For years, our generation has been taught to be cynical and to not believe those in power. They made us promises that could not be kept, they put limitations on our ambitions and told us what could and could not be accomplished in life. Their attitudes have caused us to cast our eyes hopefully to the past, praying mightily that we could be saved by the ideals of a bygone era -- that maybe, somehow, their prosperity could defy the restraints of time and sweep triumphantly into the modern mind.
But now, their voices have been silenced. They have been turned into liars and cowards by none other than W. Axl Rose. That's right. Chinese Democracy, the long-awaited Guns N' Roses album, is on the precipice of worldwide release.
And the verdict?
It is a giant, steaming pile of dragon shit.
Axl Rose is officially the biggest asshole in the history of rock and roll. He taunted us, teased the record-buying public time and time again with promises of the new Guns N' Roses record, only to crawl back into seclusion at each and every sign of trouble. This record took a jillion years to come out, and I think I know what he was doing in the interim. He was listening to Linkin Park albums, marveling at their bold and organic songwriting style. He was studying intently the ways in which Nickelback took simple chords and turned them into masterful and important rock anthems. He took all these cues, ran them through the session musician machine, took to heart the opinions of Sebastian Bach, and produced, at long last, one of the most radio-ready, self-important, bombastic, go-everywhere-but-do-absolutely-nothing, rock albums there has ever been.
Chinese Democracy is a Guns N' Roses album only by a technicality. 4/5ths of the original members are nowhere to be found on this record. Nowadays, Axl owns the rights to the name, and can therefore stamp it on every bodily malfunction that his record company has the money-hungry sense to release. But anyone who understands what Guns N' Roses is really about will clearly see that this is not a Guns N' Roses record. Speaking from a puritanical standpoint, Guns N' Roses is one of the finest rock and roll bands that has ever existed, and this record is separated from the rest of the catalogue by a lot more than just the passing of fifteen years. With Appetite for Destruction, the band demonstrated that they understood the blues, youthful aggression, and marketing. On Use Your Illusion, Slash, Izzy, and the rest of the crew were forced to give Axl more control than he deserved, and the result was a decent double record with occasional moments of transcendence. But Chinese Democracy has none of these things, with its best moment being the ominous guitar intro of its title track. But don't tell this to Cory, the Guns N' Roses MySpace fan who zestfully proclaimed the album to be the Dark Side of the Moon of our generation. He never backed up his claim, but I think his enthusiastic stupidity speaks for itself. There is a fine line between brain damage and have your reason clouded by poorly-rewarded patience, and my fear is that Cory's adoration will be echoed by people worldwide who are happy enough with the knowledge that Axl Rose just isn't dead.
The vast majority of current radio rock is pure pigpiss, and a small part of me was hopeful that the frontman of one of rock's greatest bands would find a way to circumvent trends and prove wrong all of those naysayers who believed that he was constantly postponing the release of Chinese Democracy because he knew in his heart that he had nothing of substance to thrust forth into the arms of the faithful. But I was let down, and I mostly expected it. Chinese Democracy is not an album for anyone who cares about real rock and roll or what Guns N' Roses means within the history thereof. It is as though Axl made us wait fifteen years for 2003, and that disrupts not only faith, but the time/space continuum that Christopher Lloyd so desperately cherished. And you just don't fuck with Christopher Lloyd.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Highway 61 Revisited: Visited Yet Again!
There is an interesting distinction between the way a piece of music is heard by people who create music and people who only listen to it. Basically, musicians tend to judge the merit of a particular piece by a multitude of its components-- production value, what instruments are used, the way background vocals are or are not employed, etc., but the average music consumer, while being able to appreciate all of these things, generally only pays attention to lyrics. And this is fine. If we had everyone obsessing over a snare drum's punchiness or how many guitar tracks a song has, nothing would ever get done and we would all get so frustrated that we would stop caring and listen exclusively to the Ringo Starr solo catalogue. I realize that, faced with this accusation, many songwriters would bristle and claim that their lyrics are the focal point of their entire composition. Unfortunately, this would be bullshit over 70% of the time. I'm sure Fred Durst's lyrics "mean something" to him, too. However, there are those artists who exist solely to deliver a message, and chief among them is Bob Dylan.
What's so strange about this is that one of the major criticisms against Dylan's songs is that his lyrics seem nonsensical a great deal of the time. This is irrefutable. At times, it seems as though he randomly draws lyrics out of a hat and strings them together to form a series of confusing non-sequiturs (which is actually what Thom Yorke did during the pre-production stages of OK Computer, only proving my original point). But nobody would ever seriously accuse Bobby D. of taking his lyrics lightly. This is because, with his croaky, rambling style, he delivers them with an earnestness that is impossible to fake. With Bob Dylan, the lyrics are a much larger part of the equation, and never is this more apparent than on his 1965 record, Highway 61 Revisited.
This isn't meant to be a slight against the music on the album. Revisited contains some of Dylan's most memorable tunes. However, most every song has no more than two basic parts, and considering that there are only nine tracks and the entire album clocks in at almost an hour, it stands to reason that the songs would get dull after a while, but they really don't. Most critics tend to regard the lyrics on Highway 61 Revisited as some of the angriest of Dylan's career, and this is pretty hard to disagree with. Now, I'm not generally a "lyrics guy", but I can't deny that this album has some of the coolest lines you're likely to find on most any record.
For example, the title track begins with a conversation between God and Abraham that must have been accidentally left out of the Old Testament. To summarize it, God tells Abraham to kill one of his sons, Abe tells him to get out of town, and God basically says to him, "Have it your way, but you'd better watch your ass from now on." If I had been taught the Gospel according to Bob in Sunday school, the whole thing would have seemed like much less of a chore and God's vengeful nature would have held a little more interest for me.
