tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32618758255649490212024-03-18T21:26:18.489-07:00Frock Rocker RantsAAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-12439544026680734782017-08-13T11:05:00.000-07:002017-08-13T11:05:58.359-07:00The Little Dream that Came True<br />
Our culture is awash in the language of dreams and passions. The unfulfilled pursuit is an especially popular hook, preying on the dissatisfaction of all ages. At 20, the potential for greatness is served up on a platter like a fat juicy Thanksgiving turkey not yet marred by your dad's shitty carve job. That perfect body full of fluffy stuffing, and that untainted mind must not be wasted for it is only during this short window of time, to 25 if you are under 23 and to 28 if you are over, that you have a chance to shine your way into Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers II. If you are confused, unsure, adrift, the pressure to figure out a passion, and fuck it to death is unmerciful. If you can't figure it - then you bow your head in bland shame and wallow in quarter-life crisis for the remainder of your 20s.<br />
<br />
Luckily, at 30, the media gives you a second wind. There is no reason to worry, they tell you, because 30 is the new 20 and there's still time for you. Your ass is still taught, your skin tone even, and barring having birthed a couple children and succumbing to a big mac habit your stomach still flat. Moreover, you are longer in the tooth - and with that comes actual skills. You now realize your 20s offered nothing but raw, uninformed, arrogance. Don't get me wrong. It served you well. It helped you maintain the belief that your deep abject poverty was only a temporary bump in the road along the way to private jet wealth or fame or admirable genius success and gave you the balls to schmooze an older man or woman into giving you a job you weren't really
qualified to do. And then you faked it and faked it and faked it until you figured that
shit out and now you have some real skills. Skills needed to make that promise of greatness a reality. You know how to manage a social media campaign or record a song or manage a budget or some other shit like that. You've worked hard and now is when it's going to happen for you. You watch it happen for someone you know. They sell a novel, or get elected to office, or retire to Thailand. You can taste your own notoriety in the breeze piercing the palm trees. It's almost here...about to whisk you away on your soon to be newly purchased yacht that you'll name after your you first girlfriend or boyfriend - just so you can talk about it in interviews with Forbes or People or The New Yorker - interviews which you will send to said girlfriend or boyfriend, who will of course be abject failures living in your shitty hometown with 3 dirty faced kids and a spouse who manages a bank or teaches high school. They will love you now and they will wish they loved you then.<br />
<br />
32 goes by. Then 33 and you don't even notice 34. But 35? You damn well notice that one. Where is the yacht, the article in Forbes, the feeling of greatness? By 36, you start to talk yourself down. You were young, foolish for wanting or even thinking you might get all of that. And goddamnit, you've done pretty well. You don't worry when the car needs new tires or the house needs a gutter repair. And maybe you have a decent looking spouse or a fun slightly younger or older significant other. Once in awhile you still smoke pot or do a line of blow, just for old times sake. You are still fun, full of edge. You might still do something great. But it's starting to seem ok if you don't. 37. 38. If you aren't married or paired off in a serious relationship, you start to get a little nervous...maybe even depressed. Publicly, you claim your cool - you never want to get married or have kids. But, privately, you start to worry, shit - am I doomed to be old and lonely? To bolster your ego, you go to the club the kids are going to and you take home somebody at least 10 years younger. She or he is impressed by you...tells you how much they like older men or women - how they like experience not little girls or boys. You go out with them a couple times before their unfamiliarity with your favorite band of all-time or their exuberance for a business idea you have already tried and you know will fail leads you to break it off. You go home and eat an entire bag of Kettle chips while watching a Dateline rerun.<br />
<br />
For a couple of years you decide you are cool. But then fucking 40. FORTY. WTF is that. You thought you'd probably be dead. Well, maybe not dead, but you sure as hell never thought you would get there. Media assaults you with images of 40 somethings who don't look like shit to remind you that you still have to try to look 25. You begin to consider how to best maintain what ever remnants of attractive you have left. You hire a trainer. You try Retin-A. Botox. Never considered either before but now...well maybe...if they keep you from looking tired. If people think your tired it could impact your career and you sure as hell don't want that. You are still a vital person with lots to offer. In fact, with 40 a third wind comes. After the relative comfort you slipped into career-wise during the last couple years, you start to think about greatness again. "I really have the skills and the know how now to go for something I want." And you're right. But you also know the amount of work energy required to do anything and you just aren't sure you want to do it. But then you read on Facebook about your high school friend who after have two kids with her boring ass husband decides to become a writer and publishes a shitty book about nothing. You wonder how she has the gumption to call herself a writer after producing such a piece of shit (and you're right it really is a piece of shit) because she's 40 and she should know better at 40. But then you wonder if she's better than you because she produced something - and even a giant turd is better than no turd.<br />
<br />
So you sit down and you write this blog post and after exactly seven interruptions you finish and think "take that shitty writer Facebook Friend!" It's not the great American novel or insightful comment on the latest Atlantic article or groundbreaking research. Hell, it's not even headed for the Huffington post...but it's grand in its mediocrity! You celebrate with a smoothie and a cat cuddle and by moving the wet laundry into the dryer. And when you pass the mirror you stop to examine and think "that Retin-A really is keeping my uneven skin tone at bay." And you worry only momentarily about the day when it won't. And then you realize that the shortness of that moment of worry - so much shorter than all those past moments spent worrying about being bigger and better than you've become - the shortness of that moment is a little dream you didn't know you had coming true. AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-53491866361496918732017-08-12T18:27:00.002-07:002017-08-12T18:49:09.484-07:00To the man in this picture...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i2.cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/170812072518-01-charlottesville-white-supremacists-0811-restricted-large-169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="460" height="225" src="https://i2.cdn.cnn.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/170812072518-01-charlottesville-white-supremacists-0811-restricted-large-169.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To the man in this picture, </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When your children and
grandchildren and great-grandchildren see this picture, and read of the events
in Charlottesville, VA, in which you actively participated, what do you think they will think of you? Will they
smile with pride over your convictions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or, will they think, “that can’t be my dad…he was nothing but good and
kind.” Will this image of you, and your tense, shouting face, align with
their memories of baseball games and fairs and the fun they had with you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or will they be forced to search for ways to
rectify these happier images with this screaming, angry you? Will they tell
their friends about this version of you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or, will they quietly push this part into the back of their memories?
Will they be proud of you?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My great grandfather was once one of you. He joined the Klan
in the early 1920s during a period of recruitment helmed by the
famed D.C. Stephenson. You probably already know that Stephenson managed to
recruit 30% of the white male population of Indiana into the Klan. He’s pretty
famous for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You also may know that
his recruitment plan focused not on race but on ending political corruption and
standing up for Protestant morality – the good ole fashioned American values of
the day. They were a brotherhood defending
America – the real America – at all costs. Doesn’t that sound kind of familiar?
You are just standing up for your rights as real Americans, right? You’re sick
of outsiders and the lazy coastal elite forcing their liberal values on you and
getting an unequal share of American success while you and your friends struggle to find good jobs. Right? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Only time separates you
from my great grandfather, a father of five and a struggling farmer, who was
right there with you! He was disgusted by the articles he read detailing the licentious
behavior in the big cities and by reports of corrupt government officials
profiting off of bootlegging. Like you, he believed in the steadfastness of his
moral conviction. And he wanted his kids to grow up in an America that was safe
from the influence of all that ugliness. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Likewise, only time separates me from your future great-granddaughter(s).</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was in my early 20s when my dad first confessed my great grandfather’s
Klan membership. “He was a simple man, a worker, a farmer. He was a good man
who used to take me for root beer sodas at the drug store. Back then the Klan
misrepresented their intentions to simple men like him. He didn’t really
understand what he was joining; and when he did understand, he got out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will your grandsons describe you like my dad
describes his grandfather – as dismissively “simple” and easy to manipulate?
