Secrets of the City

interesting point made by a guest on mpr:

as corporate media fall apart (city pages, strib) due to shareholder pressure, will local newspapers (sw journal, etc) take over? i think so.

Good- now I can read City pages again.

Check his most recent blog post. That’s a pretty big and gross “FU” to the bosses, methinks.

Jesus.

Ditto.

But I noticed they dropped the personals.

Not that I ever read them…

I can’t imagine the Jim I know posting that post, even as an “FU” to bosses. Site hack? Or WTF?

ahaha, blogging at its finest

will local newspapers (sw journal, etc) take over?

What do we mean by”take over”? As in, folks will turn to SW Journal for all the info they used to get from CP? ‘Cause the local papers will have to do some changing to fill in that alt-weekly slot.

I said “slot.” Huhhuh.

Oddly, that’s exactly the cover story for Pulse this week. Also: Shout outs to MnSpeak in my story.

Thanks, Max. Appreciated.

take over — gaining in readership as larger newspapers are torn down by their corporate masters.

Wow, I wonder what he will do next.

I can’t imagine Jim posting that either, totally not like him.

In that case, I don’t disagree.

Walsh’s post on Word Up by Cameo got me thinking about my favorite cover version of that song — strung together clips of talking dictionaries.

Sheer.f’n.genius.

Holy crap. I just saw the post.

WTF.

strung together clips of talking dictionaries

Bwaha! That is waaaaaay better than the Cherry Coke commercial.

oh man. i should use that in the bikini babe video.

i don’t know Jim but I thought his last post was kind of brilliant.

i think Jim (and a number of other strong writer personalities) could do well having their own web site, but it’s a lot harder trying to pull money in obviously.

A little dose of reality is pretty harsh, isn’t it? Funny the “left-wing media” hasn’t shown us those pictures.

[i]i don’t know Jim but I thought his last post was kind of brilliant.[/i]

100% out of character in just about every possible way.

(nice italics tags, Jonny.)

Well, things are already looking up under Kevin Hoffman.

Maybe Hoffman hacked into his site and created that last post.

…. just kidding.

If such vets from CP leave, what will happen when the Strib’s new overlords take over?

I never cared for Jm Walsh – always found his columns followed the “find local screwball, talk about a day in their life” recipe. But it’s a bit disturbing to see multiple changes at once.

That really was from Jim, he posted the same thing in a bulletin on MySpace.

awwww….. no more stories about his kids..shucks.

Way to go out in style.

was the alleged “FU” in that last post because of the gruesome nature of the photos? or is there something “inside baseball” that I’m missing?

I think he writes best when his subject is something he is really passionate about, like music–he had a pretty sweet gig going. What writer wouldn’t love to be given carte blanche to write about whatever you think is interesting and get paid for it?

He takes himself too seriously sometimes and things could get overly self-referential, but overall I liked his stuff. I’m a little sad.

And wow is that site disturbing.

Is The Onion having a big impact on City Pages’ revenue?

When comparing Walsh’s blog and print articles, it’s clear to see that City Pages would only print the fluff, even before the takeover. The final blog is a perfect parting shot, absolutely in character, opening eyes to the brutal reality of the war in a way that every major media outlet in the country has failed to do. Can’t hardly wait to see where he lands next.

I didn’t realize Walsh was a rotten.com fan!

Damn. I hope it was his choice. He is too good a man and writer to get booted out. Love him or not, he is a passionate, honest writer that has invited readers into his life and in doing so, has shown a great respect for anyone that reads his stuff. I hope he has no lack of writing gigs in the near future.

Frank Frankley, Walsh’s final blog post was an insult. Equating wanting to talk about American Idol with ignoring wartime death is bizarre and meaningless — particularly when you read Walsh’s last column, which was about making fun of people in a dog park.

You can care about American Idol and care about the war and, for that matter, care about dog parks. All at the same time.

(And Martin, read the Strib story. He was fired.)

itk–just read it. sucks.
I think that the last post on his blog was likely a reaction of sorts. Appropriate? Probably not. But once again, at least he ain’t boring.

and really, though it caught me off guard, I thought “American Idol” trick was particularly inspired…

His hateful little stunt just once again proves what a self-important prick Walsh is. I didn’t think he could “top” that column from a few years ago where he lionized himself for going out to some suburban high school class and screaming at some poor kid who was unlucky enough to not share Walsh’s deeply nuanced worldview.

New Times made a good decision.

Personally, I’ve sensed a real nasty, cynical side of Jim Walsh has emerged during his City Pages tenure, and it’s not very attractive.

No, I think that’s always been there and he (in print) struggles with it…but in the end, his optimism prevails (for example, his musical pursuits as the Mad Ripple and his myspace page(s), which represent that side of his personality).

ron, you are likely a “prick” that has never met the guy or given his writing a fair shake….God forbid somebody writes from the f-ing gut and heart….good luck enjoying your increasingly bland weekly…maybe they’ll hire someone will write a really interesting column about the next American Idol, since that’s what you thought you were going to read.

