Containers 7: Music 2

Music: Michael Franti's Love Kamikaze.

(Reflexive Preface: The numbering system is getting out of hand, no? I wonder at the proliferation of numbers and the flattening effect of naming things in broad categories with numbers. It is almost as if I am indexing this blog as I go along. I also wonder if the material may not be consistent enough to justify such an index.)

I saw Michael Franti last night at his stop here in Madison at the Union Theatre on Lake Mendota. The tour is called I Know I'm Not Alone. He is touring with his sound guy, Versace, in a minivan around the country (simply the midwest on this leg, I believe). At our show, he came out and introduced his film, I believe by the same name, showed the film, did a Q&A, and then played a solo acoustic set.

The whole thing was stunning. I should again preface this by saying that prior to this show, I considered Franti (Or, is it Michael, having met him?) a spiritual leader in a broader social sense and a spiritual guide and friend in a personal sense. Yes, the music is that powerful. If I can figure out how to put a podcasted song of his up here, I will.

The film is about a trip he took last year to Baghdad and Gaza. He explains it as if it were this intentionally simplistic Kane like wandering through the streets of Baghdad strumming his guitar. Indeed, he did play everywhere. However, he admits to a lot of negotiating access and avoiding danger. The most powerful theme of the film is the constant use of smiles, kisses, and music to be present with people. He is over six feet tall with long dreads, so he looks a little wacky, especially in an Iraqi context. With that added to the silly persistence with which he played his guitar and sang his songs, he seemed to be a powerful presence in a powerless place.

The Q&A was good, very good. Barefooted, smiling, and a little tired, he came out to speak with us for a while (it may have approached an hour). He was grounded and full in his thinking and articulate in his answers. The discussion ranged from the content of the film to world culture and back to the details of making the film. I asked a question about the ease of going to Baghdad. Franti replied that it was easier to go to Baghdad than it is to go to Canada.

When the answered questions were done, or when Franti decided to start playing, the music began. Initially, I was concerned that the container of a man, his guitar, and a mic'ed box under his foot would not hold the same revolutionary flavor that the produced music I listen to does. He started off soft and lyrical. I thought, "oh, Bob Dylan style. Well, that's fine." Soon he was rocking out though. At first I was stunned by the power of the bass on his electric-acoustic guitar. Then I realized that the mic'ed box under his foot was a kind of bass drum. It was only a small wooden box, but it shook the room with its basic beat.

He invited everyone down to the front to dance and many did including myself and the friend I had brought with me. The music became frenetic at points and I was jumping higher than I thought possible. I later realized that we were standing on a suspended floor (only wood) and so it served as a trampoline. What fun! Anyway, at the time, I thought it was transcendental inspiration that sent me so high. The dancing became more intense and I was up there, in the music, in the air, in my heart.

That is usually where I feel Franti's music: in my heart. The musical container in which his words encode some mysterious meaning blends with the bodily container of my physical form. The music stirs in my chest. Is it literally related to the organ called heart? I don't know. I suppose it could be. The heart beats and so does Franti's music. I can only imagine that there is some possible consonance between the two; especially since the former is so fundamental to my body and the latter was so overwhelmingly environmental.

The metaphorical heart, however, the heart of the chakra system or the heart called thugs in Tibetan which refers to the mind itself located in the chest is surely where I receive the transmission of revolutionary spirit from Franti. Either way, I feel it. The music's Hyundai-like container ships me feeling, emotion, knowledge, intention, and energy via Shanghai or Long Beach and delivers it to the door of my chest where I hungrily devour it, my rib cage opening wide to consume the tender flesh.

The final moment of containment I would like to mention is Franti's use of "interpretive dancers" at his show. I do not know if he uses them frequently. I imagine that he does it often and that Madison was not unique that Wednesday night. In preface to a song, he asked if there were any interpretive dancers in the house. I thought, "Oh, god, there must be a dozen such folks in this room. It is both a Franti concert and Madison. Come on." But alas there was only one hand raised: a friend of mine from Yoga Teacher Training who's presence I had not noticed. She climbed up on stage and was asked to pronounce her name. She did. Franti made another call out for dancers. I was shocked. No other hands raised in a room full of what I had assumed to be a mass of extroverted, music grooving Madisonians.

He turned and looked at me. I was about five people deep in the crowd on the dance floor. He pointed to me and said, "you." I did the classic "who me, not me" look around. Then I did the classic hand to the chest, question, "me?" He said, "Yes, you, come on up here."

I did not hesitate. That moment felt like a deep exhale as I realized that all the years of dancing without knowing if it was good, bad, or crazy were erased. None of those words meant anything in that moment and may not mean anything to me ever again as they might apply to the dance I dance. Whether or not he intended it, I felt seen, I felt noticed, I felt called.

Michael then proceeded to pour his music into me. He played more than his guitar, he sang more than his song. He played me, he sang me. I danced. I contained his music.

Then, I got a kiss.