Saturday, June 30, 2007
REAGAN'S PUNK ROCK. Reagan Youth by Spencer Ackerman Only at TNR OnlinePost date: 06.14.04 [ Editor's Note: This article has been corrected. ] By the time Ronald Reagan was laid to rest this weekend in Simi Valley, it seemed as if every aspect of his character, his presidency, and his legacy had been unearthed and examined. Not without justification--even Reagan's detractors conceded the late president's iconic stature. His supporters deified him, making Reagan almost metaphysically identical to the very concept of human liberty, and proclaiming freedom to be Reagan's greatest bequest. Yet some Reaganites seemed less than confident that their Reagan would be history's. Rush Limbaugh sought to interpret Reagan to the "millions of Americans under the age of 30 [who] have no concrete memory of Ronald Reagan's presidency," explaining in National Review that he "defines the utter beauty and blessing that is America and reminds us all of our destiny." But for a large portion of those under the age of 30, their portrait of Reagan emerged through another of Reagan's gifts to the country--one that went almost completely ignored throughout last week's memorials. They could tell Limbaugh that no accounting of Reagan's cultural legacy is complete without noting a simple truth: Ronald Reagan is responsible for some of the best punk rock ever recorded. While not as eloquent as Reagan's Brandenburg Gate address--Bad Religion perhaps best summarized the contemporaneous punk understanding of Reagan's America by declaring "Fuck Armageddon, this is hell"--the hardcore records of the early 1980s age a lot better than Knute Rockne, All American. As long as there are disaffected teenagers in America able to seek out (and, now, download) that era's music, Reaganites won't just have to battle liberal historians to convince young America that their vision of the Gipper is the right one. They'll have to go up against the Dead Kennedys. If Reagan embodied everything sunny and inspiring about the United States to his supporters, to the preternaturally angry punk rockers of the early '80s, he represented anomie, arbitrary authority, and an ignorance that was socially acceptable, even valued. At the dawn of the Reagan era, pioneering singer and guitarist Bob Mould was a student at St. Paul's Macalaster College. "I remember watching these kids getting up in the morning on my dorm floor, putting on a suit and tie and a briefcase, talking about this guy from California named Ronald Reagan and how he was going to be the next president," Mould told journalist Michael Azerrad. "And I'd be sitting there arguing with those fucks in speech class and poli sci and just hating that, thinking 'This is not acceptable behavior. This is not what we're supposed to be doing with our late teens.'" His response was to start the Minneapolis juggernaut Hüsker Dü, whose musical evolution away from the stifling formula of hardcore punk--blisteringly fast rhythms with the barest patina of melody, performed with all the precision of a prison tattoo--would lead to some of the greatest rock and roll of the decade. The same held for Joey Keithley, who didn't let his Canadian citizenship stand in the way of his Reagan-hatred. "I didn't like the rock 'n' roll I was hearing, and I didn't like Ronald Reagan," he recently recalled, explaining why he started hardcore legend D.O.A. and rechristened himself Joey Shithead. The punk assault on Reagan was relentless. A bunch of Queens high school students called themselves Reagan Youth. Their eponymous anthem took the parallel to its logical conclusion and seig-heiled the president during the chorus. Michigan's gloriously primitive Crucifucks saluted Reagan's would-be assassin in "Hinckley Had a Vision." The Berkeley-based punk rock bible Maximumrocknroll published anti-Reagan screeds in practically every issue. MRR also released what many consider to be the greatest hardcore compilation LP of all time, Welcome To 1984, whose cover featured a mohawked punk defacing a stylized poster of Reagan. The 1983 Rock Against Reagan tour united some of the most potent hardcore bands of the time, including D.R.I. and M.D.C., in a common purpose, and in July of that year they unleashed their vitriol on the National Mall. But no band inveighed against the president with the intensity of the Rock Against Reagan tour's headliners: San Francisco's Dead Kennedys. The DK's first record, Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables, was an eclectic and sardonic take on late '70s California. Reagan drained practically all the subtlety out of the band. In 1981, they released their greatest post-Fresh Fruit offering, the raw and furious EP In God We Trust Inc. The sleeve featured a gold Jesus crucified on a cross of dollar bills. On "Moral Majority," singer Jello Biafra got to the point: "Blow it out your ass, Ronald Reagan." That was nothing compared to "We've Got a Bigger Problem Now," a reworking of Fresh Fruit's classic "California Uber Alles," which skewered the "suede-denim secret police" led by Governor Moonbeam, Jerry Brown. The new version unloaded on "Emperor Ronald Reagan/Born again with fascist cravings" as it built from a low-key lounge groove to a scorched-earth crescendo. In case anyone missed the point, the band took the stage at a show nearby the 1984 Democratic National Convention in Klan hoods, which they removed to reveal rubber Reagan masks. Of course, not every punk rocker used Reagan as a foil. The very existence of any form of human civilization was sufficient to raise the Nietzschean ire of L.A.'s Black Flag, the greatest of all American hardcore bands. Others, deploring the de rigeur anti-Reagan politics of the punk scene, embraced the president. Beloved New York hardcore band Murphy's Law enthused, "Ronnie Reagan, he's our man/If he can't do it, no one can!" The singer of Chicago's Effigies, John Kezdy, ended up a prosecutor and member of the conservative Federalist Society. (He explained, "There is nothing punk rock about voting for a party that wants to put more government in your life.") Still, without Reagan to use as shorthand for everything undesirable about America, punk's intensity lost a certain focus. As punk rock lurched through the Clinton years, California's NOFX released a 1996 EP of retro hardcore, justifying the project by warbling, "Guess what, nostalgia sucks/But I miss the days of Reagan punk." The band's front man, Fat Mike, is actively trying to bring those days back. In April, he released the Rock Against Bush compilation, which brought together 26 contemporary punk bands to rail against Reagan's self-proclaimed ideological successor. He wasn't the only one. Tobi Vail, who drummed for groundbreaking punk band Bikini Kill, wrote a widely circulated essay celebrating the Rock Against Reagan phenomenon before declaring, "[T]he time is ripe for Bands Against Bush." Last October, "Bands Against Bush" concerts were held in San Francisco, New York, Seattle, and other cities. This time, however, the bands involved are hardly the obscure denizens of marginal record labels. Rock Against Bush features multi-platinum acts like Sum 41 and the Offspring. But the project also acknowledges the debt it owes to Reagan-era punk rock: included is a new track, "That's Progress," by Jello Biafra and D.O.A. Their presence on the compilation is a tacit nod to the inadvertent and surely undesired punk-rock legacy of Ronald Reagan. All that's left is for the Reagan Library to reserve wall space for the In God We Trust Inc. cover art. Correction: The quote taken from former Effigies singer John Kezdy--not Kazdy, as the article misreported--"There is nothing punk rock about voting for a party that wants to put more government in your life," should have credited the source from where it originally appeared: an article entitled, "Punk Rock the Vote" by reporter Steve Miller in the March 3 edition of The Washington Times. The author sincerely apologizes for the omission. Spencer Ackerman, a former associate editor of The New Republic, is a senior correspondent for The American Prospect. ©2004 The New Republic
Friday, June 29, 2007
The idiots who listen to their "music" via mp3s through teeny tiny earbuds from their ipods like to put a random "shuffle" of ten items on their "web logs" each Friday, basically because they are pathetic consumerist sheep who want all culture predigested so they don't have to smell it or chew it before it goes down, and, we guess, because in the world of wage-slavery "Friday" means massa has let them have a whole two days in a row away from the cotton fields, so thay can drink enough to have a serious hangover the next morning or early afternoon, in an ultimately futile attempt to forget they are chattel. In a sheepish attempt to be like all the other bloggers, here are ten tunes chosen @ random from the piles of vinyl lying all over the floor here @ the House of Bouffant:
- "Clams Are Groovy" - Beachcomber Bob
- "Bombs Away" - London Terror Plot
- "Love Me, Love My Enema Bag" - English Frank (R. I. P.)