I’m of two minds. I hate to see the new boss come in and clean house.

On the other hand, Walsh is a poster child for the parochial anti-intellectual local press attitude that strangles the local music scene. And he is too damn full of his bad self.

His shocking final post was easy and cheap. The preceding post about Prince representin’ was more symptomatic of the disease that got his ass canned.

He did not return a phone call Wednesday, and said only in an e-mail that he was “sick of talking about myself and the media.”

doesn’t the strib mean “sick of talking about [him]self and the media?”

Love or hate Jim’s writing (and there are plenty of reasons to do either), he’s a distinctive local voice. CP’s worse off without him, though the reverse is probably not true. I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of him.

Personally, I’ve sensed a real nasty, cynical side of Jim Walsh has emerged during his City Pages tenure, and it’s not very attractive.

Actually, Minnesota has brought out my nasty and cynical side too!

Walsh is a poster child for the parochial anti-intellectual local press attitude that strangles the local music scene.

What? Seriously, what does that sentence mean?

Good riddance. Just hope they don’t replace him with someone worse. Wait, that isn’t possible.

I love MNSpeak in terms of bitter cynicism about local writers. I swear to god, name a writer and there’s ten, eleven people foaming at the mouth about how they’re the “worst ever.” Plah. I smell grapes, and they’re pretty god-damn sour.

Martin’s right — Walsh was someone who wrote from the heart. Anti-intellectual? Maybe, whatever that means — but isn’t that how we’re supposed to experience music, or at least one valid way, as a gut experience rather than a head one? Or life, in general? Writing from passion rather than overthinking and overanalyzing everything?

I think the guy had style, heart, and a good heart. I’m kinda glad he pisses people off as much as he does, too. I’m sure he’ll find himself somewhere he can be appreciated.

Check out his post as The Mad Ripple in the CP Kevin Hoffman thread.

It looks to me like he wanted out anyway. That or he’s not very bright. (A possibility.) It’s not the kind of thing you say publicly if you want to keep your job. So it’s hard for me to feel to bad for him either way.

It is sad, though. I don’t like his writing AT ALL, but he does have a point (if WTF can be considered a point). The new management and their style of journalism don’t bode well for City Pages.

that was supposed to say “style, a good head, and a good heart.”

Totally agree, Jonny. There is so much hate in here. So much hateful noise! I’m all for expressing an opinion, but nobody in here has offered anything of any value: “I don’t like his writing” doesn’t really tell anyone anything or add to a real conversation.

That said, regarding Walsh’s unique and wonderfully earnest writing style, I think Jim’s quote on his MySpace page says it best: “A saint is one who exaggerates what the world neglects. — G.K. Chesterton”

Now I’m not saying that Walsh is a “saint,” but I do think he is an artist whose writing does just that.

I offered something “of value”: some context around his dismissal. Is it OK that I also mentioned that I don’t like his writing? We don’t all have to love him. I respect that you do.

I like Walsh’s solo stuff better than the stuff he did with the Eagles.

Mitch Albom is a saint.

Rocky Mountain Way was killer.

I hear he may tour again with the James Gang.

Having previously worked at CP for years and years I am saddened not only by the product becoming a cookie-cutter New Times publication — but I am sad for my former collegues who are working through the changes over there.

I’ve always been partial to “Funk #49″ myself.

These comment boards exist to exchange opinions. Jonny, you’re a big boy and don’t need to be told that sometimes people disagree. Sometimes, not everyone loves the same thing.

I see by your blog that you’re really, really into nostalgia and indulging yourself in the past. Jim Walsh’s writing comes off the same way to me. It makes sense that you would defend him. Now, before your ears start steaming and you blow a defensive gasket, understand that I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that; it doesn’t make folks like you and Jim necessarily bad bloggers, bad writers, or bad people…….it just isn’t my bag. Or some other people’s bag. Can you deal with that?

I’m one of those people who likes things in moderation (except moderation). Nostalgia, riffing on your childhood, reminiscing, romanticizing, and dreamily idealizing the past are all fine and dandy – to an extent.

I can have an conversation or two about ‘how great things used to be’, or appreciate occasional poetic prose romanticizing a breadcrumb as well as anyone, but what I can’t stand is getting my nose rubbed in such a concentrated dose of awkwardly contrived wistfulness over and over again, every single time I’ve given Walsh’s writing a chance. He’s a one-trick pony to me, and while he’s probably a nice guy and all, his column in CP has become a running joke in this household. His “slice of life” “vigenettes” have become so truly awful they’ve snaked around back to being good, just for the pure entertainment of reading another embarrassingly pretentious installment of “childlike wonder” bullshit. Cynical? YUP. Black-hearted? YUP. End of the world that people are black-hearted cynics sometimes? NOPE.

