The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Arts
Wednesday, March 20, 2019 — 5A
In 1973, a man purchased
a can of gasoline from the
Walgreens in the French Quarter
of New Orleans. In an act that
he would never be indicted for,
he proceeded to “the Upstairs,”
a New Orleanian gay bar, where
he used the fluid to ignite the
stairwell of the bar, a passage
already
conducive
to
flame,
trapping many patrons inside. In
a span of minutes, the Upstairs
fire spread. The fire would
ultimately claim 33 lives.
While
dozens
lost
lovers,
family, income and security, and
as the community scrambled
to understand the implications
of
the
fire,
response
from
government and police officials
was dampened. Media reported
on the event in unusual scarcity.
The attack on the Upstairs
Lounge threatened to slip into
oblivion. LSA alumni Robert
Fieseler, however, is determined
to stop that from happening. I had
the opportunity to speak with
him about his recent research
on the Upstairs Lounge fire that
culminated in his first book,
“Tinderbox,”
recently
named
a finalist for The Randy Shilts
Award — a conversation that
proved amiable and educational.
Fieseler is rightfully confident
in his understanding of the
event. His passion is refined and
prominent. He is as articulate in
speaking as he is on paper.
“I look for the cracks in
the concrete that I can fall
down,”
says
Robert
Fieseler
on the writing and research of
“Tinderbox,” which details the
1973 calamity. “Where it seems
like something that’s solid in
our society but actually doesn’t
make any sense.” He’s talking
about the cleavages in history
that get smoothed over too
quickly, events like the Upstairs
Lounge fire that, while slighted
for many years, act as something
of a juncture, invisibly shaping
the course of today. It’s these
invisible histories — perhaps
call them icebergs, with most
of the story unseen beneath the
water from a traditional view —
that Fieseler looks for when he
researches. “Tinderbox” is the
product of the discovery of one of
these quiet but salient fractures:
the Upstairs Lounge fire.
“Tinderbox” tells the story of
the Upstairs Lounge brilliantly,
researched and presented in
a fashion that remains both
remarkably
professional
but
intimate.
Fieseler’s
account
reaches beyond solely the events
of June 1973 and allows readers
surveys of both the events
leading up to the fire as well as its
long-reaching consequences. The
work provides well-researched
evidence, filling between the
bricks with careful investigations
of those involved in the incident,
relying sometimes on dutiful
descriptions
and
literary
imagery.
Fieseler spoke to me about the
precariousness of writing about
tragedy. He nodded to the fragile
responsibility that accompanied
both his descriptive writing
of the 1973 events and the
presentation
of
uncontested
essentials. Everything he wrote,
from the color of walls to the
countenance of victims, had to be
traceable back to a source. “It was
maddening,” Fieseler says. “It
creates a level of accountability.”
The
balance
of
character
investigations
and
textbook
facts that make “Tinderbox” so
compelling also made Fieseler’s
research all the more important.
There was the need to be
honest and fair to the victims
and the city of the time, he
explained, something he felt was
impossible to contribute without
entrenching readers into the
lives of patrons and witnesses. It
is this investigation that makes
“Tinderbox” so evocative.
And so, research was both
consuming
and
impactful.
Fieseler spent time in archives
around the country to stack his
nearly seventy pages of citations
on the event, though it was
mostly his conversations with
those who had lived through the
fire that he spoke to me about.
These talks were difficult but
necessary. “Individuals sensed
that although it would be painful
to rehash and, to a certain
extent, relive a lot of these events
… that there would be some
broader purpose,” he says of the
interviews he conducted. “There
were a couple conversations with
people that were some of the
greatest moments of my life and
that I would never take back.”
Conversations happened both in
and far from New Orleans, one
even taking place in a jazz club.
Fieseler decided to directly quote
these interviews in “Tinderbox,”
and they are certainly successful.
The first-hand accounts from fire
survivors scattered through the
work make the event all the more
real for readers.
When
asked
about
the
politicizing of the fire, Fieseler
said that he doesn’t believe it’s
possible to separate the event
from the politics of the time. “It’s
woven into the fabric,” he says.
He pointed to the people affected
and the lack of a response from
leaders and community members
that only worsened the scenario,
leaving victims without funerals,
families without income and
thousands
who
refused
to
even
acknowledge
the
term
“homosexuality” when reporting
on the event. “People forget
the era of criminalization (of
homosexuality),” Fieseler says,
“and what criminalization meant
… for the victims and how people
suffered mentally.”
At the end of our conversation,
I
directed
the
dialogue
to
Fieseler’s
experience
at
the
University. He openly recounted
his struggle as a gay college
student in a time of remarkably
low
visibility,
nodding
to
coverage of the queer community
by The Daily in helping him come
out. “I hope that we live in a
day and age where people aren’t
struggling [with their sexuality]
in college,” Fieseler told me.
“Coming out is a great thing. I
mean, do it while you’re young
and cute, please,” he laughed.