- "What's Your Fucking Problem, Asshole?" - D. Donny Douchebag
- "Concentration Camp Victim" - Hogan's Heroes
- "You Suck, I Hate You, Please Die" - Apartment House & The Salesmen
- "What's A Girl Like You Doing In A Place Like This?" - Fester Plank
- "Why?" - The Phone Books
- "Donkey Scrotum & Saran Wrap" - The Fugs
- "Anal Action" - Scum & The Bags
- Bonus Track: "Showbiz Lice" - Nation Of Sheep
Now there's some motherfucking music!!!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
& her most recent public offenses against decency & common sense...Hard-ball was an exterior shoot today, apparently to allow a claque of
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Classic buttermilk sky w/ Canterbury Cathedral bycloudman.com.
"I'm going to need a minute, because the dog turds at Google screwed me over again. New password, new email, new bla bla, waste of time, accept new terms of crap, more wasted time, why doesn't somebody just collect every Google employee and use them in nerve gas experiments?"The part at the end is quite nice. Every single one of them, w/ no exceptions.
But this isn't about righteous disgust w/ the Gûglers. That's nothing new, & at this point all invective directed at Google is doubtless like water off the duck's proverbial back. The lovely quote above comes from a self-professed "angry loner (not violent)" in Manhattan (the island, not Manhattan Beach, you local doofuses) who bills herself as Buttermilk Sky, although there's no B. S. involved. This dame can write! Not an obsessive layabout like Just Another Blog™ & its thrice daily posting, her entire bloggic oeuvre can be read in an hour or so, (as we just did, leading to this item) so why don't you? You may be glad you did, and it's not as if there's anything else to do, is there?
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Video Post FailedThe video post to your blog named "Just Another Blog (from L. A.)" at http://mbouffant.blogspot.com/,
"Mothers, Lennon, Ono 1971 - You Know I Love You
Baby Please Don't G" has fail The video post to your blog named "Just Another Blog (from L. A.)" at http://mbouffant.blogspot.com/, "Mothers, Lennon, Ono 1971
- You Know I Love You Baby Please Don't G" has failed.This occured for the following reason:An error has occurred. Message: UnknownReason: HTTP Error 400: Bad Request: Jun 22, 2007, 05:52 PM
"This Mormon Church binds its adherents with the strongest bonds known under heaven. It is at once a religion, an empire, a fraternity, a trust, and a partnership in crime."
Then we spotted this rutabaga reference:
And, by the way, vegetables are not that innocent. Don't you know that they dream of responding to you? Why else are they covered with dew?
Aaah. Too much subversive pleasure music in her formative yrs., leading to the inability not to find smut virtually everywhere. Just Another Blog™ used to be the same way, till the melancholia took over. Now, we don't want to think about Bill Clinton at all, let alone his sex life. Not much chance of avoiding him & his baggage (no, not Senator C., his "reputation") for the next few (too damn many) months, we guess.
"I was born in the concentration camp in Latvia. We were there with my mother. I recollect only fascist boots and mouth-organ sound since then. When we were released in 1945, I was three. June 22 for me is the Day of Memory and Sorrow and difficult recollections of my childhood," Antonina Gureyeva, former under-aged prisoner of a fascist concentration camp, said.
The gathered laid wreaths of live flowers to the monument and paid tribute to those killed in the Great Patriotic War with a minute's silence. After that everyone could approach the Pantheon of Glory and lay flowers.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Zitface, Li'l Kobe, & Dilrod: The Icy Hot Stuntaz:* Please, ask us sometime for our take on honkies appropriating Afro-American culture. We've appropriated more than our share, but in our salad days we didn't feel we had to act & dress exactly like Iceberg Slim, James Brown, Huey Newton or Flip Wilson to be "authentic." Today's young Euro-American morons, however, have to go the whole baggy pants, bling, & gang sign route. There's even a site devoted to "white chicks flashing gang signs." (Look it up yourself, Just Another Blog™ is lazier than any stereotype you got!) Is it 'cause Euro-Amer culcha these last two decades is even less "authentic" than it was in Just Another Blog's™ day? How could it have gotten worse? We haven't the energy to think about this, let alone write something (coherent or otherwise) about it, but the subject has been on the editorial mind lately. One of these days....