I think he’s simply run his course, and he’s boring to boot. His writing screams “middle-aged Midwestern white guy with kids, a wife, and a sleepy, common music collection who’s really pleased with himself and gets paid to write about it.” Wow! Wake me up when the presses stop for that!

I’m glad CP is booting this “wonder years” bozo out, maybe it’ll free up some space for more call girl, cigarettes, and hair removal ads. At least those things actually HELP people. Jeez.

Got the Rake with the Cake. Nice job, Tom & Co.

Mitch Albom is an arrogant midget and Starbucks sells his insipid books, which are, quite astonishingly, worse than Starbucks’ coffee.

Who knew Walsh was a paleocon?

What Bx said.

Word.

Treacly comes to mind.

Why are people even surprised that Walsh was let go? A few days ago I would have put money he’d be gone. Once New Times made the buy and decided Perry was gone, Walsh had a big fat throbbing red target on his head. After all, Walsh was hired as columnist by CP because he’s Perry buddy, and it’s likely Walsh was grossly overpaid for what he actually did for the paper.

Ummm, no. That is not why Walsh was hired. He and Perry are not “buddies.” But keep it coming. All of these assumptions are hilarious. (Why Jim was hired, why he was fired, what his last post meant.) It’s great to see he’s inspired such a response at least.

Thank you, trustme.

Walsh was hired from the Daily in 1990 to shore up CP’s local music coverage; the previous music editor wasn’t as immersed in the local scene, so he was moved to general assignment reporting to make way for Jim. And to paraphrase Tex Ritter: I know, because I…was that editor.

It seems harsh to be happy about someone losing their job. Does what he write actually effect your life in someway. Wow, I hope not. He has a wife and kids for godsake. I wish him the best.

This Is It (for Danny Pearl)
By Jim Walsh
__________________________________

The Critic Gets His
A One-Act Play
(for Daniel Pearl)

The Players:

Billy Joel, piano man (played by Andy Maykuth, Philadelphia Inquirer)

Yanni, new age superstar (played by Alan Zarembo, Los Angeles Times)

Elton John, pop legend (played by Linda Gallant, great woman behind the great Arieh OSullivan, former war correspondent of the Jerusalem Post)

Jim Walsh, music critic (himself)

Narrator: Julie McCarthy (Chomsky scholar and star of National Public Radio)

The setting: One of the 15 rehearsal rooms on the second floor of the Braun Music Center on the campus of Stanford University. The room is 10 feet-by-10 feet, soundproofed, and dominated by a black baby grand piano. Scattered on the floor are candy wrappers, an empty plastic soda bottle, sheet music, and a crumpled music stand. On the wall above the piano hangs a modest plaque that reads, This practice room is dedicated in fond memory of Samuel P. Felix, Jr. The song is ended but the melody remains.

Walsh enters the room, turns on the lights, locks the door, and sits at the piano. From his bag he takes out a full can of Mountain Dew and a small statuette, both of which he places on top of the piano. Propped open on the piano is a dog-eared copy of Keyboard Musician For The Adult Beginner. It is almost ten oclock on the last Saturday of winter quarter at Stanford, in the academic year 2002-2003.

Walsh: Alright, you moron, lets do this. Lets go. Joie de friggin VivRE. Alright. Get those landmarks. F, C, G. Cmon, you can do this.

He sighs deeply, and places his fingers gingerly on the piano keys. After two bars, he squints through his bifocals up at the sheet music and loses his place on the keyboard.

Walsh: Shit! Hang on. Alright. Lets do this.

He takes off his sweater, mops his brow with his T-shirt, and flexes his fingers. He loosens up his wrists, places his fingers on the keys, and begins to play. The music is at once rhythmic and herky-jerky; flowing and tentative. A loud knock on the practice rooms clear glass door interrupts the music. Walsh ignores it until he looks up from the piano to see three pantomimed faces waving at him, motioning for him to unlock the door. Recognizing the faces, he lurches to the door and unlocks it.

Walsh: Hey guys! Hows it going?

Elton: allo, mate! Hope you dont mind. We came to hear you play. Im Elton John. These are my friends Yanni (motions to Yanni) and Billy Joel (motions to Billy).

Walsh: Wow! What a surprise. Ah, but of course I know who you are. In fact, Ive seen all three of you in concert.

Elton, Billy, and Yanni (in unison, deadpan): We know.

Walsh (nervously): Uh, really? Sooo& what brings you guys up here?

Billy (condescendingly): We heard you were taking piano lessons. Figured you could use some pointers.

Walsh: Thats nice, but Im doing alright, I think. Heh. Pluggin away.

Yanni (snickering): Thats not how it sounded to us.

Walsh (mortified): You heard that? You were listening?

Elton (slyly): Only for about ten minutes. Sounds like youve got Chopsticks down. And the landmarks are aces. On Top Of Old Smokey could use some work, though. You know, Jim, we were wondering&

Walsh: Anything, Elton.

