Depression Artists

Here's a ten minute play I wrote. It's about music, sort of. So it seemed like it would fit. Also, I'm lazy.

Disenchanted

Setting:

An apartment with hard wood floors. Sparsely furnished. Stage center is Sean’s chair; a lush leather recliner which seems out of place in this ratty apartment. Upstage right is an old acoustic guitar on a stand; its strings broken. Beside it lies a small elephant skull. There are doorways downstage left and downstage right. The lighting is drab and off-white, but bright enough to highlight the emptiness of the set.

Characters:

SEAN: Mid-twenties. Good looking. Sean is lethargic. He speaks slowly and clearly.

EVA: Early twenties. Stereotypically beautiful----she is blond and blue-eyed with the body of a dancer. She tries to be upbeat, but there is a clear hint of lament in her voice.

DEATH: Tall. Full black hooded robes. Full black face mask. He carries a 6 foot wooden scythe in his left hand and a 12 ounce beer in his right.

(Lights are faded nearly black. A follow spot fades in on DEATH, who stands DSL, hunched over, using his scythe as a crutch)

DEATH:

Economic crisis. War. Social and political unrest. A nation once considered the most powerful and progressive collapses under its own weight. Democracy fades to dictatorship under the flag of FREEDOM. A dream is dying as dreams do.

(Spot fades and DEATH exits DSL. Stage lights fade in. SEAN lies in the recliner. His wrists are cut, pools of blood surround both sides of the chair)

SEAN:

I always knew it would be like this. She’s leaving. They all leave, why would she be different? (pause) I wanted her to be, though. She’s beautiful. And she appreciates my music. Or she used to. I didn’t think she’d try to change me, but, well. Here we are. She’s leaving. (pause) All my heroes lied to me. “Is there anybody going to listen to my story, all about the girl who came to stay?” They never stay, John. Maybe The Smiths were right all along. (pause) Or maybe my mom was right, and I’m really gay.

(Stage lights dim. DEATH enters DSL, follow spot fades in)

DEATH:

The mantra of a generation of depression artists. They idolize and imitate their predecessors. Janis Joplin. John Lennon. Bob Dylan. Warrior-poets; activists. Yet this new generation is defined not by their force of will but rather by their utter failure to act. They’ll lift their fingers to point at corporate greed and government oppression but won’t raise their arms to fight them.

(Spot fades and DEATH exits DSL. Stage lights fade in. EVA enters through the DSR door)

EVA:

You’re sad, Sean.

SEAN:

Are you all packed up?

EVA:

Yeah. My dad’s waiting outside with the truck. (pauses, looks at Sean’s wrists) I guess I’ll have him come in to help with the mattress.

SEAN:

It’s not too late, you know. You could stay. Maybe just for tonight, you could stay. We can pretend it’s alright...

EVA:

No, Sean. No more one-more-nights. No more pretending. We can’t keep this up anymore. You have big dreams, and that’s what I fell in love with. But you never act on it. You never will. I can’t spend the rest of my life waiting for you to start trying. I’m finished. My heart can’t do it anymore.

SEAN:

“Grey would be the color, if I had a heart...”

EVA:

Don’t pull that shit, Sean. It won’t be long before you meet another girl to fall in love with your voice, your promises, your melodies. Naive girls are suckers for anything acoustic. Trust me on that one; I used to be one of them. (she stares at him for a moment)
I’m gonna let my dad in.

(EVA exits through DSL door)

SEAN:

She’s right, you know. Acoustic guitars make naive girls swoon. But I’m done with that. I’m so tired of hiding behind A Cryptic Lovesong In D Minor. It’s not really me; though it is the most honest kind of lie...

(Stage lights fade out. DEATH enters DSL. Spot light fades in on him.)

DEATH:

Perhaps this is a consequence of a world that’s gone wrong. Talents which, with the right heart behind them, could open eyes and change the world. But in the hands of a heart left cold, a guitar becomes yet another tool of manipulation and self-preservation. Is this the eventual goal of capitalism? A dreamer left so hollow... is just another player in this unfortunate game.

(Spot light fades out. DEATH exits DSL. Stage lights fade in. EVA and her father enter DSL. They exit through the DSR door, quickly return carrying a mattress.)

EVA:

Bye, Sean. I love you, and I’m sorry.

SEAN:

I love you too.

(EVA and her father exit through DSL door)

SEAN:

I think that was a lie. The truth is, I don’t love. I try, but nothing thrills me. My heart doesn’t beat the way it used to. When I met Eva, my heart would jump if she held my hand. Now the only way to replicate that feeling is to sniff a little blow, shoot a little dope... and even then... the thrill’s gone all too quickly... “I can’t fly, I never really could. I just hold my arms out as I fall...”

(SEAN pauses, stares longingly at the DSL door. Stage lights fade out, DEATH enters DSL. Spot light fades in on DEATH)

DEATH:

Of course you can’t hold onto the thrill. Your society is collapsing and you’ve run out of heroes to turn to. Your limited choices suffocate your limitless potential. You watch your brightest minds either cave in to the demands of the system or be crushed by the apparent futility of trying to change it.

