Presented by Volume and ICA LA, Nayland Blake meets with Marc Kate for a live episode of Why We Listen at the Cooper Design Space Penthouse to listen to and discuss:
Amy Taubin – ‘Life on the Inside’
X-Ray Spex – ‘Oh Bondage Up Yours’
Tunde Olaniran – ‘Namesake’
JD Moyer meets with Marc Kate for the 30th episode of Why We Listen.
A different sort of episode this time – rather than follow the familiar Why We Listen format, we spent a month solely listening to music that is less that a year old before convening and discussing our experiences.
Galantis – ‘Runaway (U&I)’
Kleidosty – ‘Hydras at the Helm’
Yearning Kru – ‘Red Choir on the lake’
Kronic and Krunk! – ‘Hey Ho! (Senor Roar Remix)’
MineSweepa – ‘Tit Tat’
Tycho – ‘Awake’
Kevin Knapp – ‘Heft’
Evan Caminiti – ‘Curtains’
Skrillex and Diplo Present Jack Ü – ‘Where Are Ü Now (featuring Justin Bieber)’
Sia – ‘Elastic Heart’
FKA twigs – ‘Two Weeks’
His Name Is Alive – ‘Reflect Yourself’
Geniuses of Place – ‘*/2- Auto .30090’
Brood Ma – ‘Monaco’
Art Bleek – ‘City Blues’
JD Moyer is an electronic musician and writer from Oakland, California.
Leyland Kirby is my guest for the 15th episode of Why We Listen.
We listen to and discuss:
Frankie Goes to Hollywood – ‘Welcome to the Pleasuredome (Kzap Mix)’
Jamie Priniciple – ‘Baby Wants To Ride (X-Rated)’
Shigeru Umebayashi – ‘Long Journey’
Peter Becker is my guest for the 13th episode of Why We Listen.
We listen to and discuss:
The Beach Boys – ‘Surf’s Up’
Cabaret Voltaire – ‘Seconds Too Late’
Dimi Mint Abba – ‘Yar Allahoo’
Peter Becker is a lifelong music industry professional with roots in labels, distribution, music supervision, artist management, DJing and performance. He currently is a vinyl dealer living in Brooklyn, NY.
Listen to the podcast on the player below, or download HERE.
You can also subscribe to Why We Listen via iTunes HERE.
When I met with Jill Tracy to record episode 09, we spent a bit of time discussing a new project that she is working on in conjunction with the Mütter Museum. That conversation didn’t fit into the podcast, but I wanted to share it nonetheless as it’s a fascinating project and unique approach to writing music.
To follow her process and progress, follow her at jilltracy.com.
Listen to the podcast on the player below, or download HERE.
Geeta Dayal is my guest for the seventh episode of Why We Listen.
We listen to and discuss:
Brian Eno – ‘The Big Ship’
Dieter Moebius, Conny Plank, and Mani Neumeier – ‘Pitch Control’
Nazia Hassan – ‘Boom Boom’
Geeta Dayal writes about music, technology and culture for The Wire, Frieze, the New York Times, The Village Voice and many other publications and is currently a staff writer at Wired. She is also the author of the book “Another Green World” about Brian Eno’s album as a part of Continuum’s 33 1/3 series.
Chris Dixon is my guest for the sixth episode of Why We Listen.
We listen to and discuss:
Stevie Wonder – Don’t You Worry ‘Bout A Thing
Jimi Hendrix – If 6 Was 9
Minor Threat – Salad Days
Chris Dixon owns the Explorist International, a record store in San Francisco’s Mission District, DJ’s the Saturday Night Soul Party under the name Phengren Oswald, plays bass in the HxC band Cops., solo electronics in Earth Jerks and previously played drums in Death Sentence: Panda!
Listen to the podcast on the player below, or download HERE.
You can also subscribe to Why We Listen via iTunes HERE.
Notes:
1. From the liner notes of Big Black’s Songs About Fucking:
“Hey, breaking up is an idea that has occurred to far too few groups. Sometimes to the wrong ones.”
Paul Festa is my guest for the fifth episode of Why We Listen.