Will your grandsons feel the need to protect you from judgment – years after
you are gone?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is my official family story – my grandfather as a
victim of recruitment misinformation – a man who did better when he knew
better. His independence - his moral compass was ultimately intact. But history
suggests a different story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
great-grandfather joined the Klan at a time when many other men just like him were joining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As mentioned above 30% of the white male
population in Indiana, or 250,000 joined around the time that my great
grandfather joined. Was my great grandfather simply seduced by a trend? Was he nothing more than
a man whose convictions swayed with the wind of his times? Will your great
granddaughter one day wonder these same things about you? Were you nothing more
than an easily manipulated pawn of Make America Great Again fervor?</span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The Indiana Klan was known for intimidation rather than physical violence; as such I assume my great grandfather may have marched with a torch in hand as you are doing in this picture. He may have shouted angrily as you are in this picture. But history suggests he probably never hurt anyone physically. Sadly, the videos from Charlottesville don't suggest the same of you. Were you one of the men shown violently engaging your perceived enemies? If so, are you proud of this? Will you be proud to leave this as a legacy for your grandchildren? Do you think they will brag about you to their friends? Will this be a story you tell at show and tell?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My great-grandfather ultimately left the Klan, probably
sometime after 1925, when DC Stephenson was convicted of kidnapping and holding
captive a young woman who he’d become enamored with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While holding her captive, he raped her
repeatedly – apparently in hopes that she would feel inclined to marry him. But
she stood strong in her refusal and he ultimately returned her secretly to her
parents house. She was in battered and sickly condition and she died a month
later as a result of the attack. But in that final month, her description of
Stephenson’s behavior, which came out when he was put on trial, was so vile
that many of those 250,000 men had to confront the truth that they had been
deceived about the moral uprightness of this group Stephenson oversaw. Disgusted, they left in droves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suspect my great-grandfather was one of these men – a follower who left only when
the organization could find no defense. Will your descendants be able to say
that you were disgusted enough to leave?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that one of your members intentionally drove a car into a crowd of people and killed and injured the daughters and sons of others? Or perhaps this excites you. Perhaps it seals your loyalty? But how will your descendants regard that loyalty?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">I ask because, you see, I can forgive my great
grandfather for being easily manipulated. I can forgive him for being a
follower; I can even see him as redeemed to some degree because of his final decision
to leave. But ultimately, my grandfather was a man on the wrong side of
history. He wasn’t a leader or a man of great moral conviction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t fighting for a safer and better
future for me. He was just a man, like you, who followed other men of his times into a dangerous and shameful movement. He was part of the ugliness - not its antidote. Through
you, I know him a little better. And I am not proud to be his great-granddaughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspect your great-granddaughter may one
day feel the same about you. But perhaps that's what you want?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span>AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-23766031554137781052015-08-23T19:48:00.000-07:002015-08-23T20:08:53.996-07:00Echo Bird's Sunset Strip Love Advice<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Echo Bird’s drunk again and</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Preaching at pitchfork hounds</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Who frown at passing glass and </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Matching shoes.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
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Kindness, Echo laments.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It’s missing from your outfits.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How will you draw them in </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
All points and angles? </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A softened sternum</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of liquid sugar </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That shatters with</div>
The mildest blink.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This is what they seek</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Have you not seen </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In all that looking? </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Oscar worthy after dark, but </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Innocence</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Over coffee and peach. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Like the girl they never kissed</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Unmarred by an end</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Kindness. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Not barbs and nails </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Draped in daring dresses</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And strangled denim.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That ends. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In a guest house.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
With a hot plate. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Near the good side of Van Nuys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Kindness.</div>
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Not cold cement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That’s my burning tip.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
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The glass frowns back at</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fingers combed black<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the bird’s eyes dry</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Down glowing cheeks of gold.</div>
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-70566453850751327082015-08-23T19:19:00.000-07:002015-08-23T20:06:47.666-07:00An Unexpected Turn of EventsI may not be Helen of Troy but<br />
I am the best you'll get and I'll say that in<br />
Print; so settle down sailor, make peace with your<br />
Probabilities, and quit regarding me as the<br />
Albatross. I've got culture to<br />
Influence and life to narrate before I<br />
Vacate to the (mis)fortune of resurrection.<br />
So, strip off that calfskin and validate<br />
Me with that crowing cock I'll soon cuckold<br />
For I ain't no Helen of Troy and<br />
Odysseus you are not.AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-25816481998873428662015-08-23T19:09:00.000-07:002015-08-23T19:59:05.177-07:00The First DeathBy the time the ambulance arrived<br />
To cart you away<br />
Rigor mortis had set in.<br />
Cumulus clouds were floating <br />
And Nixon announced Turkish invasion of Cyprus <br />
A welcome distraction in his final month as<br />
Commander in chief.<br />
Alger, the house lynx snacked while<br />
Your wife cried without resistance.<br />
I mis-processed these tears,<br />
Thinking you merely asleep<br />
As I looked up to you lying<br />
Motionless under quilt.<br />
Your son arrived and ran me across the street<br />
Into the care of the neighbor with the pool.<br />
My brother was already submerged and<br />
We traded kicks and turns.<br />
Weeks later, I noticed dying vines strangled in<br />
The espalier you built...just one of many small<br />
Losses riding your sleepy coattails.AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-14437898111426931622015-08-23T19:00:00.002-07:002015-08-23T20:00:33.929-07:00My Thing, You SeeI have a thing you see,<br />
For the insensible ones<br />
That incinerate my heart<br />
With averted glances and<br />
Throwaway notes.<br />
They are my addiction<br />
My karma<br />
For the casual disposal<br />
Of kinder companions<br />
Done away with<br />
To facilitate<br />
My sui generis status<br />
Amongst friends and family.<br />
I have lynched that life of<br />
Ice cream socials and<br />
Egg nog parties with<br />
Big fish in small ponds<br />
For a freedom foreshadowed<br />
By that which it now contains.<br />
Those averted glances<br />
Thrown my way<br />
And notes replaced with<br />
Glowing pixels<br />
Broken down and<br />
Re-assembled into half words,<br />
And passing thoughts that<br />
Drift away with the lightest<br />
Summer breeze<br />
Leaving me<br />
Aching.AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-80507144297204499132015-08-23T18:59:00.003-07:002015-08-23T18:59:50.498-07:00BraveYou call this crazy,<br />
Bravery<br />
But I call it<br />
Bullshit -<br />
Bleeding money out<br />
Gaping Wounds and<br />
Wasting Days<br />
Like a Fountain of Youth<br />
That works the Wrong<br />
Way to go<br />
You say<br />
Don't let them get you<br />
Down I go<br />
Again<br />
This mountain of<br />
My own<br />
Making<br />
One hundred mile<br />
Pace<br />
Maker in place<br />
'Cause I never had what it takes<br />
Like I did before I<br />
Went and<br />
Came<br />
Again...<br />
My<br />
Bravery<br />
Twisted<br />
Outside In.
