New York Guitar Festival, Thursday January 21st 2010. Justin Vernon, Chris Rosenau, Steve Kimock perform Silent Film/Live Guitars

The New York Guitar Festival went off without a hitch this past Thursday night at the Kaufman Center in New York City. In its second week the festival proved to hold its vitality: selling out the Merkin Concert Hall forSteve Kimock and Justin Vernon’s performance of Silent Films/Live Guitars.

This specific performance stood apart from the rest of the three week long festival. Previews speculated that may be because of Justin Vernon and Steve Kimock’s performances. Justin Vernon, as most of contemporary music followers know by now, is the man behind Bon Iver, whose album For Emma Forever Ago garnished respect from the indie-folk world in 2008. Added to that excitement, was Steve Kimock, founder of the San Francisco band Zero and famed for having played alongside some of music’s most recognized guitarists as Bruce Hornsby and The Grateful Dead.

It seemed both performers were offered a +1 for the evening’s scores. Justin Vernon was accompanied by his band mate fromVolcano Choir and long time friend Chris Rosenau. Chris Rosenau has been referred to by Justin as his “guitar mentor”, rightfully so; Chris’s participation in his band Collections of Colonies of Beesproves his dubbed title.

Steve Kimock kept it in the family, performing with his son John Morgan Kimock. John played the drums right alongside his father for the whimsical score set to Buster Keaton’s Cops.

The show began shortly after 8 p.m.; John Schaefer (WNYC’s New Sounds presenter) set the tone, approaching the stage in jeans and with a bountiful smile. He announced Steve Kimock’s legacy and scurried through the small talk. Steve Kimock and his youthful son quickly began. The movie scrolled onto the screen; Steve and John scored Buster Keaton’s Cops with fragility and euphemism. The movie, a short one, spanning only 18 minutes, which one would imagine for the musicians is quite a long time. That certainly tops “Free Bird” for time played straight through on one song!  

The Kimock’s thanked the audience and then was relieved by Chris Rosenau and Justin Vernon. Rosenau, a guitar perfectionist, made absolutely sure all his guitars were in perfect tune. Even making a verbal note, that he had tuned that same guitar multiple times through the day; it had to be just right. Once the motions came indicating both musicians were in tune and ready to rock — the first movie began, Easy Street.This performance was different. It wasn’t just a concert.  I say that in part to the collaboration of its entire meaning, Silent Films/Live Guitars.

Charlie Chaplin’s films have never before produced to an audience with music of this caliber. So to witness such scenes from 1917, filmed in the poorest, most desolate area’s of town,really began to put the movie into more of a dramatic perspective. Chaplin’s shtick is comedy,  that is how he is foremost remembered. But what I feel not many understand is the seriousness being portrayed through these films. I feel the scores written for these performances, brought out the emotion ultimately through the music.

These films, once most utterly one dimensional, are now breathing, causing laughter and soliciting nostalgia at its best. The final movie Vernon and Rosenau performed to was One A.M., unto which Justin Vernon upon trying to briefly describe its synopsis, simply said “Not unlike many nights we’ve known, you’ll see…”

The film spanned 34 minutes of Charlie Chaplin almost entirely solo, in a room of malevolent props from which his inebriation keep him nomadically arguing with.Quirky and comical the scores set to each of these films were as majestic and unique as promised. The dignity that has been portrayed through these performances set to Charlie Chaplin’s classic films will be as time-honored as the films themselves.   

Photography: Greg Notch

I did get a wonderful chance to sit down and chat with Chris Rosenau about the New York Guitar Festival prior to their performance Thursday night:

How did the opportunity to play New York Guitar Festival come to you? Was it first approached to Justin Vernon and he invited you along?

Yes that’s exactly how it came about actually! They approached him almost a year ago. He wasn’t super into the idea of doing it himself, but he really thought it would be fun to do with someone, so he emailed me right away and asked if I’d be into it. Of course, I was. We super into the idea, and this was right before we started watching Charlie Chaplin movies, like assuming that it would be really easy to do, and it turned out to be not very easy.

The influence of instrumentals is popularly evident throughout both you and Justin’s music, both with Volcano Choir and Collection of Colonies of Bees. So it would seem that an opportunity like this Silent Films/Live Guitars is absolutely perfect for the both of you.  

I think conceptually it was to me as it is to him. There was a matter of three months in there when the both of us were like pulling our hair out, thinking, like what the hell have we gotten ourselves into.

Now it states that Justin Vernon refers to you as his “Guitar Mentor.” How did that come about?