"Ballad of a Thin Man" has the clearest examples of Dylan's penchant for strange imagery. At some point in the song, a one-eyed midget appears, and he is mighty angry (for obvious reasons, I suppose). He tells Mr. Jones, the man to whom Dylan is singing, that he is nothing but a cow and he should either produce some milk or get the hell out. This could be a metaphor for many things (although I'm not so sure about the midget-- another one of the universe's mysteries remain unexplained), but whatever it is, Dylan makes it sound remarkably sad and hopeless.
My favorite song on the album is "Queen Jane Approximately." I really like the melody, and the song has the second best guitar upstroke in rock history (the first is "Lola"). Like all great art, it makes me feel like its creator was saying something about me personally. He wasn't, obviously, but it is interesting to examine the things that we find common ground with, especially when those things were originally created for an audience that is only a few years away from retirement. In the song, Dylan sings somewhat empathetically to someone who he knows has grown bored with a privileged existence. However, there are also strong hints of contempt in the lyrical delivery, which is a hallmark of most every song on Highway 61 Revisited. Bob Dylan would rather sing to someone else than sing about himself, even if that person is entirely fictional. In the case of this song though, the titular Queen Jane is actually Lady Jane Grey, who spent nine days as the uncrowned Queen of England in 1553.
If there is a unifying theme throughout Highway 61 Revisited, it is the fury of youth, the damning of an old cultural mentality that had become too feeble to support itself any longer. This sentiment comes to life in the seminal opening track "Like a Rolling Stone" and continues until the end of the eleven and half minute "Desolation Row." It is to Dylan's credit that he can present an attitude that would eventually come to be classified as "punk" without feeding off his own emotions, therefore maintaining the credibility of a collected mind. Bob Dylan was always a poet at heart, and Highway 61 Revisited is a sterling work from the young wordsmith who happened to find a guitar in his hands.
What's so strange about this is that one of the major criticisms against Dylan's songs is that his lyrics seem nonsensical a great deal of the time. This is irrefutable. At times, it seems as though he randomly draws lyrics out of a hat and strings them together to form a series of confusing non-sequiturs (which is actually what Thom Yorke did during the pre-production stages of OK Computer, only proving my original point). But nobody would ever seriously accuse Bobby D. of taking his lyrics lightly. This is because, with his croaky, rambling style, he delivers them with an earnestness that is impossible to fake. With Bob Dylan, the lyrics are a much larger part of the equation, and never is this more apparent than on his 1965 record, Highway 61 Revisited.
This isn't meant to be a slight against the music on the album. Revisited contains some of Dylan's most memorable tunes. However, most every song has no more than two basic parts, and considering that there are only nine tracks and the entire album clocks in at almost an hour, it stands to reason that the songs would get dull after a while, but they really don't. Most critics tend to regard the lyrics on Highway 61 Revisited as some of the angriest of Dylan's career, and this is pretty hard to disagree with. Now, I'm not generally a "lyrics guy", but I can't deny that this album has some of the coolest lines you're likely to find on most any record.
For example, the title track begins with a conversation between God and Abraham that must have been accidentally left out of the Old Testament. To summarize it, God tells Abraham to kill one of his sons, Abe tells him to get out of town, and God basically says to him, "Have it your way, but you'd better watch your ass from now on." If I had been taught the Gospel according to Bob in Sunday school, the whole thing would have seemed like much less of a chore and God's vengeful nature would have held a little more interest for me.
"Ballad of a Thin Man" has the clearest examples of Dylan's penchant for strange imagery. At some point in the song, a one-eyed midget appears, and he is mighty angry (for obvious reasons, I suppose). He tells Mr. Jones, the man to whom Dylan is singing, that he is nothing but a cow and he should either produce some milk or get the hell out. This could be a metaphor for many things (although I'm not so sure about the midget-- another one of the universe's mysteries remain unexplained), but whatever it is, Dylan makes it sound remarkably sad and hopeless.
My favorite song on the album is "Queen Jane Approximately." I really like the melody, and the song has the second best guitar upstroke in rock history (the first is "Lola"). Like all great art, it makes me feel like its creator was saying something about me personally. He wasn't, obviously, but it is interesting to examine the things that we find common ground with, especially when those things were originally created for an audience that is only a few years away from retirement. In the song, Dylan sings somewhat empathetically to someone who he knows has grown bored with a privileged existence. However, there are also strong hints of contempt in the lyrical delivery, which is a hallmark of most every song on Highway 61 Revisited. Bob Dylan would rather sing to someone else than sing about himself, even if that person is entirely fictional. In the case of this song though, the titular Queen Jane is actually Lady Jane Grey, who spent nine days as the uncrowned Queen of England in 1553.
If there is a unifying theme throughout Highway 61 Revisited, it is the fury of youth, the damning of an old cultural mentality that had become too feeble to support itself any longer. This sentiment comes to life in the seminal opening track "Like a Rolling Stone" and continues until the end of the eleven and half minute "Desolation Row." It is to Dylan's credit that he can present an attitude that would eventually come to be classified as "punk" without feeding off his own emotions, therefore maintaining the credibility of a collected mind. Bob Dylan was always a poet at heart, and Highway 61 Revisited is a sterling work from the young wordsmith who happened to find a guitar in his hands.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Water in the Desert: Pop Music According to Man Man
"Pop" is one of the most confusing words that can ever appear in a conversation about music. Britney Spears is a Pop Star. Simon and Garfunkel were Pop Artists. This is not a value judgment between the two. Really, it's an example of how the word "popular" has been abbreviated and consequently changed in meaning over time to meet the needs of whatever musical context it is being used in. For Philadelphia's Man Man, that context is one in which an underground band has the freedom to explore not what pop music is, but what it has the potential to be.
