Away From the Herd Stands The Last Bison
By Dan Jenkins
I’m a slave to the mainstream. They tell me what to hear. They tell me what to see. They tell me what to buy. Oh do they tell me what to buy. And I trust them. I have to, otherwise I’d be lost with only myself to trust. And when I’ve heard them tell me what to buy, I take it upon myself to obtain the cheapest version of it… or just outright steal it. Cuz “anti-establishment,” or as close as a conformist can get to such a thing, I guess.
It’s always been this way. Rifling through the racks at Goodwill I’m looking first at the labels. I need to know the brand. The brand first. Size second. Style a distant third, tied with scent and condition.
Anything beyond brand can be forgiven based on the power of the brand, the strength of the brand, the popularity of the brand. Everyone will know the brand. Everyone will know that I know the brand. Everyone will know that I am everyone else. And safe from the horrors of paying attention, I can blend seamlessly into the masses of non-thinkers and not have to risk clashing my styles with what’s accepted.
Alright maybe it’s not that bad. That’s a bit harsh for a guy that just wants to fit in. Maybe I’m not the corporate masher of the feeder bar that I’m describing here. Maybe I’m just a guy that has been convinced that a sweet pair of Nikes and the new post-Disney/pre-sex tape pop album is better than a sensible pair of Airwalks and an indy band’s CD. By the way, I don’t know anything about shoes so I’m ditching this metaphor right now and I’m gonna go ahead and get to the point…
I love music more when no one knows I’m listening. When no one can judge me… when I can be honest about what I like. That said, I love Fair Trade Independent Music.
That’s it. That’s the truth I’ve discovered. When others are around I’ll hear a familiar beat and bask in the shared commonality of our collective misdirection. It’s a safe feeling… but it’s not happiness.
Today is Easter, a day we celebrate something about candy and strands of green flimsy plastic. Oh, and most importantly, a vast pastel rainbow of plastic egg-shaped vessels containing a small variety of popular candy, toys or money (the values of each dictated by the hosts of the hunt). There are two hunts that I am familiar with… the “little kids’ hunt” and the “big kids’ hunt.”
In each hunt, everyone holds a basket, everyone gets the same prompt: “Find as many eggs as you can and the contents within are yours.” The older I got, the easier it was to find the eggs in that first tier of egg-hunting. Bouncy balls, plastic rings, singular jelly beans… Bland. Safe. And yet ultimately carrot enough for me to chase year after year for the next best egg. Yes, I’m aware I used a carrot metaphor inside of an Easter metaphor and didn’t even mention that damn bunny. Anti-establishment, remember?
So many years of the “little kids’ hunt” perfected my ability to scan what was essentially a level and perfectly mowed backyard, free of landscaping or detail to find pastel-colored objects not found on any other day. It was easy. It was expected. It was what we did. But the joy derived from each egg diminished a little each year. I was maturing I guess, as were my tastes. In fact, I stopped liking the hunt because it seemed so… boring and lame.
The hosts of the hunt knew that I suppose, and when I reached an older age they increased the difficulty and carrot-size to keep me playing the same game for only somewhat better prizes. And within that hunt, I would find the best prizes from the eggs that were “hardest” to find. But I would find the pleasure on the host’s schedule, not mine. Sure, some eggs were harder to find than others, but the game didn’t end until every egg was found. As the day went on, the hosts would feed us hints and lead us to the prizes they had manufactured for us. Then they’d congratulate us for finding what was basically handed to us. And when all the eggs were found, the hunt was over and we had our treats until our hosts led us to the next pre-arranged event.
But recently, I’ve found that something has changed. Recently, I discovered a new egg. It was brightly colored, vibrant and intricate. It moved in rhythm to the world around it… but it wasn’t Easter. If this were the hunt, this egg would have been the best prize of them all. But this wasn’t the hunt. This egg was clearly left by serendipity or perhaps the former slaves of the host, now freedom fighters and mystics. Just go with me on this, ok?
This egg was placed or even manifested itself under a rock, atop the highest tree, beneath the lake and all other places one finds as opposed to being led. And it wasn’t put there for me. I may as well have tripped over the damn thing. It wasn’t put there for me or anyone else to race around just to be the first to find it and gloat with our otherwise meaningless clone-treasure, satisfied that we were on the “cutting edge” as defined by the host. This egg wasn’t for me. It was for all of us. But we couldn’t see it. We weren’t ready to see it because our host hadn’t led us to it and we were too afraid to venture out on our own.
By mistake I found it, and inside I found a treasure few would find, few would know. A rarity of beauty and expression either undiscovered by the host, or made in its defiance. I had found it. And in doing so, I began my own hunt. I had no guide, no map, no suggestion but the naked and vulnerable expedition into my own desires, my own expression.
Independent music does not exist to file out on command by the powers that be to drive a market and a culture… to reinforce what we’re supposed to think. It exists as an undiscovered majority of expression with no motive or agenda save its own sanctity of self-expression and the hope that others will love it as they do.
How’s that for a metaphor? Now I want to tell you about the egg I stumbled upon… purely by accident.
Somewhere in the south east of Virginia, a group of musicians gathered to create a sound that with it brought a free and rustic experience unchained by the cluttered emptiness that our commercial stations are so fond of. NPR deemed this sound a “classical influenced Southern folk rock.” I suppose if it were to have a label, that would be the simplest, but its implications are limited as compared to the vast reaches of this music. Recently, I discovered The Last Bison.
Current members, Ben Hardesty (lead vocals and guitar), Annah Housworth (percussion, bells, back-up vocals), Andrew Benfante (keyboards and reed organ… yeah that’s right, I said “reed organ”) and Amos Housworth (cello) have toured all over Virginia, as well as our nation’s capital, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Texas, bringing with them an originality that “fits” in all corners and spaces of our overly mainstreamed hearts and souls.
The group, originally from Chesapeake, Virginia has released two independent albums that sandwich several EPs and another album released by Universal Republic. The latest independently released album, VA, could just as easily be performed as a headlining act to a festival of the nation’s best folk bands, as it could alongside the most sentimental of orchestral arrangements.
“This Changes Everything,” from their EP, Dorado, welcomes listeners with an almost familiar sense of style that invites us into a unique and surprisingly modern arrangement of multiple instrumentals laced with raw yet refined vocals. I find myself imagining I were gleefully fleeing the outside world into a new world… a better world. A world lacking of restraint and… “arbitrarity.” (I see a red line that tells me that’s not a word, but I am inspired to leave it because right now I feel independent).
And while that tune’s complexity safely carries me through that world, other tunes keep me grounded with sounds that are simple and speak of gratitude and knowing, of hope and longing. I found this in “You Are the Only One,” also from the Dorado EP.
You’ll not be at a loss of sensation with The Last Bison. In fact, I challenge you to visit their website ww.TheLastBison.com and listen to the music they’ve made available (for free!) and not imagine yourself over the mountains of Virginia or the shores of the Atlantic. I challenge you to challenge yourself to experience music that hasn’t been processed and handpicked as statistically more likely to guide your purchases.
It’s ok to listen and it’s ok to enjoy. It may not have been made for you, but The Last Bison wants you to hear it, on your terms. Oh, and it’s ok to move. No one’s watching.
You can see The Last Bison in Lynchburg, VA on April 23rd at the Lynchstock Music Festival.
