The 49th Annual Schmolaris Prize is Awarded to...

“And when Steve Schmolaris heard The Dirty Beat, and saw that he had lanced his boil, he said, Truly this man was the Son of God.” Mark 15:39.

A garden starts with but a single seed. From there, it sprouts and, with a little care, it goes forth and multiplies. It is the same with art. It is the same with music. A single stroke from a paintbrush multiplies itself on the canvas. A single note causes more to spring up from the soil. And, in this respect, there are no bad seeds – only deviations, only mutations, only new modes of living, new melodies, and, ultimately, new songs in a garden lush with plants and flowers and vines and trees and forbs and herbs – each vibrating in their own unique way, each reaching for the sunlight that falls upon their open arms, each compelled upward for reasons far beyond understanding. It is the nature of the garden. It is the nature of that single seed and the ancient instructions embedded deep within it. It is something we – each of us – are born with. It is, in this sense, a birthright.

And so, armed with (metaphorical) shears and trowels, with thumbs stained chlorophyll green, with knees muddy and worn bloody from the bending, it is with the greatest of enthusiasm that I announce that the 49th annual Schmolaris Prize is awarded to The Dirty Beat for their album Birthrite: Lancing the Boil.

In truth, I knew this would be the case for some time. Upon hearing it – with its all-acoustic instrumentation, of all sorts: trumpets, accordions, mandolins, fiddle, banjo, harp (probably), all played with heavy metal vigour – I was unnerved. It was a symphony of narrative; each song contained multiple songs within them; they were dark and brooding, they were contemptuous, they were spiteful, and yet they were also a joyous call to struggle for one’s continued existence, for meaning and purpose; and, most importantly, they would not quit repeating themselves in my mind. Over and over again, far after the final song ended, they echoed in my head. They had deviously planted their seed, and from there (much to my delight), they went forth and multiplied.

The Dirty Beat describes the album as a purge and rebirth ritual, as a scathing retrospective of a life turned septic, as a cautionary tale of overgrown weeds and stale dreams, as a boil that needs to be lanced. And it is that, yes; it is self-critical, it is open abouts its sins and failures, it wallows in pain and slothful suffering. But, in doing so, it transcends it, too. It lances the boil in a way that makes all that suffering – all that pain – worthwhile.

So, hey, are you ready? Because here we go!

We begin where we so often begin: with the Book of Mark and Jesus and the parable of the Sower.

“The kingdom of God is like a man who casts his seeds upon the soil,” said Jesus, “like mustard seeds. I love mustard. And mayonnaise, but that’s a whole different parable – the parable of the jar of mayonnaise, I call it – but mustard is divine, in my humble opinion. Anyways, what was I saying. Ah, yes, I remember now. If someone throws down their seeds on the roadside, it will only be eaten by Satanic birds – sins, in other words. Then, if someone throws their seeds upon the rocky ground, it may grow fast for a time, but it will be fleeting; the slightest wind will send it crashing to the ground because its roots, its foundations, weren’t strong or deep enough. By this, I mean that their joy in life will be temporary if not rooted in God’s words and commands. Then, there will be some who throw their seeds into the thorn bushes only to see them choked out by all the pricks and punks; they’ll be concerned with the state of the world, with world events and others’ opinions’, with getting rich, with being beautiful, and they’ll forget about what really makes them happy and fulfilled. And, remember, you cannot make everyone happy – your life will be consumed with failed attempts should you try. But when someone plants their seed on God’s soil, which is the best kind of soil, let me tell you, the harvest will be overflowing and everlasting.”

In Birthrite: Lancing the Boil, The Dirty Beat becomes like Jesus’s Sower; he’s thrown his seeds in every place imaginable: on the road, in the ditch with the ditchers and ditchees, amongst the scene hipsters and cool kids, he’s tossed seeds into their coats’ many pockets, any place where water might catch it and cause their cotyledons to magically uncoil. The Sower sings on Am What Am: “Not for the soil / And not for the root / Not for the weed / that choked out the fruit.” What must the Sower do to be fruitful and multiply? What must he do to ensure germination? Is this seed – this magic bean – he holds bereft of its magic? Is it nothing more than a stone? Is it his birthright to remain inanimate? Soulless? Something less than dead because it was never truly alive to begin with? As the Sower sings on Boiling the Rue, “I’m just sitting stunned [and] easily taunted / by what was never really there.” The Sower, perhaps once thinking he was sold spoiled seeds, now doubts himself. Everything he touches has turned to muck – this, again, is his birthright, his fate that he must suffer through. Even something as simple as a roux boils over, curdles, is made inedible. Regret and shame overwhelm the Sower, and then the Sower cowers when he realizes what must be done.

He threw his seeds onto the road, to no avail; he threw them into the rocks, which amounted to little more than throwing them away. In doing so, the Sower realizes he was throwing his own life away, too. The Sower must become the dirt it yearns for; he must learn to be dirt; he must become the good soil about which Jesus preached was necessary for the living the good life. The Sower realizes he must not just be like Jesus, he must live as Jesus lived, which also means dying as Jesus died. This was the birthright of Jesus – to suffer, to be punished, to die – and it is the same for the Sower and for The Dirty Beat. He must become “Ready for Heaven”, must shore himself up for the ultimate release, must be betrayed by a close friend, must be publicly humiliated and whipped and flogged and beaten and cursed and spat at; he must be strung up on the lancing pole and have the boil – sin; the useless life, the meaningless less, the purposeless life – removed once and for all. The weight of it is too much to bear; he must be rid of it. God’s lancing blade must sever his sin from him. The weight – its burden – must be lifted from him. It is the realization that only by becoming dirty can one truly become clean. The final song, Weightlifter, sees the Sower post-death, as the risen Son of God, shorn of his meagre body, finally spotless, finally unblemished, finally pure and holy and sacred and good.

In a slight rearrangement of the Golden Rule, the Sower states that what you do for you, you do for others too, and likewise, they for you. In his new (and godly) form, the Sower understands that art and music is worthwhile in and of itself. Music is for the musician that made it, and when that is granted, all else follows: love, happiness, fulfillment: heaven everlasting. It is the P******ic ideal writ large. And it makes it so that wherever one casts their mustard seeds – be that on rocks or amongst the pricks or anywhere on down the road – they grow to become larger than all the other plants in the garden.  

In this sense, Birthrite: Lancing the Boil towers in the Bad Garden like few others. It is a monumental work. Relentless. Brutal. And divine.

Congratulations The Dirty Beat. The 49th annual Schmolaris Prize is well deserved. And it is all yours.