The Contrarian

Contraflow. . . By Jebson Interlandi

This week saw the release of The Fall's new album, Imperial Wax Solvent.  What, this must be their 50th or 60th album? I haven't heard it yet, but I hope to soon. I'm not a huge fan, but Mark Smith does manage to crack me up sometimes. He serves as another reminder of my potential future self — a reclusive, opine contrarian who can still handle his drink.

More intriguing than the album, in my view, is Smith's new rant/autobiography, Renegade: The Lives And Adventures Of Mark E. Smith. From what I understand, the book contains more heartfelt convictions than tales of mud sharks or shitting oneself on an airplane and convincing your roadie to swap pants. Here are two excerpts I'm happy to endorse:

"What gets me is the lack of lyrical effort shown by bands nowadays. Me and the wife use that thing on the telly with the subtitles to read some of the lyrics. Jesus Christ! 'I'm going up the hill, you're going to leave me, I'm going to leave you, why did you leave me?' It's pathetic: all meek and self-absorbed. I'm just not interested in hearing about some lad's break-up with some college girl. . .

. . .lads today are a bit too open like this anyway: going to the doctor's every five minutes telling them how depressed and distanced they feel. I think it's because they've got too much time and space to think about themselves. You don't get lads like that in Russia. It's not part of the culture there. It's a uniform, if you ask me: an identity. You can hear the whingeing in their music. It's stale. They should stop hiding away in their bedrooms with their computers and get out a bit."

Lastly:

"Degrees have a way of warping people  — it's not good for people to spend that amount of time at university, acting like rock stars on weekdays. They get so distanced from the real world that they haven't a fucking clue what's needed. It's a luxurious prison, almost. Once they get out, once they're released, they're good for nothing other than having weekly reunions with their old housemates, getting jobs with their old housemates, or staying on to receive more educational therapy or forming piss-poor bands. And they've all got foppy fringes."

I happen to be a student, myself, for the moment. Somehow, I managed to pull the wool over everyone's eyes. I've been an enemy of University and Academia for some time. I tend to stand on the side of Education, which I feel has detached itself from those self-contained/self-justifying islands in the sky. One of these days I expect to stumble upon a School of Comparative Irrelevancies offering courses such as "Urban Planning for Gypsies or Morse Syntax" (titles stolen from Umberto Eco). For a more brutal and honest critique of the current academic arena, check my satirical novel yet to be written. Due out in a couple years.

Just for kicks, you've got to see this '80s training montage from No Retreat, No Surrender. Hold out for the black kid eating ice cream on the guy's lap. What the fuck?:

Chuck Wagon.

Let's talk about Chuck Klosterman's recent Esquire article, "Anyone Seen My $4.2 Billion?" The print edition came out a while ago, but it's just now making the rounds on the 'nets. I saw it on the Dean's List earlier this morning, then — voilà! — it appears on Idolator, complete with snarky comments.

I have a complicated relationship with Chucky; part derision, part jealousy and a smidgen of admiration. I commend him for making a career out of not-terribly-original, predictably broad cultural observations, but it's a bit like Columbus and America: if Klosterman hadn't discovered the "metal nostalgia + whitebread malaise + geeky romanticism = book deal" formula, someone else of his generation surely would've. Maybe even yours truly. Sigh.

Anyway, Klosterman makes some interesting points, but they're couched in his cute-smarmy prose, which is the essay equivalent of a Tina Fey-penned SNL sketch. The central premise:

People hate corporate record labels and love reading about how the industry is failing. As such, the media coverage of plummeting music sales almost always focuses on how labels are losing money. But this coverage usually ignores an economic element that is less tangible but more interesting: What is happening to all the money not being spent on music?

OK, but what about the surge of profits from video game and DVD sales? Professor K continues:

. . .while CDs, DVDs, and video games are physically similar, and they're sold in the same outlet, the experiences they offer aren't logically connected. I don't see why not having to pay for a Band of Horses album would make a person any more likely to buy a copy of Knocked Up, as opposed to buying four gallons of gas or a pair of sunglasses or a turtle. . .

