Gossip [&] the Devil

The Flaming Lips, September 2009 (Photo by R. E. Barbash)

Photography is only recently coming into its own as an art form. But photography has cemented a place in the arts for some of the same reasons as painting: preservation. Two different sets of eyes using the same camera will capture different results. We are allowed a view from someone else’s perspective. Photographers freeze moments we’ll treasure forever; whether it’s that special magic during a show or your children running in the park, photography can grab a fistful of what the human eye must let go.

Rachael Barbash has been capturing the insanity at concerts for years, and many fans turn to her website to re-live the memories. While still a student at Columbia State Community College she’s logged countless experience and face time.

Rachael stubbornly pursues her dream despite making little to no money doing what she loves. The hundreds of photos she posts to her Flickr account are free for people to take and use. But, like musicians or painters she considers herself an important part of the humanities.

In the days when every 14-year-old in the world has a digital camera, what separates her from the masses who want photo passes and recognition on the scene? What separates those who do it for art vs. those who are hobbyists?  Rachael sheds some light on the subject below when I asked her a few questions about what makes photography an art form.

Years shooting: 7

Sign: Aries

Julie M. Tate: We’ll start easy. First band you ever shot?

R. E. Barbash: I was kind of late to come to the concert scene since I was a bit of a homebody in high school and lacked any serious form of transportation.  Once I left for college I started going to shows pretty regularly.  The first band I ever shot while performing was OKGo in 2001 with a little 35mm disposable camera.  Once I got a more professional camera, a 35mm Canon SLR, the first band I shot was Kill Hannah who was performing at an outdoor festival at Ohio State, where I was going to school at the time. I finally got my first digital SLR, a Canon Rebel, before the 2006 South by Southwest festival in Austin, TX. Thousands of band play there every year and is an amazing experience.

Kill Hannah, September 2009 (Photo By R. E. Barbash)

JMT: Who have been some of the easiest bands to shoot live? The hardest?

REB: By far the easiest band I’ve shot is Kill Hannah, partly because I’ve been to so many of their shows but also because their stage presence is probably the most engaging I’ve ever seen.  Recently I shot the Flaming Lips who were also amazing.

The hardest bands to photograph have definitely been on the recent Alternative Press tours (Mayday Parade, the Academy is…, Set Your Goals, You Me At Six and the Secret Handshake).  The guys never seem to take a pause and are just constantly running around the stage.  The kids at these shows are crazy though! Very fun.

JMT: What makes a band easy or difficult to photograph?

REB: It’s much easier to photograph a band if you know their music.  That way you can sort of guess what they’re going to do on stage and how a crowd might react to a song but you don’t always have that advantage.  I’ve shot some bands who just sound like noise (no matter how poppy they actually are) and I can’t guess their next move.  I’ll end up at the wrong side of the stage at the wrong time and miss amazing moments of their act.  Also, bands who look like they’re having fun and engage the audience area always the most enjoyable to shoot.

Innerpartysystem, January 2009 (Photo by R. E. Barbash)

JMT: You’ve been capturing concerts for years. I’m sure music had an impact on your life outside of the lens as well. Do you consider yourself an artist? If so, how has music in particular shaped the artist you are today, and who are some of your favorite artists personally? If not, what does photography do for you?

REB: More than an artist, I think of myself as capturing what’s already there and trying to show the beauty of the world.  What I photograph most regularly is live shows so music has been a huge part of my life.  I love catching what happens on stage and the interaction between the performer and their fans.  I love so many bands but my favorite musicians are the Smashing Pumpkins, IAMX, Radiohead, Muse, Thursday, Interpol, Rasputina, Emilie Autumn, The Dresden Dolls, local guys Flotation Walls and, of course, the bands Kill Hannah and Shiny Toy Guns who pretty much taught me to use my camera by shooting them so often.  As far as visual art goes I love the work of Kyle Cassidy, a documentary and portrait photographer, Pete Souza, the White House photographer, and digital artist Natalie Shau.  As the photographers go, their work really inspires me because they capture real life but show it at a different angle.  Show ordinary things in a new light.

JMT: Favorite photographers?

REB: It’ll sound corny but my favorite photo ever by another artist is probably this photo of the Obamas:

Most of my favorite photos have a very big photo journalistic aspect to them and Pete Souza is one of the best documentary photographers out there.  Other favorites are Kyle Cassidy, Kristen Burns, Philip Warner and Akif Hakan Celebi. As well, there are very talented photographers who are also in my photo program at CSCC.  I can’t wait to see what they do in the future.