 

 

 

Ya know, I have no idea, I know Justin, and we kind of met because his former band DeYarmond Edison was really into a record that my band Collections of Colonies of Bees had done called Customer, and I know those guys were just  bananas for that record for whatever reason. He digs the way that I play and it’s just really nice that he calls me that. I am super flattered, and I don’t know that many people know this about him, because For Emma is genius but it doesn’t have a lot of technical guitar stuff on it, or whatever you want to call it, ya know what I mean?

Right it’s very simple.

It’s misleadingly simple, and there are a lot of complex things going on with melodies, and he’s really just an amazing guitar player.

The New York Guitar Festival and its performers were most spectacular and certainly respected for this wonderful presentation. David Spelman, curator of the Festival deserves many thanks for the creativity and talent that has brought about such a historical performance.

New York Guitar Festival Celebrates 10th Anniversary with Rare Performance

The annual New York Guitar Festival, now in its second week, is marking its tenth anniversary of deluging New York and its neighbors with original, illuminating musical performances. And this year’s event promises something abundantly special for guitar enthusiasts and general festivalgoers alike.

Celebrated NYGF curator David Spelman is highly regarded and recognized for his efforts in bringing together classic and innovative musical collaborations. This year he offers a brilliant and original performance of Charlie Chaplin’s most renowned silent films, entitledSilent Films/Live Guitars, in which the movies are brought to life by some of the most talented and creative guitarists around.

On Thursday, January 21, New York City will have an amazing opportunity to witness the acclaimed Justin Vernon, better known under the moniker of Bon Iver. With his album,For Emma Forever Ago, Vernon became an international folk icon while solidifying his reputation as one of contemporary music’s most appreciated guitarists. Accompanying Vernon in performing the scores of Chaplin’s short films “One A.M.” and “Easy Street” will be fellow musician and long-time “guitar-mentor” Chris Rosenau. Both men collaborated last year in forming the band Volcano Choir.

As if this star-studded event couldn’t get any better, Thursday’s performance will also includeSteve Kimock, who is slated to play to the Buster Keaton short, “Cops.” Best known as co-founder and guitarist for the San Francisco band Zero, Kimock has recorded and performed with the likes of Bruce Hornsby as well as with members of the Grateful Dead. In fact, Jerry Garcia once hailed him as his favorite guitarist.

This elaborate performance will take place at the Merkin Concert Hall, at 8 p.m.

Since 1999 the New York Guitar Festival has been broadening the public’s appreciation and fondness of the guitar while fostering emerging talent through its landscapes. The NYGF is a not-for-profit arts organization that has, every year since its inception a decade ago, produced innovative, eclectic concerts and radio broadcasts. The festival has garnered no shortage of praise, earning features in such publications as The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and Jazz Times.

For more information on The New York Guitar Festival, and concert schedule please visitwww.newyorkguitarfestival.org.

Published Via: Blogcritics.org

Selfless

Sitting amongst the silence, and between the empty sheets. I keep my eyes occupied, and my thoughts wandering.

Now that everything has perceivably changed, what am I supposed to do?

What exactly should I keep my thoughts dialed into, when there isn't you to think about?

Since now, now I have done exactly what I had tried to keep myself from doing for so long. 

I tried to keep myself from feeling exactly, nothing, but nothing at all. 

There is this constant fight I don't feel I will ever truly know the answer to. 

Is it easier to be empty, or to be hurt? 

To feel nothing at all, as opposed to longing. 

When those feelings of inadequacy are the only ones that you know are real. 

And trying to find an avenue to channel them is the hardest part of my day.

A portion of my summer I concluded in the discovery that I was happier empty, than hurt. 

It truly felt better to feel voided of nothing, than to feel voided of everything painful. 

Then that preconceived consummation changed, it morphed, or adapted. 

Then I started to believe that emptiness was longing, it was longing to feel something. 

All I wanted was to feel anything, but I had drove myself so far, so deep down into my own shell, that it was nearly impossible.

Impossible all but for one small human being existing on this earth, that could change all of that. 

So I pressured my way through, I locked myself inside rooms, drove out to the middle of no where and proceeded to enjoy my silence.

As I knew it, I was killing myself. 

The self I thought I was trying to find, the person that for many years was locked behind doors, was not being let out. 

That person, was just sitting in the middle of the living room floor, covered by a mask. 

What is worse, is I lied. I lied to myself, and I lied to everyone else. 

I am not strong, and I do cry. 

Despite what my notions at times may prove, I am human.

