A conversation with Barry Moser.
My relationship with my brother has haunted me all my life. When I see or read stories of brotherhood, the experience takes me into a state of reverie—a place of wondering what might have been, what could have been. That always makes sad, and I usually weep.
Ray Stevens is a slippery one. He’ll don an endless succession of zany personas, then suddenly play it straight and savvy when you least expect it. In the music video for “The Streak” he’s all over the place, making his entrance as a voluble TV news reporter, chasing down the scoop on a flashing incident at the local Bi-Rite.
The experimental quality is the thread that stitches all the disparate pieces of the weekend-long event together. The festival combines musical performances with panels and talks, art installations, film screenings, and interactive workshops, pieced together like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster—the creature made of many parts. Big Ears, Knoxville’s monster, might be one of the most quietly earth-shattering, subtly luminous festivals the world over.
For the past month, The William King Museum in Abingdon, Virginia, has presented Transience a group photography exhibition showcasing the work of Trish Gibson, Joshua Harr, and Amber Law, three students from East Tennessee State University. Exhibited collectively, the trio’s work examines the fleeting nature of personal experience and how local environments change over time.
I don’t know when I first heard the music in my head. I don’t remember not hearing it. Sometimes in the morning it would be the first thing I heard, shutting out the sounds of reality—the traffic outside the window and the people moving around. My mother would sit at the upright piano, playing and singing song after song off old pieces of sheet music from her past. I searched these songs for meaning. Like the cowboy songs of Gene Autry and Red River Dave, each song told a story of a remote place and time.