Ringo 009: Curiosity, Mystery, Anonymity

“It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.”

Hi! I'm Michael Donaldson, and I write about music on 8sided.blog, license and publish music through 8DSync, and make music as Q-Burns Abstract Message. I think about music all of the time. My guess is you do, too.

This is the ninth episode of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a newsletter loosely about music-making and music-listening and how technology changes the culture around those things.

Each episode of this newsletter has a theme song. This week’s song is a tad darker than the preceding ones but I guess I have to get it out of my system. However, it’s fitting as today I’m mainly writing about a band that made sometimes dark, always weird music. And that music transformed into something warmer and almost touching as we learned their secrets. So have a listen to this week’s song — “Implications!” — and please enjoy this week’s ramble.

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An anonymous artist paradoxically often attracts more attention because of anonymity. Curiosity draws us in for a closer look. Just look at Bansky, with mentions of his accomplishments usually sitting alongside guesses to his identity. And we can't forget all the electronic artists accused of secretly recording as Burial throughout the end of the '00s. The scrutiny created problems for the reclusive recording artist and, unlike Banksy (so far), he gave in to the pressure. Hua Hsu in the New Yorker:

When Burial was nominated for the Mercury Prize, a British tabloid writer tried to figure out his true identity, but was thwarted in part by Burial’s fans, who wanted him to live according to his own choices. As the curiosity about his identity started to overshadow his work, though, Burial revealed his name: William Emmanuel Bevan. Still, he refused to do interviews or to perform live shows, and he claimed to have little interest in the Internet.

Disguises became a thing, too. Artists as mainstream as Sia obscured their mugs, but there wasn't anonymity. We know Daft Punk aren't robots and recognize their real names (some of us even DJ'ed with them before they donned masks). There's a purported idea of 'let the music speak, not the image of the musician.' But isn't the mask, the anonymity, an image in itself? Of course, it is. And, same as the outrageous exploits of a controversial rock star (including those also disguised), it can even overshadow the music.

The Residents followed a doctrine of 'The Theory of Obscurity.' Formulated by the equally mysterious artist N. Senada, The Theory of Obscurity poses that an artist can only deliver their most authentic work without pressure or influence from an audience or the outside world. The Residents decided anonymity would help them follow the theory but the outside world proved inescapable. The band changed their appearance frequently through the '70s but got stuck in the eyeball and top hat disguise for years. The image was just too popular with fans to shake.

Before Hardy Fox died in late 2018, he revealed that he was a founding member of The Residents and responsible for most of their musical output. In turn, we surmised that the still-active Homer Flynn is the 'singing Resident,' supplying most of the distinctive vocals. Die-hard Residents fans suspected this as Flynn and Fox acted as ever-present representatives and spokespersons for the band and their company, The Cryptic Corporation. When Homer Flynn speaks, it's with an all-too-familiar southern drawl that those familiar with The Residents' songs instantly recognize. Here's a video documentary from 1991 with Flynn and Fox making appearances, and a young Penn Jillette also acting as an early-80s band representative:

(There's a more recent, feature-length documentary titled Theory of Obscurity. It's available to stream on Kanopy and some other spots.)

Fans whispered that Flynn and Fox were secretly the main two eyeballs in The Residents. As with Burial, the fans also — for the most part — protected these identities. And the two repeatedly denied any connection beyond their duties as managers/spokespersons. But then Hardy Fox nonchalantly revealed his actual role in a newsletter to fans a year before his death from brain cancer.

As a longtime Residents fan with a shared North Louisiana connection — more on that in a sec — I'm torn by the unmasking. The mystery of The Residents was a big part of my appreciation of the music. Again, there's the paradox. If a purpose of anonymity is to present music without the baggage of personality, then how can the opposite result happen? It was impossible to listen to The Residents without separating them from the unearthly presences in their videos. They didn't seem human, like they arrived in 1972 fully formed and naïve to the expectations of us earthlings and our musical norms. The mystery made them ominous, too. Just look at them here in what might be my favorite promotional photo of any band ever:

But now I think about Hardy Fox when I listen to The Residents. I think about how he met Homer Flynn in Ruston, Louisiana. They were randomly assigned dormmates at Louisiana Tech University. I went to that school for a semester and DJ'ed on the radio station for longer than that. Often I played The Residents across Ruston's airwaves, no idea that I was paying homage to local heroes. I also think about Hardy Fox's ARP Odyssey synthesizer, which is the star of this touching article in Tape Op. These weirdos were big-hearted humans in the end. How could they not be? But, in this discovery, the Residents lost the sinister enigma of the strange photo above.

But I also appreciate these revelations. It's all part of the tricky business of anonymity and mystery. There's a great quote from psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott: "It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found." In a way, the unveiling is a gift — we listen to the music differently with this knowledge. The songs almost become new. Even Burial's atmospheric tunes take on new meanings to explore with a name attached, even if still not much is known about the producer.