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-21788575421795847232015-08-23T18:58:00.000-07:002015-08-23T20:02:20.559-07:00Devil DancingLike the tourmaline<br />
Twisting my neck<br />
Devil dancing<br />
Has lost its lustre.<br />
So I bundle my vanities<br />
In carry-ons and fly east. <br />
A grovelling ghost<br />
Grieving dissatisfaction,<br />
A lack of pension, and<br />
Seeking propitiation in<br />
The original noose<br />
That hung like rain and<br />
Unleashed the rage<br />
That sent me fleeing<br />
In the first place.AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-63683137547523172382015-08-22T20:13:00.001-07:002015-08-23T20:03:01.438-07:00Other<h2>
<br /></h2>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Other you say<br />There is an other<br />And here I reap<br />The consequence of<br />Belief that I<br />As other was not<br />Pattern but matter<br />Combusting on impact<br />In something singularly<br />Other worldly.<br />Carl Sagan, I thought<br />Could not explain away<br />Our chaotic embrace<br />As mere atom on atom<br />text book case...I was<br />Something other than just<br />Another to you.<br />And now I</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The fool<br />Replaced and<br />Erased<br />Like lines of blow<br />Up your nose<br />It was great<br />But it's getting late and<br />An other will satisfy<br />Where I failed to sate.</span>AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-37346565065664430012015-08-09T19:59:00.001-07:002015-08-10T04:00:00.082-07:00Dancing in the Shadow of Walter White<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Fabulous left her three legged dog</span><br>
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In a Burbank bomb shelter. <br>
Full of fleas </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Infesting furniture and feeding on</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Dying hustles.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The walls were hair metal poems</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Of pussy paper</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And sharpie bush.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Moth mauled linens, <br>
Yellow with binges and </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Incarceration,</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Cradled unstrung guitars</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That once sold millions. <br>
The kitchen was decorated</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In three for fifteen</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Pepperoni and cheese and </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
People waited, </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Hands wringing, </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Teeth clenching,<br>
For the chemistry</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Cooking in the camper<br>
Out back.<br>
<br>
For a minute, I played in a band that rehearsed in a house where lots of unsavory things happened. I only saw the aftermath...and was too naive to totally understand just how unsavory until about a year after I'd moved on to other projects. </div>
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-31988303981570155442014-08-10T20:11:00.001-07:002017-08-29T12:44:00.681-07:00The Hunt: Innocent Lies and The Perversion of Hysteria<span style="color: red;">SPOILERS TO FOLLOW! </span><br />
<br />
Recently, I watched The Hunt, a shocking and thought provoking Danish movie that was a 2014 Academy Award submission for the best foreign language film. The Hunt stars Mads Mikkelsen as kind-hearted but sad Lucas, a recently divorced father of a teenage son and a kindergarten teacher's aide who has been laid off from his own high school teaching job.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBdNy31eX-q7liiEHMdkGuQEOeIMrFQUZFHVqJZ7sN6VeXrtlnmyM_RWCf_Wer6-igNPuuIl3NYpO9ty_kBRBvtgkdtDyWhAOnZFJFn9_mrrbXsdtfe776hIpDH8yQ47BLn5ltGA2PZmi/s1600/TheHuntPoster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBdNy31eX-q7liiEHMdkGuQEOeIMrFQUZFHVqJZ7sN6VeXrtlnmyM_RWCf_Wer6-igNPuuIl3NYpO9ty_kBRBvtgkdtDyWhAOnZFJFn9_mrrbXsdtfe776hIpDH8yQ47BLn5ltGA2PZmi/s1600/TheHuntPoster.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Early in the movie, we see Lucas interacting with the students, who clearly love him. Lucas's protective bond with Klara, one of his kindergarten students and his best friend, Theo's, daughter is particularly apparent. Theo and his wife love Klara but she is not always prioritized and often seems lonely. As a result, she connects with Lucas, who gives her the attention she's lacking at home.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One day, while playing during recess at school Klara kisses Lucas on the mouth. Lucas scolds Klara saying specifically she shouldn't kiss people outside of her family like that. Klara is clearly embarrassed and angered and later that evening tells her teacher that she doesn't like Lucas because he is mean. When her teacher responds with confusion, Klara says Lucas showed her his penis "pointing up," the same term a friend of her teenaged brother used the previous day when showing her a picture of an erect penis.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapB47mAqDyjgFtsBPsj1HXayvau0z7x6SSdxrE8BmSBh-pabQhJ54rn5PSN76gihBlCeAMA6goz3-srHAFakWb9OQDAPO_jX2ahIwJYGeCd2jdOUVDzggZGfx0_B-8SXfK8CdzI4m4zHG/s1600/Klara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapB47mAqDyjgFtsBPsj1HXayvau0z7x6SSdxrE8BmSBh-pabQhJ54rn5PSN76gihBlCeAMA6goz3-srHAFakWb9OQDAPO_jX2ahIwJYGeCd2jdOUVDzggZGfx0_B-8SXfK8CdzI4m4zHG/s1600/Klara.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Klara</td></tr>
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It is obvious that the accusations aren't true; and Klara later says it was just something "stupid" she made up - that Lucas didn't do anything. But, by that point, the police are involved and adults tell the girl she is only trying to forget something awful, a normal behavior after what happened. To make matters worse, other parents begin questioning their own kids, who begin accusing Lucas of similar behaviors. Hysteria erupts and Lucas is arrested based on the accusations.</div>
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As details of the children's stories emerge it becomes clear that they are not telling the truth; and a judge dismisses the charges against Lucas. However, the townspeople remain convinced of Lucas's guilt. He is beat up when he tries to buy groceries. His dog is murdered and left in front of his house. He is, for all intents and purposes, cast out of the town.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit93s4nD5qqjUkMFDwvgjBXalesAdR6Qdcfp4i6SFZjOJlufkVxU5FaquQtEhEmezLJR4958KMs4ykaMMh56KV-2pzjl2SlBIs-I1ilu32vatYNYRRdA6NTQfNtgwVelEPSCzhHR3dCOaA/s1600/LucasBeatUp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit93s4nD5qqjUkMFDwvgjBXalesAdR6Qdcfp4i6SFZjOJlufkVxU5FaquQtEhEmezLJR4958KMs4ykaMMh56KV-2pzjl2SlBIs-I1ilu32vatYNYRRdA6NTQfNtgwVelEPSCzhHR3dCOaA/s1600/LucasBeatUp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucas, a victim of hysteria</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Eventually, Klara's parents come to believe that Lucas is innocent and slowly the townspeople seem to begin to treat Lucas with the dignity afforded him prior to the accusations. However, the final scene, when Lucas and his friends take their sons hunting, demonstrates that doubt about his innocence still exists when a bullet so narrowly misses him that, for an instant, Lucas believes he has been hit. Whether the near miss is intentional or not is irrelevant because the fear it arouses in Lucas is symbolic of the lasting impact of the accusations and the hysteria that followed have had, and will continue to have, on Lucas's sense of safety. <br />
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In some sense The Hunt is a re-telling of Arthur Miller's The Crucible. Like The Crucible, The Hunt pits one of our greatest disgusts, the sexual abuse of an innocent (or in the case of The Crucible's Abigail, a seeming innocent) young person, against one of our greatest fears, the loss of a good reputation as a result of false accusations. Moreover, both pieces are concerned with illuminating the danger of hysteria. However, The Hunt, with its modern setting and absence of obvious metaphor is far eerier. Quite simply, what happens to Lucas could happen to you or someone you know.<br />
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Culturally, we consider childhood sacred. We want to believe that children are perfectly unblemished and incapable of making terrible things up. To a degree this is true. Such stories don't come from nowhere; in Klara's case she had just been exposed to the idea of an erect penis and knew there was something shocking about it. But she didn't really understand what a penis "pointing up" would mean to an adult. </div>
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More frightening than Klara's accusations are the behaviors of the adults. First, when Klara struggles to recount her accusation, adult investigators begin asking leading questions and respond positively when she offers information that seems to support her original story. As mentioned earlier, when she tells her mom the accusations aren't true, her mom doesn't believe her, and tells her she is only trying to forget this horrible thing that happened. Klara tries to tell the truth, and when she is told her truth is wrong, she becomes confused and searches for the response the adults want. Considering the seriousness of the accusations, the adult reaction is understandable. And, on some level it would be more frightening to Klara's parents to acknowledge the accusations were false because it would not explain how Klara knew penises "point up." The lack of a known origin for Klara's knowledge makes it impossible to punish OR control. In short, Klara will not be forever innocent - no child will; and the chipping away at that innocence happens in bits and pieces. A found sexual image. An overheard innuendo. A news story.</div>
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Even the most open and well-intentioned parents can't completely control exposure to these bits and pieces that impact their kids. That is the real horror for the parents and the real explanation for the hysteria we see in The Hunt. Had Lucas been guilty, the attacks might be warranted. But because Lucas is innocent, his abuse becomes symbolic of the community's shared grief over the inevitable loss of their children's innocence and their helplessness to stop it. However, as in The Crucible, it is the hysteria that is the true perversion. Hysteria leads to real violent abuse of an innocent and that abuse is every bit as perverted as the abuse Klara initially alleges. </div>
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-42447270779055494152014-07-25T18:36:00.002-07:002014-07-25T18:36:51.098-07:00Proust's Questionnaire: at 40I just turned 40, a good age to assess where you stand on things. I also just saw a mention of the recent Vanity Fair article that posed Proust's questionnaire to the gods of our culture. So here goes...<br />