"We're just trying to talk our own language," frontman and piano player Honus Honus told me, "but most people don't want to hear it. We try to write pop songs, but clearly I have no concept of what real pop is." This last statement may be true, but it certainly doesn't affect his band's willingness to ignore the conventions of what one might typically consider "pop music." Man Man's sound is definitely difficult to categorize. They garner a lot of favorable comparisons to Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart, but these comparisons are largely due to the gruff but earnest vocals of Honus Honus.
There is something almost Vaudevillian about Man Man; there are horns (brass and bicycle), ridiculously high-pitched background vocals, plenty of piano; and spastic, idiosyncratic drums. It sounds like it could be the soundtrack to a Depression-era traveling circus. And I suppose it is, in a way. Their live show, for example, is a spectacle unto itself. All five members (Honus Honus, Pow Pow, Critter Crat, Sergei Sogay, and Chang Wang) wear solid white from top to bottom and decorate their faces with white warpaint. And there is no downtime to be found at a Man Man show. The music is constant from the beginning all the way to the end, with improvised jams transitioning from one song to the next. The stage is littered with gadgets, toys, pots, pans, and anything else the band thinks might be useful; and Honus Honus has no problem leaving his piano for a little while to pluck one off the floor to see what he can do with it. Honestly, it's one of the most entertaining shows I've ever seen.
Man Man is a self-described underground band, but Honus Honus made it clear that they have much larger aspirations. "I don't really hear our songs getting played on the radio like Justin Timberlake, but they should be," the frontman said, "I just can't think of anyone else out there who sounds like us." The band wants mainstream success, but they aren't at all interested in the conventional means of achieving it. When I asked him if Man Man would ever sign to a major label given the opportunity, he didn't even hesitate. "No. I don't think a major label would ever want to sign us. If they did, the only reason would be to just shut us down. I just can't see a major label wanting to mess around with Man Man." Currently, the band is signed with Anti Records, a subsidiary of longtime punk haven Epitaph.
Although he is not interested in the trappings that come with working under a major label, Honus Honus is not completely disenchanted with the modern musical climate. "The interesting thing about music right now, and it's really great, is that bands like Modest Mouse, the Shins, the Arcade Fire, and Iron and Wine-- you know, diverse styles, but they're charting. People actually care and they're looking for music. It's great that that can happen. It's great that a band like Modest Mouse that busted their hump for fifteen years to get where they're at can be successful. People have the same access to the band as they do to shit like Mudvayne."
For the time, Man Man is content to continue doing the same thing they've been doing for years--constantly touring with their joyfully bizarre brand of gypsy rock, but that's only one way to describe their sound. According to the singer himself, "Man Man's sound is like water. Like water in the desert when you've been in the heat for days." This is a weird and somewhat alienating statement, but it's exactly the kind of thing one would expect from a guy who writes songs with titles like "Harpoon Fever (Queequeg's Playhouse)" and "Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos." "I don't think we're strange," he said. "People think we're strange. We're just trying to write our version of what we consider pop songs."
"We're just trying to talk our own language," frontman and piano player Honus Honus told me, "but most people don't want to hear it. We try to write pop songs, but clearly I have no concept of what real pop is." This last statement may be true, but it certainly doesn't affect his band's willingness to ignore the conventions of what one might typically consider "pop music." Man Man's sound is definitely difficult to categorize. They garner a lot of favorable comparisons to Tom Waits and Captain Beefheart, but these comparisons are largely due to the gruff but earnest vocals of Honus Honus.
There is something almost Vaudevillian about Man Man; there are horns (brass and bicycle), ridiculously high-pitched background vocals, plenty of piano; and spastic, idiosyncratic drums. It sounds like it could be the soundtrack to a Depression-era traveling circus. And I suppose it is, in a way. Their live show, for example, is a spectacle unto itself. All five members (Honus Honus, Pow Pow, Critter Crat, Sergei Sogay, and Chang Wang) wear solid white from top to bottom and decorate their faces with white warpaint. And there is no downtime to be found at a Man Man show. The music is constant from the beginning all the way to the end, with improvised jams transitioning from one song to the next. The stage is littered with gadgets, toys, pots, pans, and anything else the band thinks might be useful; and Honus Honus has no problem leaving his piano for a little while to pluck one off the floor to see what he can do with it. Honestly, it's one of the most entertaining shows I've ever seen.
Man Man is a self-described underground band, but Honus Honus made it clear that they have much larger aspirations. "I don't really hear our songs getting played on the radio like Justin Timberlake, but they should be," the frontman said, "I just can't think of anyone else out there who sounds like us." The band wants mainstream success, but they aren't at all interested in the conventional means of achieving it. When I asked him if Man Man would ever sign to a major label given the opportunity, he didn't even hesitate. "No. I don't think a major label would ever want to sign us. If they did, the only reason would be to just shut us down. I just can't see a major label wanting to mess around with Man Man." Currently, the band is signed with Anti Records, a subsidiary of longtime punk haven Epitaph.
Although he is not interested in the trappings that come with working under a major label, Honus Honus is not completely disenchanted with the modern musical climate. "The interesting thing about music right now, and it's really great, is that bands like Modest Mouse, the Shins, the Arcade Fire, and Iron and Wine-- you know, diverse styles, but they're charting. People actually care and they're looking for music. It's great that that can happen. It's great that a band like Modest Mouse that busted their hump for fifteen years to get where they're at can be successful. People have the same access to the band as they do to shit like Mudvayne."
