I feel weird about Internet writing.

I recently met someone who knew me through my online writing. When he shook my hand he said “Wow, I thought you’d be fatter and angrier.”

This is the best comment on my writing I think I’ve ever received. It stuck with me. I thanked him for saying it. Rereading some of my online writing I realize I come across like a fat, angry person.

Why am I fat? Why am I angry? Because my entire life I’ve wanted to “be somebody” in the literary world. I’ve wanted to “be discovered.” I’ve wanted to write a novel and get reviews in the New York Times and write essays and fiction for Harper’s and The New Yorker and the Atlantic. I’ve wanted to be a trusted, respected voice in literature.

I track this desire back to school. In school everyone sat in rows hunched over books adults made us read. Everyone read. I sat at my desk, shoulders curled over the books. I carried their weight in my backpack, reading and reading and reading, all the adults in my life rewarding me for reading more, writing more, and at “higher” levels.

Later on literature provided an opportunity for reflection and escape from anxiety. But while it might have been an opportunity for me it was also a ball and chain.

So my guess is that, to some degree, I want to write words that others would be forced to read and think and write about. I’ve hoped that someday my words would be what everyone around me would have to hunch over and study.

I wrote fiction at a very young age and submitted it to the magazines my parents had on their nightstands, the ones they respected the most.  I wrote a novel. I continue to try to get it published. I submit short stories. I write for online magazines. I do these things, to some degree, because if I get enough published and I become a writer I’ll finally have my revenge.

This is a hateful attitude towards literature. Somewhere deep down I actually hate it. And that hate comes out in my online writing, where–it seems–I come across as a fat and angry person.

So I haven’t been writing much online, particularly criticism. I feel weird about it. I’d like not to be a fat and angry person. I’d like to be less angry, at least, and then work on losing weight.

Not sure how, though.  Any thoughts?



Swink publishes first Facestories

Swink has published “Eight Facestories,” a selection of eight very short stories that I first wrote as status messages on Facebook. Thanks to Darcy Cosper for including these weird little pieces with the likes of Deborah Kay Davies and Yannick Murphy.

English translation of Gabriel Tarde’s ‘Monadology and Sociology’

I’m working on an English translation of Tarde’s Monadology and Sociology,  and the new issue of Eco-Gradients, out today, has my translation of Part 1. There’s also a music-text about Tarde’s concept of “Imitative Rays.”

Thanks to Blake Seidenshaw for all his work with the journal.

Reading the Credit Crisis: Securitization

One of TLC’s most popular songs in the 90′s was “Waterfalls.” The chorus is:

Don’t go chasing waterfalls/ please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to. /I know that you’re gonna have if your way or nothing at all/ but I think you’re moving too fast.

I thought of this song today while reading the Senate’s report on the credit crisis. Today I finally understood something about “securitization,” and I realized that the song’s chorus is pretty wise.

At first the report’s explanation of securitization is very, very confusing:

Securitization. To make home loans sales more efficient and profitable, banks began making increasing use of a mechanism now called securitization. In a securitization, a financial institution bundles a large number of home loans into a loan pool, and calculates the amount of mortgage payments that will be paid into that pool by the borrowers. The securitizer then forms a shell corporation or trust, often offshore, to hold the loan pool and use the mortgage revenue stream to support the creation of bonds that make payments to investors over time. Those bonds, which are registered with the SEC, are called residential mortgage backed securities (RMBS) and are typically sold in a public offering to investors.  (p.18)

This didn’t make much sense to me. I understand that homeowners take out loans from banks to pay for houses. I understand that some banks saw a potential profit in offering loans to people who might not be able to pay off that loan. But how do you bundle a home loan? What’s the function of the offshore trust? How do bonds make payments to investors? Finally, how could any of this be sold to anyone?

Later on, in the section about credit rating agencies and “structured finance,” the report offers helpful imagery. It talks about waterfalls.

Among the oldest types of structured finance products are RMBS securities. To create these securities, issuers–often working with investment banks–bundle large number of home loans into a pool, and calculate the revenue stream coming into the loan pool from the individual mortgages. They then design a “waterfall” that delivers a stream of revenues in sequential order to specified “tranches.” The first tranche is at the top of the waterfall and is typically the first to receive revenues from the mortgage pool. Since that tranche is guaranteed to be paid first, it is the safest investment in the pool. The issuer creates a security, often called a bond, linked to that first tranche…its revenue stream is the most secure. (p.28)

This is an image I can understand. Think of a waterfall. There’s a water source at the top of it, like a lake. The lake overflows and follows the contours of a slope downward, creating a stream. In some cases there’s a cliff and the water falls over it.

