In Which Music Can Heal And You Bear Wounds

For our New York readers, we highly recommend the show tomorrow night at Le Poisson Rouge on Bleeker Street. It's difficult to characterize these three bands—Metal? Sun-drenched California pop? Sabbath? Beyonce?—and impossible to say what it will feel like to experience them all in one night. Probably pretty sweet, though. Give us a SHOUT if you stop by! We'll be toward the front...

-WH

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In Which Never Go With A Hippie To A Second Location

Who Knew Duck Had It In Him?

by MOLLY LAMBERT

Oh shit flashbacks? Mad Men is getting LOST up in this bitch. What's next, smoke monsters? Polar bears? Alternate histories? What if Chauncey the dog never really did run away? What if he's actually the new head of Sterling-Cooper? Then they could change the title of the show to Mad Dogs And Englishmen. 

Let's be honest. Peggy only fucked Duck because Don negged her. Haven't we all done this? Transferred the neg from the person we actually like onto whoever happens to be around? Jeez though Peggy, just because you're being a slut doesn't mean you have to fuck everybody. I mean, it's Duck. He's gross and terrible, even if he does want to tear your clothes off with his teeth. He makes Pete Campbell look like a sensible choice.

He likes the smell of liquor on your breath. Run away Peggy! Run away!

Duck Phillips is a slimy creeper. Don doesn't read the bible. Betty is a child. Joan is MIA. I am starting to relate most to Bert Cooper. That guy knows what the fuck is up.

                                  "Thass wassup!"

What are you going to be doing three years from now? Three years ago, what did you think you'd be doing now? If you want to retain personal independence and ultimate freedom, you better not let your boss know about your secret identity. Maybe it's because if you start thinking further than a week down the road it makes it a lot harder to justify boinking the hot elementary school teacher.

             This is not Californication, Don! There are rules!

"They want me, but they can't have me," says Don. Don only knows what it's like to be wanted. His life is filled with stewardesses, Jewesses, Greenwich Village poetesses, and sundry other tang. Don Draper has never woken up next to a bad decision. Even his mistakes (Bobbie Barrett) don't seem to bother him very much. Don cannot possibly understand how Peggy feels about a number of things. 

Some people get mad at Mad Men for being too oblique, setting up scenes that are shot suspensefully, as if something might go one way, and then it goes entirely another. This was also some people's criticism of There Will Be Blood, one I never agreed with. I'm not sure what to call this genre. Post-suspense?

We are often shown guns that never go off, usually to distract us from the unforseen ones that eventually do. Mad Men is full of red herrings and dead ends. In that respect it reminds me of the work of Paul Auster. However, two characters that seemed to serve no purpose initially, Henry Francis and Conrad Hilton, have both turned up.

Matthew Wiener has learned from David Chase the extreme comedic value of objects. The fainting chaise that Betty has now made the hideous new centerpiece of the hearth is a gag, of sorts. The lawnmower last week was an excellent gag. Sopranos objects of value that I recall are Gloria Trillo's steak, the Russian's leg, and Big Mouth Billy Bass. A well placed object can be poignant and funny instead of theatrically "symbolic."

Like the ghost of your father in a rocking chair with a jar of hillbilly moonshine?

Molly Lambert is the managing editor of This Recording. She tumbls here.

In Which We Are The Parent of the Child

Take Me to the MoMA, Mama

by DURGA CHEW-BOSE

I imagine the crammed rooms at the MoMA on a Saturday afternoon to function similarly to our breathing cycle. Admittedly, I do not know much about it, about this system of contracting and relaxing, of the tray-kee-uh, the bronchioles and the capillaries. I have heard that the process of inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, occurs fifteen to twenty-five clicks per minute, which I confess, seems a little fast. And I know about the exchange of gases — CO₂, O₂ swap — but really, my modest knowledge and propensity to understand complicated systems abstractly, enlists my imagination far more than any facts, and as a result each MoMA room behaves like a lung, emptying and filling, emptying and filling. So much so that the canvases appear to curve and the rooms appear to round, simply to accommodate the weekend throngs.

But when the crowd passes and the walls exhale and recede to their usual shape, the interim moments are entirely private. I am joined by a little girl, maybe seven or eight, a stray in yellow Osh Kosh corduroy overalls, one strap tighter than the other, who seems to have been plucked from boredom or Wonderland—it really could be either—and who is following the lines of the room, walking its square shape, making sharp turns at each corner.

