Crude Conversations

EP 130 Being authentic and a fear of forgetting with Zane Penny

In this episode, Cody talks to musician Zane Penny. He says that every creative endeavor he’s been involved in has led him to where he is right now. It goes back to 5th grade, when his mom heard about an audition for a short film. Zane was interested, but he’d never acted before, so he was nervous. So nervous, and full of doubt, that he almost skipped the audition all together. But then, at the last minute, he decided to go. Everything else has flowed from that moment. More acting gigs, filmmaking, creating music and joining Vitus Collective, a group of young musicians and artists based in Anchorage.
 
Joining Vitus Collective was an important milestone for Zane. It introduced him to a group of likeminded youth and it also helped him realize the importance of young artists, that their message and their perspective matters. There was a problem though, there was nowhere for them to perform. So, in high school, Vitus began hosting all ages shows. These shows were a success, at times bringing in around 300 people. Reflecting on it now, Zane says that when kids have the opportunity to support their friends, they show up.
 
A big part of the music, for him, is the fashion that goes along with it. When he was younger, he wore clothes that made him stand out — a hood with bunny ears, tank tops and metal chokers. He looks back on those choices now and he laughs, but he understands that that was his way of expressing himself back then. In fact, he keeps a lot of those clothes around his house to remind himself of where he comes from. The clothes, and other pieces of his past, help him fight his fear of forgetting. This fear of waking up one day and realizing that the world has gone on without him. Everything is different, but he’s the same. He thinks this fear stems from some of his family’s issues involving alcoholism. So, in general, he stays away from alcohol, and instead focuses on the thing that helps quiet that fear, his music.

Chatter Marks EP 60 Little, wild places with Erin Ggaadimits Ivalu Gingrich

Interdisciplinary artist Erin Ggaadimits Ivalu Gingrich grew up in Galena, Alaska, a place that continues to have an impact on her art. You can see it in her beadwork and the masks and sculptures she creates. They represent — among other things — birds, berries, caribou, seals and fish. In fact, when she thinks back on her childhood in Galena, fish are a big part of her memories. She remembers watching them being caught in fish wheels and by people along the Yukon River. She also remembers being told to be mindful of the river because of what it is — this thing of nature that brings bounty, but can also bring destruction if you’re not careful around it. Overall, she remembers the sense of freedom she felt growing up in such a rural place, being one with nature and with wildlife.
She lives in Anchorage now and talks about the importance of little, wild places. How Alaska is known for its size and its scale — its large, open spaces occupied by trees, grass, mountains and wildlife — but little patches of wilderness are important too. They can be an untamed patch of grass that grows on the sidewalk or a lake in the middle of town. Anything that brings you back to the earth, back to being one with a natural environment. 
When Erin thinks about being one with her natural environment, she doesn’t recall one single image. She recalls moments and sounds that create a feeling — like running water or fishing in the rain with her mom. Thinking about this one morning when she and her mom were out dipnetting on the Kasilof River and it was pitch black, there were seals fishing in the water, it was raining and they could see dark clouds on the horizon and an incoming thunderstorm. She says that she felt in-community with the natural elements around her — with the seals and with all the other people who were out fishing.

EP 129 A leap of faith with Geoff and Marcy Larson of Alaskan Brewing

In this one, Cody talks to Geoff and Marcy Larson of Alaskan Brewing. Geoff and Marcy opened the brewery in 1986. Back then, Geoff says that craft beer was a novel idea — only a fraction of beers that were consumed were craft beers. He says that, altogether, there were probably only 100 breweries in the entire country. So, there was a lot of education involved in those early days — learning about the craft of brewing and also teaching it to others. But before they could focus on the beer, they needed to raise money for the whole operation. Both of them come from families that have rocky relationships with alcohol — both have lost family members because of it. So, they knew their families wouldn’t really like the idea of them starting a brewery. So, they needed to find investors. 88 small investors became integral to the start-up of Alaskan Brewing. Of those original investors, around 63 are still involved.
 
