Daniel and Me
Out here in San Francisco, when you think of terms like “mentally ill” and “bipolar,” or perhaps their more PC counterparts, stock cerebral images instantly come to mind. If you’re pondering at home, you may recall stepping over an untoward citizen only the night before, on the walk home from your $50-a-plate dinner. You may remember the other day, as you approached your front door, key in hand, hearing the crescendo of some lunatic frenzy down the block, the sounds slowly echoed and amplified by the facades of neighboring tenement buildings.
San Francisco calls them “homeless,” and every mayor in the city’s history has had to deal with this group in one way or another. Well, not every mayor, but most in the last 40-some-odd years. “Aggressive panhandling” is the catch-phrase, and it’s part of what lead Gavin Newsom to a narrow mayoral victory in 2003.
But what “the rest of us” consider madness is another’s genius. In some cases.
One of the best examples in the modern American landscape is Daniel Johnston.
I first encountered Johnston upon moving to Austin in 1997. Or maybe it was earlier, as a teenager, when my hometown friends and I would sneak off after school for 90-mile-an-hour trips down I-35 to the only city in Texas worth a damn. While I wasn’t able to immediately put a name behind it, there, on the side of Sound Exchange (which, as far as I can tell, isn’t around anymore….anyone???), was this drawing:
If I may don the hat of pretentious art critic for a moment: This is so fucking cool, it defies description. Simplicity and magnitude. Yeah.
From there, it was hearing bits and pieces…Austin lore. This “crazy guy” Daniel Johnston, who made these tapes and sold them at Sound Exchange or bartered them for comics or music. I never got to hear the tapes, mostly out of my own laziness. But I was also in the early stages of a vinyl addiction that, thankfully, has receded. Tapes were out of the question.
Then, I’d imagine, my next encounter with Johnston was on Yo La Tengo’s Genius + Love.
In what sounds like a phone conversation between the band in their studio and Johnston god-knows-where, the enigmatic singer/songwriter/artist/genius/madman sings his seminal “Speeding Motorcycle” to accompaniment of Ira’s guitar, and later organs and drums. Again, simplicity and magnitude. The song is actually quite small in terms of sonic punch. But the innocence in Johnston’s voice makes it a sweet tale of pain and love writ large.
Fast forward 10 years, and suddenly Johnston is everywhere I turn. There’s a documentary, The Devil and Daniel Johnston, due in theaters at the end of March.
There’s his upcoming appearance in the 2006 Whitney Biennial, also next month.
And there’s an article in the Art section of today’s New York Times on, well, all of this, but mostly concentrating on his rising art star.
I’m just glad to see someone like Johnston being embraced by a wider audience. I can’t wait to see the documentary, and hope to make it out for the biennial.
Johnston is the sort of prodigal being the world needs more of. Not to exploit or manipulate. No, not at all. But a figure through whose work we can better understand the insanity and beauty of what it means to be a human being on planet Earth.
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February 19th, 2006 at 2:50 pm
you write like a journalist. you have structure, theme and point. it’s lovely.
also, the only frenzied lunatics you hear yelping around here are usually drunk college kids visiting on vacation. it’s interesting that your city seems to acknowledge the “homeless” population’s presence. this city sweeps it under the rug with everything else that is not covered in glitter and dripping with sex.
February 19th, 2006 at 2:52 pm
many aspects of the “vagrant” population in SF IS covered in glitter and dripping with sex ;)
thank you for the compliments.
February 27th, 2006 at 2:34 pm
i think it’s great that you are pleased by daniel johnston’s rising stardom and seemingly suddon popularity. I’ve always found that when a reletively unknown personal joy (music, art, tv, literature) becomes accepted in the mainstream and is inevitably seen on t-shirts everywhere, I just get pissed off. not that I’d want to begrudge said musician, artist, show, author their props, it just seems that popularity makes them less desireable. and that’s a personality trait that I’ve always disliked in myself as well as other people. so good on you for celebrating his celebrity.
March 29th, 2006 at 2:07 pm
The good thing about Daniel Johnston getting famous is that he’s fat and fat people aren’t accepted as people anymore.
May 27th, 2006 at 8:27 am
[...] Friday began with a simple pastry breakfast in Somerville. Then a quick posting and off to South Station to catch the bus back to New York. Only thing I’ll say about this return trip is that I didn’t have to sit next to (and therefore, ingest the aural and olfactory pollution of) a Pringles-smacking kid. I finished reading Moyers on America: A Journalist and His Times. I’ve admired Moyers as long as I can remember, and his was the type of book I like reading in a head voice that doubles as the author’s accent (did the same with My Life, Clinton’s epic autobiography. Moyers on America is folksy, like all things Moyers, but it cuts deeply in its discussion of the importance of the news in any democracy. Moyers is at his Southern Baptist best when he gets pissed off, though. His vitriol is of the “damned lies” stripe. Kinda like if Grandpa were around and really smart and engaged. Landed in New York around 5 p.m. and made my way to Nolita to meet friends. Did some walking with them, some hanging out just outside the stores they dropped into, and started reading Profiles in Courage, by John F. Kennedy. I’m still in Kennedy’s somewhat exhaustive discourse about the nature of public service. John Quincy Adams is up as the first profile. Then for dinner, one of the main reasons for my excitement in coming to New York this trip: Mario Batatli’s Otto Pizzeria. We started with a glass of Roseta to cool us off from the balmy weather outside. We joked that it was more or less like a sophisticated Strawberry Hill. Then onto the grub: Batali’s famous Lardo in bruschetta form. It’s sliced thinly like cheese, and is, of course, delicious. Isn’t everything delicious with lard? Then onto pizza with prosciutto, mushrooms, and asparagus; mussels and garlic pasta; roasted beets; and olive oil gelato. The dinner wine was a 1999 Petit verdot, which was smoky, full-bodied, and smooth. Not to mention delicious and with a medium-high alcohol content. Overall, the entire experience was one of my all-time best. The atmosphere was classy but not pretentious or stuffy. We heard Neutral Milk Hotel, Michael Jackson, and other laissez-faire music. I was called “dude” and “young gentleman” by our waitress. The lighting was medium, the space was more than adequate (a miracle in any NYC eatery), and I had a great time. Up for day six: brunch at Enid’s, then on to various galleries in Chelsea and later, the Whitney for their biennial (and Daniel Johnston). Dinner is unknown, but will most likely make it into the day six post tomorrow. [...]