clapclap.org knows writers who use subtext and they are all cowards

Scenes From a Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Tue, 13 May 2008 18:09:00 +0000

Scott over at Pretty Goes With Pretty has a couple of reactions to my No Age post that are worth reading; he's much more positive about local scenes, and negative about the internet, than I am.

Letters From the Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Tue, 13 May 2008 16:16:00 +0000

If you're interested in music, you owe it to yourself to read Alex Ross' article in the New Yorker about composer John Luther Adams. You should also listen to the sound file at the bottom, a recording of his piece "Dark Waves." Regular readers will know (or will have gotten the sense) that I have little patience for hippies, and so the fact that I am endorsing a guy who writes pieces about "the land" should tell you just how good this is.

It's unfortunate that the orchestra is so rarely the forum for respected new music these days. Aside from a few operas and film scores, people who listen to "good music" are listening to small ensembles, whether those be wind quintets, jazz combos, or the Arcade Fire. And I think something has been lost in that. What gets forgotten in the orchestra's image as exemplar of high art respectability is that orchestras are really fucking loud. The three loudest experiences of my life are standing directly in front of Luke Jenner's amp at a Rapture show, taking my earplugs out for a second while performing Glenn Branca's "100 guitars" symphony, and playing in the back of the violin section for a performance of the Hallelujah Chorus. Sure, none of the instruments in an orchestra are electronically amplified, but there are 100 people all playing at the same time. Even if they were all paying harmonicas, that would be pretty loud. Once you start putting trumpets and cymbals and violins in there--lots and lots of violins--you can make a hell of a racket. That we think of orchestras as quiet has something to do, of course, with the fact that the audience is supposed to be quiet at performances; the noise of the music is not being amplified by the reaction of the crowd. And orchestras certainly have a much broader dynamic range than do rock bands. Somehow, we've come to think of these giant collections of musicians as restrained and quiet.

Rock bands, on the other hand, had to become seen as loud. Jonathan Richman had it right in "Fender Stratocaster" when he described the sound of that most iconic of rock instruments as "so thin it's barely there." We think of Jimmy Page and John Bonham as having these massive, gigantic sounds, but listen to "Black Dog" after you've played the John Luther Adams piece for a while. The guitar sounds tinny now, the drums thin. Partially, of course, this is just a technical issue. Guitars occupy a fairly narrow sonic range, and even with a pitch shifter they can't reach the robust heights that a violin can. The drums fill in some of that spectrum, especially with the cymbals taking over the upper register, but they're recorded we have to perform technical tricks to make it sound as rich as an orchestra does. And we still have to make sacrifices. The kick drum is simply smaller than a full bass drum or timpani, and so we can boost its low end, but then we give up some of the thump. Thump or whoomp: each serves an important purpose for rock, but it's hard to have both. Rock bands have tried to imitate the feel of an orchestra, even going so far as to add orchestral instruments, but ultimately, orchestras make a noise that rock bands simply can't, and you hear that noise in "Dark Waves."

Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. I may lament the absence of orchestras from our musical life, but in terms of classical music, my alligiences ultimately lie with string quartets. This should come as no surprise; after all, quartets are structurally almost identical to rock bands, sans drummer. Four people, working without a conductor, have to listen to each other to follow along, and play off what everyone else is doing. They're lean but versitile. Even the parts are similar: the first violin is the lead singer, the second violin is the lead guitar, the viola is the rhythm guitar, and the cello is the bass. Not everyone writes for quartets this way, but you certainly could.

It's interesting, then, that Adams' work echoes many of the values associated with rock. Certainly "music you can live with" is pop's economic motor, and his emphasis on texture is key to rock's appeal, too. In the piece Ross focuses on, "The Place," you find classically rockist ideas, and I'm using that in a neutral way here:

“The Place” translates raw data into music: information from seismological, meteorological, and geomagnetic stations in various parts of Alaska is fed into a computer and transformed into an intricate, vibrantly colored field of electronic sound. “The Place” occupies a small white-walled room on the museum’s second floor. You sit on a bench before five glass panels, which change color according to the time of day and the season...

“Actually, my original conception for ‘The Place’ was truly grandiose. I thought that it might be a piece that could be realized at any location on the earth, and that each location would have its unique sonic signature. That idea—tuning the whole world—stayed with me for a long time. But at some point I realized that I was tuning it so that this place, this room, on this hill, looking out over the Alaska Range, was the sweetest-sounding spot on earth.”

This emphasis on place speaks strongly to rock's standards. The idea of localism and of community play a strong part in rock's mythos, of course, from local scenes to regional music. But in placing the piece not only within a particular environment but within a particular room, Adams echoes rock's strange obsession with "hearing the space." On a good rock album, supposedly, you can hear the room it's recorded in, and the particular venues bands play have meaning. Even live recordings are as much about the particular place of the performance as the performance itself.

So maybe "loud" is the wrong word to use here. Maybe what I'm really talking about is hugeness. Ross describes "Dark Waves," in a lovely turn of phrase, as suggesting "a huge entity, of indeterminate shape, that approaches slowly, exerts apocalyptic force, and then recedes." You can mass enough Marshall stacks to produce more decibels than an orchestra, but you never quite get that sense of hugeness. Again, this is partially a technical issue. With 100 people, you can get a much higher variety of sounds, and these can then build up to sound occupied, dense and rich. Because you have so many different instruments, you have all these different tambres. And because you have all these violin, viola, cello, and bass players playing the same part at the same time, the minute variations in each individual person's performance combine into this slightly fuzzy yet coordinated recitation of the part. Rock, again, tries to get this effect by technological manipulation; that's what chorus pedals are for. (Chorus, for those who are unfamiliar, is the effect that, when applied to a guitar, makes you think of 80s hair metal bands.) But it never quite sounds right.

Nevertheless, that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Listen to "Dark Waves." Surely that's a sound worth producing; hell, it almost sounds like metal. The feeling I get from the piece is essentially the same one I get from watching a thunderstorm: an ineffable physical reaction to some immense externality. I feel isolated from other people but wrapped up entirely in this phenomenon. I get that feeling from other classical music, too. If I get it from other places, it would probably be Carla Bozulich's Red Headed Stranger album, which used similarly indistinct sonorities and dynamic shifts. But I liked the smallness of that; for all its virtues (it's certainly in my top ten for the current decade), it ultimately evokes a distant storm more than one passing over you.

I'm not just saying that there's something to be gained from reconsidering the orchestra. I think Adams has a lot to say to non-classical composers in the way he approaches familiar problems and issues in unfamiliar ways. And art music in general has something to say to lots of other styles; it always has, and as much as we might consider it to be a remote thing, it always will.

In Terms of Tunes

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 08 May 2008 20:49:00 +0000

I didn't say much about No Age's actual music in the post yesterday, but if you're curious, I think Matthew pretty much covered it.

Punk Grammar

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Wed, 07 May 2008 15:32:00 +0000

We are all afraid of turning into our parents. It may be a short-lived fear, and it may turn out that we like turning into our parents, but there's an inevitable anxiety there. It's a way of transmuting the unavoidable change of aging into something we can control. Time marches on, but we can remain cavalier about certain social niceties, keep our sense of adventure paramount over our sense of safety, and avoid wearing slacks. These aspects of personality seem like something we have control over. The biggest thing, maybe, is that we don't want to lose touch with that art that was important to us as youths. We want to stay relevant, up-to-date, and so forth and so on, but at the same time our tastes are mostly fixed somewhere in the past. The music that mattered to us as youths dictates what matters to us as adults, but because music keeps changing, our efforts to keep up inevitably result in us being out-of-date.

The problem with my generation, the generation that grew up with grunge and became indie, embraces a somewhat different consideration. It's not the anxiety of influence so much as it is anxiety about influence. When we were growing up, the biggest thing we had to fight against musically was the influence of our parents' generation. The idea that the music of the 60s is the only music that matters is pervasive and incredibly powerful to a general audience. Worse, kids like me tended to approach adult music through boomer bands like the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Bob Marley. Thus attempts to come into our own understanding of music inevitably demanded a rejection of that whole canon, while at the same time, again, our tastes were formed in that context, and so those standards never really go away. The music that resulted rejected certain tenets--social relevance, poetic lyrics, melody, careful production--while keeping others, like authenticity, sincerity, and an emphasis on guitars. What resulted certainly sounded, at times, like boomer music, and even had some explicit connections; most notably, Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo was (0r is, perhaps) a Deadhead.

In the end, it's probably safe to say that we failed. Most younger listeners in the indie-rock demographic still come to adult music through boomer staples, and many stay there. The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and countless artists derived thereof dominate musical tastes across all ages. The question, then, is whether we should try and shape the tastes of the younger generation(s) in the same way the boomers did. Surely kids need to get out from under this myth of the 60s just as much as we did, and the music of the 90s offers a viable, yet complementary, alternative. There already is a myth of the 90s, that has been muted somewhat, but is still going strong, at least if sales of Nirvana t-shirts are anything to go by. But if we do that--if we impress our tastes on the young--does that make us as bad as the boomers?

Which brings us, of course, to No Age.

No Age is a two-man band from Los Angeles who have just released their second record, Nouns, on Sub Pop, the Seattle label that was responsible for much of the grunge boom. Though their name is a reference to the hardcore punk label SST, they sound like an amalgam of noisy indie bands like Built to Spill and Sonic Youth (who, in fairness, did release an album on SST). More importantly, at least for the sake of this post, they emerged from a scene centered around a club called The Smell, an all-ages venue that serves vegan snacks and offers $5 haircuts; a picture of the club serves as the cover of No Age's first album. Its communitarian spirit recalls the hardcore ethos of the 90s, and it has spawned various other noisy bands like the Wives and Mika Miko. Sasha Frere-Jones wrote an article for the New Yorker that spelled out the club's mythos explicitly, making sure to mention that it lends out books and zines. Though the band's connection to the club is interesting, it's not a necessary factor for embracing their music, which works within an established genre and would make sense to fans of similar bands.

