"See the way the shadows come together?"

Long autumn shadows made me loom large on the freshly mown lawn, and I would stand transfixed, my elongated shadow-self reaching from the sidewalk all the way to the covered swimming pool, my shadow-head bent at an angle upon the corrugated, round metal wall. Lifting my foot, I made note that shadow-self was wearing platforms. The higher I raised my foot, the bigger the shoe became, and soon I could see Elton John with little bird legs, stepping from the sidewalk onto a yellow brick road, via a poster tacked to crumbling concrete. But my yellow brick road was a green lawn, the concrete an invisible wall separating sidewalk from grass. Dad called to me, broke the spell, and I ran to him and climbed into the back seat of the car. He always smelled so good after he’d gotten home and had a shower. Clean and spicy. Mom opened the passenger door and with the push of a button moved the seat magically forward, giving my little brother the room to wiggle in next to me. Another press and the seat moved back to its former position. There was a lot of magic in Dad’s car: windows that raised and lowered with a button instead of an old chrome crank like we’d had in our old blue car, the car Dad had given Aunt Jewel when we got the new one; seat belts that recoiled when unclasped; wire in the rear window that warmed to melt ice and clear fog; and a thread-thin antenna encased in the front windshield that brought music into the car, except when we drove beneath highway overpasses or sailed through a city with tall buildings, or when we passed the the Land of Giant Radio Masts that Dad informed us belonged to The Voice of America. The name filled me with awe, and I stared at the tangle of towers intently whenever they grew near, hoping to hear snippets of what America sounded like. Usually, it sounded like static, interspersed with Merle Haggard or George Jones or Ronnie Milsap.

"Shop as usual. And avoid panic buying."

Last night I finally got to see my media splice'n'dice heros: Negativland.

Negativland are difficult to categorize. They have been putting out records for over 25 years, but they can't be classified as a "band." They have a long-running radio show (now online and downloadable) called Over The Edge, but they're not DJs.

They are, I suppose, multi-media geeks. Studio producers extraordinaire. The kings of cultural cut'n'paste.

Picture if you will a stage. On the stage are three radio production mainstays:
stage right=turntables'n'mixing board
front center=special effects board and microphone
stage left=three cart machines and dozens of carts. (A cart is is an endless loop cartridge that looks like an 8-track tape and is/was heavily used in radio to air advertising, promos and station jingles.)
Behind them loomed a large "On Air" light.

These are the weapons of Negativland.

Our three media manipulators came on stage looking very much like the info techies they are, wearing slacks, dress shirts and ties, with photo IDs bearing the Universal Media Netweb logo clipped to their breast pockets. We had been handed blindfolds upon entering the show to enhance the aural experience of "radio listening," but few bothered to use them, myself included. I was too interested in seeing them recreate their radio show live, and besides, I could always close my eyes if needed.

The show, a scathing look at Christianity in America, was called "It's All In Your Head." I thought they were brilliant. Having worked in a production studio in college, I know just how difficult it is to get things right on a first take. Negativland did it flawlessly, and seamlessly, for two hours. They plundered everything from Baptist children's songs to the 700 Club to right-wing conservative Christian radio call-in shows, all manipulated to reversal of context, with delightfully wicked results.

Our boys certainly know how to push buttons, figuratively and literally.

"All this talk of getting old is getting me down..."

Today’s bus ride into work transported me back in time 21 years.

The guy who embarked at Sixth and Monmouth wore camouflage slam-dance pants laden with straps and zippers, black 10-eye steel-toe Doc Martins, a 5” Mohawk and a black leather jacket covered in steel rivets and a huge Dead Kennedys logo hand painted on the back.

Everyone on the bus stared-some openly, some stealing sidelong glances. Everyone stared but me. I was too busy waiting in line at The Jockey Club, one block to the west. I was standing once again on the grimy tiled floor; trying to steer clear of the mosh pit; attempting to stay cool despite the humid press of sweaty flesh surrounding me; chugging Foster’s Lager in oilcans. I was consumed with watching Jello Biafra pose and preen on stage, his green rubber surgeon gloves slick with sweat.

Snapping back to 2006 as the bus pulled up to my stop, I told the guy I’d seen the Dead Kennedys in Newport back in 1985. “Wow,” he mused, “I wasn’t even born yet!”