Elton: Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

Elton, Yanni, and Billy burst into laughter.

Billy (sarcastically): So, big Saturday night here, huh? Mr. Culture Vulture. Senor Scene Fiend. Master Of Where-Its-At. Back in college, practicing the piano. Hoo-boy. (singing) If MY FRIENDS COULD SEE ME NOOOWWW!!!

Walsh (losing patience): Anyway, what do you guys want?

Elton: What do we want, lads? Bill? What do we want?

Yanni: Yes, Bill. Tell him. What do we want?

Billy (brusquely): Apologies.

Walsh: Huh?

Billy (deliberately): We. Want. Apologies.

Elton: You heard him. Apologies. A-P-O-L-O-G-I-E-S. We want apologies. For all the sins youve committed against us, all the rubbish youve written about us.

Walsh (squirming): Uh, I didnt think musicians as big as& You guys actually read that stuff?

Yanni: Read it?! Weve got it right here.

The three musicians hold up yellowing copies of the St. Paul Pioneer Press.

Walsh: Cripes. I feel like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol.

Yanni: I give that analogy two and a half stars!

Yanni, Elton, and Billy howl and slap each other five.

Walsh: Very funny. Give me a break, though. I was just doing my job.

Elton: Job? JOB? Is that what you call it? Work? Give us a break. Its not like youre a war correspondent, or something.

Walsh: Look. Even if you guys dont acknowledge that arts criticism is a valid profession, you should know better than anyone by now that everybodys a critic. Everybodys got their likes and dislikes and tastes and distastes and opinions, rants, conspiracy theories. Part of what I doand no matter what you think, its not all criticism, per seis to put mine down in black and white.

Yanni (huffily): And yellow and yellow and yellow! I havent read a single music critic who enjoys or understands what I do! Thats why I dont read my reviews. I regard the press the way the band in Almost Famous did: As the enemy.

Walsh: Im more with Sinead OConnor. Shes married to a journalist, the lucky bastard. In an interview in the Irish Times last month, she said shes attracted to journalists because, and I quote, singers and journalists are a lot alike. Were both a little bonkers.

Then theres Oscar Wilde, who said in his essay, The Critic As Artist, quote, Is criticism really a creative art? Why should it not be? It works with materials and puts them into a form that is at once new and delightful. What more can one say of poetry?

Billy (incensed): Poetry? You call this poetry? From the April 16, 1999 edition of your so-called NEWS paper: Early in his two-hour, 20-minute concert Thursday night, Billy Joel admitted to the sold-out crowd at the Target Center that his current tour, which has been on the road off and on since January 1998, has been without a name.

How about `A Star Is Bored?

Billy shoots a look at Walsh, who stares straight ahead at the sheet music on the piano. Billy continues reading.

Billy: Actually, Joel told the crowd that the tours unofficial name has been `Were doing the Old Shit Tour. Inspired, no? But thats what it was, with the 49-year-old Joel performing like a man who cant wait to get on to other things. Which is what hell do: Tuesday in New Jersey is the last stop, after which hell concentrate on composing classical music.

Thats admirable: Even though Joels showmanship and musicianship were in fine form Thursday night, there was a cynicism at the heart of the proceedings, an almost bitter just-another-gig-get-it-over-with vibe.

Billy throws down the paper and rises to come at Walsh. Elton and Yanni restrain him. Yanni spreads his newspaper out in front of him.

Yanni (to Joel): Thats nothing. (To Walsh): Whats this supposed to mean? February 14, 1998: Dear Valentine, Thank you for last night. You were wonderful. Almost as wonderful as Yanni, I dare say.

From the moment he stepped on stage, all I could think of was you and Our Love. The back-up singers were angels, and Yanni was something sent from heaven, even though he said, `Its nice to be back home in Minneapolis. As the Four Seasons sang, `Oh, what a night.

This will sound silly, I know, but something profound happened to us last night. Did you feel it? Yanni wore all whitejust like you, on our wedding day. He closed his eyes for most of the performance, and looked as if he was signing for the hearing-impaired. Scratch that. Make that the romance-impaired.

He stood at his bank of keyboards and/or grand piano, and shook his head back and forth, as if he was constantly saying, `No, no, no, but all I could think of was you, Our Love, and `Yes, yes, yes. He performed with a sly grin on his face, as if he cant believe he gets paid for doing this for a living. Tickets were $66.25 and $40.75, but I know youll agree, my love, when I say the whole two-hour-plus extravaganza was priceless.

I know that some of our friends think Yanni is music for people who dont get out very much, but we dont care. Its us against the world, my little pukka shell. Just like Yanni versus his critics.

Yannis eyes come up from the paper slowly. He looks wounded.

Walsh (after a beat): Hey, I was bored and desperate and on deadline. I had to come up with something.