It's interesting, then, to read the band's two Pitchfork reviews, one for the new album and one for their first album, Weirdo Rippers. The first review, by Brandon Stousy, places the band precisely within this genre, throwing out references to Harry Pussy, Lync, and Kicking Giant, none of which I've ever heard of before. (Nor do I feel particularly bad about this.) It pinpoints their appeal more broadly, however: "No Age bring back the DIY energy of Kicking Giant and Lync and '90s zines and, importantly, a life away from computer screens." There's a clear broadening of scope there: few can relate to Kicking Giant and Lync, but the appeal of "'90s zines" has only increased since we no longer have to read them, and we can all feel a certain longing for the pre-internet days, I guess. (Can we?)

In contrast to the first review's focus on sounds and influences, the second review frames the band entirely in terms of their scene, mentioning The Smell in the first sentence and through the two opening paragraphs before returning to it again in the final paragraph. Only two paragraphs of the review deal exclusively with the band. Despite having a different author, the second review (written by Amanda Petrusich) echoes the appeal the first review invoked: "regional culture has been fractured and marginalized by the internet," Petrusich writes, and though "being too focused on anything local-- except produce, maybe-- feels depressingly provincial in 2008," she still finds it "thrilling that a community-sponsored, community-supported art space can attract (and sustain) such a horde of admirable bands."

Thus, it's not only that the band's success beyond the noise/ex-hardcore community is being explained in these terms of being a throwback to a 90s social context, but that the case for its continued success is being made in these terms as well. The reviewing inducting the band into Pitchfork's "Best New Music" category begins and ends with a discussion of The Smell and the way it resembles the lost utopia of zines, community centers, and vegans.

I'm not sure if this is necessarily a good thing. For one thing, the best and more enduring American indie bands of the 90s, if they were part of a scene at all, existed on the outskirts of that scene: Nirvana, Yo La Tengo, Slint, Pavement, GBV. You wouldn't put any of these at the center of an artistic community like you would No Age, and it's hard to see how any of them would have been diminished by having the internet exist. The two exceptions would be Sleater-Kinney and Neutral Milk Hotel, neither of whom I like, so maybe this is just a matter of taste.

Then again, maybe it's not. Unless we're going to make an argument that there was something unique about that social environment that made bands different--a charge it would seem hard to sustain given that most of this decade's successful indie bands have sounded like variations on indie bands from the previous two decades--then the reason to hail a return of hardcore flair would be that the experience itself is worth preserving. Moreover, at least in the case of No Age, a band's association with that experience would have to say something about their artistic worth. There's a weird dance going on in that last part of the equation: the extrinsic narrative is being brought in as part of the artistic experience, and while I think that's a good thing to do--it's why I love pop, in part--I'm not sure how it squares with the expectation of authenticity that goes hand-in-hand with the valuation of this sort of music. Once we start valuing process over product, I'm not sure that we've having an artistic discussion anymore. Sure, I wish music now was more aware of, say, sexism, but would a return of "community-sponsored, community-supported art space[s]" really make that happen?

The first part of the equation, though, is where this whole thing gets tricky, and where the problem of anxiety about influence comes in. If we think that this was a valuable experience to have, and if we think opportunities to have this experience no longer abound, it should follow that we want to encourage what few there are so that kids these days can be fortunate enough to have the same kind of adolescences we did. Putting it that way is stacking the deck a bit, so I don't want to lean on this too heavily. Certainly the present decade has all sorts of problems, and there are many aspects of "the 90s" that I wouldn't mind seeing return. If there's anything that argues against merely accepting the social environment as it is, it's that it changes every seven years or so.

But ultimately, the things I want changed aren't specifics, but generalities. I would like to see more awareness of sexism, but I don't necessarily think that it needs to come via take back the night marches. Requiring that a new generation deal with the same issues in the same ways seems like Boomeritis. "Political problems? Well then, by gum, you need protest singers and protest marches! If you're not doing that, well then, you're not really dealing with the problem, and you don't really care! Unlike us! We cared, man!" Replace "protest singers and protest marches" with "hardcore music and community centers" and you have the critical discourse surrounding No Age.

What exactly is so bad about the internet, though? I no longer live in the kind of major urban area where community centers allowed great bands to flourish; I'm back where I grew up, in upstate New York, where there are no great bands (though there are community centers). The internet is now doing what it did for me as a teenager: allowing me access to this wider world and informing me about what's going on. For kids in Baltimore or LA, that information was available within driving distance, or from their friends; I had--and have--to go out and find it. You know what the big bands play in my current town, people? Ska. If I don't have the internet, that's what I'm into.

And it goes beyond that. If you want to see what it looks like when we become our parents, check out the idea that the internet is getting in the way of kids these days having an authentic indie-rock experience. That's only true if the internet is somehow inauthentic, e.g. not a culture of its own, and I think refusing to acknowledge that is much more evidence of being out-of-touch than not liking emo. Lord knows I'm no internet utopian, but it seems strange to deny that there are real communities online. They may not be able to give each other haircuts or provide venues for bands to play, but none of that is necessary for vital art to happen. There can still be the kind of encouragement, critique, and one-upmanship that we associate with productive artistic communities. When CSS first emerged, they made a good case for being a product of internet music culture, having gotten many of their influences from MP3blogs like Matthew's (if I'm remembering correctly). I think because the idea of online music is so debased for critics and musicians, bands may be reluctant to acknowledge these sorts of influences. But they're undeniably there.

I'm not sure indie is going to do itself any favors, ultimately, by clinging to the processes of the past. Certainly a longing for paradise lost is fine, and there's nothing wrong with reverence for the past. But indie was birthed out of the idea that new technologies (like 4-tracks, cassettes, and photocopying) could change the way music is made. Once new technology comes, that should change it again, at least if it wants to remain a vital form. Ultimately, we may end up no different from previous generations, soft and happy at middle age, listening to the music of our youth and thinking it the pinnacle of human achievement. That's fine, and good; no one's going to stand up for the music of an era except those who lived through it. But that doesn't mean we have to impose an arrested development on those who come after us in the same way the baby boomers tried to, and continue to try to. Let's not become exactly like our parents.

So Very Special

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 16:12:00 +0000

Let's get something straight here: Prince is not covering Radiohead here. He is, rather, making "Creep" a Prince song, which is to say he is bringing it within the Prince scheme of rhetoric. This is not merely an instrumental thing, nor even a stage gesture thing, though the gesturing offstage is pretty great. The particular moment it happens is at the end of the second verse.

Recall: here, Thom Yorke usually says "You're so fucking special." That "fucking" is key, because it's supposed to sound snide. It's an insult. Prince, on the other hand, does not say "fucking." And not just because he doesn't swear anymore; he could have said what Thom goes with in the radio edit, which is "very." Instead, he changes the entire line, and in doing, he changes the entire meaning of the line. Prince says: "I think that you're special."

This is probably the best distillation of Prince's verbal seduction technique anyone's ever conjured. That Prince is awesome and desirable goes without saying. Prince's argument for why you should sleep with him takes that for granted. Of course you want to sleep with Prince; everybody wants to sleep with Prince. But it's also true that Prince probably wants to sleep with everyone, too. Prince desiring you is not news. Prince walks around desiring things. That's what he does.

Prince's argument for why you should sleep with him, then, is that you guys could do something really special together. Prince wants to sleep with you because he thinks you're amazing. You are his equal, and being the equal of Prince is pretty special. It's all over his stuff, but maybe best expressed in "Gett Off": "twenty-two positions in a one-night stand / I'll only call you after if I say you can," and, of course, "tonight you're a star / and I'm the big dipper." Prince does not think that you're hot, or that he's good in bed; Prince thinks that you are the awesomest thing ever. That you are, in other words, special.

So the fact that he changes that line then changes the line after it. When he yells "I'm a creep," it really seems like he meant to say "freak." He turns this chorus of self-loathing that even Thom Yorke was embarrassed about for a while into, well, a Prince song, a statement of sexual licentiousness. I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo, I get freaky baby, and you can get freaky with me. The weirdness that was a source of embarrassment for Yorke is, here, a source of pride. And when he changes "I don't belong here" into "we don't belong here," it turns self-consciousness into "this party is lame, let's go find something as fabulous as we are." Prince brings you in, includes you in this fantastic Prince world that he has constructed.

What he's done here, then, is turn a song that regards an object of desire with debasement and disgust into a song that regards an object of desire as something to be connected with, included, freaked. It is, I think, an absolutely astounding bit of pop magic, a slight of hand so deft as to reveal itself only with a wink.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 12:48:00 +0000

Hi readers. As you may or may not know, I am currently a grad student, and I could use your help with some research. If you are an American citizen or current resident of the U.S., please take my survey. It's very simple and should take, at most, five minutes to do, but will be very helpful to me. Thanks!

The survey

You Can't Fight Forever

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 01:47:00 +0000

I neglected to link it below, but Todd's paper, on anti-rave laws in Britain, is online. You should read it.

Four Minutes (To Save the World)

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 14:12:00 +0000

I haven't said anything about the EMP conference here because I've had something of a hard time figuring out how to organize my thoughts. While there were excellent presentations, particularly J.D. Considine's and Todd Burns', I came away with a general sense of unease, but without anything specific to hang it on. Specifically, I was uneasy about many presenters' understanding of the conference's theme: politics.