Uh-huh. And the coup de grace:

. . .my specific theory is this: A lot of the money not spent on music in the twenty-first century is being used to pay off credit-card debt that was incurred during the nineties. In other words, not paying for In Rainbows today is helping people eliminate the balance they still owe for buying Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness when they were broke in 1995.

Yay! We can blame it all on Billy Corgan. I know I always do.

Stuff White People Like.

Highly amusing, scarily true.

Thanks to Highgate for this one.

Up to the Hill. . . catch ya laters.

Op & Coming.

You do all know about Tape Op Magazine, right? God, I love it. Whether you're a pro recordist or duct tape-and-dreams type, you definitely need to get yourself a subscription. The best part? It's free.

And I can't tell you how many times the message board folks have bailed me out of a crisis. Good people.

You may also have heard about the annual Tape Op Conference, where the guys (and gals) with their hands on the knobs talk about all of the crazy changes in the music/recording world. Recently, the magazine decided to break off from the summit, which has been renamed PotLuckCon. This year's event takes place in New Orleans on June 6-8. I'm going as part of a Future of Music expedition. Should be a geeky good time.

Quick links:

Spies use YouTube to gather intel. Better change my username from Slave2Osama to something more innocuous like TeenGirl69.

Write yourself an e-mail to be sent to the future you at FutureMe.org. I guess you're supposed to think of it as a web-age time capsule. I haven't done it yet (I hardly expect my e-mail to stay the same forever), but I have pondered what I might say to an older, wiser me. Probably something about how much sexier I am.

Hot conspiracy theory: "Are the Bonnaroo Organizers Trying to Fake Out Led Zeppelin Fans?" [Idolator]

Weekender.

Cartoon *borrowed* from Toothpaste for Dinner.

Sometimes you just gotta listen to "South Side of the Sky" by Yes, and dig on Bill Bruford's slippery snare action and Steve Howe's staccato ascending guitar runs.

'Cause it's fun.

Finished my Magnetic Fields review. Now I've only got Black Mountain, King Crimson's Great Deceiver reissues, a Kaada/Patton DVD, Jesu, Dead Meadow and Richard Swift left to go!

There's no good movies out this weekend. And I'm in the mood for a picture. JJ Abrams' hush-hush, giant monster flick Cloverfield hits theaters next week, but it's hard for me to get that excited. The previews look like the '90s Godzilla remake with Matthew Broderick, but shot with shaky handheld cameras for added "realism." And the cast of unknowns remind me of annoying NYC hipsters, or at least the Central Casting equivalent. But  hey, JJ Abrams? Right? Right?

It's a foggy, rainy evening here in the District. I think it might be a nice night to kick back and read. There's an article about "The Wire" mastermind David Simon in the new Atlantic Monthly that I'm psyched to finish. Of course, I've always got my massive CIA book to try and plow through.

I have one last song to finish on my new record, but unfortunately it's just the vocals that are left. For some reason, I just can't seem to get up the steam, even though I've already written the core melodies. Maybe I can get to it tomorrow.

Sunday, I'm off to Mark's house to rehearse for our appearance at the 2008 National Conference of the Society for Electroacoustic Music in the United States, which takes place in Salt Lake City, Utah in March. Whee!

What are you guys up to?

 

Eye Spy. . .

. . .a couple of worthy news reports. You thought this was gonna be about the Masons, didn't you?

Found an awesome article in the Washington Post about Barbetta Jones — a local mom who opens her home to traveling punk bands and lets them throw shows in her basement.

The bands she's fostered — roughly 300 in all — recall fondly the cozy couches she's offered them and the gas money she's "loaned" them with the unspoken assumption that most of it will never be repaid. They speak of the tens of thousands of miles she's driven in her white band-stickered van to see their concerts in Baltimore, Toronto and North Carolina, and of the soft-edged scoldings she dishes when they don't eat properly or visit the doctor.

Pretty rad. Do the kids still say rad?

The Baltimore Sun is reporting that the Writers Guild may yet win in their noble battle against the cartel movie studios. Looks like the whole gang is heading back to the bargaining table on November 26. They better achieve some kind of resolution — I just found out that the last new episode of "The Office" ran last week. Oh, well. It's not like I don't have big fat books to read.