We listen to and discuss:
Olivier Messiaen – Regard du Père (Louise Bessette)
Olivier Messiaen – L’échange (Yvonne Loriod)
Olivier Messiaen – Par Lui tout a été fait (Roger Muraro)
Paul Festa is the filmmaker behind Apparition of the Eternal Church (2006), an investigation into the act of listening to music and The Glitter Emergency (2010), a silent-film drag ballet comedy. He produced, wrote and edited, with director Austin Forbord, and was chief archivist, for the documentary Stage Left, A Story of Theater in San Francisco (2010). He is the author of OH MY GOD: Messiaen in the Ear of the Unbeliever, and his essays appear in numerous publications and anthologies. His documentary in progress, Tie It Into My Hand, premieres as a short at Cannes in May 2012.
Daniel Coffeen is my guest for this episode. We listen to and talk about:
Ween – I Play it Off Legit
Cornelius – Mic Check
Dire Straits – Wild West End
Daniel Coffeen has a PhD in Rhetoric from UC Berkeley. He writes, thinks, and teaches about philosophy, film, art, life, and the possibility of enjoyment today.
I’ve just received a note about the Why We Listen podcast from Daniel Coffeen:
“What struck me is that this project gets more interesting the more there are — each is a fundamentally different way of listening to music. Taken together, your project is like an infinitely complex cubist painting, all these different perspectives meeting at odd angles (or not at all) to create something huge and elusive: an emergent map of modes of listening.”
I really like the map analogy. I sometimes think of Why We Listen as a map of places I’ve never been. Charting the subjective listening experiences of others.
My interview with Daniel will be up in a few days. Stay tuned!
Joshua Grannell, aka Peaches Christ is my guest for this second episode of Why We Listen. We listen to and talk about:
The Cure – Plainsong
Depeche Mode – Behind the Wheel
Bruce Springsteen – Born to Run
Joshua Grannell is a filmmaker, performer and host of the midnight movie series Midnight Mass. http://www.peacheschrist.com/
Listen to the podcast on the player below, or download HERE.
I’m very excited to be launching this new project.
As an extension of my blog Why We Listen, I will be conducting a series of interviews about music. Specifically, interviewing people about their listening practices and the music they love.
For this first interview, I visited my friend Keith Hennessy at his home and ate vegan tamales before launching iTunes through an improvised soundsystem.
Keith and I listen to and discuss:
Au Pairs – America
Marianne Faithful – Working Class Hero
Circo Zero (sung by Gabriel Todd & Loren Olds) – Lord (traditional)
If you have any sort of investment in Rush, then seeing Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage is imperative. Great footage, good, simple storytelling, charismatic subjects. But behind the music (it premiered on VH1, after all) is a pretty flat story.
Strangely, beyond Neil Peart’s dark broodings, the movie’s “plot” is that they’re three friends who really love playing music together. So all we’re left with is a fairly dry chronicle of their albums with a heartwarming tale of friendship as its vehicle.
For a band as huge as Rush, the question isn’t, “what does this tell us about Rush?” but “what does Rush want to tell us about themselves?” Aside from a somewhat endearing Canadian humbleness, Rush has little tale to tell. For all the grandeur in their music and epic storytelling in their lyrics, there’s not much that happens ‘against all odds’ in Rush’s past. They got some bad reviews for a while. Critics didn’t like them almost ever. Neil Peart disappeared for a while after some devastating personal tragedies. Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage is a story about friendship and tenacity.
A still-totally obscure metal band, Anvil were there from the beginning, releasing their first album in 1981. Highly influential, but mostly forgotten by anyone who wasn’t paying attention at the time, Anvil still record and gig as ever. Their story was recently well documented in the movie Anvil! The Story of Anvil.
Rush and Anvil have really similar histories: two early rock bands from around Toronto, innovators in their sounds, started by a pair of best friends (Lee & Lifeson became Rush, Kudlow & Reiner became Anvil) who grew up playing music together. Their histories diverge quickly after the release of their first albums. Even if you dislike Rush, you can probably nameafewoftheirhits without much pause. If you even knew the name Anvil before their documentary, you’re pretty rare.
Throughout Anvil! The Story of Anvil, the question of why they didn’t become more successful is frequently raised. The answer is pretty obvious. Though they were innovators, they didn’t continue to innovate. I don’t think we can blame them for not evolving. And by that, I don’t mean they failed to follow trends or rejected insincere change for its own sake. I mean that they just kept belting out the same sound over and over. And didn’t seem to get better at it.
Rush, however, took risk after risk. Some were incredible innovations (synthesizers!). Some were painfully bad (synthesizers?).
