Thursday, July 24, 2014

Hemingway, Logging, and the Michigan Landscape


Ernst Hemingway like many Michiganders spent the summers of his childhood “up north.”  A cottage industry has emerged in the Petoskey area over the Hemingway family’s time in Michigan.  This is complete with tours of the places the Hemingway family frequented and a Michigan Hemingway Society that publishes books and puts on an annual conference.  Hemingway taps into Michigan’s wild logging era and expresses how logging transformed the Michigan landscape.  In the broader context of Hemingway’s stories he is far less concerned with the specificity of the places and events and more concerned with the overall ideas and themes that stoked his young imagination.  There are several recurrent themes that come up in the Nick Adams Stories that are tied to the Michigan landscape.  Hemingway uses the Michigan landscape to demonstrate the disturbance of the local land and displacement of local Native Americans.  

Hemingway shows how the industrial revolution rolled over the land altering the landscape and uprooting the people.  Michigan’s logging boom lasted from 1840 to 1890.  The logging companies would clear-cut all of the trees and then sell the land cheaply.  After all of the trees were gone, they moved on to Minnesota.  As a youth Hemingway was seeing the aftermath of all this.  Though there was still great beauty in the land, there was a sense of a brutalized landscape and a defeated attitude amongst the Native Americans that hung in the air.  In the story “The Indians Moved Away” he writes, “the Indian who had lived there had gone to Petoskey to get drunk on the Fourth of July and, coming back, had lain down to go to sleep on the Pere Marquette railway tracks and been run over by the midnight train” (Hemingway 35).  On America’s birthday the Indian gets run over by a midnight train.  Hemingway illustrates how America’s progress rolled right over the native people.  All of the wood that was cut to build America tore down part of the past.  He further expresses the total defeat of these indigenous people at the hands of progress by saying; “He had lived alone in the shack and drank pain killer and walked through the woods alone at night.  Many Indians were that way” (Hemingway 35).  The unnamed Indian in the story represents all of the people that were left with the numbness of loss of their culture and land.  The Indian is existing like a ghost walking through the woods when the machines of the day were quiet, and even then still ended up meeting his fate from one of the biggest symbols of American progress, the midnight train. 

“The Last Good Country” story parallels things that were happening in the Petoskey area around the early 1900s.  One of the biggest examples of cruelty towards Native Americans in the Petoskey area was the burning of Indianville.  According to an article by Matthew J. Friday in The Michigan Historical Review, there was a small peninsula on Burt Lake with a little village called Indianville.  The local Native Americans had lived there for three centuries, believing that the land was tax exempt.  As it turns out the land was not tax exempt; it was bought by a timber speculator who legally purchased the land.  The timber speculator along with the local sheriff ordered the Native Americans out of their houses so they could burn down the village.  This was an entirely legal action.  The displaced Native Americans ended up walking 25 miles to Cross Village where they were left to fend for themselves and start over.  We may never know for sure whether Hemingway specifically knew about this but he plays with the idea in the Nick Adams stories.  The references to the lakeside Indian Camp is very similar to Indianville, which was also a small lakeshore village.  In “The Last Good Country,” the parallels are even more similar.  Nick is being chased by the local authorities for poaching a buck.  He is displaced from his home and has to go through the gnarled clear-cut forest to get to the last of the virgin timber in the area.  This idea of the untouched land being “The Last Good Country” directly parallels the burning of Indianville since for them this untouched land of theirs was their last good country.  What makes the burning of Indianville even more egregious was that it was happening in 1900, which was well after Michigan’s logging boom.  Hemingway whether conscious of it or not dances around this story when littless says, “That’s the Unwritten Law.  I’ve thought it out lots of times.  I’ll get cards printed Mrs. Nick Adams, Cross Village, Michigan—common-law wife” (Hemingway 122).  In her fantasy she is married to Nick by the Unwritten Law.  They are displaced from their home in a marriage that the law will not recognize and end up settling in the same place that the displaced Indians of Indianville end up.  Hemingway was crafting stories that tap into the psyche of the local lore.

            Unlike many Hemingway enthusiasts, Hemingway was less interested in the specifics of the where and when.  Much has been said by Hemingway and his critics of how he transposed Paul Cezanne’s painting techniques into his stories.  Cezanne’s portraits are vague.  Cezanne has many landscape paintings that are vague with little or no qualities that make the landscape distinguishable.  In an interview in 1949 with Lillian Ross Hemingway reveals, “This is what we try to do in writing, this and this, and the woods, and the rocks we have to climb over, Cézanne is my painter, after the early painters...I can make a landscape like Mr. Paul Cézanne.  I learned how to make a landscape from Mr. Paul Cézanne by walking through the Luxembourg Museum a thousand times” (Berman 39).  Like Cezanne, Hemingway reveals just enough so the idea or central concept is laid bare and can then be extrapolated.  Hemingway’s mention of Michigan landmarks are fun to track down but are ultimately secondary to the function of the story.  People are quick to point out historical inaccuracies such as how the real river that was fished was not the Big Two Hearted River but the Fox River or that the burning of Seney was inaccurate.  These details are ultimately unimportant for the larger concepts that Hemingway is wrestling with.