(DEATH takes a sip of his beer. A red spot light fades in on SEAN)

SEAN:

I always knew it would be like this. “As soon as you’re born, they make you feel small, by giving you no time instead of it all, ‘til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all...”

(SEAN closes his eyes, his red spot light fades out)

DEATH:

And, in the twilight of the United States, another would-be-warrior-poet falls. (sips his beer) He leaves nothing better or worse than when he found it. There is no legacy save broken hearts and broken guitar strings, all of which will be mended or cast aside with little consequence. Sean’s story is one so common that it is rarely told. Dreams die and burn out. The strong grip the ashes ‘til they slip away through their clutching hands. The rest simply give in and let it go...

SEAN:

Oh, cut that shit out.

(Spot light fades out as stage lights fade back in. SEAN rises and walks downstage, closer to DEATH. He is animated and speaks with a new-found energy)

SEAN:

Why does it have to be some big epic metaphor? I was depressed and I killed myself. It’s not rocket surgery--- “sad guy with drug problem says fuck it when his girlfriend leaves.” That’s all there is to it, straight up. I’m not a statement for global unrest, greedy musicians or a falling empire. Just some lovesick dude that got tired of living.

DEATH:

Errr... well, yeah. But I’m sure you can see where your situation is reflected by the world you live in on a much deeper level, and---

SEAN:

Yeah. But shut up. I don’t want to be remembered as a representation of all that’s wrong with the world. And don’t try to warp me into some reverse psychology inspiration for America’s apathetic youth. Don’t give the poor kids any big ideas, they’re never gonna happen.

DEATH:

This is exactly what I was talking about. The sick desperation. The seeming futility of everything. This is the attitude of an entire generation rendered useless by a barrage of uninspiring media and particularly difficult times. A generation with the greatest technology, the greatest potential, all crushed by a lack of motivation and---

SEAN:

When you speak, do you not hear yourself? Do you fail to realize that you are spouting complete and utter bullshit? “Would-be-warrior-poet?” I mean I appreciate the compliment, buddy, but let’s face it, I was never going to be John Fucking Lennon. Anyone can play guitar. If I hadn’t offed myself I wasn’t going to become some awe-inspiring political activist. I might’ve touched a few hearts but I would’ve done it by regurgitating a bunch of nonsense about feelings I haven’t felt since I was 14 years old. And do you know why I would’ve done it? For the fucking money. Because, yeah, you’re right, the world blows right now. And no, there aren’t any heroes left. But here’s a news flash: There never will be. The 60’s aren’t going to repeat themselves, there’s never gonna be peace in the middle east, and music is never gonna be pure and beautiful ever again. It’s all about the almighty fucking dollar and nothing’s gonna change that.

DEATH:

Can’t you see that you’re just perpetuating the point? You were an intelligent, talented kid, actually aware of the world around you. That in itself is a refreshing rarity. Yet the unfortunate thing is that awareness left you crippled at a spiritual level and...

(EVA enters DSL)

EVA:

Er. Sorry to interrupt. I forgot my purse. (exits DSR and shortly returns with purse)

SEAN:

Eva, before you leave, how ‘bout you settle this? Mr. Apocalypse Horseman guy here is presenting some elaborate existential argument about how I represent an entire generation. He seems to think I could have changed the world with my art. But that’s such bullshit. Nothing ever really changes, not that easily. I couldn’t have done shit.

EVA:

Of course you could have, Sean. Why do you think I decided to leave? You’re a genius. You’re a virtuoso at any instrument you pick up, you have a knack for stringing words together with scripted precision. And you know what’s going on in the world. And you USED to care about it. You could’ve been Bob Dylan---minus the froggy voice thing---but instead you chose to throw away your talents writing songs to get girls excited. In the pants.

SEAN:

Ugh. I can’t believe you’re taking Skeletor’s side. I thought you really got me. I can’t believe I killed myself over you.

EVA:

Yeah, right. That’s another reason I left. The finger pointing. And the whining. ALWAYS with the whining, Sean. Look at you---dead and STILL whining. Maybe if you’d quit whining to me and started screaming at the world, you would’ve... well, fuck it. Too late now. As much as I’d love to stay and listen to more of your bullshit, I’m sure our gothic friend here has a busy schedule, what with cancer and World War III and all.

(EVA exits DSL)

DEATH:

(sips his beer) She was pretty cute. And feisty. If I’d let that one get away maybe I would’ve killed myself too. If not for the whole undead thing, that is. Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one that thinks you could’ve been a savior if you weren’t so damn bitter.

SEAN:

You know, I really did want to be John Lennon. Dylan. Someone. Anyone. But it was just so hard.

DEATH:

All the most important choices are.

SEAN:

(sighs) Well. Too late now. Fuck it. You wanna get stoned and play Halo 2?

DEATH:

(defeated) Why not.

(SEAN exits DSR. DEATH follows, pauses before exiting and turns to the audience. Stage lights fade out, spot light fades in on DEATH)

DEATH:

How can we go forward when we don’t know which way we’re facing? How can we go forward when we don’t know which way to turn? How can we go forward if it’s something we’re not sure of...?