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<ol>
<li>What is your idea of perfect happiness? <span style="color: #0b5394;">78 degrees, a cup of coffee, a quiet patio with a view, a cat on my lap, and a book in my hand.</span></li>
<li>What is your greatest fear? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Death by fire. Or plane crash.</span></li>
<li>What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? <span style="color: #0b5394;">My lack of sustained focus on anything professionally.</span></li>
<li>What is the trait you most deplore in others? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Self-righteousness</span></li>
<li>Which living person do you most admire? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Hmmm...Let's go with Tina Turner.</span></li>
<li>What is your greatest extravagance? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Food</span></li>
<li>What is your current state of mind? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Anxious but Determined</span></li>
<li>What do you consider the most overrated virtue? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Ambition - it's the start of perpetual disappointment and dissatisfaction.</span></li>
<li>On what occasion do you lie? <span style="color: #0b5394;">When someone has created something or performed something and I don't find it that great.</span></li>
<li>What do you most dislike about your appearance? <span style="color: #0b5394;">My newly acquired uneven skin tone. Fuck you 40!</span></li>
<li>Which living person do you most despise? <span style="color: #0b5394;">All living people who attempt to manipulate me to say yes after I've said no.</span></li>
<li>What is the quality you most like in a man? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Sincerity</span></li>
<li>What is the quality you most like in a woman? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Sincerity</span></li>
<li>Which words or phrases do you most overuse? <span style="color: #0b5394;">"Furthermore"</span></li>
<li>What or who is the greatest love of your life? <span style="color: #0b5394;">My husband and our cats.</span></li>
<li>When and where were you happiest? <span style="color: #0b5394;">California, 2006</span></li>
<li>Which talent would you most like to have? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Self-Salesmanship</span></li>
<li>If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? I<span style="color: #0b5394;"> would focus on a few things rather than allow the immensity of my curiosities to carry me in all directions.</span></li>
<li>What do you consider your greatest achievement? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Creating things...art, music, words, businesses.</span></li>
<li>If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? <span style="color: #0b5394;">I would come back as a beloved family cat. </span></li>
<li>Where would you most like to live? <span style="color: #0b5394;">On a tour bus - or Copenhagen, Denmark.</span></li>
<li>What is your most treasured possession? <span style="color: #0b5394;">My car. It means I'm never trapped.</span></li>
<li>What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Indecision</span></li>
<li>What is your favorite occupation? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Ice Road Trucker</span>!</li>
<li>What is your most marked characteristic? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Social Awkwardness</span></li>
<li>What do you most value in your friends? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Humor and Straightforwardness</span></li>
<li>Who are your favorite writers? Crazy women from the 20th Century. <span style="color: #0b5394;">Anne Sexton. Sylvia Plath. Joan Didion. Edna St. Vincent Millay. And John Steinbeck. And Sherman Alexie. And Dostoevsky. I could go on. </span> </li>
<li>Who is your hero of fiction? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Rhoda Morgenstern.</span></li>
<li>Which historical figure do you most identify with? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Right now, all I can think is Frances Perkins.</span></li>
<li>Who are your heroes in real life? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Hero is a strong word. But I like Cate Blanchett for her dignified reserve which belies the depth of her work. I like Shirley Manson for her badassery. I like Tina Turner for kicking all our asses. </span></li>
<li>What are your favorite names? <span style="color: #0b5394;">What's in a name? </span></li>
<li>What is it that you most dislike? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Manipulation and greed.</span></li>
<li>What is your greatest regret? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Allowing self-doubt to matter.</span></li>
<li>How would you like to die? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Old and after falling asleep in my favorite chair while listening to good music.</span></li>
<li>What is your motto? <span style="color: #0b5394;">Not sure this is a motto...but I'm a longtime fan of Edna St. Vincent Millay's Second Fig: </span><span class="st"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: / Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!" </span></span></li>
</ol>
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-87479369519056752952014-07-25T17:59:00.001-07:002014-07-25T18:00:11.812-07:00Things I Want: This Dresser<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuO70gZuDMSm04QucbU1sRlcSgnzesOclPt5yfEfnXhBZcjrJtCHZDQZ1DOHW9PGL1I6Nsmv64VH3qD_NWpcJ6rra7ufEC7pOTs47tXkl9ntX-9H3ohDdIWCr6aocLYCjYdn2ecKd4eKb/s1600/Walnut+mid+century+modern+dresser+and+buffet+with+nine+drawers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuO70gZuDMSm04QucbU1sRlcSgnzesOclPt5yfEfnXhBZcjrJtCHZDQZ1DOHW9PGL1I6Nsmv64VH3qD_NWpcJ6rra7ufEC7pOTs47tXkl9ntX-9H3ohDdIWCr6aocLYCjYdn2ecKd4eKb/s1600/Walnut+mid+century+modern+dresser+and+buffet+with+nine+drawers.jpg" height="209" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-12524582795159350592014-07-23T16:17:00.001-07:002014-07-25T18:38:46.357-07:00The Pressure to be Passionate About EverythingMy husband has a lifelong single minded passion for guitars. He loves everything about them from the sound they make to the way they are constructed. His endless curiosity about the instrument has lead to a depth of knowledge that is both vast in amount and specific in detail. For example, he can name the favored string brands and gauges of nearly every well-known guitar player and some not so well known players with Rainman like precision. He also loves to experiment with our guitars and the equipment that goes with them. Not a week goes by when he doesn't change the pickups or rewire the internal components of one of our guitars or bring home a new effects pedal - all in a search for a richer tone or a new sound. It follows that his professional career has included successful stints as a touring and recording musician, a repair shop guitar tech, and an instrument salesman. Simply put, he is a guitar expert, whose combination of love, knowledge and expertise for the instrument has allowed him to succeed in a difficult and ever-changing industry.<br />
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I envy my husband because I have never experienced such a single minded love for any one thing. Sure, I have things that I have a great deal of interest in. Like my husband, I have a love for music and for the guitar. But my love is far less all-consuming. Days will go by when I feel no desire to pick up the instrument - days when I'm sitting on my ass investigating other things that capture my momentary attention and interest. </div>
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Today, I investigated the possibility of learning Danish, which was inspired by my enjoyment of the Danish TV series Rita, currently available on Netflix. This series interests me because for much of my professional career I have been a teacher with a rebellious streak, much like Rita, the lead character. In short, my interests connect to each other and almost always swirl around art, music, literature, media, and culture. But no single interest has ever reached the depth my husband has for guitar. Moreover, I have had many small short term interests that, like Millay's first fig - burned at both ends but didn't last the night.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_qCYAwtlUFBfrjZcm3_chegRWYnUe2aVlSaRSekPhR9M003_FRr5AkTGHmMk0ag38qWq7NnT1leU2Mm1QH-dr7uktNhTZS-6m4BzFWBwTUN_P_JIh_5-dmWNiN8Q_IMp6RZu_5ehxHqqp/s1600/Rita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_qCYAwtlUFBfrjZcm3_chegRWYnUe2aVlSaRSekPhR9M003_FRr5AkTGHmMk0ag38qWq7NnT1leU2Mm1QH-dr7uktNhTZS-6m4BzFWBwTUN_P_JIh_5-dmWNiN8Q_IMp6RZu_5ehxHqqp/s1600/Rita.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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Even my almost 20-year career in education is not a deep, intensely focused passion. To be sure, I enjoy interacting with my students and engaging them in discussions about literature, writing and thinking; and my varous evaluators have reported that I'm a "talented" and "good" teacher. But talent and competence are not the same as passion; and there is nothing less interesting to me than discussions about education - or theories about how best to deliver content to students. That kind of shit makes my brain bleed. In this sense, I have zero interest in my career and as a result, I will never be a true educational expert regardless of my talent for teaching. My core lack of interest in the foundations of my current profession makes me feel like a fraud; and, as a result, I have resisted fully committing to the career. I am perpetually looking for something different that will arouse the mystical passion people speak of - or that won't expect such passion at all.</div>
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Perhaps none of this would bother me if there wasn't such a cultural premium placed on "passion." But, Americans are obsessed with finding their "one true" passion. Moreover those who ARE lucky enough to find a deep all-consuming passion do seem to succeed at higher levels because they have such a narrow plane of focus. This is perhaps what really bothers me. There is nothing - NOTHING that I love so much that I can imagine developing the intensity of focus or ambition needed for a successful long-term career. I am a jack of many trades and a master of none. In the end, I expect I'll have a lot of little things I did but no great capstone of professional achievement. Because I've been culturally programmed to believe that i should have a "passion" for something, and that my career should circle around that passion and should build toward something great and that only outlier success matters (thanks Malcolm Gladwell), I'm bothered by this. </div>
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Is anyone else bothered by all this pressure to be passionate?</div>
AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-67375406474558996812014-04-30T19:14:00.001-07:002014-04-30T19:22:25.631-07:00Why I'm not a Riot GrrlLaina Dawes, a music writer for Metal Edge, recently penned a piece for Bitch Magazine titled "Why I Was Never a Riot Grrl." A black woman, Dawes cites race as a key factor for her lack of affinity for the movement. Her notes on the intrinsic whiteness of the movement were insightful. But for me, a white feminist in love with loud, angry music, her column inspired a different kind of consideration. Why wasn't I a riot grrl?<br />
