Department of Pathetic Indignation -- Music Snobs 'R' US

Last week Slate ran a dialogue called "Let Us Leave Our Musical Islands." I clicked on it thinking, "Hmm, this could be interesting." Then when I actually started reading it, I realized that what they really should have called the article was, "Let a Classical Critic Have a Chat with a Jazz Critic."

I will make no bones about it: I am a fan of "rock," or, more accurately, "popular music from roughly 1955 to the present." I have enjoyed classical music in bits and pieces all of my life. I have never particularly enjoyed jazz, although occasionally I have moments where I understand why other people would. That said, my understanding is that classical music essentially exhausted itself creatively somewhere around the 1920s/1930s, and that jazz exhausted itself creatively at some time in the mid-1970s. The two critics in this dialogue spend a whole lot of time wondering whether or not the jazz and classical scenes are "fringe" scenes in today's world. Well let me answer that question really quickly by saying "Yes."

The first critic's opening statement seems to me to be a bit of wishful thinking: "People tend to listen to various kinds of music over the course of the day: rock at the gym, jazz on the drive home, maybe a little Vivaldi while waiting at the dentist's office for the root canal." Not me. I pretty much listen to rock, rock, and more rock. If that's a musical island, then hey, I find my musical island pretty satisfying. I mean, does anybody really listen to music in the fashion that he's suggesting? He then goes on to basically say that, "Yeah, I'm hip and not one of those elitist guys you think I am, because even though I think classical music is 'real' music and rock is kind of boring, I can still appreciate certain rock acts, especially the ones that remind me of classical music, or the rock acts that classical people are finally 'OK' with after all these years of insulting rock." Here:

"I'm a freakish case in that I started paying serious attention to nonclassical music only in college. While all my friends were listening to Pink Floyd, I rocked out to Schubert and Brahms. Then, during a prolonged immersion in the classical avant-garde—at my college radio station, I subjected a minuscule audience to György Ligeti's Poème Symphonique for 100 metronomes and John Cage's Imaginary Landscape No. 4 for 12 radios—friends instructed me to listen to Cecil Taylor and Sonic Youth, which is where my 'pop' collection started. For years I steered clear of hummable tunes and polished production; I bought into the punk-modernist notion that any band selling over a thousand or so CDs was worthless. By age 25, though, I'd expanded my horizons to accommodate the Beatles and Bob Dylan."

Well congratulations buddy, you worked your way up to the Beatles and Bob Dylan. Buy some ABBA and then we can talk. He name-drops Radiohead, Bjork, and Oasis, but somehow I'm not convinced that he really likes these bands, or rather, whether he likes them for the reasons I do: because of their personality.

My favorite musicians are the ones that I really feel are sharing themselves with me in their music. Perhaps I've so strongly grativated toward rock because of its emphasis on lyrics. Rock has a literary quality that classical and jazz really don't seem to have (although I'm sure some classical/jazz nut would argue with me on some grounds I can't anticipate). Rock also seems a lot more willing to be tasteless and ridiculous, which I like.

Also, my personal feeling is that in the late 1960s rock managed to absorb the best of both classical and jazz to essentially become the most relevant/exciting/effective mode of musical expression in that age, and that after this point, all the people who still consider classical or jazz to be interesting and progressive are pretty much walking down a blind alley. I love it when these guys start naming all these people like Steve Reich or John Cage or Osvaldo Golijov. Come on. The great "composers" of our time have been people like John Lennon and Paul McCartney and Brian Wilson, etc., etc. I mean, who are they kidding?

For me, the point of music is to reach as wide of an audience as possible without compromising itself as art. This is what I believe rock has done so well - at its best. As far as I can tell, proponents of contemporary jazz and classical music do not seem to share this artistic goal. In fact, I'm not quite sure what their goals are. I've always been wanting to meet the "Little Earl of jazz" or the "Little Earl of classical" - you know, the guy who had as much of a desire to get people interested in their genre the way that I like to think I try to get people interested in my genre. It always seems to me that jazz and classical fans don't really care whether I like their genre or not. It's like, "Either you get it or you don't." I actually want to help people enjoy their lives more by introducing them to music they haven't heard but might enjoy. That's a very important part of the process for me.