Now, though, I think I've found a good example of what troubled me in a post by a conference attendee, Carl Wilson. I don't want to seem like I'm picking on Carl here--I really am just trying to get at a persistent point of view that irks me. Most critics who espouse that point of view are unreadable, at least by me, and so I wouldn't be able to find an example in their work because I don't read them. Carl, on the other hand, I am happy to read, and consistently do. He is a very good writer who occasionally wades into this stuff and makes me cringe. I don't think it makes other people cringe, though. So that's what I'm trying to get at here: the source of the cringe.

Carl's post is not about the conference itself, but about Barack Obama's recent "bitter" gaffe. Nevertheless, I think it gets at something fundamental about how many cultural critics think about politics. Carl talks about how the gaffe reflects a problem the left has with understanding where people's beliefs come from and how valid those beliefs are.[1] He compares it to Thomas Frank's What's the Matter With Kansas?, with its theory that working-class small-town Americans had been duped by the right into giving up their economic self-interest in favor of socially conservative politics that did them no good, and to his own pre-book attitude toward Celine Dion. To quote:

I thought a lot about these questions with regard to Celine Dion. There was a time when I would have figured that listening to Celine, like going to big blockbuster Hollywood movies, was a kind of false consciousness - being seduced by a materialistic Disneyland escapism that says nothing about real people's lives. I could have written a "What's the Matter with Celine Dion?" critique parallel to Frank's, claiming that people were being duped into listening to fairy-tale fantasy music sold to them by the very people who were strip-malling and outsourcing their communities' cultures out of existence.

But when I listened to Celine's music more and talked to her fans, I realized that she did, in fact, reflect her audience's values and concerns back to them in complicated ways - how to be at once strong, modern and feminine, for example, or the fate of tradition and family and community in an era of globalization and mass media - and that the more "rebellious" music that I used to think superior to the mainstream is often indifferent or hostile to those values and concerns. So why should they want it?

I came to think that everybody has a "false consciousness" of one kind or another, because everybody's cultural tastes are the product of their social experiences and position (including critics and rebels and radicals, seeking affirmation in the beliefs and culture they approve). Which is the same thing as saying no one has false consciousness. It's not that all beliefs are equally valid, but you won't get anywhere by assuming or claiming that other peoples' beliefs are inauthentic...

If we want to assert the importance of multiculturalism, adventurous art, minority cultures, reproductive freedom, then we have to recognize that some other people are equally attached to and serious about their religions, their social values, their leisure activities, their "American" culture.

Coming from my particular cultural viewpoint and set of beliefs, to conflate "adventurous art" and "reproductive freedom" is ludicrous. In the sense that they are both things that people can have different beliefs about, they're in entirely different categories. Disagreeing about reproductive freedom is a matter of ethics and practicality. We can argue about whether the rights of a fetus are more important than the rights of a woman. We can argue about adoption, poverty, rape, or, if you want to be really tolerant toward the conservative viewpoint, "post-abortion syndrome." Such an argument can proceed from a well-structured ethical system to factual discussion about the practical consequences of different policies toward reproductive freedom.

Disagreeing about adventurous art, on the other hand, is a matter of taste. And while taste is important, the arguments you can have about it are based in nothingness. You can never really "win" an argument about the avant-garde. You can win an argument about abortion. And that's as it should be, because abortion policy has real, demonstrable consequences. I can acknowledge and respect your viewpoint on adventurous art because, if it's different than mine, it has no consequences for me. This is not the case for actual matters of politics, for matters of policy. If a lot of people dislike gay marriage, that means a bunch of my friends can't get married. If a lot of people like Celine Dion, I occasionally get annoyed while in a department store. That's not just a difference of degree, but a difference of kind.

Unless, of course, you really do think that cultural disagreements have substantial practical consequences. Carl does, I think. When he says that Celine represents people who are "strip-malling and outsourcing their communities' cultures out of existence,"[2] that's not just department-store annoyance. That is a sort of cultural genocide, and in that case, you can have a ethical argument about cultural issues.

Which, again, seems crazy to me. But there is an entire field of study devoted to just such an idea. They've constructed a complicated--some might say a bit conspiracy-esque--theory on how cultural actions have an impact on power relations and social structure as great as, or even greater than, economic interests or public policy. You can string it together from Habermas to Zizek to various other people, all working under the assumption that culture maintains the power relations in society by distributing the ruling class' dominant messages to the public and inclucating hegemony, the new word for "false consciousness." (Note: this is the only time I will say stuff like that in this post, I promise.) And the perspective came up again and again at the conference that cultural actions--which is to say, artistic actions--had real and substantial (and almost always negative) effects on entire communities. This seems plausible when it comes to individuals, and certainly the role of culture in shaping people's identities is undeniable. But that's not what people were saying. Their arguments ran more along Carl's lines, that a strip mall eradicates the culture of a community. Moreover, there was a creepy strain of intentionality going on there, that zoning boards let strip malls in precisely so that they could accrue the benefits of destroying a community's culture. Over and over again, the most misused word in academia was invoked as shorthand for "corporations and governments are trying to destroy cultures because that is beneficial for their nefarious interests": neo-liberalism. One guy even used it to describe Ronald Reagan's foreign policy, which there may be some sort of literature on, but which from a political perspective seemed as sensible as calling Jerry Falwell a socialist.

I don't want to bite off more than I can chew here; this is a big, big argument, and at the heart of it is a basic disagreement about how the world works. A cultural disagreement, I guess. So I'm just giving my own particular viewpoint here. Carl points out, rightly and usefully, that lefties have their own sort of "false consciousness" where they're always seeking out things that reinforce their beliefs. I think the perspective I'm highlighting here is a symptom of that. At a certain gut level, it feels right to dislike strip malls and Disney stores and multimational corporations. But which came first here? Does the elaborate theoretical framework exist, in part, to justify these beliefs? And if so, are these beliefs rational, or are they...taste? Is opposing Disney Stores merely a matter of aesthetics? From that same rationalist perspective (which, I understand, the Zizek dude dislikes?), the negative consequences of a Disney Store opening seem hard to pin down, and though we might all agree that they're distasteful, it's hard to compare it to, say, the closing of an abortion clinic, or a change in the gas tax, or welfare reform. Which actually has an effect?

So let's focus on culture for a second, to get out of this comparison. I don't think that the only problem here is the conflation of art and politics. There's also, and more immediately relevently, the consistent attempt to apply ethical standards of judgment to cultural matters. I'm happy Carl points out that we need to respect where other peoples' tastes come from. But I'm not sure you get a cookie for that. Being curious and respectful of what other people like isn't the goal of criticism, but the base standard for responsible criticism. I'm aware that this is not necessarily a consensus view, and I've heard many people say their minds were opened by Carl's book on Celine, which made a great argument for the value of understanding why people like things we dislike. And lord knows I sit around and bitch about bands I think are shit. But I recognize that this is play--that bitching about shitty art is part of art. It's how more art gets made, for one thing.

I don't think that people at the conference really acknowledged this distinction. They seemed very serious about the evils they were cataloguing. They were making ethical arguments. But as I said above, the only way you can make ethical arguments about cultural matters is to assume that not following proper ethical standards has some sort of practical effect on the culture itself. In Carl's formulation, "communities' cultures" are being driven "out of existence"--are being destroyed. But this argument springs from a not entirely convincing vision of what culture is and how it works. In this vision, culture is a single, unchangable thing, that is how it has always been, and when it interacts with changing conditions, it doesn't change, but is, instead, destroyed. Here is the local culture, a pure and unmediated thing; here is the strip mall coming in; and there goes the local culture, which no longer exists, replaced with corporate culture. Different culture are, here, like salmon roe: distinct, unchanging elements that don't interact with each other but merely wait to be consumed, and, once they come into contact with a larger element, are obliterated.

To my way of thinking, though, culture is more like a sourdough starter. It's a basis from which other things spring, that people can take from without destroying, and which reacts to the infusion of new elements by changing, not by ceasing to exist; in fact, we have to "feed it" in order to keep it alive. Any culture, no matter how "traditional" it might seem to us, is historically contingent, socially constructed, and contested. Rewind a few hundred years, or even a couple of decades, and it will look very different. Cultures have always come into contact with new things and changed, always been up for debate. By the terms we use for talking about art, almost any local culture is inauthentic. And that's how it should be. Culture doesn't thrive by standing still, it thrives through play and debate and negotiation and change. This is not to say that any change is positive--I'm happy to talk about positive and negative cultural changes. But to say that negative changes aren't changes but destructions reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of culture itself.

To bring it back to where we began: the problem isn't that we think people's beliefs are inauthentic, it's that we think their culture is authentic. The only authentic cultures are dead ones, certified and frozen by the museum treatment. Any culture worth worrying about is inauthentic as hell, and if it can't take a damn Disney Store, it's hard to see how it would've lasted very long at any point in history.

This taking of culture at face value is persistent, and, I think, unhelpful in our attempts to understand art, pop, and all the rest. To frame these debates in ethical terms is to attempt an impossible argument--to transmute taste to policy. It doesn't work. If we're going to talk about art, for god's sake, let's do it on its own terms. Let's not try and justify our tastes by making the tastes of others seem evil; let's try and figure out what's going on with those tastes in the first place, and what they have to say about the society they're situated within.