In a later and more thoughtful
note, he nodded to the weight
of the story “Tinderbox” tells,
one far more important than
any one individual. It is a horror
that events such as the Upstairs
Lounge ever occurred. And it is
the research and passion of those
like Fieseler that ensure it will
never happen again.
Queer history: In conversation with Robert Fieseler
BOOK REVIEW
Going
into
The
Brian
Jonestown Massacre, I had no
idea what to expect. Coming out
of it, I have no idea what to think.
I had never heard of The Brian
Jonestown
Massacre
before,
and
after
listening to a
few of their
past releases,
it
was
hard
to get a firm
grasp on the
band’s sound.
Their
most
recent release
is no different.
The
album
has so many
influences
that it’s hard
to
determine
exactly
what
the
album
sounds
like.
It’s not quite
a
modern
version
of
classic
rock,
it’s not quite
psychedelic,
it’s not quite
post-rock, it’s
not quite neo-
folk, it’s not
quite garage rock and it’s not
quite shoegaze. Somehow, The
Brian Jonestown Massacre is a
menagerie of all these genres and
many more, and when it works, it
really works.
A quick glance at the Spotify
page for The Brian Jonestown
Massacre will reveal that the
self-titled album is their 18th
full-length release. The band has
as many singles and EPs as they
have albums. The band releases
a staggering amount of music,
but based on this most recent
release, the band’s prolificity is
not a hindrance whatsoever.
The
Brian
Jonestown
Massacre’s
driving
opener
“Drained” proves to be an
ambitious song to follow. It
starts the entire album off on
the right foot. “Drained” sounds
like it could be the grittier, less
grandiose little brother to some
of the most popular Britpop
songs of the late ’90s and early
’00s. It’s bluesy and fluid, and
overall, it’s so much fun to hear.
The rest of the album struggles
to match the highs of “Drained,”
especially toward the back end.
However, other standouts include
the haunting “Tombes Oubliées”
and the bluesy rocker “Cannot
Be Saved.” Unfortunately, both
of these songs are found early
in the tracklist, which actually
hurts the album. Placing three
of the best songs in the first four
slots of the album is decidedly
not a good decision. It leaves the
band playing catch up for the rest
of the work, reusing the elements
that made the album’s highs so
great.
With this in mind, it is easy
to see why The Brian Jonestown
Massacre begins to skid. Despite
its varied influences and multiple
sonic motifs, The Brian Jonestown
Massacre
becomes
a
little
monotonous
as it runs. The
reverb-soaked
guitars
and
vocals
begin
to
sounds
washed
out, and the
grooves begin
to be recycled.
The
song
“Remember
Me This” is
especially
guilty.
As
one
of
the
later
songs
on the album,
“Remember
Me
This”
needs to bring
something
new
to
the
table,
but
instead
it
festers in the
same sounds
that
have
already been
used and abused throughout the
album.
The album is by no means
perfect, but it surely does not
disappoint. The Brian Jonestown
Massacre wasn’t made in an
attempt to attract new fans.
Rather, it was made for the
band’s faithful fans that will end
up walking away from this album
content. The album seems like
an unwarranted victory lap for
The Brian Jonestown Massacre,
who could, if driven to it, most
certainly craft a consistently
great album instead of just a few
noteworthy songs.
A confusing release from
The Brian Jonestown M.
TEE PEE RECORDS
ALBUM REVIEW
The Brian Jonestown
Massacre
The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Tee Pee Records
JIM WILSON
Daily Arts Writer
Tinderbox
Robert W. Fieseler
W.W. Norton & Company
Jun. 5, 2018
JOHN DECKER
Daily Arts Writer
My mother taught me to
read. She taught me to read
long before pre-school and long
before someone else could teach
me first. She wanted to be the
one to bless me with the gift of
stories, so we spent all of my
childhood reading together. My
now overgrown personal library
started from a chest of books in
the basement of my childhood
home,
and
a
small
white
bookshelf set against the wall in
my childhood bedroom. When I
was young and small, reaching
into the chest meant reaching
into another world, where pages
could ignite the wildest parts of
my mind with dreams of far off
places. Maybe she knew that I’d
be so inclined to telling stories
— to knowing them, to holding
and nurturing them, years and
books and pages later, when
I’ve become all tangled up in
everybody else’s wordy limbs in
attempts to untangle my own.
She took me to the library to get
my first library card, a tradition
I’ve matched as I move to new
cities
and
experience
new
places, and would sit on a plush
cushion chair as I browsed
for a few hours, indulging my
curiosity for books. She gave me
stories and with that, perhaps
as collateral or perhaps because
she truly intended to, she gave
me imagination. She let me
write stories and read them
out loud at the dinner table,
where I was the strong, female
protagonist, so that when I was
met with hundreds of stories
with strong male characters,
and a singular troupe-y female
ingenue, they felt foreign and
forced.
