Like any American worth their salt, I absolutely despise the New York Yankees. But I've been a little confused as of late to hear some people likening their New England Patriot hatred to anti-Yankee sentiment. Now, if Tom Brady nailed your wife or something like that - that's one thing. But the Patriots are a pretty solid example of winning well.
Some people simply choose to hate whichever team is dominant at a particular time. I sympathize with this position and must admit sometimes doing so myself. It's a noble thing to root for the little guy - which makes voting in an American presidential election such a conundrum. But if you're going to base your opinion on anything other than a hatred of success, it will be difficult to build an argument against the Pats.
First and foremost, the Patriots have built a dynasty essentially without star players. Tom Brady is only a "star" because he has won two Super Bowls. And really, his name only dominates the headlines when the playoffs come around, and winning actually overshadows showmanship. The rest of the team is made up of guys willing to play a role, regardless of if it garners them an endorsement deal. The Pats even have a player, Troy Brown, who goes both ways. How old school is that?
I don't buy into all that bloated "team" shit that is often used to justify the importance of sports. The truth is that most of the time, from the pros down to the Little League, everyone is more interested in individual performances than anything else. But the Patriots are rare examples to the contrary. Along with a few teams, like last year's Pistons squad, perhaps they will actually put the t-e-a-m back in team, making the games better to watch in the process. Who knows? If this team spirit really sweeps the nation, maybe I'll even be able to watch Rudy without vomiting. But I doubt it.
Mr. Godar's pick for the Super Bowl is for the Patriots to beat the 7 point spread.
For Your Consideration
The Academy Award Nominations were announced Tuesday, and while I don't put much stock in the awards themselves, it always grates on me to see certain films given the accolades that they are. This year's film: Ray.
With all due respect to The Day After Tomorrow, Ray is one of the worst films I've seen all year. It is the perfect example what's wrong with so many biopics. For those who haven't seen it (congratulations), the central struggle involves a drug-addiction storyline that could have been bought off the rack at a wholesaler's. And of course, the man who invented Soul is also tormented by an incident from his childhood, and the film actually ends with the ghost of his mother telling him it's not his fault. If that is not the worst kind of stock sentimental tripe, I don't know what is.
Of course most of the accolades have gone to Jamie Foxx's performance, and I'm not sure that he's undeserving. But what bothers me is the fact that everyone lauds his performance by saying "I thought it WAS Ray Charles." But isn't there a fine distinction between performance and impersonation? Martin Short does a hell of a Katherine Hepburn, but I'm not ready to call that the performance of the year. It's the kind of stunt acting the Academy Awards tend to recognize - make yourself blind and act like Ray Charles. There are tangible things we can point to, which I guess is preferable for those who aren't confident enough to just say "it was a powerful performance."
I don't quite buy into this notion of great performances in awful films. If a great performance is one that really resonates, how can that happen in a film that is laughably shallow? I'm sure Jamie Foxx was working his ass off, but when the entire collaboration produces such a silly film, you can't really go back, separate one aspect of it and say, "this is great." Even the attempt to do this is pretty unique to film appreciation. I've never heard someone say "that new White Stripes song sucks, but Jack White's performance is amazing."
But not to point the finger at Jamie Foxx, who may or may not be deserving of his nominations, when the person most clearly NOT deserving is Director Tyler Hackford. (Insert "Hack" joke here)
To take an artist as uncompromisingly original as Ray Charles and reduce them to a color-by-numbers portrait takes a special talent, and Mr. Hackford delivers in spades. The scene where Ray and his girlfriend compose "Hit the Road, Jack" while fighting with each other is so utterly false, it rings untrue to anyone who has ever written anything, including an e-mail.
I guess the saving grace is that, for all the hoopla of the award season, The Academy Awards ultimately don't define which films become part of the American Cinema Cannon. A stroll through the entrance to the Kodak Theater, where each Best Picture winner is etched on the wall, elicits more than a few "I've never heard of that's." Let's hope Ray becomes one of those films.