That's the view from here. Thanksgiving and its attendant madness fast approaches.

They Just Keep Droppin.'

Apparently, writers are this month's art-house filmmakers. Can Phillip Roth be next?

When I was a kid, I loved Ira Levin. I dare say that Rosemary's Baby, The Boys From Brazil, and, to a lesser degree, The Stepford Wives, helped make me the person I am today. Umm, I think that's a good thing.

Levin died on Monday, at his Manhattan home. He was 78. The Times ran a decent enough eulogy.

I find it interesting that Levin had some regrets about spearheading the whole Kids 'n' Satan fad:

“I feel guilty that Rosemary’s Baby led to The Exorcist, The Omen. . . A whole generation has been exposed, has more belief in Satan. I don’t believe in Satan. And I feel that the strong fundamentalism we have would not be as strong if there hadn’t been so many of these books. . . Of course, I didn’t send back any of the royalty checks."

Trepidation about the effects of an archetype he didn't even recognize. To me, that's like being scared of Leprechauns or Idaho. Because I doubt the existence of both. . .

Thanks for the stories, Mr. Levin.

Thompson Trauma.

"For fuck's sake, let me rest in peace, you slobbering jackals!"

It goes without saying that Hunter S. Thompson was (and continues to be) something of a "crazy-wisdom guru" to writers, especially those with a political conscience. Personally, I find the innuendo surrounding his legacy a little off-putting. Can't we just let the man's still-potent prose speak for itself?

But what fun would that be? American culture feeds off the spoiled carcasses of its onetime icons.

Anita Thompson, HST's wife at the time of his death, is rankled by the publication of Gonzo: The Life & Times of Hunter S. Thompson. The book, which collects interviews with HST friends, associates, lovers and colleagues, is published by Rolling Stone honcho and onetime HST editor Jann Wenner. Anita believes Wenner has an axe to grind, having never forgiven his star reporter for quitting the publication that helped make his name. (I recall Hunter's byline being on the RS masthead right up until his death, but whatevs.)

AT is also claiming poverty. Better hurry up and make another movie!

Read Anita's anti-Gonzo rant here. And check out L.A. Times' slightly depressing review, at which she also takes umbrage.

Get Thine Ass To A Newsstand. . .

. . .and pick up the latest issue of The Atlantic Monthly, which turns a robust 150 years old this month.

The rag began as an abolitionist publication way back in 1857. While the country has changed tremendously since then, The Atlantic mission — to present reasoned and varied discourse on "the American idea" — has not. What better way to celebrate such a great run than to recruit a breadth of figures from today's public sphere to wax analytical / philosophical about what this "idea" means to our contemporary society and beyond?

The essays are around 350 words in length, perfect for us modern Yanks with short attention spans. Contributors include John Updike, Ray Kurzweil, Cornel West, Joyce Carol Oates, David Foster Wallace, George F. Will, Greil Marcus, Robert Pinsky, Sam Harris and many more. Arianna Huffington and Arnold Schwarzenegger, both politically-oriented immigrants, offer their unique perspective on what it means to be American, while Stan Lee turns in a typically earnest comic strip. Harris cautions against religiosity; Tim LaHaye (co-author of the wildly successful and downright disturbing Left Behind series) advocates for a kind of spiritual monomania.

Each essay is absorbing in its own right, and all stand as a testament to our nation's plurality of ideas and ideals. There are arguments for and against exceptionalism, with George F. Will cautioning that the very idea of an "American idea" could lead to the exporting of US democratic dogma, with unintended (and potentially dangerous) consequences. And he's a dyed-in-the-wool conservative.

Check out a few excerpts, below the fold:

A sign of the Times.

For my money (which is now 25 cents more for the above paper) they could have cut costs more effectively by doing away with, say, 50 pages of the Sunday Times. Granted, I'm all about the new type of garden party being thrown in Yonkers, but the thing is like a Thomas Pynchon novel. You need a moving company to hoist it into your apartment. And once it's there it's often as weird as you'd imagine Pynchon would be had you hired a moving company to bring him into your place.