The Friday Night Movie is Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria. I saw Satyricon at the Art Theater in Long Beach last summer, my only experience with Fellini and one that didn’t leave me with high expectations for this film, but Evergreen’s end-of-the-week movie series is only fifty cents and I have no other options for the evening. The alternative would be to stay home with a book or guitar, and I’ve done enough of that this week.
I haven’t seen or heard from Janie since we got back from Vancouver, and the week has been a lonely one. I’ve felt disconnected from the other people in my classes, painfully conscious of my lack of musical experience, fearing that anything I say will somehow be exposed as wrong: an obvious fallacy, something any real musician would know intuitively is a myth of the dilletanti. I leave every class alone, an opaque bubble of self-doubt separating me from the others, with nothing to do but trudge through the rain back to the dorm, to read or practice in my room and await my next meal or class, and I’ve come to dread the cafeteria’s jovial clamor, preferring to eat near the end of mealtime, when the institutional feeding trough is nearly empty.
Fellini’s heartrending story of the guileless prostitute, played by the boyish Giulietta Massina, nearly brings me to tears in the musty darkness of the lecture hall that serves as the campus cinema. Her hobbled attempts to better herself, her confusion about people’s intentions, never knowing who to trust, always feeling like an outsider, easily exploited by the predatory men she puts her faith in, hit a little too close to home.
I remain seated as the credits roll, letting my melancholy dissipate in the hall, lit only by the flickering screen, while shadowy forms rise from their seats, gather shapeless garments and bags, and lumber toward the center aisle. As the lights come up, I watch the crowd file out, resuming life heedlessly, talking, laughing, embracing. I’m in no hurry to go anywhere—not out into the rainy night, not back to my cold, cheerless dorm room.
Tracy, the mandolin player who lives at the Organic Farm, is walking up the stairs against the flow of the crowd. He stops in front of me.
“Hey,” I say dully.
“What’s up? Good one, huh?”
“The movie? Yeah, beautiful. Not what I was expecting from Fellini.”
“Yeah? Never heard of the guy. My first Italian flick. Anyway, I wanted to ask you. Walt and Sally and I are starting an old-time string band. I’ve been playing guitar, but I’d rather play mandolin, and we wondered if you’d be into joining us? You sounded pretty good at the square dance last week, and Sally thought I should ask you. You guys hung out at the American Music retreat or something?”
“Yeah, we did. That sounds like fun—the band, I mean. Who’s Walt?”
“Banjo player? You’ve seen him around. Long hair, big bushy beard, usually wears a Mao cap?”
“Was he playing banjo at the square dance?”
“That’s him.”
“Cool. Sure, I’ll give it a try. See if you guys think I can cut it.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s just straightforward rhythm guitar—old-time fiddle tunes, songs, some Stanley Brothers stuff, but no flashy bluegrass or anything like that. Walt and I both sing and if you sing, too, that would be far out.”
“I don’t, never have.”
“Not at all? That’s OK. We’re getting together Sunday at noon at the Organic Farm. You know how to get there?”
“Yeah, I took the tour first week of school. You were there.”
“Right on. So, we’ll see you on Sunday?”
“You will.”
That was unexpected. I’m joining a band . . . maybe. I’m not sure what Tracy means by “old-time string band,” or that the music isn’t “flashy bluegrass.” I wonder if it’s like the hillbilly music I’ve been reading about in Country Music, USA, or the music they played at the square dance last Sunday night? I had wandered up to the fourth floor of the Library to see what the “folk dancing” mentioned in the student paper was all about and found a group of thirty or forty people dancing in organized circles (squares?) to a small, unamplified band. Sally was playing fiddle, as was another guy who seemed to be the bandleader. Tracy played mandolin, and there was also a guitarist and a banjo player (who I now know is Walt). A “caller” was directing the dancers through their paces, telling them what to do in odd lingo: “do-si-do” and “allemande left” and other peculiar commands like “duck for the oyster” and “chase the squirrel.” (The meaning of “swing your partner” was obvious.) After a dance ended, the caller would tell everyone to “form up squares”: find partners for the next dance. To avoid being asked to dance, I found a couch off to the side, so I could watch and listen.
The band was good, but the format of the music was curious: everyone played the same tune over and over: no solos and no singing. The fiddlers played the melody in unison, and the rest of the band accompanied them, the guitarist with simple chords (no leads), the banjo with a galloping pattern that occasionally mirrored the fiddle melody. After a few minutes of one tune, the band would suddenly change to another. Each dance was close to ten minutes long.