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Part of the reason lies in geography. I grew up in Indianapolis; and the riot grrl movement was based out of Olympia, WA. Nowadays, the internet somewhat nullifies the role regional concerns play in cultural exposure. But then, to know about things happening in cities other than yours, you had to be tapped in to the underground zine scene. I knew a guy who was; but his interest was death metal, not angry girl bands. As a result, I knew about bands like Brujeria and Xysma and Demilich. But I knew nothing of Bratmobile.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyKJFXjjSojs6bllc0h3YUFmPLkwGGykHD2juHt62H5cW79sLneNXQizEBQYht2OeqJY-_hwnAMT_zNQuVtNxg236oSB-_hdTDPe3Qt_WclJfxw-CWL-7Q4r4HXHDUxRveIZRkfl6G8MG/s1600/Bratmobile_938X300_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyKJFXjjSojs6bllc0h3YUFmPLkwGGykHD2juHt62H5cW79sLneNXQizEBQYht2OeqJY-_hwnAMT_zNQuVtNxg236oSB-_hdTDPe3Qt_WclJfxw-CWL-7Q4r4HXHDUxRveIZRkfl6G8MG/s1600/Bratmobile_938X300_0.jpg" height="102" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bratmobile</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Because of my Midwestern nativity, I initially relied on my parent's menial record collection, my older brother, and mainstream media like MTV and Top 40/Classic Rock radio for musical exposure. I listened to hair metal, grunge, classic rock and funk, and pop music. During this time, I was also learning to play guitar and I had started writing songs. In the mid 90s, when women performers began enjoying that brief moment of musical popularity, I loved the Luscious Jacksons, Poe, Garbage, Alanis, L7, Hole, and The Cranberries. Still, riot grrl bands remained off my radar.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_DflGRBcji5Ptuz_ziLpkF9cSE6eFAXNwUqSubpz0HvWECo4WaUuJJGwtyX-krEmKS5GCohu8DNOgKlYRz0jGEwNPMjbzf7EdZx-WSf2Hfc42u30JhZ8Kyi2Qurty7mOV0Cm91EVpqWs/s1600/hole90s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_DflGRBcji5Ptuz_ziLpkF9cSE6eFAXNwUqSubpz0HvWECo4WaUuJJGwtyX-krEmKS5GCohu8DNOgKlYRz0jGEwNPMjbzf7EdZx-WSf2Hfc42u30JhZ8Kyi2Qurty7mOV0Cm91EVpqWs/s1600/hole90s.jpg" height="252" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And then I moved to LA. Somewhere around that time, I became aware of the term "riot grrl" and of bands like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile; and eventually, I heard Bikini Kill at a listening station at Tower Records in Sherman Oaks, CA. I fucking hated it! Now, to give context, I came from cock rock not punk rock; and I aspired to be a female Jimmy Page, not a female Steve Jones. As such, my first response was to disdainfully assert "They can't play their fucking instruments!" to my comrade Kelly, a barely legal KISS fan, who was on a three year hiatus from college. "Yeah," she agreed. "They do suck!" When I heard part of the riot grrl philosophy was to make music regardless of their relative mastery of their instrument, I grew even more incensed. I had worked hard to develop a decent level of guitar mastery; and I never really liked the idea of sucking on purpose. I was definitely not a riot girl, I thought. I am better than that.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0npfsNfwi1gjU8cajAbb50er5HMhFKMXP_3OPkMPDGq6pFfugCgM4h8zNKIFr7EGPZSNGwqYUyFJGCMh_kXk7SSTzMwbACkfFamOIHB7SHyRzhIOhtd4zINi76XRuSML22vCayemFVOb/s1600/JimmyPage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0npfsNfwi1gjU8cajAbb50er5HMhFKMXP_3OPkMPDGq6pFfugCgM4h8zNKIFr7EGPZSNGwqYUyFJGCMh_kXk7SSTzMwbACkfFamOIHB7SHyRzhIOhtd4zINi76XRuSML22vCayemFVOb/s1600/JimmyPage.jpg" height="320" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jimmy Page - My Lifelong Guitar Hero</td></tr>
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Over the next few years, I learned some things I hadn't understood about the music business. For one, I learned that female instrumentalists are evaluated as "sucking" by male musicians unless their mastery is so extreme it cannot be denied. I learned that I should actually consider "you're pretty good for a girl," a compliment. I learned that girls who were in known bands, and who didn't meet the criteria for musical savant, were judged as benefactors of their marketable physical image; and as <a href="http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/3/post/2013/09/what-i-learned-from-darcy-wretzky.html" target="_blank">Fay Funk notes in "What I Learned from D'arcy Wretzky,"</a> I learned that success scored with merely mediocre instrument mastery, leads to severe criticism, and easy dismissal of said mediocre female musician's cultural importance while successful mediocre male musicians are spared such extreme vitriol. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZQ7K4JTqOSLVs4ZlBS85iUez_EFOQc5ElGnZCnS2eNCHkB-TNJTVb5zguUP39ikIkeZRpHiCmibztgLK2S8ASxBpaDuCKjCFXM-cEbwV44ecO6dsXDPzP0AH-AfwPn4F3b5dt154Od6m/s1600/wretzky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZQ7K4JTqOSLVs4ZlBS85iUez_EFOQc5ElGnZCnS2eNCHkB-TNJTVb5zguUP39ikIkeZRpHiCmibztgLK2S8ASxBpaDuCKjCFXM-cEbwV44ecO6dsXDPzP0AH-AfwPn4F3b5dt154Od6m/s1600/wretzky.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darcy Wretzky - How dare she be mediocre AND successful!</td></tr>
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By owning their awfulness as musicians, riot grrl bands were able to subvert the judgmental shit so many female musicians have faced for not being goddamned Mozarts. By shamelessly sucking at playing their instruments, riot grrl bands became acceptable. They found a niche. The guys that still ruled rock (and I'm talking performance as well as the means of production, distribution, promotion, booking etc. here) didn't feel musically threatened by the riot grrl. They thought, "they're girls and they suck, but they're not trying to not suck, so it's kind of cool and punk rock." Meanwhile, girls, or perhaps I should qualify based on Dawes's article, white girls, could see other white girls occupying the stage, representing an untethered white girl point of view where only the male point of view previously existed. Moreover, those girls were forwarding a feminist agenda to which other girls could relate; and it was done with the attitude that male approval was not required to take the stage and forward that message. <br />
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It took me a long time to fully understand the whole point of the riot grrl movement and appreciate its value and influence on a whole generation of female musicians and artists. But I still don't consider myself a riot grrl. Don't get me wrong - even at almost 40 I'm a pretty pissed off feminist; and I've made some loud, dark, and angry riotgrrl-esque music in my day too. But I also felt incredible pride when Dave Immergluck, the guitarist from the Counting Crows complimented my playing after seeing me perform with singer songwriter <a href="http://www.arricarose.com/" target="_blank">Arrica Rose</a>; and a few years later, when I auditioned and got the gig playing guitar with a band of boys who had no intention of hiring a female player, I felt more pride than I had felt playing with any of my previous "girl" bands. In my mind, getting that gig was proof that I wasn't kidding myself when I set out to give a music career a shot. I may not have been Mozart, but I didn't suck; I was good enough to play with the boys - good enough to take a shot at the same success male musicians who also aren't Mozart strive for. But, a true riot grrl wouldn't have needed that validation I needed to prove that she deserved to be there. Riot grrls are better than that. <br />
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<br />AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-48805729114575841372014-04-26T17:31:00.002-07:002014-04-26T17:31:32.216-07:00JD Samson (Men and Le Tigre) Gets it So So RightMen's JD Samson, better known for her work with feminist dance punk outfit Le Tigre, fielded a lot of pretentious artist accusations for <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jd-samson/i-love-my-job-but-it-made_b_987680.html" target="_blank">"I Love My Job, But it Made Me Poorer,"</a> a blog post she wrote a couple years ago. But, I knew what she meant. To make a go of it as a professional artist, you sacrifice a lot of shit. Even if you find success in the form of notoriety, more often than not, it doesn't bring the financial stability that many people imagine; that lack of stability that feels romantic in your late teens and 20s isn't quite so endearing as you progress in age and maturity. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JD Samson</td></tr>
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She talks more about this struggle and its impact on her recent work in this fairly recent podcast from the <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/post/popaganda-episode-riot-grrrl-revisited" target="_blank">Bitch Media Popaganda Series</a> too. <br />
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<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/118934317&color=ff5500" width="100%"></iframe>AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-37493975596897261592014-04-24T18:56:00.003-07:002017-08-29T18:33:54.454-07:00Thoughts on Walter Kirn's "Confessions of an Ex-Mormon" Slowly, I'm making my way through the Cheryl Strayed edited collection of the The Best American Essays of 2013. Most recently, I completed <a href="http://www.newrepublic.com/article/politics/magazine/104901/ex-mormon-romney-religion-kirn" target="_blank">Walter Kirn's "Confessions of an Ex-Mormon."</a> Originally published in <a href="http://www.newrepublic.com/" target="_blank">The New Republic</a> in 2012, the title had me expecting something lurid and provocative. However, this was not the case. Instead, Kirn's article inspires a consideration of community by reflecting on his experiences with Mormonism. In spite of my intrinsic agnosticism and my love of personal space, and with the caveat that I recognize this article is but one man's evaluation of his experience, I am intrigued by the way an ideology based on the notion of sharing rather than hoarding might impact overall satisfaction in life. <br />
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Kirn's experience with the Mormon church begins when, deep in the midst of midlife confusion, his patent attorney father moves the family from Minnesota to Arizona in hopes of a new start. Instead, Kirn's father falls into even greater mental turmoil. Following a near breakdown, while boarding a flight, Kirn's father is seated next a couple, who sense his despair and begin talking about their church with such radiance that Kirn's father reaches out to the church a few nights later. Kirn was 13 at the time the two young missionaries visit; his family joins the church shortly thereafter. Kirn recalls feeling genuinely included in the Mormon church, a feeling he's not previously experienced at his Lutheran church or elsewhere for that matter. However, when the family moved back to Minnesota, he and his family eventually fall away from the church.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walter Kirn</td></tr>
