Saturday, May 27, 2006
Vegas vs. DC
Being a libra, I tend to obsess over duality. Every yang has to have its corresponding yin. The universe is binary; creation was written in JavaScript.
Likewise, being an almost-native Washingtonian, I've been wondering what the city's doppelganger might be—what city constituted the shadow-capital of the United States. That town has to be Las Vegas. Vegas is the night side of the American experience. In the Boulder Valley, night is day; vice is a virtue; past is past and what happens stays there.
Now that children have replaced gangsters, Vegas reflects America like a dark mirror: where Elvis is God and you worship at a casino. A foreigner visiting the United States can learn everything he needs to know about us by spending a few days on the Strip. You learn there that nothing is free and everything is permitted. You have to pay just to get someone to piss on you and good luck getting out.
For a very short time, when DC was Camelot, Vegas was actually hip. The Rat Pack smoked while Hollywood lizards lounged in air-conditioned cool. But the veneer soon crackled, 'cause the bakelite couldn't stand up to radiation, and Vegas quickly became an elephant's graveyard, for the likes of Steve 'n Edie, Wayne Newton and Tom Jones, to slink into immortal obscurity. While many musicians came there to die, very few grew out of it.
While DC may not be a seminal as, say, Boston, Seattle, or Cleveland, nor a music mecca like Los Angeles or New York, we hold our own pretty well. During the height of the Harlem Renaissance, many black musicians considered U Street venues, such as the Lincoln Theater, a second home. Today, U Street still holds court to the Thievery Corporation and Ursula 2000. While Boston lays claim to Steely Dan, one of their founders, Donald Fagan, grew up in Annandale, Va., a sleepy suburb of DC, and mentions it in "Show Biz Kids." And while Seattle proudly fathered Grunge Rock, one of its founders, Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl, also hails from Annandale—this native son returned in the mid-nineties and built a studio wherein his new band Foo Fighters recorded their stupendous There Is Nothing Left to Lose. A Silver Spring, Md. native, Henry Rollins, helped get Punk rolling on this side of the pond with his scary band Black Flag, and is now considered a godfather of Rock 'N Roll.
Punk had a good start here in the Nation's Capital, what with the Slickee Boyz and Fugazi. But the genre that put us on the map had to be Go-Go: that dirty, low-down funk with a backbeat narrow and hard to master. Go-Go hit the scene like cheap crack, and left a mess behind, but the bands were incredible. They were just like the early days of Rock 'N Roll: all-night juke-joint boogie-woogie that scared the shit out of the grownups. Chuckie Bown and the Soul Searchers, Rare Essence, and the Backyard Band fueled a cultural renaissance that made a lot of local believers very rich. I hear a lot of people wonder aloud how this phenomenon failed to ignite the country, but I believe these people would rather listen to their own voices than the likes of the Roots or even Jill Scott. Even Earth, Wind & Fire's new album Illumination has a few Go-Go inspired inflections on their new album.
The trouble is, once an artist has made it, he soon leaves for the coastal meccas. Now Earl Wyatt (AKA Indigo-Son) will soon be leaving for the Left Coast. I wish him all the best when he gets there, and I hope he remembers to mention DC when he accepts his Grammy. Soon to follow him will be the Lucky Bastards, perhaps the best best band playing in town today. Likewise, I expect Blues on Board to book once they've "made it." It's okay tho, 'cause DC has such a vibrant music scene that soon someone will fill their empty niches.
Vegas, on the other hand, is so culturally impoverished, that I don't expect anyone to climb out of the rubble again for quite a while. OK, I do have to hand it to them for giving us The Crystal Method (and the Chemical Brothers? Someone once told me they are both the same band.) Other than these exceptions, Vegas energy sucks rather than blows. Performers bunker down in the highest-paying venue, some holding court there exclusively, defining the character of that city. It's possible to see Wayne Newton or Tom Jones somewhere else, but where else are you gonna see Danny Gant? Celine Dion seems to have emigrated to the Bellagio to command $150 tickets. Soon Cher will be joining her. Why would someone want to pay such an exorbitant price to see a performer—especially in a town renown for rip-offs?
