Saturday, April 08, 2006
Ne'er the Twix Shall Meet
Say what you want about Karl Marx, you have to admit he was right about one thing: conflict drives evolution. Rather, it is the tension between opposing forces that brings about significant change. Marx figured out the role struggle plays in progress, much to the chagrin of those fundamentally engaged in that struggle. Denounce him all you like, in the end you will simply find your vehemence has become a faction in that struggle.
As much as Johnny Rotten would have it, popular music isn't necessarily embroiled in some sort of class struggle, but there is always a tension of some sort boiling. The dominant culture is continually absorbing some minority (in the United States, that reads "black") culture, often reversing the the thrust of the seminal trend. Here in the Washington D.C. area, for instance, Blues music has been completely co-opted by white suburban musicians and audiences. All vestiges of racial heritage has been purged, and the genre has been cleansed of any incendiary rhetoric. Ironically, the Blues has become something of a rallying point for the NEOCON contingent that is rotting our nation. Fortunately, the neo-conservative movement is weak and stupid. Their blundering leadership, so dependent on monopoly, continually withers in the face of opposition. Their time is short—and their downfall will be heralded by a resurgence of the Blues. Already the public is demanding truth about the war.
Another schism makes more interesting cultural meditation: the Atlantic Divide. The relationship between American and British pop culture is one of the most interesting studies in history. How the two empires have fused their music together into the New World Order would make an excellent book. Since that is beyond the scope of this blog, I will just touch on it briefly before exploring the present state of that fusion.
As is the case for almost all popular music, British Pop was born in the Blues. That uniquely American idiom, that originally black vernacular—like a phoenix—fathered itself in the flames of primordial geopolitical atrocity, from it sprang everything else. That first plaintive cry, echoing out of the cotton fields like the demiurge's orgasmic moan at the Big Bang, sustained, elaborated, multiplied. The cigar-chompers, hearing it way up north, scratched it into vinyl, amplified it so it could be heard around the world. When the kids heard this new, loud, raucous music in post-war Britain, they swore it was the oracle herself, speaking straight to them. They, in turn, merged it, distorted it, and sent it booming back to the states, a new creature. Again, re-telling the history is too daunting a task for this month. Hopefully a simple assessment of the state of British Pop, vis-a-vis American Pop, will have to suffice for this month's installment.
More than Amerikkka, British music resembles that dried-up old whore of Babylon. As if the wheel has stopped spinning, no more revolutions cycle the turntable. On such a small island, where the culture has to be periodically erased and re-created, the music there has been tired and boring for more than a decade. Singers have become so bland and monotonous that they impress me as the offspring of a failed educational system. I blame Coldplay: they in particular remind me of a line from Shakespeare: "...full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Trouble is, they fail to muster up even a trifle fury. Even the best of the lot, James Blunt, is emotionally exhausted. Now that he's published the journal from his break-up, Back to Bedlam, what's he got left to write about? His stint in the Army? Doubtful. Thankfully, Paul McCartney is still alive and kicking. His most recent opus, Chaos and Creation in the Back Yard, keeps the kite flying over the British Isles.
Otherwise, even the great Dub miracle has degenerated into decadence that helplessly couples with other corpses, and spews necrophiliac pabulum, sounding more like watered-down German techno or latin-lounge treacle, than reggae. Saint Etienne seems to exemplify this ennui, with the diluted porridge called Tales From the Turnpike House. The best Limey Rock is an acquired taste—the first few times you listen to John Foxx, you might not even like him; but some amorphous quality draws you back, and, over time it grows on you. This is just not the case with Saint Etienne, though: the fifth session is just as profoundly boring as the first. On the other hand, if one is searching for the jewel in the lotus, then look no farther than dub-master Jah Wobble. For a quarter-century now, the former Public Image, Ltd. bassist has practically annexed all Dub music north of the Caribbean. His latest, MU, is nothing short of spectacular: insidious, relentless, rewarding the listener with new nuggets of transcendental realization each time it is played.
