Nozuka manages mediocrity in the Barn

by Taylor Coe '13
ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR

“We come from the earth We come from the universe,” said Justin Nozuka. “We are special creatures, and we have magnificent powers. If you think about it, these artists creating music, dancing, writing…it’s pretty amazing.” Slouched back in his chair, leisurely munching on a salad, Nozuka displayed an attitude of Buddhist nonchalance. Every line he spoke unfolded some hackneyed transcendentalist sentiment as if I were reading from a collection of deeply optimistic fortune cookies.

This persona has its root in Nozuka’s recent move towards a more “open” approach to life. “All I really want to do is experience life to the fullest that I can,” he told me when I asked about his new lifestyle. I questioned him on how this new lifestyle has affected his songwriting, but the rattling of the heating system interrupted his response.

Nozuka closed his eyes and bobbed his head, gently tapping his thigh. “See? Now that’s a rhythm,” he said, opening his eyes. “It sounds like a drum solo or something. Rhythm is everything. Vibration is everything. Everything is a vibration. If I can be on that vibration and be open to that vibration, then music is everywhere, and music is everything. Music is just another expression of the great vibration of life.”

However, this attitude did not manifest itself in his set. Despite his laidback demeanor and his blissed-out chatter, Nozuka’s life lessons were lost to the audience. Some of the blame for that rests with his backing band; the band members, especially lead guitarist Mark Pellizzer, were tidy and disciplined. Pellizzer’s prevailing wisdom seemed to be that not only could a guitar solo save a song, but it was also a necessary element of every song.

The end result of Pellizzer’s mindset was that all the songs sounded more or less the same. In addition to that despondent lapse into sameness, Nozuka and his companions strayed all too easily into the fuzzy, feel-good territory of Jason Mraz and Jack Johnson, not to say that such musical territory signifies popular or even critical death; it merely comes off as a concession to the arbiters of Top 40 taste. Given Nozuka’s desire to tap into “the great vibration of life,” one would think he would make the smallest stab at originality.

The central issue with the songwriting of both Nozuka and of the opening act Melissa Polinar was the steadfast commitment to writing pretty songs about nothing. Polinar’s song “Always Need You” begged for context; the lyrics could have been about anything—the need for a boyfriend, the need for God, even the need for her pet dog. Nozuka and Polinar mistake triteness for universality.

Tony Lucca clarified an important issue when he was here a few months ago; he pointed out that one of the great ironies of art is that “the more specific it is, the more universal it is.” Lucca cited a line from the song “Jolene” by singer-songwriter Ray LaMontagne: “Sold my coat when I hit Spokane / Bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes in the early morning rain.” In Lucca’s mind, that specificity of detail separates the wheat f rom the chaff.

On the other hand, Nozuka’s songs, like Polinar’s, manage little, if any, specificity. Are they tapping into some kind of life vibration? It is certainly possible, but if that is the case, then I would rather just tap into a different vibration. I vote to sacrifice Nozuka to the Dave Matthews fans and leave everyone else with Tony Lucca and Ray LaMontagne.