Susan Hwang

My new roommies both skipped town for the holiday weekend.  I didn’t have any exotic Memorial Day plans, so I’d be home alone.  Luke said, “Behave.”    I’ve lots of experience in all kinds of behavior, so it was hard to decide what to go with.

I was worried that I would collapse into lonesomeness.  I’ve grown a little attached to my new family, but it turned out to be a perfect weekend.  I got to make up for all that alone time I’ve been starved for.  Lots of Chutney bonding time.  I got 3 new songs out of this weekend (the last one is a little dippy, but it’ll serve its purpose).  I rode my bike multiple times.

The morning after a night of depravity looks like this for me:

Yes, I brought the accordion, horn and ukulele down.  Yes, I forced my guests to play songs with me.  Yes, I played the trumpet even though I can’t play the trumpet.

Yes, those are root vegetables.

Yes, I used one of those twirly vegetable “noodle” makers.

No, those noodle makers are no good.  It’s kind of a piece of crap.  Not sturdy, not sharp, gets food stuck in them.  I don’t know why they make things that are crap.  I mean, I write crappy songs sometimes, but they’re songs.  They stop as soon as I shut up.  They collapse into thin air.  Physical crap like those crappy vegetable cutters take up space.  In our homes and then in the landfills.

I managed to take noodle-like shavings of carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes and yucca and deep fry it all in coconut oil.  I had my head set on deep-frying experiments, so it was this, chicken wings and several accordions (not fried) that night.

2 accordion night is a good night.  2 accordions, plus fried tubers is called a house-warming.

I got a new motto out of that night:

Less crying, more frying!

I couldn’t resist the gratuitous Chutney and pyramids shot.  Those are orgonite pyramids made by the talented Michelle Hood.  You can find out more about those on her site: http://litethelight.bigcartel.com/

Here’s a new song.  I wrote it for the Bushwick Book Club show at Barbes inspired by Jonathan Ames’ very funny and moving book, Wake Up, Sir.  It’s called Walk With Me.  Chris Rael of Church of Betty who I like so much, tweaked the arrangement, wrote an interlude and made the entire backing track with his own hands!  Who does that for a girl these days???  In case that link went unnoticed, click on the Jonathan Ames below to hear the song:

That’s Jonathan doing the “Hairy Call” that ended the show that night.   That’s the closer.  You really can’t follow that with anything.  It’s the hairy call, and then it’s good night…

All the songs from that show were recorded live and are now available for listening on our bandcamp site.

Bushwickbookclub.bandcamp.com

I can’t keep up with the weekends.

I biked into the East Village from Bushwick on Saturday night.  I normally like getting on my bike.  In regards to biking, my motto is, “Get on; you won’t regret it.”   When you’re on your bike it feels good.

It’s similar to my motto about horses — “Everything looks better from the back of a horse.”

I also have a motto about singing — “It’s better to sing than not to sing.”

But I almost amended my motto on bikes Saturday night.  I don’t see how this is possible, but there was extra chaos in the traffic that evening.  And then once you’re in the city, there are all the drunk weekenders standing in the middle of the street, getting out of cabs, talking loudly enough to knock you off balance.

However, the flashing headlights of all the citibikes coming at me on the Williamsburg bridge looked like fireflies.  It was kind of pretty.   That and the moments of lift and solitude I got on the bridge gave me that feeling of flying that I know from my dreams.

All this transportation was so I could see my friends from Yara Arts Group.  Vova (Waldemart Klyuzko) had an art show opening at The Ukrainian Museum on 6th Street.  It was a collection of his protest art and photography, much of it used in demonstrations against Russia.  I learned how to say “dick head” in Ukrainian.  This is Vova with a piece of one of his pieces.  It’s a bomb.  He just happened to be wearing an explosion tshirt.  He said he got the shirt in NYC.  I said that’s funny, because it looks like Kyiv.  All the charred remains of those fires that burned and burned are left in the city.  And bits are being taken and sold to tourists.  Protest chachkas.  Resistance rubble.

Vova with the bomb.  That is perfect.  Others made maletov cocktails.  Vova makes artbombs.

You can see the exhibit — “We Are All Ukraine” now through July 6th at The Ukrainian Museum – 222 East 6th Street (bet. 2nd and 3rd Aves.) New York, NY 10003, ph: 212 228-0110.

The highlight of the night though, came from this lady:

She beat up Vova’s installation of Putin as a blow-up doll.

She’s 92 years old.

She really enjoyed this.

Afterwards, she said, “That makes me feel better.”