And I tried like hell to prove that I wasn't. Because humans' feel, and I didn't want to feel.

I wanted one thing, and one thing only. 

And he was unavailable, at any length of communication, completely, and utterly unavailable.

Now that this time has gone on, and most everything has changed dramatically. 

Closure has finally been sought, and I sit here trying to find something else to boggle my mind. 

Something else but him.

Because that was not healthy, as much as I assumed that it was the only thing there was to do. 

Alas, it was not. I understand this now, but accepting it is going to be the hardest venture. 

Now what do I do, who do I think about, what do I long for? 

Am I back at square one, sitting alone on a desert floor board in the middle June. Hiding away under padlock and splinter?

I guess this is just the beginning, as last year was the beginning to a long and drawn out year of mistaken emotions. 

This is the beginning of the out process, for good, and for last this time. No fake outs. 

Just the finale. 

Maybe my mind will clear up for other things. 

ahhh, but what? 

An intermission

Unintentionally, or intentionally it has all come around. Nothing I wanted to hear, but certainly what I needed to. What I have been waiting a full year to say, to hear, and to feel- has been delt. Now there is nothing, no air to clear, no closure to speak of. The lesson, I am afraid has finally been learned. 

Sometimes when I can't find my own words to say, I have to take someone else's.

Because someone has always as said it better once before. 
 

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“Do you really want to start this?”

There is a piece of him in everything I write, there is a piece of him in every small portion of every one of my days. And ever since that first moment our eyes locked upon a rugged night in Boston, I will never be able to let this go, I will never be able to forget what this feels like…Longing. 

With our arms weaved around each other's bodies, and our hands placed simultaneously on each other's hearts, racing. We lay stretched across an un-sheeted bed, a simple blanket to warm us, but we're sweating. Your head directs to the left, and mine to the right, sharing the same pillow. A shy piece of moon light comes in through the window blinds, illuminating our darkened eyes. We're both scared, but neither one of us will ever admit to it. Your eyes grace mine, and I caught my breath from exhaling, not nearly soon enough. You take your hand from the grip that you had firmly placed on my chest, and with a sliver of sincerity you had me in love with everything, all over again. You take your fingers and graze them across my forehead, brushing the hair from my glazing eyes. Pushing away any doubts that I had for only that one moment, but it was the longest we've shared. You stare into me, deeper than I remember you ever have before. This was different, this was comfort wrapped in fear. It was glitter covering my pupils, dilated. I didn't want to blink, I didn't want to take this away. For fear, that ever pressing terror, the fantasy of something so real, could actually be attainable, might end. We danced across the mattress for hours, covering every inch of each others skin in fabricated love. It wasn't ever like it's been before, it was different. This was to him, what it had been for me, for days– covered in months, all of a sudden a year has passed, and we are still laying amongst each others presence, offering nothing but giving everything. I under your arm, with you wrapping your body around me, tighter, and tighter our grip grew. Neither one of us could let go, because admitting defeat is only for the morning, and we still had hours to go. Sleep is unnecessary in the nights we share, it's wasted time. Because the time we get is simple, and complicated, it's comfortable and frivolous. He may never know just how much he consumes me, he may never know the truth, because I am too cowardice to confess my affections in words. So I will pull apart the blankets, and lay naked in his arms. Ever pressing fear of the sun light awakening us from our fantasy, our reality is only moments away. And I will keep the countdown till the next lonely night he decides to call upon me for a massacre. Until then, I will drown, I will drove myself in a love that is only kept within myself, within a sheet of skin soaked in memories of lacking history. Months will prove destiny more, and more, I will give of myself. Less and less he will take. 

He offers me nothing, nothing but a diary of love. Skinny, Love. 

Window

I peer out the window, staring past the etchings’ that mean nothing,
but everything at the same time. The yellow glow of winter illuminates
this side of the state as we cross the border to the northern most
eastern coast of where I am. My eyes used as a photo lens, from manual
to auto– focusing back and forth from the outside, and to the
condensation.

My youth gets the best of me as I use my index finger to paint a
portrait of my emotions on the glass. Blood Bank, Re:Stacks, The
Wolves, cover the inside of the pane. I keep myself occupied in these
measures, exercising my infancy in the back seat of a mini-van.

Its dark now, and nature seems to have won this new year. Its white,
and mellow orange, the only variations of light tones I see.
Headlights, and antique street lights cover the highway. No need to
rush on a night like this, we are not in any hurry. The roads are
covered in mistakes, and I only feel comfortable with where I sit. It
takes a strong sense of geniality to see past this window. In which I
am unsure I process, but I am certain it’s out there. So I will keep
looking…

Something from August.