From the beginning, they wanted their beer to represent Alaska. To be something Alaskans were proud of and that accurately represented the state to the rest of the beer-drinking world. Many times, they’ve gotten ideas for graphics and for brewing from their time in nature and from being around other Alaskans. For example, they have a cabin in Gustavus where they go to relax. And with help from residents of the town, it’s also where they harvest the spruce tips they use in their beer.
 
They're both adamant about how lucky they are and about how much help they’ve had along the way. Marcy says that the fishing fleet in Juneau was largely responsible for introducing their beer to people outside of Alaska because after they were done commercial fishing for the season, they would spend their winters in cities like Seattle. They’d pack up all the Alaskan beer they could fit on their boats, head south and then share it with their friends and families. To this day, it’s still surprising for Geoff and Marcy to see one of their beers outside of Alaska, in the hands of someone they don’t know.

EP 128 Self-realization, reclamation and embracing their Eyak heritage with Brother Buffalo

In this one, Cody talks to brothers Garrett and Jake Swenson of the hip hop group Brother Buffalo. They’re of Eyak heritage, with roots in Cordova, Alaska, but they grew up in Anchorage. As far as their understanding of their heritage goes, they didn’t have much to go on because so much of the culture was taken from their people and documentation of it was either destroyed or spread across a number of museums. So, it was hard for them to figure out what being Eyak actually meant. Their connection to their past was limited and their access to generational stories were few. One connection they remember, though, was having traditional headbands that they’d wear to weddings and to special get-togethers. But then, in 2008, after Chief Marie Smith passed away, the language was declared dead. She was the last fluent Eyak language speaker.
 
In the last 5 to 10 years, the Eyak language has made a comeback. For their part, Garrett and Jake are learning the language and using it in their raps. They’ve been taking language classes for a few years now. The group meets once every two weeks, learning and practicing the language. In these meetings, Garrett and Jake say they’re learning more about themselves and their people. For them, the whole thing — understanding their culture and creating their music — is about self-realization and reclamation. They call their sound Inlet Music because that’s where they grew up — in Anchorage, surrounded by the Cook Inlet. Except for they don’t acknowledge the Captain Cook part of Cook Inlet because of what it represents — colonialism and erasure. That’s why they named their most recent album “Our Inlet.” It’s a reclamation of what was taken.

EP 127 Alaska cold cases, a family tragedy and the book that helped him process it all with Glen Klinkhart

In this one, Cody talks to former homicide detective Glen Klinkhart. In 1981, Glen’s older sister was sexually assaulted and murdered at their home in Anchorage, Alaska. She had thrown a party at her house and after everyone left, a nineteen year old classmate returned. To cover up his crime, he burned down their house. He was later caught and sentenced to 75 years in prison.
Glen says that we can intellectualize why people commit heinous crimes as much as we want to, but the reason is ultimately very simple: People do it because they want to. Now, that choice might be corrupted by other things like anger, deviancy, mental illness or drugs, but at the end of the day it’s a conscious choice. The outcome of which is devastating to all those it affects. He says that, so often, the crime perpetrated on someone becomes their identity. It becomes all consuming and can result in a lifetime of guilt and bitterness. But recently, Glen has found ways to let go of those feelings. One of them is digitizing all of his dad’s 35 mm slides. He’s going through so many family photos and it’s giving him the opportunity to see his sister through a whole new lens, as the beautiful young woman she was.
Years ago, Glen was teaching a homicide class and one of his students asked him if having a murdered sister made him a better detective or did it make the job more difficult. He’d never thought about it before that moment, but he’ll always remember his response. He said, “You don’t have to have a murdered sister to be a good homicide detective, but it helps.” That became the first sentence in his true crime memoir, “Finding Bethany.” The book details his upbringing all the way to him becoming a detective for the Anchorage Police Department, with a focus on finding a young woman named Bethany Correira. He says that, in addition to his sense of duty to her and her family, working Bethany’s case — a case that had so many similarities to his sister’s —  also helped him process his sister’s murder.