With all due respect to The Day After Tomorrow, Ray is one of the worst films I've seen all year. It is the perfect example what's wrong with so many biopics. For those who haven't seen it (congratulations), the central struggle involves a drug-addiction storyline that could have been bought off the rack at a wholesaler's. And of course, the man who invented Soul is also tormented by an incident from his childhood, and the film actually ends with the ghost of his mother telling him it's not his fault. If that is not the worst kind of stock sentimental tripe, I don't know what is.
Of course most of the accolades have gone to Jamie Foxx's performance, and I'm not sure that he's undeserving. But what bothers me is the fact that everyone lauds his performance by saying "I thought it WAS Ray Charles." But isn't there a fine distinction between performance and impersonation? Martin Short does a hell of a Katherine Hepburn, but I'm not ready to call that the performance of the year. It's the kind of stunt acting the Academy Awards tend to recognize - make yourself blind and act like Ray Charles. There are tangible things we can point to, which I guess is preferable for those who aren't confident enough to just say "it was a powerful performance."
I don't quite buy into this notion of great performances in awful films. If a great performance is one that really resonates, how can that happen in a film that is laughably shallow? I'm sure Jamie Foxx was working his ass off, but when the entire collaboration produces such a silly film, you can't really go back, separate one aspect of it and say, "this is great." Even the attempt to do this is pretty unique to film appreciation. I've never heard someone say "that new White Stripes song sucks, but Jack White's performance is amazing."
But not to point the finger at Jamie Foxx, who may or may not be deserving of his nominations, when the person most clearly NOT deserving is Director Tyler Hackford. (Insert "Hack" joke here)
To take an artist as uncompromisingly original as Ray Charles and reduce them to a color-by-numbers portrait takes a special talent, and Mr. Hackford delivers in spades. The scene where Ray and his girlfriend compose "Hit the Road, Jack" while fighting with each other is so utterly false, it rings untrue to anyone who has ever written anything, including an e-mail.
I guess the saving grace is that, for all the hoopla of the award season, The Academy Awards ultimately don't define which films become part of the American Cinema Cannon. A stroll through the entrance to the Kodak Theater, where each Best Picture winner is etched on the wall, elicits more than a few "I've never heard of that's." Let's hope Ray becomes one of those films.
Now With 12% More Boobs!
While the FCC has spent the last year trying to cut down on the number of boobs you and I see through the mass media, a new cultural phenomena has been promising us more soft-core thrills. I'm talking, of course, about the "Unrated" DVD.
Every comedy that follows that tried and true formula of the 1980s, splicing in one shot of some boobs, is now released on DVD in a special "Unrated" version that shows upwards of two shots of boobs. Old School, Soul Plane, The Girl Next Door - these are just a few of of the films offering viewers the chance to see that extra bit of skin that wasn't visible in the theater.
These DVDs also imply some sort of artistic rebellion. "Unrated" suggests that this was the version THE MAN didn't want you to see. The irony is that most of these "unrated" cuts wouldn't have pushed the films into NC-17 territory anyway. They were probably released the way they were to give the movie the proper pace. But now the producers have picked up every tit from the cutting room floor and spliced it back into the movie. Sure, it probably hurts the watchability of the film as a whole, but many red-blooded Americans still opt for the bonus nudity. (It should also be noted that the watchability of many of these films is in doubt at any rating.)
Tittilation and repression are the Yin and Yang of our cultural psyche. The average American might not rent a XXX video, but they will buy a slightly dirtier version of Road Trip. It appeals to the same part of the male brain that watches Women's Beach Volleyball. These small, often pathetic indulgences give us a cheap thrill without the nagging guilt of all-out perversion.
So while the phenomena of the Unrated DVD doesn't really illustrate anything new, it is another example of a rather prudish cultural hypocrisy. We want fewer boobs during the Super Bowl but more during high-concept comedies. Don't believe me? Consider that the Amazon sales rank for the Unrated version of Old School is 589. The R-rated version - 7,766.
Every comedy that follows that tried and true formula of the 1980s, splicing in one shot of some boobs, is now released on DVD in a special "Unrated" version that shows upwards of two shots of boobs. Old School, Soul Plane, The Girl Next Door - these are just a few of of the films offering viewers the chance to see that extra bit of skin that wasn't visible in the theater.
