I was
down with a bit of a bug earlier this week, and as sometimes happens when I'm
laying in bed on a cloudy day and not capable of doing much else, I thought
about culture, and how culture moves.
Maybe
I think about this because I grew up in the
West, where space is vast and the
insinuations of culture are perhaps even more poignant because there is so much that is not culture around you:
looming mountains, wide prairies--those places where there
are things out there that can and
will eat you.
Yet
culture gained a foothold out there.
Any town that boomed spent capitol on culture--usually an opera house--because it
signified civilization, and because there
were people with money to buy tickets to hear Jenny Lind sing or Oscar Wilde
speak.
Culture
moved with fiddlers and church choirs and ragtime piano players and jazz
musicians and it changed the people
and places it came in contact with in Sedalia
and Kansas City and San Francisco
and Missoula.
Even though the Sunday New York Times didn't arrive until Tuesday on the morning train.
With
recordings, radio, TV, you didn't have to see the
Beatles at Busch Stadium to be changed by the
Beatles. They were on The Ed Sullivan
Show, on the radio, on the record player--and they
were in our heads and changed how we wore our hair and dressed and walked and
talked and changed what we thought about.
In the technological revolution we're living in now, culture
is immediate, a click away. And it is infinite. Douglas Coupland, the man who came up with the
moniker Generation X, recently suggested that pop culture may be near
extinction because there is no one
thing that can gain traction in the
vast expanse of culture--no defining group such as the
Beatles, or film such as The Graduate.
There's always more, with no mood or sensibility or gesture that lasts
long enough to define. It devours itself.
And
yet, there are artists whose power
is most fully realized in direct contact with an audience, who still have the allure of minstrels or Provencal poets or a
group of players arriving at Elsinore, or Jenny Lind in Havana, or Oscar Wilde
in St. Louis.
Meredith
Monk is that sort of artist. As David Robertson has said, she "is from a vocal
tradition both classical and primal." Sure she puts out CDs and you can find
her on YouTube, but her power, and that of her ensemble, is best realized in
direct contact with the senses, in
her presence through your eyes and ears and skin and mind. It is culture moving
through you with all the haunting
power of a night train.