Undoubtedly, most of America subsists on treacle, judging from their waistlines. Syrupy vocals from pampered throats isn't the true sin in Sin City: it is the tasteless kitsch stinking from America's armpit. Elvis impersonators on every corner used to be enough for the fat-backed trailer trash who waggled their wattles in glee at the spangled icon (always the glittery, slender, just-back-from-the-army version, never the turd-packed pill-addled pig of later days.) Now so-called "tribute bands" spatter the Strip: a Prince impersonator, and the Beatles (again, vested in the innocent raiment of better days) appeal to a Post-9/11 reactionary anal retentiveness—to messianically cleanse a people who repetitively betray their republic's founding principles by ruling the "eternal high-school cover band" circle of hell. Particularly damning is how Prince and Paul McCartney themselves have resurrected their careers beyond their former glory.
And just outside that neighborhood are the new dying elephants: the Blue Man Group, the New Cars, and Blondie. I've got to admit myself that the New Cars are slightly intriguing, since Todd Rundgren will be heading the group in Ric Okasic's stead. No, it is a stupid, greedy, typically Las Vegas idea to put these has-beens together again.
Tibetan Buddhist mythology speaks of a pure land, Shambhala, hidden from the unenlightened eye. It is said that, one day, when dharma is almost depleted on Earth, Shambhala will magically appear to everyone to liberate us from worldly illusion. In many ways, Vegas parodies that archetype. Like a lotus, it sprouts out of the muck of Amerika, replete with a Crystal Method hidden within. But people tend to see Madonna in a coffee stain—it's easier than searching their own souls. Me? I think I'll just keep believing in DC: soon the Chimp and his cronies of anti-capitalist Neocon radicals will be packing up and leaving us in peace. Meanwhile, I'll wax nostalgic about seeing the Dead at RFK stadium (there's one section, where, when everyone is jumping together, the whole floor starts waving like that old bridge out west—and, spurred by some alkaloids, I once imagined we'd taken off for orbit during Jerry's solo.) Or the time Robert Fripp hushed an audience at the 9:30 Club ("Excuse me, is my guitar playing interrupting your conversation?") Or when Bruce Hornsby stole the show at a NOW fundraiser at DAR Constitution Hall. And there is always the thrill of racing to the lawn at Wolf Trap. Me? I"m holding my breath until I see Leela James at the Capital Jazz Festival at Merriwether Post Pavilion.
Likewise, being an almost-native Washingtonian, I've been wondering what the city's doppelganger might be—what city constituted the shadow-capital of the United States. That town has to be Las Vegas. Vegas is the night side of the American experience. In the Boulder Valley, night is day; vice is a virtue; past is past and what happens stays there.
Now that children have replaced gangsters, Vegas reflects America like a dark mirror: where Elvis is God and you worship at a casino. A foreigner visiting the United States can learn everything he needs to know about us by spending a few days on the Strip. You learn there that nothing is free and everything is permitted. You have to pay just to get someone to piss on you and good luck getting out.
For a very short time, when DC was Camelot, Vegas was actually hip. The Rat Pack smoked while Hollywood lizards lounged in air-conditioned cool. But the veneer soon crackled, 'cause the bakelite couldn't stand up to radiation, and Vegas quickly became an elephant's graveyard, for the likes of Steve 'n Edie, Wayne Newton and Tom Jones, to slink into immortal obscurity. While many musicians came there to die, very few grew out of it.
While DC may not be a seminal as, say, Boston, Seattle, or Cleveland, nor a music mecca like Los Angeles or New York, we hold our own pretty well. During the height of the Harlem Renaissance, many black musicians considered U Street venues, such as the Lincoln Theater, a second home. Today, U Street still holds court to the Thievery Corporation and Ursula 2000. While Boston lays claim to Steely Dan, one of their founders, Donald Fagan, grew up in Annandale, Va., a sleepy suburb of DC, and mentions it in "Show Biz Kids." And while Seattle proudly fathered Grunge Rock, one of its founders, Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl, also hails from Annandale—this native son returned in the mid-nineties and built a studio wherein his new band Foo Fighters recorded their stupendous There Is Nothing Left to Lose. A Silver Spring, Md. native, Henry Rollins, helped get Punk rolling on this side of the pond with his scary band Black Flag, and is now considered a godfather of Rock 'N Roll.