While Anvil didn’t by any means sell out, their failure to adapt or evolve would have been the death of any other lesser, less tenacious band. The climax of the film (sans denouement) is the implication that they are now in force, playing to a full house with a slick, new Tsangarides-produced album at the merch booth.
It’s always hard to know how much a film crew affects their subjects. Anvil! has a happy ending, but how much is the happy ending determined by the fact that a VH1 crew had been following them around, and VH1 Classic Records released the album they made during the shoot? VH1 is no small thing. While VH1/MTV seem to point a camera at every pop cultural moment that memes, a full documentary that spans months proves that someone with money is serious about the outcome. Perhaps to the degree that the outcome is somewhat engineered. Like a reality show.
Though it feels less down-to-earth, Metallica: Some Kind of Monster is far more interesting. Unlike Rush and Anvil!, SKoM is not a chronicle of Metallica’s rise-fall-and-rise. It’s a documentary about one of the world’s biggest rock bands going into therapy – a story that has never and may never be told again.
Metallica, for all of its machismo and bravado, images of violence and power, often lay the soul bare. And maybe that’s their hidden strength – their weakness. Songs like “Battery” and “The Four Horsemen” are brutally exhilarating, but note that their biggest hits are tracks like “One” and “The Unforgiven” that are focused on subjective, inner pain.
Their movie, their self-funded documentary makes them look like fragile, simpering teenagers. It’s mostly embarrassing to watch Lars Ulrich repeatedly ask himself and answer his own questions as if his only ability to communicate is via auto-interview. James Hetfield’s struggle with alcohol abuse is awkward – as it should be. Bob Rock and Kirk Hammett mostly get walked over by the Hetfield/Ulrich machine. Phil Towle, their coach is in a perpetual state of crossing professional lines.
The only person who really comes through doesn’t appear until long into the film – Robert Trujillo. Amiable. Untainted.
SKoM ends on a somewhat triumphant note, like Anvil!, walking out onto stage to huge numbers, but SKoM isn’t really a story of triumph. It’s just a story of people who struggle very publicly. In the end, Metallica’s album “St. Anger” isn’t really that different from “Ride the Lightning”. Not in terms of sound, but in terms of what they communicate – a very ‘at the limits’ look at the polarities of masculinity. Examinations of the extremes of rage and regret.
So we get, not just a story of a band struggling to continue on their path (like Anvil), but a performance of where masculinity begins to breakdown. It’s a demonstration of the fine line between marching forward to triumph and towards self-destruction.
It’s messy. SKoM is a mess of rage, father issues, male entitlement and creative frustration, and that’s what makes it so beautifully unsatisfying. By the end, our heroes are back on stage with a new, kick-ass bass player, sobered-up, new album and back on course. But, despite all of the life-coaching, James is still struggling with addiction and Lars is still a dick who gives us no Freudian self-realization narrative to gnaw on.
Aside from the story itself, the real brilliance about Metallica: Some Kind of Monster is that Metallica funded a movie that makes them look terrible. When we watch Kudlow of Anvil weeping, coming unfurled, frustrated with himself and the world as he records his last-shot album, we see a man against himself and no one else. To allow his beautiful shame be documented is pretty typical in a media saturated with reality television, but it still feels genuine and vulnerable.
But when we see Metallica fight amongst themselves in what are essentially therapy sessions, everyone is simultaneously at the edge of their nerves and totally composed under the camera’s gaze. It’s fucking painful to watch. What’s harder to watch than a grown man cry is a room full of grown men refusing to cry. It’s far more desperate.
Meanwhile, behind those closed tear ducts and behind those inflexible attitudes is a huge corporation in danger of toppling. When James and Lars cross swords, hundreds of people are in danger of losing their livelihood.
Which is why we love Metallica. We see a strange beauty in the tensions between power and emotion. A chaotic, mesmerizing beauty.
We never seem to tire of 80s slasher films. Maybe you’ve never actually sat through one, but pop culture keeps drawing from that well and coming up with buckets of more blood. It’s like the well will never run dry.
Whether it’s Ti West’s near-perfect 80’s forgery “House of the Devil”, Joshua Grannell’s campy “All About Evil” or the “Scream” franchise, the simple formulas of movies like “Happy Birthday to Me” or “Sleepaway Camp” (personal favorite) are somehow rich texts that give and give. You could probably name a few classics, but really, what’s “fun” about slashers is their discursive, near-interchangeability; like a textured wallpaper of VHS violence. They’re usually: just disturbing enough to be engaging, just low-budget and dated enough to be campy and just formulaic enough to be followed like a tv series with familiar characters. The most significant formula, noted by Carol Clover in her pivotal book “Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film”, is the “final girl” – the victim/hero who survives and perseveres to the film’s climax. With few exceptions, the slasher film is defined by this trope. Despite the marathon of violence, largely by men against women, it is the “final girl” with whom we ultimately sympathize and revere as the hero. At least, that is the feminist spin that Clover puts on the genre. And it’s hard not to agree.