My mom has an email account, and she texts me in Korean, and I love all these communications, but something extra shockingly adorable and touching always comes through in her handwritten notes.  She’s old-fashioned that way (and other ways).  She sends thank you notes and just general notes to say hi.  My favorites are the pictures she includes.  She studied art in school as much as she could before reality dictated she focus on her pharmacy studies (remember, art=death in the Korea of her times).

I moved recently after my break-up with my boyfriend of 6 years.  This card arrived in the mailbox of my new apartment 2 days ago:

Dear Susan:

I know you must be very busy, but at least the weather is better now.  It will take time to put everything in the right places.

I am sorry I can’t help you.

“I hope you have better life in the new place.”

I love you.

Mom

 
She really wants me to have a better life–so much so, that she reiterates it and underlines it on the next page of the card after including the most depressing Bible quote there is, which basically states “Don’t worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will also suck.”  Thanks, Mom…

“never be anxious about the next day.  for the next day will have its own anxieties.  Each day has enough of its own troubles.” (Matthew 6:34)

I hope you have better life in the new place.

But she drew me flowers!  Mom!

Oh geeze, when favorite human, Barbara Maier invites you to play a song for a star-studded, super-cabaret benefit for Joe’s Pub, New York Voices and the Ali Forney Center, you just say yes.  Even if you’re not sure who you are anymore and you don’t have a clue as to what to wear.  I will be there, wearing something that does not feel quite right, but flanked by lovely friends/musicians who do–Julie Delano, Julie Lamendola, Johnny Dydo (drums)and Zane Van Dusen (bass).  We will sing a song about physicist, Richard Feynman, because the night is about movement and change, and he studied the essences of everything, and often described everything as being made up of tiny bits that were “jiggling” all the time.  Everything’s moving all the time.  And as a professional thinker, he found that you didn’t have to pound the problems to get the answers.  You could tap at them lightly.  That’s what the song is about.  Tap-tap-tapping…

Look at the line-up.  Good lord…

Justin Vivian Bond, Michael Cavadias, Angela Di Carlo, Eisa Davis, Miguel Gutierrez, Nicholas Gorham, Carol Lipnik, Amber Martin, Lady Rizo, Viva Ruiz,Chris Rael, Sanda Weigl, Earl Dax and MORE!

An FB event link from Chris Rael: https://www.facebook.com/events/229607627239917/

I can’t believe it’s already the last show of our run at La Mama.  It ended up being the extended run after all.  It seemed like the right thing to do, even though I’m missing most of SXSW.  I’m happy for the chance to work with these people–amazing, adorable, enormously talented and generous people.  We made this thing together, and we got to share it with people.  Really, what’s better than that.

Last night, our fill-in back stage assistant manager, Briana, took this video from back stage of a little section of one of my numbers.  Vova did the projections and art work.  I did the leaps into oblivion.  Ha.

Three Heads Is Love from Brianna Makanamakamae on Vimeo.

Last show is tonight, 7:30pm, Friday the 14th at La Mama Experimental Theater, 74 E 4th St, New York, NY 10003, ph: 212 475-7710

Tomorrow night, we’re presenting new music inspired by Howard Feinstein’s memoirs of his experiences as a civil rights lawyer in the ’60s–“Fire on the Bayou–True Tales from the Civil Rights Battlefront.”  Howard will be there to speak about his book and his experiences, and he will also play his own musical composition reflecting on the book.

I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have him there.  Not only is this such a meaningful time and important issue, but Howard was my blues piano teacher in Maryland.  He was the first one to teach me 1-4-5.  After years of studying how to play notes that I read on paper, he taught me songs that weren’t written down at all.  He showed me songs that aren’t meant to be read, but that you have to feel in order to play.  And it was what was in me all along.  Howard let me into the blues, which have always been home for me.  Kimchi may be my home food, but the blues is my home music.

So, I hope you can come and hear all the new songs inspired by the book, and I hope you can come early enough to hear Howard speak about his experiences.  We’ll be at one of my favorite Brooklyn venues in Park Slope, Barbes (376 9th St, Brooklyn, NY /ph: 347-422-0248), 7pm-8:45pm.

The talented songwriters performing tomorrow night include: spiritchild, Susan Hwang, Shannon Pelcher, Sweet Soubrette,  Mia Pixley, Pearl Rhein and The Lords of Liechtenstein.

The subway train conductor breaked like my dad.  Herky jerky from a paranoia that somehow never makes you feel safe as much as irritated.  At the mercy of paranoid breaking and the congestion patterns of the morning rush hour commute, I was getting fur in my mouth.  Fur from the hood of a girl’s brand new, serious winter coat.  I looked at the label on the shoulder of the coat–“Canada Goose.”  That’s a serious coat.  In Canada, they know about serious winter and therefore, serious winter coats, but they have more personal space there, so they don’t know about eating a stranger’s fur in a crowded subway car first thing in the morning.