These DVDs also imply some sort of artistic rebellion. "Unrated" suggests that this was the version THE MAN didn't want you to see. The irony is that most of these "unrated" cuts wouldn't have pushed the films into NC-17 territory anyway. They were probably released the way they were to give the movie the proper pace. But now the producers have picked up every tit from the cutting room floor and spliced it back into the movie. Sure, it probably hurts the watchability of the film as a whole, but many red-blooded Americans still opt for the bonus nudity. (It should also be noted that the watchability of many of these films is in doubt at any rating.)
Tittilation and repression are the Yin and Yang of our cultural psyche. The average American might not rent a XXX video, but they will buy a slightly dirtier version of Road Trip. It appeals to the same part of the male brain that watches Women's Beach Volleyball. These small, often pathetic indulgences give us a cheap thrill without the nagging guilt of all-out perversion.
So while the phenomena of the Unrated DVD doesn't really illustrate anything new, it is another example of a rather prudish cultural hypocrisy. We want fewer boobs during the Super Bowl but more during high-concept comedies. Don't believe me? Consider that the Amazon sales rank for the Unrated version of Old School is 589. The R-rated version - 7,766.
The Myth of the Album
After lamenting the shortcomings of digital music, my good pal Ed posted a great comment on the history of the single, from 78s through Itunes. I strongly recommend giving his posting a read.
But the issue of the single, or individual song, verses the album or LP is one that I think shapes and often distorts appreciation of rock music. As Ed points out, the notion of an album as anything more than a collection of singles only began sometime around the 1960s. People often point to Sgt. Pepper or Pet Sounds as the first "concept albums," and while these certainly aren't the truly long-form operatic works of a Pink Floyd album, they are probably some of the earliest (mainstream) examples of artists crafting the sound of the album as a whole.
As the pageantry of bands like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin came to dominate rock in the 70s, the album trumped the single as the true mark of musical supremacy. From this notion sprung the belief among rock purists that ALL songs by ALL bands are intended to be consumed only in the context of their given album.
I myself was long afflicted with this condition. Early on, in an effort to hone my rock appreciation, I scoffed at my previously collected Greatest Hits albums as, in the words of Kids in the Hall's Bruce McCullough, being "for housewives and little girls." From that moment on, my collection was built on honest, God-fearing albums and boxed sets. Not only that, but if I liked a song by an artist, I withheld judgment on the artist until I could confirm that the album the song came from was any good. If, as often happens, the song was quality but the album was rubbish, I denied my enjoyment of the song as merely a cheap tease.
While some artists truly produce albums, many do not. Rolling Stones albums, for instance, have never felt to me like any more than a collection of singles written over the same period of time. I defy any album Nazi to explain to me the difference between "Yield" and "No Code" era Pearl Jam. But it would be tough to argue that the Stones or Pearl Jam have never written any music worth listening to.
Nick Hornyby's recent "Songbook" is a great collection of essays paying tribute to the single. The official Rock Guy of Literature outs himself as a devotee of the song, one who spins the same 3-minute cut repeatedly in search of something more. He's also not afraid to confess his admiration for tracks by The Boss and Nelly Fortado.
This is not to say that the album shouldn't be appreciated and revered as a form in itself. The album is the feature film of popular music. Whatever a great song can do for 3 minutes, a great album can do for 45. If the house was burning down, I'd say goodbye to "Gimme Shelter" and "Betterman" and grab a hold of "Revolver" and "Nebraska." As limiting as it is to only appreciate the album, a sole focus on the single is probably worse - spawning "Now That's What I Call Music, Vol. DIE ALREADY!"
I guess the challenge is to appreciate each 3-minute single on its own merits, and hey, maybe even use Itunes to build a collection of them. Maybe digital music will even allow artists who work in smaller chunks to release their material that way - without surrounding the gems with a bunch of filler Album Nazi's will call "essential context."
And for those who do work in terms of albums, give me a disc I can hold onto, cover art and 45 minutes to enjoy.
