My Thoughts and My Actions - Qing Wu

Citizens Here and Abroad

Taking the name from 50's girl scout handbook, Citizens Here and Abroad was born in the end of 2002 when Adrienne Robillard and Dan Lowrie from Secadora joined force with Chris Groves and Chris Wetherell, both of whom are also from another band called Dealership. After a relatively slow start, they are suddenly getting more attention and more bookings, thanks to Adrienne's increasing efforts in reaching-out. It is never easy to make big for indie rock bands, even if the band could be really good. When ten thousand bands compete every year for a dozen spots, you can well imagine pure luck could weight more than music talent. Beyond that there are always relentless touring and self-promotion, getting words out and recruiting fans. But without a major label's help, it is a slow grass-root campaign that often goes nowhere, and the band vanishes without a trace while members move on to other things.

But Citizens Here and Abroad is determined. Their latest album, Ghosts of Tables and Chairs, is fast-paced and rigorous, with little playfulness or anger of a typical femme-rock but heart-felt candor and solid deliveries. I saw their show for the first time at Cafe Du Nord tonight and felt immediately connected with their music. Adrienne's voice is beautiful, calm and melancholy, and it reminded me a lot of the female vocal in the French band Ivy. Chris's harmony tends to stay in the background, creating a perfect layer that enriches Adrienne's singing but not overwhelming it. The guitar riffs and the drum beats, on the other hand, could be moody and forceful. This contrast infuses with each other seamlessly and works well for the lyrics.

Due to my insider connection to the band, I collect some more information about the band. Adrienne, a HAPA from Hawaii, met Dan in UC Santa Babara and moved to Bay Area eight years ago. Both Chris's come from Cal and have off-stage personalities that are not typical of band players (Yes. They are also nerds). While all of them have full-time jobs, they rehearse twice a week and try to hit the road as much as they can. The road to success is a tough one. Even if they may never make it, they seem to be having a ball.

Belle and Sebastian

On one of the rare sunny summer afternoons in 1998 I came across an album named “Boys with Arab Straps” in Tower Records sample stations. I don’t remember whether it was the name or the album cover that caught my attention, but the curiosity of the moment led to my longest commitment to a band. The songs were catchy and moody, and the lyrics were witty and poetic, fitting perfectly well with my own sense of being on that day: Life is full of youthful adventures and excitements, with a hint of melancholy and nostalgia hovering on the horizon.

Over the six years I collected almost every album they released in North America. In the meantime they rose from an obscure Glasgow-based indie band to something much bigger, becoming kind of cult band for certain demographic section who deviate from more mainstream taste. It even made into the list of the music junkies in Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity. On the other hand, I found myself listening to them less and less, and the last album in 2002, a soundtrack written for Todd Solenz’s film of the same name, was largely uninspiring and forgettable. Just when I thought they would disappear without a trace like so many others, I found their latest album in my neighborhood music store. This time I had to ask the opinions of the staff who had an all-knowing look. Was it just as good as their old stuff? Yes, he said. But definitely a happier one.

Strangely enough, I do find myself liking this album a lot, even if it is slicker, more sugary and pop than any of their previous works. One of my favorite, Sleep On a Sunbeam, has lyrics like this:

Think about a new destination
If you think you need inspiration
Roll out the map and mark it with a pin
I will follow every direction
Just lace up your shoes while I’m fetching a sleeping bag, a tent...

Another summer’s passing by
All I need is somewhere I feel the grass beneath my feet
A walk on sand, a fire I can warm my hands
My joy will be complete

What happened to me? What was gripping on me and making me so high whenever I hummed these lines? Is this the sign of me still holding on to a belief when everything is still possible and life still holds infinite possibilities? Or, is it just the travel bug affecting me?

So when Belle and Sebastian came to town and performed in Warfield last night, Diego got me a ticket so that I could see them live for the first time. It was a soldout show, proving its continuing popularity. The crowd was mostly white or Asian, comfortable middle-class kids who think they are cool and smart and rebellious. The vintage and retro style were everywhere, a step up from grunge and punk and a couple of years from becoming bobos. This same crowd would feed on bands like Nick Drake, Rilo Kely, White Stripes, Neutral Milk Hotel or Postal Services, and ironically they are all my favorite bands -- maybe I am just a make-believer among this groovy bunch, trying to make up for my missing part as a disenchanted but sophisticated American youth.

There was no surprise from the performance. Stuart Murdoch, the lead singer, was charismatic and funny and stayed as the soul of the band. Since so many different kinds of instruments were used, the stage seemed to be more densely populated than usual. The best moment came when four audience, all Berkeley-looking girls, jumped onto the stage and played weird percusion instruments while dancing for a very cheerful song. Your spirit was lifted, but your soul got barely touched.

I guess I would keep on playing Dear Catastrophe Waitress whenever I need to be cheered up. But I would probably grow out of it someday soon.

Sing, Sing a song

I got absolutely nothing done this weekend when temperature shot up to upper eighties. Like everything else I started this year (after gardening, an urge to write a screenplay, studying Spanish), my blogging enthusiasm also seemed to be subsiding inevitably. It is so much easier for me to go down the hill and stop by one of the many Castro bars than sit down here and type. Then, if I don't type, this weekend would be just like one of those many weekends before: Plenty of sun, beer, gossiping, people-watching, parties and dinners, and I would not be able to tell one from the other. Not a bad life, uh?

One event stands out and deserves a few more words. On Friday night we attended a small performance hosted by an artist friend of ours. There were about 15 people in the room, and most of the attendees were lesbians. No, it was not like any scene in the "L World", where lanky and smartly dressed lipstick types courted each other as if they were in a straight man’s fantasy world. This was an edgier, younger and more ethnic crowd. But somehow I had hard time fitting in and making small talks. The lesbian world has its own wall that can easily shun away any other men. After all, what do they need man for?

The little gathering featured a singer from Northern Mexico. No instrument, just plain singing. She wore a black cowboy hat, underneath which she wrapped a white bandana around her head, making her look tom-boyish. The white shirt with embroidered patterns added a little Mexican flavor. When she lifted up her voice, she was virtually howling as if she was in some intense cramp. Unfortunately due to language barrier (she used only Spanish throughout the show), I missed all her story-telling between the songs, and I think that seriously discounted the power of her singing for me.

Later on Diego translated one of her stories to me. When she was growing up, all her father did was singing, and he rarely went out and worked, much to his wife's disappointment and distress. But the urge to sing was like a contagious disease and she also ended up developing a passion for singing, which served as an outlet for her to escape the unhappy childhood and express all those miseries from being different. She had to sing to herself in secret, away from her own house, so that her mother would not find out.

Quite a touching story. Now that I ever get a chance to stop by another Karaoke bar, I would sing my heart out. Maybe I should sign up for “American Idols” too. Just kidding. Fine singing, as any artistic expression, requires both craftsmanship and deftly fusing one’s true emotions with the songs. It comes from a gift by God, as well as a rich internal life. William Hung is just pop culture’s little joke that thrives on everyone’s feel-good soft spot. It has nothing to do with art.