Koreans, on the other hand, know something about completely surrendering personal space.  They know how to pack a subway.  It’s not just that we’re smaller physically.  It’s that we’re efficient.  And we surrender individuality for the good of the whole.  The whole commute that is.  I remember morning rush hours where the car was packed so tightly you could lift your feet off the floor and still be upright.  Nobody really complained.  I don’t even remember anyone complaining that much when the businessman who was still drunk from the night before vomited on himself–kimchi vomit no less.

Well, as much as I complain about crowded trains, it does make me feel closer to people.  I guess because I’m closer to people.  And we’re all there together–gross human beings, all breathing and sweating and enduring together; we’re berated together by the other human being who lashes out at us over the loudspeaker.  He’s really had enough, and he lets us have it.  For Christ’s sake why can’t we use all available doors and move to the center of the train?  People….

I will not be taking the train tonight to play at Chris Rael’s Birthday Bash at The Bell House.  I will bring myself and my accordion via my ’94 Corolla, gifted to me by my parents in 1994.  They believed in providing their kids with an American education and a means of transportation.  They didn’t realize they were facilitating my accordion playing and singing in public.  They regretted it later, but they still let me keep the car.  And yes, it’s the one that now has a big dent on the passenger side back bumper with the tail light now hanging out at a… jaunty angle.  Look, I’m trying to be positive; it’s not natural for me.   My tail light is now… a tongue sticking out, uh playfully.  Whimsically.  Something like that.

I’m excited for the show!  I get to play and sing a little on Chris Rael’s great songs and beautiful arrangements.  I’m telling you, no one writes a good run like Chris Rael.  I get to play all kinds of fast and intricate sections in fun time signatures.  I try not to gush too much, because it might make him feel weird, but I listened and listened to that CD of “The Hand” that Bruce burned and gave to me in 1999.  I listened to it so much that by 2001, it wouldn’t play anymore.  And I don’t even like rock music.

Needless to say, I’m thrilled to be playing tonight.  Happy Birthday, Chris!

The Frontier Room
Chris Rael’s Birthday Bash
Church Of Betty, Johnny Society, Low Cut Connie, Blueberry
Thu, January 16, 2014
Doors: 7:00 pm / Show: 8:00 pm
The Bell House
149 7th St,
Brooklyn, New York
ph: (718) 643-6510
$10.00
Tickets

I’m mostly against marathons.  It’s nothing personal against running or runners; I’m against anything that impedes traffic.  I like to say that I’m pro-flow.  I was looking on the marathon website last Friday to see what the route and timing was, but they made this very hard to find.  There was all this essential information on security measures, baggage options, where the cheering zones are.. “How to Run in 2013”  “How to Qualify for 2014″…   They forgot “How to Avoid.”  I might be a marathon Grinch.

This past week, we had our first Bushwick Book Club show of the fall.  The book was My Lunches with Orson: Conversations between Orson Welles and Henry Jaglom.  It was a good show.  There were 12 songs in all from 12 different songwriters (myself included).  I hosted the show, but I didn’t gather my thoughts enough before the show to express what I wanted to about Orson.  What I did manage to express was that I loved the language that he used.  I loved his voice in my head.  I loved his stories.

But what I missed saying was that he was in a basic way just like us.  His goal always was to make stuff.  And he did.  He created until his last breath.  He had a heart attack while writing a script.  He died with a typewriter in his lap.  What you hear about is what he didn’t make towards the end of his life, and it’s true, he was working on getting funding to make King Lear and The Dreamers.  It’s true that many projects were stalled or incomplete because of lack of funds and whatever ways he couldn’t find around real or perceived difficulties.  But it doesn’t mean he didn’t continue to create.  He wrote and made smaller films.  He painted.  He acted.  He never stopped being who he was.  He never stopped being an artist.  He did it by hook or by crook or by funding his own projects with money made from hawking cheap wine.  He did it come hell or high water or talk show spot on Merv Griffin.

I can relate to this.  My parents never explained this to me.  I think it’s something they couldn’t’ explain because it was something they didn’t know.  In their minds, creating was an indulgence and potentially bad for you, like eating candy or having sex with prostitutes.  They didn’t know that for some people, it’s a need—a fundamental aspect of being.  It’s as basic as whether you’re left or right handed.  Or whether you have a genetic predisposition to diabetes or alcoholism.  It’s like being gay or straight.  I make things, because I was born this way.  You can’t brainwash me or cure me of this with a Christian reform camp or even maternal bullying from my Korean JW mom (which is pretty formidable).  My parents tried to get me to stop, because they thought it was detrimental to my physical well-being and survival in society.  They have their reasons.  During the Korean War and afterwards, being a musician may well have been a death sentence.  This is likely why my father’s dying words to me were “Don’t hang around musicians… They cannot function in society.”  Well it’s too late…  I was born this way.