I've heard The Residents' music many times before, but now there's a history attached. The context shifts and, in a way, the music becomes something else. "Santa Dog" is an especially wild proposition when it's traced to these artsy outcasts, freshly escaped from a life in the Bible-belted deep south. And, now listening to the music, boy, can I relate.

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We’ve also got to hand it to the rare artist who takes on a persona and lives in it 24/7. Sun Ra’s interstellar origin story was impenetrable for most of his life (even though we knew his identity, too), and it remains intact after his demise. Again, the story adds texture to the music, inseparable by those familiar with both. This Pitchfork piece from 2016 explores Sun Ra’s mystique through the lens of the costumes he and his band wore. This anecdote is priceless:

But no matter how shabby his stage clothes appeared in the light of day, the fact that he remained consistently in costume and thus in character was what made him truly radical—unafraid to be himself, to arouse attention, to draw stares, to elicit smiles. “What are you doing here?” Charles Mingus once asked him in the Village, and Sun Ra replied that he came downtown quite often. “No,” Mingus said. “I mean what are you doing on Earth?”

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This subject is fascinating, and I’m sure I’ll explore it in future newsletters. Is anonymity — or even mystery — desirable in 2020? Especially considering how 2020 is unfolding, with its live streams and self-isolation and Instagramming in quarantine? Does social media, by design, remove the veil? A recent article in Stereogum suggesting an end to the anonymous artist ends with this statement:

Six months ago, maintaining a regular social media presence was, although increasingly essential, still an opt-out when it came to avenues for musicians to grow a career. If the future continues on the path it’s currently at, it’ll no longer be an option.

A few years ago, I received a press release for an electronic artist who just went by his first name, like ‘Philip’ or something equally innocuous. The announcement highlighted the name as a plus: the artist is impossible to Google, so we’re left with only the music to consider. This ‘making lemonade out of lemons’ spin on an unremarkable artist might show the way forward. Is there a mystery found in using the internet against itself? If increased reliance on social tools is in our future, inspiring complete disclosure from most artists, will the artist stand out when she remains guarded? And is an artist who aims to obscure and confuse unwelcome in a time of disinformation and polarizing crises? I’d be happy to know what you think in the comments.

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I have a couple of quick recommendations. The first one — full disclosure — I'm releasing on my 8D Industries label. But I'm confident I'd love this release just as much if it came from the aforementioned 'Phillip.' San Mateo hails from Kansas City, and that's probably as much as I'm allowed to say as he prefers to be vague and partly anonymous. The theme of this episode persists! His album is titled Deepstaria, and here's some of what I wrote on Twitter:

I'd like to say it's befitting our modern situation — nervous but clinging to optimism — but there's something here that's beyond the moment. San Mateo told me, "The songs convey this idea that we are the wandering cartographers of our own lives." The music is instrumental, spacey, understated, and beautifully fuzzed-out. It sounds like that ancient TV with the plastic knob, caught between channels in the middle of the night, one show fading in as the other fades out.

Pretty cool, right? You can listen to it now on Bandcamp (and download it if you'd like), and it will be available on all those streaming places on April 17. [link]

I also want to mention my friend Tal M. Klein, author of the heady sci-fi novel The Punch Escrow. I followed his efforts to self-publish that novel via Inkshares, leading to a film option and other successes. I love an excellent self-released artist story. He's doing it again with the graphic novel Fork, a tale of a time travel device that's "horrible and unpragmatic" with a guest appearance from Nikola Tesla. This project looks fantastic, and I can't wait to dig in. Tal's running a campaign on Kickstarter — you can peep some of the pages there — and even though he's reached his goal, you should still pledge to receive a pair of copies. It's due out in August, and you'll want to be among the first to have your mind blown. [link]

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I hope you enjoyed this episode of Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care. This thing might end up a Sunday newsletter — the flow of working on this over the weekend is more agreeable than panicking about it on a late Friday afternoon. But I love doing this and am going to keep trudging on, world-on-fire be damned. As always, let me know if you have any comments or questions or need someone to write to in this challenging time. I'd love to hear from you. You can learn more about me, what I do, and contact me with your comments here.

If you know someone groovy who would like this newsletter, then please pass it on. You could even do it anonymously. And, yes, sharing Ringo on your favorite social site is also appreciated. There are some cool moves planned, so I'm into getting the word out. Your help with that means a lot more than you know.

Thank you so much for reading. Despite what the Hüskers said, turn off the news. Just relax, check in with friends, and don't stress yourself out. For the time being, we're not going anywhere, so let's make the most of it. And, though separated, let's get through this together. See you next week! 🚀