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Mormons have a bit of an image problem to say the least. In fact, Kirn cites
the criticism aimed at Mitt Romney, during his presidential campaign, and regarding his "magic underwear" as
initial inspiration for the essay. A long lapsed Mormon who had grown disgusted with the church's stance on issues such as gay marriage, Kirn was
surprised by his anger at the attacks on Romney, and disappointed with
Romney showed restraint in his response. He felt a need to defend Mormonism. But where had this loyalty come from? He had been a Mormon only a
short time; and he left, without ever serving a mission over questions
about key doctrines of the faith. <br />
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30 years after Kirn's introduction to Mormonism, he unexpectedly had another encounter. At 46, and in spite of finding success as a writer with his novel, Up in the Air, which was later made into a movie starring George Clooney, Kirn is unhappy. He is lonely, and using a number of drugs to deal with depression and anxiety when he meets a woman on the internet who lives in Los Angeles. They like each other and he decides to move to Los Angeles temporarily not only to be present for movie related meetings but also to see if this relationship has any potential.<br />
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Kirn finds a guest house rental on a private Beverly Hills property where several young Mormons live communally. Again, he experiences the feelings of inclusion he recalls from his youth. There are almost endless opportunities to socialize within the group. Moreover, their willingness to help each other out without the insisting on returned favors, and their easy generosity with the fruits of their various successes is shocking but ultimately medicinal for Kirn. His depression subsides, and he breaks his dependence on drugs. <br />
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From their starchy white shirts and bicycle powered door to door mission work, to their spirit babies and magic underwear, Mormons are sometimes mistaken for a Cult; and maybe this is deserved. Certainly some of the fundamentalist sects engage in extremely cult-like and even criminal activities. However, as Kirn relayed his story, I admit I felt drawn, just as he did, to their genuine commitment to supporting their community, to helping each other out, and to sharing their resources. It's all very un-American.<br />
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America has long romanticized the feats of the individual; and a resistance to acknowledging community contributions to individual success, such as those discussed in Malcolm Gladwell's, The Outliers, is evident. In fact our entire economy is constructed to allow individuals to pursue and ultimately amass enormous wealth if they so choose and if they are so fortunate. The problem with the structure is that the distribution of the spoils rarely mirrors the community contributions to the individual's who are credited with the success. We believe "great" individuals deserve EXTREME financial reward. However, Gladwell's work shows us that while be like believing the Bill Gates' of the world were bound to be Bill Gates' regardless of outside factors, that simply isn't the case. Sadly, this cultural mindset that values individual greatness over community greatness sets nearly all of us up for disappointment because greatness can't be distributed too generally or else it ceases to be meaningful. So, on some level, we average underlings are left to feel a sick sense of collective failure.<br />
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Individually, we turn to yoga and pharmaceuticals and fast cars and the biggest houses we can afford and special diets and therapists and self-help books. We turn inward or take up running or vow to lose weight or read more books or work for an animal rescue or practice a faith all in the quest for the greater life satisfaction our averageness doesn't afford us. But these are all symptomatic cures - and to be sure - they are really all we have when significant systemic changes that would place greater value on community success will not occur anytime soon. <br />
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Perhaps this all makes me sound like a raging socialist; and maybe that's what I've become. But once upon a time I bought in to America's rugged individualism. I moved west in pursuit of my own American dream and I had no doubt that I..I alone could actualize that dream. Some might call that idealistic narcissism. But I think I was a pretty average young American. It took me about a year to learn the truth of Maya Angelou's refrain: "nobody but nobody can make it out here alone." So, while I'll never be able to ascribe to God-centered community, the Mormons are on to something with their rugged communitarianism. We would all be wise to stop putting such heavy value on the successes of individuals. They don't do it alone.<br />
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<br />AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-32430504027536770282014-04-02T12:35:00.001-07:002014-04-02T17:44:23.021-07:00The Men Don't Know What the Little Girls UnderstandJezebel.com recently printed an insightful piece about the struggles female music critics face. In <a href="http://jezebel.com/oh-the-unbelievable-shit-you-get-writing-about-music-a-1547444869/+TracyMoore" target="_blank">Oh, the Unbelievable Shit You Get Writing about Music as a Woman</a>, former Nashville music critic Tracy Moore laments the abuse women critics, who approach their job with serious intention, receive. Specifically, Moore reports taunts of whore-dom, from a peanut gallery of male critics, who claimed such nonsense as "you have fucked every member of every band you have
ever covered." Moore contrasts her experience with the rather positive response Sarah O'Holla's blog <a href="http://alltherecords.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">"My Husband's Stupid Record Collection"</a> has received from male critics to suggest an underlying sexism that discourages women from serious critical engagement with music while simultaneously encouraging a passive damsel in distress "show me the way" like respect for the male point of view. <br />
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O'Holla's blog has been embraced and shared and shared again by male critics. While initially drawn to O'Holla's blog for its "charm," Moore, and other female critics, have become suspicious of a sexist subtext to the adulation. In short, Moore argues the reaction to O'Holla's blog highlights the acceptance of female points of view only when they are couched in a frame of novice understanding. By contrast, a woman who enters the room, claiming expert understanding and eager to engage in a serious discussion about music, is shunned and insulted with "get on the tour bus and suck a dick" sorts of minimization. <br />
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Obviously, male claims of supreme understanding of popular music, its performers, and its cultural significance are nothing new. And the notion that women who want to write about music or, for that matter, play music or work in wardrobe for musicians are whores with glorified titles on their laminates is also nothing new. However, there are certain types of understanding available to female spectators of music that are not available to men; and while the ying and yang of sexual seduction and desire are a component to that understanding, there is more than that. In fact, part of that understanding connects to one of the foundational cultural purposes of popular music culture - the break down of gender constructs - a component that women experience in a much more intimate fashion than men do. <br />
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Before we explore this in greater depth, let's first examine establish the value for a type of criticism for which female critics are often minimized and that is the mention of "details that were about something other than the
literal sound of the music, like how the performers acted, dressed, or
looked, and how the music was received" (Moore). This attack on attention to elements outside the structural forms of music was echoed in a recent Daily Beast article titled "<a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/03/18/music-criticism-has-degenerated-into-lifestyle-reporting.html" target="_blank">Music Criticism has Degenerated into Lifestyle Reporting</a>, which points to a recent episode of American Idol where Jennifer Lopez made fun of Harry Connick Jr. for using the word "pentatonic" in his response to a contestant's performance. While I would agree both that music criticism should not rely solely on "lifestyle reporting" and that it is comical and sad that Jennifer Lopez, a best selling musical artist, is unfamiliar with one of the most basic musical terms, I would argue it's equally comical to suggest that criticism of popular music should ONLY be about melody and harmony and song structure and dynamic and lyric. That's only the half of it. Moreover, it is not uncommon for male writers to address external details in their criticism. Read anything by Chuck Klosterman or Greil Marcus for evidence of this kind of reporting from the male point of view. As such, I reject the notion that music criticism should exist in a form only bubble. Form is absolutely valuable. But it is not all that is valuable. <br />
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Now that that is out of the way...let's use a well - known classic song to explore the difference and potential value of the female point of view in rock criticism. In the iconic Doors tune "Back Door Man," Jim Morrison crooned "the men don't know but the little girls understand." While the song is regularly assumed to be a testimonial of male posturing and braggadocio, it can just as easily be read as a testimony about the experience of male performance and its distinctness from the experience of the male spectator. Morrison asserts this difference when he says: <br />
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"<b>You</b> men eat your dinner<br />
Eat your pork and beans<br />
I eat more chicken any man ever seen."<br />
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While this is most certainly a bit of male sexual posturing it can be read for greater meaning as well. The use of "<b>you</b> men" speaks to the barrier that exists between Morrison and his male audience. He is not like them. He is a different kind of man. A back door man. The male read of braggadocio is further complicated by "the men don't know but the little girls understand." Men understand braggadocio and posturing just fine. So what is it they don't understand?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim Morrison, the Object and the Ladies Gazing</td></tr>