*Photo for illustrative purposes only. The Icy Hot Stuntaz are not known, meant or implied to be connected with anything to do w/ this article or anything else. May not be their legal names. Not valid in Washington State.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
are being converted to Tomahawk launching SEAL carriers, the better to subvert governments that don't respect freedom & liberty the way we do."Hello, we're the new weapons inspectors."
And some interesting thoughts on the future of naval warfare. (The pipeline of cheap plastic shit made by Asian slave labor may dry up before we run out of credit w/ which to acquire it.)
DAVID HAJDU ON MUSIC
Post date 06.15.07 Issue date 06.18.07
Tonic, an ascetic little hostel for outré music and arty noise in the longtime cultural center of outré artiness, Manhattan's Lower East Side, closed down in April after nine years of hot-and-cold business--a casualty of engulfing gentrification and bureaucratic harassment, according to the club's owners. For their last night on Norfolk Street, they arranged to go out as grandly as possible and booked John Zorn, the fifty-three-year-old godhead of the downtown musical scene, to lead two sets of performances by an ad hoc assemblage of musicians in his sphere. The line for admission started forming more than three hours before showtime, and it stretched along two blocks before the doors opened. The evening was chilly and wet. I counted three open umbrellas, including my own.
A film crew was interviewing people on line, and one of the men in a group ahead of me waved down the camera operator. "If half these bullshit parasites came down here before this place closed," he told the film-maker, "it wouldn't have to close!" As the crew moved down the sidewalk, the piqued guy asked me if I had a cigarette, and I asked him to tell me about some of his favorite Tonic shows. He said this was only his second time at the club, although he loves John Zorn and had seen him play elsewhere.
About ten minutes before the first set was scheduled to start, Zorn came striding down the street, parallel to the queue, just a few feet from the people, glaring straight ahead. He was carrying his alto saxophone in a case and wearing baggy desert-camouflage pants and an orange T-shirt--the same clothes (or precisely matching ones) that he had worn each of the last three times I had seen him perform this year, once earlier at Tonic and twice at The Stone, the tiny storefront performance space that Zorn himself owns and operates on Avenue C. As he sped past, fans burst into a chant of "Zorn! Zorn!" He glowered in silence, and when the camera pointed at him he shook his head, declining the attention. I could only wonder what the shouting fans and the film crew had in mind. Why would they think that someone who makes a point regularly to appear dressed in camouflage and a T-shirt would want attention?
In the music he put together that night, Zorn made a bookend to the concerts that he had organized for Tonic shortly after the club opened in 1998, events that had helped considerably to establish Tonic's credibility as a bohemian refuge. On both occasions, Zorn served in part as a creative shepherd--selecting, organizing, and hosting the performers--and also as the special guest star of his own show, sort of a recherché hydra of Ed Sullivan and the Beatles. On the last night at Tonic, the musicians drifted in and out of the club and all around the bandstand, and their playing styles varied--more than two dozen artists performed in various configurations into the early hours of the morning--though they were connected in their common passion for free improvisation, their take-it-or-leave-it attitude toward conventional Western tonality, and their conception of noise as music.
None of this thinking has been new or radical in the domains of classical music, jazz, or hardcore rock and punk for years. But neither have the ideals of free improvisation, atonality, or noise-as-music poured out of the rarefied waters of art music into the mainstream to join the standards of value applied on American Idol. Indeed, the unifying principle of much of the work performed at Tonic from its opening shows to its closing ones, as with a great deal of music at other new-music venues such as the Knitting Factory and The Stone, is not really its ostensible newness or radicalism, but rather its unacceptability in popular culture. Though commonly regarded as insular and self-referential, the world of John Zorn and his peers and followers is integrally engaged with the mainstream, in that it defines itself by its conscientious alienation from it. The music is all about status.