(All lights fade to black)

Dancing In Quicksand (2 of 2)

Part II: An Open Letter to Amanda Palmer


Dear Amanda Palmer,

I love and respect your work. As a Boston native and a musician, your career has been an inspiration. As a fan of theater, the Who Killed Amanda Palmer tour was nothing short of breathtaking---you brought rock and roll and performance art together in a way that was both spectacular and intimate. I think I understand what you are trying to do with the Evelyn Evelyn project. I think that, if anyone can make this work, you can.

That said… I doubt that anyone can make it work. You see, while your loyal fans may be able to accept your attempt to intertwine theater and rock music, most people won’t. The issues that you’re tackling would be acceptable in a Nicky Silver play, but---like it or not---that is not your medium. You are a musical artist and will be judged as such.

When I read your blog on Evelyn Evelyn, it made me sick to my stomach taking it at face value. You see, I hadn’t been keeping tabs on you, (I fucking hate Twitter, sorry,) so I read the story as fact. This made me lose a great deal of respect for you, as well as your list of guest stars. “What? You found a pair of disabled twins who have been exploited for their entire lives, twins who don’t want to be in the public spotlight, and you decided to exploit them? What the fuck, Amanda Fucking Palmer?” Stepping back, I did the thirty seconds of research to figure out that the story was fiction. And that made it worse.

You see, there is precedent for this. There have been artists who took on alter-egos to tackle important social issues. David Bowie fought intolerance and explored bisexual and gay counterculture as Ziggy Stardust. Brian Warner tackled the hypocrisy of mainstream values as Marilyn Manson. Now, aside from the fact that you’ve all toured with Nine Inch Nails, I find it hard to put you in the same paragraph as these artists. It’s hard to explain where the line is drawn, but I’m afraid you may be crossing it.

I respect the idea of bringing awfulness to the spotlight and making people think about it. I also respect artistic freedom, I respect provocative fiction, and a number of other things that this project could be. But this could be a fucking disaster. You know your fans; you know that they “get” what you’re doing. But most people don’t. In your apology letter, you talked about context, and that’s a valid point.

Imagine walking into a Mindless Self Indulgence concert never having heard the band before and hearing “FAGGOT FAGGOT FAGGOT!” It’s offensive. It’s terrible. But it’s nothing compared to the idea of hearing an inspirational story about the disabled, going to their show and finding a full grown woman and a full grown man sewn together in a single dress, playing the ukulele and singing a lighthearted song about elephants. Now, there's context for you.

It’s like going to see Lady Gaga and finding her smeared in blackface, chained to the stage singing about how much she loves boat rides.

Now, that said; good luck to you, Amanda. I hope you know what you’re doing. Maybe you’ll manage to pull this one off; maybe I’ll add you to that list with Brian and Bowie. For the sake of those you could deeply offend, I certainly hope you manage to do this. I also hope you knew what you were getting yourself into. You’re dancing in quicksand.

Sincerely,
J.W.M.

P.S. That bit about Roadrunner---it read as an excuse to do this. And that’s bullshit. There are plenty of artists who have avoided label obligations by simply going uncredited, or wearing Nixon masks in press photos. If this all blows up in your face, please respect the intelligence of your fans and don’t you dare tell us this was “the only way” to get your record out. Thanks.

Dancing In Quicksand (1 of 2)

Part I: A Short History of Nearly Nothing

I've been a huge fan of Amanda Palmer for many years. Her solo projects and work as part of The Dresden Dolls have served as inspiration for quite some time. The fact that she's from Boston gives her bonus points. That said...

Last night, I stumbled on a blog post which initially made me feel a little sick. Just why it was so unsettling is hard to explain, and before I do so, I'd like to provide you with some resources to understand what's going on.

Exhibit A: Here is the blog post in question. http://blog.amandapalmer.net/post/392050312/the-whole-story-behind-evelyn-evelyn

This article is an interesting read, and when I first read it I was a bit confused. Further research confirmed the assumption that this story is partially fictional. These conjoined twins are not real; they are a pair of alter-egos Amanda and Jason are adopting as part of an elaborate conceptual music project.

Exhibit B: Just to confirm that the story is fictional, I'm sharing some comments from the Facebook page of Amanda Palmer's fiance, Neil Gaiman.



Now that you're 100% clear on the fact that these twins are fictional, you can probably understand what the issue is here. It should also be noted that this elaborate tale isn't just for the sake of art---it's also allowing Amanda Palmer to release this album without going through her record label, Roadrunner.

Exhibit C: This is the reaction of one of Amanda Palmer's fans. It's a point of view I urge you all to consider.

http://disabledfeminists.com/2010/02/09/evelyn-evelyn-ableism-ableism/

With this background information, I hope that what I eventually write on the subject makes more sense. Ever since I read about this last night, I've been resisting the temptation to write about the issue, since there are so many angles to consider. I still need time to reflect on this before I can form a coherent argument for or against the implications of this project, but hopefully this background is enough to get you thinking about it yourselves.