EP 126 Boarderline, snowboarding and the importance of listening to your gut with Tim Weisser

In this one, Cody talks to Tim Weisser. Like so many people, he came to Alaska to chase a dream. It was 1993 and he was a young snowboarder who wanted to ride the drastic and iconic mountains Alaska is known for. He had visions of bluebird days and big pow turns. So, with a few hundred bucks and his snowboard gear, he moved to Girdwood. There, he got a dishwashing job at Chair 5, but it wasn’t long until he met Rob Baker, who worked at Boarderline, a snow and skate shop in Anchorage. That meeting between Tim and Rob led to a phone interview with one of the owners, Cody's dad, Scott Liska.
 
Tim went on to work at the Dimond Center Boarderline. He found that he was good at keeping the shop tidy and also mentoring some of the kids who came into the shop. He grew up with a few mentors of his own, so he felt a responsibility to pay it forward. He realized that these kids didn’t always need advice, what they needed was somebody to listen to them and to acknowledge their hardships.
 
In 1994, Tim opened up the first Juneau Boarderline. He took the ferry there and the first thing he did was ditch his surfboard in the bushes. He says he didn’t wanna drive around Juneau looking like a kook with a surfboard on his car. So, the next thing he does is call Scott to see what his next move should be. Scott tells him to get a hold of a 15 year old kid named Chris Currier. Chris had been calling the shop in Anchorage and talking about how Juneau needs a snow and skate shop there. Chris, by the way, would soon become one of the first Juneau Boys, a group of riders in Juneau who were pushing the boundaries of snowboarding in the ‘90s and early 2000s.
 
After his time in Alaska, he went on to have a successful career in sales in the snowboard industry. He worked for Nitro Snowboards, DaKine and Smith Optics. Throughout his time in sales, he worked as a rep, in customer service, as a Marketing Manager, a Product Manager and then as a Sales Manager. Those jobs gave him the opportunity to snowboard, but more importantly, through them, he was introduced to people he now considers family. That same thing was true for Alaska. He says that most of his memories of the riding he did there have faded away over the years. There’s a couple standout days, for sure, but it was everything around snowboarding and around the scene that really made an impression on him.

Ep 125 Overcoming trauma and perfecting an artistic process with Ed Washington

In this episode, Cody talks to musician Ed Washington. He says that a lot of his music comes from a cathartic place — not necessarily from a need to be heard, but a need to express. He’s been that way since he was a child. In fact, there’s this video his dad took of him when he was a baby and he’s singing to himself. It was an early moment of something he would continue to do throughout his life, sing himself happy.Last year, Ed spent a lot of time busking in downtown Anchorage. When he was out there, he sang songs and he shared stories. He even did it barefoot because he wanted to be one with the city and the people. Connecting with people he encountered was important because he wanted to win them over and make their day just a little better. That’s what busking is, he says, you’re out there giving and not asking for anything in return. And if people feel compelled to pay you or take a picture, then that’s their choice.For as long as he’s been doing music, he’s been a workhorse, dedicating every ounce of his time and energy to it. It’s something he took pride in — working to physical and mental exhaustion without paying any attention to his personal wellbeing. It took a bad breakup, a broken bone and working through his childhood trauma for him to refocus on his own health. He’s since reexamined old beliefs and techniques. The idea of perfection is a big one. He’s a believer that practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfection, or greatness, is in the fact that you show up and that you practice. The act of practicing is a way of life, and by doing it consistently Ed is seeking to perfect the process rather than perfecting himself.