Zorn appeared onstage after about half an hour of performances by four small groups, one of which featured the delightful pianist Sylvie Courvoisier, who produced a spirited rhythmic sound collage by rapping and strumming every part of the inside of the instrument. One of the drummers used a violin bow to play the steel rim of his snare drum. A percussionist thwacked on a Jew's harp and yammered loopy gibberish while his partner did a slow, rudimentary tap dance. It was all resolutely different. And yet it was all nearly identical to the neo-Dada happenings of the Warhol era--the 1960s again, but without the ameliorating benefit of the drugs.
Performing in a trio with piano and drums, Zorn played an improvisation of sound graffiti sprayed in bursts and flurrying splashes of accelerating propulsion. He began with a series of short modal phrases, but quickly abandoned modality and, in little time, dropped tonality altogether, screeching and cronking. Early in his career, Zorn began to develop an expansive vocabulary of extramusical sounds that he could produce with precision on the alto saxophone, often by using only the mouthpiece of the instrument, sometimes by playing the mouthpiece through a bowl of water. For a few years, he tried to devise a system to identify all the noises he could make and to notate them with hieroglyphic-like symbols, an effort along the lines of his idol Harry Partch's attempts to invent new scales and notational methods to accommodate the odd tones, microtones, and quasi-tones that emanated from the instruments that he constructed out of old light bulbs, empty liquor bottles, and driftwood. To the uninitiated, the sounds that Zorn produces may sometimes seem like assaultive noise blurted out arbitrarily. In fact, they are assaultive noise crafted with meticulous care. For this piece, Zorn employed the entire saxophone, though he blew into it so hard that the instrument rattled in his hands and appeared about to fly apart.
After the first set, Zorn spoke briefly--very briefly--to a small group of fans and a couple of journalists assembled near the door to the club's office. "The yuppies are taking over," he warned us in a vatic hush. "We're all fucked." He lowered his head and hurried away, presumably to prepare for the second set.
The last night at Tonic presented John Zorn--a guarded man protective of his public image--as he likes to be seen: a martyrly champion of a noble and doomed cause, a victim of institutional indifference and maltreatment. He revels in his vaunted status as an outsider and a cultural insurgent; hence the meticulous screeching and cronking, as well as the guerrilla's pants. For years, before he switched to the orange T-shirt, he performed in one printed with the phrase "Die Yuppie Scum." In the few interviews he has given, Zorn has been quick to articulate his hero worship for artistic dissidents and outcasts such as Partch, Charles Ives, Joseph Cornell, and Harry Smith-- his determination to follow their example, and his fear of oppression by giant, faceless institutions. "I think the outsiders, the individualists, the people who have a messianic belief in themselves and are able to stick with their vision despite all odds ... the people that can stick with that, they're the ones that are really going to make a difference in the world," he said in an interview with the magazine JazzTimes. "And they will always be a small number, and I've always aspired to be one of that number." And this: "I see enormous corporations acting like slave masters, like the return of the pharaohs. I see co-opting all around. I see McDonald's everywhere. I see the destruction of ... the small mom and pop stores.... That is the big problem--the pharaohs controlling us. Sure, there will be independent artists, always. But they'll always be on the fringe."
Apart from the vainglory of such messiah talk, there is a sizable problem with Zorn's ongoing self-projection as a repressed, misunderstood, and underappreciated musical outcast. It is the fact that he is now a well-established and celebrated figure, a composer recognized not only in the downtown institutions in which he has always thrived, and in the sibling bodies that he has founded and run for the advancement of his own work and that of his kindred souls and protégés, such as The Stone and his record company Tzadik, but in major cultural institutions as well. The pharaohs of the arts establishment have bestowed honor and riches upon him. Last year he won a MacArthur "genius" grant ($500,000), and in March he received the William Schuman Award from the Columbia University School of the Arts, one of the largest grants given to an American musician ($50,000). The latter is given for lifetime achievement, and has gone previously to composers such as Milton Babbitt, Gunther Schuller, and Steve Reich.
