Chosen Family
January, 2001

2000 was the toughest of years for me. It was a year when I was forced to come to grips with my emotional immaturity, and it was a year when I had to face some very real, though temporary (I hope) physical disability. The worst part of it all was that this year was a year when I lost confidence in my value as a friend, a teacher and a writer. But it may have also been the greatest year of my life; it taught me a great deal about where my blessings lie.

Reading one of Andrew Miller's recent columns in the Pitch, I found myself thinking about how much we should appreciate the very people who we most often complain about-our comrades in the local music community. Miller was writing about Darkside, a great area metal band that can pack Niener's with an enthusiastic crowd and exciting music to match it, and the story was about Darkside making the incredible gesture of playing a homeless benefit in a parking lot in freezing weather. Bassist Randy Hickey (who talked his Hooter's bosses into hosting the event when he could get no takers from local clubs) explained, "We played the shows outdoors to show what the homeless go through." The band played the Hooter's parking lots in Overland Park and Independence, bringing in "a half truckload of clothes, two barrels of food and two boxes of toys."

Though Darkside couldn't get local radio stations to plug the event or local clubs to host it, Andrew Miller led off with it in his local music column. More important than the event being a benefit was the way the band used the conditions to make people think about what it's like to live with the threat of the weather killing you. Raising money for the Kansas City Homeless Shelter, Hope House and Harvester's Food Network may have been an act of charity, but the event was an act of solidarity, so was Miller's column.

In fact, I would guess that act of solidarity is somehow manifest in every musical benefit. The benefit is a nice gesture, but the moments when the music speaks to and for those who are being benefited, something much more important is going on. New connections are expressed between artist and audience and cause, blurring the lines that separate one from the other, sometimes eradicating them. When the Kristie Stremel Band played "Working on a Miracle" for the AIDS walk, a song about lost love became an anthem for a cure.

Other benefits have nothing to do with charity and everything to do with watching each other's backs. Veteran musician Jim Strahm died as his peers threw a concert to raise money for his medical expenses, each knowing, 'there but for the grace of God . . .'. Boothill had its instruments stolen, and other musicians donated instruments to them temporarily and held an event to replace their instruments altogether.

And this solidarity extends to everyone in the community. Boothill has had my back more times than I can remember. When an alliance of musicians and fans held a Music & Revolution conference in Kansas City in 1999, Boothill not only attended the conference but threw a party for the event at Pauly's on Broadway. When I sent out a plea for local musicians to make statements for a movie about musicians fighting poverty, Boothill was the first to volunteer and made arrangements with a local camera crew to shoot the interviews. Despite their own considerable struggles over the past two years, Gary and Allegra Cloud of Boothill have been there for others time and time again.

One of my favorite musical events of the past year was not so much director Cameron Crowe's loving tribute to cutting his teeth as a music writer (Almost Famous) but, more so, Dave Marsh's review of the movie. While Marsh loved the movie, he pointed out that the advice attributed to his old colleague Lester Bangs--musicians "are not your friends"--was not only a lie but something Bangs couldn't have believed. The movie also gave the lie to that advice.

Marsh described Kate Hudson's "band aid" character as more than a groupie, as a fan who brings "out the deepest she can find in the bands she loves." I live in a world of bands and band aids, and, when I fell down this year, it was these people who helped me back to my feet.

The music made by my favorite local musicians gave me sustenance when nothing else could ease my pain, and many of those same musicians spent countless hours on the phone listening to me wallow in self pity and kicking my ass out of the mire. They dragged me out of my little apartment and out on the town, to remind me that I am worth something, even when I am the last one to know it. Musician and music lover-Ben B, Erica, Emily, Danielle, Kristie, Chris M, Chrissy, Marissa, Rob, Chris B, Meredith, Marie, Sue, Lee, Dana, Stacy, Dave, Nat, Craig, Ernie, Carvell, Jesse, Eric, Ben E, Greg, Fred, John, Steve, Liz, CJ, Cheryl, Mike W, Jeremy, David, Randy, Mike I, Mike A, PJ, Scott, Joey, Julie, Susan, Anne, Jaime Lynn, Jill, Iris, Allegra and Gary-my chosen family, and the family that chose me, is woven together by a rich musical tapestry. I have great friends outside of this musical world, certainly, but the core of my most valued relationships could not and would not exist if music had not brought us together.

What does this say about the role of music in a society that everywhere shows signs of violent disintegration? The family and the church some of us grew up with is largely a thing of the past. Workplace loyalty is all but gone because the employee is increasingly perceived as an interchangeable part in an indifferent system. Our political parties and our political system look, to even the most optimistic, more and more like one big joke. At its base, economic shifts are bringing our old social order to the ground, but other values are bringing us together.

Our love of music is one such value, and what a force that is! Music invites everyone to participate in some way. It is a form of expression that has, historically, led armies to victory, broken down racial and social divisions, built up class consciousness and deepened friendships enormously-even turning friends into lovers and lovers into friends.

Consider for a moment, when your favorite artist is playing, all of the emotional, intellectual and physical places you are transported that would never be accessible with mere words. I think of every show that I haven't written up this year-and it's a long list-as a missed opportunity to explore those spaces.

How do I recapture the minor triumph I glimpsed at Electronimo's last show when the lead singer banged his amps together, begging feedback to transcend his frustration? How do I explain the beauty of Haloshifter's passionate pop--sculpted out of noise as human as the sweat pouring from their brows? How do I pay proper tribute to the joyful unity created by the Eses and Seven Fold Symphony at the end of a somewhat divisive Culture Under Fire? How do I convey the giddiness of hearing the Silvermen merge swing with surf and drag and then fuse Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Child" with Stevie Wonder's "Superstition"? How do I thank the now-defunkt Revolvers for crafting such an unassuming album that stands tall as a raw, yet accessible tribute to the pain and beauty of devotion?

Most of all, how do I do justice to the band that has done so much for me over the past two years? Some of the best shows I saw this year were Boothill shows. I was there the night they rocked the Flamingo's outdoor stage before having all of their equipment stolen, and I last saw Boothill play a Zone show at the Grand Emporium.

The show began with a psychedelic, garage cacaphony as bold as anything I've heard explode from the Emporium stage. They followed that moment of bravado with a loving tribute to the government they'd been fighting in court for the better part of a year-"FU Johnson County!" And, then, it being almost Halloween, they relished a cover of "Beware of the Blob" before tearing into a series of punk rave-ups. The show surreally strengthened from there, working to a noisy climax, slick with sweat, starting with the proud "Crazy Like A Fox" and peaking with the ego-shattering "Train Called Sorrow." Finally, the set closed with Gary Cloud's wonderfully detailed tribute to a good day in Kansas City, "Hot Dog Tattoo." The set was brash and unapologetic, wildly magical and potentially lethal; it was Boothill doing what Boothill does best, moving beyond the pale of all that's musically proper and finding something better on the other side. There is no way to anticipate where a Boothill show is going to go, and that's just one more reason to get up in the morning.

How can I make up for not writing up such a mind-blowing show in a more timely way? I can't. It's just one more dropped ball in a year of bad juggling. But one thing this year has taught me is not to sweat it. My family not only allows me to be real; their music demands it.

--Danny Alexander
danny@thezone.org