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I contend this understanding relates as much to power and it's relationship to objectification as it does to sex. In western society, women universally experience the objectification of the male gaze. Whether it's a man sitting an extra 30 seconds at a stop sign to watch her cross, or a catcall from a car, or an unwanted facebook comment, every woman has endured some kind of objectification; and while women work to subvert its effects and control that objectification, it's never completely divorced from its negative subtext. However, male performers allow female spectators to take on the power position of active gazer. They become the catcallers, the lingerers, the objectifiers. The male performer, in turn, becomes the object of that gaze, an experience all women can relate to. Moreover, watching the male performer take that position of object and turn it in to a position of power over both men and women, can allow women to imagine their own objectification in a way that feels a little less negative. Additionally, the male performer's experience of objectification becomes wrought with the same difficulty of the female experience when he is subjected to expectations that he maintain the performance when he is off the stage. This role switch creates a connection, a shared pleasure and a shared frustration not afforded to male spectators, who'll never really understand the difficulty of objectification in the same way. In fact, men fantasize about being objectified because from their point of view, gazing upon someone is only so satisfying. The power to progress beyond the gaze is the fantasy; and that power is transferred to the object. In essence, male spectators perceive the male rock star the same way he perceives women: they both have access to sex anytime they want. Because the average man doesn't have the negative experience of this objectification, his understanding of the experience is incomplete...as are all fantasies.<br />
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Of course, this contention of a role reversal is not perfect. Male rock stars are still men and thus have opportunities to exploit and control their own objectification in ways that women can't. Still, that doesn't obscure the fact that culturally, one of rock music's main functions is to play with the laws of gender; both performers and fans are actors in this play. Elvis's hip sway was controversial in part because dancing was a "feminine" activity. To dance while people watched was an outright assault on 1950s gender codes. Hordes of female Beatles fans, out of control and climbing fences in an effort to touch their heroes, was not behavior becoming a young girl. Boys were allowed to be unruly, not girls. The way this push and pull is understood by women IS fundamental in understanding music and its cultural role. Discouraging women from sharing their experiences, in ultimately serving to slowly bleed rock music of its real cultural value. Even Kurt Cobain understood the future of rock lied with women. We've already heard the male narrative. Now let us speak. Let us tell you what we understand. And quit telling us we don't get it...or that the way we get it makes us whores. Even if a woman has slept with every member of every band she's ever written about, that's a story worth hearing. After all sweet sweet Connie Hamzy most certainly understands a few things about those iconic artists that male spectators could NEVER understand. AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-89117740894374882232014-02-19T07:22:00.001-08:002014-02-19T17:16:08.070-08:00Music and Politics: A Freshman Year Seminar Event at Butler University In Which I Will Be Participating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you live in the Indianapolis area, I will be participating in this Roundtable presentation on Music and Politics and Butler University - Friday, February 21 at 3:00 PM at the Efroymson Center for Creative Writing on the Butler University Campus in Indianapolis, IN. Feel free to come and check it out. It should be a lot of fun!<br />
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<br />AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-81615035765308802932012-09-07T18:22:00.001-07:002012-09-07T18:33:10.837-07:00BB King, Tedeschi Trucks Band, Hollywood Bowl, 9/5/12: A ReviewAnyone who has had the pleasure of seeing Derek Trucks play guitar knows that he is something special. Even <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MLQTbmUYI4A" target="_blank">as a teen prodigy, Trucks opened for The Allman Brothers,</a> and left much older musicians and audiences flabbergasted by his already impressive playing. Now, 20 years later, Trucks is, quite simply, one of the greatest players that will ever be. He plays without a pick, like Jeff Beck; but his liquid slide technique, that borrows as much from middle eastern quarter tone melodies as it does from Blues greats, is uniquely his own.<br />
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Until Wednesday's Blues Night at the Hollywood Bowl, a show that featured Tedeschi Trucks Band opening for BB King, I had not seen Derek Trucks perform live. Sure, I'd torn through YouTube archives of performances and interviews, and I thoroughly enjoyed recordings featuring his playing. But these hardly prepared me for my emotional response to seeing The Tedeschi Trucks Band live. Fronted by Trucks' bullet-throated, uber-talented wife Susan Tedeschi, who deserves additional mention for her own Freddie King/Muddy Waters styled six-string prowess, TTB ripped through a tight and flawless set that featured not only the talents of the band's namesakes, but also those of their 9-piece backing band. Bassist Oteil Burbridge deserves special mention for his greasy bottom end bump that, along with dual drummer/percussionists Tyler Greenwell and J.J. Johnson, provided a deep pocket for the rest of the band to sink into. A talented group of backing vocalists and horn players further elevated the overall emotive strength of TTB's performance, which won over a crowd largely gathered to see the great BB King.<br />
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King turned in a memorable if uneven performance. His set, which began with a funky five minute jam featuring solos by each member of his 8-piece backing band, showcased BB's skill as an entertainer. His happy, generous spirit created rapport with the audience that made the nearly sold-out Hollywood Bowl feel as intimate as a neighborhood dive bar. And while King's guitar playing is not what it once was (he is 86 after all), when he sang, it sounded and felt just like it must have in 1970, when he was at the top of his game.<br />
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After truncated versions of hits including my favorite The Thrill is Gone, BB invited Susan Tedeschi and "Trucks" to join him on stage. John Mayer also joined and after a bit of unscripted chaos, the four sat center stage and embarked on an amusing if disconnected bit of banter and light guitar playing. After poking fun at John Mayer for not being able to talk and for "staying out late last night kissing," BB turned to Trucks and said, "Trucks, it's a good thing I'm a boy, cause if I was a girl and I heard you play like that..." He then turned to Tedeschi and added "I see why you married him," before commenting again to Trucks "that's just about the best I ever heard."<br />
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At times, this end of the set banter felt awkward and uncomfortable. But it also felt a bit like a passing of the torch. Once upon a time, BB King could make a statue cry with the mere bend of Lucille's g-string. And while, his voice could still bring life to a dead woman's eyes, age has diminished his skills as a guitarist. King's body of work has cemented his reputation as one of the best guitarists there will ever be and he seemed to take pleasure in shining a little light on Trucks, a new inductee to that small club. Derek Trucks is nothing if not an example of the lasting influence of BB King and his contemporaries. I'm quite sure that seeing Trucks take the torch is a thrill and a comfort to the 86 year-old King, who can rest knowing that his influence will live on even when he is gone. <br />
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BB King Live, In His Prime
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AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-28792619153036833392012-07-09T16:49:00.002-07:002012-07-09T16:50:37.146-07:00Playing is More Fun than Listening: Rush's "Circumstances"I have been playing guitar in bands for awhile now. In spite of the generous financial and career sacrifice that has accompanied these musical pursuits, performing and recording music with like minded folks has been one of my life's greatest joys and triumphs. However, there have been moments during the journey that were less than great. I blame at least a few of these on the rock band RUSH.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RUSH</td></tr>
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I'm not a RUSH fan. It's not that I dislike their music entirely. I'm sure there have been many times when I've stopped my radio dial on a RUSH song because it was the least offensive choice available. But I own no RUSH recordings, I've never seen them live, and I've never joined in when the guys in my bands have broken in to RUSH songs during rehearsals. These spontaneous musical tangents occur at 85% of rehearsals. <br />
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Every time this happens, I seethe internally. This is partly because I have no idea how long the foray into the prog rock cock forest is going to last; and when you have to wake up early to go to a job, those minutes of lost sleep start to add up. But, it's also because I can't play along. I hate sitting on the sidelines and watching anything. And every time I watch the guys rip into the opening riff of
"Circumstances," impish grins curling across their faces, I've felt left
out. <br />
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The answer of course seems simple. Learn a RUSH song. But the complexity of RUSH's music seemed to far exceed my ability as a guitar player and I assumed attempts to learn would prove futile. As such, I never tried. However, I've decided that needs to change. After years of merely observing my band mates engage in a musical circle jerk of joy over Canada's most loved export, I've begun to learn "Circumstances" so that I can join the party. <br />
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I'm about half way through the song now. The intricate arpeggios of the middle section lie ahead. This is the hardest part of the song. But I've got it. And, while I can't say I'm becoming a rabid RUSH fan, I can say that RUSH is like golf - far more fun to play than to watch or listen to. <br />
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<br />AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-49741494994903697612012-05-12T11:33:00.000-07:002014-02-19T18:06:03.185-08:00The Time I Ruined My Brother's Mixtape<br />
Back in the early 1980s, long before IPODS and file sharing and 99 cent downloads - back when Michael Jackson's single white glove and moonwalk were all the rage amongst the posses of small town elementary school kids circling recess playgrounds and singing "Billie Jean is NOT my lovebird"...back then we made radio mix tapes. For those of you younger than 35, a radio mix tape was a collection of favorite songs carefully recorded during marathon radio listening sessions. Creating these mix tapes was a practice in patience as it often required enduring hours annoying DJ banter and uninspiring tunage for the
