First of a two-part conversation with David Costanza of Art of Flying, on cosmic clowns, baking and art-packing, pondering the mystery of art, the beginnings of Art of Flying, the parallels with Big Blood, keeping a low profile, creating music outside the industry, avoiding the label-BS, music & community, Free Music Archive, how the world doesn’t take artists seriously, corporate mentality, divorcing art from commerce, the longest loan you’ll ever get, gauging one’s place in the culture of celebrity, an invisible audience, what gives satisfaction, music for the spirit world, what happens when we die, the bid for immortality, clinging to incarnation, the real currency, wisdom as wealth, the lack of an echo, liminalism, using art as a drug, “Old Forgotten Spells,” ephemerality in music, sharing the unexpected, keeping chance involved, avoiding manipulation, art as observation and discovery, the ears of the soul, being a collective, the spirits within, a choral effect, unfiltered writing, the challenge of improvisation, the free jazz tradition, The Lords of Howling, style-free music, David’s inhibition, noticing the echo, a large circle of giving, three levels of validation, making your bed in heaven, a side room of culture, the decadent cultural layer, a dialogue with the soul, Jesus’ small crowds, the lament of mortality, putting fear of death in its place, how culture gets stuck, “Morning Star,” the lightbringer, how Lucifer felt, Catholic trauma, religion as a whip, the beginning of Art of Flying.
Songs: “Little Patient Flower, “Song for Old Orion,” “Morning Star,” by Art of Flying
Words to “Morning Star”
I saw the Morning Star upon a window sill, as the world began
I saw the voice of sunrise, the wind would listen, & I followed them
& what I saw did anger me so I ate it up like straw.
Now the Sun don’t disappear at night
& A Heart don’t really break, child.
Ring Around the water, Ring around the Moon,
’til little voices wake us.
I heard the voice of sickness, the angels bleating, the angels fall,
I heard Three Marys sing to me that ‘the truth awaits us all,’
& what I heard did anger me so I whispered night into the stars.
I dreamed the shore you made of us, our final resting place, destroyed in fire,
I dreamed the powerful steal a grace & sew a death upon us all,
& what I dreamed did anger me so I threw my voice into the sea.
& Now the Sun’s a dog, the fragile lover spins me ’round & asks me for what I’ve seen
& Now the Son she hated is the voice that’s speaking this tale through me
& what I heard did anger me so I flew away & night just fell.