But the achievements of Zorn's lifetime so far are a mixed lot--all of them extraordinary in one way or another, some indisputably significant, others dubious. He is certainly important and may well turn out to be historic as a symbol of musical adventurism and an inspiration to other composers--like Eric Satie, an enigmatic provocateur with an outsize mystique who stirred acolytes to do work better than his own. Over the decades since Zorn emerged as a model of the free-spirited genre-bending associated with downtown Manhattan, he has drawn countless musicians and composers into his orbit, and he has recorded or performed with dozens of them, including some fine ones, among them the composer and trumpeter Dave Douglas, the guitarist Bill Frisell, the pianists Anthony Coleman and Wayne Horvitz, the cellist Erik Friedlander, and the drummer Joey Baron.
Zorn is an exceptional artist, without question, because he prizes and seeks exceptionalism above all. This is not to say that he is exceptionally good at his art. What he is good at--so very good as to suggest a kind of genius--is being exceptional. Unfortunately, uniqueness is not an aesthetic value; it is a term of classification. To say that Zorn is one of a kind, as he certainly is, is to ignore the larger matters of his nature as an artist and, more significantly, the nature of his work, much of which is thin and gimmicky, and some of which is elementally corrupt.
Through his fiercely individualistic modes of working, Zorn deters attention to the work itself. He is obsessed with processes and systems, and he is often cavalier about their results. In the small-ensemble performances and albums that first brought him attention, Zorn led improvising musicians in what he called "game" pieces. Zorn did not compose them, exactly, but was responsible for them in that he invented and supervised the unprecedented system of rules for their spontaneous invention by the performers. He devised a set of signal cards, each of which indicated, in code, when certain musicians should play: now, the brass instruments; now, drums and guitar; now, the person to the left of the last person who played; now, nobody.... Further upending the standard notions of compositional authority or prerogative, Zorn left it to the musicians to call for the cards to be changed. His role was to stand in front of the group, hold up the cards, and switch them at the players' demand. The meaning of these cards changed as he added body-language cues, such as how high he held the sign and whether or not he was wearing a baseball cap at the moment.
The byzantine rules--to which the audience was never privy--were the artwork, such as it was. As Zorn explained, "What I came up with was this kind of game structure that talks about when people play and when they don't play but doesn't talk about what they do at all." Not what, but when: the content, the music itself, scarcely mattered to Zorn, who was concerned mainly with the novelty of its system of generation, a scheme not devised in service to the expression of human feelings, but brazenly indifferent, if not hostile, to them. As such, Zorn's game work was less an innovation in the creative process than a debasement of it.
Without making too much of his admiration for messiah figures, it is clear that a dominant theme of Zorn's career has been his dedication to attempting to invent new musical paradigms and launch new movements. At some point in his late twenties or early thirties, Zorn grew more interested in his Jewish heritage, as many artists (and non-artists) of all backgrounds turn to their roots as they age. The results of Zorn's ethnic awakening have included a body of more than five hundred shortish compositions with the group title "Masada," named for the famous Jewish martyrdom site of the Roman era; his record label Tzadik (tzaddik denotes a righteous person, a saintly person, in Hebrew); and an umbrella effort that is broader, more ambitious, and more nebulous, which Zorn calls Radical Jewish Culture.
Zorn has overseen the performance and the recording of the Masada pieces by ensembles of various sorts--art rockers, chamber groups, and a jazz quartet featuring Zorn on alto saxophone, Dave Douglas on trumpet, Greg Cohen on bass, and Joey Baron on drums. As compositions, the Masada pieces are simple and repetitious, inspired loosely by traditional melodies and, for the most part, constructed with the standard tools: minor keys and folk-dance rhythms. Many of the tunes are charming and elegiac, unique among Zorn's generally oppressive work; and Douglas, Cohen, and Baron are all players of uncommon sensitivity, employed well here. Zorn, too, though scarcely on the level of his bandmates as an instrumentalist, plays with rare nuance and delicacy on some of the Masada CDs.