The beginning of the water is the top of the cliff. Just over the edge of the cliff, on the rock’s face, is a space between it and the waterfall. The waterfall gets that part of the cliff wet–and usually every other part of it, including the very bottom of the cliff.

That space is a tranche. The tranche at the top of the cliff gets wet. It’s chances of getting really wet are pretty good since it’s at the source of the water. The tranche at the bottom gets has the least chance of getting wet since it’s farthest from the source. And all the tranches in between the top and bottom have certain likelihoods of getting wet accordingly.

This is all an analogy for securitization. Getting back to the homeowners, they pay a mortgage to their bank, which takes a profit. That movement or action–a bunch of people paying mortgages–can be “bundled” together and sold for a profit. The profit made from this sale is based on how much the people pay into their mortgages and how reliably they do so. If you want to, you could derive your own profit from these habits. This is a derivative, I think.

Back to the waterfall analogy. Imagine a bundle of homeowners and their payment habits. Their money sitting in the bank is like a lake of water. If you want to, you can go to that lake, chop a big hole in the side of it, and watch the water flow out. This is creates a derivatives market, because now people can make or lose money depending on whether or not the people living in the houses pay or don’t pay their mortgages.

But how do we know they’re going to pay? How can we be sure that we’ll make money from them?

Imagine the mortgage-payments flowing downward like a stream over a cliff. There’s a waterfall now. Since certain tranches are more likely to “get wet” (tap into the flow of profit), securitizers set up bonds. The word “bond” makes sense, I guess, since the securitizers are linking investors to the profit flow.

The word “security” makes sense, too. In a derivatives market, it’s hard to know whether you’ll make or lose money on someone else making or losing money. But if I buy a security in the form of a bond, that means I know, with a degree of certainty, that I will make money.  I feel secure that money will come in.

There are lot of different kinds of derivatives markets, I guess, all with their own securities markets. Pretty much any behavior that involves buying and selling can be securitized: corn, computers, petroleum, etc. This includes mortgages.

So what do securitizers do?

They sell a sense of certainty about making money from other people who make and lose money. Specifically, related to the credit crisis, RMBS securitizers sell a sense of certainty about making money off the mortgage paying habits of people living in houses.

Before the credit crisis, people securitized a lot and did it really fast. So TLC (whose name, ironically, also stands for Tender Love and Care) was right. One lesson in all of this is: don’t go chasing waterfalls.

DISCUSSION

I get the feeling that most structured financial products are just ways to make money when other people are making or losing money. This is why, before the 1970s, securities markets were taboo. It was too much like gambling. It’s like going to a horse race and betting on whether or not a certain horse will win.

But then two economists, Fisher Black and Myron Scholes, invented a formula called Black-Scholes that made it possible to know with greater certainty whether or not you could make or money when someone else was losing or making money.

Black and Scholes won the Nobel prize in economics for that formula in 1997. It sounds bad at first, but the report says that securities markets like RMBS were actually good business until some banks like Washington Mutual realized they could make a lot of money selling subprime loans. (Remember ‘subprime’ just means ‘bad’.) Imagine a horse that was supposed to be terrible coming from behind and winning the race. If you had a gadget that could calculate with a degree of certainty that such a horse would win, you’d probably use it to bet on the horse the gadget told you. You could make a lot of money, particularly if the horse was a bad horse.

The same thing happened for subprime loans.  These were high-risk and had the potential to make more money if the homeowners beat the odds set against them and paid off their mortgages.

The credit agencies saw that they could make money by giving the subprime loans good credit ratings, and the investment bankers saw they could charge high prices for securitizing large bundles of these loans for investors. The riskiness made it all very profitable.

In my attempt to understand why the financial crisis happened–why some people hurt other people to make money–this helps a lot. Black-Scholes and the securitization process makes it clearer to me.

Losing money hurts most people. We work and work and save and save so we can make a better life for ourselves and our families. This is particularly true with houses. We want nice places to live and raise children. When we lose money, it’s harder to make a better life for ourselves and our families because we can’t afford a nice place to live. Since making a good life for ourselves and the people we love one purpose of livinge, it can be really hurtful when that doesn’t happen.