JMT: What tends to catch your eye in a natural setting?

REB: While I have done some studio photography, most of my photos not taken at shows have come from random moments throughout the day, which is why I try to always have a camera with me.  Usually the way lights hit an object or just the ambiance of a scene.

Untitled (Photo by R. E. Barbash)

JMT: Is there a place in the arts for things like studio work or is that merely a means to an artistic end? (I.E. getting paid)

REB: I think if you think of yourself as an artist, then you’re an artist.  If you think of yourself as a corporate slave then that’s what you are.  Even photographers at Wal-Mart family portrait studios can have some artistic input to their shots.  Though most of my favorite photographers are actually more on the documentary side of things.  Beautiful things can be made out of ordinary every day scenes.  For example, just the other day, undeveloped negatives by street photographer Vivian Maier were just unveiled and I was captivated for hours looking at her photos of Chicago in the 1950s.  If this is your thing and you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get hired on by a magazine or newspaper.  But mostly photography is done for yourself.

JMT: To me, photography is akin to a poem in that it captures a point in time that you can never get back. Especially considering the way I write, a poem can be a little picture made of words and vice versa. There’s a beautiful marriage that happens when two art forms cross over. Considering books like the upcoming Flowers + Filth by photographer Lisa Johnson and lyricist wiL Francis, they can be put together to make a compelling and unique piece of art. Have you ever considered doing something of the sort

REB: That’s similar to Who Killed Amanda Palmer, the book. Photos and words can always work together.

The Shiny Toy Guns, April 2009 (Photo by R. E. Barbash)

JMT: Much like music testifies to a time or paintings reflect it’s surroundings, what is photography’s place in preserving our culture and why is it important?

REB: As far as preserving our culture, photography can not only capture events but it can show someone’s individual view of the world. Even though photography has been around for more than a hundred years it’s just beginning to be respected as an art form. Whether it’s a set up scene or documenting an event an exact scene happen again or be seen the same way by different eyes.  It’s important to freeze the moment so others can see what was there.

R. E. Barbash (Photo credit: Unknown)

(For more information visit R. E. Barbash Photography. Rachael currently attends CSCC.)

My If All Goes Wrong flier next to a handful of Metro wristbands. I'm still a fangirl at heart.

I’ve been away for a little bit and during my hiatus the Fall issue of Common Line went live! This issue features my article, “If All Goes Wrong (And How to Come Back When it Does),” on The Smashing Pumpkins DVD If All Goes Wrong–an article I’m quite proud of and Kerry Brown, who worked sound on IAGW and even won a Cinema Audio Award for his efforts, has endorsed it on his Twitter! Kerry is currently in the studio with Billy in Chicago, so if you’ve got a Twitter account and want to stay updated, click their respective links. Or keep up with their in-studio blog here. It’s a feel good, hippy-full-to-the-brim-with-God time over there.

I was lucky enough to catch one of one-day only screenings of the DVD that happened to be playing in Tulsa, OK at the Circle Cinema. I will say first and foremost I wasn’ t expecting it to be as good as it was. It is far and away one of the least painful documentaries I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching. However, one of the things that hit me hardest during that screening and the subsequent times I’ve viewed it, is what appears to be the lack of heart in the lyrics. The music has so much soul and power but the lyrics just seem to be suffering, hummed along because they match a tune, the time machine in words like “tarry” and “morrow” creeping it’s way to capture us all and take us to Victorian England where we’re all fucked up on opium and racked with syphilis. It’s like he’s given all his blood to the instruments and left none for arguably his most important one: his voice. I say that only because Corgan has made such a big deal out of connecting to the “kids” and fans, plagued with that desperate need to be needed, wanted, not abandoned. To do that you must ask them to stay and I didn’t find many of the lyrics that moving, save many of what ended up on the American Gothic EP. I’m not the only one who thinks so.

It’s one of my greatest worries with this new album, Teargarden by Kaleidyscope. I don’t care if it’s about the tarot, God, fucking your best friend’s model hot under-age sister or remembering why you make music but, as a fan, I want to connect and want no part of the process to go ignored. By now Corgan and Co. have been in the game long enough to know how to divide their time, but that’s just my opinion and admittedly I’ve only watched a very few videos from their short lived Spirits in the Sky run featuring Dave motherfucking Navarro.

