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.The next night he let a moron vent spleen on stage then ran a middle-school-level sodomy riff when the guy sat down.The whole experience was a depressing mess.Any goodwill I still had for the man expired with a pop.I mulled over those concerts for days afterward.One thought recurred: Billy Corgan as the anti-Stephen Malkmus.Maybe I had them on the brain together because of Range Life.In my head there were parallels that transcended their association via that song.Both are favorites of mine going back to my late teens.Both led revered and infl uential bands.Both are guitar virtuosos with signature styles.Both started solo careers at around the same time.But Corgan has spent the years since then adrift.Malkmus has yet to make a bad/false/wrong move.Corgan seems constantly ill at ease.Malkmus seems to exist in a state of permanent sangfroid.Corgan is stuck in a weird cycle of announcing/repudiating increasingly baroque schemes to challenge his audience and bring his music to new markets.Malkmus releases great records every other year with no fanfare — twenty-one years in he’s never made a bad or even a weak one.Malkmus• 49 •B R YA N C H A R L E Sdoesn’t make sweeping statements about where rock is headed or talk about all the mind-blowing shit he’s gonna do — he just fucking does it.If some portion of his audience didn’t follow him where he wanted to go I doubt he’d blame a pleasure-centric culture bent on instant gratifi cation or give interviews declaring a lack of faith in his audience.No — he’d tour for the record and make another one, tour for that record, make another one etc.• 50 •Summer 2008.Karla and I were traveling to France.We arrived at JFK around four p.m.and breezed through security with an hour to kill before our fl ight.We stopped at a restaurant called Soho Bistro.Karla ordered a burger.I ordered a wine.I popped a Xanax.I’d copped the tablets from a friend.I used to have my own prescription but my health insurance ran out and I can’t board a plane sober.Every time I get on an airplane I think I’m going to die.Our seats were in the last row of the middle section and didn’t recline.I squeezed in and sat there trying to hold it together.A guy across the row from me was fi ling his nails.The noise scorched my nerves.I leveled a hate stare.The guy didn’t notice.I wanted to slap the nail fi le away, shake him, scream.He fi led only the left thumbnail.He would fi le for a few seconds then run his left index finger along the thumbnail, discover some imperfection, begin fi ling again.Look at that fucking guy, I said to Karla, what the fuck is he doing, who fi les their nails on an airplane, what the fuck is that about? My• 51 •B R YA N C H A R L E Sheart was jackhammering.I dripped cold sweat.Karla smiled.She touched my arm.She told me it was okay.The man put his nail fi le away.We pulled back from the gate.The plane taxied and took off.The person in front of me reclined.Their seat pressed into my knees.Everything closed in on me.I imagined an explosion, steel shredding me, my body in flames.How could I get through six more hours of this shit? I discussed the matter with Karla.I hailed a fl ight attendant and asked if there was any way I could move.You’re in luck, she said, there’s an exit row seat just a few rows back.She asked if I was willing and able to assist in the event of an emergency.I said yes.I stretched out in my new seat and popped another tablet.They came around with the beverage cart.I ordered a wine — free on international fl ights.I ordered another with dinner.I popped a tablet.It grew dark at the window.They cut the overhead lights.The movie came on.Evan Almighty.I put in my earbuds and scrolled through my iPod.Nothing leapt out at me.The curse of the mp3 era— thousands of hours of music at your fi ngertips and you never want to hear any of it, nothing ever leaps out you.The blue bar rolled over Wowee Zowee.I hesitated, rolled it back, pressed play.I sank down in my seat and closed my eyes.The fi rst note of the fi rst song is a lonesome plucked E string.Sad tinkling piano.Faint exhalation of disgust or defeat.It jumps to A.Malkmus sings there is no.castration fear — Something clicked into place then.The thick mists cleared.I thought, holy shit, this is fucking it! I heard Wowee Zowee as I’d fi rst heard it a thousand years ago, before I moved to the city, before• 52 •W O W E E Z O W E Eall my shit jobs, before a plane blew up my offi ce, before these endless fucking wars.The record held me.The magic was there.All current music suddenly withered in comparison.Who takes chances like this these days?Who has this kind of fun?When it was over I went to see Karla.We watched the end of Evan Almighty with no sound.I returned to my seat and popped a tablet.I phased in and out of consciousness.Now and then I looked around at the sleeping people.I wanted to keep everyone safe, even the nail fi le guy.Please let us land, I thought, please just let me get down from here.I didn’t know who or what I was addressing.A bright orange line formed on the black horizon.I glanced at my watch.Time was compressed up here.Time was fucked up.It was only midnight.It was already dawn.• 53 •Bob Nastanovich joined Pavement in a desperation move and became a band linchpin and secret weapon.He joined initially to prop up Gary Young.Gary was so out of it at times he wouldn’t know what song they were playing.As Pavement began touring more Stephen’s voice would go from nightly abuse.Bob took on the more abrasive vocal parts live.He yelled I’M TRYIN! on Conduit for Sale.He yelled DEBRIS SLIDE! on Debris Slide.He yelled WALK! WITH YOUR CREDITCARD IN THE AIR! on Unfair.He played all kinds of percussion — maracas, hi-hat, tambourine, cowbell.Around the time of Wowee Zowee he bought a Moog.He didn’t know how to play keyboard per se but he knew how to make interesting noises on a synthesizer.He had free rein to do whatever he wanted.Stephen wouldn’t even pay attention.Sometimes two months into a tour he’d say to Bob, I don’t know what you’re doing over there but it must be pretty good because people say you’re doing a good job.• 54 •W O W E E Z O W E EBob was a key member of Pavement from early on but Wowee Zowee is the fi rst full-length he was in the studio for.Prior to that his studio input was minimal.He was there for the Watery, Domestic sessions — the last to feature Gary on drums.That was Bob’s fi rst time in California.He wrote a travelogue chronicling his fi rst forty-eight hours in the state.Stephen dug it.Bob recorded it as a spoken word bit [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]