But the issue of the single, or individual song, verses the album or LP is one that I think shapes and often distorts appreciation of rock music. As Ed points out, the notion of an album as anything more than a collection of singles only began sometime around the 1960s. People often point to Sgt. Pepper or Pet Sounds as the first "concept albums," and while these certainly aren't the truly long-form operatic works of a Pink Floyd album, they are probably some of the earliest (mainstream) examples of artists crafting the sound of the album as a whole.
As the pageantry of bands like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin came to dominate rock in the 70s, the album trumped the single as the true mark of musical supremacy. From this notion sprung the belief among rock purists that ALL songs by ALL bands are intended to be consumed only in the context of their given album.
I myself was long afflicted with this condition. Early on, in an effort to hone my rock appreciation, I scoffed at my previously collected Greatest Hits albums as, in the words of Kids in the Hall's Bruce McCullough, being "for housewives and little girls." From that moment on, my collection was built on honest, God-fearing albums and boxed sets. Not only that, but if I liked a song by an artist, I withheld judgment on the artist until I could confirm that the album the song came from was any good. If, as often happens, the song was quality but the album was rubbish, I denied my enjoyment of the song as merely a cheap tease.
While some artists truly produce albums, many do not. Rolling Stones albums, for instance, have never felt to me like any more than a collection of singles written over the same period of time. I defy any album Nazi to explain to me the difference between "Yield" and "No Code" era Pearl Jam. But it would be tough to argue that the Stones or Pearl Jam have never written any music worth listening to.
Nick Hornyby's recent "Songbook" is a great collection of essays paying tribute to the single. The official Rock Guy of Literature outs himself as a devotee of the song, one who spins the same 3-minute cut repeatedly in search of something more. He's also not afraid to confess his admiration for tracks by The Boss and Nelly Fortado.
This is not to say that the album shouldn't be appreciated and revered as a form in itself. The album is the feature film of popular music. Whatever a great song can do for 3 minutes, a great album can do for 45. If the house was burning down, I'd say goodbye to "Gimme Shelter" and "Betterman" and grab a hold of "Revolver" and "Nebraska." As limiting as it is to only appreciate the album, a sole focus on the single is probably worse - spawning "Now That's What I Call Music, Vol. DIE ALREADY!"
I guess the challenge is to appreciate each 3-minute single on its own merits, and hey, maybe even use Itunes to build a collection of them. Maybe digital music will even allow artists who work in smaller chunks to release their material that way - without surrounding the gems with a bunch of filler Album Nazi's will call "essential context."
And for those who do work in terms of albums, give me a disc I can hold onto, cover art and 45 minutes to enjoy.
No Safeway Clerk Left Behind
My friend Mike, a real live Brit, recently ran into the awesome vaccuum that is the California Public Education system.
He was in the checkout lane at the grocery store when the checker, tipped off by his accent (sort of), asked him if he was from France. Mike replied no, he was from London. She replied, "aren't they the same thing."
While many of us would have walked away right then, Mike, always the cultural ambassador, explained that London was, in fact, a city in England. Still convinced that she wasn't being told the whole story, the clerk responded "but, aren't they connected or something."
Again, Mike explained they were nearby, but around 23 miles apart and not connected by land.
Finally convinced that Londan and France were not the same place, the clerk seemed ready to allow Mike to escape with his groceries. But as he moved toward the exit, she hit him behind with yet another astute question.
"What language do they speak in England?"
And people wonder why we Americans are accused of not engaging in the world community. Those who dispute that obviously haven't bought groceries in Orange County.
He was in the checkout lane at the grocery store when the checker, tipped off by his accent (sort of), asked him if he was from France. Mike replied no, he was from London. She replied, "aren't they the same thing."
While many of us would have walked away right then, Mike, always the cultural ambassador, explained that London was, in fact, a city in England. Still convinced that she wasn't being told the whole story, the clerk responded "but, aren't they connected or something."
Again, Mike explained they were nearby, but around 23 miles apart and not connected by land.
Finally convinced that Londan and France were not the same place, the clerk seemed ready to allow Mike to escape with his groceries. But as he moved toward the exit, she hit him behind with yet another astute question.
"What language do they speak in England?"