Securitization, particularly in the last few years, became a business where people know–with certainty–how to make money when other people lose it. Another way of saying this is: sometimes when you securitize you’re profiting from other people’s hurt.

 

Reading The Senate Report On The Financial Crisis

I’ve been reading Senator Carl Levin et al.’s report on the financial crisis recently in an attempt to figure out what happened and what’s happening in financial capitalism. These reports are becoming more and more important, so I thought I’d share a few general ideas I’ve learned so far if anyone else is interested.

The general ideas are: (1) There isn’t one person we can blame. Many different kinds of people are involved; (2) Policymakers made it okay for banks to become big businesses; (3) Some companies treat their clients like enemies; (4)  Some banks take advantage of people who want to live in houses; (5) ”Subprime” just means “bad,” and some companies sold bad stuff on purpose.

1) There isn’t one person we can blame. Many different kinds of people are involved. These include investment banks like Goldman Sachs, lending banks like Washington Mutual, borrowers like you and me, federal economic policymakers, and credit rating agencies like Standard & Poor’s.

Robert Reich recently badmouthed the report in the New York Times Book Review for not blaming one person or entity. I’ve wanted to place blame on a single entity also, but the report is clear: many kinds of people are at fault. The reasons they’re all at fault may be similar in some profound way (greed, short-term thinking, lack of education and communication, etc) but the mechanics behind each entity’s role in the crisis is unique. It’s too complex to blame one person or company.

2) Policymakers made it okay for banks to become big businesses. Before the 1990s there were mostly small, local banks. Large national banks and lenders are new things. The government allowed banks to grow in size and cross state boundaries.

“Until relatively recently, federal and state laws limited federally-chartered banks from branching across state lines. Instead, as late as the 1990s, U.S. banking consisted primarily of thousands of modest sized banks tied to local communities…In 1994, for the first time, Congress explicitly authorized interstate banking, which allowed federally-chartered banks to open branches more easily than before…These and other steps paved the way, over the course of little more than the last decade, for a relatively small number of U.S. banks and broker-dealers to become giant financial conglomerates.” (p.15-16)

The financial crisis didn’t stop this trend, either:

“By the end of 2008, Bank of America had purchased Countrywide and Merrill Lynch; Wells Fargo had acquired Wachovia Bank; and JP Morgan had purchased Washington Mutual and Bear Stearns, creating the largest banks in U.S. history. By early 2009, each controlled more than 10% of all U.S. deposits.” (p.16-17)

3) Some companies treat their clients like enemies. In the last twenty years, large financial institutions like investment banks and lenders did more “proprietary trading.” This is where a company thinks about it’s own profit independently from the profit of the people it serves (its clients).

“Over the last ten years…some firms began referring to their clients, not as customers, but as counterparties.” (p.17)

Institutions involved in the financial crisis set up situations where they wanted  their clients to do poorly. If their clients lost money according to these situations, they made more.

4) Some banks take advantage of people who want to live in houses. As banks got larger and were allowed to make more money, they found ways to keep getting bigger and keep making more money. One way was to let people who want to live in houses take out big loans even though it was unlikely that they could pay those loans back.

“When borrowers took out larger loans, the mortgage broker typically profited from higher fees and commissions; the lender profited from higher fees and a better price for the loan on the secondary market; and Wall Street firms profits from a larger revenue stream to support bigger pools of mortgage backed securities.” (20)

A lot of people want to live in houses. A lot of these people don’t save a lot and don’t know much about finance. Borrowers, brokers, and banks let these people take out huge, high-risk loans to make more money. “Higher risk loans grew from about 19% to about 55%” and “lenders employed few compensation incentives to encourage loan officers or loan processors to produce high quality, creditworthy loans in line with the lender’s credit requirements.” (p.25)

5) “Subprime” just means “bad,” and a lot of companies sold bad stuff on purpose. If a loan is high-risk then that means it’s likely you’re going to get in trouble if you take it.  It means you won’t be able to pay it off and you’ll go into a lot of debt. It’s bad. Everyone involved in the credit crisis encouraged borrowers to take these kinds of loans, which are called “subprime.” Then other people manipulated the high-riskiness of the loans to make more money.  It was profitable to sell bad stuff. In fact, what made the stuff profitable was that it was bad.