For the time, Man Man is content to continue doing the same thing they've been doing for years--constantly touring with their joyfully bizarre brand of gypsy rock, but that's only one way to describe their sound. According to the singer himself, "Man Man's sound is like water. Like water in the desert when you've been in the heat for days." This is a weird and somewhat alienating statement, but it's exactly the kind of thing one would expect from a guy who writes songs with titles like "Harpoon Fever (Queequeg's Playhouse)" and "Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos." "I don't think we're strange," he said. "People think we're strange. We're just trying to write our version of what we consider pop songs."
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Good Old Boys: A Modest Review
The American South has long had an association with cultural anomalies and taboos such as institutionalized racism, a poor system of education, fundamentalist Christianity, archaic values and beliefs, and a regional history rooted deeply not only in the Confederacy, but mythology and lore. Good or bad, true or false, the South exists more in how it is viewed by the rest of the nation than what actually goes on here. If perception is reality, than it must be noted that there are a lot more people perceiving the region from afar than there are people consciously analyzing the experience of living here. There are many people all across the United States who greatly misunderstand the region, and misunderstanding often leads to backhanded criticism, which is separated from mockery by only a very fine line. Throughout his 1974 opus Good Old Boys, Randy Newman treads this line carefully, never stripping himself or the American South of any basic dignity. Newman is rightfully revered not only as one of America's Great songwriters, but also as a cultural satirist, with a sharkbite wit and keen eye for injustice. With Good Old Boys, he set his sights on the Deep South, compiling twelve songs into one semi-conceptual album.
The album opens with "Rednecks," which is honestly one of the ballsiest songs I have ever heard. In three minutes and ten seconds, Newman manages to criticize not only the institutionalized racism that exists in the South, but also the North's misunderstanding and hypocrisy concerning its opinions on the former region, as well as its treatment of its own black citizens. The song is written from the perspective of an exaggeratedly stereotypical southerner, and the lyrics can be pretty disarming the first time you hear them. If you are the type of person who genuinely doesn't understand sarcasm, this will sound like the most racist song you have ever heard. To get his point across, Newman liberally uses the word 'nigger' and proudly exclaims, from his assumed redneck perspective, that "we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground." Randy Newman is not content simply to tap you on the shoulder to make a statement-- he holds you by the cheeks and gives you the fullest extent of his wit and razor sarcasm until the first song is over, and then it's up to you; because if you can hang with "Rednecks," you can hang with the rest of Good Old Boys.
"Rednecks" is followed by the mid-tempo, lighthearted "Birmingham," which is actually my favorite track on the record. It's speaker earnestly describes the joys of living in Birmingham, Alabama; but given Newman's treatment of good old boys in the previous track, there is an undeniable overtone of snarkiness. From Newman's vantage point, Birmingham seems like a shithole, but the lyrics convey an understanding of why a man of simple mind and simple means would find it an ideal place to call home. This track segues into "Marie," which is sung by the same character from the two previous songs. Pure and simple, "Marie" is a beautiful song. It is the first of two ballads on the album, but it is the only one that exhibits potential for true love song Greatness. The speaker admits from the beginning of the song that he is drunk, but that doesn't make his sentiments any less valid. He is singing to his wife, a woman he truly adores, and Newman lends the hapless character his voice in the first genuine gesture of solidarity with the South that he extends on Good Old Boys. The song is sung slowly and softly, with every word treated with importance. There is no sarcasm or social statements to be found on this song. It is here that Newman humanizes his character-- he is not just some silly redneck with nothing of any value to say; this is someone who is capable of not only feeling, but expressing, the most complex of human emotions. I am uncertain as to whether this character is the voice of every song on Good Old Boys, but he definitely makes a few more appearances as the album continues. However, "Rednecks," "Birmingham," and "Marie" are his major statements, and Randy Newman is his charmingly subjective mouthpiece.
The rest of Good Old Boys follows in a similar vein. Unfortunately, the entire album is not consistently as good. Beyond the three opening tracks, the best songs that it has to offer are "Guilty," "Louisiana 1927," and "Every Man A King," but this is no discredit to the record. Six stellar tracks out of twelve is nothing to thumb your nose at, and this is not to say that the other songs aren't good, because they are. Good Old Boys is one of those rare albums where the artistic whole is bigger than the sum of its parts.
Many people think that Randy Newman has a strange voice, and those people are correct. Like most people of my generation, my first exposure to Newman was the Toy Story soundtrack, and the first thing I noticed was his low, mumbling delivery. It has been mocked on "Family Guy" and its not altogether that difficult to do a passable Newman impression, but I think both of these things are a credit to his recognizable style and singularity within the realm of American pop music. Every statement made on Randy Newman's 34 year-old critique of the American South is still relevant today, and that alone proves that Good Old Boys is a record that demands at least one listen. The South is a crucial, irreplaceable part of the American zeitgeist, and Randy Newman flirted with genius as he studied and expounded upon its merits, hypocrisies, and native people
The album opens with "Rednecks," which is honestly one of the ballsiest songs I have ever heard. In three minutes and ten seconds, Newman manages to criticize not only the institutionalized racism that exists in the South, but also the North's misunderstanding and hypocrisy concerning its opinions on the former region, as well as its treatment of its own black citizens. The song is written from the perspective of an exaggeratedly stereotypical southerner, and the lyrics can be pretty disarming the first time you hear them. If you are the type of person who genuinely doesn't understand sarcasm, this will sound like the most racist song you have ever heard. To get his point across, Newman liberally uses the word 'nigger' and proudly exclaims, from his assumed redneck perspective, that "we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground." Randy Newman is not content simply to tap you on the shoulder to make a statement-- he holds you by the cheeks and gives you the fullest extent of his wit and razor sarcasm until the first song is over, and then it's up to you; because if you can hang with "Rednecks," you can hang with the rest of Good Old Boys.