And people wonder why we Americans are accused of not engaging in the world community. Those who dispute that obviously haven't bought groceries in Orange County.
I Need Cover Art
When I was just a little tyke, it was vinyl. By the time I started buying music, really great stuff like Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet," it was all about cassette tapes. When I started getting serious, it was CDs that I built my collection with. So it's not as if I didn't expect the medium in which my music is delivered to change again, but I'm really having a hard time getting down with this digital thing - and it has nothing to do with music.
For one thing, I really like the trip to the record store. It's a great, ritualistic experience. Even if it's just a chance to feel superior to the douche bag behind the counter, it's a social experience. It's like going to a restaurant - sometimes I just need some food, but other times I'm really going out so I can just hang out at a table for an hour or so. Some people have a Sunday service - I have restaurants and record stores.
Like most guys I know, I also have a bizarre fascination with cataloguing. There's a sense of pride in looking at a wall of CDs or vinyl and knowing that it represents your superior taste and value as a human being. But when I download music, I just don't feel I "own it" in the same way I do when it's taking up shelf space.
And on a related note, how are we to survive without cover art? The music purist in me would say that digital-only music allows us to judge each cut solely on its own merits, but I've long since learned to silence the music purist in me. The truth is, we all benefit from the short-hand of cover art. If you see a cover with gothic lettering over a drawing of a blazing hell beast, you know it's probably not a lesbian folk group. Popular music has had a strong visual component for years, and I'm not ready to break that chain.
But, lament as I may, I know the end of tangible albums is near. And it's not just that, friends. We are becoming relics of the mechanical world in the new digital world. I may not be able to build or repair a tape deck, but I have a pretty good understanding of how it works. A CD player uses a f***ing laser. When I was a kid, lasers were only used by evil masterminds trying to take over the world (including Reagan). I have even less understanding of how a digital music file works. Yeah, it's a lot of 1s and 0s that my computer turns into music, but if the song doesn't play I can't exactly look under the hood.
I'll see you all in twenty years, crouching in the bowels of the last record stores, lamenting the death of rock n' roll and just learning how to work our Ipods.
For one thing, I really like the trip to the record store. It's a great, ritualistic experience. Even if it's just a chance to feel superior to the douche bag behind the counter, it's a social experience. It's like going to a restaurant - sometimes I just need some food, but other times I'm really going out so I can just hang out at a table for an hour or so. Some people have a Sunday service - I have restaurants and record stores.
Like most guys I know, I also have a bizarre fascination with cataloguing. There's a sense of pride in looking at a wall of CDs or vinyl and knowing that it represents your superior taste and value as a human being. But when I download music, I just don't feel I "own it" in the same way I do when it's taking up shelf space.
And on a related note, how are we to survive without cover art? The music purist in me would say that digital-only music allows us to judge each cut solely on its own merits, but I've long since learned to silence the music purist in me. The truth is, we all benefit from the short-hand of cover art. If you see a cover with gothic lettering over a drawing of a blazing hell beast, you know it's probably not a lesbian folk group. Popular music has had a strong visual component for years, and I'm not ready to break that chain.
But, lament as I may, I know the end of tangible albums is near. And it's not just that, friends. We are becoming relics of the mechanical world in the new digital world. I may not be able to build or repair a tape deck, but I have a pretty good understanding of how it works. A CD player uses a f***ing laser. When I was a kid, lasers were only used by evil masterminds trying to take over the world (including Reagan). I have even less understanding of how a digital music file works. Yeah, it's a lot of 1s and 0s that my computer turns into music, but if the song doesn't play I can't exactly look under the hood.
I'll see you all in twenty years, crouching in the bowels of the last record stores, lamenting the death of rock n' roll and just learning how to work our Ipods.
Pure Dylan
I'm about halfway through Bob Dylan's recently released autobiography (of sorts), and I think I can say, without hyperbole, that EVERYONE ON EARTH SHOULD READ THIS BOOK.
I am a bit of a Dylan fanatic, so feel free to take this with a grain of salt. But whatever your personal taste for the man's music, his profound influence can't be denied. Like in one of his great songs, "Chronicles, Vol 1." doesn't burden itself with chronology or other common narrative burdens. Instead, it follows a sort of emotional logic as he opens up first about his early creative development in New York, then the burden of being labeled the "voice of a generation."