I’m trying to be as fair as possible here. I don’t want to make any generalizations that are violent, sarcastic, ironic, or unjust.  I just want to understand why there are some people that choose to hurt other people to make more money for themselves. It seems like this report is a good case study.

Two comments I’m proud of.

I wrote the following comments recently. I’m proud of them.

IN RESPONSE TO THE AWL’S BOOK DISCUSSION ABOUT The Valley of the Dolls

Thanks so much for doing this. I love this book. I recently found a copy of it on the street in Brooklyn. I love it for a few reasons that I think address the first of your questions above. The first is genderized. After the VITA stats came out I looked at my bookshelf and counted the number of female authors there. It was 4 out of 65. That’s a clear injustice. So I decided to limit myself to only female authors. (I actually considered publicly boycotting DFW’s “The Pale King” for this reason. I’m doing it privately and I guess this makes it public.) When I found “Valley of the Dolls” I reveled in its critique of gender. The book stands as a monument to the terror of patriarchy and I’m pretty sure its entire genre does also, along with Peyton Place and others. These books must be re-read with this in mind. The second reason I love this book is political-economic. “Valley of the Dolls” might be the best literary critique of late capitalism I’ve ever read. About 20 pages into it I realized that the women in the story are just human beings and the men are capitalism incarnate. Reading it that way, the book provides a unique window into what our economic system does to personal relationships: every conversation is about contractual security and material gain, every sexual act is rape, and the only way to survive it tolerably is by addiction to pharmaceutical products. It echoes “Infinite Jest” in this way. For this reason–its critique of capitalism–the book deserves a lot of serious critical attention. I think Susann was aware of this facet of her work, but obviously–just judging from the way the book was marketed when it came out–nobody really understood what she was talking about. (The back cover of my edition introduces Susann by saying “This is the Doll that wrote ‘Valley of the Dolls’!” I think they missed the point.) Finally, as you’ve mentioned above, the book is well-written, compelling, and just plain riveting. It’s sexy, real, and heart-wrenching. My favorite scene is when Tony Polar shows up in the mental institution. I’m haunted by that still. It’s the only literary image that’s made me want to learn to paint just so I could paint what happens in my head in that scene. As to your other questions about celebrities, I’m not sure. I’d rather want to talk about how this book is really a statement about how we all relate to one another, particularly in New York City, the beating heart of the global hegemon. The book begs us to ask if we see ourselves and each other as commodities, as things that are bought and sold, or if we see one another as beings that deserve love and respect. Anne’s story is a tragedy for me. She comes to New York to escape the traditions of her small town, much like the founders of our nation under monarchy, looking for freedom and a good life. But better than the founding “fathers” Anne looks for love, which is different–dare I say better–than independence and private property. What does she find? A byzantine concrete jungle of humans distorting one another. And she falls prey to it, trying to “buy” Lyon’s love (which she could never have had even if she didn’t try to buy it) thereby succumbing, body and soul, to the inexorable force of late capitalism, of which Lyon is a perfect avatar. All she can do is take her pills and waste away. It brings me to tears just thinking about it. This is why I consider “Valley” a great American novel: it tells our country’s story perfectly. Is this how anyone read the book? I’m sorry to rant like this. I felt like the only person that was rereading it, so I’m ecstatic that you chose it for the book club.