This tenet of durability does not necessarily apply to American Pop. Perhaps that is the one big difference between the two: with the notable exception of John Cale, American Pop is a once-through kind of experience. It makes no sense to buy a record; all the money is in concert sales (and believe me, music sharing hardly phases this industry.) Prince's latest, 3142, is thick and complex—it bears repeated playing, even though everything gets glommed from the first spin. I suppose that was intended. Ben Harper's new double album however, Both Sides of the Gun, manages to dig in and find a special groove in my brain in a way that Prince or Lenny Kravitz never did. After the first round, I almost threw the discs into my forgettable pile, muttering about the idiocy of critics, but each time I gave it another chance, the album grew deeper, more tenacious roots. This album is a classic.
Nevertheless, there are other immediately sublime American artists, and repeated listening simply re-intensifies the experience. Leela James and Anthony Hamilton have been doing all that for me this year: re-awakening my soul each and every time I put on their records. Leela, the little girl with the big hair, sings like a cat in heat, taunting and abusing her backup band like they was dragged outta the last juke joint! There is nothing to compare this diva to, no one like her has come before. Anthony Hamilton, on the other hand, keeps drawing references to icons passed: a little unfair I believe, but somewhat understandable. There is a quality to his voice, a timbre, that evokes the great soul masters, and the tongue wants to spit out their names. But the soul cannot summon them—it is only an aphasic illusion, a trick of the light.
The disposable consumption of American Pop is a fading commodity these days, though, thanks in no small part to the rabid diversity of Hip-Hop. Nowadays, what with scratches, mash-ups and remixes, surreal versions of pop releases haunt pirate hangouts and occasionally percolate up to the mainstream. Some DJs, such as Thunderball and Fat Boy Slim have staked out a career remixing other artists' records. Strangely, Hip-Hop never really caught on in Britain, but DJs have been twistin' up some killer shit anyway. Witness DJ Tricky and Basement Jaxx (who's last album, Kish Kash, still gets played once a week 'round here.)
So it looks like American Pop continues to sound vital, daring, and new—while British Pop has gotten staid, redundant, and half-dead. What gives? You cannot simply attribute it to Marx's class struggle, or lack thereof any more: the sociopolitical climate of the two empires have been in synch for too long. Perhaps there are other forces in conflict now.
As much as Johnny Rotten would have it, popular music isn't necessarily embroiled in some sort of class struggle, but there is always a tension of some sort boiling. The dominant culture is continually absorbing some minority (in the United States, that reads "black") culture, often reversing the the thrust of the seminal trend. Here in the Washington D.C. area, for instance, Blues music has been completely co-opted by white suburban musicians and audiences. All vestiges of racial heritage has been purged, and the genre has been cleansed of any incendiary rhetoric. Ironically, the Blues has become something of a rallying point for the NEOCON contingent that is rotting our nation. Fortunately, the neo-conservative movement is weak and stupid. Their blundering leadership, so dependent on monopoly, continually withers in the face of opposition. Their time is short—and their downfall will be heralded by a resurgence of the Blues. Already the public is demanding truth about the war.
Another schism makes more interesting cultural meditation: the Atlantic Divide. The relationship between American and British pop culture is one of the most interesting studies in history. How the two empires have fused their music together into the New World Order would make an excellent book. Since that is beyond the scope of this blog, I will just touch on it briefly before exploring the present state of that fusion.
As is the case for almost all popular music, British Pop was born in the Blues. That uniquely American idiom, that originally black vernacular—like a phoenix—fathered itself in the flames of primordial geopolitical atrocity, from it sprang everything else. That first plaintive cry, echoing out of the cotton fields like the demiurge's orgasmic moan at the Big Bang, sustained, elaborated, multiplied. The cigar-chompers, hearing it way up north, scratched it into vinyl, amplified it so it could be heard around the world. When the kids heard this new, loud, raucous music in post-war Britain, they swore it was the oracle herself, speaking straight to them. They, in turn, merged it, distorted it, and sent it booming back to the states, a new creature. Again, re-telling the history is too daunting a task for this month. Hopefully a simple assessment of the state of British Pop, vis-a-vis American Pop, will have to suffice for this month's installment.