Beyond the Masada pieces, the concerts and recording projects organized by Zorn under the rubric of Radical Jewish Culture have been a mishmash of works, some related so tenuously to Jewish culture that Zorn's application of the phrase seems less radical than cynical. An early example, and just one of many, is Zorn's multi-artist, two-CD tribute to Burt Bacharach, titled Great Jewish Music. The collection features a hodgepodge of artists associated with Zorn, as well as Sean Lennon, playing Bacharach hits such as "Close to You," "Do You Know the Way to San Jose," "What's New Pussycat," and "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance." The music is delightful pop schmaltz; but apart from the Yiddish origins of that term, it is no more Jewish music than this sentence is Magyar language because its writer has great-grandparents from Hungary.
Zorn was asked, on NPR, what exactly it is that makes music Jewish. "Well, you know, I've been doing this for quite a while and I don't think I can honestly answer that question very accurately," he said. "It could be a lot of things. It could be just an intention of it wanted to be that. It could be a scale. It could be some dramatic subject or theme. It could be something historical. It could be something that's just emotional. It could [be] a lot of things. It could be nothing. I don't know." But to identify something or someone as Jewish and then accept "nothing" as a legitimate reason--surely this is in some way to deny the richness, and even the legitimacy, of Jewishness; it is, in its whatever-ism about its own identity, reckless and demeaning to real Jewish culture. Zorn, following up on the Bacharach CD, approached Dave Brubeck with the proposition of honoring his work in the "Great Jewish Music" series, and Brubeck had to tell Zorn that he is not Jewish. Thinking of "Blue Rondo à la Turk" and "Pick Up Sticks," I wonder why Zorn presumed that Brubeck is a Jew. Was it the cantorial part that Brubeck once included in a religious oratorio about social justice? But Brubeck, a Catholic, has also composed a mass. Or was it his nose?
On that last night at Tonic, Zorn headed back to the stage for the second set, and fans once again yelled out to him, "Zorn! Zorn!" Somebody hollered "Shalom!" and Zorn replied, "What it is!" What it is? That is a perfectly, bafflingly appropriate salutation for the living master of creative delusion.
David Hajdu is The New Republic's music critic
I do not worship my toaster (1 of 6) posted by williamyard on 2007-06-15 13:25:38
although it makes a mean piece of toast.
I like a piece of toast now and again. Sometimes slathered with peanut butter, or like yesterday with a couple of those plastic cheese rectangles, some mayo, and a couple slices of tomato. But often, just plain toast. "Dry," as the cognocenti say.
Likewise, I worship no artist, although from time to time I like to consume his or her product. The important words in the previous sentence are "product" and "consume."
Music, like other products, has important implications for civilization. For example, much of it ends up in landfill. I like a little bebop during fellatio. Then there are those savvy dentists who fill our heads with it to drown out the drill.
Also, some of it is leaking into outer space. Perhaps one day a technologically and morally superior civilization in another galaxy will hear, say, Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G Minor or Bjork crooning "Human Behaviour," fly into a rage, haul ass to our planetary system and pop Earth like a zit.
There's no accounting for taste.
w.y. (2 of 6) posted by basman on 2007-06-15 13:43:41
I'm gonna' read this piece and then maybe you and I can have some fun.
sho nuff, bas! (3 of 6) posted by williamyard on 2007-06-15 13:45:43
W.Y. (4 of 6) posted by basman on 2007-06-15 15:09:23
But W.Y. how could you not worship Zorn?
He's a Tzaddik as were Milton Berle, Milton Friedman, and John Milton, whose B Side, Lost in Paradise, had a semenal impact, especially on those who like some Bebop while, as you say, formulating their exit strategy.
I have heard rumours out of Cailfornia that a certain Zorn-like W.Y. during a transformative period of his life, and not that long ago in fact, for 39 months wore nothing but a pair of plaid sweatpants (held up only by a TNR braided money belt), knock off Converse Hightops and a ragged sweat shirt that said in bold purple print “Teplukhin Come Home: All Is Forgiven”, all encased in a glittery circle of these: ":-)".