IN RESPONSE TO TAO LIN’S ESSAY IN THE OBSERVER

i was talking to a friend about the stuff i blog recently and he rolled his eyes and asked me “why don’t you use that time to finish your second novel?” i still don’t have a good answer. he made me nervous because i spend so much time linking, blogging, tweeting, commenting, and not noveling. i wonder if these are a different kind of connectedness though. maybe. i think they can be done well, but it’s unclear if they get at the “noumena” mentioned here. maybe they do. i think so. maybe not. i don’t know. i think i’ve connected with tweets and blogposts and comments on essays and i think others have been in rhythm with my interiority from what are called “distractions” here. i wonder if the alphabet is the only way to compose a novel. like i wonder if being a good and peaceful person every day and just living and not writing anything could constitute a novel if one includes conversation (of any kind, maybe being is conversation) among the things that one does in this good and peaceful life. i don’t know. i think i’m beginning to distrust words and reading and “literacy.” i had the thought last week that part of the reason i read so much is that i hate reading deeply. that i just want to be read, and so i read and read and read and write and write and write just so others will read me in this kind of cycle of spiteful suffering. like when Allen Tate asks us to sit down at our hornet’s nests and love the people to whom we write–to commune, not communicate–do we really do this? am i really communing when i sit at my computer or my iphone and type type type all this alphabetic text? or am i communicating? am i commoditizing myself? do i just want to sell myself on a market of literary acceptance where wealth is measured not by my bank account but by hits counts and Google references and links and mentions and tweets containing my name? am i just an entrepreneur of myself? am i really committed to loving with my words? honestly i can’t tell. and i’m talking about myself and others here. maybe Tao Lin too, but not really. i think Tao Lin asks these questions with his writing as opposed to merely participating in the collective that blindly perpetuates them. this might be why people react so negatively to him: he’s reflecting something about themselves that they might not like so much. i don’t know. like for example i think this essay is communal, like in Tate’s sense. it’s communes. it doesn’t communicate. which is nice. there’s real love in it. especially the last paragraph. and i think people can feel that. it made me think about my own writing and whether or not i spend enough time loving or if i just sit down at this electronic hornet’s nest and hate. i don’t know. in any case, thanks. despite all the vitriol i’ve written and read and thought about in the literary world i think we should thank anyone that tries to do anything that counts as art under any definition of art. criticism could then just be one word “thanks.” so thanks.

Watering The Fires

Eric Beeny and I met on an HTML Giant comment stream connected in part to a review I wrote of Shane Jones’s “Light Boxes.” He sympathasized with a sentiment I expressed in that review that a certain set of contemporary writers in my peer group, or the one just above mine, don’t engage in politics. I said their writing evinces a disconnected, vague, and imagistic tendency towards narcissism. Eric was much subtler about this than I was and am.

We traded a few emails to this effect, wherein he expressed an understanding of literature that I can only describe as soothing and educational. I still get angry when literature doesn’t do something actively for the world it finds, but this anger has tempered somewhat since I corresponded with Beeny (and found this great little post about celebrating anyone who refuses to sell themselves to the machine). Even the most narcissistic writers provide space for a modicum of perspective, he implied, making any literature at least a little political–even Jones’s.

It makes me wonder at this writing–a review of one of Beeny’s many books– whether political writing is just a matter of preference, or if there is some ‘ought’ in the ‘is’ when it comes to reading and writing. Whether being literary entails an imperative like: write about the world dammit, try and make it a better place asshole, don’t enjoy the smell of your MFA-tinged farts so much that you forget the human traffickers, lynchers, and dirty CEOs! Or something like that.

We should at least ask the question: Are we obligated to write political literature, or is political writing just another habit or interest? Is it like flavors of ice cream, rug color, or genre? Or are we doing the wrong thing if we don’t write with an eye toward making the best society?

I don’t know. But I was glad to meet Eric, who spoke to this question elegantly, and I was excited when he forwarded me the link to an online collection of his poems called “Watering the Fires” for me to read and write something about.

Funnily enough the poems belie the motherly element in Eric’s correspondence. He holds a fire to the world in them. There’s anger, fingerpointing, sarcasm, accusation, and all manner of doubt: doubt of self, doubt of country, doubt of pen, doubt of city, doubt of law, etc. It’s engaged enough to not be narcissistic, spare and clear enough not to be thalic, and direct enough to be pragmatic.

By themselves the poems can feel a little corny. I’ve never really known what that metaphor means. I think it means that something is so much itself it lacks irony–still not sure what corn has to do with it–but if anything Beeny’s poems sometimes lack the glow that comes from irony (something is ironic if, in some sense, it’s not what it is and is what it isn’t–or at the very least it robs what it talks about of its reality). But then calling something corny is just calling it genuine. And these poems are genuine.

At their best, the poems are, in fact, highly ironic. They hit me in the stomach in all the right ways. Here’s my favorite, “Wal-mart Families for Friendly Fire,” quoted entirely, for example:

Letting your children join the armed forces,
you might as well hold the hunting rifle yourself,
shove them off into the woods

while you chase after their memories
pumping round after blind round
practically sawing trees in half

and if even you hit one you couldn’t
hear a scream from that far away

and like when you did all your shopping
at discount department store chains
you’d pick a designated rendezvous point

so when whoever makes it out alive
comes back you can say,
Oh, thank God . . . I missed you.