Elton (deliberately): September 30, 1995:

Walsh: Oh God.

Elton: His artistic sensibility has taken a precarious turn towards the middle of the road, as the syrupy-to-bombastic quartet of `House, `Simple Life, `The One, and `Made In England illustrated. At that moment I wouldve rather heard the Elton-penned theme for Diet Coke, a can of which he prominently gulped from between songs.

Walsh: Hey, read the whole thing. I liked that show.

Elton (ignoring Walsh): April 22, 1998: There was the requisite adult contemporary schmaltz, and a cloying video of `The Lion King that played on the video screens during his performance of `Can You Feel The Love Tonight?, not to mention the constant sips of Diet Coke (caffeine-free, natch) that suggested emotional product placement.

The room falls silent. The three musicians look at Walsh expectantly.

Walsh (after a beat, brightening): Actually, Im glad you guys are here. With the clips and everything, because Ive been thinking a lot about you in here these past ten weeks, trying to remember exactly what I wrote about you, which I must say is not nearly as bad as what I wrote about, say, Garth Brooks, whose fans still want to tar and feather me. But its true. You guys have been on my mind, because I started out as a musician and these piano lessons have been&

Elton: Not as easy as it looks, is it, mate?

Walsh: You can say that again. Its hard. Like math. Frankly, I dont how you guys do it. I keep thinking about my friend Jim Meyer, another former musician turned critic. He used to publish a fanzine called Easier Read Than Done.

Billy: Cute. Whats it mean?

Walsh: What do you mean what does it mean?

Billy: Just that. What does it mean?

Walsh: Well, you know, its a play on the saying, Easier said than done.

Billy: Oh. But what does it mean?

Walsh: Well, I think it just means, that, its uh, just a way of acknowledging that maybe sitting back and judging people who play music is a whole lot easier than actually playing music.

Billy rises from his chair with mock pomp and circumstance and pumps Walshs hand.

Billy (exaggeratedly): Thank you. Thank you. Thats what I came for. Thats all I wanted to hear. Lets go, boys.

Elton: Not so fast. Were just getting started. (To Walsh): Let me get this straight. You know how it feels to write songs and sing and be on a stage. Youve felt that thrill of the crowd, melodies going through your head and heart and body, that surge of your own music meeting the atmosphere, and still you&

Walsh: Look, you guys probably wont believe this, but what Ive found is that writing about music is one of the best ways to get to know myself, and the best way to get to know people. I mean, I can go into someones home, look at their CD collection, and instantly know something intimate about them. I can talk to strangers, ask them what sort of music they love and know somethingnot everything, but something–about what makes them tick.

Elton: Great. Fine. We are the world. What I want to know is why would a singer ever stop singing to start writing the sort of crap you wrote about us?

Walsh: Long story.

Yanni (easing back): Weve got nothing but time.

Walsh (after a sigh): Alright, you asked for it. And I guess I do owe you an explanation. Besides, as my piano teacher says, Youve got to remember where you were to know where youre going.

I wrote poetry as a kid, and diary journal stuff. When I went to high school, I was the editor and main writer of my high school newspaper. In fact, in my senior yearbook, theres a picture of me holding a record bag from Positively Fourth Street, the long-lost Minneapolis record store named after the Bob Dylan album.

Elton: Great record.

Walsh: Yeah. Anyway, the caption under the photo says, Jim gets ready to write his next record review. Its funny now, and sort of prophetic, but even then, deep down, the idea of solely writing about music, not making it, creeped me out. When I got to college, I met my wife and we started going to clubs. The punk rock scene was exploding around the world, all these great bands were forming, and&

Yanni: Punk rock? Ewww.

Walsh: Which reminds me (turns towards Yanni). You went to the University of Minnesota, too, like my wife and I. You were five years older than me, and you played in that awful local band. What was the name?

Yanni (sheepishly): Chameleon.

Walsh: Yeah, yeah! Chameleon! I never had the pleasure, but me and my pals, we declared war on bands like Chameleon, all those pompous, pretentious, blowhardy bands. Punk rock was stupid in a lot of waysthere were too many rules and uniforms and as a result a lot of bad, unimaginative music–but it made a stand for something raw and real at a time when intellectualism and excess was sucking the soul out of rock n roll.

Elton: What about us?

Walsh (to Elton): Man, you know I loved you. I saw you a bunch of times. On my bedroom door I painted the Saturday Nights Alright For Fighting sword and sash from the gatefold of the Goodbye Yellow Brick Road album. And (to Billy), I dug The Stranger and Piano Man and some others, but you lost me pretty quick. I grew. Thats what music listeners do. They grow.

Billy: Its all rock n roll to me.

