Something interesting about the springtime is the contradiction embedded between the old sensations that stir with the rising virgin growth of the newborn season. The vitality that comes with the turgid sap-flow and exploding blooms busting out colors and scents everywhere is shaded with a heavy atmosphere of the past, a twilight zone of dead memories whose submarine depth corresponds to the specific age and experience of each passenger sailing out of the gray straits of winter. Which is an overwrought way of saying, “in the midst of life, we are in death,” or “April is the cruelest month.” Forgive me, I don’t have the pithy, divinely touched brilliance of poets and prayer technicians. The color wheel of my abilities as a writer doesn’t include complete access to the primary-tinted simplicity of eternal truths. My style is more like a Looney Tunes mural of a highway tunnel against the solid rock wall of a mesa, a cartoon mirage that only allows a thoroughfare to those with purer intentions than the artist. It’s a trick that ultimately hurts the trickster, an LED flashlight beam across a canyon that acts as a solid bridge for everyone except the goofy coyote dicking around with the Maglite. My palette is more like a pallet, one that I have painted and rearranged to look like real furniture. There are bright colors and exciting shapes, but their load-bearing qualities and structural integrity are uncertain.
Anyway, spring is for flowers and flowers are like old friends in that they are nearly always welcome and often pop up when you are surrounded by piles of shit and dead things. Old friends and fresh flowers do amazing stuff with those rotten media, they are among the few living things that can transform horror into panoramic beauty.
I got to revisit the lupin bloom on Bald Hills last weekend after a long time away and with a companion who had never been before. Watching someone you love initiated into a natural beauty so immersive that every organ of experience is flooded with enough sensation to carve a permanent record on the wet landscape of the brain and the vapor of the soul is a hell of a thing. It’s enough to rip the storm shutters off your eyelids and force your fangs to retreat into a more diplomatic position inside the gums. Which is an overwrought way of saying that it cleared the gloom and made me smile, in a style that was good and pretty. The kind of feeling that haunts the counterfeit reality and embalmed desire of postcards, but only truly lives in the vibrant terrain of the moment.
A postcard isn’t a memory, just as a map isn’t the terrain. Below is an outline for the week. Make it your own.
Thursday
The Basement is hosting a fresh version of an old favorite from the live scene tonight at 8 p.m. Canary and the Vamp has been revamped into Canary, featuring Bev Twist from the previous lineup, Ryan Roberts from Absynth Quartet and same, Amanda Malachesky from Hobohemia and points unknown, and Eureka Symphony bassist Ron Lee. Expect a similar selection of well-honed tunes from the acetate memories of country and western swing, jazz manouche and newer, and pan-Latin grooves all played excellently by some of our county’s finest musicians. All for a mere $5 at the door. Priceless.
Friday
The more horrible the loss, the greater the celebration. Or at least that’s how it goes when your friends and loved ones are musicians imbued with the sacred and profane ability to move people, from heels to heart and ass to soul. Earlier this year, we lost one of our great rhythm-makers, bassist Lyza Padilla of the mighty Makenu, when she was swept out to sea in her native Puerto Rico. Tonight she will be celebrated by those who can do it the best. Cumbia masters Makenu will be joined by Phosphorus,Soul Trip and Tropiqueño for a tribute at Humbrews at 7 p.m. The sonic wake is also a fundraiser for her grieving family, so bear that in mind when forking over the $15 suggested donation. All hands bury the dead, just as all living bones shake, rattle and roll for those that have released their blessed souls from the coils of dust and tears, and the tune that rumbles across the universe hasn’t missed a beat since the birth of time.
Saturday
Yes, there are two big dance funk and electro gigs going down for those inclined that way — Fantastic Negrito at Humbrews at 8:30, and Mark Farina at Arcata Theatre Lounge around the same time (both $30) — but I tend to be inclined towards the underground, and the real heads around here dig Open Head Records’ Freq. Night series. Tonight’s iteration is the 12th issue and is going down at 8 p.m. at the familiar spot of Moss Oak Commons. Presence is a band helmed by label head Luke Aronie, whose first record came out on April Fool’s Day (an album I will be reviewing when I have enough replays between my ears to do it justice). Todd Complex is a loud, detuned duo who I dug quite a lot when I caught ’em earlier this year at the Kaptain’s Quarters. Hearth is a new doom act making a debut by the Quonset arch, and Portland’s Diositopes is a deep and heavy duo with some returning champions from the old Arcata scene, including my buddy Zack Pitnik from the wonderful pre-COVID, pre-Cal Poly Humboldt shoegaze band Persephone. This has the rumblings of a proper tempest, and the suggested kick-in of $10 is all gravy.
Sunday
Speaking of Moss Oak Commons, there’s another great bill for the books happening at the all-ages spot around 7:30 p.m. this evening. Vibey rock warblers Dining Dead are floating down from Seattle to share some bright vocal sunbursts from the atmospheric plane where synths meet guitar pedals, while Clean Girl and the Dirty Dishes does the garage-prom jams they do better than anyone else. Pleaura round out the sound in preparation for one of my favorite multi-media acts, our beloved sonic storytellers The Comix Trip. Come through and drop off a negotiable $5-$20 at the door for fun, fun, fun.
Monday
There’s a bedroom folk rock show a-brewin’ at the Outer Space this evening, with Dallas/Fort Worth crooner Promethean, aka Blair Gowan, illuminating a cast of local storytellers, including UR Ex’s EX, Trinket and Wounded Animal.Come enjoy a quiet storm of kitchen sink dramas and pillow talk thunder at 7:30 p.m. There isn’t a set price at the door, but $5-$20 would be appreciated.
Tuesday
I’m going to leave this one blank for now.
Wednesday
Portland-based musician Chris Pureka is a master of the kind of close songwriting whose intimacy belies a universal appeal that has carried them to stages around the world, often shared with top professionals of the folk rock world like Ani DiFranco and Haley Heynderickx. You can treat yourself to the hushed splendor of their ability at a house show of sorts tonight at 7:30 p.m. at Los Bagel’s Eureka location, which has the trappings of a kitchen house show if you squint a little, and $25 is a bargain to have such a cozy experience with a world-class talent.
Collin Yeo (he/him) bet on the right horse but the wrong jockey, yet still came up smiling.
This article appears in One School, Nine Students.