Saturday, January 31, 2009

Man on Wire

I've long known that the line between genius and insanity is hazy and grey. The few true geniuses I've witnessed in my life always seemed to move inside a fog between clear-minded thought and irrational action. But in 1974 a Frenchman named Philippe Petit walked through that cloud on a 450-pound cable suspended between the towers of the World Trade Center.

His story, Man on Wire, is now available on DVD (and Netflix streaming, where I saw it today). Petit is a self-taught wire walker whose various highwire stunts are more like performance art. To see a man walking through the air one quarter of a mile above New York City is one thing, but to see the planning, practicing and subterfuge that got him there is quite another. Expertly planned madness is almost a contradiction in terms, and yet, there it was.

The most important thing the film gives you is a sense that humans can do the impossible when they are completely focused and dedicated to something. Petit seems to conquer not only fear but rationality itself. If a man can walk on a wire at such heights, kneeling, lying down, crossing the span eight times, taunting policemen...what can't humans do? Perhaps he's simply an expertly skilled madman, but he nevertheless proves what is possible to the rest of us, which is what great artists and scientists do.

If nothing else, I know that the next time I'm overcome with fear or anxiety, I'll have a new high water mark for how much can be accomplished through the rejection of fear and limitations, and the application of focus, skill, and creative passion.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Decline of Western Culture

"When I was a boy, the bestselling books were often the books that were on your piano teacher's shelf. I mean, Steinbeck, Hemingway, some Faulkner. Faulkner actually had, considering how hard he is to read and how drastic the experiments are, quite a middle-class readership. But certainly someone like Steinbeck was a bestseller as well as a Nobel Prize-winning author of high intent. You don't feel that now." - John Updike (1932-2009)

I hear this sort of complaint on a regular basis, and I have to wonder how much weight it carries when one factors in the rise in the standard of living in the mid-20th century in the US, and the increased literacy and financial access of lower classes. What constituted a "bestseller" in Steinbeck's time is probably, adjusted for inflation, still a lot smaller a sample of the overall population than today's bestsellers. Did working-class folks in 1940 read Grapes of Wrath in great numbers? Did kids? Was your average janitor reading a lot? Because I know janitors today who read Harry Potter.

My overall impression of the dumbing-down of popular culture is that it's mainly a factor of the rise of the lower class. Even the poorest of people in the US today can afford books, movies and TVs, and that was not nearly so much the case prior to, say, 1970. As a result, their interests are catered to most often, because they literally are the lowest common denominator, the safest bet. So when people from an earlier cultural era complain that popular culture is becoming increasingly low-brow, what they might want to consider is that it's just the equal and opposite reaction of lower classes achieving higher socio-economic status. But we don't like to talk about class in the US, so we just complain that culture is declining.

Maybe the truth is that popular culture is becoming a more accurate reflection of the make-up of the United States. I think there's room for all levels of "high" and "low" culture, but the stuff that will make the most money, and thus have the most visible presence, will always be the lowest common denominator stuff. Maybe that will change, but somehow I doubt it. Even as Steinbeck was popular in the 1940's, so were The Three Stooges.

UPDATE: I was watching this week's installment of PBS's "Make 'em Laugh," their history of comedy in America, and Larry Gelbart mentions that the writing on Sid Caesar's show was urbane and witty primarily because, at that time, a television was a luxury appliance; it wasn't until more people started buying televisions that they had to start appealing to a broader audience. So I think I'm backed up by a solid source in saying that popular culture has a lot more to do with economics and class than we'd like to admit.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

High Anxiety

I'll try and keep this one brief, as it's particularly Slade-focused.  That said: the word for today is "liminal."  It derives from the Latin "limen," meaning "a threshold."  Anthropologically, it seems to get bandied about to describe moments in which an individual moves from one state of being (be it a state of consciousness, social standing, etc.) to another.  Typically, it seems like the move is a forward one, although I'm not totally sure about that.
I mention this because I'm trying to reach a new point in my life and have started to ponder the extent to which I'm in control of this (or any) situation.  I'm kept up at night by the thought of moments in my life where I was presented with dual paths.  So far, I've been satisfied with how things have turned out and I've seen my history as, by and large, a flow of one necessary event after the other.  If there have been things that I've regretted, I've been consoled by the fact that they seemed to lay the foundation for certain profoundly good things that followed.
But today I'm freaked out.  There's something looming on my horizon that I want so badly.  There's a door I'm desperate to step through.  And, beating its way around my head is the thought that the only thing I have as I approach this moment is the contents of my heart and mind, which seem like pretty thin material.
Today I'm at the mercy of desire and doubt - two emotions that experienced alone are enough to drive me crazy, but in tandem are threatening to eat me alive.
So I'll let you know how it shakes out.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

OK Communicator Inauguration Blogcast

11:20
Just woke up.  Am frantically pressing buttons on four separate remote controls to try and figure out how to get this TV off of the DVD input (due to an Arrested Development marathon last night) and onto the Cable input.

11:24
Got it on the Cable setting, but no sound.  Am calling Sebastian to figure out how to work his TV.

11:25
OK, now I have sound.