Walsh: Anyway, I sang in a band for seven years, and we could sit here all night swapping stories about that experience, but the main thing it did for me was get my creative juices going in a real way. They havent stopped since. Being in a band taught me how to be myself, how to get along with other creative people, how to listen to and trust my heart, and how to do my own thing. But by the end, I realized that I liked listening to other singers sing as much as myself. Its almost like they expressed something about myself that I couldnt express myself. I was drawn to writing about that, and I wanted to share what I foundsongs, records, moments. I also wanted to document this scene I was part of, and write about the music that was coming out of Minnesota, and about things that I didnt see being written about.

Billy: Nothing sticks with you like music that came from your hometown. Anybodyll tell you that.

Walsh: Yeah. Also, I dont know if I was really cut out for the stage. I used to get pretty nervous before I got up there, and I didnt really drink or do drugseven though lots of people offered it–so that wasnt an option.

Elton: It used to help me.

Billy: Me, too.

Yanni: I just burn a little incense and become one with the stage.

Walsh: I dont know. I guess it was classic stage fright. Which I ve come to the conclusion is a huge conceit, because nobodys interested in watching you being afraid of doing the one thing that you plainly want to be doing, which is being in a room and singing your song to people.

But Ive been reminded of what stage fright feels like that while taking these piano lessons, because every week in class, we have to play a solo in front of the class. It has been absolutely jarring to my system. There have actually been times when Ive been sitting there thinking, I wonder what would happen if I just excused myself and left and never came back.

Billy: I still shudder when I think about piano lessons.

Walsh: Its hard. Ive wanted to quit. Sometimes my wrists hurt from practicing. But Im getting the hang of it, and I practiced, and I can actually play a few tunes. I can sort of read music, too, which is one of the babies I threw out with the punk rock baththree chords and the truth is all you need, and all that. Its made me respect you guys, too. But Im not about to apologize.

Yanni (hurt): Dont you feel that you owe it to us? Now that you know how difficult it is?

Walsh: Hey, musicians can bitch about critics all they want, but the harshest critics are musicians themselves, and you know it. No contest. There isnt a critic alive who is as competitive, petty, or insecure as some of the musicians Ive talked to. And then theres music critic critics, which is a whole nother&

Billy (impatiently): Alright, lets get down to it. You pussed out. You quit. Why should we pay for what you are: A frustrated musician.

Walsh: I can honestly say that that hasnt been true. I can honestly say that my lack of singing has had nothing to do with what I write. Ive loved writing about music. I love music and newspapers equally. I wrote and edited my college paper, and that experience was a lot like being in the band. I also wrote for the alternative weekly in Minneapolis, which was an amazing–if dysfunctional–experience, but I wanted to write for a daily newspaper. Speaking of dysfunctional experiences.

I liked the idea of my words landing on doorsteps. I wanted to see what it was like to cover music as a beat. I never thought that that would mean ending up at a place covering things that feel soul-sucking, or raining on other music lovers experiences. I know that thats part of the gig, and Ive certainly got a critical mind that was honed by my critical-minded family, but it sort of bores me now. I dont see the point. I mean, theres got to be more to life than ripping, say, one of your shows.

Elton: Cheers.

Walsh: Im taking a break from the whole thing here at Stanford because I burned out on it, in large part, from writing too much about stuff that doesnt make sense to me. Namely, shows like yours that happen in arenas. Ive seen plenty of great arena shows, but, for the most part, compared to small shows, theyre sterile and scripted and they usually remind me of what Berthold Brecht said: If people want something they understand, they shouldnt go to the theater. They should go to the bathroom.

Same goes for live music. I understand the need for comfort food music, because the world is harsh. Sometimes you want something you know, something that soothes, a soft place to fall.

Yanni gazes up at the ceiling with a grin.

Walsh: Most of the time, though, I want something that makes me scratch my head, or takes me to a place I dont understand. Maybe Im missing something, but your music doesnt do that for me. Great music, and writing about it, does. Sometimes when Im writing about something, when Im really riffing and putting down what Ive discovered, it can feel musical. The keyboard actually has a rhythm&

Billy: You get a lot of chicks with this shit?

Walsh: Quality, not quantity, brother. You dont have to believe me, either, but its true. You can ask anyone whos been up at dawn or noon or at three in the morning, at their keyboard or notebook, trying to make sense of why a song or singer or gig gets inside them and does the damage it does. It feels like youre writing music. I mean, Ive written about everythingwar, crime, sports, food, race, rich people, poor people, people not getting along. But I keep coming back to music, because even when its crap or angry or heartbreaking, its about people getting along, people trying to connect with each other. A lot of times, the human spirit can be distilled down to one note or breath, and I never get tired of following that mystery. Anyway, this is all moot because the fact is, since Ive been in California, I started singing and writing songs again.

Yanni (sarcastically): Oh, I bet those are some world-class compositions.

Walsh: I like em. Some of em, anyway. Thats all that matters.