Sally came over to say hi after the caller announced a break, the dancers wandering off in search of something to drink or a bit of fresh air—the room was pungent with the fusty aroma of fresh sweat. She asked if I had brought my guitar, and when I said that I hadn’t, she suggested that I could borrow one if I wanted to play. I was shy about jumping in with a bunch of strangers and demurred, saying that I probably didn’t know many of the tunes, which was true. Sally didn’t press the issue, but when the tall, pony-tailed guy who had been playing guitar took the caller’s mic after the break and the previous caller picked up a banjo, I heard Sally say, “Lucas could play guitar.” Continuing to forgo participation seemed silly at this point, so, after a short negotiation about whose guitar I should borrow, I joined the others, standing at the back of the band, behind Sally. Liam, the fiddler/bandleader, introduced himself to me and said, “We’re going to start with ‘Old Joe Clark’ and ‘Cluck Old Hen.’ Just follow Tracy if you’re not sure.” I ended up playing the whole next set, which lasted about forty-five minutes. I struggled at times to hear the chord changes, prompting a few glances from other band members, but nobody really seemed to mind, and when the dance was over, Bruce, the banjo player who had called the first set, told me, “We’re here every Sunday night. Come on by and play anytime you want. Bring your guitar.”
The other musicians had disappeared into the crowd of dancers who were milling about, chatting, damp and ruddy from dancing for two hours, but I waited to see if Sally was going to walk back toward the dorms. When she returned from the bathroom, she joined a group of friends, including Walt, who had spent the last set dancing instead of playing. I was left to walk back to my dorm, alone . . . again.
This was my first time playing for a dance, and I enjoyed it. Once I sussed out the chords, it was easy to keep time and relax into the feel of the band, giving me time to watch the dancers and enjoy the scene. Despite my inexperience and ignorance of the music, it was less stressful than any of my previous performing experiences, which were always burdened by judgement and anxiety: How well did I do? Did people like it? Had I impressed anyone? The square dance music was utilitarian and practical: the means for people to have a good time, get some exercise, socialize with friends, flirt. I had never seriously thought about this aspect of music. I certainly knew about dances and dance music, but I had never felt like part of the community at a dance. I’ve been reading Leroi Jones’s Blues People for book group, and square dance music reminded me of his description of African music as “purely functional music.”
Jenny is talking with a few other people on the steps outside the lecture hall, huddled in one throng. I start to walk by, but she spots me and steps away from her friends.
“Hey, Lucas. Didn’t you love that? So beautiful, so sad.”
“Yeah, it was very moving.”
“Cabiria was so innocent, trying to improve her life any way she could, but all those men taking advantage of her? I could hardly stand it.”
This raw expression of emotion unnerves me, but I say, “I liked the black-and-white look and the images of the Italian countryside,” avoiding the subject of Cabiria’s debasement, afraid it will stir my own feelings of alienation and loneliness. “That last scene where she’s walking through the forest of . . . what are they? . . . birch trees? And then she comes out onto the road with all those kids circling around her, playing music and riding bikes, and a single tear streaming down her face, making her look almost like a clown. That was amazing.”
“I know, what a beautiful image of hope and forgiveness.”
I’m not sure how to reply. I’m a little choked up remembering the scene and how I felt at the end of the film. But Jenny says, “How have you been? I haven’t seen you around.”
“Good . . . OK . . . you know. I went to Vancouver with a friend last weekend. I’d never been to Canada, and we had a good time wandering around the city. And then I went to the Sunday night square dance and played with the band a bit. That was fun.”
“For real? Square dancing?”
“Yeah, every Sunday night on the top floor of the Library. You should come.”
“Maybe I will. But only if I can get you to dance, assuming you’re not too busy playing.” She smiles, and I think maybe I’m not completely oblivious to flirtation.
“Sure, I don’t have to play the whole time. But there are plenty of people to dance with, much better dancers than me, I guarantee.”
I don’t want to sound uninterested in dancing with her, but the thought makes me uneasy. I know nothing about square dancing, and I would hate to humiliate myself in front of her before I’ve gotten to know her, or she’s gotten at least one favorable impression of me—and I don’t know that she has. But the idea of putting my hand on Jenny’s slim waist, sliding my hand into hers, and “swinging” is tempting enough to risk the humiliation of stumbling through a dance.
“Well, if I come, you have to promise you’ll dance with me, otherwise I’m not going,” she says, squeezing my forearm gently and pouting mischievously.
“OK, I promise,” I say, doing my best to respond to her flirting with equanimity.
A beautiful blond woman, hair spilling out from under a wool cap, walks up to us and Jenny says, “Lucas, this is my cousin, Alma. Lucas is in American Music, too.”