[1] Though he doesn't seem to acknowledge the contextual information about the quote that's come out, which makes clear that Obama was not so much espousing his own views as--to steal Carl's excellent language--reflecting the likely views of a potential volunteer in San Francisco in such a way as to help the volunteer be more tolerant toward the Pennsylvania voters they were going to be canvassing. Obama has stuck to his statement for political reasons--saying it was a gaffe would be a sign of weakness, and he's done very well so far with embracing his embarassments--but I think what it reflects is less Obama's own intolerance (though, let's be honest here, a black man might be forgiven for being a little intolerant toward rural Pennsylvanians) and more his continuing effort to try and get the left to think abut things in a moderate way while not necessarily giving up their actual beliefs. Maybe the difficulty he's run into reflects his occasional clumsiness at doing that, or maybe it reflects the problem with local primaries becoming national news.
[2] While this is in the context of discussing his old position, the only thing he reverses about that position is that the people who like Celine have been duped--he still believes that their communities' cultures are being etc.

Do You Know What That Means?

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 12:56:00 +0000

Webbie - "Independent"

The obvious reference here is Destiny's Child, not just to the two "Independent Woman"s, but to "Bills Bills Bills." But instead of being a response song, this is more of an...agreement song? It recasts professional women in the hip-hop ideal: rich, hard-working, ambitious, and only needing the opposite sex for, well, sex. And it does so, somehow, almost entirely approvingly. These are good things for women to be.

The video undermines this a little at the beginning with its scantily-clad female students, but then actually goes beyond what the song itself claims. "Female Doctor Wins Nobel Prize," reads a fake newspaper headline, hilariously but accurately, and as the video ends, an impeached white male president has been replaced with a black female president. (With, awesomely, a full contingent of hot female Secret Service agents.) You could talk about that one for days in the current political context (the dream Democratic ticket!), and it'll probably be even more notable as a historical document a few years down the line.

What I like about this is not just that it's feminist--which it is--but that it's a specific kind of feminist. Rather than being a sex-positive feminism like you might be able to claim, were you drunk enough, that Li'l Kim espouses, or a third-wave feminism of Beyonce, the song is straightforwardly endorsing a traditional 60s, women's lib, second-wave kinda feminism. The idea of women assuming traditional male roles and becoming powerful and independent is straight outa Ms. magazine. I don't want to give the impression here that I'm saying this is unusual for hip-hop: this is unusual for any pop music, especially in the present decade, where we're lucky to get a little post-feminism thrown our way. Moreover, it's coming from men. Not only is it praising the idea of an independent woman, but it's making fun of men for opposing it.

This might not be entirely clear, since it's being expressed in the language of pop. Indeed, you could criticize the song for contradicting itself and the video for contributing to the exploitation of women, etc. etc. But in its chosen context, this is silly. Pop has always picked surface over depth, beauty over truth, and while this does not mean there is no truth or depth (just as truth often walks hand-in-hand with beauty), you can't read those surface elements as endorsing anything but aesthetics. Feminism, on the other hand, has never been so good with aesthetics. When it does try and move towards beauty, it seems to move toward feminity-as-it-is-lived and away from justice issues. So does that mean that pop, with its emphasis on aesthetics, can't be feminist?

"Independent" says nope. Where many previous attempts to integrate feminism into pop have either been non-threatening (see The Mary Tyler Moore Show), overly serious (see riot grrl), or critical of its contradictions (see Ally McBeal, Sex and the City, ad nauseum), "Independent" really does deliver a traditional women's libber message in a forthright, positive, and unmistakable way. And it does so by presenting feminism's arguments not as arguments but as foregone conclusions--as facts. This is pop's power. By being explicitly part of the mainstream, any piece of pop implies that all it contains is within the mainstream too. Webby isn't making a case for women being independent, powerful, and professionally successful--he's saying that they are all those things already, and men should recognize and respect that, because otherwise they aren't going to get laid.

And that's why it's not a contradiction. Female doctors exist, and so do inappropriately-dressed teachers and their nubile students, at least in the realm of pop. The video is just presenting them side-by-side. By so doing, it takes feminism out of the realm of the contested. It's over; feminism won. And ain't that grand? What's not to like about independent ladies? After all, as Webby points out, they can buy their men some nice-ass Gucci hats.

I Will Survive

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 02:21:00 +0000

Just popping in from hell month (affectionately!) to throw a few notes your way:

1) If you liked my last EMP paper, I am going to be there again this year. Rachel Arnold and I will be presenting a paper on pop songs used as campaign songs. The paper will probably show up around these parts in the future.

2) Generally I think Stanley Fish is a tool. But apparently if you give him 40 years to think about something, he can come to a pretty reasonable conclusion on it, at least if his article about postmodernism is anything to go by. It's pretty close to what I think about all them Frenchies these days: they weren't trying to disprove rationalism or claim that physical reality doesn't exist, they were just pointing out the socially constructed nature of things and kinda leaving it at that. I don't know if that's what they were actually trying to do, but it seems like the sensible way to think about them. That said, though, there were significant differences between them, and they're important. In retrospect, we can probably call Derrida and Baudrillard the Ann Coulter and Michelle Malkin of theory: provacateurs who probably didn't mean all of what they said, and don't really need to be taken seriously, even if some people do. Barthes is kinda the Robin Williams: playful and entertaining, but harmless, if occasionlly annoying in the repetativeness of his schtick. And Paul de Man is just crazy.

But--and not to be a grad student talking about Foucault here, but--Foucault is genuinely important and generally right. His histories applied the deconstructive mindset to concrete and meaningful subjects, and what he turned up helped make strange questionable truisms. In a way, what he did is basically what Gallileo did; both questioned widely-held assumptions that had a real effect on people's lives. But where Gallileo did it with geography, Foucault did it with language. And that has to be attributed, at least in some small part, to the Frenchies, or at least the environment they whipped up.

I go on about this because the rection to Fish's post is just baffling. Comment after comment complaining about postmodernism! Who knew? And this is why I point out that not all French theorists engaged in the kind of rhetoric Fish is talking about (and people are complaining about). There were some that did do legitimate work that really called into question certain things. Many people would, I suspect, agree with Foucault's take on mental illness. It's unfortunate that certain theorists have given the whole enterprise a bad name, but it's really confusing how, after Fish spends a good number of words laying out a reasonable position, people still get really worked up about deconstruction. I mean, it sucks that the one dude went to McGill and had to read Derrida, but I think most English departments these days provide ample opportunity to engage in traditional studies of literature. All the postmodernists went off and formed critical studies departments, didn't they? Oh, what do I know. Maybe Foucault isn't even part of this group.

3) I had previously posted about how much I liked the video for Mariah's "Touch My Body," but I only now realize that I really like the song too! It's dirty but assertive, the melody is really strong, and I like that Mariah's standing up for both her own sexuality and her control of the situation. The sweet way she sings "I will hunt you down" is amazing. I think it's my single of the year right now.

4) Oh yeah: thanks, Universal, for making my entire BYOP post a moot point by removing "Becky" (and two other songs) from the final version of Get Awkward. You are a bunch of enormous cameltoes.

I Can't Even Imagine Watching

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 01:20:00 +0000

I was on CBC Radio One today, on the show Q, talking about "Hallelujah." The podcast is here--I start around 18 minutes in.

CBC listeners, the "Hallelujah" essay is here.

For regular readers, new content very soon. And possibly more on Hallelujah (!), or at least Jeff Buckley, since apparently not everyone agrees with me about him.

Elsewhere once more

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 03:45:00 +0000

Oh, I was at Idolator again today. Of interest here would be this post on the Afganistan version of American Idol.

It Could Be Dangerous Living In This Valley

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:30:00 +0000

If there's a contemporary band that's fallen prey to the cult of the serious, it's the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Their first EP had a song about b-movies, and their early shows generally involved lead singer Karen O getting soaked with beer, whether by her own hand or by others'. They put out an album that was mainly about fucking and being awesome. Then their second album came out and it was about loneliness and sadness and ennui and it sounded like a cut-rate Nigel Godrich (that signifier of sincerity) had been allowed to spew his seed all over the tracks. What happened?

What happened was "Maps," and more specifically what happened was people missing the point the first time around. Initial reactions to the YYYs were either predictably rapturous or skeptical, reading their exuberance as shallow, fashion-victim Brooklyn kids playing simple music for simple times. But upon the emergence of "Maps," and its ascendence to minor-hit heaven, critics changed their minds. Oh, it was said, they can be serious! How great!

And look what happened: Karen O started taking herself seriously. The songs on their debut, Fever to Tell, were made from riffs and chants and sounded amazing. The songs on their second album, Show Your Bones, sounded like songwriting. We could get songwriting anywhere. Fever to Tell sounded like experimental music (Nick Zinner's playing may have recalled tha blooze, but it also sounded like Alan Licht) that functioned as rock and pop. They had managed to be experimental (notably, "Maps" was about the lead singer of furrowed-brow noiseniks Liars) without taking it seriously. But when they got so much positive reinforcement for "Maps," it signaled that this was the direction in which they should continue. What got lost was that no one might care about the YYYs in the first place without "Art Star" and "Pin."

And so Karen O embarked on one of the most symbolic journeys a rock musician can take: she moved from New York to LA.