For a man who, frankly, could get away with a pompous attitude, Dylan plays it honest. Sure, he admits to modeling his songwriting style after cultural heavyweight Hank Williams, but he also professes a fondness for the likes of Ricky Nelson and Bobby Vee. The most respected songwriter in Rock history doesn't even attribute that gift to some cosmic need to express himself. Rather, he casts his transformation from a traditional folk singer simply as a desire to turn "something that exists into something that didn't yet."
Dylan tells his story in vibrant scenes, often injected with fascinating, bizarro encounters. He talks of a time when he and Tiny Tim (yes, the guy with the ukulele) would hang out in the kitchen of a third-rate folk club hoping to get free cheeseburgers. He remembers meeting the wrestler Gorgeous George, or introducing himself to Thelonious Monk. When Bob said he sang folk songs, Monk replied "we all sing folk songs." Then Dylan paints an image of he and Woody Guthrie in the hallway of Guthrie's asylum-type hospital. Dylan would play Guthrie's songs for the man while patients wailed up and down the corridor.
What really gives moments like this such punch is the realization that such a significant cultural event as Bob Dylan performing with Woody Guthrie aroused the interest of no one at the time. Before he ever set foot in a recording studio and after he became a national icon, Bob never paints himself as an anointed figure outside or beyond the world the rest of us are in.
I am a bit of a Dylan fanatic, so feel free to take this with a grain of salt. But whatever your personal taste for the man's music, his profound influence can't be denied. Like in one of his great songs, "Chronicles, Vol 1." doesn't burden itself with chronology or other common narrative burdens. Instead, it follows a sort of emotional logic as he opens up first about his early creative development in New York, then the burden of being labeled the "voice of a generation."
For a man who, frankly, could get away with a pompous attitude, Dylan plays it honest. Sure, he admits to modeling his songwriting style after cultural heavyweight Hank Williams, but he also professes a fondness for the likes of Ricky Nelson and Bobby Vee. The most respected songwriter in Rock history doesn't even attribute that gift to some cosmic need to express himself. Rather, he casts his transformation from a traditional folk singer simply as a desire to turn "something that exists into something that didn't yet."
Dylan tells his story in vibrant scenes, often injected with fascinating, bizarro encounters. He talks of a time when he and Tiny Tim (yes, the guy with the ukulele) would hang out in the kitchen of a third-rate folk club hoping to get free cheeseburgers. He remembers meeting the wrestler Gorgeous George, or introducing himself to Thelonious Monk. When Bob said he sang folk songs, Monk replied "we all sing folk songs." Then Dylan paints an image of he and Woody Guthrie in the hallway of Guthrie's asylum-type hospital. Dylan would play Guthrie's songs for the man while patients wailed up and down the corridor.
What really gives moments like this such punch is the realization that such a significant cultural event as Bob Dylan performing with Woody Guthrie aroused the interest of no one at the time. Before he ever set foot in a recording studio and after he became a national icon, Bob never paints himself as an anointed figure outside or beyond the world the rest of us are in.
Young Irony
It's strange the things that can really make you realize you've aged, and I ran into a new one recently: New ironic music.
There's two kinds of bad music: The stuff that's just complete shit and the stuff that's so bad it's funny, and therefore ironic to make reference to. You know how it goes, you're out to dinner with friends, somebody drops a Whitesnake reference and gets a big laugh.
Well, a couple of weeks ago we were in a bar in Chicago with my sister and some of her friends, who are only a few years younger than us. But those few years were enough. This bar had karaoke going on at one end, and as we all know the main point of karaoke is to sing something more ironic and obnoxious than anyone else. The only alternative is to do what one of the bartenders did, singing a Led Zeppelin song with a guttural passion that begged for someone to recognize her as the next Janis Joplin. I went up to her after she was finished and asked for another beer.