Alma hugs me gently, which surprises me, but I return the gesture as if I’m used to enfolding gorgeous strangers in my arms.
“I’m going to get going,” Alma says to Jenny, casually pulling away from the embrace. “Do you want a ride?” Like Jenny, Alma is exceptionally pretty, and her drab, brown sweater and overalls covered by a dark green parka are somehow rendered fashionable, not practical. But, unlike Jenny, she isn’t the least bit coquettish. She seems unaware of the effect her beauty might have on others, or perhaps just uninterested.
“I guess so. Have you seen Ezra?”
“He went to get the truck with Sid. He said they would wait in the drop-off circle. They’re probably getting stoned.”
“OK. Well, see you Sunday, Lucas.”
“What’s Sunday?” Alma asks.
“A square dance, in the Library. Lucas is playing, and I thought I’d go check it out.”
“I heard about that. We should all go.” They turn to walk across Red Square toward the parking lot, and I wonder who “all” consists of. Maybe Ezra and Sid, too? Whoever they are
The rain’s intensity increases halfway across the square, so I duck into the CAB and, since I’m a little hungry, head for the snack stand. I buy a bag of Doritos and a soda and continue walking the length of the building to get more respite from the rain. Passing a stairwell, I hear what sounds like cartoon voices coming from a TV, so I head downstairs to see what’s going on. At the bottom of the stairs, seven or eight people sprawled in chairs and couches are watching Rocky and Bullwinkle on a TV atop a tall, wheeled metal stand. I find a chair off to the side of the small lounge, but close enough that I can see the screen.
[Narrator] “On the track ahead, Boris Badenov waited beside an open switch.”
[Natasha] “Boris dahling, why you wrecking train?”
[Boris] “Is on train moose and squirrel. Dey won’t give us Upsadaiseum Mine, so . . .”
[Natasha] “You got orders from Central Control?”
[Boris] “You think I can’t make my own decisions? You think I’m just a stooge for Central Control?”
[Natasha] “No, dahling.”
[Boris] “Well, you wrong. I am! [grabbing microphone attached to cartoon radio] Hello Fearless Leader, old buddy boy, old chum, old sweetie pumpkin.”
[Fearless Leader] “Come in, Badenov.”
[Boris] “Is this Fearless Leader?”
[Fearless Leader] “Of course.”
[Boris] “Are you sure?”
[Fearless Leader] “Badenov, you incompetent nincompoop!”
[Boris] “Me ha ha ha ha, that’s heem alright! Fearless leader, sweetch is open, train is coming, OK?”
[Fearless Leader] “One moment, I check with Mister Beeg.”
[Boris] “Meester Beeg? This must be top-level caper we’re on, Natasha.”
“Wait, when did this switch to the Watergate hearings?” Everyone laughs and I look around at my fellow Rocky and Bullwinkle fans. Eric is seated directly in front of the set. He nods to me, but his gaze quickly returns to the screen, and the rest of the episode proceeds with no further interruptions.
[Narrator] “A few moments and several explanations later, the engineers were back in the cab, and our heroes safe onboard the train as it started westward again.”
[Train Conductor] “Well, we’re on our way again, Rock.”
[Rocky] “And this time nothing could go wrong.”
[Bullwinkle] “Well, it better or people will stop watching the show.”
The credits roll and most people get up to leave. Eric joins me and we walk out together. The rain has abated somewhat.
“How did you know Rocky and Bullwinkle was on?” I ask.
“It’s on every Friday night at 10:30. I come up as often as I can. There’s usually a small crowd, like tonight.”
“I’ll have to join you. Did you go to the movie?”
“No, I practiced for a long time after dinner and then came up here.”
“What were you practicing?”
“Guitar.”
“I figured. I meant what were you working on?”
“I’m trying to learn this Clarence White solo on ‘Positively Fourth Street,’ from Untitled.”
“What’s that?”
“The Byrds album?”
“Haven’t heard it. I saw Roger McGuinn at the Troubadour last summer. He was in the Byrds, right? He had this weird 12-string electric guitar with flashing lights on the fingerboard. Kinda weird, but I liked the music.”
“McGuinn was one of the founders of the Byrds and the leader for the last five years, when Clarence White was in the band. Are you into Clarence?”
“Should I be? He was in the band on this bluegrass show that was on Channel 9 last year. I taped it, but the sound is pretty bad, so I haven’t listened to it much.”
“Wait, the Muleskinner show?”
“I think so, yeah. Did you see it?”
“No, but I’ve heard about it. That was one of Clarence’s last recorded performances. He died in a car accident a few months after that show.”