New York is audible in almost every song the Yeah Yeahs released before the move. Sex is a quality New York and LA share, of course, but they approach it in different ways. Where, musically speaking, New York is dirty, cheap, snotty, and brash, LA is sleazy, opulent, self-important, and emo. Both of these sets of qualities can produce great music, but the Yeah Yeah Yeahs thrived with songs that strutted--musically and lyrically--and fed off the energy of a city that's covered in grime, unforgiving, and intolerant of anyone taking themselves too seriously (unless you take yourself really seriously). Los Angeles encourages indulgence, but "Maps" was great because of its context within a set of songs that seemed to express an entirely different attitude. Its beauty and sincerity seemed to be let go reluctantly--it was buried on the b-side, after all--and so it came across as a kind of secret, a glimpse of the soft side of a strong, charismatic person. This is appealing in a way that an entire album of "Maps" is not. Because of the refusal to acknowledge the majesty of "Our Time" and "Tick," to recognize the entirely valid (and even important!) things those songs were doing, the exception got emphasized, and the context was lost.

Now, this is not to say that I entirely dislike Show Your Bones. The referentiality and undeniable strut of "Phenomenon" is great, and "Cheated Hearts" is as good as anything on Fever to Tell. But I think the Yeah Yeah Yeahs of that first EP and first album filled a void in music extremely well. They made really great, noisy, shouty music that, as I say, worked as rock or pop. Many (many!) other bands tried to do this, but the YYYs suceeded because they had the right attitude and because every member of that band is really good at what they do. With Show Your Bones, that was lost, and the void returned.

Which is all a very long way of saying that the void has been filled quite well by Be Your Own Pet.

Now, it's a little off-putting at first to hear lead singer Jemina (!) because she does sound a whole lot like Karen O. But, crucially, she sounds like the Karen O of Fever to Tell, and since the YYYs are not making that kind of music anymore, the slot is up for grabs. I'm not entirely sure they did that on their first, self-titled album, but their new one, Get Awkward, hits the mark with room to spare.

If there's an explanation for their success, it's probably their focus on youth. As Mark Richardson says, "Much has been made of the members of Be Your Own Pet's average age," but when you're face-to-face with the album, the actual hard fact of how many years they've been on earth doesn't matter all that much. What matters is that their primary subject is the actual experience of being a teenager. Anyone could write these songs, and musicians of BYOP's age can, and do, focus on more "adult" (think "serious") themes and sounds. Karen O doesn't really sing about being young very much, except for maybe on "Our Time," and Nick Zinner's guitar doesn't sound as indebted to contemporary sounds as do BYOP's riffs. BYOP's breakthrough, then, is that you can capture the Fever to Tell energy by writing punk versions of High School Musical.

The most successful song by this criteria is "Becky," a story-song (like "Down By the Water," or "Art Star") about a girl whose friend betrays her trust and who she subsequently murders. (And which you can find here, for a while, at least until the album is out and you can buy it yourself.) It works because it is the exact opposite of high school poetry: instead of translating the banal emotional crises of adolesence into the astract language of the moon and suffering and so forth, Jemina sings very matter-of-factly about what's going on: "you signed my yearbook and that was pretty rad," "I really loved going to your slumber party," "now I'm stuck in fuckin' cellblock two." (Were I to be going through such an experience as a teenager, I would've come up with something more like "lost in a black cloud" or something. Boring!) Moreover, the actual emotions aren't dramatized, so we get "you told my secrets and it caused me a lot of pain." In other words, it refuses to take itself seriously. What it is is what it is: not timeless emotion but a simple tale of betrayal and homicide. And this is great, because timeless emotion dramatized into abstract language of the moon and blood is, generally, the same everywhere, and done better by adults. But this is specific, and therefore interesting, because it's different.

What really makes it work, though, is the attitude, which is why it can lay a claim to that YYYs energy. The character's reaction to this pain and hurt is not to go off and write poetry, but to fight back. It "doesn't matter anyway," she yells in the chorus, and "we'll kick your ass, we'll wait with knives after class!" When there's not beauty, this is what you want--action, violence, attitude! Familiar situations made awesome. And when she finally does the deed, no Lars van Trier art-directed execution for her, just the workaday grind of "juvey." It's dirty, cheap, snotty, and brash.

None of this is to say that the song is one-dimensional. She's not an unstoppable badass, but a kinda crazy kid who has regrets, who's sad, but who still blames her victim for making her into a murderous felon. The heightening of an everyday situation makes it fun, but the confusion and denial make it believable. When, at the end, she declares that "I don't regret what I've done,'cuz in the end, it was fun!" it's a good motto to live by, but in the context of the song it comes off as maniacal.

The key point, though, the part that really makes this rich and complex, is the breakdown, in which the male members of the band, who had been howling "Beckyyyy!" under the chorus, chant, "We don't like Beck-y, anymore!" But who is Becky? The only other time she comes up is in the line "It was great how you made me a friendship bracelet, but I didn't know you made one for Becky's face lift!" This implies that she's the girl to whom the vicitm betrayed the narrator, the "other girl." So why don't they like her anymore? Shouldn't it be the killer they dislike? Well, no--the killer is their bandmate, so they're on her side. What this does is to bring the other girl into the story, to give her a little spotlight. In the midst of all this over-the-top killing, we get a little glimpse of the third character standing in a corner, sad and left out--her best friend killed, another girl in jail because of it, and arguably because of her, and thus made an outcast by the other kids, who blame her for the whole thing. It's like Blur's "Country House," where after a whole song of arguably simplistic stereotype-bashing, a chant emerges of "blow, blow me out, I am so sad, I don't know why," humanizing what had previously been a cipher. We see it from their perspective. This is art.

The funny thing is that there is an entire song on Get Awkward about the perils of moving to LA. It's called "The Kelly Affair," and it's available here, where you can also read Marc Hogan's take on it. Of course, it's mainly about Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, since the fake girl-band in that movie changes its name from "The Kelly Affair" to "The Carrie Nations," which is mentioned in the first line of the song, and Jemina yells a famous quote from the movie over the breakdown. ("Nothing like a Rolls!") But why does the movie resonate with BYOP enough for them to write an entire song about it? I think it's because they're from Nashville, an industry town but not for teenage punk bands, and they see moving to LA as a step toward being assimilated; it's their way of dealing with the minor fame they've built up, just as Show Your Bones was at least partially about the same thing. But where Karen O sings of alienation, Jemina makes fun of the whole idea by relating a career move to a camp classic. "It could be dangerous," she sings, and while the lyrics list pills, sex, and parties as the dangers, for a band like BYOP the danger is in losing the energy and snottiness that people have responded too--in becoming the YYYs. That, two albums in, they've managed to avoid that fate says good things about their music and their future.

(For the record: I previously worked as an accountant for the company that booked Be Your Own Pet's tours, but I no longer have any association with them. And, believe me, they book lots of bands I've bad-mouthed.)

I am elsewhere again

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 14:48:00 +0000

I'm guest-blogging at Idolator today. Come say hi!

The Next Man on the Moon Will Be Chinese

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 19:06:00 +0000

Given that the focus of this blog is art + politics, I would be remiss if I did not direct you to Andrew WK's musical setting of an exchange from the McLaughlin Group, since it is a) amazing, and b) some sort of super-concentrated essence of that particular topic. I could go on about it for, oh, pages, but that seems silly to do for a 47-second joke, right? Let's just coronate it as the clapclap theme song and move on with our lives.

(You can also listen to a Be Your Own Pet song at that link, which will become relevent shortly.)

Josh Schwartz and the Ambivalence of the System

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 15:43:00 +0000

Josh Schwartz has always been accused of having autobiographical characters in his shows, and this is meant as a criticism. Seth Cohen on The OC and Dan Humphrey on Gossip Girl are gifted, misunderstood, self-important teenage nerds, and the shows seem to take them as seriously as they take themselves, arguably to their detriment. But the main character on his other show, Chuck Bartowski, is just as autobiographical, but in a more mature and perhaps more revealing way. Where Dan and Seth represent an artist remembering an adolescence many people can relate to, Chuck is his way of telling the story of his adult life, and as a television producer, this shouldn't be something most people can relate to. By masking autobiography in metaphor, however, he makes his story more inclusive, tells a personal story in a decidedly impersonal medium, and launches a subtle critique of the system that made him what he is today.

This will make more sense with two pieces of context. First is the context in which the show itself appears. Chuck, along with Gossip Girl, is one of two new shows Schwartz created after the cancellation of his first show, The OC. That show had a monumental first season overstuffed with drama and disasters, but couldn't keep up the impossible pace, and in the middle of its fourth season it was announced that it would not be returning for a fifth. The OC was always regarded as a trashy teen drama, but the two new shows reveal that there were, in fact, three elements to The OC: melodrama (which was obvious, and which now resides on Gossip Girl), action (fires, overdoses, earthquakes, all now on Chuck), and, perhaps counterintuitively for viewers who missed the excellent final half of The OC's final season and the relationship between Ryan and Taylor, comedy. These three elements worked in harmony only briefly on Schwartz's original show, but broken out into their own series, they can flourish.

Secondly, there is Josh Schwartz's biography. A child of Rhode Island toymakers, he was a junior in the film school at USC when he sold his first script for $500,000. After two failed pilots, The OC became a massive success. Schwartz was 27 when it premiered, making him "the youngest person in network history to create and produce his own one-hour series." He was so young that he had never been a staff writer; all of his television credits were as a show creator and producer. In a very real sense, he was plucked from obscurity and thrown directly into the maelstrom of the TV business.

It's important that where Schwartz's two other fictional doppelgangers are teenagers. Tolstoy to the contrary, all unhappy adolescences are basically the same, and what makes them so ridiculous in hindsight is that every single unhappy teenager thinks they are going through something totally unique. Seth and Dan certainly do, and this makes them less appealing to adults. But Chuck Bartowski is an adult, and as an adult, you're responsible for yourself. You can't afford the luxury of a generic unhappiness, nor the simple pleasure of believing you are special. Because adults must find their own unhappinesses, Chuck is a much more interesting and complex character. When you're a teenager, you welcome drama with open arms; as an adult, you try constantly to keep it at bay, so when it comes, it's something new.