Ultimately, to say that my taste in music is "better" than other people's taste in music is to slide down a slippery slope. The most useful observation I could make is that for reasons that remain slightly mysterious to me, certain other people seem to share my taste in music and hopefully they will be interested in some of my thoughts on that music. To say any more than that is probably to invite ridicule.

Related: Notes On Music

This Preview Wears Prada

Yoggoth and I attended a matinee screening of Michael Clayton yesterday. Before the movie (which was quite good, by the way) began, we were treated to a pair of previews for two upcoming romantic comedies named, if I'm correct, R.S.V.P. and P.S. I Love You. Near the end of the preview for R.S.V.P., a credit came on the screen saying, "From the screenwriter of The Devil Wears Prada." Near the end of the preview for P.S. I Love You, a credit came on the screen saying, "From the producer of The Devil Wears Prada." Yoggoth turned to me and said, "Wait a second, didn't they just say that for the last movie?" I responded, "No no, the last one was the screenwriter of The Devil Wears Prada, this one was the producer." Laughter, and a comic riff, immediately ensued:

"From the casting director who brought you The Devil Wears Prada!"
"From the key grip who brought you The Devil Wears Prada!"

I mean, do people even care about that sort of thing anyway? Or do people just go, "Wow, honey, it's Julia Roberts. Let's go see that." And since when did The Devil Wears Prada earn such a brand-name value? It's like, "From the people who brought you 3:10 To Yuma!" To be fair, I haven't even seen it, so maybe I should before I talk smack. Or maybe I should go slaughter a flock of endangered geese instead.

Speaking of...

A Catholic priest has been charged with stalking and harassing Conan O'Brien. His conversion to Catholicism came in the middle of viewing La Dolce Vida. Pretty damn cosmic.

I'll have to be more careful when I watch Fellini movies. If La Dolce Vida can turn you Catholic what horrors could result from Satyricon?

2. The King of Comedy (Scorsese, 1983) [LE]

If the '80s gorged upon itself and became so sick and nauseous from its own rancidness that it vomited itself right back up all over a movie screen, it might look something like The King Of Comedy. Here is a movie that is hypnotic in its vitriol, mesmerizing in its pure unfiltered hostility, completely absorbing in its utter refusal to allow its characters even a single moment of joy or understanding. It's like watching your two favorite mean old spinster aunts bicker with each other over Thanksgiving dinner - you want to look away but it's all too fascinating.

As many of you know by now, I have a low opinion of the '80s. Apparently, so did Martin Scorsese. After riding the artistically challenging wave that was the '70s, Scorsese suddenly found himself in hostile waters. New York, New York was a big commercial flop, and while Raging Bull was a strong critical success, it hardly put Scorsese in the same league as his buddies Lucas and Spielberg at the box office. So what did he do? Did he turn right around and make a blockbuster? No, no, he would do that later. Back in 1983, he simply grabbed De Niro, found the world's most bitter, nasty script, and he railed.

But Scorsese railing is not the same as, say, Oliver Stone railing. When Stone rails (as in Natural Born Killers), it's pedal to the metal. But when Scorsese rails, it's like a long, slow burn. I mean, you can laugh off Natural Born Killers as soon as it's over, but The King of Comedy crawls under your skin until you really feel it. You don't realize how dispiriting it is until the next morning, and then you're sitting there munching on your corn flakes thinking, "Wow, from top to bottom, there's not an ounce of goodness in the entire human race."

The portrait the movie paints of American culture is not a flattering one. The masses are desperate, greedy idolators, the idols they worship empty shells who have nothing to offer their subjects but contempt. No one has any answers for anybody. No one is capable of connecting with anyone else. Ladies and gentlemen: the '80s.

In one corner, we have Rupert Pupkin (De Niro), who is very much a Travis Bickle Part II: just another social misfit looking for happiness in all the wrong places. In the other corner we have Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), a seemingly affable late-night talk show host who, when not on television, manages to come off like a cold, heartless showbiz creep. It's hard to say who, between the two of them, is the more likeable character. You hate Rupert because he's such an abusive stalker, but you hate Jerry because he is so completely disinterested in helping Rupert with his problems. Of course, it's not really Jerry's responsibility to help every abusive talk-show host stalker with his problems. But the movie does such a good job of making you understand Rupert's need that you can't help but take his side a little when he is faced with Jerry's rejection. I mean, let's see a show of hands here, who hasn't fantasized about being famous? Who hasn't sat in their basement and figured that if only they somehow managed to achieve instant fame, all their problems would be solved? Who hasn't daydreamed about being interviewed on a talk show, revealing their brilliance piece-by-piece to the adoring masses? Count me in. The difference between most of us and Rupert, however, is that Rupert is unable to exercise patience. He wants the fame...without all the hard work.