Maybe
she
doesn’t
realize this, but perhaps I am
so inclined to make believe
because she gave me the tools to
fall in love with art.
My mother taught me to
run. She instilled in me a fierce
competitiveness even when I
was the weakest athlete on the
team, a willingness to believe
that anyone no matter how
unathletic, could be a runner.
All
it
takes
is
supportive
sneakers and the road, and
you could fall in love on your
way down the dusty trail and
never return to where you
began. Running is not without
defeat, but the best days are
always accompanied with the
knowledge that for me, the road
always listens. I was ten years
old when I started running at
Meadowridge Park with my
mother, and I’ve probably run
a total of 10,000 miles. It is a
love affair — Meadowridge
Park, Hoka sneakers and I, that
will never grow stale. At first it
felt as though she was making
me run, and I dreaded every
middle school cross country
practice and the runs her and
I would take on the weekends.
But she was right in teaching
me to run. My mother did not
make me a runner, but she gave
me the tools to begin. Running
and I are an unlikely pair, as I
like to think I am unabashedly
artistic and unathletic, and
runners are meditative and
strong. But my body craves the
movement — running is my
moving meditation, the way I
settle an unsteady heart, the
way I clear my cluttered mind.
I’ve run five half marathons
and one full marathon, with her
unwavering support, because
she gave me love for the pain
and the goodness in the familiar
motions.
My
mother
taught
me
gratitude. For no one thing
in particular, but for my life.
She taught me to count my
blessings and know that I have
many of them — even when I
struggle to recognize it. She
puts
momentous
downfalls
and eye level tragedies to rest
when she reminds me that
things can always be worse.
She taught me this when she
curbed my anxiety surrounding
flying on airplanes, when she
didn’t sugarcoat the difficult
moments in life to teach me
about reality and truth, no
matter how ugly those can be.
She taught me to be thankful
for my body, regardless of how
frustrating
it’s
peculiarities
and complications, because at
the end of the day it is a healthy
body. It is a strong body. It is a
beautiful body. One that has
given me so many gifts — one
capable of so many miracles
and with so many flaws that are
mine to love.
My
mother
taught
me
strength, which is a life lesson
you cannot learn from a book
or a classroom, or even a simple
conversation. Sometimes it takes
a monumental understanding
to climb life’s most troubling
challenges. When she fell ill my
sophomore year of high school
and battled debilitating vertigo
and imbalance, she managed to
continue to serve as a central
beacon of support continually
effusing energy and strength,
even when I knew she had none
left to give. If she was bedridden
for an entire week, she’d find
a way to muster up courage
and shaky toughness to come
support a cross country race,
school musical or honors society
induction. She would be in the
hospital just days before my
first Thanksgiving in college,
but conjure up the energy to
smile and be completely present
for me as we sat around the
family room couch to eat dinner
with her. When she was finally
diagnosed with late stage Lyme
Disease and the incurable, not
fatal, yet all the while crippling
Ménière’s disease, I recognized
that a mother’s job is never on
break or vacation. Because even
when her body was attacking
her mercilessly, she put positive
energy out into the world, and
used every ounce of herself
to put my brothers and I first,
circumstances aside. Her first
priority is never and would
never be herself. Perhaps this
is a part of motherhood, or
perhaps this is just part of her.
She once told me that her
purpose in life was to raise my
brothers and I, and now that
we’ve grown up, she’s okay
with not having a purpose
as demanding anymore. She
doesn’t work a nine to five job,
and since being diagnosed with
an unpredictable autoimmune
disease it’s more difficult for her
to pick up intensely demanding
jobs or responsibilities. But I
disagree with her sense that
her purpose has become less
of a demand, or that her job is
lighter now. Your purpose and
role as a mother only grows
more
demanding
as
your
children find their footing, grow
old enough to shake naivetes
and truly see the world. My
mother has an uncommon and
salient purpose as a healer. She
heals people with words and
actions. In another life she may
have been a therapist — she
has a medicinal way of curing
the deepest of wounds and
reconciling concerns, whether
grave or trivial. Maybe she’s
just some sort of a saint. Her
advice is therapeutic — realistic
and honest, yet soft and careful.
She will constantly tell you that
she is inarticulate or not as
intelligent as she could be, but
on this, she is wrong. She always
has the right words in the most
natural way, in her mind she
has every answer. It’s not just
me who sees this ability to
remedy. She is an unbelievable,
altruistic friend, saving the
people she loves when they need
saving, telling them the truth
when they need reality. She is
an extraordinary sister and I’ve
watched her give her sisters
the epitome of female love, be
it as small as fashion advice
to as monumental as pieces of
herself. Whenever anyone in
her life needs her words, her
shoulder, her eyes, they give her
a call. I am surprised her phone
ever stops ringing, and try my
best to wonder about her when
I call too.
Lessons from my mother
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com
ELI RALLO
Daily Arts Writer
COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK