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2009-10-11T18:29:00.001-07:00

I've moved over to tumblr.

How Madoff Can Win

2009-03-13T16:28:00.000-07:00

How does ole Bernie Madoff come out of this experience victorious? That's a tough question that hasn't really been asked. The man is a criminal of the highest order. He destroyed lives (of rich people). Sure, I feel sorry for the charities that sunk money into his scheme without the foresight that none of it made sense, but otherwise the victims will deal with their own plight. I want to look at Madoff himself - Madoff as a hero of villains.

I have great respect for con men for the most part. I love people who come up with creative ways to hustle and dupe others (for this same reason I've always been infatuated with drug dealers, too). My favorite con ever has to be the classic cat vs. rat scenario. It goes like this: You are presented with a business proposition. A new company builds two houses with a small trail as barrier. One house has cats; the other, rats. Rats multiple at four times the rate of cats, so you feed the rats to the cats and they get fat. It's not a big loss because the rats continue to multiply. Then, you take the fat cats, skin them and make fur coats. See how the initial investment is all you need? Afterward, there's no overhead. This is great con because it's absolutely ridiculous (and has never actually been done), but it makes sense to people. While shady, it seems like it could work. Old con men certainly made some cash with it. The people who were fooled... eh, not much sympathy in this camp.

If Madoff could get out, I'd say he should fly right, be honest and wait until his day comes again. Then he can leave jail, start a reality show or open a new publishing house with his memoirs as the first book deal. Good thing he can't. Here's my recommendation. Mr. Madoff, kill yourself. Don't do it because you are sorry. Do it because your name will live on. You had a lot of fun on earth doing horrible things that no one can fully condone, but now that's all over. What's left to live for? Living? Nietzsche says to live life like a movie. You did that, but now your movie is like an unfunny, secluded Down By Law without John Lurie, Waits or Roberto Benigni. We saw you in court yesterday. You're a boring actor.

So, do it. Try to keep your shoelaces. I'm sure one of your new colleagues can teach you how to hang from a rafter.

New York News: Part Six

2009-03-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Bernard Madoff, New York, NY, the whitehot, rich master of a pomo version Charles Ponzi's creation, pled guilty to all counts in a Manhattan court. Hanging is the only way out.

For Purim, a drunken Jewish halloween, one child dressed in blackface with a sign reading, "dollar's not change." Media meltdown is expected in 7 hours.

Todd Zielinski, 32, Queens, NY, spent 28 hours in The Tombs for leaving the subway through an emergency exit. Somewhere, Guiliani ate a chunky monkey and sobbed.

Will Oldham Piece In New York Press

2009-03-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

This week (or today, to be specific), you can find my feature on Will Oldham for New York Press.

Get the article online here, or pick up a copy on any street corner in NYC.

Driving Through Purim

2009-03-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

So, I wanted to write today, but unfortunately am running out of time. From 3pm - 3am I'll be a personal driver for a hasidic client as he (and family) drink through the festivities of purim. Where will I go? I have no idea. I imagine winding roads and highways upstate, a suspension bridge here and there and much time sitting in the vacant car reading and drawing crude pictures that make fun of Chinese DJs or electroclash.

I've always wanted to be a cab driver, but the main appeal is that you engage in brief, fleeting moments with strangers. You also can pick your own music and rarely have to venture outside the city. I know my blackhat associate pretty well, which takes away the bulk of aura inherent in a driving job.

That being said, I will keep my suit on from this morning's meeting. Hey, if I was going to pay somebody to shlep me around all evening, I would certainly want him or her to look sharp and magnify my personal image in the community. Will I open their doors? That one remains to be seen.

How Big Is Too Big?

2009-03-09T16:16:00.001-07:00

You walk into Strand for a new book. It's been awhile. You got some Dickens (or some other long, boring thing) last time, and now you want something shorter - not necessarily easier, but more manageable. You want something to bring on the train, bury in the recesses of your tote bag, even tuck in the annals of your backpocket for those few stray moments of downtime.

The short (or small) book means nothing about content. It's about size, portability and easy digestion. If you had never heard of Pynchon, then you'd likely start with The Crying of Lot 49 - not because it's necessarily easier than the others (although, it is), but because it's short. You don't need to commit a month or more to an esoteric world that might make you too paranoid to leave your apartment. If that paranoia - or boredom, emancipation, relief, interest, whatever - comes, it'll only last for a few days until you reach the last words and can venture back to the store again for something new.

To me, shortness also comes into play when looking at how a book is setup. I'm currently reading Robert Bolano's endlessly epic 2666 right now. It's nearly 1000 pages long, yet this is a bit deceiving. The 1000 pages are split into 5 books and most of the content is divided into little pods of information. The material and stories become increasingly difficult as you plot on, but you can focus on small moments and allow them to fill in the proverbial puzzle pieces. To compare, take a shorter book by someone like Faulker. I love his work, but I'll never believe someone that claims it's not difficult to read through wild, flickering free verse that rarely stops to pause, explain characters or even impart if we're inside an unconscious or conscious reality.

Last night I sipped on free Buds at a closing party for the Armory Show. The topic of literature and novels came up. I made the ridiculous claim that the only two good novels are Don Quixote and Underworld. Now, this was, of course, a joke, but it falls into a sort hilariously unhip contrarian opinion. They are both BIG novels that are hard to get through. They take major commitments (maybe months) and cover HUGE issues while barreling through large swathes of history. Should an author such as DeLillo - who has proven he can write great short novels - make a work like Underworld more concise on the off-chance that more people will actually work their way through the whole thing without pretending? No, but I'd imagine that more people would finish a long novel if it was shorter.

TV will switch to 15 minute shows to mimic web episodes.

Movies will stream online in short segments with commercials.

Books will be replaced by short, immediate content.

The future already happened. The large novel will have to be really important to make it through the transition.

Ted Berrigan Songs

2009-03-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

Click the links to stream. Right click/save to download.

"Things To Do In NYC"

"Here I Live"

"Sonnet 15"

Also, here's a classic:

10 THINGS I DO EVERY DAY

by Ted Berrigan

wake up
smoke pot
see the cat
love my wife
think of Frank

eat lunch
make noises
sing songs
go out
dig the streets

go home for dinner
read the Post
make pee-pee
two kids
grin

read books
see my friends
get pissed-off
have a Pepsi
disappear

New York News: Part Five

2009-03-05T14:45:00.000-08:00

Snow rang from city hall to ghetto sidewalks; schools closed, clothes froze. King Mayor called parents who cried about the snow day a bunch of Alices. He faces reelection.

Kenneth Moreno, officer, NYPD, New York, NY, is up for trial. Why? Rape - of a girl, blackout drunk after vomiting upon her own body in a taxi. Me: burn in hell, Provelone!

The stock market, after years of heavy drinking, continued to spiral underground. He's now living with the mole people, shaving with a piece of barbed wire, a piece of glass for a mirror.

Tindersticks Preview In New York Press

2009-03-04T15:38:00.000-08:00

Today I'm previewing the upcoming Tindersticks show at the Brooklyn Masonic Temple on March 6th.

Click here for a direct link to New York Press. If you live in New York City, pick up a copy on any vacant street corner.

Jarmusch Rules

2009-03-03T17:34:00.000-08:00

I'm absolutely swamped right now, so I'll just let Jim Jarmusch pinch hit today. Here are his rules (originally published in Movie Maker):

Rule #1: There are no rules. There are as many ways to make a film as there are potential filmmakers. It’s an open form. Anyway, I would personally never presume to tell anyone else what to do or how to do anything. To me that’s like telling someone else what their religious beliefs should be. Fuck that. That’s against my personal philosophy—more of a code than a set of “rules.” Therefore, disregard the “rules” you are presently reading, and instead consider them to be merely notes to myself. One should make one’s own “notes” because there is no one way to do anything. If anyone tells you there is only one way, their way, get as far away from them as possible, both physically and philosophically.

Rule #2: Don’t let the fuckers get ya. They can either help you, or not help you, but they can’t stop you. People who finance films, distribute films, promote films and exhibit films are not filmmakers. They are not interested in letting filmmakers define and dictate the way they do their business, so filmmakers should have no interest in allowing them to dictate the way a film is made. Carry a gun if necessary.

Also, avoid sycophants at all costs. There are always people around who only want to be involved in filmmaking to get rich, get famous, or get laid. Generally, they know as much about filmmaking as George W. Bush knows about hand-to-hand combat.

Rule #3: The production is there to serve the film. The film is not there to serve the production. Unfortunately, in the world of filmmaking this is almost universally backwards. The film is not being made to serve the budget, the schedule, or the resumes of those involved. Filmmakers who don’t understand this should be hung from their ankles and asked why the sky appears to be upside down.

Rule #4: Filmmaking is a collaborative process. You get the chance to work with others whose minds and ideas may be stronger than your own. Make sure they remain focused on their own function and not someone else’s job, or you’ll have a big mess. But treat all collaborators as equals and with respect. A production assistant who is holding back traffic so the crew can get a shot is no less important than the actors in the scene, the director of photography, the production designer or the director. Hierarchy is for those whose egos are inflated or out of control, or for people in the military. Those with whom you choose to collaborate, if you make good choices, can elevate the quality and content of your film to a much higher plane than any one mind could imagine on its own. If you don’t want to work with other people, go paint a painting or write a book. (And if you want to be a fucking dictator, I guess these days you just have to go into politics...).

Rule #5: Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery—celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.”

What Is That On Eldridge Street?

2009-03-02T16:15:00.001-08:00

I'm currently writing a profile on Annie Polland - the VP of education at the (must see) Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side. While researching her previous work, I came across the Eldridge Street Synagogue - a heavenly, over-the-top, vibrant structure that was originally completed in 1887. I had noticed it, but didn't know the story.

It served as the first architectural contribution from the bloc of Eastern European Jews that had settled in the neighborhood. Like most new things, it was popular and remained in great shape for decades. The public loved it. Think of a picture: it's saturday morning and the place is packed to the gills. Sun streaks through the stained glass and a trifecta of American flags hang in the vertical distance. Orthodoxy meets an increasingly modern New York demand for the new. The hats are still large like jugs placed in an office water cooler.

Then there's the decline. In the 1920s, everything started to get too tight - money, time, space, our freedom to maneuver. In the 50s, everything was worse. The congregation depleted as the Jews moved on to new neighborhoods and cities. It's quite interesting. For all the aura that the Jewish history on the LES maintains, it was never an end-all-be-all for the actual population. By all accounts, they couldn't wait to move to someplace safer, cleaner, more spacious and less cutthroat. It finally happened, but they left the synagogue behind. It became dusty, dilapidated, broken-down and lost the ability to cleanse itself.

The Saturday service was never skipped. There remained a core congregation that met at the street level, avoiding the chapel (which continued to fall apart). Cut to 2007. The people finally completed a massive, 20-year renovation project and brought Eldridge back to its former glory. It's quite amazing, and I recommend that you check it out if you're in NYC. It's now a museum, but still holds Saturday services in order to keep up tradition.

It's also increasingly important that structures like this remain intact and are opened to the public for their viewing and education. I sincerely doubt that many people living on the LES right now know much about the Jewish history on their streets. They probably pop into Katz' now and then, but are more impressed by a picture of Bill Clinton or the spot where Meg Ryan had an orgasm in that movie. A lot has been lost. For those in the know, the aura remains. But soon, those in the know will die out.

You can order Annie Polland's book here.

You can visit the museum website here.

Cut Songs

2009-02-27T12:33:00.000-08:00

We've had a handy catch-phrase in preparation for 2009 domination: sometimes people get cut. We had no idea about the recession and weren't predicting layoffs and cutbacks. It was, instead, more about a particular work ethic. Those that don't work the land each day will inevitably be cut out. The phrase also works as a great street saying. Sometimes in the city you're gonna get sliced up a little bit.

(Right/control click to save; straight click to stream. As always, these are here for one week.)

Ol' Dirty Bastard - Cuttin Heads (feat. Rza)

I've often wished that Rza's beats were parties you could attend. This is a classic - stabs of detuned piano, a hard break, chestbeating bass - or as ODB says: clang clang clang, rhymes pluckin at ya brain. If I was a DJ for mythological characters, I'd throw this one to Sisyphus. As in, if you have to roll a rock up-and-down a hill for eternity, this track will tweak your energy in the right direction. In fact, while listening, I can barely walk to the train without wanting to punch someone out for no reason.

Papercuts - Outside Looking In

I don't know why I like this band. Like a coke-addled girlfriend, there's nothing particularly positive to say, but you stick around because it's fun. There's the derivative Bob Dylan arrangement, hushed vocals, lethargic piano, not-quite-radio-worthy pop tropes and pretty much zero innovation. It's still totally enjoyable, though. It's pretty. It's the kind of song that college radio DJs don't discover because they're too busy with Fleet Foxes.

AZ - Uncut Raw

How could I do cut songs and not throw in a legendary cocaine rap track? This one came at the beginning of a new type of storytelling in hiphop. Here, we get one of the initial comparisons between a vial of crack, coke, heroin, whatever, and the commercial aspects of the rap cut. Instead of selling drugs, you're selling rhymes. The rawness willfully ignores the glossy style. This is always commendable. Now, get back to hustlin.

New York News: Part Four

2009-02-26T16:23:00.000-08:00

Students at NYU (ok, only like a dozen) protested tuition costs by occupying the cafeteria. Payers of the actual tuition, rich parents, told them to get back to work. They did, while sulking.

Cecille Villacorta, New York, NY, a former Saks saleswoman is going on trial for stealing $1.4 million from her employer. She looked fabulous, dressed a whorish postmodern ninja turtle.

The famed baker of the "Drunken Negro Face Cookie," New York, NY, is being routinely threatened by black panthers. The secret service paid him a visit, too. Boo-hoo. Me: don't cry for me Argentina.

Bridge To Nowhere

2009-02-25T14:02:00.000-08:00

In 1931, the George Washington Bridge was completed. It provided a vital connection between New York City and New Jersey over the Hudson River. With two levels, and a long stretch, it became the 4th largest suspension bridge in the United States. Of course, it was named in honor of our first president, who held down British forces (somewhat unsuccessfully this time as the UK forces actually took the city) at Fort Washington on the NYC side. The NJ side connects to Fort Lee. In a sense, you could call this a fake military bridge. Revised: In a sense, you could call this a fake military bridge gone totally awry.

My grandmother has lived on the NJ side right off the onramp for decades. While Fort Lee is an odd town, it's also certainly symptomatic of a uniquely American vision of the burnt out city. Let's get there.

You take the A train to 175th street, cross a longish corridor where there will be at least one decent saxophonist with his case open begging for a dollar or two, then walk into a brisk breeze. It's always breezy here because of the river. Temperature drops a few degrees and it's significantly windier. Then you board these little rickety transportation vans that are cluttered with commuters, visitors and people that just need to make it to the other side for some reason. Often, the driver watches TV while he waits for the passengers to board. Other times, he watches TV intermittently while he drives. I use "he," because I've never seen a female drive one of these death traps. They probably know better.

Then you pull into the onramp, which is often jammed with cars. You crawl. You pick up a little speed as the lanes open up and then everything becomes temporarily picturesque as you see the curves of Manhattan's body and some odd forest motifs as you enter Fort Lee. But then you get to Fort Lee proper. There's a bank or two, a diner or two, a McDonalds, Walgreens, a few Korean restaurants and dusty-looking supermarket. There are towering industrial buildings that always seem to stand erect with their lights dimmed. You can't imagine there are a ton of employment opportunities around these parts.

You've left the New York City side, which is also rundown, impoverished and maintains that sort of dicey element that many people miss about the City of yesteryear. What began on both ends with that classic, bold American potential has slowed down to that same crawl the rickety van takes over the bridge. Fort Washington is known as Washington Heights. Fort Lee maintains itself. But they are both shells of a promise that was broken. As is often the case with our bridges (albeit moreso on the Robert Moses projects), the actual architecture of the project is majestic and beautiful. Then you get to the projects on both sides and it's sort of disappointing. I often wonder if there will be a point in our history where we start to value rebuilding neighborhoods rather than the ways we get to them via automobiles. The difference breaks down to this: one way the city gets a toll, the other way they have to pay for the upkeep of something that brings money to our citizens but not them. I guess once again the cost-effective option rubs me the wrong way.

Begging For Waffles

2009-02-24T13:50:00.000-08:00

Ever since my early years, I've had a strange infatuation with advertisements depicting hyper-real food. The proclivity turned into near obsession during an internship writing copy for a prominent advertising agency around 2003. I learned how these ads tap into the dopamine of consumers. See the melted cheese and perfect egg above, oozing in tranquil formation. The bacon pops out like a crisp polo collar resting over a J-Crew sweater. The waffles pretend to be bread, a bagel, flapjacks or an english muffin and can mutate into whatever the consumer really wants for breakfast. The... WAIT... WAFFLES?!

I've been noticing the ads for the product above throughout our lovely subway system. Dunkin' Donuts has stepped into (or perhaps invented) a completely new realm of breakfast sandwich discovery. Let's imagine the meeting:

CEO: What do we have that can compete with McDonalds? Bodegas? Starbucks?

Lackey: Hey, how about we make an egg mcmuffin/McGriddle crossbreed, but instead of the muffin we soak two large waffles in maple syrup and use that as bread?

The idea is so bizarrely simple that the question becomes: How could it have slipped through years of product development and marketing meetings? Probably because it's one of the most overloaded combinations of food ever put into one item. Yes, you could easily have a breakfast with two waffles (slathered in lush syrup), two pieces of bacon, plus an egg mixed with cheese. But, why put them all together? Are we that lazy?

The obvious primary influence on Dunkin' Donuts' innovation besides the McGriddle is the KFC Bowl - a head-scratching bucket of slop that has become their most popular menu item. It's nearly the same concept, but for lunch and dinner. Pile everything on the menu into a bowl, mix it up and eat with a spoon. It's absolutely disgusting as an abstract concept, and I can't imagine the actual thing tastes much better. Photographs - like the one above, which makes the waffle sandwich look like a celebrity - are amazing, but can't do much justice to the idea when put through systematic logic.

I also feel that it's worth nothing that my favorite hyper-real food campaign of all time was an effort from Jack In The Box in 2006. It was perfectly placed on a bulletin board in the back of our literary theory class at the UofA, and featured a giant burger bursting with swagger out of its vegetable clothes, only held together by goliath slices of ciabatta bread. The tagline: BREAD IS BACK!!!! Where did it go? Did Atkins and the low-carb missionaries kill it off in some sort of crusade against carbs? I suppose so. Like a movie, everyone can debate the merits of hyper-real food. I'll be at Dunkin' tomorrow morning for those who want to discuss more.

Old Esquire

2009-02-23T15:10:00.000-08:00

When viewing the history of magazines, press, labels and other collectives of this ilk, it's common to hear about the Golden Age. Now, this isn't a specific Golden Age (ie: The Golden Age of Hiphop), but a specific timeframe for each imprint, where the editing, curation, artists and contributors all put their best feet forward. It's the era when wheels churn into innovative, iconoclastic territory. Personally, I rarely buy into this revisionist sort of history, but sometimes the Golden Age really is different and much better than the present.

Today I want to look at Esquire Magazine. Originally published by David A. Smart and Arnold Gingrich, the outlet became a true American original by featuring some of the best fiction around. I'm talking Hemingway, Fitzgerald, then Norman Mailer, Tim O'Brien, Tom Wolfe, etc. The magazine also essentially launched the career of Raymond Carver - one of my absolute favorites. It was stylish, original and had the guts to nurture actual artists.

The heroic (and apparently quite insane) editor of fiction during part of the Golden Age (69-76) was Gordon Lish. Here's a synopsis from the intro to an interview in The Believer:

Ignore the fact that he’s written about eating shit, or about stabbing someone in the eye and hearing the particular click as the knife tip punctures a contact lens. Forget the fact that he was so sure Dean Moriarty was a real person that he moved his entire family to San Francisco to hang out with “the man,” or that he published a story under the pretext that it was written by Salinger. Gordon Lish is the Andy Kaufman of the literary world. A maniac of publishing, wit, and dessert, Mr. Lish is a mythic figure—a supra-monster, distorting and bending American fiction in its own shiny be-stabbed eye.

At the peak of his powers, Lish dubbed himself “Captain Fiction.” As a teacher (for Gary Lutz, Amy Hempel, Will Eno, etc.) he railed for perfect, compressed sentences; as an editor (for Raymond Carver, Esquire, the Quarterly, etc.) he slashed and compacted with line-item-veto fury; and as a novelist (the infuriatingly riveting Extravaganza: A Joke Book) he is capable of some of the most grandiose, gleeful overindulgences imaginable. He has long ceased publishing and writing, but his influence is out there, watching you, breathing.

There's still elements of the that, but the Golden Age is also long over. When you're biggest issue of the year is the famed "Sexiest Woman Alive," there's a clear emphasis on selling maximum volume rather than pushing quality content that could become much-loved down the line. Nonetheless, I still would consider Esquire as one of (if not the) best mass market mens publication. It might be an aura hangover.

Sleep Songs

2009-02-20T16:53:00.000-08:00

Let's go with two slowburners today. Ambient music circa 2009.

Mountains - Choral

If I lived inside this song, my apartment would tower two stories high. Everything would be made of wood, and pictures of Abraham Lincoln would be banned. This is the title track from Mountains' new jam. I hear they've moved to Thrill Jockey.

If this song was a class, it would be about memory and tent building, the occult and forests, repetition and sun streaks. It would be a night class with a small (yet devoted) following.

Buy here.

Mint - Hindemith

This track also relates to a forest, because it is one. There's dusty piano, a cricket (which might be a screech), vibrating reeds, a wavering signal and fresh air. They are all weaving through tree branch mazes in the German countryside. One of the things I love most about Wolfgang Voigt (in alter ego form here), is that he doesn't flinch. Whereas an artist such as The Field has taken some of his concepts and turned them into 21st century raved-out epics, Voigt remains resolute in his study of minimalism, repetition and sampling of classical records. He's so thorough and inventive about this research that it remains fascinating to follow.

Buy here.

New York News: Part Three

2009-02-19T03:59:00.000-08:00

Our esteemed NY Post published a racist cartoon that referenced the stimulus package. A Dennis Miller moonlight job, perhaps? One more news cycle and gone. Tops.

Dalton is an elite school with much pressure. One student, an unidentified 17-year-old, jumped from its top. On 89th st, a group of 4th graders saw it happen.

Dustin Dibble, Brooklyn, NY, was awarded 2.3 mil after losing his leg under a subway train. The catch? He was piss drunk. Me: You can still never climb a mountain.

Our mayor, Monsieur Bloomberg, continues to try to win favor. Republicans are holding their noses. There are other parties, too. I've forgotten their names.

Print Dagger

2009-02-18T16:49:00.000-08:00

Everyone everywhere (I never leave New York) is talking about the death of print media. For framework, let's start out with a selection from a Momus entry from earlier this week:

All is not well in the world of periodical print media. Paper magazines and newspapers are dying, replaced by the activity you're engaged in right now -- reading content free off a computer screen. The big picture is of slow decline -- the New Yorker reported last year that since 1990, "a quarter of all American newspaper jobs have disappeared... the dwindling number of Americans who buy and read a daily paper are spending less time with it; the average is down to less than fifteen hours a month. Only nineteen per cent of Americans between the ages of eighteen and thirty-four claim even to look at a daily newspaper. The average age of the American newspaper reader is fifty-five and rising." But the short-term picture, as of early 2009, is of a sudden, precipitous decline in titles and jobs. It looks like a cull, the beginning of a rapid end.

What will be missed when print media dies? Well, for starters, something to hold. The fetish of print material seems comfortable just where it is for the foreseeable future. We must feed the fetish! As someone who spends all day switching back-and-forth between print (books, magazines, papers) and music, I find it notable that my book purchases have skyrocketed in the past few years while music buys are virtually non-existent. I'll always support my favorite musical artists by attending a gig, but find most readings boring. Ultimately, it comes down to holding the page, the crucial typography choices, the elegance of great photography on a page, the spirit of writers when paid something close to a living wage, the scientific eyes of good editors.

Conversely - and as Momus points out - the downward slide has been happening for awhile. In this time, the relative quality of print publications has plummeted. There will always be niche outlets that are perfect for outsider ideas and solutions, but there used to be more of those nearing the surface. Don't get me started on the true zine and alt-newspaper scene, which has been online for awhile, but still lacks something of the sloppy artifact quality that made the originals so special. Check out the oft-discussed Fuck You: A Magazine For The Arts, for example. Even formerly great papers like The Village Voice have become simulated shells of their former selves. Like the "hipster movement," the "American Left" defined, created, sold and regurgitated by marketers. The independent streak is not only gone; it's discouraged.

Even the NYTimes is getting in on the action. In a recent interactive feature called Mostly Gloom For Glossies, users can play around with metrics and corresponding cover titles to see just how fast the industry is plummeting.

It's an epidemic that goes WAY bigger than the arts, but it's exactly those sorts of jobs and projects - the creative ones - that are forgotten and destroyed in the midst of tough economic times. While FDR allocated money for WPA arts projects and provided crucial support for creative enterprise, Obama doesn't seem interested in a repeat. Not that he's said no, it's just never been discussed in any public forum that I can find.

So, how do we survive? Endowments could be an interesting solution. This has been discussed for newspapers, but what about funds for counterculture institutions? There must still be philanthropists. I'd like to imagine a few of them are sympathetic. For them, a relatively meager trust could hold up these publications. It would keep speech free. It would contribute to a more open-minded culture. It would allow our vital outlets to experiment without fear of immediate failure. (Leeway is necessary for any artist or project to actually succeed.) It's also still capitalist! Those who don't innovate wouldn't survive. Those with appealing ideas could live to fight another day.

There Are Many Brooklyns

2009-02-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

There are many Brooklyns

entangled tonight at the neighborhood box social

Williamsburg gives Bushwick a
blowjob, leaving a trail
on her MFA face

Fort Greene and Crown Heights shake
hands by the water cooler
and fix a plate of macaroni salad leftover
from a lunch meeting

These are the perks of the up-for-grabs

Carroll Gardens catches Bay Ridge sneaking
out in the morning
“He didn’t even put on his left boot,”
she sighs and stares to the skyline
at a late brunch with Cobble Hill

And when seven rolls around, Park Slope
feels like he’s a convict locked
inside the hell of
an advertising agency

Bed-Stuy is loose.
She took the day off to sleep with her dog.

So, this is the time – now
is the night
There are many Brooklyns
and one-by-one they high-five
jogging down the line to the
1994 Phoenix Suns introduction music.

Considering the conflict ahead, it is a beautiful song

The Poor And The Insane

2009-02-16T16:11:00.000-08:00

In his surrealist-meets-romance-meets-photography novel entitled Nadja, Andre Breton explores the shade of gray between his impoverished (maybe fake) lover Nadja and her sanity:

Treated in a private rest-home with all the consideration granted to the rich, suffering no contacts which might be harmful to her, but instead comforted at propitious moments by friendly presences, her preferences gratified as much as possible, gradually restored to an acceptable sense of reality - which would have necessitated the avoidance of all harsh treatment and an effort to induce her to recognize voluntarily the origin of her difficulties - I may be making a rash statement, yet everything leads me to believe that she would have recovered from her wretched state.

I'm interested in this passage in order to explore the relationship between poverty and mental illness. Those in big cities are no strangers to the insane street dweller - the one who sits indian-style in a circle of pans with latent change cups and a sack of rags that used to be clothes. Society doesn't do much to clean these people up and give them a fair chance. But maybe they had a fair chance and ended up here (on the corner of St. Marks and 2nd avenue or 16th and Mission or you pick). Would they be saved if quarantined? What if that quarantine was separate from society, yet filled with wonderful, cutting-edge medicines and therapy? What if there were only friendly companions?

There are also excellent examples where the impoverished became so down-and-out and insane that they enter a new realm of rationality. Take mole people population from the film Dark Days. They built a satellite version of New York in the freedom tunnel (situated from Riverside Park down to 68th street). They seem so healthy and normal in a way. Houses are built. Dogs roam free. There's electricity, furniture and stocked kitchens with requisite hotplates. Many are honest and hardworking. These members refuse to fall into crime. Instead, they wake up early and collect cans for cash, finding little discarded possessions by trashcans along the way that they can use to pawn for a little extra cash. Their day-to-day life does have a routine, yet mental illness looms in the background.

The mole community underground might have swelled to as many as thousands, and over 90 percent of those found had had problems with drug addiction (in particular, crack). They built up a new world, yet something was off. They were constantly on-guard and distrustful of others that might come into their world. This is mostly a defense mechanism, though. I mean, who wouldn't run a little mental imbalance if they could be brutally robbed and destroyed at any point in time? That's the trouble with living in a lawless squatter society underground. That's the trouble with being poor.

The poor often have no way to fight back. With few possessions and even fewer places to call home, they don't get the chance to avoid those harmful contacts. They wander, float and try to avoid trouble. What if we set aside substantial funding to actually provide real housing for the really down-and-out? We could integrate them back in. Maybe we could give them some psychoanalysis, too. If we treated the poor like the rich for a few months, maybe they would come back into the world with a new, more balanced perspective.

Personally, after a long week where I'm running around to meetings, drinking, cutting deals, high-fiving and getting it done, I need a day or two to lay in bed. This is because the bed, privacy and warmth of a real home are protective. No one can get to me (unless they go up the fire escape, in which case my friend Louisville Slugger is waiting to greet them). Breton's predicament with watching Nadja collapse and turn more insane as she becomes poorer is an honest reaction to poverty in the early 20th century. It's more than a shame that we haven't come too far from this. The facilities are cleaner. Medicine is better. There are more doctors. But there are also more people, and my, do they wander with little or no destination.

Possession Songs

2009-02-13T11:21:00.000-08:00

Tonight in New York we celebrate the release of Mike Bones' second record, A Fool For Everyone. It's been a long time coming. Bones first played these songs about 15-16 months ago and the record was completed, fully mastered and passed around starting around a year ago. It's a sober collection of breakup songs augmented by masterful arrangements and guitar playing. If you're in NYC, I highly recommend checking him out at 92Y Tribeca tonight at 9:30pm.

Today's songs are about possessions - what you have and what you have not. This idea clearly flows in multiple directions. Some, like rappers, love the material. Some, like bohemian poetic types, love cities, theories, people and scenes. Subjective conceptions of what we own (or have) really determine how we define ourselves. We've all seen people claim minimalism ("I don't have a lot of things"), but buy new clothes every week. We've all seen the opposite of that, too.

Mike Bones - What I Have Left

The chugging folk-punk-orchestral hybrid in this track is receiving a great reception thus far. It has a classic versatility as well. It works while grilling up cornish game hens. It works while staring out a window so hard that your cigarette burns to nothing in the ashtray. It could score throwing someone in front of a train or merely boarding one after saying goodbye to a long night. "My soul once was blessed/ But it didn't take, I guess" exemplifies a style of lyrics that could go either way, but Bones has the right affectation to pull it off with much success.

Prodigy - Nickel And A Nail

No, this is not that horrible 90s group. Who do you think I am? This song is like swagger in a bottle. It's like a western. You get one shot - the title referring to a single gun and bullet. A fully loaded .25 with one extra bullet on the side. It's like a Wendy's value meal for shooting someone. This was, of course, a problem for the Mobb Deep-alum who just began serving a 3 1/2 year sentence for weapons possession. For a man who once gained fame by threatening to stab your brain through your nose bone (Mike Tyson reference?), what do you expect?

Bert Jansch - I Have No Time

Jansch is on the mystical side of possessions. He has no time to spend with you (probably because he's practicing his finger picking skills or swinging from branches). In seriousness, this is a chilling recording with crackling production that thankfully lets the sore edges hang out in their full glory. There are cherry trees, gold food, the morning sun and the sky above. Jansch is in that delightful shade of gray between the American south and British crybabys like Nick Drake. He holds up well.

New York News: Part Two

2009-02-12T16:07:00.000-08:00

Here's the news from Fun City:

A-Rod, baseball player, Bronx, NY admitted steroid usage from 2001-2003. He blamed the culture. There are still questions over his tan and lips.

In Brownsville, BK, Akeem Harvey was surprised when he picked up a .357 and was shot in the face by a rookie cop. He is stable. Neighbors claim he is a good egg.

10am, Canal Street, Chinatown, New York, NY - a pedestrian was run over by a stray van. Unidentified gender. They laid like a sack of blankets in the street. A few head rubs and it was a-ok.

Oh The Disconnect

2009-02-11T11:43:00.000-08:00

If you have any interest in delving deeper into how the media is borderline retarded (and most certainly braindead) in regards to economics, please click here and watch this clip. It features Nassim Taleb - author of The Black Swan - and Nouriel Roubini of the RGE Monitor. These two are widely credited with predicting our bleak financial times, but it's not just empty theorizing. These two can teach us a thing or two about what we need to do. Hint: It's much, much bigger than what Obama and the weak, centrist change machine is suggesting in Washington.

Spoiler: The media ask them for hot stock tips.

Yes... stock tips... It's really an incredible thing to watch these idiots press the only intellectuals on the show for neat, cool investment strategies. Taleb calls them out and reprimands the anchors for not listening or understanding his points. They counter with the opinion that it's just soooo crazy Bill Gates waited in line to hear these economists speak. It must be a real panic now.

It goes back and forth.

Ultimately, the clip is a telltale example of just how irresponsible the media is on the subject. They don't understand (or are unwilling to present - who knows?) the factors at play. They repeat catch phrases like "doom and gloom" over and over, but don't assign any guide as to what that phrase means. They think the worst is over and we're on our way back.

Their treatment of Taleb and Roubini is similar to that of circus freaks. Their treatment is similar to that of the chronically depressed or Marxists or Freudians. It seems like anytime someone tries to present an actual idea on TV, they are depicted as some intellectual weirdo that's trying to bum everyone out. Well, those media bums deserve a bummer for once.

Aging and Memory

2009-02-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

What is the relation between aging and memory? What is the relation between introversion and the suppressed material we bottle up? How does this suppressed material relate to what we remember? OK. This already got too heady. My blogging fears are realized.

There's clearly no correlation between how memory evolves as we (in a universal sense) get older. Personally, I've found that my memories are intimately filtered through music, film and literature. I can remember the days and nights of almost every movie I've seen at a theater. Yet more than the plots, I recall who was there, what we did before and after, and even particular opinions about a film. I'll never forget the day we saw Jurassic Park III, and it has nothing to do with the movie. My friend Kim loved it (which is ridiculous), but this made her all the more sweet and adorable that day. We were in a parking lot at El Con mall. It was sunny and hot. The older I get, the more days like this I remember.

Music might play an even bigger role for me. I remember what I listened to while driving on road trips all over the southwest. I remember how I listened to a Clipse album with my friend Jason for the first time as he put together a set of wooden chairs. In a sense, every night we sat in those wooden chairs and talked shop was a direct relation to that memory. I filtered a series of people, conversations and objects through a rap album that has nothing at all to do with where things went.

Music also creates involuntary memories for me. It can trigger a boulder at the peak of Muir Woods as I shared a sandwich with my sister, or the feeling of walking up to a door in the rain during my first day as a professional.

On the question of how introversion and suppression relates to our memories, I find myself coming back to this video project where Bush's daily photos are viewed and morphed over the course of 31 months. His aging is apparent. His souring attitude is apparent. Yet most interestingly, the rapid aging might be the culmination of having to suppress his real feelings, outlooks and personality through time. All memories are bottled up. I'm sure as the President you don't remember everything, but internal haunting can sure cause some wrinkles.

Finally, how does suppression relate to what we remember? Recluses, writers, drifters, librarians, the depressed and security guards spend a lot of time alone. I wonder if they internalize so many memories and thoughts that it becomes too much. The past must weigh this group down much of the time. Those that constantly discuss memories and open their lives like books often isolate very particular moments that they emphasize again and again. Talk to any senior citizen that loves to talk. They will inevitably have 9 or 10 memories that they return to over and over again. Talk to any senior citizen that doesn't talk. They just might look haunted.

I'll Pay You Next Week (Or Something)

2009-02-09T12:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, he's an improvement over GWB, but let's get over that basic fact and get down to work. Paul Krugman - whom i refer to as "my main man" more than any other columnist - has an excellent piece today. It points out how Obama's delusional need to try to act like there is change in Washington and make it appear that everyone is working together has helped create a stimulus without the necessary balls:

But how did this happen? I blame President Obama’s belief that he can transcend the partisan divide — a belief that warped his economic strategy.

After all, many people expected Mr. Obama to come out with a really strong stimulus plan, reflecting both the economy’s dire straits and his own electoral mandate.

Instead, however, he offered a plan that was clearly both too small and too heavily reliant on tax cuts. Why? Because he wanted the plan to have broad bipartisan support, and believed that it would. Not long ago administration strategists were talking about getting 80 or more votes in the Senate.

This lands somewhere between politics-as-usual and a high school popularity contest. Remember how GWB didn't give a shit about the other side? Remember how he took a mandate after winning the election by 1-2%? Obama needs to get to work, take advantage of his position and stop this bullshit.

Krugman has continually pointed out that the stimulus is too small to reverse our course. It's clear that Obama wanted the perception that comes with not hitting a trillion dollars, even though that's what is needed to get things moving. The REAL left wants someone who will balance out the last 8 years. What we really want is a bizarro Bush for US.

Obama gave a late Christmas gift to conservatives by allowing them to frame the economic debate. Yes, their warped conception of free market capitalism had a huge role in the mess. Yes, the idea of widespread tax cuts could be effective, but without a huge influx of cash to states (who can get rolling on public works projects and hire people) it's not nearly enough. Yes, they lost and need to shut up for a second while the winners try something. They don't deserve a voice in this one. We need something actually new. New, this bill is not.

I will never call myself a democrat, because - as Obama's actions demonstrate yet again - it's the party of sissies. It's the party of aging, rich baby boomers that feigns a populist stance to win votes. It's just being savvy, like Bush going after his coalition of hawks, bible thumpers and Chicago School disciples. America is still a right nation. Governor Ahhnold in California made some waves during the campaign when he referred to Obama as an "economic girly man," but you know, I think the Terminator might be right in this case. Man up!

One

2009-02-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

2009 might be the year of one. Isolating one idea, object, situation or set of aesthetics and delving in with some depth. It's about chipping off the corners. It's about trying to capture the purity of a single thing. I think it's impossible, but it seems like a valuable exercise for honing the brain.

Here are some one songs. Click to stream. Right click/save thing to download. These are available for one week.

Ghostface - One

A classic faux-Rza beat and one of the best Ghostface hooks (if you could call: "Devils plantin fear inside the black babies/ 50 cent sodas in the hood, they go crazy" a hook). This is the wordsmith at a powerful peak. I'm not sure if the reference to "one" is alluding to the 5 percent nation of islam. Maybe I should reference my Wu Tang Manual and see if the abbot has a take on this matter.

White Magic - One-Note

One of my favorite shows of the past few years was the release party for White Magic's last EP at the The Yard on the Gowanus Canal. It was one of the first truly cold nights of the year. It bordered Halloween. There were fires. There were ghost breaths. The set was hypnotizing and turned into a legitimate campfire jam when things were cut down for running past curfew. This is an alternate version of their initial peon that was on Hisham Bharoocha's They Keep Me Smiling compilation for United Bamboo.

Lounge Lizards - One Big Yes

The title doesn't lie. This is a grand, affirmative debased jazz track from John Lurie's downtown Lounge Lizards. Marc Ribot contributes some stellar guitar work (as usual) and Lurie rips wild figures with an elegant vibrato. I have a strange and intimate connection with Lurie's work. I love almost all of it. His paintings are incredibly witty and obscene - just my style. His music is heartfelt, inventive and demonstrates tons of maturity over time. His film work (in both acting and scoring) is classic. I've heard he's very ill but can't find an update within the last couple years. This is unfortunate and would be a huge creative loss to the world. I wouldn't say that about many people, but Lurie is that good.

New York News: Part One

2009-02-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

Félix Fénéon's Novels In Three Lines came as a revelation to those with a penchant for modernist literature. Stories of crime, death, politics and misfiring weapons are boiled down to little pods of news and literature. One of the allures of the project was that Fénéon' maintained a resolute anonymity. I clearly can't replicate that on this blog, but I'm going to try my hand at a few each week nonetheless. Here's the news from Fun City:

Joe Ades, seller of peelers, died at 75. Cause must be old age. Sources didn't say. Each time a real New Yorker dies, a Chipotle cries. Let's peel a carrot in his honor.

Outrage! The poor souls who crashed into the Hudson on US Airways flight 1549 cry foul. The airline is stingy, they say. You almost die and all you get is first class for a year? Me: have you tried the salmon?

Nick Haramis, writer, New York, NY, attempted a late night snack at Corner Bistro in Greenwich Village. The waiter called him a faggot, threw him on the floor and sucker punched his boyfriend.

Charles G. Hogg, groundhog, Staten Island, NY, bit Mayor Bloomberg's hand. No charges have been pressed, but the mayor is amenable should the DA choose to do so.

(Back To) The Era Of Chains

2009-02-04T16:33:00.000-08:00

Cue last Saturday evening. I walk from a friend's show at the Upright Citizens Brigade to meet some family for dinner. There's never much shaking in Chelsea - a few shady video stores, a few Starbucks and lots of cleanliness. Every place seems empty. The recession continues to hit hard.

And then, behold! A restaurant is filled - no, packed! - to the gills. There are too many people milling around in the front. Yes, it's probably 20 degrees out, but anxious eaters pour into the streets and line up. No, it's not Gramercy Tavern. No, it's not Mesa Grill (or whatever). This is fucking Olive Garden.

Amazing, right? No one has any money, yet they'll gladly stand in the cold for a never-ending pasta bowl, salad, breadsticks or water. What value! Now, I'll be the first to admit that I rarely venture above 14th street if it's not for business purposes, but this seemed really odd (even for Manhattan). These weren't really tourists. It wasn't that sort of area. This was the midtown where people live - not Times Square.

I found the sight fascinating in the context of recent news about McDonald's rebound from irrelevancy. In 2008, while everything else crashed, McDonald's stock went up over six percent. This is pretty astronomical (and the only other comparable company to show gains was Walmart).

So, now the question: what do all of these stores have in common? Olive Garden, McDonald's and Walmart are all chains that target poverty by offering deals that are good (only in the theory). Perhaps we can call this the new Era of Chains.

OG offers those unlimited, never-ending meals, but they generally have a very poor quality. How much does bread really cost? How much will you actually eat? I only know one person that can eat a pound of pasta in a sitting, and this is a skill cultivated after a lifetime of work. It also costs about a dollar when you do it at home. I doubt anyone is going to Olive Garden for the scene.

McDonald's has a similar thing going. A value meal that's called a "value meal" is NY must be a good deal. Real talk: the values are locked in around 7 or 8 bucks minimum if you want anything close to a full meal. That's decent, but there are numerous other great options in the city that are way cheaper, less sterile and more conducive to actually sharing a meal with someone.

Walmart has everything. It's all cheaper than anywhere else, too. Fortunately, we don't have to deal with Walmart in New York. H. Lee Scott Jr. - CEO - remarked a few years ago that it surely wasn't worth the effort to penetrate a city that hates you. He was right. Then. Now? Who knows...

I'm going to Wendy's.

Stark Naked

2009-02-03T16:24:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I commented on Point Blank – the brilliant film that stars Lee Marvin and features some of the most delightful asskicking ever set to the screen. Yet as great as John Boorman's adaptation is, the source material reigns even more superior. Richard Stark’s The Hunter is one of the most violent, hardboiled novels ever published. It goes by delightfully fast. The writing is so punchy you can feel the protagonist (if you can call him that) actually bruising you throughout the experience.

Stark is an alter ego of the comic crime idol Donald Westlake. His main character of the Stark series is Parker – an inimitable cold-hearted criminal who will lie, cheat and kill any cop, robber and all the poor souls in between. Beyond narrative, which is firmly entrenched in noir motifs, The Hunter is a firm, unwavering study in process and mechanics. The bare minimum revealed at all points. It’s naked text. Literary flourishes are decimated.

Microphone check:

He came across the room. Mal fell into the chair, he and the chair together to the floor, and now the woman sat up, bewildered, not yet frightened, blinking at him. She raised an arm to cover her breasts.

Mal was comical, a slapstick comedian, the way he got himself all tangled up in the chair and the dressing gown. His arms flailed around, searching for the pocket where the gun was. Parker came over to him and kicked the chair out of the way, and Mal came up at last with the gun in his hand, his face still slack but his movements jerkily fast, as though he were operated by strings.

Mal came up and around with the gun in his sweaty hand, but Parker reached out and took hold of the barrel and slipped the gun right out of his hand. And the metal of the butt showed darker and gleaming from his sweat.

Beside the pure excitement of this situation, the mechanics are notably bare. Like chess pieces, each move is definitive and deliberate. There's no long diatribes about hotel decor or emotional reactions. There's barely even a buildup, as the narrative returns to this moment from a flashback. It's pure process. Parker needs revenge. Parker gets revenge. Mal has no chance. Lots of the academics or New York Times types could learn a little something about writing from my man Richard Stark.

It's Finally Over

2009-02-02T13:35:00.000-08:00

It was well into the evening of February 1, 2009 when the postmodern era finally collapsed - dead on arrival. It was over 40 years old. No one really knows because the birth certificate is in a hidden safe somewhere in the advertising industry archives.

Now, I'm sure you're asking: Why was this not in the New York Times? Why no Huffington Post? Where is the coverage? Well, to answer simply: I invented it.

It all started at the Super Bowl half-time show. Bruce Springsteen with his faux rock grin grabbed the microphone like a 70s Elvis. He told us to back away from the guacamole dip. He told us to drop our chicken wings to the floor. (Thankfully, he left the six foot "best sandwich ever" graciously provided by my evening's hosts out of these imperatives.) Then he launched into a collage of nostalgic proportions with choirs, fireworks and an overdone knee slide which sent his crotch barreling into the camera like a canon ball into a dilapidated housing project wall.

In other words, this was something new.

I haven't quite figured it out yet. It has something to do with depression economics, George W. Bush back in Texas and this 12-minute performance. The Boss elevated his mediocre bar band music to a phenomenal, overblown height. He ignored calls for irony. He ignored calls for authenticity. He reverted back to a modernist mindset and used Glory Days to reach for heaven.

I'm sure some older men cried. I know most had tears from laughter in my vicinity. Everyone was entertained. Bruce had traced the history of cheesy vegas bullshit music and then performed an action painting on top. It was America in the Obama era. It was America completely ignoring that we're (either on the verge or) in a depression, and that things are going to get a lot worse. We're no longer in the pomo muddle, where things waver in the middle, where things are reappropriated and remixed. We're in something after that; where bar bands are idols, where fireworks are authentic again and a football stadium with nearly 100,000 fans is a microcosm for a world being rocked and high fiving with KFC stained palms. We can feel the highs and lows again.

This is an extreme time.

Rambling

2009-01-30T11:36:00.000-08:00

The three tracks below all demonstrate facets of one of my vague genre obsessions: outlaw country. Imagine yourself driving through the white sands of New Mexico. Imagine having a smoke under a Texas oil-drum. Imagine the nights in Arizona where nothing is happening and everyone is working on the communal project of smoking a bible. These are songs for those moments.

Click to stream. Click/right save thing to download. These will be available for a week.

Johnny Paycheck - I'm The Only Hell (My Mama Ever Raised)

Years before that conviction for statutory rape, Paycheck threw a bottle of Jack into a Hillsboro dumpster. A man approached. "Mr. Paycheck, if you'd be so kind, I'd love to invite you into my home for some deer meat and turtle soup. I just hunted the big one and the stews been marinating." Paycheck pulled out a .22 and shot the hick. His head was almost blown off. It was an act of self-defense. It was also 22 months in prison - an eye for eye situation where the sentence equals your gun gauge.

Bill Callahan - A Man Needs A Woman Or A Man To Be A Man

This is a great post-Smog track. Callahan receives adequate praise for his solitary songwriting ability (which is certainly top-notch), but critics often fail to discuss the winking humor in his work. This is a strange sort of postmodern road song. Genders are blurred, yet the spirit of people like Johnny Paycheck clacks through the rollicking beat. Fireworks celebrate love of all kinds through all ages.

Merle Haggard - I'm Gonna Break Every Heart I Can

Merle is the starting quarterback in my fantasy football league. He quit Valium on a doctor's recommendation then switched to grass. This was after he hated hippies. This was before he got hooked. In the meantime, he decimated hearts like a dustbowl Genghis Khan. I don't know if he has the opportunity to break hearts anymore. There's not a lot of love for Merle. Everyone went to the altar of Johnny Cash and threw away their directions.

Breaking Up

2009-01-29T15:56:00.000-08:00

I was staring at the bildungsroman mounting in concentric circles around your Adam's apple. No - they were tree rings. The tree rings of your neck.

Instead of funneling my sight towards your face or brain, the budding adulthood of your neck led me sideways. It led me onto the sidewalks. Your body was fuzzy. Your body was a thumbtack on a panoramic photocopy of West Broadway.

Then I went to my secret noodle place. I slurped with a pre 9/11 mindset.

Complete Language

2009-01-28T16:20:00.000-08:00

In his essay entitled The Task of the Translator, Walter Benjamin writes:

A real translation is transparent; it does not cover the original, does not block its light, but allows the pure language, as though reinforced by its own medium, to shine upon the original all the more fully. This may be achieved, above all, by a literal rendering of the syntax which provides words rather than sentences to be the primary element of the translator. For if the sentence is the wall before the language of the original, literalness is the arcade.

When applied to musical forms (in particular, cover songs), this quote becomes all the more interesting. The cover song is not an actual cover in Benjamin's eyes. It's a translation of an original and deserves to be as transparent as possible. By taking the pure language and words of the original, we can knock down the formalist musical "walls" (which function like sentences - as in, how the pure material is organized). Think of the blues singer as storyteller and how those songs spread through history in a plethora of forms.

This idea keeps coming up in outlines for my Will Oldham article. Oldham often covers himself, leaving the pure language as a template, yet changing everything from instrumental parts and textures to the overall tone of a piece. The words are left to be pure and direct elements. Everything else is rearranged and rebuilt. This actually adds to the song, though. Each time there's a new translation, the song is serialized and completed again. Then, each time any of these translations is experienced by the listener, it's completed another time. All of these completions build up into an "arcade"-like multiplicity of the song. Each one is a small step towards the pure song.

Writing In Grass

2009-01-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

In Tucson, most people starting smoking grass early in high school. There was the usual cross-section. Some people used it for intellectual, creative and artistic stimulation. Some people used it for boredom; some to be part of a group. Some people - they would later join frats - used it to take everything too far. This is demonstrated through this population's love of Hunter S. Thompson with his reds and blues in the trunk or the fact that High Times is still published.

You might not realize that there are actually intelligent writings about grass. The most influential example is Baudelaire and his treatise called Artificial Paradises. Here, we find the lyric poet in the midst of some heady experimentation with a keen documentarian impulse. This is no "Bud Of The Month" centerfold.

The slightest ambiguities, the most inexplicable transpositions of ideas take place. In sounds there is color; in colors there is a music... You are sitting and smoking; you believe that you are sitting in your pipe, and that *your pipe* is smoking *you*; you are exhaling *yourself* in bluish clouds.

This fantasy goes on for an eternity. A lucid interval, and a great expenditure of effort, permit you to look at the clock. The eternity turns out to have been only a minute.

The third phase... is something beyond description. It is what the Orientals call *kef*; it is complete happiness. There is nothing whirling and tumultuous about it. It is a calm and placid beatitude. Every philosophical problem is resolved. Every difficult question that presents a point of contention for theologians, and brings despair to thoughtful men, becomes clear and transparent. Every contradiction is reconciled. Man has surpassed the gods.

This is sort of ridiculous, but it's an interesting document because of the resolute insistence on empiricism (and how that easily slips away into poetic flourishes throughout his procedure). How can every philosophical problem be resolved? How can everything become clear and transparent? How can anyone object to any of this?

Walter Benjamin certainly didn't object. He was so inspired by Baudelaire's scientifically stoned existence that he had to undertake his own experiments. The theorist wrote a letter to Ernst Schoen in 1919 after reading Artificial Paradises and claimed that "it will be necessary to repeat this attempt independently of the book." He took it seriously, too. Instead of recreational usage, Benjamin would ingest extreme quantities in one swoop. He didn't want to get high. He wanted "profane illumination." Here are a few of his findings:

1. Oven turns into cat.

2. I'd like to be transformed into a mouse mountain. (followed by "repeated short bursts of laughter")

3. Eating belongs to another world.

4. The subject finds himself inexplicably amused by the dullest of political slogans.

Ok. Maybe not profane illumination, but now we know why all the stoners love Obama.

Bedtime Reading

2009-01-26T13:32:00.000-08:00

So I have this horrible thing that happens when I get in bed sometimes. It's not quite insomnia, but feeds from the same trough. It's not really depression, but went to high school with sadness' sadistic father. It's bizarre, yet I know plenty who join me in my plague: namely, the investigation, research, dissemination and internalization of serial killer and dictator stories.

Now, perhaps more strangely, it's the oratory and auditory of documents and speeches that really gets to me rather than the actual acts of violence. Watch a Hitler speech. Watch the video of Saddam being hanged. The stories around these singular events are well known to me - ingrained in my skin almost - yet the single sight of them in full grotesque glory is more than enough to take me past the 6am mark. It's hard to stop the rattling once it starts.

There's been at least six nights in my life where the Son of Sam has taken over my world. Yes, I understand he was caught. Yes, I understand he's a born again Christian and a "good dude" these days. Yes, I also heard that he's writing a book called The Son Of Hope or something like that. But more than his murders or anything he's doing now, it's those notes he sent to the police and Jimmy Breslin. Here's part of the Breslin one:

Hello from the gutters of N.Y.C. which are filled with dog manure, vomit, stale wine, urine and blood. Hello from the sewers of N.Y.C. which swallow up these delicacies when they are washed away by the sweeper trucks. Hello from the cracks in the sidewalks of N.Y.C. and from the ants that dwell in these cracks and feed in the dried blood of the dead that has settled into the cracks. J.B., I'm just dropping you a line to let you know that I appreciate your interest in those recent and horrendous .44 killings. I also want to tell you that I read your column daily and I find it quite informative. Tell me Jim, what will you have for July twenty-ninth? You can forget about me if you like because I don't care for publicity. However you must not forget Donna Lauria and you cannot let the people forget her either. She was a very, very sweet girl but Sam's a thirsty lad and he won't let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood. Mr. Breslin, sir, don't think that because you haven't heard from me for a while that I went to sleep. No, rather, I am still here.

This text functions as a primordial utterance throughout my after hours brain. "I am still here" transports Berkowitz in my bedroom (or better yet, on my fire escape... slowly climbing up). He's actually everywhere. Who am I kidding? I'm generally a nerves-of-steel sort of guy, but the blood thirst above can easily destroy my present, making me flinch every moment the radiator kicks in.

I'm On Fire

2009-01-22T14:05:00.000-08:00

Last week I curated a selection of cold songs, so let's make this easy on our brains and get some burning tracks this time.

1. I've never set myself on fire, but I would imagine it could be kinda fun.

2. That being said, I've burnt a copy of Jane Eyre as well as a dormant cell phone that I had stored in my desk for too long. The Sprint was my big surprise of the night, but of course I had no clue this is an extremely dangerous undertaking. Luckily Jason Worrell - my good friend - is close to a war hero. He grabbed a shovel and tossed the thing into the alley.

3. Everyone else ran, which I suppose is a common reaction when flammable things start to burn.

Click to stream. Right click/save thing to download. These will be here until next week.

The Zs - B Is For Burning

It pains me a little bit - oh, music ego - that I was a relative latecomer on The Zs. I saw them for the first time at a Gang Gang Dance show a few months ago and was immediately blown away. This is another true record nerd dream band (sort of like Naked City, which was covered earlier this week). Check the following off your list: skronk jazz, prog, minimalism, breakneck speed and mindblowing complexity. Mix guitar, drums and tenor sax in a coked-out jazz stew for the post-millennial set.

Palace Brothers - You Will Miss Me When I Burn

My swooning over Will Oldham is no secret to anyone who knows me and has read this blog. This is one of the classics. "When you have no one, no one can hurt you." It's simple, pragmatic a bit biblical and so tried and true there's not much more that needs to be said.

Teenage Jesus & The Jerks - Burning Rubber

This cut is one of most abrasive, disgusting pieces of trash rock ever recorded. Lydia Lunch's screams are a pure nightmare. It's the musical equivalent of those guys piling cans into their wheelbarrow on the Bowery in 1979, blowtorch construction and squatters sleeping through an insurance slumlord burning.

Riot Text

2009-01-21T15:30:00.001-08:00

It's a near riot at the Tompkins Square library. School has been out for 2 hours and these hooligans have nowhere to loiter but in our branch. Sociality is dead. They stand there - personal bubbles vanquished - and say not a word to one another. We encourage reading, but a buried head too closely resembles the grave for my taste. They look like cattle preparing for slaughter. Maybe the slaughter will be us - the librarians - or maybe this text slaughters their dreams. Who knows!

Reading can be dangerous.

More Naked?

2009-01-20T14:57:00.001-08:00

We've touched upon Weegee as the origin of The Naked City (at least within artistic projects), yet the term goes way extends into some interesting realms other than the film.

Guy Debord used the term in one of his famed psychogeographical topology experiments. What you see above is actually a map of Paris, which premiered in the Situationist's Premiere Exposition de Psychgeographie (sorry French - I don't do accents) in 1957. In order to produce this - and other subjective maps - Debord practiced "the integration of past or present artistic production into a superior environment construction." This means existing maps, pieces of art and personal relationships to one's environment create unique, remixed visions of the city. He felt these maps were improvements over normal civic maps, which I agree with in an intellectual (aka they are cool) sense, but I wouldn't take this over a crisp subway map.

The idea of integrating the past and present (with a dash of futurist ideas) is no longer strange in the world of music, yet it certainly came as second nature to John Zorn's Naked City - a mishmash genre clusterfuck project that he started in NYC in the 80s. Most people nowadays know Zorn from The Stone or some strange experimental hobnob, but Naked City is still his most wild undertaking in some ways. Mixing elements of free jazz, prog rock, death metal, vocal experimentation, hardcore, dub (and the list goes on and on and on and on), Zorn creates his own interpretation of New York. Everything is stripped down to pure elements and it's all the more abrasive and strange for it. It's also just as goofy as the city itself.

The Naked City On Fire

2009-01-19T12:45:00.000-08:00

The Naked City - Jules Dassin's 1948 noir - is well worth viewing if you're into modern cinema shot on the streets of New York. While the story is a bit slow-moving and cliche (too much talk - not enough death), the chase scenes are truly magnificent for such an early attempt. The best is, of course, the finale where our foreign wrestler/harmonica player/villain outruns the cops all the way to the Williamsburg Bridge. He runs out of options and heaves himself up an Esher staircase to the very top of the structure where he lingers over both Manhattan and Brooklyn shooting down at the cops. They eventually take him down (in all ways you're thinking).

The photo in this post is a famous shot by Weegee from his book The Naked City. It preceded the film by about 3 years and shares few concrete relations other than a stark, gritty realization of a stark, gritty city. Interesting that within both Naked Cities there are raging fires from trashcans, buildings and waste that somehow become prominent public gathering spots. It's a familiar site. New Yorkers huddle around to watch the flames with their coffee mugs and families. They make snide remarks about unrelated things and take joy in the danger that their time could come any moment.

There's also the loner with an equally blase reaction to the fire. He or she hangs out the window reading a book with a cigarette. It's good candlelight.

This phenomenon is articulated better than I could ever approach in Luc Sante's amazing essay entitled My Lost City. He writes:

For those of us who had been in the city for a while, squalor was not an issue. Most of the city was squalid. If this troubled you, you left, and if you were taken by the romance of it, a long regimen of squalor in everyday life would eventually scrub your illusions gray. At this remove I'm sometimes retrospectively amazed by what I took for granted. Large fires a few blocks away every night for a couple of years would seem conducive to a perpetually troubled state of mind, but they just became weather. I spent the summer of 1975 in a top-floor apartment on 107th Street, where at night the windows were lit by the glow of fires along Amsterdam Avenue. A sanitation strike was in progress, and mounds of refuse, reeking in the heat, decorated the curbs of every neighborhood, not excepting those whose houses were manned by doormen. Here, though, instead of being double-bagged in plastic, they were simply set on fire every night. The spectacle achieved the transition from apocalyptic to dully normal in a matter of days.

That final sentence could be a great springboard for a discussion of our current recession/depression/doom. Maybe another time.

Made In USA

2009-01-16T15:08:00.000-08:00

Last Friday night I attended one of the US premiere screenings of Jean-Luc Godard's "lost masterpiece" Made In USA. The film was made in 1966 and shown internationally, so the long wait for American audiences created an interesting atmosphere at the screening. Public record claims that the lack of distribution back then was due to the fact that the plot and writing heavily ripped-off The Big Sleep, but I have to suspect that it was more likely because of the extreme anti-US sentiment throughout. This attitude manifests itself with some serious humor now and then, particularly in a great scene where Anna Karina questions two gangster stalkers as to their names and gets Robert McNamera and Richard Nixon as responses.

I thought the film was really successful overall. It's probably not amongst Godard's best work, but it certainly stands above most other films of the era (and by extension, ever). The cinematography - and use of color in particular - is expertly executed and unique. See Anna Karina in a vibrant yellow dress drenched against a nondescript yellow wall and bleached in voluminous amounts of sunlight. There's little to no actual narrative, but that's not what these films are about.

Since I was a youngster I was always way more interested in plays on formalism than narratives. From Burroughs to early French New Wave-inspired filmmakers like Jim Jarmusch, I'm a sucker for merging shapes, color, texture, ambiance, a dash of hardboil and a general reverence yet explosion of genre memes. I never cared too much for good story told in an overly traditional matter.

Last night I watched the movie Point Blank in bed. It also has all of these things and can be seen in retrospect as an exercise that takes great influence and pleasure from Godard's work in films like Made In USA. On the surface you see Lee Marvin fucking a lot of people up. We can all agree that this alone is a fantastic premise for a film, but John Boorman - the director - really takes it all to the next level. The minimal plot is augmented with amazing cinematography that merges psychedelic motifs with 60s socal corporate hues and forms a dazzling basis to present a sort of neo-noir revenge story. It was also a time when American filmmakers weren't so scared to experiment with form and can serve as a lesson to our current breed of Hollywood lackeys that even if you have something of a cliche story, it's not too much to ask that you present something new and original with your colors, cuts and presentation. Onward!

Cold Songs

2009-01-14T23:38:00.000-08:00

Word on the street dictates that on Friday night the temperature will drop to 2 degrees with a windchill of -17. Now, I can't really believe this considering the rampant sensationalism we all know has come to define the meteorology community. (Remember last weekend when we were in for a real snowstorm of the century that really wasn't a big deal whatsoever?) In any event, here are a few cold songs. Click the tracks to stream or do the right click/save thing to download while they last.

Lee Hazelwood - Cold Hard Times

I discovered the fabulous Cowboy In Sweden from somebody somewhere and it has been in constant rotation ever since. Like Nick Drake if he decided not be a crybaby for a sec or like some dream amalgamation of Serge and a less-of-a-redneck Johnny Paycheck, this is a solid marriage of pop art and country.

Mount Eerie - Cold Mountain

Phil Elverum speaks to me in two ways - directly or directly with a lil condescension. This is one of his better later tracks from a new compilation called Dawn, which collects the series of songs and journal entries he composed during a self-imposed exile in the backwoods of Norway. I'd never be one to claim that authentic authorship of a song depends on experience, but in this case it's clear that Phil really knows the cold mountain intimately. My only cold mountain is the frozen black ice created by the bodega guys throwing their water into the street during subzero weather.

Blind Willie Johnson - Dark Was The Night - Cold Was The Ground

This is clearly one of the best songs ever. Too much has been written about it (and good work, too) that I'll refrain from commenting. If you have the means, track down the fifth issue of Yeti for a great article on why this is such a powerful piece.

Block History

2009-01-14T15:12:00.000-08:00

One of the most fascinating (or sometimes, brutally annoying) parts of my apartment is that it's housed in a tenement building that was built in the early 1900s. Sometimes the water doesn't turn on. Sometimes water spews out of radiator valves. Sometimes - well, once every 40 years - someone moves in with 40 cats and lets them piss all over the downstairs, which provides a welcoming salute to all who enter. It has its charm.

The photo above is from the corner of S3rd Street and Driggs Avenue in 1935. There's the church on the corner, which I now consider more of a gathering spot for the middle school corner boys. One morning I was sipping coffee and saw a group of 12 year olds beating up a girl on the hood of a car. Another group broke it up and chased them down the street. Out of sight and out of mind.

The bigger building is where I live. My apartment is in the back and at the very top, so I have a view of the skyline (soon to be completely obstructed by condominiums and giant Apple stores) and the intersection where this photograph was taken. Most people in Brooklyn think things change far too rapidly and I often remind them of the ghosts that haunt nearly every building or locale that hasn't been torn down. This image refutes both of these mindsets in a way. It implies that even though we think things are changing, they haven't really changed too much at all. My home hasn't aged a day in 75 years. It isn't a ghost. It just continues to stand like always.

Copy Protection and The Dirty Virgin

2009-01-12T15:15:00.000-08:00

I'm writing a feature for the NYPress on Will Oldham - one of my heroes and my go-to claim for the best songwriter of the last 25 years - and in preparation I received a promotional copy of his new record from Drag City. It arrived on Saturday afternoon after a long night of celebration and I actually walked with the package through the snow as I made my way to the coffeeshop in order to become human again. The cover was great. The note from Bonny's desk was great. I finished eating and headed upstairs to my apartment to listen.

Watch as this becomes my first experience with a copy protected disc. At least twice per song a voice cuts into the record and announces: "You are listening to a promotional copy of Beware by Bonnie 'Prince' Billy." Watch as it becomes so bothersome that initial eyerolling turns to full body shakes each time the sound cuts out. Watch as I also point out that it doesn't stop the song in order to ruin all momentum. This is as if you were watching a movie and someone interrupts the video and sound for 10 seconds and decides to just leave that part out, because, really, what does it matter?

Copy protection is like the dirty virgin above. Like the virgin, the record will tease you with a simulation of reality. Yes, you have the real record except for these swaths of missing noise. Like the virgin, copy protection is a puzzle. Fill in those swaths with the lyric sheet you were graciously supplied with. Like the virgin, this disc is practically begging you to hit it (one way or another).

From what I can gather, Will Oldham has made another truly great record. It's expansive, cinematic and very well thought-out. The themes are massive as well as the instrumentation. I just can't get those promo voices out of my head. They'll haunt me, they'll haunt me.

Eating Habits In Prison

2009-01-09T13:40:00.000-08:00

Click on the right for a strange blurb/article on Czolgosz's habits in prison. This little piece contains a technique that I wish papers would revive nowadays: the first person account from civil servant as quasi-celebrity. Warden Mead is apparently held in such high esteem that he doesn't even need a last name or additional credentials to be the only notable source for the article.

I also wish we could request body parts from villains in this day and age. I doubt Mead actually followed through and sent parts of the assassin's brain to fans or haters, but it's a novel idea nonetheless. It would temporarily freak me out at night now and then, but wouldn't it be nice to place a jar with Pinochet brains next to my Tiger Woods autographed golf ball or polaroid of my father playing tenor saxophone upstate?

McKinley And The Volcano Mouth

2009-01-08T11:24:00.001-08:00

Click the image to access an article in the NYTimes that discusses church reaction in McKinley's post-shooting atmosphere. The catholics present a unified prayer across the city (and world) that denounces the "dastardly crime," and asks all congregation members to pray for a speedy recovery. My personal favorite prayer comes from Rev. Dr. Pierson of the First Baptist Church - then at 79th st. and Broadway - who writes:

We are on the mouth of a volcano. Capital and labor seem to be at war, and I do not know what the consequences will be. It is a most deplorable situation. Under the present system of government it seems as though the poor man was repelled even from the house of worship. There are monopolies now in groups of small numbers of autocrats. They seem to control everything. I think the time will come in a short period when all this will be changed. We must do it, however, with the ballot, and not with the bullet.

The Rev is clearly a smart man to some extent and sees a latent problem in both American and global politics that boiled over soon enough with communist revolutions in Russia and a few socialist evolutions that actually came "with the ballot." Of course, this is the kind of prayer or speech that would be called unpatriotic nowadays. The followers of Milton Friedman roll their eyes (or in their graves) at statements like this.

The Rev rightly points out how the debate between capital and labor has played out through U.S. history, but he's still too idealistic - read: naive - to understand that bullets are always more effective. The president DID end up dying. Chile, Argentina, Poland, etc. as free market nations - read: disasters - could have never happened without bullets. Even in the cases like Poland where the ballots clearly mandated a labor favoritism, a few backroom deals and more than a few bullets corrected that in favor of capital.

McKinley's assassination sure didn't move the U.S. any closer to anarchy, but it was a (disgustingly) effective way to create terror and place emphasis on extreme leftist politics. I doubt a few votes in the ballot box would have accomplished the same thing. My next post will be an editorial that came the day after the shooting which rips Emma Goldman apart. It's interesting how Goldman's policies are outlined in detail through the venom.

New Piece In Time Out New York

2009-01-07T23:23:00.000-08:00

I wrote a profile on Michael Olajide Jr. - a boxer-turned-fitness junkie - which you can read here.

How McKinley Happened

2009-01-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

Whoa. That's really small, but I guarantee you will love what you find upon clicking through. I've spent a good chunk of my afternoon in the NYPL on a research mission from God (my brain - 5% nation of islam - what?) in order to dig up some primary sources on McKinley's assassination. I now have a veritable wealth of material and will slowly post and comment upon each article as they all present very different and interesting takes on the matter.

The first is the core of the assassination - a NYTimes account as hardboiled and delightfully sinister as any great crime novel. I particularly enjoy the section headings, which present an evolving sense of thrill while detailing the crime, initial crowd reaction and the near lynching.

It begins with an almost wholesome byline - very innocent - that takes on a few great meanings. "How The Deed Was Done" implies the shooting is a singular act, yet "deed" makes it seem small. Sometimes I do a good deed for my neighbor by holding the front door to my apartment building open or carrying some groceries up a couple flights of stairs.

Then, "The Assassin Appears." This adds a certain theatrical element to the day. I could imagine this moment in a cheesy high school play with curtains rising to reveal the hidden hand with dingy home depot lightbulbs. Could McKinley have noticed his appearance in any way? I doubt it. The presidential handshake session is akin to factory workers engaging in mechanical reproduction. A quick "hello," a focused "what's on your mind," a firm shake - rinse. repeat.

The shots are fired and "Confusion Reigns." I'm into this heading, which details how the crowd falls into a piercing silence. We know that silence well. Bolano referred to it as the moment of silence after you hear something truly beautiful (or something to that effect). I would guess that there's a universal reaction when a loud blast or bang occurs. Everyone shuts the fuck up. Everyone looks around in every direction.

Of course, this never lasts long. The crowd pounces and our Polish friend ends up more than a bit bloody. McKinley is "In The Hospital." We now know how great everything looked by the ridiculous telegram updates sent out by the press corps. We also know about the gangrene and eventual death. In retrospect, this reminds me of one of those horrible movie moments where a Bruce Willis is on the astroid and we know that the explosion equals his certain death. At least that's what I think happened in Armageddon. I can't remember because I was crying too much.

I'll let the last section speak for itself. The language is lively and powerful. You can feel the scene in this one:

Crowd Ready To Lynch

... In a few minutes the crowd had grown from tens to hundreds, and these in turn quickly swelled to thousands, until the street was completely blocked by a surging mass of eager humanity. It was at this juncture that some one raised the cry of "Lynch him!" Like a flash the cry was taken up, and the whole crowd re-echoed the cry, "Lynch him!" "Hang him!" Closer the crowd surged forward...

More on this later in the week. I think next I'll detail the reaction within New York City churches.

The President No One Cares About

2009-01-05T21:05:00.000-08:00

I've been in the studio for the past week (or so) with my associate and bandmate Mike Jacobs working on our new record. Based on a few live shows and comments from innocent bystanders the pop hit is a track called "You're Like William McKinley" - a sweet love song by our standards. The first chorus is as follows:

You are like my main man William McKinley
In that nobody
Gives a fuck about you
Like I do

My infatuation with forgotten presidents surely seeped into the writing process, but I never realized how much the story of Kaiser Vilhelm McKinley fits my style. His assassination is a mere historical footnote to quirky nerds, and most people have no clue who the dude is. You might get one of those "rings a bell ::shrug::" numbers or a crooked Pinochet stare back.

Court TV - a fantastic Web site for people who like to drink 9 espressos and stay up all night reading about serial killers and hallucinating - has an admirable feature on the case. The assassin was a confused young man named Leon Franz Czologosz. Somehow (nutjob!) influenced by Emma Goldman, the famed anarchist, Czologosz decided to get the job done.

The handkerchief choked his Polish immigrant hand - a pathetic sort of yin and yang - said good morning to the president... pleasure to meet you in two shots.

Jim O' Rourke 3-Peat

2008-11-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

interview regarding computer composition (msp content)

"rain on tin"

awesome tenori-on jam

Sport & Psychogeography

2008-09-21T21:06:00.000-07:00

"The sectors of a city are decipherable, but the personal meaning they have for us is incommunicable, as is the secrecy of private life in general, regarding which we possess nothing but pitiful documents." - Guy Debord

Mixed Feelings

2008-09-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

"Mixed Feelings" - one of John Ashbery's poems from the stellar Self Portrait In A Convex Mirror - is one of my favorite poems.

I highly recommend listening to this 1975 reading from Buffalo.

Excerpt:

They look and act and feel. I wonder

How they got that way, but am not going to

Waste any more time thinking about them.

I have already forgotten them

Until some day in the not too distant future

When we meet possibly in the lounge of a modern airport,

They looking as astonishingly young and fresh as when this picture was made

But full of contradictory ideas, stupid ones as well as

Worthwhile ones, but all flooding the surface of our minds

As we babble about the sky and the weather and the forests of change.

Joanna Newsom = HSBC = UGH

2008-09-16T21:00:00.000-07:00

This is a good addition to the entry below. Shameful!

I don't know why she would degrade an otherwise excellent song with this faux-artistic commercial. Even though it's shot in a somewhat interesting manner, this is for a bank, people, a bank! Not OK.

Fan Expectation

2008-09-16T20:16:00.000-07:00

I've been reading a book that my good friend Anthony Sanchez sent over that's called Music In Youth Culture: A Lacanian Approach. It's written by jan jagodzinski - a Canadian theorist. I'm nearly finished, and will comment in more depth later, but I think it might be interesting to explore the following quote about the relationship between music artist and fan:

The postemotionality of these meetings - through the usual polite exchanges - is starkly shattered at times when there is the slightest engagement of truly bringing the two mutual realities of fan and star together in a forthright emotional exchange. Instead, often a sadomasochism prevails in the way fans are shown to humiliate themselves in an exchange for a bit of jouissance. There are moments where the fantasy turns into a nightmare on either side. A fan suffers a deep rejection and let-down when an idol(s) turns out not to be quite what the fan had in mind; or, a celebrity is taken aback by the forthright and devouring aggressivity of a fan who exposes the "impossibility" of their relationship continuing. Some fans plead for more time or want to sing, write poetry, and even"jam" with the band. These instances expose the fragility of identification, the belief in the ONE. The suffering that fans (addicts) undergo is often marked by a subjective destitution, their fantasies evaporate as their golden idol turns into a piece of shit. (238-39)

I find this to be an observation that's both interesting and a bit cliche. We have seen these scenarios countless times in film and reality television. It seems a bit more interesting to explore the phenomenon in relation to underground (or (gasp) indie) music culture.

When a band - say, Sonic Youth - begins to carve out a legendary career, there's a certain element of mystery, which translates to an undeniable authenticity. The fan relationship to records like Sister or Daydream Nation is one where hysteria is directed at the music. It's not necessarily important to understand the bodies of the creators, or even picture them as humans. Like when one finds an obscure book on a stoop, the artist/fan relationship is separated by the work itself.

The authenticity problem arises from public exposure and revelation of the mystery that drove the act's perceived purity in the first place. When Sonic Youth appears on the WB or puts their mix compilation in a Starbucks, the act creates a different scenario where the fan has a face-to-face relationship with the artist. The placement of reappropriated material in a Starbucks in order to attract new potential fans is a reprehensible disfigurement of hardcore fan fantasy and expectation. More than anything, it serves as a reminder that the artists are humans and sometimes they need to perform acts purely for capital.

I often question why bands like Sonic Youth don't instead choose money-making projects that are divorced from their art. There's nothing wrong with working other jobs in order to maintain the imaginary (yet functional) artistic purity and keep those authenticity fantasies alive. What drives the timelessness of certain records is that they can't be screwed with at a certain point. For example, J Dilla's final records obtain a mythical quality due to their mystery. Whatever humanity is inserted in the art (and there is much!) is still mediated by the work itself.

I accept the theory in the initial quotation. I only wish to add that music fans like myself are probably too blase to care that much about their idols and if they do "turn to shit." It doesn't offend me when Sonic Youth sells out. I understand their reasoning. But they provide an opening for a criticism that muddles matters more than necessary - they create oppositional appearance to the purity their fans hoisted them up with.

Babar

2008-09-16T00:21:00.000-07:00

The New Yorker published a great piece on Babar, which coincides with a new retrospective art exhibit at The Morgan Library & Museum.

The article delves into class relations within the Babar stories in an intriguing way, posing the series as comment on comfort in the bourgeoisie - the idea of a certain satisfaction in wearing your suit and crown everyday and traveling up and down the elevator over-and-over again. I've always enjoyed the multi-layered complexity of subversive children stories, and Babar - with its subtle emphasis on animal v. human, rich v. middle, etc. - is one of the best.

I witnessed a great complementary exhibition to both this article and drawing exhibit at The Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco. The preliminary Shrek drawings of William Steig were both crude and hilarious. Steig provided similar commentary on society, while appeasing the imaginative instincts (and needs) of small children.