Elton (inspired): That right there might be the smartest thing youve said tonight, mate. Thats something that took me a good while to learn: Whatever you do, whether its music or writing or bloody blacksmithing, the only thing that matters at the end of the road is whether you like it or not. Good criticism and bad criticism, and Ive had my share of both, is all the same thing. Only you know if what youre doing is getting at what you want to get at. Only you. Only you.

Billy (wearily, to Elton): Thank you, Mr. Hooked On Plato. (To Walsh): So what, now youre going to be a critic and a musician?

Walsh: Maybe. Maybe not. But why not? Weirder things have happened. Somehow, writing music has made me start to believe that I might be able to continue writing about music. Ive had an amazing life; I want the amazing to continue. I just want to keep learning. I just want to keep doing my thing. More than anything, more than even doing it again, I want to stop not doing it. I want to sing. And play. I think everyone, including music critics, should make music.

Billy: What is this, Mr. Hollands Opus, II?

Elton (to Billy): Hush.

Walsh: I guess Ive come to believe that life is too short to not listen to yourself, and to not be generous with what you find. For example:

A few weeks after we got to California, my senator, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash. It felt strange to be away from home at that time, so the day of his memorial service, I sent a bunch of emails to friends back home. I typed out the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by my friend Dan Wilsons band Semisonic. The song is called Made To Last, and the chorus goes, I hope you last a long, long time.

Elton: Great song.

Walsh: Yeah. Hes got another great one that goes, Its you and me against history. Anyway, my friend Chris Hewitt replied to my email right away. Hes the Pioneer Press film critic, and he writes terrific stuff. He started at the paper around the same time as I did, and over the years hes given me at least two excellent pieces of advice: 1, We have great jobs and 2, You run towards something, not away from something. He gave me number two last year. He knew I was having a tough time with the paper and that some of the powers-that-be there made me question whether or not writing about and from the heart was a valid way to go.

At the end of his reply to my email, Chris tacked on a quote he said he hoped would inspire me. It was from William Faulkner. I want to read it to you guys tonight, and some night soon I hope to read it to my fellow Knight fellows here at Stanford, because theyre the ones I wrote my first song in a very long time for. Its a love song, and it means a lot to me, because deep down I never thought Id sing again. In fact, Im trying to write something about it these days, a book I think, trying to explain exactly why it means so much.

Billy (impatiently): Is this going to take long?

Yanni (testily): Hush.

Walsh: The Knights are from all over the world, and theyre a lot like me. Tired of bullshit, but hungry for a better world. Theyre the ones who, by just being there, by just listening and offering me food and drink and friendship, have been examples of how to live. There have been plenty of other examples like that in my life, friends and family and other families, but theyre the ones who have been there at this very crucial point, the ones who have helped remind me of the abracadabra that Faulkner calls the privilege of being a writer.

Billy (more impatiently): Is this going to take long?

Elton (huffily): Shat ap.

Yanni: Shhh!

Walsh: Faulkner hated giving speeches. He once said, Im just a farmer who likes to tell stories. But on December 10, 1950, he went to Stockholm, Sweden to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. This is his entire acceptance speech:

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my worka lifes work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomedlove and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poets, the writers duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poets voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

The four men sit silently looking at the floor. Nobody moves. Faulkners words echo through the hermetically-sealed room. Finally, Elton stirs. All eyes follow him as he reaches for the unopened can of Mountain Dew. He cracks the soda, takes a swig, and puts the can back down on the piano.

Elton: So& what? No Diet Coke, then?

Walsh: Sorry, mate.

Billy: You know, I could play Joie de Vivre when I was five.

Yanni: Me, too.

Elton (to Walsh): So how are the piano lessons going?

Walsh: Not bad. Better when I go to class and practice. My goal is to transpose the song I wrote for the other Knights onto sheet music, which Ive never done before. Ive got a recording of it, but seeing it in sheet music form would be concrete proof that the song exists, that it actually happened. Also, a couple weeks ago, my teacher said he was very pleased at my progress and he gave me a gold star.

Elton: Cool.

Yanni: Cool.

Billy: Cool.

Elton puts the soda can down on the piano. He picks up the statuette, of a coal miner pushing a cart of coal, and briefly inspects it.

Elton: So whats this, then?

Walsh: I got that at the Beamish Open Air Museum in Northern England. My grandfathers family settled there from Ireland. My grandpa was a coal miner from age 14 to 21. He spent ten hours a day in a coal mine like the one I went down in for ten claustrophobic minutes in England last summer. I keep that statue next to my computer as a tribute to him, as a reminder of what hard work really is, and as a daily touchstone so I dont forget that journalism and writing and music are blue-collar endeavors.

All at once, as if on cue, the three musicians get up to leave. Walsh rises to say goodbye, but the musicians mistake his gesture for something more and the four men spontaneously break into a group hug. Billy starts singing the chorus of Piano Man to Walsh, and the others join in.

