have you embraced your crazy lately?

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Eight Years Old, Dude

Somehow, while life has been happening and I’ve been not writing here, this blog turned 8.

They grow up so fast, especially when you’ve been neglecting them for the past year.

Photo courtesy Dana&Ron @ Flickr
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I’ll Be a Blue Moon

Given that my last update was inspired by hearing a Big Star cover, it’s only fitting that last Wednesday’s tragic news about Alex Chilton (Big Star’s lead singer and songwriter) should bring me back to the blog.

Big Star was the first band whose albums I ever sought out based on good reviews. In the years before mp3s and blogging, they were this mythical band that rock critics wrote about in reverential tones. I’d be intrigued by what I read about them, disappointed that I couldn’t hear what I was reading about.

I finally got my chance to hear in the early 90′s. Like most music that’s had an impact on my life, I discovered Big Star’s in a roundabout way, starting with a chance purchase of the archetypal “difficult third album,” *Third/Sister Lovers* at a Cheapo Records in St. Paul, MN. I remember taking the disc back to my dorm room, putting it in my discman, pressing play, and being awed by the off-kilter combination of rock swagger, pop prettiness, and sonic chaos within.

That following summer, I worked my way backwards to their first two albums, which are also pretty much back-to-back great stuff. I also discovered the work of foundng member Chris Bell, who left the band after their first album, but went on to record his own unjustly ignored pop-rock masterpiece “I Am The Cosmos” before dying in a car crash in the late 70′s. But, as good as it all is, it could never compare to my first taste of Big Star.

*Third/Sister Lovers* is often described as a dark and despairing album, and it earns that reputation with devastating tracks like “Holocaust.” There’s a milder, more melancholy streak in it as well, and I think that’s what hooked me. Chilton sang as an outsider observing others in “Night Time” and “Kanga Roo” while hiding from the world in “Big Black Car.” Even when he was being violently defensive on songs like “You Can’t Have Me,” you could feel the wounded romantic behind the facade. In one of the few straight-ahead love songs on the album, “Blue Moon,” he sounds resigned. He’ll carry a torch forever, so it doesn’t matter if his love even knows he exists. For an 18-year-old introvert hoping (and failing) to meet the girl who would make his life complete, this was healing balm. Even as a 35-year-old (whose “soul mate quest” has thankfully found its resolution), the album still speaks to me.

Driving home the other night, it was surreal to hear snippets of “Night Time” and “Thirteen” on NPR during a Fresh Air segment in his memory. Alex Chilton may be gone, but at least his music is still here.

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