This reminds me that I’ve yet to post part the 5th and final part of the adolescent jetset you’ve no doubt forgotten about by now. G[&]D started taking off so fast, interviews, submissions, acceptances, rejections, books, merchandise, touring…the story got lost in the shuffle and that’s a terrible disservice. But I’m going to post it out of principle. The end of the story must be told. This story was arguably what helped start what Gossip [&] the Devil is today, the jetsetting ways, the deep-seated desire to tell my muses thank you and a first-hand, adolescent account of the power of the humanities and their ability to change the course of someone’s life forever. The ever-inscribed idea that art cannot die as long as we keep making it.

For you, Billy.

Bedroom. One of many.

To recap: [part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4]

The cops called my mother and threatened to take us to juvenile detention if we didn’t know anyone in the city. I’m sorry, where are we exactly? oh, Topeka. What time is it again? 2 a.m., fabulous. We had gone west across Kansas instead of south, toward Oklahoma. The cops were going to tow the car, we were going to jail. We cried. You’d think I would have been dead from dehydration, I’d cried so much that day. I asked them if I could take my autographed stuff to jail with me, then asked if they would at least hold it for me until I got out. Again they said no.

I thought I was going to die. All this work and trouble, taken from me.

By a sheer stroke of something perverse, my mothers boyfriends ex-wife’s current boyfriend just happened to live in Topeka. I didn’t know him and my mother only vaguely knew him but we agreed to let him come get us if that meant no juvenile time. He arrived and we parked the car near a 7-11 and I rode in the passenger seat of his pickup truck, sniffling and clutching my treasures. Things were going to be fine. Just fucking fine.

He made us breakfast in the morning while we waited for our parents to come and get us. Some fried potato concoction. I slept on my backpack all night–my stuff wasn’t going anywhere without me. By the time our parents arrived I was so fucking annoyed with his dogs and his ramble that I could have walked back to Oklahoma myself.

My mother grounded me and his father grounded him. We weren’t allowed to see each other for 2 weeks and I had to pay half of his court costs, of which he had to come all the way back to Topeka to pay and show for court. However, his court date just happened to be on the same day as an Insane Clown Posse show in Lawrence, so we had a friend who was going take us up there and it actually ended up turning out quite alright, for all the fuckery that had ensued.

Living room, l'orgie sonore.

This whole thing set the stage for what was to be the rest of my life. My little brain trying to wrap itself around these huge ideas and theories, the notion of a “concept album,” philosophies and angles, feeling so educated and intelligent, analyzing lyrics and pondering, with intensity, the meaning of the universe inside certain songs, other fans around me doing the exact same. Our own club of outcasts, fighting against the big, bad cock rock world, all so young now that I look back on it. Other girls with braces, pimple faced academic bowl boys, budding hipsters and eventual college graduates. It felt good, felt right. I was miles away from home in a faraway kingdom about to receive my reward for being so faithful to the throne.

This was our home. Not the demons we all ended up crawling into bed with that night, or the next night, or the next. The familiar feeling that the person behind or in front of you knew exactly what you were talking about as soon as the words left your lips. Anymore I’d likely greet the same sort of situation with a more jaded eye, having lived a little more, knowing now that I was probably mistaking complexity for pretension and so forth. But at the time it was like our lives were only beginning and we were witnessing the creation of an entire universe built solely for us to inhabit and occupy for the next generation to come along and be saved too.

[Parts: I, II, and III]

Billy @ the Rockwalk induction. "Lick clean the dirty fingers."

[Oh my how the drama is unfolding. You know, it's difficult writing this from such a young perspective. It's difficult to capture the true excitement with such jaded years behind me. Part of me wants to get back to that sparkle, the other part is glad I'm not so new. The other part of me realizes it's been for fucking balls ever since I've posted another part of this story and should probably do so.]

[Also I have exactly ZERO pictures from this time. It's as black and white as the words you're reading. There's a lesson in here somewhere.]

The Storm Trooper guard grunted at me again. I finally came back to earth long enough to push a picture toward Billy, some large, gaudy shot from the Adore era I’d torn from a Smashing Pumpkins calender given to me for my birthday years prior. [The autograph has since been stolen]. He scribbled his name and I watched his hands; hands that to this day I compare all other men’s hands to, no lie. Something about the shape and capability of them. The ability to hold ambition. He smiled again and I repeated a quiet, wavering “thank you,” before I was shuffled out the door. The freezing air held me, tears so hot they had no time to stick to my face, falling in fat drops down equally fat cheeks.