But aside from those sad few waiting to be discovered, karaoke is all about finding that odd relic of pop kitsch that has slipped to the back of everyone's collective consciousness. So, I wasn't surprised when a couple dudes decided it would be awesome to serenade us all with Ice, Ice Baby. But when two other dudes opted for some awful song by The Backstreet Boys or N'Sync or one of those garbage groups, I was surprised and confused.
All the younger folks in the bar seemed to be really into it, while all I could think was "isn't this that piece of shit song that was just on the radio like three years ago?" That's when it hit me: This song is ironic to them the same way Ice, Ice Baby is ironic to me.
The leading edge of irony has officially passed my generation by. And every generation has its own ironic music, that's why Will Ferrell and Co. sing "Afternoon Delight" in their wholly ironic ode to the '70s, Anchorman. But it's a little disturbing to realize that my period of irony now has a beginning and an end - a forever frozen piece of the zeitgeist.
Even more frightening is the future. Let's face it, there's a lot of really awful music in the world. Up until now, I've been able to wade through the muck by isolating some of it as funny and ironic. I understand now that, as we age, popular music becomes an ever-growing pile of garbage that is ever harder to sift through. I used to wonder why my parents didn't listen to much new music. Now I understand - they didn't have the stomach for Bell Biv Devoe.
There's two kinds of bad music: The stuff that's just complete shit and the stuff that's so bad it's funny, and therefore ironic to make reference to. You know how it goes, you're out to dinner with friends, somebody drops a Whitesnake reference and gets a big laugh.
Well, a couple of weeks ago we were in a bar in Chicago with my sister and some of her friends, who are only a few years younger than us. But those few years were enough. This bar had karaoke going on at one end, and as we all know the main point of karaoke is to sing something more ironic and obnoxious than anyone else. The only alternative is to do what one of the bartenders did, singing a Led Zeppelin song with a guttural passion that begged for someone to recognize her as the next Janis Joplin. I went up to her after she was finished and asked for another beer.
But aside from those sad few waiting to be discovered, karaoke is all about finding that odd relic of pop kitsch that has slipped to the back of everyone's collective consciousness. So, I wasn't surprised when a couple dudes decided it would be awesome to serenade us all with Ice, Ice Baby. But when two other dudes opted for some awful song by The Backstreet Boys or N'Sync or one of those garbage groups, I was surprised and confused.
All the younger folks in the bar seemed to be really into it, while all I could think was "isn't this that piece of shit song that was just on the radio like three years ago?" That's when it hit me: This song is ironic to them the same way Ice, Ice Baby is ironic to me.
The leading edge of irony has officially passed my generation by. And every generation has its own ironic music, that's why Will Ferrell and Co. sing "Afternoon Delight" in their wholly ironic ode to the '70s, Anchorman. But it's a little disturbing to realize that my period of irony now has a beginning and an end - a forever frozen piece of the zeitgeist.
Even more frightening is the future. Let's face it, there's a lot of really awful music in the world. Up until now, I've been able to wade through the muck by isolating some of it as funny and ironic. I understand now that, as we age, popular music becomes an ever-growing pile of garbage that is ever harder to sift through. I used to wonder why my parents didn't listen to much new music. Now I understand - they didn't have the stomach for Bell Biv Devoe.
Dig this Documentary
Newcombe (guitar) goes all wiggy on tambourine thumping Joel Gion.
I recently went to a double feature to see the Metallica documentary Some Kind of Monster, and was even more impressed with the second half of the bill: A completely raw look at two indie bands struggling with the old art vs. commerce debate, DiG!
The film follows The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre for a period of seven years. At the outset, Brian Jonestown is one of the top unsigned bands in America and the Dandies are just starting out in Portland. The two bands form a friendship, and Dandies frontman Courtney Taylor admits he is awed and inspired by the creativity of Anton Newcombe, the mercurial leader of the BJM (as the hip kids say).
Newcombe is one of the most fascinating people I have ever seen on film. He is a feverish songwriter who plays over 80 instruments, and no one seems to dispute the label of creative genius. But no matter how vast his talents, they are exceeded by his egomania, self-destructive tendancies and heroin addiction. At a showcase for record executives at LA's Viper Room, Newcombe halts the show after 10 minutes and begins ordering other band members off the stage for supposedly making mistakes. Fists begin to fly and the show abruptly ends with a full-scale brawl between band members on stage. He takes the band, most of whom are also riding the white horse, on a nationwide tour, where more shows end with violence, or Newcombe simply storming off stage.