What makes the movie such an incisive analysis of media and celebrity is that it calls attention to the discrepancy between the celebrity and the fan. You see, the fan sees the celebrity every night on television at 11:30 and thinks, "Hey, I know that person. That person is my friend." But the truth is that the celebrity doesn't know you from a shit stain on a wheelbarrow, and probably doesn't even care to know you. The closeness is an illusion. If you understand that, then you realize what a big waste of time shows like Leno and Letterman are and you'll spend your viewing energy on something worthwhile. If you don't, then, well, you're Rupert Pupkin.

The King of Comedy is, in its own sneaky way, one of the most unpleasant movies you're ever likely to see. So then why do I love it so? Well, I guess sometimes, when you're sick, it feels good to vomit.

Rolling Stone's Almost-Impossible Music Trivia Quiz

I dare any of you so-called music fans to dive into the murky waters of what Rolling Stone calls its "Almost-Impossible" Rock & Roll Quiz. Let me tell you, from someone who considers himself a knowledgeable scholar of that ignominious genre, this one is a doozy. I scored a 51, which apparently means I'm an "expert" and that I "know (my) Bowie from (my) Bambaataa," and yet I hardly feel reassured of my pop music mastery. Every now and then I hit a question that just made my brain freeze with absent-minded horror, like the proverbial student who knows he would totally be acing the final if only he'd bothered to study the night before. The questions are quite humorous on the whole, although the questions they came up with for the 2000s will tell you a lot about what Rolling Stone thinks is the canonical music of our current decade.

Number Three: The Shining (Kubrick, 1980) [Y]

I first saw The Shining one Halloween night at UC Davis. Films were shown in the cyclopean Chem 194, a room without insulation or mercy. I knew what The Shining was about; I had even watched the famous "Here's Johnny" scene before. But the movie was still scary in a wonderful, optimistically nihilistic way. I can't think of many films that are fun to watch even when you know what's going to happen beforehand. Horror movies rely on suspense and startling visuals more than any other genre. Yet somehow The Shining does not suffer for its cultural ubiquity.

Two men deserve credit for this: Jack Nicholson and Stanley Kubrick. Nicholson's contribution is obvious - he's Jack Nicholson. Nicholson is such a playful maniac you can't help but love him. It's Kubrick's second funniest movie after Dr. Strangelove. I love that mix of dark humor and horror. I don't know of any other movie that has so effectively mixed the two. Most sacrifice one for more of the other, but The Shining is funny without sacrificing any of the horror.

The Shining plays right into Kubrick's strengths. The Kubrick films I've seen (everything after Lolita) are emotionally cold and distant. In each, the protagonist becomes increasingly isolated as basic human relationships break down. The most hopeful of the lot, 2001, ends with the hero achieving transcendence in total isolation, both spacial and temporal, from the rest of humanity.

Given this, horror seems like a natural genre for Kubrick. He reportedly told Stephen King that ghost stories were hopeful because they posited a life after death. Few people other than Kubrick would make that association. Perhaps The Shining has a happy ending after all. Jack is relieved of his annoying wife and kid and achieves immortality, partying with his ghost buddies in the mountains for all of eternity. Do you see how this is the perfect herald for the 80's? Artistic, educated man let down by the promises of society goes crazy and decides to sacrifice everything for his own personal happiness led on by visions of the 1920's, the end of the last gilded age? Sure it's a stretch, but I like it.

Stephen King didn't like the way Kubrick adapted his book. For one, he objected to Kubrick's casting because he felt that Nicholson was too crazy-looking from the beginning and that audiences wouldn't be surprised when he went nuts later in the film. This is an odd complaint from a man whose entire career is built on delivering predictable stories. Here's the checklist for every King story ever written: Common household object that is now mysteriously animated and malevolent? Check. Hackneyed psychological explanation for malevolent/supernatural event based on King's own personal problems allowing spurious claim of thematic depth? Check. Sappy ending that completely destroys the suspenseful atmosphere that made the story interesting? Check! What were audiences supposed to expect from a movie based on a Stephen King novel that starts with a family going alone to an isolated hotel for the winter? Maybe they're going to work out their differences and everything will be okay? Yeah, and maybe supply-side economics really works and Ronald Reagan was a decent president.