EP 124 King of the Hill Part 5: Bonded by punk rock with Rick DeVoe

In this one, Cody talks to Rick DeVoe. From 1994 to 2018, he promoted and managed bands like Pennywise, Unwritten Law, The Offspring and Blink 182. The bands weren’t the ubiquitous names they are today, they were local bands. Punk rockers from California, still trying to make a name for themselves. Until Rick had an idea: What if he got their music into surf videos? They could play at video premieres, events and competitions. The first time this idea was put into effect was in 1994, with director Taylor Steele’s “Good Times.” Taylor’s videos featured guys like Kelly Slater, Shane Dorian and Rob Machado, and the sound of punk went right along with their styles of surfing. Eventually, with the help of guys like Rob Morrow — the founder of Morrow Snowboards — Rick found that that punk sound fit nicely into snowboard culture as well. He found that, at the time, there was a common language of anti-establishment and punk rock mentality that ran through surfing, skateboarding and snowboarding.
In the early 90s, Rick brought punk bands to the King of the Hill competition in Thompson Pass twice. The first time, it was Pennywise and The Offspring. The second time, it was Pennywise again, but this time with Blink 182. He admits they were all out of their element in the mountains, but when they took the stage they were right back in their element, rocking a crowd. Before all of that, though, they were on a plane — Rick, the bands and their entourages. There were about 20 to 25 of them and they had flown from LAX to Anchorage, then they hopped on a smaller plane that took them to Valdez. This moment, in that small plane, is one that Rick will remember for the rest of his life. How some of the most influential punk rockers of this generation were buzzing along, headed to some of the most iconic mountains in the world.
Thank you to Loft 100 Studios in Carlsbad, California for letting Rick use their studio to record.

EP 123 Creating new positive stereotypes with Martin Sensmeier

In this one, Cody talks to actor Martin Sensmeier. As a kid, he would daydream about being an actor. His older brother helped influence that dream. He had the first laserdisc player and the first flat screen TV in Yakutat, Alaska. So, Martin would go to his house to watch movies with him. He remembers it being such a special event. It was also special to see movies in the theater, but there wasn’t one in Yakutat. So, the only time he was able to go was when he went to Anchorage, Juneau or Fairbanks. His mom would drop him off at the theater in the morning and he’d watch movies all day long. For two or three days in a row, he’d watch every single movie in the theater and some of them he’d watch multiple times.
Growing up in Yakutat, Martin always wanted to play in the NBA or be an actor. It was always gonna be one of the two. The path to being a professional basketball player just involved so much coaching, travel and practicing around those who were also pursuing it at that level. So, acting won out, but it hasn’t been an easy road. Before he made the move to pursue acting, he worked in longshoring, in a logging camp, in construction, as a welder and on oil rigs. He was actually  fired from his job in Prudhoe Bay, something he now considers to be a blessing in disguise. If he hadn’t been, he might still be up there waiting on an opportunity or the courage to leave and be an actor.
Martin pursues acting like he does everything in his life, like a warrior. He’s of Tlingit and Koyukon-Athabascan heritage and says that, in traditional Tlingit culture, young men started their warrior training at the age of seven. They learned how to test their bodies by training, running and hunting. He mentions one exercise where they would sit in the ocean and soak in cold water. Thinking about what it means to be a warrior today, he says it means being responsible, having good values and being an example of what it means to be a good person. This goes for how we treat each other too. Rather than getting caught up in divisiveness, we can break negative stereotypes by creating positive new ones.

Chatter Marks EP 55 Traditional Chilkat weaving with Lily Hope

Lily Hope is a traditional Chilkat Weaver from Juneau, Alaska. Both of her parents worked as full-time artists, so she grew up around the hustle of entrepreneurship and the responsibility of carrying on tradition. Her mom, Clarissa Rizal, learned how to weave from the late Master Chilkat Weaver, Jennie Thlunaut. Lily says that her mom probably felt the urgency of her own mortality, that it was imperative to teach her daughter the art of weaving because in the last 150 years there have been less than a dozen Chilkat ceremonial robe makers. So, Lily was introduced to it at 14 or 15 years old. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience though. Her mom pretty much forced her into it, making her weave rows and rows before she could do anything leisurely like hang out with friends. It was a chore, but it also turned out to be her calling.
Whether she’s weaving among a group or teaching others how to do it, she finds her happy place in human connection. When she’s with a group of other weavers, there’s commiserating, there’s camaraderie, there’s knowledge sharing. When she’s teaching, she’s passing on tradition and she’s helping her students understand techniques. Seeing them finally wrap their minds around the intricacies of a technique and implement it is one of her greatest joys.
Lily weaves ceremonial regalia for museums now. She says that her mom helped her understand and be comfortable with the idea. That they’ve been making these Chilkat blankets and robes for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and many of them live in museums. And, for right now, museums operate as incubators, taking care of these pieces and sharing their stories, until it’s time for them to be released back into the world.