In case it all gets too much and I don't want to play
It's hard to keep on complaining about the shit of it all
With that old shotgun leaning up there on the wall."
Twice now, I have set out on FiestaMovement adventures expecting to find one outcome only to stumble upon something much grander. First it was the trip across the US that was billed as a snowboarding fueled adventure and ended up opening my eyes to the grandeur of my homeland and the love of my life. This time I eyed a simple weekend of filming with friends and found an appreciation for the lands of my childhood and the simple slivers of life.
This is the story of how it came to be.
In the spring of 2002, high in the Alps of Switzerland, I straight shot a steep section of snow. Tears welled up in my eyes from the significant airflow that results from high speed descent on a snowboard. As I came into the flats at the bottom of the pitch, I could see the lifts in the distance, all was well. It was at this moment that I got bit by a nasty snow shark. What had appeared to be a leisurely run-out through my water filled eyes, actually hid a massive snow drift. By the time I realized the situation, it was too late, my efforts to ollie the gap were in vain. I slammed into the upward side of the drift with such force that my hip landed on my binding, sending my knee into that ESPN replay cringing football injury position (you know when the quarterback gets hit and his leg bends in a direction that is seemingly impossible and ESPN continues to show it for days, possibly years). I reached down in a panic and pulled my leg back into a position reminiscent of normal operation and rode down the rest of the way.
Note: this photo is actually from New Zealand during the summer of 2001. I include it because, well, one, I just found it in my shoebox of photos and two, it most certainly contributed to my knee failure.
My ACL did not snap in the Alps. It was two weeks later in Maine. I overshot a landing and upon impact heard the unmistakable "pop!". I am still convinced that the damage was done in Switzerland, plus it is a much more impressive story. This injury ended my summer plans to snowboard in New Zealand. In what now seems like a pretty idiotic use of money, I decided to host a blow-out party at my mother's called the "Orwell Music Festival". The intent was to invite 3 bands to play in my mother's barn and have all my friends camp out across the sprawling farmlands of my childhood.
About a month before the party, my buddy Lil' Butch called up saying,"Yo dawg, you gots to get JIM.. (the band), they will rock the doors off dat shack." (he really talks like that). On his recommendation, I did invite JIM... to play. Around 1 pm on the day of the party, a semi operational short bus made its way up the windy dirt road. It pulled in, parked directly in front of the barn and out stumbled the members of JIM... including Sven Curth. Later that night, quite late if memory serves, they took the stage clad in togas and ripped through their library of songs, impressing all in attendance.
I have counted Sven as a friend ever since. He played two of our fundraisers for the Mongol Rally. We listened to his solo album through the near disasters and unbelievable triumphs of the rally. I have witnessed his development as a musician and a writer through the good and bad times. He makes his living with his hands, whether through the hard work of the land or upon the strings of his guitar in a rundown North Country bar.
When the FiestaMovement gave me the opportunity to bring some exposure to a local artist, the choice was easy. I contacted Sven and we traded ideas for a music video in the weeks leading up. We eventually settled into filming for his song, "Jesus Loves Tractors" using as many tractors as possible. Despite the novelty nature of the song, we were determined to produce a classy video. The intention was to capture real farms and working tractors, not hobby tractors parked in someone's suburban garage. The beautiful struggle of farming has long captured the imagination of the population and represented the spirit of the American pioneer. And yet the core of this piece of America is slowly slipping away. I hoped that we could document a little of it in the short bursts of film. Honestly, I had no clue what we were in for.
Through a cold driving rain, we drove around upstate New York visiting farms that Sven knew. At each farm we were greeted by proud passionate families, worn by the labor of the land, but strengthen by resolve. Without knowing much of our project, they willingly moved tractors and helped arrange shots. Two of my best friends, Lil' Butch and Josh Rawlings, had devised a system involving tape measures and laser levels to ensure the consistency of the shots. We worked and laughed through every location. Along the way we experienced that romantic slice of Americana for a brief moment. I came away with a load of video but more importantly a fresh perspective on the farms and farmers that I grew up idolizing.
We closed the day of filming in a cabin void of modern features, nestled into the back of my mother's property. By candlelight, Sven picked up my mother's guitar and launched into a catalog of original songs. I sat back in my rocking chair, surrounded by good friends, warmed by the fire. I looked up at the ceiling and thought honestly to myself, "right now, it is all smiles."
It is easy to label Sven's lyrics as glass half empty or simply cynical. We spend much of our life listening to fluffy fake music built to sell. The words build up expectations for life dramatically separated from the realities of the real world. Sven doesn't make such music. His lyrics come from the heart, detailing the struggle of daily existence, fueled by guitar skill possessed by only a handful. In these songs there is truth, there is beauty and there is inspiration. You appreciate the honesty when you are recovering from a life changing injury or illness, you see hope when you are wondering if you will ever make it home from a hapless situation in far off lands, and you find a reason to fight on when the rigors of daily life continue to beat you down. Music isn't always there to be cheerful and shiny, sometimes it is there to let you know that you are not alone in your struggle.
As I wrote on the original Fiestavus during the Mongol Rally (near the "Good Luck Scrotes" tag), "Listen to Sven Curth".
But it's there to remind me that I'm still alive
I can make my own choices for bad or for good
I can do what I want, I can do what I should."
Videos coming soon.
Can't wait!
What a well written interlude into the events of that glorious day. We are (all) waiting in anticipation for the resulting video. I will watch it with pie and perhaps a pabst, no definately a pabst or two.
Can't wait!