Cannibal Cheerleader

When I met Austin-transplant and Montana native, folk-rock wunderkind Fiver, at Quack’s Coffee, he stood out strangely from the hip and fashionable patrons. Seated outside next to his black lab, Fiver sipped a soda and pensively flipped through a worn book of poetry during our brief interview. His tightly-cut, almost military style hair, dark, piercing eyes, and strong nose complimented his track jacket and dickies, making him look more like a Scottish soccer hooligan than a Dylanesque troubadour. As he answered questions he avoided eye-contact and nervous ran his fingers through his hair.

“It’s difficult turning that same microscope that I maybe use in my songs back on myself. I don’t think I have as much capacity for self-examination as I’d like,” Fiver stated as he pet his dog, Hazel.

The admission seemed in many ways as if the youth was selling himself short. Equal parts literate, verbose musings on the state of the Nation, God (or lack thereof), and the working man’s dilemma, to incisive and stark confessions on personal tragedy, loss, and haunting humor, Fiver’s sparse, earthy approach to the classic singer-songwriter mold recalls Conor Oberst if he was more into Woody Guthrie than Dylan. Still, Fiver is very much the poet. He flips through a compendium of Auden excerpts, landing on “The Fall of Rome,” from which his debut LP gets its names.

“I just think that . . . and I’m not educated on this or anything like that . . . that Auden was talking about people like me here. Runaways from the system. I get a real sense of flight when I read this poem.”

Fiver, real name Tennessee Sturges hails from a small town in northeastern Montana. His father died in an oil accident in the early 90s he said and his mother kicked him out of the house at 16 for being gay.

“I don’t like to talk about my sexuality all that much. It is what it is. I’ve lost a lot of old friends because of it. Friends who are in the Army now, in the Marines, which is pretty much all you can be if you’re from that town. That or an oilman and I wasn’t going to do either of those things anyway.”

Leaving with a pickup truck, a sizable collection of books, and his trusty canine partner, Fiver left for the big city lights of New York. It was here, almost two years later, that the young man made a name for himself amongst the Occupy Wall Street movement, singing his brand of dark, confessional workingman’s songs to the huddled protestors. But it wasn’t until his sparse cover version of Bright Eyes’ “Ladder Song” began making waves across the blogosphere that listeners really began to take notice.

“That’s a devastating song. I’m not even all that familiar with his music. I like folk as much as the next guy – Dylan, Leadbelly, Singin’ Brakeman, Muddy Waters, Scruggs, etcetera – and Conor Oberst’s music definitely seems to fit that mold a lot, even if he really rejects the label. But that one song, man, really struck a chord with me. So many of my friends, whether in Montana or New York, they just kind of gave up. And I just wanted to shake them and say “there’s no point in dying!” So I recorded that song in someone’s shower in Brooklyn, which was inexplicably in their kitchen, along with all the other tracks and here I am.”

Fiver has since migrated to Austin due to what he considers “a capacity to love folk musicians – a great big musical heart.” He’s about to embark on a Winter tour of the US, traveling with little else than his dog and his guitar in his beat-up old Chevy. Oh yeah, and his impressive collection of books.

“That’s where Fiver comes from. It’s one of the rabbits in Watership Down, the prescient one who insists they travel away from their home. That was always me. The little artsy kid that no one ever liked but under that surface was deep and introspective. I love that book.”

I asked if that’s where his dog Hazel’s name comes from as well. He cracks the first smile of the day.

“No, that’s obviously Hazel Dickens my friend. Good eye though.”

Mp3s are forthcoming Cannibal Cheerleader readers. I’ll post them soon. Until then, stay hungry!

2010 was a pretty rough year. Lots of change, lots of stress, lots of new experiences. I’ve changed immensely, even though outwards I appear the same. I’ve taken some time off from the blog and my creative pursuits in general and I don’t regret it. I needed this time away to reassess my attachment to writing, to music, to “fandom” as it were. And I’ve made a lot of decisions about what I really want Cannibal Cheerleader to be.