The three musicians leave. Walsh sits at the piano bench alone. The room is hot and wet with the steam of conversation, so he leaves the door open. The room is silent, with the exception of the muffled sound coming from the other 14 practice rooms. The musician-turned-critic-turned-musician-turned-question-mark sits and listens to the hushed medley of young virtuosos playing pianos, violins, trumpets, and guitars all around him.

After a few minutes, Walsh closes and locks the door. He sits down and takes a sip of the Mountain Dew. When he returns to Joie de Vivre, something happens. His hands, eyes, feet, and soul are in perfect sync and he plays the piece straight through, mistake-free. He plays it just as the sheet music says to: Exuberantly. When he finishes, he leans back on the piano bench, then rifles through the music book to Kinda Blue. He places his fingers on the keys and leans into the piece. He is into the third bar when hes interrupted by a knock on the door. Its Elton John.

Elton: Hello, Jim?

Walsh: Yes, Sir Elton? What can I do for you?

Elton: Garth Brooks is here. Hed like a word with you.

Walsh: Send him in.

Curtain.

Jeezus, Jim, we’re children of the TV and computer age…you can’t expect us to read that entire post.

Copy, paste, print.

Jim Walsh is a good man and a fine writer, who speaks from a passionate heart. Those who disagree are just wrong. (He needs a little work with the playwriting though.)

whether or not you liked Jim’s writing, City Pages has become such an f-ing joke…..what a piece of crap they have become…..

I didn’t know Yanni went to the U.

There it is, in one long, rambling post: everything wrong with Jim Walsh and his writing.

First, the weird dedication to Danny Pearl. Danny Pearl? The slain WSJ reporter? Bad comparison for Walsh and his puny career: Pearl actually went out to report, took risks (his life, for example) in pursuit of journalism. A great writer who was great because he placed himself in unusual, difficult situations and could explain them well. Walsh? When and where did he report? Hamms bear nights at working class bars? A classroom at Blake or Breck? From inside his own head?

Next, Walsh once again insists on reminding us all that he spent – gasp – time at Stanford. Now, I don’t know about you, but everytime I meet somebody who insists on bringing up their association with an “elite” school, I sense somebody who is overcompensating for an insecurity. Big deal, Jim, you spent time at Stanford … with actual reporters, who went out reporting.

Finally, Jim’s need to associate himself – in his play – with famous people (yes, I realize, they are “players” in his play). Sometimes, to elevate himself. More often, to minimize the accomplishments of his artistic and financial superiors – in order to elevate himself.

Whether anybody wants to acknowledge it or not, Jim Walsh’s so-called passion was more often the anger and bitterness of a man bitter that these small, small Twin Cities didn’t acknowledge him for the genius that he so obviously perceived himself to be. That nasty cruel streak which has become evident in his writing over the last year or two is the unmistakable lashing out of the unappreciated not-quite genius.

If I could wish Jim Walsh one thing, it is this: grow up. You’re not going to be a rock star, your personal musings won’t alter the world. You’re just a regular guy, and your writing would be a lot better if you got down off your cross and acted like it.

Oh, you cynics….you’re so cynical. Good luck with that.

I notice comments have been turned off on Walsh’s blog.

Mr. CokeStevenson,
You are a bitter, jealous man and I am so sorry nobody ever loved you as a child.You are anonymous and therefore,you lack in the courage department..

Dear Mr. BTG:

I promise to reveal my identity if you promise to tell me about the time you were sitting around with a bunch of foreign journalists at Stanford, bragging about the time that you smacked down a Blake high school junior.

Coke Stevenson.

Coke Stevenson and other detractors:

Ok, fine, you don’t like his writing. But what exactly do you hope to accomplish by ragging on a guy who just lost his job? Seems like hitting below the belt to me.

Coke:

LOVE it!

Coke and bud–the beavis and butthesd of this blog.

I could never drink Coke and Bud. Yuck.

Hey Max,I do believe Mr. Stevensnon is an intelligent dude.However you judge a person by their friends and Mr. Bud is into the James Gang(Who I actually kinda like) but stop being mean to Mr. Walsh,it’s not becoming.

When have I ever been mean to Walsh? I worked with him at City Pages and thought he was a sweet guy.

Hey Max, I was not speaking of you I was speaking of that horrendous coctail(Juist kidding boys).Coke and Bud.
My apoligies to you,Max.

I can dig it.

Why hate Jim like this? What does that say about you? That you put so much venom toward a man that writes mostly about love, and the gifts of lovely people, is bizarre. I was not a fan of City pages for many reasons, but picked it up for the few writers that wrote about truth. Jim was one of them. I’m not sure what is going on here, my guess is that the haters are bad musicians that Jim yawned about. CokeStevenson, you are the leader of the losers. Think about the world and everything that is going on in it right now and here you are spewing about a man that was just doing his job in a way that pleased many people. Not you? Fine, but let it go. There are WAY bigger things to be passionate about. Try kindness.

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