"Rednecks" is followed by the mid-tempo, lighthearted "Birmingham," which is actually my favorite track on the record. It's speaker earnestly describes the joys of living in Birmingham, Alabama; but given Newman's treatment of good old boys in the previous track, there is an undeniable overtone of snarkiness. From Newman's vantage point, Birmingham seems like a shithole, but the lyrics convey an understanding of why a man of simple mind and simple means would find it an ideal place to call home. This track segues into "Marie," which is sung by the same character from the two previous songs. Pure and simple, "Marie" is a beautiful song. It is the first of two ballads on the album, but it is the only one that exhibits potential for true love song Greatness. The speaker admits from the beginning of the song that he is drunk, but that doesn't make his sentiments any less valid. He is singing to his wife, a woman he truly adores, and Newman lends the hapless character his voice in the first genuine gesture of solidarity with the South that he extends on Good Old Boys. The song is sung slowly and softly, with every word treated with importance. There is no sarcasm or social statements to be found on this song. It is here that Newman humanizes his character-- he is not just some silly redneck with nothing of any value to say; this is someone who is capable of not only feeling, but expressing, the most complex of human emotions. I am uncertain as to whether this character is the voice of every song on Good Old Boys, but he definitely makes a few more appearances as the album continues. However, "Rednecks," "Birmingham," and "Marie" are his major statements, and Randy Newman is his charmingly subjective mouthpiece.
The rest of Good Old Boys follows in a similar vein. Unfortunately, the entire album is not consistently as good. Beyond the three opening tracks, the best songs that it has to offer are "Guilty," "Louisiana 1927," and "Every Man A King," but this is no discredit to the record. Six stellar tracks out of twelve is nothing to thumb your nose at, and this is not to say that the other songs aren't good, because they are. Good Old Boys is one of those rare albums where the artistic whole is bigger than the sum of its parts.
Many people think that Randy Newman has a strange voice, and those people are correct. Like most people of my generation, my first exposure to Newman was the Toy Story soundtrack, and the first thing I noticed was his low, mumbling delivery. It has been mocked on "Family Guy" and its not altogether that difficult to do a passable Newman impression, but I think both of these things are a credit to his recognizable style and singularity within the realm of American pop music. Every statement made on Randy Newman's 34 year-old critique of the American South is still relevant today, and that alone proves that Good Old Boys is a record that demands at least one listen. The South is a crucial, irreplaceable part of the American zeitgeist, and Randy Newman flirted with genius as he studied and expounded upon its merits, hypocrisies, and native people
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Sobering Introspection, Followed by the Cause
September 19th was a big day for Travis Barker. He performed at Columbia's T-Mobile Boulevard Block Party with DJ AM, Perry Farrell, and Gavin Degraw. Then he got on a Learjet 60 bound for Van Nuys, California. Then his jet went off the runway, plowed through a fence, and crashed in an embankment. And then his jet caught on fire.
This was the news that I was woken up with the following morning, and my first question, naturally, was "Is he dead?" As it turns out, he wasn't dead, but he was in critical condition, having suffered severe burns; but the fire wasn't without casualties. Four people, including Travis' personal assistant, were killed. Travis and DJ AM were the only survivors. It is difficult for me to process information like this early in the morning (it was more like 10:00, but whatever), but this particular piece of news was especially unnerving, and for more than one reason.
The first reason is because Travis Barker is someone I genuinely care about, inasmuch as someone can care about another person who they have met only once, and only for about five minutes. What I mean is, I always felt good with the knowledge that Travis Barker was out there somewhere, alive. Playing music is a profoundly important part of my life, and Blink 182 was the band that made me decide that I wanted to be in a band, too. I realize that there is absolutely no credibility anymore in citing Blink 182 as a significant personal influence, but it's the truth. I can remember listening to Enema of the State and thinking to myself, I can do this. Granted, I was way off base in thinking that I could come anywhere near the level of skill that Travis displayed during his stint in the band, but the overall message was still clear. These guys seemed, at least a little, like me. They thought about girls and parties and found genuine comedic value in excessive cursing and fecal humor. The truth is, Travis' musicianship on the later Blink 182 albums far exceeded that of his bandmates, and time has slowly revealed him to be one of the most proficient and important drummers in modern music.
The second reason I was so stunned by the news is because only a couple of hours before Travis Barker and DJ AM took off on their ill-fated jet ride, I had conducted an interview with them backstage at the Five Points concert. So when I heard about his condition this morning, there was one question that kept jogging through my head: What if he DOES die? Keep in mind that the details of the accident were still hazy, and all I really knew was that Travis was in critical condition at a hospital in Augusta, Georgia; so, it certainly seemed possible that his situation could take a turn for the worst. I did not know for sure the exact circumstances of Travis' jet accident or his condition, but I did know one thing, and it was a chilling realization: If Travis Barker died, I would have been the last person to interview him for a news periodical. This caused me an unexpected and perplexing moral dilemma. On the one hand, one of my biggest musical influences had just been in a potentially fatal plane accident, and his fate was yet to be sealed. On the other hand, I had never been in a situation where I could personally benefit from the death of another human being. This may sound callous, but undeniably there is value in possessing the last interview with a celebrity before he or she bites the big one. My stock would rise, like, ten points. But somewhere amidst the cloud of guilt that comes along with thinking such things, I remembered that it is not my career, but Travis' that matters, especially in an article that is presumably about him.