I think for some people it is a choice, and depending on circumstance, that urge to make things can be nurtured or neglected, and either way, they will be fine.  Some people have no desire at all to make anything but money.  There are all kinds of urges.  My people, we make things.  Sometimes we get outside notice for it, sometimes money.  Sometimes we don’t.  But whether or not you get money or attention from what you make doesn’t have anything to do with that basic inner orientation to make.  They are separate.  One doesn’t have more value than the other, but it’s just separate I think.

That said, I was thrilled with all the new songs from the Bushwick Book Club show last week.  The conversations, whether you liked Orson or whether he irked you, inspired all the songwriters to express something that hadn’t been said before.  Something they hadn’t said before.  And I marveled at the colors each musician chose to present their reflection of or response to Orson.  I marveled at how truth finds its own specific path out of each performer.  The flavor of each artist, each person, each song.  You can hear them here:  bushwickbookclub.bandcamp.com

It’s hard to assign a value to the things we make, but they are valuable.  Just ask the Gurlitt’s, the Rosenbergs, The Monuments Men (sounds so Marvel Universe).  All those paintings, stolen, the effort made to recover them..  Those 1,400 works taken from Cornelius Gurlitt’s apartment in Munich recently, of which could include works by Matisse, Courbet, Max Liebermann, Marc Chagall…  This is a big deal, because we value the representation of truth as shown on each canvas.  These artists were great because people found value in the way the truth came out of them.  That’s my interpretation.  The way truth comes out of you is so important that you can be sent to Siberia for it.  Just ask Shevchenko (exiled from Ukraine in 1847 for an unflattering poem about the Emperor and his wife).  And these nine exiled poets .  And Dante (exiled from Florence for supporting the Holy Roman Emperor over the Papacy), Voltaire, Victor Hugo, Salman Rushdie…  Don’t tell me it’s not important the way the truth comes out of you.

Also this—the maltese falcon made of resin that Humphrey Bogart carried  in scenes from the movie has a starting price of half a million dollars.  I’m using this as proof that people still care about stories.  A prop used in the making of a piece of art is a valuable thing to some people.  I’m using this to support my argument that stories and art are essential to us as humans—integral to our existence in ways I’m not able to articulate or even fully comprehend most likely.

I’m collecting proof to counter evidence to the contrary, like the woeful lack of funding from the government and the fact that it’s increasingly rare to make a living wage being a band/musician in New York City.  If you need stories of the glorious golden days, talk to my dear friend and super-drummer Steve Rubin.  I can’t hear any more of these stories myself, because I’ll get unhelpfully sad and teeteringly close to bitter, but the stories are fascinating… this mythical time when animals talked, there was a chimera on every corner and you could earn a living as a house band playing music to people who would come out and dance.  I also recommend talking to drummer Paula Spiro for tales of playing music in a very different, long gone New York.  Just like Orson said–“It’s terrible for older people to say that, because they always say things were better, but they really were.”

And if that’s true, that means right now is the Golden Age of something… so there’s that.

The High Heels of Lviv

These shoes are not
built for running or for connecting
to the ground as much as keeping
you above it.
A spike, like Jesus,
a sacrifice.
Off the ground is certainly closer to god.
These women are just
very religious.

The shoes say,
who cares about getting there.
Lay me down.  Bend me over.  I’m ready for it.
For life, I mean—the exchange, the interplay
and hello, reproduction
if it comes to that.

The heels say
let’s make something.  I’m ready to
make out,
make babies,
make love,
make up,
make believe.

The shoes say
Stay….It’s not the destination, but the journey anyway.

Me, I’ve had enough
of keeping myself above.
My back has let me know.
I spent my 20’s on a platform
above reality.  Reality schmeality, I’d say.
I paid the price for hovering.

I’m flatfooted now
with heels gripping the pavement.
I’m learning to be low.
I’m making friends
with the ground I stand on, which I like,
because I like having friends.

Look, I know what it means—
the illusion of height, the defying reality.
Fuck the elements.  Fuck gravity.  Lviv is centuries
of want me, want me.

I don’t know why
ankles grow fat or toes crooked.
I can’t read minds,
and who knows why time is so mean.
You do what you can.
You put on your shoes.
A heel worn higher still
says what you’ve always known to be true—
if you’re not wanted, what are you?

It’s very nice that feet take you
to the toilet first thing.  But really,
do you exist without being wanted?

I am here regardless, and I have other rules that bind me,
but this city exists because it never resisted.
‘I won’t fight.  You can want me.
I won’t run away.  Stay, stay…’