The whole thing took less than 10 minutes. Sometimes that’s all it takes. 10 minutes. 17 seconds. A hug. And like that you’re set down a path.

My inner voyeur couldn’t resist watching through the glass for a few more minutes as he greeted other fans, scowling at the security guards trying to shoo me away. I happily waved goodbye to those I’d met in line, most of which were crying too. I knew I’d never see them again, but the fact remained, we’d done this together. [Which is saying something. I'm not a fucking team player.]

In my elation, when we’d stopped to fill up for gas I bought chips and sodas for the way home. One split Yellow Sub sandwich over nearly a 24-hour period didn’t cut it. [Celebratory dinner?] However, as we approached I-35 we realized: We’d just spent our toll money.

Motherfucker.

I refused to spend the money Billy had given me, even if it meant an easier way home. We were too scared to blow the tolls since we didn’t have licenses to begin with, no sense in attracting cops.

Navigating the interstate was hard enough, but trying to find a way home without it was near impossible. We’d driven for a few hours, through weird, Friday the 13th-ish dirt roads, small sleepy towns and scary truck stops. Finally we came upon this little biker bar in the middle of fucking nowhere, desperate for directions. My boyfriend went inside and locked the car door, telling me to yell loudly if anyone came out and bothered me. [Remember we were 14 and 15, respectively.] The new Pumpkins single “Stand Inside Your Love” came on the radio. When he returned he was carrying a fistful of crumpled one-dollar bills.

“Hey this waitress gave me her tips because she felt bad.”

We’d ended up something like a hundred miles west of where we needed to be. But we found our way back. Things were going to be fine…

…until we were pulled over for going “too slow.” We’d been on the interstate exactly 15 minutes when we had to exit again so deputy fucking dog and his sidekick could blind us with a spotlight.

Imagine: two kids, nervous, trying to stay right between the lines, trying in vain to obey every traffic rule we could remember. Legally, the only way you can drive with a permit is if you have an of-age, licensed driver in your car. Since I was neither, we were fucked.

There’s always a price you pay for following your bliss. A balance has to be made.

First test of faith: keeping it in the face of crisis.

[Bonus round before part 5: tell me the frame of refrence for this tattoo and I'll send you a couple Gossip [&] the Devil pins before they hit the merch store. Email julie [at] devilgossip [dot] com with the answer. Family and those who attended the tattooing are not eligible. Don’t post in comments. I’ll fucking punt your first born onto the train tracks.]

It's a good thing I get regular pedicures. I have toes longer than some men's penises. (Peni?) That's kind of gross.

[Part 5 - later. But not as long as it took to post Part 4. I'd promise but then when I broke said promise you'd look at me like the father who keeps saying "next time" when you ask  him to come to your baseball games. I don't fucking like baseball.]

Briefly, before the story continues:

You now subscribe to my feed! Take a look on the right-hand side of the page and you’ll find a tiny box for your email, which allows you to know when I’ve updated before anyone else! Sort of like the VIP for this page, if you will. It’s that easy! *informercial voice* Just SET it, and FORGET it!

[Brought to you by your friendly authoress. All opinions expressed herein are the sole property of said authoress, and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the entire internet.]

January 31st, 2000, 6:00 a.m. [continued]

I’ve taken a handful of change to pay for the tolls down I-35 in Kansas. I’ve also managed to steal a pack of my father’s Marlboro Lights, and a pack of Djarum Black clove cigarettes from the smoke shop his girlfriend owns. My boyfriend has his father’s gas card, a gallon of water, an atlas and eight bucks. We don’t check the oil or tire pressure. We don’t call in sick to school. These small things don’t matter. In my 14-year-old mind, we have all we need: A destination.

My navigational skills are less than stellar as I chain-smoke against the boyfriend’s wishes in his car. We end up lost somewhere along I-35, thereby turning a four hour drive into a six hour joyride through the flat lands of Kansas. I’ve never stepped foot outside my hometown alone, and as the clock progresses I become anxious, worried that the whole entirety of the world is going to be in the very same line to meet these people and I will have the opportunity snatched from my nail-bitten fingers right before my eyes.

January 31st, 2000, 1 p.m.

