THE DAY THE AIR STOPPED SINGING:
IN REMEMBRANCE OF SCOTT WANNBERG
i sat across from the ducks in the kitchen
talking over coffee and cigarettes and whiskey
about how the earth hung
how love could come true on water
any water
even the water that owns us inside our bodies
“the air began singing” - Scott Wannberg
It was the summer of ’92 and I was led to a mystical place where dreamers were
encouraged to dream. The long defunct Iguana Café in North Hollywood, California was
a hub for adult misbehavior and the celebration of the written word. One Sunday
afternoon I was introduced to a jolly giant fond of tie-dyes and imbibing “jazz”
cigarettes. His reputation for poetic wizardry had already preceded him, a genuine folk
hero of open mics and the Los Angeles poetry scene. But aside from his behemoth frame,
he seemed too affable to be the man “they” claimed him to be. And then of course he took
the stage at Iguana-land and the world I knew shook and was suddenly torn asunder. Scott
Wannberg was a brilliant writer and poet and perhaps, yes, even a genius. He died Friday,
August 19, 2011, at age 58.
Those familiar with the legend know that Scott Wannberg was a member of the
Beat Generation inspired poetry performance troupe “The Carma Bums”. He was also the
conspicuous John Prine caterwauling Deadhead employed as a bookseller for over two
decades at Dutton’s in Brentwood. But I, a young poet sprat in the 90s, was privileged to
know Scott socially, and on many a booze-soaked occasion words were hashed about a
myriad of subject matter that had nothing to do with the poem.
We actually never discussed his work or anyone else’s for that matter. Besides
there were plenty of laughs induced shenanigans and other topics to fill the time. I
suspect I’ll never find another cinephile friend that admires a good Sam Peckinpah flick
like he did. Scott and I shared a movie addiction and we’d talk about them for hours, they
were our dancing women dressed in dark rooms. In fact, he often educated me about
certain films, the directors, the story development, anecdotes about the leading actors,
etc. One night I asked Scott, why he never turned to screenplay writing. It always seemed
like a given in his case. He told me he had enough trouble wrestling forth a good poem.
Imagine that! Here I was thinking that poems moved through him extemporaneously and
with minimal effort. I’d watch him turn it on at parties and improvise, taking feverish
stream of conscious dictation from the muse. How could such a creative paradox be true?
Perhaps he did indeed hold the written work to a higher standard, as I review Scott’s
poems now it’s hard not to see a polished craftsman, a true carpenter of verse. Those were
his little movies.
oxygen passes itself around,
all spectators become participants,
i got lost in the tall wilderness
being born in god’s vulnerable shoes.
days and nights argue over not all that much
as traffic jams grow children,
men and women plant their hopes and fears
they become tall cities
in which we can hide.
“god’s vulnerable shoes”
The merits of Scott’s work, academic and otherwise are undeniably clear. I’d
always felt it would be impolite and unwelcome to broach the subject with him firsthand.
Nevertheless there was an obvious discourse building, and many of us borrowed and
riffed and copied Scott’s prolific creative breakthroughs. These devices included Scott’s
explosive interpretation of e.e. cumming’s enjambment style and use of punctuation or
lack thereof; the marvelous unpredictability of the poems too, aleatoricism harkening to
the Beat spirit of William Burrough’s surreal juxtapositions and the musical blank verse
meter like the “cut-up technique” on steroids. Then there were the recurring themes of
“singing”, the old West images, and of course, always, “the dance.” Even in the old days I
knew it - Hell, everyone knew it, though it remained largely unspoken, that being with
Scott meant being in the presence of something very awesome.
the delirious boys are waltzing us to the new Armageddon
they want to paint the walls with rapture
but i reckon i should stick around
let my bones deteriorate at their own rhythm
“a pint of whiskey will get you through part five”
Whenever I’m driving somewhere and I hear a Dead song on the radio, I think of
Scott. Why is that? Whenever I see an old western playing on TV late at night, I instantly
think of Scott. Whenever I see a print of Degas’ dancers, I invariably think of Scott. Is
that weird or what? For me, these are all oddly post-modern relics of Scott’s work. They
have been assimilated into the indelible matrix of those magnificent iconographic poems.
Because those poems have forever altered the way my eyes digest the world. And thus,
all those things seem incredibly “Wannbergian” now. Scott owns them all.
The last time I saw Scott was at Beyond Baroque prior to making the move to
Florence, Oregon. And since he left, I again have been privileged to correspond with him
socially, well, in the “social network” sense of the word. But the recent poems held a
peculiar fury, many were passionately descriptive and a pointed indictment of our
country’s flawed system of government. They pounded like a gavel on this platform, a
rallying cry, a one man protest against social injustices and political criminality.
Norquist strangles government in a tub
and the washerwomen all sing in key,
while the speaker of the house
forgets which house is friendly
to his key turning in the lock.
the ossified cannibalized alibied contrived denied
snide one-way ride
asks you to sacrifice your feet and hands
for the better angels
slurping statistics made of
sake.
“my government broke it’s funny bone blues rag ...”
But Scott’s words still contained hope, hope in the fire of this maddening world.
This is the very last poem I received from him, dated Tuesday, August 16, 2011:
the cleaning women will tell you what you need to know to get by
all the gleaming eyed carnival barkers
suddenly begin to itch something frenetic
when the spotlights find them
attempting to vanquish
all remote corners
of the
room.
a remote corner once
tired of its anonymity
bribed a swank fashion photographer
to shoot it in such a way
all sentient people
would begin to know it
and even
perhaps
love it.
love does migrate this way
more so during summer.
vanquishing a remote corner
can get slightly messy,
if you don't wear a bib
as you commit a thousand per cent
to the vanquishing.
once i saw a man vanquish, utilizing so much muscle,
he never walked the same
again.
as for people faced with 20 year sentience,
they do feel parole could still
wave its fading hand,
especially when they are allowed to walk around
in fugues
while the cleaning women
dance and sing
as they
dust
all the technology
that still attests
it cares.
the limos are in high octane conference.
new menus are reportedly being violently thrashed out
in reader friendly homeopathic smoke signals.
the gleaming eyed barkers
they sometimes fall short of
the winning number,
and their gleams become rusty
and get thrown into the garage
where if one is not sufficiently persistent,
will stupor into forgetfulness.
all the miracles in candy bags
are way way high on the shelf.
if you truly
desire to partake
bring
stilts.
There is a pall over the Los Angeles poetry community this week, an early winter
in tribute of Mr. Wannberg’s mark, his inestimable contribution to the very fiber and spirit
of what we artists do. Maybe it wasn’t so dramatic as I’ve suggested, okay. Many of us
are quite confident Scott’s voice will remain current and enjoy a rich, posthumous
appreciation, so perhaps it wasn’t the day the air stopped singing this past Friday. And to
you reading this now who are unfamiliar with trove of poems Mr. Wannberg has left
behind for you. Go now! Find something he’s written and commit it to your eyes and
your heart. You will not regret it. The words still have his breath now; he was wild and he
listened. He was a bear. Goodbye, old friend.
Christian Elder
August 22, 2011, Los Angeles, CA.
Christian Elder is a poet, writer, and filmmaker living in Los Angeles, California.