Looking back on his musical career, it is hard to pigeonhole Travis Barker. His first big gig was playing with the Southern California ska outfit The Aquabats (where he performed under the name Baron Von Tito), which was followed up with an extended tenure in Blink 182, the band that would make him a household name -- at least with people who speak openly about commercially successful punk rock bands while at home. After the band split in 2005, Travis occupied himself largely with hip-hop projects, including work with the Black Eyed Peas, Expensive Taste, and Pharrell. He has also involved himself in side projects with Tom DeLonge and Mark Hoppus of Blink 182 (Box Car Racer and +44, respectively). The man has got his mitts in so many projects, he actually owns the trademark on a band that will never, ever come to fruition. "The Phenomenons was going to be surf band that I was going to start," he told me, "But I later find out that there is a band called the Phenomenots and I became a huge fan of them, so I just let it go."
His latest musical collaborator is DJ AM, a former member of the forgettable Crazy Town. The dynamic is simple, but pretty effective: DJ AM spins records while Travis drums. Their set is a continuous flow of music, which includes Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," Nina's "99 Red Balloons," the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Give It Away," and "Blitzkrieg Bop" by the Ramones. When I asked Travis and DJ AM what attracts them to particular songs for their set, Travis' answer was straightforward: "Tempos", he said. "He [DJ AM] will just throw something at me, a song that we love, and it will work." The musical tastes of these guys are nothing if not varied. DJ AM's biggest influence is Elton John (he mentioned this twice) along with Wu Tang Clan and Bob Marley. Travis, for his part, named Slayer and Johnny Cash as big favorites. Given this information and his musical track record, this isn't surprising. "I listen to everything, so therefore I try to play everything."
Through my personal experiences, I have been conditioned not to trust people who claim to "listen to everything", because that usually just means that they listen to whatever is on the radio; but in this case I think it might actually be true, because people who are on the radio tend not to listen to it. It's like how congressmen probably never watch C-Span. But the likelihood of Travis Barker listening to FM radio is not what is important. What IS important is that he and DJ AM are still alive, my stock is right where it should be, and that the music of Elton John can inspire a young man to scratch and to spin with all the furious vengeance of a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford.
This was the news that I was woken up with the following morning, and my first question, naturally, was "Is he dead?" As it turns out, he wasn't dead, but he was in critical condition, having suffered severe burns; but the fire wasn't without casualties. Four people, including Travis' personal assistant, were killed. Travis and DJ AM were the only survivors. It is difficult for me to process information like this early in the morning (it was more like 10:00, but whatever), but this particular piece of news was especially unnerving, and for more than one reason.
The first reason is because Travis Barker is someone I genuinely care about, inasmuch as someone can care about another person who they have met only once, and only for about five minutes. What I mean is, I always felt good with the knowledge that Travis Barker was out there somewhere, alive. Playing music is a profoundly important part of my life, and Blink 182 was the band that made me decide that I wanted to be in a band, too. I realize that there is absolutely no credibility anymore in citing Blink 182 as a significant personal influence, but it's the truth. I can remember listening to Enema of the State and thinking to myself, I can do this. Granted, I was way off base in thinking that I could come anywhere near the level of skill that Travis displayed during his stint in the band, but the overall message was still clear. These guys seemed, at least a little, like me. They thought about girls and parties and found genuine comedic value in excessive cursing and fecal humor. The truth is, Travis' musicianship on the later Blink 182 albums far exceeded that of his bandmates, and time has slowly revealed him to be one of the most proficient and important drummers in modern music.
The second reason I was so stunned by the news is because only a couple of hours before Travis Barker and DJ AM took off on their ill-fated jet ride, I had conducted an interview with them backstage at the Five Points concert. So when I heard about his condition this morning, there was one question that kept jogging through my head: What if he DOES die? Keep in mind that the details of the accident were still hazy, and all I really knew was that Travis was in critical condition at a hospital in Augusta, Georgia; so, it certainly seemed possible that his situation could take a turn for the worst. I did not know for sure the exact circumstances of Travis' jet accident or his condition, but I did know one thing, and it was a chilling realization: If Travis Barker died, I would have been the last person to interview him for a news periodical. This caused me an unexpected and perplexing moral dilemma. On the one hand, one of my biggest musical influences had just been in a potentially fatal plane accident, and his fate was yet to be sealed. On the other hand, I had never been in a situation where I could personally benefit from the death of another human being. This may sound callous, but undeniably there is value in possessing the last interview with a celebrity before he or she bites the big one. My stock would rise, like, ten points. But somewhere amidst the cloud of guilt that comes along with thinking such things, I remembered that it is not my career, but Travis' that matters, especially in an article that is presumably about him.
Looking back on his musical career, it is hard to pigeonhole Travis Barker. His first big gig was playing with the Southern California ska outfit The Aquabats (where he performed under the name Baron Von Tito), which was followed up with an extended tenure in Blink 182, the band that would make him a household name -- at least with people who speak openly about commercially successful punk rock bands while at home. After the band split in 2005, Travis occupied himself largely with hip-hop projects, including work with the Black Eyed Peas, Expensive Taste, and Pharrell. He has also involved himself in side projects with Tom DeLonge and Mark Hoppus of Blink 182 (Box Car Racer and +44, respectively). The man has got his mitts in so many projects, he actually owns the trademark on a band that will never, ever come to fruition. "The Phenomenons was going to be surf band that I was going to start," he told me, "But I later find out that there is a band called the Phenomenots and I became a huge fan of them, so I just let it go."