Part of what is so endearing about these movies, is their soundtracks. Due to limited budgets, they’re usually the work of a composer working with early digital synthesizers, approximating big budget symphonic scores. The results are usually really cheesy and make these movies even more dated than they would already feel. Some great exceptions are “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” which sometimes sounds like musique concrète (but “Chainsaw” is from 1974, ahead of the curve on these other slashers), or Goblin’s soundtracks for movies like Dario Argento’s “Susperia” and George Romero’s “Martin” (but Goblin and Argento are Italian and were playing with a whole different set of rules in Italian horror, and Goblin’s soundtrack for Romero’s American vampire film was never used). The great almost-exception is John Carpenter’s soundtrack for “Halloween”. Showing up in 1978 and virtually defining the genre, the film and score feel timeless and evade cheesiness despite their modest budget.
These horror soundtracks have always been a resource for musicians, but lately a handful of artists are drawing from old VHS tapes to create music that might “pass” for the real thing. While artists like Gatekeeper refine the electro/disco aspect of Italian horror soundtracks with Moroder-like ecstasy, others are taking a much more American lo-fi approach. Umberto and Xander Harris (both on Not Not Fun) produce tracks that run between seamless reproductions of 80’s horror soundtracks that never were, to revisionings of those cold, evocative synthetic sounds.
What do you think a Xander Harris video would look like? Well, obviously the four minute video to “Tanned Skin Dress” is like an excerpted scene from a slasher film – a prowler looks in on a woman in her home as she listens to her vinyl copy of Xander Harris’ “Urban Gothic” before he breaks in and attacks her.
Also drawing from those visuals, but less from the music, is Salem’s video for “Skullcrush”. Almost exclusively obfuscated footage of a woman’s body being dragged naked for disposal, its narrative is in reverse, a la “Irreversible” so that it begins with a black-clad man carrying her naked corpse through a forest, but ends with her attack in a public bathroom.
Ultimately, these videos don’t follow the “final girl” script. And why should they? That script has been read and rewritten countless times. However, if there is no survival, if all that is “final” about the girl is her death, then all we have is violence against women. Purely. In these videos, there is nothing to spin. They take only the brutality of the genre and none of the pathos. Only the shock without any narrative. Just the cum shot; none of the foreplay or romance.
In her discussion of women’s roles in slasher films, Clover claims that though they are the victims of violence, they are the protagonists, and so this genre of film that was primarily the domain of adolescent males could motivate boys to identify with girls. Hence, they’re not objects of violence, but subjects who triumph via their own agency.
Rosalind Krauss writes similarly about women in surrealism. She claims (and I am am doing a bastard summary here) that although the countless images surrealist artists created of contorted, disfigured and reconfigured women could be construed as misogynist, they in fact put women at the center of the surrealist dialog. That is, a surrealist photo of a maligned body is a metaphor for existential complexity, or the fractured nature of subjective reality. And the body being female makes her the surrealist subject, not object. Kind of dubious, but worth considering.
Another video that treads in the same horror landscape as “Tanned Skin Dress” and “Skullcrush” is William Joines’ video for “Into the Depths” by The Soft Moon. It’s all female screams, blur and horror, but none of the violence. So the woman is not a victim, but someone experiencing…? Existential terror? Bad acid? Like in a Georges Hugnet collage, the woman’s distorted image is not necessarily a violation of her body, but representation of her complex inner life. It even feels like an old surrealist film in its grainy black and white film stock, as opposed to the slewing, VHS quality video of “Skullcrush” and “Tanned Skin Dress”.
I think the most thrilling part about recontextualization is the refining of elements. Holding up a magnifying glass to one detail of the past to speak about the present. But if the close look is “just” violence against women, then we’re looking at something really bleak.
I’ve just spent the tail end of a sunny morning with the blinds down watching David Cronenberg’s ‘The Brood’ (1979).
I watch a lot (A LOT) of horror movies and am pretty inured to the mechanism behind their production. But on occasion, I really wonder about the minds behind them.