Yes. Just: yes. The image at the front makes me sweat and then the middle carries me through to the end that kicks me where I must be kicked. Squarely in the moral-literary ass. (See “Kyoto Hearing Aids” for another one like this but about climate change.) And what about this line damning brand-marketing from a poem called “Parole Hearing with a reformed Charles Manson”:

Ever try reading a flashlight’s name
brand in the dark?

Oh yes. This is like the problem of the eye never seeing itself but translated into the black hole of vapid capitalist consumption. I’m definitely going to quote this aloud at some point.

But there are some corny lines, like the last stanza of “Inspector Gadget’s Erection”:

though I’m anyway too aroused by the octopus
arms I’ve welded to my psyche,
so whenever you reach to unzip your fly
that means my night-stick is gun-shy.

The phrasing here loses perspective and pushes me out. It breaks down and sounds more like mediocre slam poetry. Though I’m inclined to like the poem just because of it’s first line: “it must be real hard.”

I’m also inclined to like this chapbook a lot and recommend it. It leaves me wondering: what’s going on in political fiction and poetry right now?

At a poorly attended AWP panel on political poetry this year, one small-voiced MFA student asked this same question. She said she wrote political poems and that her classmates and professors bashed them and told her not to write “those kinds of poems” anymore because they’d never get published.

Is that the way it is? Are writers trying to make a living by their writing more than they’re trying to make life by their writing? When I went to the AWP I was shocked at how much it felt like a trade fair. A job search. A place to sell widgets. William Pitt, at that very panel on political poetry, sat behind a Marriott fold-out table with an awkward floral print tablecloth and spoke into a microphone, just as I’m sure any number of military-industrial leaders have.

Am I being unreasonable? Don’t we have an obligation as artist-citizens of the most offensive cultural empire this side of the 20th century to use our talents to point beautiful, un-ignorable fingers at the various interests bent on consuming life on earth to death?

The answer these questions is probably yes. And “Watering the Fires” is an excellent occasion to ask them again.

> Language > Place

The “blog carnival” is a curated series of links to blog posts related to a theme. This is a new way to present literature: create an emergent literary journal without creating a new website by linking and re-presenting posts that have already been published on personal blogs.  Dorothee Lang et al have organized one such carnival for the themes of language and place, and they’ve included in their fifth edition (hosted by Parmanu) a post from this blog containing a debate about my original translation of Lorca’s “Poet in New York.”

Photos from Blake Butler’s Reading

Blake Butler’s There Is No Year is coming out soon from HarperPerennial. The publisher hosted an event with vol1brooklyn at Franklin Park in Brooklyn a few weeks ago, which I attended. The Harper and HTML Giant crews united and read all of Butler’s book aloud that week.

I took the following photos on the first day.

giancarlo ditrapano, of NY Tyrant.

justin taylor, whose novel The Gospel of Anarchy came out recently with good reception, and that I reviewed both here and at Full Stop.

cal morgan, publisher/editor at Harper and editor of 52 Stories.

another reader. ben greenman, i think.

another reader. not sure who it is.

blake butler. For more on the book, check out his site. i particularly like Michael Miller’s recent essay in the Observer.

A Mandolin’s Divorce: Regarding Chris Thile @ Le Poussain Rouge

There’s no question Chris Thile is a superman: his talents transcend those of any human. But as we know from the history of musical genius from Mozart to Cobain, transcendence has its costs. So as a Thile fan I want to put aside compliments–many as they may be–and say what I really think about the show he played recently at Le Poussain Rouge.

Thile’s mandolin playing overflowed his mandolin. The mandolin almost couldn’t contain his own playing of her. (I’m genderizing the pronoun when referring to the mandolin, referring to “it” as “her.” You’ll see why.)

Thile’s a mandolin player. Probably the best. But his fanatical playing made the mandolin complain. She sounded like she was starting to feel uncomfortable, beginning to think she couldn’t do what he wanted to do with her. It felt almost schizophrenic. It’s obvious Thile loves the instrument. But he seemed also to hate the mandolin in his almost outrageous expectations of her. He seemed to hate her because of what he wanted to do with her as a mandolin player. It seemed like he wanted to break her limits. His playing sounded violent. But again, I don’t think Thile hates the mandolin. That’s absurd. He must love her so much that he pushes her beyond what she’s comfortable doing. So it might be tragic love, or lust, but I can’t be sure.