11:26
CNN newscasters have uttered the name "Aretha Franklin" no fewer than 15 times since I've begun watching coverage.  Thinking of trying to turn this into a drinking game.

11:32
A moment of almost erotic ecstasy passes over me as I watch George Bush walk through the rotunda.  This is his last day on the job and, hopefully, the final page of one of the worst chapters ever in the entire history of governance.

11:34
One newscaster is asked to expound on "the peaceful transfer of power."  As if this were the first time that the President of the United States achieved the office by election, as opposed to bloody coup.  Now they're talking about slaves.  

11:35
Cheney is in a wheelchair.  Just exquisite.  He could not look more like Mr. Potter, the villain of "It's a Wonderful Life," if he tried.

11:36
Am becoming increasingly jealous of the fact that Sprout has tickets to the Daily Show tonight.

11:39
First glimpse of Barack Obama.  As always, I feel like I'm about to cry.  Not only is he breathtaking, but even more remarkable, the CNN newscasters have shut up for a full 60 seconds.  Truly, it's an inauguration miracle

11:43
Interesting that he decided to be announced as "Barack H. Obama."  Also, I'm not 100% certain that I'm down with this announcer.  It sounds as if he's going to cut out after the inauguration and start cutting audio for monster truck rally commercials.  

11:47
Interesting to see Bush's reaction to Feinstein's comments about the power of the ballot.  The interior monologue perhaps runs something like this: "There's a third way, my friend.  You can rig it"

11:48
Rick Warren's invocation is a bit creepy.  While we're on the subject, everything about Rick Warren is a bit creepy.

11:53
Alright!  On to Aretha.  I think I want that hat.

11:55
Please let this extend into a medley.  I really want to hear "Freeway of Love (Pink Cadillac)."  Blast...no such luck.  Hmmm, maybe Robert Bennet will do it up.

11:59
Right on!  An Itzhak Perlman, Yo-Yo Ma, and some-other-people-whom-I've-never-heard-of performance.  Very classy.  I wonder whether there was serious consideration launching right into the West Wing theme song.  Mental note: watching a pianist play with fingerless gloves, regardless of the reason, is sexy.

12:04
Despite the fact that he has yet to be sworn in, Barack Obama is now the President.  How completely awesome.  

12:06
That's it.  How unspeakably cool.  A few hitches there, a couple of repeats on the part of Justice Roberts, but what are you going to do?  How truly remarkable.  What a beautiful, beautiful moment.

12:42
And...scene.  Congratulations, everyone.  We seem to finally be on a pretty legitimate track.  Long may it last.

Friday, January 16, 2009

The Eagle Has Landed

Yesterday, as I'm sure any of you who have access to any type of news medium whatsoever are well aware, a US Air passenger jet suffered engine failure (authorities are still trying to determine whether the flock of geese had any links to a terrorist organization) and crash-landed safely in the Hudson River.  Last I heard, every single person on board the plane survived.

The images that I've seen are astounding: a sinking plane surrounded by boats and, more importantly, a throng of people ankle deep in icy river water, held up presumably by the jet's floatation devices, waiting to be rescued.  The CNN anchor describing the scene last night made the comment "it appears these people are walking on water, but in *reality*..." and yes, that was the stupidest thing I've heard come out of a newscaster's mouth in recent memory.  Nonetheless, the whole thing did have the air of a miracle about it.

As a country, I think we very much like the stories that end with everybody surviving the disaster.  Now, more so than ever.  It isn't especially hard to view the plane as a metaphor for the US: powerless, locked into a seemingly fatal trajectory that's completely out of the control of all but a few of the people on board.  How enticing it is, then, to see it land safely, with no collateral damage (no city blocks leveled, no cars or playgrounds or department stores crushed beneath its hull), and to see every single passenger and crew member rescued.

At first I found myself thinking "Alright, a fucking plane landed.  Great.  On to the actual news now, eh?"  But beyond the pursuit of ratings, there's a strong argument for showing these same pictures over and over again.  Right now, people need stories of things working out, of competent people being at the helm, of everyone getting out alive.  I'm not saying that this in any way shape or form mirrors what's actually going on in any of the numerous crises occurring throughout the world, but I do think that it gives us an ephemeral glimpse of hope, of what it's like to see something play out in a way that doesn't make you want to hang your head in defeat.  It's been so long, for me at least if not for others, that I've forgotten what it feels like.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

My first misprint, and a link

So, for those who read Colter's piece below and thought, as Colter did, that there might have been a missing paragraph at the end: you were correct.  I failed to put it in somehow.  See below for the (now) complete piece.

As a means of apology, please follow this link, which is sort of germane to the post.

The Axeman Cometh: Colter McCorkindale As Metal Apologist

NOTE: Today ushers in a very exciting era for OK Communicator. I have the honor of welcoming contributing writer Colter McCorkindale to the blog. Although I haven't figured out how to properly attribute posts to him yet, I'm incredibly grateful to Colter for being willing to share his incisive, compelling work with us, and for bearing with my luddite ways. Colter, it should be noted, has a pretty snazzy blog, himself, which is viewable here. OK, by way of that introduction, here we go:

Metal. You know it, you appreciate it ironically, or maybe you even enjoyed it in your youth and are ashamed to admit it. Maybe you laugh it off with your friends when it comes up in conversation, while secretly adoring its adrenaline-soaked virtues in the privacy of your home or vehicle. Whether you were into flashy hair metal or brutal thrash, I'm here to tell you that it's OK. It's OK to like metal unironically.

