The Limelight brings you articles and features from across the country. We aim to provide you with a different perspective when it comes to news and events. By taking a subjective approach to reportage the understanding between writer and reader becomes established through the personal experience of the writer. If there is something you would like to see covered or have an subject you would like us to investigate, drop us a line at: info@blankcanvasmagazine.com
Have you heard the latest? Check out these upcoming articles and columns.
Friday, November 28th, Steve Siddle’s new The Way I See…
Friday, December 5th, look for A Weeks Worth of Oil, an article by Jonnie Coutu.
Friday December 5th, Erin Donahue gives us a preview of the PoP Euphoria Show and Benefit at ArtsWorcester.
20 Artists Opening by Erin Donahue, Zack Borer and the Latent Voice and Riff Raff by Jonnie Coutu are all currently posted below.
20 ARTISTS OPENING by Erin Donahue
Would you be surprised to know that the guy standing next to you at the grocery store has paintings on display in major European cities? Scott Erb thought that you might not know just how many world-class artists live and work in Worcester, so he created a book to showcase twenty artists and their work.
Twenty Artists of Worcester documents local artists in their studios using photographs by Scott, who was assisted by Donna Dufault, and accompanied by text from writer Julie Grady.
Following several conversations with friends about artists in the area, Scott realized that Worcester has ‘many artists who are internationally known, but they’re not well-known in Worcester.’ Thus, the idea for Twenty Artists was developed as a way to draw attention to local artists and ‘promote the great talent which surrounds you all the time.’
Selection of artists for the book was peer-driven; as Scott began talking to local artists, he started collecting the names of people in the area that they admired, and noting which names appeared most often. From that list, he compiled names of people producing work ‘across the spectrum’ – photography, painting, sculpture, and illustration. A $2500 grant from the Worcester Cultural Commission provided a budget for the project.
Agnes Wyant, a painter who produces multi-media works on paper, has lived in Worcester for 21 years and her work has been featured both in major U.S. cities as well as internationally. Agnes called her appearance in the book a great experience and an ‘exercise in introspection,’ as it forced her, someone accustomed to visual expression, to instead verbally express her work. When asked about local artists, Agnes noted the ‘many good, working artists’ in the area, calling Brian Burris’ paintings ‘inspirational,’ and admiring Stephen DiRado for his technical ability and choices of subject matter.
Andy Fish, an illustrator and writer, has found that many artists ‘who have work all over the world and have seen print internationally are right here in the Big Woo.’ For Andy, appearing in the book was ‘a positive experience because Scott, Donna and Julie were so easy to work with, and I thought Julie’s writing was very incisive, introspective and spot on, especially when she referred to my “true blue” partner Veronica Hebard.’
Pieces from each artist featured in the book, along with photos from the book, are on display in the Davis Art Gallery, located on the third floor of the Printers Building, 44 Portland Street. A reception held on November 14 was hugely successful, with at least 400 people attending the event – including Worcester Mayor Konnie Lukes.
Twenty Artists of Worcester is available online at http://20artists.wordpress.
ZACK BORER AND THE LATENT VOICE by Jonnie Coutu
I have to admit I may have missed the appeal of the singer/songwriter boom that began to boil—and by “boil” I mean get the record companies’ attention with the fact that they could make a lot of money—in the late nineties and that has continued to bubble into the new century. I am not sure what I was doing when artists such as Jack Johnson, John Mayer, Damien Rice, and Ben Harper started wowing college students everywhere (to give credit where credit is due, Harper had been on the scene for quite some time before becoming commercially successful, recording his first album in 1992), but I do not remember tuning into mix ninety-seven-point-whatever to hear the latest hum and strum of the newest acoustic guitar hero. Nevertheless, being part of this encompassing society I heard track after track slowly take over the airwaves and always felt a disconnect. The pretty, harmoniously flawless tunes made these artists feel less obtainable than other singer/songwriter types evolving in the same time period.
The lo-fi madness of Jeff Magnum from Neutral Milk Hotel, the sorrowful adoration of Conor Oberst from Bright Eyes, and the woebegone musings of Elliot Smith sounded more human than the bubblegum pop of their Frankenstein carbon copy counterparts. Not to despoil the talents, hard work, and mass appeal of the latter, this daydreaming commentator would still rather hear “Two Headed Boy” a hundred times over rather than listen to John Mayer crooning about afternoon delights or even whispering winning lotto numbers in my ear.
Maybe it’s a voice that sounds like a truthful conversation with a friend in need, maybe it’s a lyric that feels like it’s been carved into your heart, maybe it’s an intuition that you just trust what someone is telling you (although this has gotten me into some of the worst trouble in my life)… Whatever it is, it is something that directly connects and resonates with you personally. When Bob Dylan sings “Well, I return to the queen of spades/ and talk with my chambermaid/ she knows that I’m not afraid/ to look at her/ she is good to me… I want you, I want you/ I want you so bad/ Honey I want you,” I believe him. I relate. I am Johnny in the basement mixing up the medicine. For good or not, I believe Bob. I believe Conor. I believe Jeff and Elliot. When Mayer sings about “so much wasted in the afternoon/ so much sacred in the month of June” or “I know a girl/ she puts the color inside of my world/ but she’s just like a maze,” I don’t believe a word he sings. I feel like I am listening to the guy at the bar telling me about the time he did this or the time that happened—I don’t believe the story and am just not interested. I want to feel a voice. I want it to rip my eardrums apart and let me know it’s been there. I could die today a happy man if I knew Tom Waits would be singing in the afterlife.