Whether it was love or lust or hate or all of them, the mandolin sounded at times like she’d almost had enough of him. I’m thinking of the instrumental parts of Thile’s set, particularly a stretch of Bach that he played after covering Of Montreal’s  ”Gronlandic Edit.” It sounded like the mandolin wanted badly to keep up with Thile, actually enjoyed his force and wanted to go where he wanted to go with her, but started second-guessing herself. Like she knew what Thile wanted to do with her and wanted to do it with him, wanted him to have it, and gave it to him, but became exhausted in so doing. It sounded, at the limits, like she was dropping him hints: I’m getting tired, honey. I can’t keep doing this, baby. I want you, I love you, but this–I’m just not that way. She fretted and grieved–never protesting, but distinctly cautioning him: this might be too much for us.

So it wasn’t quite tragic. If the mandolin had given up on him–if the intensity of his love for her forced her away from him–then it would’ve been tragic. But she didn’t give up on him. This is just a little thing I saw at the edges of the performance. In the margins of the songs. In the weird space he created around himself on the stage, as if the spotlight demarcated his world from that of the human–his passion from reasonable intimacy.

Like I said before, he’s exceptional. But something about the performance made me think, “Take it easy.”

Having heard a little about Thile’s personal life I might caution him–apprehensively of course, I don’t know him at all–that continuing on this path may give the mandolin no other option than divorce. She won’t want to leave him. She loves him. But she might have no other choice.

This isn’t inevitable. Thile can avoid full-out tragedy. He’s at an impasse, I think. If I were a marriage counselor in this situation–which I’m not, I’m just a blogger that likes folk music–I’d recommend Thile spend some time with his voice. It’s not that he sings poorly, but if he (re)considered his voice with the same ferocity he’s given to his mandolin playing, it might provide some balance and help sustain his relationship with the mandolin.

Thile’s voice is innocently and mechanically pure, maybe in need of a (de)tune-up. Personally, I want it gruffer. Realer. Dirtier.  So far as I know his work–with Nickel Creek, at least, until now with the Punch Brothers–his singing has stayed relatively the same while his mandolin playing has made huge leaps and bounds. Maybe it’s time for a change.

As a fan I’d be curious to see what would happen. Dylan styled his voice intentionally, drawing inspiration from the traditionally “atonal” vein of old-timey folk music. This is an aspect of American folk that Thile’s revival of Newgrass Revival patently ignores, I realize. This is just one possible route for his vocal reconsideration.

Roscoe Holcomb, Bascom Lamar Lunsford, Hobart Smith and others like them sang not to be in tune with anything other than themselves, sounding “out of tune” to contemporary mainstream listeners. Like when a friend of mine recently described a folk singer as “Dylan if Dylan could sing.” It’s not that Dylan–or the rich tradition of definitively American vocalists that influenced him–couldn’t sing, it’s that they refused (or just so happened to refuse) to be in tune with other people or their own instruments. They sang themselves.

This is why it might be helpful, or even necessary, for Thile to reconsider his voice and its sound viz. the mandolin: it could relieve the pressure he puts on her, an instrument, by refocusing his energies on the music coming from his own body. Might be more balanced.

All this might be a roundabout way of explaining why a friend I went to the concert with said she was glad when Gabe Kahane sang a few songs after Thile’s performance. I had to agree. It was a relief to hear a voice other than Thile’s, which is a shame because he’s so impressive.

What I’ve said here is probably false, overly abstract, and stupidly psychoanalytic. But I can’t ignore the sensation that Thile’s concert was disconcerting. So I’ll stick to my point and conclude.

Like the Phoenix character in X-Men whose body lives in space and time but whose superpower destroys all bodies in space and time, Thile’s great power over the mandolin–his love for her–threatens to eventually destroy their relationship. This marriage is far from over–Thile is a master and his instrument more than willing to follow him–but I heard tragedy brewing in their music.

If any reader cares to comment on my own attempts to put these ideas into practice (in my small, limited, and human way–I don’t mean to compare myself at all to Thile), see the “Old-timey Songs” list on my “music” page. I’m happy to converse.