Where Seth and Dan were characters heady with the excitement of firsts, Chuck is a character settled into smallness, a big fish quite content in a small pond. Seemingly the one member of his class at Stanford not to get a high-status job, he is now the alpha nerd at a fictionalized Best Buy ("Buy More"), living with his sister and hanging out with his loser friend Morgan. When his college roommate Bryce implants a treasure trove of government secrets into Chuck's brain, he falls under the protection of a mildly sociopathic NSA agent named John Casey and a CIA agent, Sarah Walker, who also poses as his girlfriend. As he now has the only copy of these secrets, he is enlisted to assist on spy missions, which he fumbles through successfully in roughly the same way Seth Cohen fumbled through adolescence. At the same time, he stays within his old life, and the conflicts between that and the spy world drive the show's emotional drama.

Removed from the particulars, the setup of Chuck is more familiar than one might expect from ass-kicking espionage. A normal guy with a normal life is suddenly thrust into a world of power, secrets, and action, and must survive within a system that could easily crush him. In other words, he's thrust into Hollywood--a whole world of power, secrets, and action that a newcomer must negotiate without knowledge of the immensely complex interpersonal histories that inform every interaction, without any training and with only the most cursory advice as to what's expected. This is not unlike the story of a college student who gets offered $500,000 for a script and ends up producing his own primetime network show without any prior experience--Schwartz's story.

In the third episode, Chuck returns to Buy More from a mission he feels he's botched. A pile of old computers awaits repair, and though his friend offers to help, Chuck demurs. "It'll be nice to do something I'm good at," he says. For "creatives," especially those who work day jobs, this is sure to resonate. You spend your nights trying to figure out this immensely complex system, whether it be record labels, the art world, magazines, publishing houses, or movie studios, and, most of the time, you aren't very good at it. You make a fool of yourself in public, commit horrible faux pases with people of influence, and seem to repeatedly sabotage your own prospects. It's nice, in that situation, to just come into the office and pump out a spreadsheet, because it's simple and straighforward, and when it's done, you did it right. This is the life of a writer before he gets discovered, and as Schwartz found out, success comes all at once, when it comes. You are a failure right up until the moment you succeed.

The fourth episode introduces a DEA agent named Karina. When Sarah gets captured by the enemy, Chuck tries to convince Karina to rescue her. Karina replies, "You know this thing of ours? We're all in it for ourselves. It's what we do." This is not entirely true, in context; spies are at least partially in for their agencies and the policy goals of the government they represent. But it is quite true of Hollywood, which is the real "us" of Karina's statement. Before they leave, she tells Chuck, "It's our job. We shed identities like people shed clothes." Who is speaking here? Is it the character, or the actress playing the character? Where is the mask?

This is Schwartz's way of writing about his experience without being accused of solipsism or whininess. (And if there's any doubt that Chuck is autobiographical, by the ninth episode he's dating a girl named Lou, played by Rachel Bilson, who also played the love interest of Seth, the Schwartz-surrogate on The OC; Chuck even gets into a double-dipping problem with her, as did Seth.) He has constructed an unfamiliar metaphor that nevertheless speaks powerfully to his particular experience and the experience of the struggling writers with whom he ultimately identifies. After all, in a sense he is the loser from his college class: in a program that prepares its graduates for art, he spends his time writing about spoiled teenagers and secret agents.

It is college, significantly, that opens up a new thematic avenue for Schwartz. In the seventh episode, Chuck is forced to return to Stanford, a school that expelled him in his junior year. The autobiographical angle here is obvious--both Schwartz and his surrogate left college in their junior years. But there would seem to be a disconnect in that where Schwartz left on his own terms to pursue success, Chuck's departure was a kind of failure. As the episode continues, though, the strands come together. Chuck thinks he was kicked out because Bryce told a professor that Chuck cheated on an exam. But as we find out, Bryce got Chuck kicked out for his own good: the professor was going to recruit Chuck for the CIA, and Bryce didn't want his friend to face that awful life. So as it turns out, Chuck left to go on to bigger and better things too--it was just against his will, and it took a while. Then again, it did for Schwartz, too.

If we read the CIA as a symbol for Hollywood, this episode changes the scenario significantly. Chuck is not, in fact, an innocent brought into this system against his will; he was implicitly part of the CIA all along. As the professor says, "He's in no matter what." And Chuck would never have been recruited--or made friends with Bryce--if he hadn't gone to a particular college. This is just like Hollywood, which only brings you in if you have a connection, and just like Schwartz, who wouldn't have been creating network shows if he hadn't gone to a very specific college (e.g., USC film school). Despite all the business about the two worlds colliding, it turns out that Chuck's world was always part of this larger system. He just didn't know it yet.

This episode leaves little doubt that the world of espionage is Schwartz's autobiographical metaphor for Hollywood. And this reflects back on the show's depiction of the intelligence game, making it into a subtle critique of Hollywood. When in the next episode Chuck's sister randomly encounters a rogue agent and is poisoned, this is a comment on the way a Hollywood career inevitably intrudes into your personal life. In the sixth episode, Chuck meets a guy named Lazlo who was recruited by the agency as a teenager and had since been locked underground; when he finally escapes, he has gone crazy, a joke about the way Hollywood ruins child stars. Chuck tells Lazlo that Sarah and John can help him. "They're the good guys," Chuck says. "There's no such thing in this business," Lazlo replies, and note the pointed use of the word "business."

Thomas Schatz wrote of "the genius of the system." But while the products of that system may be wonderful for those of us outside it, and while we may admire the almost mechanical process by which those products are created, for the human beings within that system, it can feel crushing even as it enables them to do what they do. Schwartz is not only telling his own story but carefully expressing ambivalence about the business that has made his dreams come true, because it is also a daily horror to actually deal with: the ruthlessness, the power plays, the lies. Schwartz offers the perspective of a "creative" within this system, and speaks for them convincingly, in a language perhaps only they will recognize.

Schwartz also, in the end, demonstrates a way to keep your sanity within the system by being a smartass on occasion. In November of 2007, NBC, the network on which Chuck runs, had a "green week," during which "network logos turn green, on-screen graphics offer tips for reducing carbon emissions and television episodes emphasize environmentally friendly plot line." Chuck did its part, with two of its actors appearing in a promo spot and sporting numerous environmentalist elements in its seventh episode. One of these involved the new manager at Buy More starting a recycling program. He explained why: "Tree-hugging is all the rage these days. I plan on exploiting the burgeoning conscience of the American consumer." This is funny, but it's also a fairly accurate take on the ridiculous spectacle of "green week." Schwartz did his duty to the system by, in effect, trying to undermine its message.

Josh Schwartz is no fool. As a writer-producer, he is a member of an extremely select club, and he uses his position to not only make art, but to tell his own story in a new kind of way. But he also has to be honest, and honesty demands criticizing that which surrounds him. Chuck may not be the best show ever--and to be honest, I have largely stopped watching it--but the fact that Schwartz is able to do all this while still making a reasonably satisfying spy show is a testament to how much thought he puts into his entertainment products.

Butchered, Again

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 05:30:00 +0000

Via a Metafilter commenter, the definitive version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."

That Said, The Traditional Video Form Can Still Work Well

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 16:39:00 +0000

Cutting between multiple locations is OK as long as those locations all include Kenneth from 30 Rock.

It's In Your Face

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 17:08:00 +0000

I did a remix for Chicago band Canasta, and it reminded me of Faith No More for some reason, so I titled it "The Claps' You Want It All But You Can't Have It Remix." It's the first track here if you're interested in hearing what I came up with. It doesn't really sound like Faith No More. (What do YOU think it sounds like?)

"Flashing Lights" and Stylization

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 02:36:00 +0000

People are properly losing their shit about Kanye's "Flashing Lights" video, in no small part because of the "sudden ending" (or "possibly to be continued ending") that brings up a number of contemporaneous cousins--"Trapped in the Closet," the Sopranos finale, etc. But that's not really the context in which it's placing itself, and the ending--which is pleasing as hell, to be sure, but not particularly novel--isn't the most important part of the video. To understand why this video is so important within its medium, we need to take a ride back through time.

When MTV emerged at the beginning of the 80s, its style was totally new, or at least totally new to the mainstream. The video language that is so easy to mock now was transformative then, and not just to aesthetics. By introducing jump cuts and extreme stylization as not just possible techniques but techniques that people would really respond to, MTV can be blamed for the horrors of newsmagazines, sure, but also for Arrested Development, Kill Bill, and all sorts of things that thoughtlessly get called "postmodern." What gets communicated through style trails substance behind; there might not be all that much to most early MTV videos, but they legitimated an artistic technique that could be used in very substantive ways indeed.

And yet, as I say, it's a style that we now mock--and with good reason. The problem muisc videos have as a medium is that the two basic video structures established in the first 2 years of MTV are the only two that have ever been employed with any regularity. The first, which we'll get to in a second, is the standard-issue music video with lots of jump cuts and performance scenes and sets and outfits and no particular coherency. The other, the "mini-movie" video, starts with "Thriller" in 1983 and doesn't really go anywhere from there--it still pops up every once in a while (an Idolator commenter mentioned JT's "What Goes Around") but it hasn't really changed very much. And that's it. That describes almost all music videos, whatever the genre, whatever the amount of money, whatever the year. (Except for one other strain, which "Flashing Lights" fits into--but that's for later, too.)