And so, after much introspection, I give you Zack Borer.
Zack Borer, originally from Tampa, FL, headed north after college, acoustic guitar in hand. After a brief stint in DC, Borer found himself in New York City learning the ropes of the music biz and exploring his musical range. He then landed in Worcester, MA to record his first solo album, Home, at Tremolo Lounge. Home is a decent album with strong guitars, smooth transitioning, warm polished vocals, and steady rhythms (provided by bassist John Barrows and drummer Duncan Arsenault). Still, I felt like Borer had something really important to tell me, but he couldn’t quite figure out how. The album is instrumentally admirable, but its lyrics feel rushed to press. Borer’s newer work, specifically the track “Save Me,” may prove that he has broken out of his freshman shell. Singing lyrics such as “trying to make something from the leftover parts deep within our souls… slow down you’re moving too fast don’t waste today,” he explores his vocal range more, and experiments with poetic freedoms and tempo. In the grand scheme of things, I see Zack Borer comfortably seated somewhere between the Jack Johnsons and the Elliot Smiths of the world, his latent message hiding somewhere he has yet to explore. I want to hear what Zack has to say, but at the moment I feel as if I am being sold an idea and not a voice.
All that being said, one of my own most memorable nights includes Cape Cod, pick-up truck headlights illuminating a beach, a beautiful girl, too many beers, laughs, and stars to count and Damien Rice’s O, serving as background music, so what the hell do I know? Give Zack Borer a listen and see if it tickles your ear a little.
You can check out Zack Borer’s new work, get club listings and purchase Home at:
RIFFRAFF story and photos by Jonnie Coutu
By the time I was seventeen, my friends and I had seen our fair share of shows: all age shows and 21 plus shows, shows at VFW halls, churches, community centers, high school gyms, basements, and abandoned houses. We had seen shows in cities and towns up and down the east coast (and also one of the best hardcore festivals I have ever seen, with bands like Avail, Strife and Mouthpiece, in Dayton, Ohio). Today I can take a step back from those days and call what we were in to an “underground scene.” We were outside of the emblematic, popular music of the early nineties. Our shows were organized by bands and kids that all wanted one thing, and one thing only: to play music and have an audience.
In those early days of my music education, I faithfully carried instruments from van to stage, hoping to get an entry stamp for bands like Knockdown, Thundercock and Sidewalk. I followed Fugazi and Slapshot around wherever they went, or wherever they went in reach of a teenager bumming rides. And I saw venue after venue get shut down like they were hit from an Ali right in the first round. The Old Harvard Square Church (Cambridge, MA), the W.A.G. (Worcester, MA), St. John’s Gym (Clinton, MA) and the Space (Worcester, MA), to name a few, all came and went. Fire codes, fights, noise disturbances, injuries, over capacity, suspicion of drug use (at straight-edge shows, no less)… there was always a reason for the gun and badge to come in and shut a venue down. Somewhere along the way I guess they shut me down as well as it would be a decade before I would venture to go to another show that did not require a valid ID for entry. But some things don’t leave a person. The bands, the music, the energy and freedom. The dance and the hope in anything that wasn’t force-fed brought me, a decade later, to The Wheelchair.
I had heard about The Wheelchair from some of the local hardcore/punk kids and thought: I have got to get there, let the camera loose on this scene, and see we come up with. Witchhunt, Mouth Sewn Shut, Crom, and Red Thread filled out lineup on the Friday I decided to go. On the way through the door (no cover; only donations for bands) I recognized a couple familiar faces: Melissa, one of the organizers, and Pat a.k.a. shins, who gave me the lowdown on the place—the bands that played and practiced there, upcoming shows, and finally an introduction to Gin. Gin was the renter of the venue as well as one of the organizers; Gin was definitely in control and wanted me to know it. She was holding a flush to my pair of deuces and called by asking, “Are you a cop?” I naturally took quick offense and replied, “National Guard actually, with narc school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But seeing as how today is Friday, I guess we are all safe.” She was amused enough to be reassured that I wasn’t a cop, but I think she only genuinely warmed up after she realized I was an old beer-slinger from one of her past favorite haunts. After the face-off ended, something hit me like that ton of bricks I keep hearing about: Was I a cop? No cover?? Flyers for shows, but with no address??? People that seemed to be in to each band, without the fringe of baseball caps and college emblems that you see on the outskirts of other venues???? Was I a cop?! The people at The Wheelchair really cared about the music. They were there to see a band and appreciate the scene created for them, by them… and if you couldn’t appreciate it, they didn’t want you there. Plain and simple. Truly underground. No signs, no flashing lights, no promoter. Suspicious of everyone and to be destroyed by no one.
I believe that I have sat on both sides of this thing we call the American Experience. I have played the homeowner, the married man, the taxpayer, and the tourist. I have photographed the dark nights of so many unfriendly cities, skated every inch of pavement in this county, surfed the beaches of our cold coastline, ridden a motorcycle across the country, and heard music that has changed my life with just one note. Without any resignation or doubt, I prefer the latter, the underground and freedom. And so as you create your own American Experience, maybe you will take this as parting wisdom from someone who danced with both parties and maybe, just maybe, you will see me, camera in hand, with you as my subject. If you can find the place. No sign, no flashing lights. If you don’t have any luck… sorry brother, we are trying to keep out the badges, billy clubs, and city councilors. You know, the riff-raff.
You can Contact Jonnie Coutu at: info@blankcanvasmagazine.com