As the Nick Adams stories progress and Nick comes home from the war, Hemingway smoothly transitions from one disillusion to another.  Nick returns home from the war damaged.  Nick knows that the only way he can begin to heal his soul is by getting reacquainted with the land.  The first thing that Nick notices when getting off of the train in Seney is that the land is also damaged, “Seney was burned, the country was burned over and changed, but it did not matter.  It could not all be burned” (Hemingway 179).  Nick also was scarred from the war but there is the sense that he is coping.  But meanwhile these are dark times.  Nick realizes, “that the fire must have come the year before, but the grasshoppers were all black now.  He wondered how long they would stay that way” (Hemingway 180).  Hemingway is projecting the darkness of Nick’s soul first on to the landscape and then he shows how the grasshoppers were altered by circumstances in their world that were beyond their control.  Like Nick the grasshoppers are stained black but perhaps not forever.  Like Nick they are scarred but coping with life.  Nick finds further comfort in fishing and being out in the woods because of the quietness of mind that comes with being completely absorbed in the task at hand.  Nick is able to calm his nerves and melt into the serenity and routine of fishing.  We really see how unstable Nick is when he catches a large trout that overexcites him, “Nick’s hand was shaky.  He reeled in slowly.  The thrill had been too much.  He felt, vaguely, a little sick, as though it would be better to sit down” (Hemingway 193).  The power and fight of the trout overwhelms Nick.  He is not ready for the unpredictability of wrestling with that large of a salmon.  Nick needs to stick to a regimented and methodical simple existence.  This is why fishing in the stream is so perfect, he can simply be.  As Nick goes up the stream he reaches the rugged uncertainty of a swamp.  This stops him in his tracks.  Nick reflects on the situation ultimately deciding, “In the swamp fishing is a tragic adventure.  Nick did not want it.  He did not want to go down the stream any farther today” (Hemingway 198).  He is not ready for the struggle of moving through the swamp but he considers it and ponders how it will be.  He concludes he is not ready to go any further that day but the story concludes that better days are to come, “There were plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp” (Hemingway 199).  Nick has started down a long path to recovery.  He is realizing that he will have to accept progress in small steps.

            It is always important to understand what drives an author.  It is always valuable to contextualize what has shaped them and what their influences were in their formative years.  People are fascinated by Hemingway’s time in Michigan because it allows people to see themselves in Hemingway.  His lazy summers up north are our lazy summers up north.  It allows people to dream and imagine that amidst these humble Northern Michigan surroundings, that they too can be capable of great things.  Hemingway reminds Michiganders of the richness and beauty of our state and exposes the bloody roots of how the modern recreational atmosphere of “up north” came to be.



Hemingway, Ernest. The Nick Adams Stories. New York: Scribner, 2003. Print.


Friday, Matthew J. "Morality vs. Legality: Michigan’s Burt Lake Indians and the Burning of Indianville." MICHIGAN HISTORICAL REVIEW Spring (2007): 87-97. Web.

Berman, Ron. "Hemingway's Michigan Landscapes." The Hemingway Review 27.1 (2007): 39-54. Print.


(xii)
1887    Logging peaked in the lower Muskegon River basin.  Lumber mills on Muskegon Lake cut 661 million board feet of lumber 520 million shingles in one year.

(31)

“Indeed, the 1840-90 period saw unparalleled prosperity in the Muskegon River Valley; the logging era was one of the most financially rewarding and socially colorful eras in Michigan’s history.  The halcyon days of logging were every bit as freewheeling and bawdy as those of the California gold rush.

Every spring, at the conclusion of the log run, hundreds of lumbermen converged on an area of Muskegon known as Sawdust Flats to drink whiskey, fight, and commiserate with the ladies of the night.  “Keen-nosed loggers claimed they could smell Muskegon booze as far upriver as Big Rapids, 50 miles away, and said they detected the first erotic whiffs of Sawdust Flats perfume at Newaygo, half as far.  Muskegon’s Sawdust Flats was a part of the city made by a fill and on it were six solid blocks—long block—of what a local divine termed ‘unspeakable whoredom.’”