“Seriously? That sucks. I had no idea.”
“I’d love to hear the tape.”
“It’s in my room. We could go listen to it.”
When we arrive, my roommate Jim is in the main room of the apartment stuffing clothes into a large, camo duffle bag.
“What’s up?” I ask. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah. I just quit school, so I’m moving out.”
“Are you kidding? What happened?”
“I guess I didn’t realize how much school was going to cost, and how much time it would take up. I thought I’d be able to find a part-time job or something, but I haven’t had any luck, so . . .”
“Can you get a refund on your tuition?”
“No, but I figure if I leave now, I’ll have enough money to stake me until I can find a job somewhere. One of my Army buddies told me about some trail-crew jobs on the Oregon coast. I thought I’d head down there.”
“Wow, sorry to hear it. When are you leaving?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Jeez, I hope you find a job. Do you need any help or anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m about done. Most of my stuff is already in the truck. Oh, and Duane is asleep. He has to get up at like five A.M. for a trip to Mt. Rainier.”
“Ah, OK. We were going to listen to some music, but . . .”
“We can go to my room,” Eric says.
“Cool. Let me find the tape.”
“He really started school without having enough money to finish one semester?” Eric says, as we head to his room on the fourth floor of A Dorm.
“I guess so. He’s an odd one. He’s hardly ever around, always on some camping trip with Man and Nature or off to Portland or somewhere on the weekends. We don’t talk much. I hardly know him.”
“Huh. I’m from Portland, but I don’t go home on the weekends. How old is he? Like thirty or something?”
“Twenty-four, twenty-five, something like that.”
“Well, it’s all part of life’s rich pageant, you know.”
I laugh and Eric seems pleased that I recognize the Peter Sellers/Inspector Clouseau quote.
Eric’s room looks well-lived-in, with many more personal possessions than I have, maybe because he’s closer to home, and could fill up his parents’ car when they dropped him off at school at the beginning of term. On one wall there’s a poster-size calendar with a large photo of what he tells me is a “jackalope,” a rabbit with antlers. At the bottom of the calendar, below the grid of months and days, is the name “Institute for the Study of the Preposterous Quotidian,” with a quote: “You cannot weigh the moon like so much fish.”
I ask Eric about the “institute” and he says, “I sent away for one of their pamphlets when I was a teenage comic-book addict. Well, not ‘was’, I still am, I suppose, though not a teenager anymore. All those plastic sheetcovers in the bookshelf over there are safeguarding my favorite comics.”
“I never got into comics. Maybe I should have,” I say.
“Maybe.” He doesn’t elaborate.
“So, what is that: ‘the preposterous quotidian’?”
“People get hung up on the name, like it’s a joke or just a couple of random words. You could look at it a couple of different ways, I guess. You could say that the quotidian—the everyday, banal, mainstream, middle class, the ‘silent majority’ as the media likes to say—is a preposterous way to live, which is true, for many. Certainly, for artists and musicians it is. But then, what do artists usually do but find some other clichéd way to live? The life of a drug addict or drunk or schoolyard creep? That’s as quotidian as it comes. Though it has allowed many so-called artists to convince themselves that they’re edgy and avant-grade, intrepid explorers of the great unknown, searching for the true meaning of existence. Which we’re all trying to do, right? But there’s nothing new about the romantic glorification of spineless debauchery. Spending all your time on your art, ignoring the basics of life, unable to take care of yourself, like an adult toddler, throwing your shit at the wall? How banal is that? How is that different from mental illness? Which is not to downplay actual mental illness. Believe me, I know about those sorry souls, living without disgrace, without praise. But choosing a life of manufactured mental illness over that of a functioning adult? I suppose that could be another form of mental illness, but it’s more likely just flamboyant solipsism.
“For me, though, the preposterous quotidian is about seeing the strange beauty and quirkiness in everyday life, in garden variety objects, things we take for granted. I’m sure the idea has roots in mystical traditions, Eastern religions, esoteric spiritualism, the opposite of organized religion, which is just a way to codify the banal: ‘live your life according to these moral precepts so we can cauterize your brain into doing whatever we tell you.’”
He pauses, as if to catch his breath. I don’t know how to respond to this flood of strange thoughts. But then he continues, as if he’s suddenly remembered how his monologue ends.
“But you know, ‘this is America, you live in it, let it happen, let it unfurl.’”
“That’s not from The Pink Panther.”
“No. Pynchon, Thomas. ‘Lot 49, the Crying of.’”
Is the mythical Muleskinner tape mostly true as to when you first heard it ?