moment when a favorite song was finally cued...which almost always coincided with the moment you'd walked across the room for some unknown reason. With the quick awkward grace of childhood, you'd leap across the room to hit record and hopefully catch most of the song's beginning. Sometimes, an unfortunately timed trip to the bathroom would cause you to miss a favorite song and you would be forced to repeat the
process over. Because of the great effort required, when a favorite song was finally captured,
you felt a sense of real accomplishment and joy. FINALLY!!!! You had it! 99 Luft Ballons! Or whatever. <br />
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Around this time, The Police's "Roxanne" was a big hit. My brother loved this song. I hated it. I thought Sting's voice sounded like a yelping primate's. Moreover my ears were not yet sophisticated enough to appreciate the then unfamiliar reggae/tango rhythms.<br />
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"Roxanne" was one of those songs my brother worked hard to capture on his mix tape; once he had, he played it CONSTANTLY. Every time I heard it booming from his room, the hair on the back of my neck would pucker with anxiety and the muscles of my face would tense as if chalk was screeching across a chalkboard. And I wanted to kill Sting.<br />
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One afternoon when my brother was gone, I trotted into his room to borrow his ghettoblaster so I could listen to tapes. I had no pre-meditated plan or ill intention. But when I pushed play, there it was - "Roxanne." AHHHH!!! The hair on the back of my neck! The autonomic facial reaction. My hatred was primal. And I cannot be held responsible for my actions that followed. <br />
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A convenience of cassette tapes was that they could be recorded over multiple times as long as the tabs on the end hadn't been removed. If after a period of time you decided you hated a song you once loved, you simply recorded a new song over the previous song - and erased all record of ever having liked the first song. Also, if you had a microphone, you could record yourself onto a cassette. I was quite familiar with how this worked because my friends and I were in the habit of making pretend radio interview cassettes.<br />
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Before my raging hatred for "Roxanne" could send me into convulsions, I plugged a microphone it to my brother's ghettoblaster, found a spot right in the middle of the song, hit record, and proceeded to sing "Raaahhhhhhhxanne" in my own horrific nails on a chalkboard child-voice. Afterwards, I listened back. Finally. The song was listenable. I snickered at my comic genius and then left it for my unsuspecting brother to find.<br />
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Later that afternoon, I was in my room reading, when I heard the beginning of "Roxanne." I felt a tinge of fear. Right in the middle of the chorus, there it was - my improvisation. The stop button was aggressively pushed, his bedroom door was thrown open and an angry "MOOOOOMMMMMM!" echoed down the hallway. Quickly, I locked my bedroom door to protect myself from my brother's early adolescent fury.<br />
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My mom didn't hear my brother's shout. She may have been outside in the garden or at the market. Unable to elicit the help of a parent to resolve this matter, my brother came for my door. When he found it locked, he took his anger out on the only thing of mine that was within reach - a Garfield door tag that said "Do Not Disturb." He ripped it off my door and tore it into tiny bits. I loved that doortag. What a bummer! <br />
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Today is my brother's 42nd birthday; and this morning I was teaching myself to play "Synchronicity II" by The Police. My aural palate has grown more sophisticated and I can now appreciate Sting for the musical genius he is. But I still hate "Roxanne." <br />
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Happy Birthday Matt.<br />
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Love,<br />
You're Bratty Sister <br />
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AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-68164076635822777672011-10-31T12:26:00.000-07:002011-10-31T12:39:39.710-07:00Happy Hallows Eve!Here's a little Halloween treat for you. This song is just delightful with it's dirty guitar tones and horn interludes. And Alice - always the showman! <br />
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</center>AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-4231626951945250342011-10-31T12:18:00.000-07:002011-10-31T12:18:17.434-07:00Yes, Google Made Me Stupid, So I'm Learning to Play Wes Montgomery<div class="MsoNormal">In recent years, discussions on the potential effects the internet is having on our brains have become somewhat common. I'm especially fond of Nicholas Carr's 2008 article <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2008/07/is-google-making-us-stupid/6868/"><b>Is Google Making Us Stupid</b></a>, where he notes “I’m not thinking the way I used to think.” To clarify, he adds, </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><i>“Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do.” </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I too have felt an unfortunate mental change brought on by the endless availability of non-linearly organized information the web provides. However, in addition to a lower tolerance for deep reading, I’ve noticed my ability to focus on any plan or goal that requires more than a few minutes to accomplish has also diminished.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This lack of focus frightens me mainly because I’ve begun to question my ability to develop, maintain, and actualize long range plans for my life. So, in order to re-strengthen that out of shape part of my brain, I’ve begun setting simple short term goals each month - goals that require focus and dedication beyond an hour or two to accomplish. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On of my challenges for the month of November is to finish learning the solo in <b>Four on Six</b> by Wes Montgomery. Check out the clip below.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">As you can see, Wes Montgomery is a ripping jazz guitarist. He's also from Indianapolis, my hometown. (We people from Indiana never resist the opportunity to trumpet the successes of our natives!) <br />
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My boyfriend, also a guitar player, introduced me to this piece and it is the perfect challenge for a bluesy punk rock guitar player like me. Learning these licks will improve my accuracy as a player and add to my musical vocabulary. Moreover, while learning to play I spent little time perfecting the songs of others. Rather, I culled the information required and began writing my own songs almost immediately. While composing was always my biggest desire, I now see the value in gaining greater mastery as a player by challenging myself to play more difficult pieces. <br />
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So, I began learning <b>Four on Six</b> over the summer. But, as I said, I’ve had trouble focusing on things lately. So, while I’ve already learned half the solo, I’m committing to learning the rest by the end of November. The most difficult part is upon me, so this is more than a worthy challenge I think. </div>AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3261875825564949021.post-66292627202772364302011-06-13T16:57:00.000-07:002011-10-31T12:49:25.171-07:00Life in a Northern TownI was 11 when The Dream Academy's tribute to Nick Drake, "Life in a Northern Town," hit American radio and MTV. I didn't know who Nick Drake was, and to this day, I have not examined his material in detail; but, after learning that his life and work inspired this song, and that David Gilmour co-produced the album from which the track originated, (thank you Wikipedia) I may take a closer look. <br />
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This song has always given me chills. Perhaps this is an autonomic response to the sound of wind at the start of the song; and certainly the video's montage of desolation, reinforces my "chilly" response. Whatever the cause, those chills ordered my brain to siphon off synapses for permanent storage of this song and it's melody. <br />
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Recently, those synapses were triggered and I went bumbling through the internet trash heap of information and found this SNL performance. <br />
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Upon watching, I couldn't help but notice the singer's resemblance to Billy Corgan, circa 1988. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smashing Pumpkins, 1989 (Billy Corgan is 2nd from the right.)</td></tr>
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While Billy Corgan has a deep body of work and The Dream Academy was a one hit wonder, I would argue that this song is better than any one that Billy Corgan has written. (I might reconsider after a fresh listen of the Gish album). Based on my belief in the quality of this song, I was certain it would have been covered by some insipid 80s derivative Killers-esque band. Instead, it seems country band Sugarland took to the task. Check out their live version below. <br />
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Now, I'm sure that when this song dropped, a 40-something music producer with Tim Burton hair and Buddy Holly glasses went crazy with anger that he didn't think to have the insipid Killers-esque band he's currently working with cover the song first. But I have to say, while I hate modern country, I'm glad it's Sugarland covering the song and not the former. At least Jennifer Nettles is old enough to remember the song; and she is a vocal powerhouse. <br />
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Still, even with Nettles' considerable vocal gifts, or perhaps because of them, the cover lacks the mournful restraint of the original. In fact, the chorus seems overly celebratory and anthemic. The original chorus is hooky, and thus easy to overdue. Still, to do so belies the sad origin of the song's inspiration; and it's that subtle feeling of sadness that made that song great. As such, my synapses shall remain committed to permanent cataloging of the Dream Academy version. Granted there was never any danger that they would jump ship. I'm a loyal broad when it comes to music! <br />
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Now, I'm off to download some Nick Drake - and thus fill in a hole in my music education. Listeners of Sugarland, and insipid Killers-esque bands, would be well advised to follow my lead.AAK!http://www.blogger.com/profile/12728647130954515334noreply@blogger.com0