Meanwhile, the Dandy Warhols sign to Capitol records, but after dumping big money into their first music video fails to produce a hit, the label leaves them out to dry. The Dandies are depressed and feel they've lost control of their careers.
What's remarkable about DiG! is that regardless of their own successes, Taylor and Newcombe constantly feel inferior for lacking what the other has. Newcombe, despite his frequent diatribes about musical freedom, clearly envies the popular and financial success of the Dandies, who eventually carve out a niche for themselves. As for Taylor, even when his band is selling out stadiums in Europe, he confides his belief that Newcombe will always be about five steps ahead of him creatively.
It's a resonant film not just for those in a rock band, but for anyone trying to make a living in some kind of art world. No DVD has been announced yet, but it has screened occasionally on the Sundance Channel.
What's so New about this year?
Am I the only one that thinks celebrating the New Year on Jan. 1 is a complete crock? Other than the annual rituals of buying a new calendar and getting drunk one night, there is really NOTHING to make Jan. 1 feel like the start of anything new.
The sham of this supposedly New Year is evident when we are children, with the new school year acting as the real signpost of change, progress, and the need for new clothes. We might shake that association in our post-post-secondary years if the breeze of Fall didn't also carry a completely new television season. Nothing signals the passage of time like a new season of laughs with America's funnyman, Jim Belushi.
How far have we strayed from our pagan roots when we celebrate the New Year in the middle of a season, and winter no less? The first day of Spring would seem the obvious choice, but that's a little too precious for me. What about the first day of Spring Training? Or maybe Opening Day - and the real Opening Day, not the bullshit game they play in Japan or wherever.
New Year's Day doesn't even come at the beginning of any sporting season. Consider that most Americans actually spend the first day of the year watching the last football games from the previous year. Does that sound like starting anew?
The meaningless timing of this celebration is also the reason so many resolutions are never achieved. It's like making a to-do list for the week on Wednesday.
But despite all this evidence, we still go through this ridiculous pageant in the middle of every winter. I'm guilty myself. When I'm forced to converse with coworkers or other people I don't really want to talk to, I'll wish them a Happy New Year like the coming weeks hold something other than a heaping helping of nothing new.
It's time to end this charade. Pick a day with some meaning - first day of Spring, Opening Day, Elvis' birthday - it doesn't matter. Make that your New Year. And when you're at the water cooler on Jan. 3 and some tool from accounts receivable wishes you a happy new year, tell them to go f*** themselves.
The sham of this supposedly New Year is evident when we are children, with the new school year acting as the real signpost of change, progress, and the need for new clothes. We might shake that association in our post-post-secondary years if the breeze of Fall didn't also carry a completely new television season. Nothing signals the passage of time like a new season of laughs with America's funnyman, Jim Belushi.
How far have we strayed from our pagan roots when we celebrate the New Year in the middle of a season, and winter no less? The first day of Spring would seem the obvious choice, but that's a little too precious for me. What about the first day of Spring Training? Or maybe Opening Day - and the real Opening Day, not the bullshit game they play in Japan or wherever.
New Year's Day doesn't even come at the beginning of any sporting season. Consider that most Americans actually spend the first day of the year watching the last football games from the previous year. Does that sound like starting anew?
The meaningless timing of this celebration is also the reason so many resolutions are never achieved. It's like making a to-do list for the week on Wednesday.
But despite all this evidence, we still go through this ridiculous pageant in the middle of every winter. I'm guilty myself. When I'm forced to converse with coworkers or other people I don't really want to talk to, I'll wish them a Happy New Year like the coming weeks hold something other than a heaping helping of nothing new.
It's time to end this charade. Pick a day with some meaning - first day of Spring, Opening Day, Elvis' birthday - it doesn't matter. Make that your New Year. And when you're at the water cooler on Jan. 3 and some tool from accounts receivable wishes you a happy new year, tell them to go f*** themselves.
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