We arrive around 1 p.m., greeting the 40 or so people in  line with open arms. Everyone around me shares my enthusiasm, discussing various albums and interviews, singles, vinyls, the Mellon Collie demos [and the ever-mysterious "666" tape] vs. the final product, various guitar sounds and vocal melodies.  Did Billy’s voice sound better on acoustic or electric recordings? I am in fan-girl heaven, able to let my tongue loose to those that understand.

The cold begins to settle in, and I stand shivering in the 17 degree weather, freezing rain sporadically pelting down, huddling under a flimsy cloth awning and readily drinking warm apple cider born from powder packets, courtesy of a local radio station. A record store worker goes on a pizza run although it only ends up feeding the first few in line. A group of older boys in front of me, about 16 years old or so, ask me to hold their place while they run to get sandwiches from Yellow Sub. They leave me their giant, silver, puffy “moon” coat in the meantime, while I apologize in advance for making it smell like smoke. They don’t care, they’re as happy as I am. When they return they bring me and my boyfriend a sandwich too. I could have kissed them.

As I eat I talk to a girl behind me who’s flown from England for the meet-and-greet. She’s holding the Adore vinyl and I’ve never seen it before: A beautiful color shot of a gaunt model in a red rose, almost more impressive than the original black and white album cover itself. I touch it like an ancient relic. Everything of theirs is so precious to me , this music that’s changed my life so readily, these people I’m about to meet. Another boy behind her has the Pisces Iscariot vinyl. I don’t have access to these things where I’m from, and my wide-eyed expressions and elicited gasps are palpable. The minutes crawl by, the sun sets and still we wait.

The world fucking stops when that black van pulls in…

April 20th, 1984, 7:15p.m.

I died as soon as I was born. I wasn’t supposed to live, having fallen out of the womb too soon. With the aid of injections, within two weeks the doctors performed three months worth of developing my heart and lungs. My heart is now a large hotel without vacancies. When a room does open up, it takes years to fill. Modern medicine really is a miracle.

January 4th, 2009, 1:53 p.m.

The Story of how I came to be in this place of virtual webspace, and on various pieces of black and white marked paper bound in books you’ve probably never read, is a long one. [Could you have guessed?] But it’s charming, or so I’ve been told. I’ve met muses, heros, lovers, haters, livers, breathers, movers, shakers and lazy makers. I’ve met the hopeful. I’ve been the hopeless.

I’ll tell my Story in parts, little whispered secrets into a very large, empty space. Let’s see if I can hear my echo. The Story begins appropriately with the first, functioning muse of my career: Billy Corgan.

January 31st, 2000, 12:00a.m.

Singer/songwriter/svengali/Smashing Pumpkins mastermind, Billy Corgan [and company] are having an autograph signing in Lawrence, Kansas. My mother won’t take me, and passes the buck to my father, who’s slumped in front of the glowing T.V. “California is a faraway place,” is his  slurred reply. Both answers are entirely unacceptable, and the beginning pangs of razor edge intuition slice right through my stomach. This isn’t a choice.

I pack the essentials in an old army backpack [The Smashing Pumpkins CD's Machina and Adore, a poster, a change of socks and a bottle of water] and set the mess next to my bedroom door, before I dress how I believe to be “elegant” [ a black slip, ripped jeans, black/gold sparkly tights and maryjanes. Fashion is presentation and first impressions are essential when you have a burning arrow in your side screaming "these are the days, these are the people who will shape your life."]. I have no clue how to arrive at Kief’s Records on Iowa Street, but I’m not scared. I am a mother protecting her potential children, the poems I’d only begun  to write. Both of us need nourishment, and I’ll be damned if I’m to be denied.

I sit, plotting and devising a way to make the four hour drive, listening to mix cassette tapes I’d make for myself recording the Pumpkins from the radio. I have no money, only a will. I call my boyfriend to coordinate and ask for advice.

“I’ll take you up there. I know it means a lot to you,” was his reply.

January 31st, 2000, 6:00 a.m.

I’m 14 and going to run away, but only for a moment. Guided by dim street lamps lining 9th Street and breath making ghost-shapes in the chilly air I walk through the wet grass to my boyfriends house.  He’s 15. Neither of us have a proper liscense, but he has a permit and has recently bought his first car from a reposession sale at Eastman National Bank. A beat up, emerald green beretta, is to be my carriage to the ball, so that I could dance with a prince far more intriguing than I at the time…