More than Amerikkka, British music resembles that dried-up old whore of Babylon. As if the wheel has stopped spinning, no more revolutions cycle the turntable. On such a small island, where the culture has to be periodically erased and re-created, the music there has been tired and boring for more than a decade. Singers have become so bland and monotonous that they impress me as the offspring of a failed educational system. I blame Coldplay: they in particular remind me of a line from Shakespeare: "...full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Trouble is, they fail to muster up even a trifle fury. Even the best of the lot, James Blunt, is emotionally exhausted. Now that he's published the journal from his break-up, Back to Bedlam, what's he got left to write about? His stint in the Army? Doubtful. Thankfully, Paul McCartney is still alive and kicking. His most recent opus, Chaos and Creation in the Back Yard, keeps the kite flying over the British Isles.
Otherwise, even the great Dub miracle has degenerated into decadence that helplessly couples with other corpses, and spews necrophiliac pabulum, sounding more like watered-down German techno or latin-lounge treacle, than reggae. Saint Etienne seems to exemplify this ennui, with the diluted porridge called Tales From the Turnpike House. The best Limey Rock is an acquired taste—the first few times you listen to John Foxx, you might not even like him; but some amorphous quality draws you back, and, over time it grows on you. This is just not the case with Saint Etienne, though: the fifth session is just as profoundly boring as the first. On the other hand, if one is searching for the jewel in the lotus, then look no farther than dub-master Jah Wobble. For a quarter-century now, the former Public Image, Ltd. bassist has practically annexed all Dub music north of the Caribbean. His latest, MU, is nothing short of spectacular: insidious, relentless, rewarding the listener with new nuggets of transcendental realization each time it is played.
This tenet of durability does not necessarily apply to American Pop. Perhaps that is the one big difference between the two: with the notable exception of John Cale, American Pop is a once-through kind of experience. It makes no sense to buy a record; all the money is in concert sales (and believe me, music sharing hardly phases this industry.) Prince's latest, 3142, is thick and complex—it bears repeated playing, even though everything gets glommed from the first spin. I suppose that was intended. Ben Harper's new double album however, Both Sides of the Gun, manages to dig in and find a special groove in my brain in a way that Prince or Lenny Kravitz never did. After the first round, I almost threw the discs into my forgettable pile, muttering about the idiocy of critics, but each time I gave it another chance, the album grew deeper, more tenacious roots. This album is a classic.
Nevertheless, there are other immediately sublime American artists, and repeated listening simply re-intensifies the experience. Leela James and Anthony Hamilton have been doing all that for me this year: re-awakening my soul each and every time I put on their records. Leela, the little girl with the big hair, sings like a cat in heat, taunting and abusing her backup band like they was dragged outta the last juke joint! There is nothing to compare this diva to, no one like her has come before. Anthony Hamilton, on the other hand, keeps drawing references to icons passed: a little unfair I believe, but somewhat understandable. There is a quality to his voice, a timbre, that evokes the great soul masters, and the tongue wants to spit out their names. But the soul cannot summon them—it is only an aphasic illusion, a trick of the light.
The disposable consumption of American Pop is a fading commodity these days, though, thanks in no small part to the rabid diversity of Hip-Hop. Nowadays, what with scratches, mash-ups and remixes, surreal versions of pop releases haunt pirate hangouts and occasionally percolate up to the mainstream. Some DJs, such as Thunderball and Fat Boy Slim have staked out a career remixing other artists' records. Strangely, Hip-Hop never really caught on in Britain, but DJs have been twistin' up some killer shit anyway. Witness DJ Tricky and Basement Jaxx (who's last album, Kish Kash, still gets played once a week 'round here.)
So it looks like American Pop continues to sound vital, daring, and new—while British Pop has gotten staid, redundant, and half-dead. What gives? You cannot simply attribute it to Marx's class struggle, or lack thereof any more: the sociopolitical climate of the two empires have been in synch for too long. Perhaps there are other forces in conflict now.