So it's easy to say, as has often been said around the clap clap household, that music videos these days suck. And while I don't know if the creators of "Flashing Lights" intended to offer a direct rebuke to that sentiment (presumably video auteur Kanye did not), the video makes a clear break with the past, though this might not be immediately obvious. At a certain level of abstraction, after all, it's just another video: hot girl, hot car, paltry plot, highly stylized. But the fact that it does manage to be so stylized is precisely what sets it apart. The music video as a form had become so calcified in its structure, so chained to its big-money past glories, that it had, in effect, ceased to be stylized. Videos had become too banal to be unreal. But stylization is the defining characteristic of music videos. Three minutes is simply not enough time to engage in any sort of character or narrative development; all it has is image. So what meaning it makes must emerge from the style. Music videos without style--which is to say, almost all music videos currently being made--are nothing at all.

The basic music video style is remarkably robust. After being thoroughly degraded by pop metal bands, 90s "cars and mansions" rap videos, along with grunge's "student art film," granted it a continued viability by placing new image-sets within the existing bounderies. But what are those bounderies? The basic form of a music video is to have a series of sets or locations, with which are paired outfits and/or props, to have the artist in some of these locations, and to cut between them for the duration of the video. You can have some of the locations be, say, barns (or places in Brooklyn) and some of the people in the locations not be band members, but almost all videos--including many mini-movies--stick to this scheme: 4+ disparate locations cut up and rearranged. A standard-issue music video presents numerous constructed images (the locations) and then explores them, as visuals, quickly.

Now look at the "Flashing Lights" video again. You'll notice, I hope, that it does not do this at all. Instead, it presents one image and explores it slowly, and it's able to do that is because the image has depth. It is not just a set on which to dance, but something with multiple levels that reveal themselves over time. What happens over and over in this video is that things are revealed: the landscape reveals a car, the car reveals a woman, the woman takes off her clothes to reveal her underwear, the lighter reveals the fire, the fire reveals the woman's body (which is a very important element of the video, as Brandon Soderberg points out), the trunk is opened to reveal Kanye bound and gagged, the woman reveals the shovel, and when the camera pulls back to deny us exact knowledge of what she does with the shovel, it holds back on the final reveal and thus preserves the tension that all those reveals build up to. What started as an empty stretch of land has become something with characters, a plot, and flash. The cuts, if you will, are internal, are included in the image.

At the same time, it's no Empire. Though there's only one cut in the entire video (and a very effective one that a careful observer could go on about at some length), there's no attempt to present reality here. Quite the opposite. Again, it offers many of the same elements that music videos (and especially rap videos) usually do--hot, half-naked woman, luxury goods, explosions--but it uses them in an entirely new way. It is not just stylized, but hyper-stylized, so unreal that it becomes packed with meaning. Though it represents a repudiation of the traditional video structure, it is still very much in diaglogue with the video as a form. It's not critiquing the music video per se (though, again as Brandon points out, it's arguably critiquing a particular kind of video), but offering an alternate model for how videos could be made. Instead of creating maximalist but two-dimensional sets, create one tightly-packed image that you can then explore, whose levels you can allow to escape one by one.

As I say above, this is not necessarily a new form. Dance music videos, particularly those from the "electronica" boom, often used this basic form of a slowly-evolving single image to mirror the different structure of the music that was being presented. Other videos do something similar--U2's "Lemon," for instance, or perhaps Michel Gondry's iterative video for Bjork's "Bachelorette." But the only one that does almost the exact same thing is Spike Jonze's video for California's "Wax," which consists of a single slow-motion shot, taken from a bus window, of a man running down the street while on fire. And guess who co-directed the "Flashing Lights" video? Yep: Jonze.

Jonze isn't ripping himself off, though. While the "California" video isn't just an image of a guy on fire, given the slow reveal of the scene and the punchline at the end of him hailing a bus, you'd be hard-pressed to say that there was a lot of richness or levels to the video. The basic image, as a whole, has a lot of meaning, but with "Flashing Lights" Jonze has clearly one-upped himself by making a kind of puzzle box that unlocks itself before your eyes. It's not just a fantastic piece of art, but a path for music videos to follow, once they stop pining for an era of huge budgets that is never going to return.

A Brief Point About Stupidity

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 22:34:00 +0000

This NYT article, regarding Susan Jacoby's book The Age of American Unreason, has been hanging around the "most popular" list for a few days now, and at present, it has attracted 978 comments. Soon, I hope to address why it (and grumbles like it) strike such a chord, but as for the actual content of the article, it demands a brief rejoinder.

The essential thrust of her argument, at least as it is depicted here, comes down to that evergreen canard: Americans are ('R'?) stupider than they have ever been. Often now, and exclusively in the past, that argument is made via anecdotal evidence, such as Jacoby's little parable about the two men on 9/11 who didn't know what Pearl Harbor was. This is, to say the least, inconclusive. Contemporary scolds, however, are able to draw on survey data to demonstrate just how widespread and shocking is the ignorance of Americans, and Jacoby invokes statistics on college students' shaky grasp of geography. This sort of evidence would seem to be more useful for someone looking to indict a whole culture; after all, to show that Americans are stupider now than they have ever been, they must show a) that they are stupid, and b) that they used to be less stupid. Presumably Jacoby shows a) well enough, but that leaves b). And b) is a problem.

The inconvenient thing for Jacoby's argument is that survey data have pretty much always shown that Americans are shockingly ignorant. I'm hardly an expert on the subject, but I could send you toward Philip Converse's "The Nature of Belief Systems in Mass Publics" from 1964. Drawing on data from 1956-1960, he made an embarassingly convincing case that 90% of Americans had little knowledge or understanding about our political system. I don't know if Jacoby is using any similar statistics from modern times, but that sounds pretty ignorant to me, and that in the golden age of the post-war boom.

As for before the postwar era, no survey data exists, because widespread surveying of the population only began in the 40s. So could we have perhaps been smarter before then? Could that data just have gone uncaptured?

The problem with that idea is that universal compulsory education has only been in existence in America since 1918, and it seems unlikely that Americans were smarter when they did not have to attend school. The only possibility left, then, is that Americans were smarter in the 25 year (or so) period between the starts of compulsory education and surveying, and sure, it's possible. But something would've had to happen during that period to make them 90% stupid about politics by 1956. It's hard to think of what that could be; certianly Jacoby's hobgoblins, anti-intellectualism and anti-rationalism, were not exactly unknown in the first half of the twentieth century.

In sum: Jacoby can say that Americans are stupid. She can wonder why they continue to be stupid, and indeed, many people do. She can even say that we should be smarter. Bravo! But she can't say we're stupider, and she most certainly can't blame either pop culture or teaching about pop culture in colleges for making us stupider. It seems like what she really wants to be saying is that the educational system in America needs to be fixed--but that would be a much shorter, or at least much different, book, and would probably not appeal to quite the same audience.

The interesting suggestion about the above analysis, though, is that there might be a fairly logical reason for why Americans think so little of themelves and so much of the Americans of old: we know how stupid we are, but we don't know how stupid we used to be. And that, sad to say, is the direct fault of the national survey. It seems elitist and condescending to think of most Americans as fundamentally ignorant, but survey after survey comes out to say that we are. We want to think of our fellow citizens as decent, kind, respectful human beings, but surveys pop up to inevitably remind us that they are not. And if we are not now, it seems likely that we never were. The only evidence of our predecessors' sanctifying grace is either anecdotal, clearly unrealistic, or taken from the sullied minds of the elderly. Just like everyone everywhere, the American people are not wonderful human beings. (American culture or American ideals maybe not so, but that's a different discussion.) We have surveys to thank for that knowledge, and though what they reveal may be disheartening, it is imperitive that we resist the siren song of nostalgia, that we do not view the past through a Vaseline-smeared lens in order to make ourselves feel better about the present. We're stupid, we're mean, and we're selfish. If we want to change that, there's no backwards path, no state of grace to return to. There's only forward.

ADDENDUM: Regarding the "maps" thing brought up in comments, this guy makes a good point:

Apropos of Jacoby, the reason FDR wanted people to buy maps in World War II
is because polling showed a significant number of Americans did not know where
Germany was located on the globe, and of course, at that time, there were far
more people than today who believed the earth was not a sphere, but essentially
flat. My question to Jacoby would be "How many people really went out and bought
maps--and of those, how many were the ones who didn't know where Germany
was?"

The Cult of the Serious

noreply@blogger.com (Mike B.) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 04:23:00 +0000

Maura had a good post a couple weeks back reacting to Virgina Heffernan's NYT Magazine piece lamenting the imminent passing of Friday Night Lights. Maura's conclusion:

i think what heffernan’s argument really boils down to is the fact that, generally speaking, scripted shows that are adored by self-proclaimed tv connoiseurs–from your alessandra stanleys to your twop message-board denizens–don’t really do well on a mass level in general. (the success of a show like lost is probably the exception to the rule, although that show is pretty compelling on a mass level, and it featured many shots of absolutely stunning people running around shirtless and/or in rainstorms. hello, josh holloway!) but the online chatter, ancillary fantasy worlds, and general obsessing about those sorts of shows creates the illusion of greater popularity than there really may be, much like certain other phenomena that i’ve come across in the day job.

Maura's coming at this from the particular perspective of her aforementioned day job--and in this case that's probably the right perspective to come at it from, since Heffernan's trying to make this about the internet. But what she says resonated with me for another reason. Let me come at it from my particular perspective for a minute.

