Killing Off Ray Apada
By Matthew Jakubowski.
[PDF]
The first time I saw Ray Apada he was standing outside the 7-Eleven near campus with no shirt, singing what I later found out were Muddy Waters songs he’d translated into Spanish and tried to adapt to twelve-string guitar. His voice was some kind of bad David Byrne impression but he could play guitar really well, keeping his eyes closed like he was completely into it, this six-foot-tall white dude built like a rock-climber with black hair buzzed short.
Next time I saw him he walked right by me on campus looking totally normal, wearing khakis, jean jacket, and a backpack.
‘Hey, were you at a 7-Eleven playing guitar last Saturday? Half-naked?’
He stopped. ‘You’re the first person to say anything about that one. But you’re right. That bare-chested thing was cheap. Not my usual performance protocol at all.’
He smiled. I must’ve looked dubious.
‘No, really,’ he said, ‘I’m staging a bunch of emblematic public experiences right now. Have you heard of Pistoletto? The Italian artist who rolled a giant ball of newspaper through the streets of Turin in ‘68?’
Before I could speak he reached into his backpack and pulled out a sketch pad.