Punk had a good start here in the Nation's Capital, what with the Slickee Boyz and Fugazi. But the genre that put us on the map had to be Go-Go: that dirty, low-down funk with a backbeat narrow and hard to master. Go-Go hit the scene like cheap crack, and left a mess behind, but the bands were incredible. They were just like the early days of Rock 'N Roll: all-night juke-joint boogie-woogie that scared the shit out of the grownups. Chuckie Bown and the Soul Searchers, Rare Essence, and the Backyard Band fueled a cultural renaissance that made a lot of local believers very rich. I hear a lot of people wonder aloud how this phenomenon failed to ignite the country, but I believe these people would rather listen to their own voices than the likes of the Roots or even Jill Scott. Even Earth, Wind & Fire's new album Illumination has a few Go-Go inspired inflections on their new album.
The trouble is, once an artist has made it, he soon leaves for the coastal meccas. Now Earl Wyatt (AKA Indigo-Son) will soon be leaving for the Left Coast. I wish him all the best when he gets there, and I hope he remembers to mention DC when he accepts his Grammy. Soon to follow him will be the Lucky Bastards, perhaps the best best band playing in town today. Likewise, I expect Blues on Board to book once they've "made it." It's okay tho, 'cause DC has such a vibrant music scene that soon someone will fill their empty niches.
Vegas, on the other hand, is so culturally impoverished, that I don't expect anyone to climb out of the rubble again for quite a while. OK, I do have to hand it to them for giving us The Crystal Method (and the Chemical Brothers? Someone once told me they are both the same band.) Other than these exceptions, Vegas energy sucks rather than blows. Performers bunker down in the highest-paying venue, some holding court there exclusively, defining the character of that city. It's possible to see Wayne Newton or Tom Jones somewhere else, but where else are you gonna see Danny Gant? Celine Dion seems to have emigrated to the Bellagio to command $150 tickets. Soon Cher will be joining her. Why would someone want to pay such an exorbitant price to see a performer—especially in a town renown for rip-offs?
Undoubtedly, most of America subsists on treacle, judging from their waistlines. Syrupy vocals from pampered throats isn't the true sin in Sin City: it is the tasteless kitsch stinking from America's armpit. Elvis impersonators on every corner used to be enough for the fat-backed trailer trash who waggled their wattles in glee at the spangled icon (always the glittery, slender, just-back-from-the-army version, never the turd-packed pill-addled pig of later days.) Now so-called "tribute bands" spatter the Strip: a Prince impersonator, and the Beatles (again, vested in the innocent raiment of better days) appeal to a Post-9/11 reactionary anal retentiveness—to messianically cleanse a people who repetitively betray their republic's founding principles by ruling the "eternal high-school cover band" circle of hell. Particularly damning is how Prince and Paul McCartney themselves have resurrected their careers beyond their former glory.
And just outside that neighborhood are the new dying elephants: the Blue Man Group, the New Cars, and Blondie. I've got to admit myself that the New Cars are slightly intriguing, since Todd Rundgren will be heading the group in Ric Okasic's stead. No, it is a stupid, greedy, typically Las Vegas idea to put these has-beens together again.
Tibetan Buddhist mythology speaks of a pure land, Shambhala, hidden from the unenlightened eye. It is said that, one day, when dharma is almost depleted on Earth, Shambhala will magically appear to everyone to liberate us from worldly illusion. In many ways, Vegas parodies that archetype. Like a lotus, it sprouts out of the muck of Amerika, replete with a Crystal Method hidden within. But people tend to see Madonna in a coffee stain—it's easier than searching their own souls. Me? I think I'll just keep believing in DC: soon the Chimp and his cronies of anti-capitalist Neocon radicals will be packing up and leaving us in peace. Meanwhile, I'll wax nostalgic about seeing the Dead at RFK stadium (there's one section, where, when everyone is jumping together, the whole floor starts waving like that old bridge out west—and, spurred by some alkaloids, I once imagined we'd taken off for orbit during Jerry's solo.) Or the time Robert Fripp hushed an audience at the 9:30 Club ("Excuse me, is my guitar playing interrupting your conversation?") Or when Bruce Hornsby stole the show at a NOW fundraiser at DAR Constitution Hall. And there is always the thrill of racing to the lawn at Wolf Trap. Me? I"m holding my breath until I see Leela James at the Capital Jazz Festival at Merriwether Post Pavilion.
# posted by MadMac @ 7:52 AM 