Just as younger siblings often define themselves in opposition to their elders, so today's indie rock came of age in the shadow of the metal-heavy 80's and 90's. 90's alternative rock never really had a defining ethos, but it certainly knew what it was NOT. It was not fast guitar solos, and it was not long hair. But just as I am not my brother, I don't deny him his right to exist. And sadly, the recording industry does not tolerate diversity in rock music. Homogeneity is the only thing that sells. So the long haired guitar monkeys were tossed aside in favor of the brooding kids in sweaters.

But both teams have their limitations. One side is sensitive and introspective, but quite the whiny killjoy, while the other is an empty-headed hedonist, but a lot of fun at parties. The domination of either side in popular culture equals a loss for the audience.

Part of the problem stems from the difference in psychology of the two groups of kids. Most punk/indie/alt rock kids come from the perspective of Mick Jones of the Clash when he said "Sex Pistols showed me that music was something anyone could do." This statement presupposes that music was something he didn't have the necessary self-esteem or chutzpah to try in the first place. That mode of thinking is the dominant paradigm in rock music today and has been since about 1992: it's still not cool to know how to play your instrument.

For a few decades, from the arrival of Jimi Hendrix, to the death of Kurt Cobain, playing guitar well was the goal of most teenage guitarists. Most of the kids in the hard rock/heavy metal crowd gravitated to that school of playing because it offered an abstract language with which to express themselves, as well as a competitive sport for communal competition. They didn't have to put their emotions into words through song, they could use pure music – tones, scales, arpeggios. Of course, since almost no teenage girls are into instrumentals, these guys tended to write crappy songs about partying or being angry. And they used their instruments as tools for building self esteem. Like cavemen, the first kid who could play "Eruption" was immediately the alpha male in his group.

None of this, of course, appealed to the alt rock/indie kids. They weren't into being typically male. Robert Smith, Morrissey and Michael Stipe were more their role models. For one blessed year, though, the two groups coexisted. It was transitory of course, but around 1992 you might just as easily have seen Nirvana on Headbanger's Ball as you would Steve Vai.

Of course both camps would hate on each other. The Megadeth fans would complain that Oasis were crap, and the Pavement fans would call out the guitar wankers on their own self-importance. Neither side recognized the other's sovereignty. Musical genres are like religions in this way; their most enthusiastic adherents are the least tolerant of other methods of transcendence.

But here's the kicker: Metal might be the purest form of what we still call rock and roll. It's the most adolescent, hormonal form of music yet devised. Punk might like to think it is, but punk is too socio-politically aware to truly represent for the 14 year olds (Green Day notwithstanding). If rock and roll is defined exclusively as teenage music, and if teenagers are defined as those who like to alternately party and scream in angst, then metal has the bases covered. No band made great party music like Van Halen and no band was as frustrated as Metallica.

In many ways, metal is about empowering the unempowered. A skinny gay kid who likes leather and has a really high singing voice can start a band called Judas Priest and become one of the biggest badasses in his world. A Swedish nerd with a funny name who loves classical music and Deep Purple can dominate an entire guitar community simply by practicing relentlessly until his name, Yngwie, is synonymous with virtuosity. You can point out the inherent silliness of these guys, but you cannot deny how they have fashioned their own universe wherein they are kings. And as tempting as it is to decry them as masturbatory or self-indulgent, be first absolutely certain that you're not secretly jealous of the intense hours of practice that they have put in to accomplish something that you fear you never could.

This isn't to say that practicing an instrument is the only path to musical excellence, but you have to admit that it is a valid path. Math rock, a distinctly indie rock phenomenon, really isn't possible without it. Bands like Don Caballero and Pelican are proving that there is value in instrumental virtuosity. And stoner-rock bastards like Mastodon are clearly cribbing their balls-heavy guitar tones and riffs more from the thrash metal community than from punk.

Admit it.  Metal is nothing to be ashamed of.  To not enjoy metal is to not appreciate the timeless appeal of adolescent music.  If you're not ready to admit that you love some metal, you at least have to give its practitioners their props.  It's just another of the many peculiar languages contained within music.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Our New Year

Well, looking back on it, 2008 was a year of dichotomy. There were many moments of once-in-a-lifetime greatness met with a counterbalancing number of truly awful things. Both margins were ridden something fierce, in retrospect. I'm heading into 2009 with the same sensation one has after a particularly grueling theme-park ride: exhaustion tempered with a lingering mixture of exhilaration, delight, and terror.

Right now, I guess I'm too dazed to take any sort of stab at what the coming year will hold in store for us. But, in light all that's taking place, good and bad, I've been thinking about this poem quite a bit. It encapsulates my hopes for the New Year well enough. My apologies if I've already sent it out to any of you:

Sometimes
by Sheenagh Pugh

Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,
sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war;
elect an honest man; decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.