P.S. If you like The Shining I recommend the book House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski. It was partly influenced by The Shining and has a similar atmosphere. Many of H.P. Lovecraft's stories are also similar. The only other movie that comes close is Hitchcock's The Birds.

Saddest Concerts Ever

Califone are touring with Iron and Wine. I can't think of a more depressing combination of bands playing today. Sure, there are bands with more depressing lyrics, but do any of them sound more depressing? What do you do at a Califone/I&W concert? They're playing in Oakland if anyone feels like standing and slowly swaying with me.

If you haven't heard Califone, their music is downtempo and bluesy, with interesting percussion and some electronic effects. I highly recommend their latest album, Roots & Crowns. Iron & Wine is what the lead singer of Califone would sound like if the other 3 members were brutally murdered and he was asked to play solo acoustic guitar at the funeral.

Take a Scooter Ride on the Wild Side

3. Down By Law (Jarmusch, 1986) [LE]

Down By Law is the story of three men who are presented with the short end of the stick of the universe. Two of them are ready to give up on life and call it a day. But the third one is convinced that if he's going down, he's going down with enthusiasm.

I never pegged myself as a Jim Jarmusch fan. As far as I could tell, he was the kind of director that bored, artsy white kids gravitated toward just so they could feel weird. His movies never topped critics' polls, never got nominated for Oscars, never made it big at the box office. I figured I could go my whole life without seeing a Jim Jarmusch movie and die a perfectly happy man.

I hadn't seen Down By Law.

Now, it wasn't necessarily in the cards for me and Down By Law. At first I was thinking, "Hmm, is this movie going to go anywhere?" A lot of the time it just felt like I could feel Jarmusch sitting there behind the camera letting the scenes go on and on, hoping they would eventually get interesting. His creative choices were too transparent. It was like, "Hey, look, I'm in New Orleans!" "Hey, look, I'm filming in black-and-white!" "Hey, look, I've got Tom Waits in my movie!" Sure, "Jockey Full of Bourbon" was a winning choice for opening song, but was Jarmusch just another one of those directors who spent all his time picking cool songs to put into his movies so that he could pat himself on the back for his good taste in music? Seemed like it. Then he had some guy named John Lurie in the movie, from some hip band that I hadn't even heard of. Bottom line: maybe Jarmusch was just too damn hip for me.

Then Roberto Benigni showed up. Now, Roberto Benigni is probably the least hip person in the entire universe. It was quite obvious from the start that he had absolutely no idea how to speak English and he genuinely did not seem to be aware of this.

In a now-legendary scene, his character shows up out of nowhere, approaches Zack (Tom Waits) on the street, and says, "It is a sad and beautiful world." Zack is obviously thinking, "Who the fuck is this guy?" He takes a breath and replies, "Yeah...it's a sad and beautiful world pal." Bob (Begnini) then just sort of stands there, saying nothing. Finally Zack waves his hand dismissively and says "Buzz off, pal." Bob responds, "Ah thank you, buzz off to you too." Zack says it again, and finally Bob nods his head in recognition . "Ah...'buzz off'...'buzz off'...Is a sad and beautiful world...'buzz off'..." Then he whips out a notebook and begins jotting it down. "'Buzz...off...' Good evening, buzz off to everybody, oh thank you, buzz off to you too, oh, oh, each pleasure, thank you." Then he wanders off the screen.

Hmm. Maybe Jarmusch had more up his sleeve than I thought.

But then the film began sliding back into its same old self-conscious detachment. Suffice to say, both Zack and Jack (Lurie) end up in prison after being set up for crimes they did not commit. With the shift to the prison setting, however, suddenly the story started taking on some real depth. Hey, there's nothing "hip" about serving time behind bars, you know what I'm saying? Watching Zack and Jack sulk in their cell, I couldn't help but be intrigued by the sadder and lonelier direction the film was taking.

As a response to their bad luck, Zack and Jack both lock themselves off emotionally; having been screwed by the world, they decide to offer a "screw you" right back, and it's hard to argue with them. You might think that they would find comfort in their shared misery, but sadly they only see the other man as a target for further hostility rather than as a fellow comrade in arms.