I wish I could hold on forever. Hold on to that nothingness that keeps me content when I have my arms rapped around the belly of someone that may or may not care. Care about what? I don't need to know, I don't really worry about all of that. All I know is that someday I will know, and that keeps me content in holding on to whatever 'that' is. 

The rain beats down carelessly and courageously outside my window. Carrying the weight of a hundred of my thoughts and analogies. It seems as if it's getting heavier or harder, I am unsure of it's weight to be honest, I can only hear it… It's too late to look outside and see the shadows of the night lights that illuminate this side of my mind. Sure there are stars that are shining brightly out there somewhere. Maybe in Chicago right now, or maybe somewhere in the north west. However far away from the coast the sky needs to be to get away from this mess I am sure it's just as beautiful as the sound I am hearing. It's my favorite kind of music, sincerely it's the best I know. If I could review the rain I would have words to write for days. My eyes are heavy, and I think that's a key to rest them. But I am alone, and alone I can't suffer aloud. So I rewrite each word as if it's new to be used. Emotions only drawn on paper napkins, and replayed songs for no one to keep. 

And then we grew up….

-Do not discredit the subject matter-

We looked up to the sky, and that one star hung from the moon like it was attached by a skinny piece of thread. 

We were bound to fall, but no one warned us, and what are two crossed lovers supposed to do with their own decisions. 

It's bound to be screwed up, with the whole situation in their hands and it's right around the time someone needs to turn around.

But that's abused, the tires won't make their decisions, and the sky isn't getting any lighter. 

It's cold enough to see your breath, but when the snow melts all of these ideas will have been memories matched with a song. 

Like a smell is held to the past, it's reeling and I could be wrong about all of this.

But it seems the christmas lights are a little duller this year, but then again- I don't remember putting them up last time either. 

To the mountains.

And as I stand here spinning around the middle of my room, going in
circles for a solid 15 minutes. Making sure, absolutely sure that I am
not forgetting anything. Although I will remember at 10,000 ft above I have
forgotten the very thing that I am standing here trying to remember.
I recognize a voice. Its Jackson Browne . I could spot that voice
anywhere, low with melodic power, the highs are deep, and the tonal
strength is suppressing. It was coming from my house mates room,
either he has it too loud, at 12:30am.. Or my hearing hasn’t been as
compromised as I thought it had. Because that voice could bring me
down anywhere. So I pick up the 80 pound suitcase and wrap my key ring
around my index finger. Its time to fly.

“Guncrazy” (1992) & a snuggie at 2am on the couch. Boston covered in the
first snowfall at 4am, convenient.
Its been a long time since I’ve seen the sun rise anywhere other than
my bedroom window in the woods. But now I see it from a different
light. Two things are certain, the sun will always rise in east and it
will always set in the west. And for the first time, it will all be different.

I have displaced fields and mountains for trees. And now I’m on the
other side, things feel different as different as they look, as
different as they are. And now its time to face my demons and walk it
out. The rest of this will end, and now I musnt be selfish to fight my
own battles, and leave the side of the passanger seat, let me drive
the rest of the way. Because its my home, not yours. And they’re my
problems, with all my own pieces to pick up. We’ve gone and left now,
the places where cops drive mustangs, and the indians smoke their
cigars. Its not safe to drive like this, with every hour believing the
last was better than the next. We can’t breath as deep back east -
because the air is crowded. I learned that about the west.

It’s vast, and there’s more room to think things through. Where the time isn’t counted by hours its measured by miles. Where the hills really are purple, and now you understand it, you will always understand it now. But you will leave what you saw where you left it, and take what you learned in an image. And that photo may last you as long as the trip itself, but the black and white dreams are all you carry on with.

Its down to the last hour, and this is the longest one. Every last
hour of every end of every few thousand miles has been the tongue
bitter. What will the next town bring. What does the next city hold
for us. Well this one is different, this one ends it all. No more
miles to count, no more songs to turn down. Were done checking in, and
I’m over checking out. We’ve sped past our last exit, and there is no
more turning around. Could the songs be sung one last time, can we take
that picture over again because your smile wasn’t quite right.
We have spread arms over the length of the country, west to east. And
farther it goes on. The last hour is dwindling faster than the others,
I thought this might happen.