I don't really know why I've felt the need to be coy about this, but I'm going to the Newhouse school right now as a grad student. (Please do call me out if I'm no longer keeping it real on clapclap. The implicit prohibition on swearing and general uncomfortableness with elaborate, obscene metaphors in the academy has been hard to adjust to.) I've taken two classes so far with Bob Thompson, who's probably the most visible television scholar in America. And while it was refreshing at first just to hear someone talk seriously about television, as the classes have progressed, I've become more and more dissatisfied with his critical perspective. And while I don't want to shy away from calling him out in particular on this--I'm going to use examples from his lectures in a second--he is, ultimately, a part of the group Maura calls "self-proclaimed tv connoiseurs." And as someone who's looking to spend a lot of time studying TV, I have a few problems with them and the particular artistic values they're attempting to impose on the rest of us.

While I don't recall him necessarily ever coming out and saying so, Thompson's favorite show of all time is probably St. Elsewhere. When he first began discussing the show last year, I was happy to go along for the ride. He's watched the show very closely and even corresponded with the show's staff to clarify and confirm certain points. But his argument for the show's quality revolves around one particular assumption: that it works on multiple levels. For instance, in watching an episode where Howie Mandel goes through the afterlife, he broke down a basic scene where two characters sit in the hospital kitchen and recapitulate previous plotlines by showing how a series of lines go by that all employ condiment metaphors, that those metaphors are also dirty jokes, and that the lines sometimes alliterate. He compared this to Shakespeare, as well as to Arrested Development, the former in a positive way, the latter in a negative. He criticized Arrested Development for being overly obvious in its delivery of jokes, whereas with St. Elsewhere, you might not even notice that there was a joke.

Now, I could point out here that this is at least partially because puns on condiments aren't particularly funny, whereas Arrested Development's jokes could sometimes exhibit the kind of structural complexity that would make a grown man weep. His point was, in this and other discussions of the show's worth, that the writing was dense, complex, and worked on multiple levels, and that therefore this made St. Elsewhere a great show.

Heffernan goes on about franchising and the internet and "museum fatigue" (agh!), but what her argument ultimately comes down to is the same thing Thompson's argument ultimately comes down to: that a show's worth is directly related to how dense it is. Not only that, but that density has to be visible and deliberate. It's not enough for a show to resonate on multiple levels; we have to have evidence that the show's creators intentionally put those multiple levels of meaning in there through a heroic act of creation. The show must cater to us or challenge us, rather than expecting us to bring our own meanings to it--it cannot be, as Heffernan puts it, "art that doesn’t need us." But art that does need us sounds like, well, needy art. And since when is needy attractive?

I don't mean to sound like I'm dismissing complex art here. I think complexity, intentional or otherwise, is certainly one level on which quality and pleasure can be generated, though as I imply above, I think it's a little silly to want it to be intentional complexity all the time. But it should not and cannot be the only critereon for excellence when it comes to TV programs. Indeed, it's clear that complexity is not the only way shows can prove their worth. There are too many well-loved, straightforward shows to think otherwise.

Thompson makes the case that the new crop of "quality TV" that's emerged over the last 25 years has fulfilled the promise of television as a medium by allowing it to become a new way to tell stories. But is it really a new way? Don't we often hear The Wire compared to novels? Isn't The Sopranos, for whatever you might think about it, just as much a "middle-class form of the novel," as Heffernan so annoyingly puts it, as anything else? For that matter, isn't Battlestar Galactica? (And in terms of storytelling, haven't we seen this before everywhere from Dickens to comic books to movie serials of the 1940s and 50s?)

I'm just saying that what gets touted as "quality TV"--shows that are, as Maura points out, overwhelmingly scripted dramas--aren't the be-all and end-all of good television. The formal possibilities of TV are by no means limited to the serialized episodic structure. You can do other things on the small screen besides what Dickens did when he was getting paid by the word 150 years ago.

Again, I'm being coy, so let me just come out with it. In an overview of the first 60 years of American television, Thompson commented while watching the famous chocolate eating scene in I Love Lucy that it was not all that different, formally, from what we're still watching today. The scene, he said, would fit right into an episode of Will and Grace. On this, he is most certainly right. And it applies to almost every genre of television. Game shows (which includes reality shows), dramas, soap operas, and news have changed their formats strikingly little from the 1950s. The tone and design might be slightly different, but the essential forms have been set for a good half-century.

And then there are cartoons.

What you see above is an episode of Space Ghost Coast to Coast, and I would challenge anyone to find a show predating it with which it shares any formal qualities. Seinfeld was hailed--rightly!--for its formal innovations, and it referred to itself as a show where nothing happened. But, of course, lots of things happened in Seinfeld episodes. There were numerous conflicts which were then complicated and intertwined and eventually resolved. That complexity and manipulation was a big part of what made the show so satisfying.

In contrast, there is one episode of Space Ghost which could be summarized thusly: Thurston Moore plays the guitar for 5 minutes. Then the credits roll. Literally nothing happens. The episode above consists of 9 minutes of Space Ghost following an ant along the ground, until he encounters giant ants and is chased by them for about 10 seconds. Then the episode ends. That's it. That's the episode. It's certainly like an Andy Warhol film, except this was broadcast on national television and ends with a joke about fire ants. (Miss Clap's comment: "Wow, I can't believe they aired that.")

Ostensibly, it was supposed to be a cartoon talk show, and sometimes it was structured as such: opening with a monologue, proceeding to interviews, and the three characters would banter back and forth for a while between. But other times, the show might start in the middle of a line, or wander off to Space Ghost's apartment, or take place entirely in black & white, or be not a cartoon at all, but a re-creation of a past cartoon by human actors. A bad recreation. Long--loooooong--uncomfortable silences were a regular gag. You counted it lucky if the show made any sense whatsoever. And it was immensely enjoyable. Generally, you know what's happening on TV shows; even what counts as a surprise is really just a lesser-traveled path on the recognizably branching forks of the basic TV plotlines. But with Space Ghost, you legitimately had no idea what was happening next. Look above--don't you keep thinking something's going to happen? Don't you keep thinking that they can't possibly drag it out this long? And yet--and yet--they do.

I am happy to recognize that there is an element of taste going on here. Even if I am not as blown away by many of the dramas hailed as groundbreaking and transcendent by the TV connoisseur crowd, I certainly recognize their worth and would never try and talk other people out of liking them so much. But if there was a shift to "quality TV" in the early 1980s, then it has to be recognized that TV cartoons went through at least as sweeping and productive a change starting with Ren and Stimpy in the 90s, and that cartoons are at an entirely different level than cartoons were for the 30 or so years preceding the arrival of NickToons in 1991. Though they might not all be as widely recognized as the HBO canon or the NBC canon, I think the cartoons that have come out of that explosion constitute a canon of at least equal worth. There's a great history to be written--by me, I hope--of the post-80s cartoons, which include, besides Ren and Stimpy and Space Ghost Coast to Coast, Beavis and Butt-Head, The Simpsons, Futurama, Family Guy, South Park, Metalocalypse, Animaniacs, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, and whatever your personal favorites may be. If that seems too frivolous, narrow it down to The Simpsons--soon to become the longest-running show on TV--and South Park, plus a bunch of other quality short-hops. Are they excellent in different ways than Six Feet Under and The Wire? Sure. But that's still excellence.

Again, consider not depth of theme of complexity of structure, but formal innovation. In an interview, Metalocalypse creator Brendon Small said his pitch for the show went like this:

We’ve got a TV show. It’s going to be about a metal band, like a death metal band or black metal, I’m not sure -- old-school, kind of thrash stuff. But it’s going to be about a metal band, and there’s going to be tons of murder. And we’re not interested in having anyone understand anything anyone says.

Now look, that is just not a show. Why would anyone want to watch that? And yet it is a fairly accurate description of the final product, which is eminently watchable. That's formal innovation. People are talking over each other, sometimes in unintelligible accents, people are constantly getting killed, the whole conceit revolves around an extremely obscure genre of music--it's like having a show about bluegrass musicians who converse half in Gaelic--and they have found a way not just to make it work as art, but to make it entertaining, incisive, and funny as hell. That is at least amazing as multiple-layer jokes about condiments, isn't it?

It seems fair to say that, after a long time in the wilderness, TV is finally being taken seriously as an artform in the same way that pop music and movies are. Which means that, right now, we're negotiating the consensus critical understanding of the genre. With films, that seems to have coalesced around the idea of the auteur working through the Hollywood system to make a personal statement. With pop music, that centered on the creative genius making masterpieces in the context of a genre of teenage fluff. And with TV, we're rapidly coming together around these HBO shows that, if they crack a smile, are never remembered for doing so, with their successes attributed to single creators: David Chase, Alan Ball, David Simon. But why do these have to be the shows that legitimate the genre? Why, in the context of an artform that celebrated and was built on insubstantiality more than almost any other, do we have to once again fall prey to the cult of the serious--the cult of the complex, the cult of the romantic creative, the cult of the absurdly meaningful. Can we ever sanctify a form of expression without first deeming it sufficiently serious? And do we really want TV to move solely in this direction? Do we really want the standard of worth for future creators to be just these canonized shows, when the people who made these shows grew up on a very non-canonical diet of television? I object here not just because I think shows of incredible worth are being undervalued, but because I love the medium. I love that TV now is going in so many different directions, that it's exploring possibilities rather than closing them off as gauche or critically unacceptable. It's easy to say that we're embracing the discredited simply because we're taking TV seriously. But is it really an act of daring to trumpet the quality of shows that insist so visibly on being taken seriously? Isn't it possible that there are shows out there just as full of meaning which don't try and hit you over the head with it? Why not the cartoon? Why not now? Why not, before it is too late?