Most importantly though I read the stories about Esme. For those not in Austin, Esme Barrera was a local music lover, Waterloo Records employee, mixtape maker, teacher, Girls Rock Camp Austin instructor, and all-around Austin weirdo.  More importantly though, she was a wonderful friend to the people that surrounded her and a passionate, thrilling individual in her own right. I did not have the pleasure of ever meeting her, but we certainly seemed to have traveled in the same circles. It would come as no surprise to me if our paths crossed multiple times, whether attending some loud, dingy, punk rock house party, or rocking out to some new riot grrrl band at Emo’s, or snarfing pumpkin pancakes at Kerbey Lane Cafe, my old gig. Sadly, Esme was callously murdered on the morning of January 1, 2012 by an unknown assailant in her home, and I’ll never get the chance to be her friend. That opportunity has been stolen from me and so many other people by some evil person, still walking the Austin streets.

Please take the time now to go to this blog and donate to her family for funeral expenses. Or buy a shirt here and celebrate her life.

I think that’s why this affects me so much, and Austin more generally. Esme is everyone in this city and everything we’ve grown to love about Austin. Crazy, bizarre, wild, fun, and wistful, but equal parts thoughtful, intelligent, creative, deep, and passionate. It could just as easily have been one of my close friends injured or killed in this bizarre attack. As an aside, it’s despicable that the women of Austin should feel threatened by violence in such a progressive town.

I have also been astounded at the outpouring of support and grief over Esme’s passing. How can one Austinite so deeply affect so many people, including those she’s never met? Was it because she was a rock music fan? A cool chick that liked to go to parties? That can’t be right. Such a shallow perspective wouldn’t do justice to a person like Esme. Instead, I think we all see the creative energy that Austin lives and breathes coalescing in Esme. A messy creativity that’s confusing and inspired; consumed with fandom but erupting with volatile independent energy all the same. It’s not stilted, it’s not haughty, but Austin-style creativity is clumsy and immediate and fiery and all-too-quickly extinguished. That’s why Austin is such a singular place and Esme, as it’s picture-perfect representative was so special to us all.

So as I sat in my studio apartment on the edge of Hyde Park over the Christmas break, I began to think about how best I could react to Esme’s passing. I have and do encourage everyone to donate to Esme’s family. But what could I change in my personal life to better reflect the sort of person Esme was? I looked back on the last few semesters in law school. The parts of me that were so married to the idea of attending law school and becoming a better writer and a champion for the needy have now become entangled with the desire to work at a prestigious, big-wig law firm, inexplicably defending the same giant corporations that I hate with every fiber of my being. And for what? To maintain my appearance as a smart individual? As a go-getter?

What if it had been me that night? What would people be saying about me? Would they be trading my mixtapes, reading my old blog posts, watching my old videos, or eating my favorites at Kerbey Lane (fish tacos!)? Or would they remember me best as the guy who always trying too hard to be the smartest guy in the room? The careerist? The big-shot lawyer who cared more about the prestige and the big paycheck than art, Austin, or his friends?

This is what we all have to consider. The former option to me is so romantic and achingly beautiful, personal and heartfelt in all the right ways. It reminds me that I don’t have to succeed — ever. At least, not in the shallow, materialistic sense. I don’t have to write the next great American novel, or even have the best blog in town. I don’t have to get the big promotion or the top job at the top firm.

I just have to try. Try to be a creative, independent, singular, weird individual, the likes of which Austin spits out so regularly. People like the much-missed but never forgotten Esme.

And that’s my challenge to myself. To keep writing. To keep creating. To restart my blog. Write for pleasure. Make art. Make waves. Consider the process. Reject the big outcomes. Reject superficial results. Have strong opinions. Create. Create. Create.

Just try for a second. Try to recapture what I’ve taken for granted for so long. Just how much I love Austin. But more importantly, how much I love the people in it. I’ll be posting here on the regular. Doesn’t matter what. Doesn’t matter how. But I’ll be doing it.

And that I think is the best way for everyone to remember Esme. Dedicate yourself to creativity. To inspiration. To not following the norm. Donate your time to helping those less fortunate. Volunteer with local organizations. Make art furiously. Teach. Be a good friend. Be happy. But never ever forget to live each day like it could be your last. Leave behind a legacy of ideas and opinions and loves and bad poetry and awesome mixtapes. That’s the easiest path to immortality. Live like Esme did — everyday.

-JB