Anyway, as the foregoing creakily shows, I cannot match you for wit. But, that conceded, I think Hajdu has a point, makes a good argument for it, and gives Zorn a good, spritely, not unimportant deconstructing upside his showily contrarian head.
"...formulating their exit strategy"--I like it. (5 of 6) posted by williamyard on 2007-06-15 15:59:25
Would Zorn object if I wore a "Die Toaster Zorn" T-shirt at one of his "concerts"?
At 53, he's not getting any younger--nor, apparently, is his act. That could be part of the problem. Years ago I read an interesting piece about men in their sixties and seventies. The article included photos. The guys shared two characteristics. First, they'd made multiple, fairly radical shifts in vocations over the years: a cop became a nightclub owner became a bike messenger became a botanist, that type of thing. Second, they all looked a good ten to fifteen years younger than their chronological ages, and they sounded it, too. I attribute their vitality to their restlessness--leaving their comfort zones for new challenges.
Hajdu's report makes Zorn sound a lot older than 53. A cranky old man, wedded to his "art" like a man in a crappy marriage.
Buckminster Fuller said, "God is a verb." That's as close as an accurate description of God as I, an agnostic, have heard. It implies that the less verb-like and the more noun-like we become, the further we stray from the divine.
Zorn seems stuck in his noun-ness. Per Hajdu's telling, Zorn's shtick is his exceptionalism--but it's the adjective "exceptional" modifying the noun (Zorn) rather than the adverb "exceptionally" modifying how the noun plays. He's an empty toaster. To produce toast, Zorn needs to remember how to be unexceptional (i.e., give his ego the slip). But has he toasted himself into a corner?
He should understand that the toaster I currently use is new. My old toaster unwittingly toasted a plastic fork that fell into it a couple weeks ago. (Try it sometime. If you like migraines, you'll love the fumes.)
Sorry I didn't really address your comments, bas. I'm just riffin' on a slow Friday. BTW, I always like seeing Hajdu in here.
you've got me laughing out loud, God bless you (6 of 6) posted by basman on 2007-06-15 16:04:18
More anon, perhaps.
©2007 The New Republic
We thought we would commit a possibly prosecutable (though not necessarily illegal) act because of the information that will be discussed in the next (above) item.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
In no particular order (other than the order in which we remember these non-entities) here's the candidate bogroll for '08:
Thompson (running, less popular than Thompson not-running.)
Not declared (yet) but the media are
(not Tommy) Thompson (not-running like nobody's business, as
this recent Reuters (Rasmussen) report might indicate.)
Alright, there is an order to this. Republicans first, on the basis of "age before beauty," if not "wretched old white men before relative youth, a woman, & a "½rican," alphabetical 'cause that's the only way we could remember them.
On the sidelines:
Now we check all the links, and come to the realization we're as bad off as we've been in (our) living memory.
UPDATE: No, Just Another Blog hasn't been able to access Kucinich.us for a while either. Forces of repression @ work? (Updated very late.)
LATER: Working now. (20 June 0627)
*Note quality/style of website. Can one determine anything important about candidates from their websites?
|Photo: Aircraft of World War II. For illustrative purposes only.|
And a commenter has some advice for the locals:
I hold you SoCal residents accountable for continuing to elect these crooks (Cunningham, Hunter, Cox, Rohrabacher, Feinstein, etc.)! Quit bitching about Dupont and start voting the REAL problems out of office!No shit, SoCal. These pricks are an embarrassment. Vote early, vote often, and vote 'em out!
Posted by: FastEdd Jun 12, 2007 9:05:13 PM
Monday, June 18, 2007
They're at it again! The Meat Beetles have three new numbers available for listening or downloading. Mrs. George W(orst) Bush on ld vcls on one of 'em.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
From Femmes Fatales.
Where are they now? Belinda? Too well off to be seen w/ poor people.