Once Bob shows up in their cell, the movie truly takes off. If Zack and Jack couldn't stand each other before, they both manage to find common ground by absolutely loathing their new cellmate. Bob makes an auspicious entrance: After telling the guards in hilariously mangled English to "go take a flying fuck," he turns to his recalcitrant cellmates, pulls out his trusty notepad, and says, "Not enough room...to swing a cat." His grin is met with dead silence. Little do Zack and Jack know, however, that Bob is their salvation.

You see, Bob has also been screwed by the world, but unlike Zack and Jack, he continues to embrace the world in all its wondrous glory and refuses to offer a "screw you" right back. This irritates the shit out of Zack and Jack. One day Bob has the hiccups, and he asks Jack for a cigarette. Jack, not even bothering to open his eyes, tells Bob, "Cigarettes won't help with hiccups, not in this country." Later Bob steals a piece of chalk from Zack, walks up to one of the walls of their cell, and draws a window on it. Turning proudly to Jack, he asks, "Do you say 'I look hout the window,' or 'I look haat the window'?" Jack, annoyed and yet possibly suppressing laughter, responds, "In this case Bob I think you'd have to say 'I look at the window."

But Bob's magic, much to their consternation, is gradually beginning to work on the other two. One day they lean against the bars, and as the conversation drags on they all end up explaining how they came to be imprisoned. To Zack and Jack's surprise, Bob tells the story of how he killed a man in a bar with a pool ball, but he insists that it was an accident and that despite his violent deeds, "I ham a good egg." Zack and Jack laugh at Bob's attempt at colloquial English, but they are beginning to see how his situation resembles theirs, and how his attitude diverges.

One day, while playing cards, someone mentions the word "scream." Inspired by this, Bob pulls out his notebook and recites with glee, "I scream-a, you scream-a, we all scream-a, for ice cream-a." For some reason Bob finds this phrase absolutely delightful and he says it over and over again. Soon Zack and Jack, aware that Bob is not going to stop any time soon, begin reciting it along with him. After a minute or two, the three of them are dancing around the cell, hollering "I scream, you scream, we all scream at ice cream" at the absolute top of their lungs. The whole prison inexplicably joins in, and as the guards charge in to break it up, Zack and Jack and Bob rush back to their cards with childish glee, hoping to escape the guards' punishment by pretending that they had nothing to do with it.

The "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream" scene is the pivotal point in the film, because it represents Bob's victory over Zack and Jack's apathy and resignation. By proving that he can retain the joy of life even in the most miserable of situations, Bob has offered them the secret to freedom. I mean, here are three men, they've all been victims of fate and circumstance, they're stuck in prison, in New Orleans for Christ's sake, for God knows how long, things couldn't be any worse, and yet...they have each other. And once they realize that, the rest is all gravy.

This is my definition of a feel-good movie. Not some cute little romantic comedy where the couple kisses at the end and then the credits come up and we're spared the hideously co-dependent and psychologically abusive relationship said couple is obviously going to have. Oh no. This is a movie where the main characters stare down the absolute worst that life has to offer them, and the universe practically spits in their faces, and yet, and yet...they come out the other end.

So I guess the moral of the story is that, despite my best attempts to the contrary, I discovered that I was the biggest damn Jim Jarmusch fan there ever was or ever will be. What can I say: he had me at "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream."

The Lists So Far...

I thought I'd do a recap of our Best Movies of the 80's feature. It's now November and the list will soon be falling off the side of the page. Lest you forget, here are our choices so far:

Little Earl -

4. Back to the Future (Zemeckis, 1985)
5. The Empire Strikes Back (Kershner, 1980)
6. The Last Temptation of Christ (Scorsese, 1988)
7. Crimes and Misdemeanors (Allen, 1989)
8. The Right Stuff (Kaufman, 1983)
9. Do the Right Thing (Lee, 1989)
10. Sophie's Choice (Pakula, 1982)

Yoggoth -

4. Raiders of the Lost Ark (Spielberg, 1981)
5. Blade Runner (Scott, 1982)
6. The Empire Strikes Back (Kershner, 1980)
7. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (Gilliam, 1988)
8. The Princess Bride (Reiner, 1987)
9. Grave of the Fireflies (Takahata, 1988)
10. Back to the Future (Zemeckis, 1985)

Our top 3 will follow shortly.