Arbitrarily, she stops in front of paintings, yielding to their size and colors: riotous blues, bruised purples and greys. In this room, more so than in others, the themes seem far darker and potent. A Munch hangs ominously; its figures holding their faces in anguish, the sky olive and stormy. Next to it a painting of a train station is stricken with bold, lawless, black lines. And beside these paintings, the little girl in her corduroys, with her ponytail curling like a comma, seems oddly placid. She occupies the whole of the room.

I notice something compulsive about her step but quickly appreciate that she must be playing a game in her head, something with numbers perhaps, repeated numbers, a series, a rhyme, or maybe her game is more elaborate and imagined and is one she never stops playing. I envy her absolute abandonment of the world, but only fleetingly, similarly to how I envy my childhood in moments of laziness or dramatic despair. She walks the length of the room once and starts again without the slightest hesitation or nudge back into reality. She is in no hurry to return.

It would be so easy to kidnap her. The thought surprises me. Its conception is entirely bizarre and unprovoked and I am embarrassed and shocked, but also amused by my own self. Admittedly, at twenty-three, I am quite captivated by kids, but never to the point of kidnapping them. I begin to wonder where her parents might be. Museums are not that dissimilar to parks or malls, and yet they are often scattered with unaccompanied children, wandering and wondering, both. They stumble through mazes of legs and more legs, chasing their brothers and sisters and cousins, pointing at things and people.

The parentless child at the museum is cause for little alarm: the father or mother is never too far. That’s probably him over there holding the small jacket and hat, swinging a camera in his free hand. Or maybe it’s that woman over there standing beside the string and rock sculpture, fixing her hair. Childless parents and parentless children are everywhere at the MoMA on Saturday afternoons.

With each thumb behind an overall strap, she wanders to a woman sitting on a bench in front of Monet’s water lilies spread across a single wall. There is nothing else hanging in this room. The woman, her mother I assume, looks young, yet weary and worn-out. Somehow she holds a jacket and a purse, a shopping bag and a book, an apple with a bite in it and a poster rolled up in plastic. Her shoulders droop and her hair is pulled back into a loose, unassuming braid. Her daughter will always remember that braid, its exact texture and smell.

I have learned, although only recently, that most patterns in my life are often a symptom of larger things happening to me or around me. They are projections or buried thoughts that surface in my day to day. They appear and gather, and soon connect like fated, figured constellations. Recently it’s been a veritable ‘I Spy’ of somnolent mothers and fathers.

My parents, both living in Montreal, both remarried, both visibly weary, have given everything to me and my brother. I used to hear it when we’d fight, hear that loaded everything, and I used to catch glimpses of it when revisiting those burdensome photo albums. Only in the last year have I have really noticed the wear of that everything. It lies affectionately in the deep set bags under their eyes, in the grey of his beard, in her mistakes when cooking and correcting papers at the same time. But it exceeds the visible traits of growing older, too. There is a depleted sense of something and it surrounds them with a cheerless glow. Even when we are close, sitting side by side on the couch, there is a contemplative distance I cannot yet pin down.

The girl in corduroys is bored. Her mother notices and pulls her close, squishing her into the shopping bag and jacket. Playfully, she takes her daughter’s little chin and turns it towards the Monet, ushering her to a specific part. She whispers something. The mother tries to explain the painting. She asks her daughter, What do you see, darling? Her daughter is uninterested. With her finger in her mouth, she looks around the crowded room— full and round with people. I think we make eye contact. Her mother, still sitting, pulls her daughter close once more and tries to tell her something about the lilies, the brushstrokes, the colors, Monet. She wraps an arm around her daughter and points at the canvas.

They’ve been seen like this before, perhaps on a bridge somewhere, staring off at a horizon, or a city skyline. But the daughter grows irritated and begins to sigh. She slouches and crosses her arms. She takes long, tedious breaths. Her tiny chest rises and falls, rises and falls; inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. She wants to go, right now. Mom, please. I don’t want to be here anymore. The mother playfully twirls her daughter’s ponytail. The little girl gives her a look and backs away. The mother returns to staring at the painting. She takes a long, sleepy breath. She closes her eyes, opens them and says, Darling, just two more minutes. I’m waiting for a fish to jump from the water.

Durga Chew-Bose is the senior contributor to This Recording. She tumbls here.

"Bunker or Basement" — Fionn Regan (mp3)

"The End of History" — Fionn Regan (mp3)

"Noah, Ghost in a Sheet" — Fionn Regan (mp3)

photo by autumn de wilde, drawing by fionn regan