(32)
The village of Evart, upstream of Big Rapids, once was a bustling logging village and site of what some consider the greatest fight between lumberjacks in the history of Michigan’s logging era.  In 1881, a lumberjack named John Driscoll—nicknamed Silver Jack because of his shock of white hair—traded blows with Angus Bronson, the best brawler among lumberjacks on the rival Saginaw River system.  Silver Jack Driscoll had earned a reputation as the toughest lumberjack in Michigan in 1880, while working in the Saginaw River Valley.  The following year, he went to work on the Muskegon, where Bronson tracked him down.  The two squared off in an Evart saloon in a makeshift ring created by a circle of rowdy, drunken lumberjacks.  Driscoll and Bronson traded bare-knuckle blows for ninety minutes until an exhausted Bronson surrendered with a one-word whisper “enough.”




Alexander, Jeff. The Muskegon: The Majesty and Tragedy of Michigan's Rarest River. East Lansing: Michigan State UP, 2006. Print.


Monday, June 23, 2014

PHISH FUEGO LISTENING PARTY 6-22-14



Phish's new album Fuego comes out next week on June 24th right before the summer tour.  We talk trash and listen to the record while nerding out and jabbering at each other about Trey and Phish.  We also listen to Jimi shred and think back to fall of 97 when Trey was chasng the ghost of Hendrix.

In this episode I made ten and a half pounds of pulled pork, we drink and blather on about Phish.  Alex is back and so is Brandon.  That's all we ever do.  Sit around, drinking, listening and talking about music.  Oddly enough for the intro music it is Alex explaining some riff to me from some random time in 2011 when we were all jamming out.  Gotta love those hours and hours of random stock footage.  The first two minutes the recorder is sort of in a bad spot but it gets corrected quickly, and it's mid album, but you know how it goes on those late Saturday nights debauching on meat and drink.



The new album can be streamed via NPR.

Also, Mr. Miner, best blog around for all things Phish we're huge fans.

Also, Alex's band In Cloud Orbit is awesome, check them out on Facebook.

Here's a bootleg from Small's in Hamtramck on June 7th.

8.30.14

8.31.14

Paleolithic Hunting Club

Check out this episode!

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Blowtorch in Bondage



My go to drinking companion is Metallic K.O. by The Stooges.  In this episode I do a reading of the Lester Bangs article, Iggy Pop: Blowtorch in Bondage, the perfect companion to that record.  Metallic K.O. is a live artifact of Iggy at his rawest and wildest as well as The Stooges farewell show.  Iggy taunts the crowd until they are throwing eggs, light bulbs, and beer bottles at him, prompting the question of who the fuck brings eggs to a concert?
I remember going to Rothbury for the final day in 2009 and somehow ending up in the parking lot while Bob Dylan was playing, screaming along with Metallic K.O. guzzling beer.  Sometimes I need my Stooges fix, as any well-mannered Detroit boy does.


Check out this episode!

Iggy Pop: Blowtorch in Bondage


By Lester Bangs from Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung

Iggy Pop: Blowtorch in Bondage

By any normal standards, Iggy pop’s gig at the Palladium last Friday night was a triumph. Iggy himself was in ferociously fine form, and the crowd was ravenously enthusiastic-he could have had as many encores as he wanted.  But normal standards have never seemed relevant to Iggy—from the earliest days, when The Stooges went onstage not even knowing how to play their instruments, to the present, when he finally seems to be on the verge of becoming one of the strangest stars we’ve ever seen.  What kind of person tries, for his third and crucial attempt, to make it big-time rock ’n’ roll with an album called The Idiot?  The kind, I suppose, who at one time regularly made a practice of literally diving headfirst from the lip of the stage into the middle of his audience and who on Friday night repeatedly twisted his face and body up into masks and gestures symbolic of “idiocy,” torment, and, most of all, bondage.

More than anyone else in the seemingly endless parade of professionally anomic rockers, Iggy really is isolated, and this isolation manifests itself in lightning-stricken desperation.  He’s the most intense performer I’ve ever seen, and that intensity comes from a murderous drivenness that has in the past also made him the most dangerous performer alive: the plunges into the third row, cutting himself and rolling in broken glass onstage, getting into verbal and occasionally physical brawls with his audiences.  When Iggy sang, “I’m losing all my feelings / And I’m runnin’ out of friends” in “I Need Somebody” on Raw Power, he was describing, succinctly, as usual, the problem, the anomie.  That there is no solution but death is why all the rest of it happens.  This is a person who feels profoundly unalive, or, conversely, so rawly alive, and so imprisoned by it, that all feeling is perceived as pain.  But feeling is still courted, in the most apocalyptic terms, which are really the only terms the performer can even understand, and the performance begins to look more and more like a seizure every time he hurls himself across the stage.

It’s not minimizing all this to say that what it means for Iggy is ambivalence.  “I’m dying in a story / I’m only living to sing this song,” another line from “I Need Somebody,” conveys the powerful ambivalence he feels toward his audience, his art itself.  An apocalypse isn’t supposed to be manageable, and when the carnage is done it ain’t the audience that’s gonna be bleeding.  But manage the apocalypse is exactly what Iggy is now trying to do, because this idiot is no fool, and he knows the lie of a manageable Armageddon is the only way to make it in the rock ‘n’ roll end of showbiz and survive.  That’s why David Bowie is twerping around, trimming the dementia here and there with neat little clips, and that’s why The Idiot, Iggy’s new album (produced and influenced in every respect by Bowie, who also plays piano in Iggy’s current touring band), rings to false.