Where the stars are airplanes, and the sky holds the rest of the world
in its perils, in one glance. The meteors over Nevada can’t be
redeemed, and Ill never forget the tears in your eyes when you heard
that song. I couldn’t understand it then on the 80 but I understand it
now.
The one thing to make me cry is sitting right in front of me. The
clock, like a timer, ticking to explode. To end it all. Every tear is
shed with every moment that digresses.
And its all gone in the blink of an eye. Like the displacing of the trigger, into park.

And without notice, the roads change, and its Sunday- it was naïve of
us to think that we wouldn’t need chains. But when the girl speaks,
the sheltered boy never listens. He has been taught everything he will
ever need to know, and the little girl could not tell him otherwise.
So she sits back in silence, telling herself everything she would like
to say to him, but out of respect, will not. Rain that doesn’t stop,
its the type that mists down off the sky- not the angry wind strong
rain that makes me tired. But soon enough, it will gather in the
roads, and the wipers will be overwhelmed. It will turn white, and he
will realize he was mistaken. The girl she will continue to sit there,
and gather her corrected thoughts in the passenger seat. Because he
wouldn’t listen anyway.

Does it hurt any less on this highway,
than it does back there? As headlights in the blind spot fall over the
back seat, I wonder.
I am not as figured out as I figured I was. And I knew somewhere along
these highways it would come to me, the dawning of the future-
shadowing my unforgiving past.  The rain turned to snow, and it went
by like a blink of an eagles eye. Paralyzing all nature among the
sides of the freeway. It goes on forever, but isn’t that just like
life? The highway of this, and we’ve been stuck in a 16oz. Bottle for
95% of the past 3 weeks, and I couldn’t starve for you, so why would
you pretend to do so for me. Its unjust to keep going on the way we
have cared too.

Untitled

And as I stand here spinning around the middle of my room, going in
circles for a solid 15minutes. Making sure, absolutely sure that I am
not forgetting anything. Although I will remember at 10,000 ft I have
forgotten something, that I am standing here trying to remember.
I recognize a voice. Its Jackson Browne. I could spot that voice
anywhere, low with melodic power, the highs are deep, and the tonal
strength is suppressing. It was coming from my house mates room,
either he has it too loud, at 12:30am.. Or my hearing hasn’t been as
compromised as I thought it had. Because that voice could bring me
down anywhere. So I pick up the 80lb suitcase and wrap my key ring
around my index finger. Its time to fly.
“Guncrazy” 1992 & a snuggie at 2am on the couch. Boston covered in the
first snowfall at 4am, convenient.
Its been a long time since I’ve seen the sun rise anywhere other than
my bedroom window in the woods. But now I see it from a different
light. Two things are certain, the sun will always rise in east and it
will always set in the west.

Where the cops drive mustangs
I have displaced fields and mountains for trees. And now I’m on the
other side, things feel different as different as they look, as
different as they are. And now its time to face my demons and walk it
out. The rest of this will end, and now I musnt be selfish to fight my
own battles, and leave the side of the passanger seat, let me drive
the rest of the way. Because its my home, not yours. And there my
problems, with all my own pieces to pick up. We’ve gone and left now,
the places where cops drive mustangs, and the indians smoke their
cigars. Its not safe to drive like this, with every hour believing the
last was better than the next. We can’t breath as deep back east –
because theair is crowded.
Where the time isn’t counted by hours its measured by miles. Where the
hills really are purple, and now you understand it, you will always
understand it now. But you will leave what you saw where you left it,
and take what you learned in an image. And that photo may last you as
long as the trip itself, but the black and white dreams are all you
carry on with.

Its down to the last hour, and this is the longest one. Every last
hour of every end of every few thousand miles has been the tongue
bitter. What will the next town bring. What does the next city hold
for us. Well this one is different, this one ends it all. No more
miles to count, no more songs to turn down. Were done checking in, and
I’m over checking out. We’ve sped past our last exit, and there is no
more turning around. Could the songs be sung one last time,can we take
that picture over again becuase your smile wasn’t quite right. And to
rememver none of this has been quite right. But we did it nonetheless,
we have spread arms over the length of the country, west to east. And
farther it goes on. The last hour is dwindling faster than the others,
I thought this might happen.

Where the stars are airplanes, and the sky holds the rest of the world
in its perils, in one glance. The meteors over Nevada can’t be
redeemed, and Ill never forget the tears in your eyes when you heard
that song. I couldn’t understand it then on the 80 but I understand it
now.
The one thing to make me cry is sitting right in front of me. The
clock, like a timer, ticking to explode. To end it all. Every tear is
shed with every moment that digresses.
And its all gone in the blink of an eye. With displacing of the
trigger into park.