His latest musical collaborator is DJ AM, a former member of the forgettable Crazy Town. The dynamic is simple, but pretty effective: DJ AM spins records while Travis drums. Their set is a continuous flow of music, which includes Soft Cell's "Tainted Love," Nina's "99 Red Balloons," the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Give It Away," and "Blitzkrieg Bop" by the Ramones. When I asked Travis and DJ AM what attracts them to particular songs for their set, Travis' answer was straightforward: "Tempos", he said. "He [DJ AM] will just throw something at me, a song that we love, and it will work." The musical tastes of these guys are nothing if not varied. DJ AM's biggest influence is Elton John (he mentioned this twice) along with Wu Tang Clan and Bob Marley. Travis, for his part, named Slayer and Johnny Cash as big favorites. Given this information and his musical track record, this isn't surprising. "I listen to everything, so therefore I try to play everything."
Through my personal experiences, I have been conditioned not to trust people who claim to "listen to everything", because that usually just means that they listen to whatever is on the radio; but in this case I think it might actually be true, because people who are on the radio tend not to listen to it. It's like how congressmen probably never watch C-Span. But the likelihood of Travis Barker listening to FM radio is not what is important. What IS important is that he and DJ AM are still alive, my stock is right where it should be, and that the music of Elton John can inspire a young man to scratch and to spin with all the furious vengeance of a bullet in the gun of Robert Ford.
Monday, June 23, 2008
From Carlin to Farley: Laugh 'Til You Die
George Carlin died yesterday at the age of 71. As someone who loves comedy and the history thereof, I feel as though I should find his death tragic; but I really don't. I don't say this to sound jaded or stoic, I just haven't had enough exposure to the comedy of Mr. Carlin to warrant any sort of emotional attachment to him. I have casually browsed through one of his books, Napalm and Silly Putty, and I thought it was alright; and I enjoyed his cameo in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back as a sexually indiscriminate hitchhiker. I have also seen his performance on the 1975 inaugural episode of Saturday Night Live which, I regret to say, is not very good. In fact, it's bad. His routine consisted of a string of non-sequiturs with topics ranging from what dogs do on their days off to why there is no blue food available in grocery stores (Carlin hypothesized that it was because blue food is the key to immortality, which I guess could be true). Carlin was already an established comedian by the time this episode aired, so one would assume that the audience would have given him the benefit of the doubt and laughed at even some of his worst jokes, but the truth is that the performance was a complete bomb. It's almost uncomfortable to watch. Carlin admitted later that he was completely rattled on cocaine not only during the performance, but throughout his entire week at Rockefeller Plaza. I don't know if he revealed this information to excuse a his sub-par performance, but the appearance certainly didn't hurt his career. Within the world of comedy and comedians, Carlin is generally revered as an edgy, groundbreaking elder statesman of the genre and, as I am not a comedian, I have to take at face value the word of those who are.
I've only been around for a little over twenty-one years, and in that time I can only recall the the death of one comedian that truly affected me -- Chris Farley. I was, and still am, a huge fan of Chris Farley, and I will never forget the morning that I woke up for school and my dad informed me that he had died the night before of a drug overdose. This news did not send me into a prepubescant depression, but at the time I was certainly upset that one of my favorite people to watch on TV and in films had died of drugs. Chris Farley always seemed invincible to me; and when I watch his old performances on SNL (which I actually did last night), I still feel that way. Farley is always referred to as a "larger than life" performer, and in this case the cliche is pretty accurate. Given the energy and volume that he brought to every performance and knowing what we know now about his lifestyle, it's a wonder that he didn't die sooner. What is so interesting about Chris Farley's career is that it is almost formulaic in its mirroring of John Belushi's, who just happened to be Farley's personal hero. Both were large, abrasive, over-the-top performers whose appetites for the party lifestyle ultimately ended their lives, yet secured both a place in comedy history. There was one great difference between the two men, however. Whereas Belushi presented himself as an unlikely alpha male of comedy -- confident, uncompromising, and afraid of nobody-- Farley was different. As much as I admire and respect him as a performer, there was a sadness to Farley and all of the characters he portrayed. To me, Chris Farley seemed like the kind of person whose desire to make people laugh came from insecurity, almost as if he wanted to make people laugh with him before they had the chance to laugh at him.
Looking back, it's almost impossible to imagine Chris Farley as anything but the comic avalanche he turned out to be, and it's kind of sad that George Carlin's death only makes me remember another comedian who, while not as universally popular, I find to be much funnier. That happens a lot, though. When someone dies, we commonly try to remember them for who they really were; but more common than that is the utilization of a person's death to make us think about ourselves and our own lives. It sounds selfish on paper, but I believe it to be true. George Carlin wasn't important to me, but his death reminded me of something that was; and I think that's pretty valid. Maybe both of them should have invested a little more time in tracking down some blue food.
I've only been around for a little over twenty-one years, and in that time I can only recall the the death of one comedian that truly affected me -- Chris Farley. I was, and still am, a huge fan of Chris Farley, and I will never forget the morning that I woke up for school and my dad informed me that he had died the night before of a drug overdose. This news did not send me into a prepubescant depression, but at the time I was certainly upset that one of my favorite people to watch on TV and in films had died of drugs. Chris Farley always seemed invincible to me; and when I watch his old performances on SNL (which I actually did last night), I still feel that way. Farley is always referred to as a "larger than life" performer, and in this case the cliche is pretty accurate. Given the energy and volume that he brought to every performance and knowing what we know now about his lifestyle, it's a wonder that he didn't die sooner. What is so interesting about Chris Farley's career is that it is almost formulaic in its mirroring of John Belushi's, who just happened to be Farley's personal hero. Both were large, abrasive, over-the-top performers whose appetites for the party lifestyle ultimately ended their lives, yet secured both a place in comedy history. There was one great difference between the two men, however. Whereas Belushi presented himself as an unlikely alpha male of comedy -- confident, uncompromising, and afraid of nobody-- Farley was different. As much as I admire and respect him as a performer, there was a sadness to Farley and all of the characters he portrayed. To me, Chris Farley seemed like the kind of person whose desire to make people laugh came from insecurity, almost as if he wanted to make people laugh with him before they had the chance to laugh at him.