A far more powerful documentation of the Iggy holocaust at its most nihilistically out of control is available on Metallic K.O., a bootleg import (on Skydog) of the last concert the Stooges ever played, at the Michigan Palace in Detroit January of 1974.  I was at the gig immediately preceding it, at a little club in Warren, Michigan, two nights before, where the love-hate affair the Stooges had been carrying on with their audience for so long finally careened to its inevitable consequences.  The audience, which consisted largely of bikers, was unusually hostile, and Iggy, as usual, fed on that hostility, soaked it up and gave it back and absorbed it all over again in an eerie, frightening symbiosis.  “All right,” he finally said, stopping a song in the middle, “you assholes wanta hear ‘Louie Louie,’ we’ll give you “Louie Louie,” including new lyrics improvised by the Pop on the spot consisting of “You can suck my ass / You biker faggot sissies,” etc.

By now the hatred in the room is one huge livid wave, and Iggy singles out one heckler who has been particularly abusive: “Listen, asshole, you heckle one more time and I’m gonna come down there and kick your ass.”  “Fuck you, you little punk,” responds the biker.  So Iggy jumps off the stage, runs through the middle of the crowd, and the guy beats the shit out of him, ending the evening’s musical festivities by sending the lead singer back to the motel room and a doctor.  I walk into the dressing room, where I encounter the manager of the club offering to punch out anybody in the band who will take him on.  The next day the bike gang, who call themselves the Scorpions, will phone WABX-FM and promise to kill Iggy and the Stooges if they play the Michigan Palace on Thursday night.  They do (play, that is), and nobody gets killed, but Metallic K.O. is the only rock album I know where you can actually hear hurled beer bottles breaking against guitar strings.

On one level I suppose all of this is very funny, but if you look past the surface violence and simple abusiveness to the person at the center it’s not funny at all.  The reason it’s not is the aforementioned ambivalence.  Jungle war with bike gangs is one thing, but it gets a little more complicated when those of us who love being around that war (at least vicariously) have to stop to consider why and what we’re loving.  Because one of the things we’re loving is self-hate, and another may well be a human being committing suicide.  Here’s a quote from a review of Iggy’s new live show in the British rock weekly Sounds: “Iggy’s a dancer and more, a hyper-active packet of muscle and sinew straight out of Michelangelo’s wet dreams …who leaps and claws at the air, audience and mike stand in an unsurpassable display that spells one thing—MEAT.”  Ignoring the florid prose, I’d like to ask the guy who wrote that how he would like to be thought of as a piece of meat, how he thinks the meat feels.  Or if he thinks it feels at all.  Yeah, Iggy’s got a fantastic body; it’s so fantastic he’s crying in every nerve to explode out of it into some unimaginable freedom.  It’s as if someone writhing in torment has made that writhing into a kind of poetry, and we watch in awe of such beautiful writhing, so impressed that we perhaps forget what inspired it in the first place.

As for the performer himself, he carries that hurt like spikes in his heart, but there is simultaneously a strong element of unconsciousness in his art, which is one of the main reasons why it’s so beautiful and so intense.  During Iggy’s second encore Friday night, as he sang a song called “China Girl” with a stagehand holding a light under him for dramatic Fu Manchu effect, he pulled his face taut with his hands to make slits of his eyes and began to hop in a bizarre imitation of some bound coolie.  It was at once grotesque and lovely, conveying in a few simple gestures a pathos so immense that I’m sure if Iggy himself could have seen what he looked like at that moment he would have been mortified.  Because there was a vulnerability so naked it wrenched the heart.  At that moment I realized that this man did not know what he was doing, and maybe precisely because of that it was one of the most alive things I’ve ever witnessed, just as the performance on Metallic K.O. is a wrigglingly, obscenely alive, and the person singing on The Idiot sounds like a dead man.  Iggy may finally become the superstar we always knew he could be, and he’s already transcended the punk-rock he almost singlehandedly birthed, but there are questions unanswered, and a life hanging on the answers, and I’m not even sure that those answers exist.

Village Voice, 28 March 1977

Three sweet Lester Bangs books

Bangs, Lester, and Greil Marcus. Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung. New York: Anchor, 2003. Print

Bangs, Lester, and John Morthland. Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste: A Lester Bangs Reader. New York: Anchor, 2003. Print.

DeRogatis, Jim. Let It Blurt: The Life and times of Lester Bangs, America's Greatest Rock Critic. New York: Broadway, 2000. Print.