We might ask ourselves if David just needs a hug, or therapy, or if filmmaking is his therapy or wonder where he gets this sick shit from.
But we don’t fear him. We might wonder if he is a portent, or a signal that under Western decadence is some serious decay…a zeitgeist of autosarcophagy…but we don’t fear the man.
But how do we feel about Odd Future?
Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All, the LA hip hop collective raps about rape and prescription drugs and vomit and defecation and faggots and serial killers and anything else likely to push your buttons.
So, are they something to fear?
They would be really easy to dismiss if they weren’t so talented.
Compared to movements of the past that covered a lot of these subjects liberally like gangsta rap or death metal (Floridian or Scandanavian), what makes Odd Future distinctly different is a lack of focused aggression. They’re not lacking in violent imagery, but somehow their prolific pictures of amorality are too cartoonish and fractured to reflect the danger of traceable anger. Running through the lyrics of Odd Future is a deep catalog of transgressions. So deep that it feels beyond reality and far into fantasy. The kind of fantasy that moves horror from an emotional state to a genre.
When gangsta rap especially came onto the pop cultural radar with records like ‘Straight Outta Compton’ and objections of every kind were flying through the media, we had a great demonstration of how eager people are to feel threatened by art. After we witnessed the P.M.R.C Senate hearings, but before Andres Serrano’s ‘Piss Christ’ helped unhinge the NEA, artists like Dr. Dre and Ice-T were in the media ‘defending’ their work – sometimes claiming that they are reflecting the harsh realities in which they live, sometimes saying that it’s all “just” lyrics.
Sometimes the easiest way to defend art is to say that it’s “just art” and sometimes the easiest defense is to say that nothing has genuinely been created: you can’t blame the mirror.
But doing both seems either confused or lazy.
Have you ever seen that tshirt (the last time I saw one was at the art supply store Flax in San Francisco) that says, in 90’s art school scrawl, “Art Can’t Hurt You”?
What the hell do I want with art that can’t hurt me? No, not a need for the physical violence of Survival Research Laboratories, I’m talking about the need for art that isn’t resolutely impotent.
I think that what makes Odd Future so disturbing, perhaps more than an SRL show, is how slippery they are. They are antagonistic, but of what? Rebellious? Certainly, but against what? They demonstrate ‘fear of the unknown’ because despite all the verbiage, they are difficult to know. This chaos reminds me of the moment I found most disturbing in ‘Apocalypse Now’. For all of the violence in that film, I am most haunted by the exchange:
Kurtz: Are my methods unsound?
Willard: I don’t see any method at all, sir.
Odd Future’s decentered methods also remind me of an early interview with John Holland of SALEM in Butt Magazine. The interview was less an exchange of ideas than a demonstration of bleakness. Like a subject from Larry Clark’s ‘Tulsa’, or a character in Harmony Korine’s ‘Gummo’.
Is anything as unsettling as a bunch of kids who not only don’t share your aspirations, but don’t seem to have any?
Certainly the difference between Cronenberg and Odd Future is racial. How we fear a group of African-American teenagers is very different from how we fear a white, Canadian film director. But perhaps it is also one of capital. The budget for a Cronenberg film is so grand that it imbues a certain awesomeness and sick grandeur to his work. However, if we look past Tyler The Creator’s recent signing to XL, the Odd Future kids are young and unhinged. They perform the danger we feel from people who might have less to lose than us. While they share in the lineage of gangsta rap an excessive urban provocation, it somehow feels more like the earliest moments of punk (both US and UK). Nihilism. I’ve always found that late-seventies punk’s most political gesture was its apolitical veneer. Decidedly detached, ironic, parodic rejection.
Nihilism is a very destabilizing force. Confronting a void is a kind of violence. When we are confronted with genuine nihilism, we are tempted to reject it and create meaning. I think it’s analogous to giving a suicidal friend a reason to live – it’s not a time for us to genuinely question life’s meaning ourselves, but a time to knee jerk someone out of emptiness.
So perhaps Odd Future is a sort of mirror. Not a reflection of the clichés of pill-popping, homophobic, violent youth, not a reflection of some harsh urban reality, but a reflection of where our culture’s morality breaks down. Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All aren’t “about” crack or basement torture parties. They aren’t “about” anything. They are a mirror that, if you gaze into it for too long, you see what you most fear: a spinning moral compass, ethical emptiness and a loss of meaning.