Looking back, it's almost impossible to imagine Chris Farley as anything but the comic avalanche he turned out to be, and it's kind of sad that George Carlin's death only makes me remember another comedian who, while not as universally popular, I find to be much funnier. That happens a lot, though. When someone dies, we commonly try to remember them for who they really were; but more common than that is the utilization of a person's death to make us think about ourselves and our own lives. It sounds selfish on paper, but I believe it to be true. George Carlin wasn't important to me, but his death reminded me of something that was; and I think that's pretty valid. Maybe both of them should have invested a little more time in tracking down some blue food.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Fear & Loathing in G-Vegas
Greenville is one of those strange cities that feels as though it is on the verge of something bigger. The changes that it has undergone in the past several years are staggering, and in many ways it has come to look and feel like a place of progress, for better or worse. Along with Charleston and Columbia, it is one of the three biggest cities in the state of South Carolina, but its purpose and identity have yet to come to full fruition. Charleston, with its beaches and affluent communities, has the distinction of being a major Southern tourist attraction. Columbia is the state's capital. Greenville is a different sort of place, though. There is nothing here really to lure any tourists or big spenders, and it lacks the financial surplus that comes with being a major college town. No, Greenville is someplace altogether different. It is a place where the residents, especially the young ones, bemoan the pace of life while at the same time demonstrating a strange sort of pride in the city; and that pride is made manifest in weird ways, such as its nickname. Some of those who have even a rudimentary knowledge of Greenville's downtown nightlife like to refer to the city as G-Vegas, which calls to mind images of a Southern metropolis, lit by inordinate wattage and the spending habits of its up-and-coming young professional crowd, those brave men and women who do not fear a Friday morning hangover at work, because nothing would be worse than breaking the cardinal rule of thrill-seekers and young trust fund Republicans which states that Thursday is indeed the beginning of the weekend. Yes, Greenville is definitely a different sort of place, and I feel as though I am truly discovering it for the first time...all over again.
Simpsonville is a relatively small yet unnervingly progressive town that can be found just a few scant miles out of Greenville and south down highway 385; and it is this place that my family has lived since 1990, leaving behind the desolation and oncoming hopelessness of Johnstown, New York. Simpsonville seems to contain a little of everything-- consumer-driven main drags, pristine suburban communities, and country roads that seem to stretch for days and days. I was traveling down one of these very roads last night on my way to visit a couple of old friends whom I had not seen in quite a time-- a jolly, bearded, bearlike Californian who I knew from my days in the Greenville music scene, and his sister who had been my last-minute date to the junior prom. He had told me he was having a party, but when I arrived I was the only other guest besides the members of a band called Gorilla Thrillas who were in town playing some shows. It was not what I was expecting, but I was happy to see my friends nonetheless. My host put a cold beer in my hand and we all sat in the living room while Planet of the Apes played on the television. Before I knew what was happening, an ominous discussion began to take place. It concerned the current problems and future status of our country, and in these traumatic times, there is no discussion more necessary or more dangerous.
One man, who had clearly been drinking for some time, began to rant confidently about how this nation has gotten itself into a crisis out of which there is no easy way. He stated that John McCain is the only Republican candidate he would ever vote for and that only a vote for McCain would protect our third amendment rights, which is a claim I doubt he would have made had his gears of speech not been lubricated by malt liquor. Nobody got especially uppity or emotional during the discussion, which can sometimes happen in mixed company (which is the only type of company that seems to exist anymore), and I thought it was going to be just another beer-fueled round-table conversation until my host said something that I had been afraid of for some time now. "It's coming," he said. "Something big is waiting for us at the end of this tunnel."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"Big change, man. This country is on the brink of a full-scale revolution. The America we are living in now is going to be vastly different from America twenty or thirty years down the road." We all nodded. Clearly, given our current economic and international status, change was inevitable, but he continued with this: "And it's going to be up to us to protect ourselves. I don't know from who, but we've got to be ready."
I had heard such sentiments before, but never before had it seemed so real. This man was not spouting drunken claims with out a logical foundation; he had thought this through. And the fear in his eyes told me that he believed every word of what he was saying. And in flash, I had a vision of an America whose fall from grace and power guaranteed it a special place in the history books of the future. Schoolchildren would learn about the United States of America the same way they learned of Rome-- an empire that stayed powerful and strong for years and years and years, until it crumbled to dust under its own weight; and my generation-- all of us-- would be remembered not with envy or intrigue, but pity; because as we came of age, we just missed the boat, our one chance to experience a romantic America, the place we were always told that we lived in but without the burden of proof that such a place ever existed at all. We would simply never know.
Snapping back to the present, I realized that even though the hour wasn't that late, it was time for me to go. The air had become thick and my rounds for the night were not yet finished. I thanked my host and promised to keep in touch, wished Gorilla Thrillas the best of luck at their shows, grabbed my cigarettes, and climbed into my gas-guzzling 1997 Ford Explorer, and prepared myself for whatever was to come next.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
