The Luxurious Life of a Reporter
June 30, 2009 – 2:45 pm by Gabe Meline
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(Incidentally, not one of ours.)
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The Hamartia of Black Elvis (Michael Jackson, 1958–2009)
June 26, 2009 – 2:34 am by David S.
A doll. I loved Transformers and G.I. Joe like any other 5-year-old boy in the early ‘80s, but I also owned a goddamn Michael Jackson doll, with the one little glove and everything. For me, there is no better symbol of how pervasive a presence he was at the time. Right there in my memory, alongside Russian vilification, Jack Tripper, Sesame Street, and my first bike are the music videos of Michael Jackson. “Beat It”, “Billie Jean”, and of course the mini horror film “Thriller” were the most exciting things on television, period. While Jackson breaking the color barrier on the powerful new MTV has been well documented, this importance cannot be overstated.
Aside from timeless songs and exhilarating dance moves, the reason Jackson affected little brown-skinned me in a way that Bruce Springsteen, Duran Duran or Wham! never could is the same reason President Obama could repeat the Bush Administration travesties tenfold and still be eternally beloved.
Let’s face it. Role models and paradigms do matter. Imagine never seeing anyone in a position of great power look remotely like you do, in politics, the arts, entertainment, etc., The reflection of your image in “the upper crust” or “the beautiful people” – or lack thereof – is an awesome force. Michael Jackson’s worldwide popularity was a new phenomenon that has yet to be replicated. Like the Beatles decades earlier, Jackson’s appeal was truly universal: the girls loved him and the guys wanted to be him – everyone, all around the world. Virtually every child of the ‘80s has tried his moonwalk, leg kick or countless other moves seen in his videos. And, of course, the music was outstanding, so critics approved & the songs became classics. To this day, Thriller is the best-selling album of all time.
Most astounding was that, despite the nose job, he was black. Black black. I mean, not even that light-skinned. A full decade before the term “African-American” entered the cultural lexicon and hip-hop style dominated youth culture, this was a huge deal. And no other black entertainer has achieved that kind of widespread pandemonium. Sure, New Edition, Boyz II Men and B2K were popular, but not when compared to what the New Kids on the Block, Backstreet Boys or NSYNC sold in music and merchandising.
Michael Jackson was no Little Richard, left to watch Elvis Presley’s ascension from behind commercial and societal barricades – he WAS Elvis. He had the voice, the pelvis, and the vaguely androgynous style, and people could not get enough. In the music world, “Michael” (the most common name in the English language) would only mean one person (basketball’s a different story). By the end of the decade, suburban kids were trying to grow their hair like Axl Rose or Joe Elliot, but for a short time the coolest guy in the world had a Jheri curl. This spoke to me and countless other non-white kids in a much deeper, emotional way than any mentions of “equality” and “rights” in centuries-old documents ever could. Iconic status, being “the best” in a recognized field, was possible.
That’s why Jackson’s protracted devolution was so traumatic. When Bad came out in 1987, he was obviously much lighter than before (with an even thinner, less “ethnic” nose). As an 8-year-old, I remember hearing the rumor that his plan was to look like Diana Ross. It seemed creepy and he looked completely different, but he still had the moves, the voice, and a generally tanned skin tone.
But by 1991’s “Black or White”, his nearly pink complexion was impossible to ignore. As a 12-year-old with fond recollections of the Thriller era, I remember having trouble wrapping my mind around this. Perhaps he wants to appear as a combination of all peoples, devoid of race, I told myself. When Jackson told Oprah it was a “skin disorder” a couple years later, I really, truly wanted to believe him, especially since his tunes remained as soulful and funky ever. But it was no use. 
Working against him was the fact that every date he’d appeared with publicly, no matter how farcical, was Caucasian. Then he married Lisa Marie Presley and procreated with another white woman. Big deal, I thought. So he likes white women. But as his children got older – and by no stretch of the imagination exhibited the traits of half-black kids – it was clear as day. Our black Elvis did not want to be black.
Over the years, any talent or philanthropy were outshined by two molestation allegations and a wealth of other inappropriate behaviors. I couldn’t just dismiss him as a “freak” like everyone else, because he meant so much to me during the formative years. With each bit of news, my shock and horror were compounded by his palpable self-hatred. I would try to reconcile this in my head, over and over. It made the least amount of sense out of everything. Maybe he looked too much like his abusive dad so he hated his own face? In every black woman, did he see the mother who failed to protect him from his father’s abuse?
Then I would see his blond-haired, blue-eyed kids and all the beneficial doubt was eradicated. And it stung. Although I sympathized with everything, from the appearance of body dysmorphic disorder, to the abuse he endured, to the pressure at a young age, to the fame that magnified it all, to the arrested development, it felt awful that the King of Pop himself could not happily be an African-American. A pioneer was ashamed of who he was. No matter what painful forces compelled his ongoing desire to be white, witnessing it still felt like shit.
Throughout the years I was continually amazed that many other people “of color” that I knew had the ability to enjoy and support his music as much as ever, even during the first molestation trial when the court of public opinion ruled unanimously to hang him. I was still too disturbed. Only recently have I rediscovered his art, away from his personal life. I’ve even been curious to finally check out the Invincible album. A few weeks back, my brother and I even flirted with the prospect of taking in one of his postponed “farewell” shows in London. Jackson was still a live act we just had to see in our lifetime. After a few laughs at the crazy idea, I said we’d catch his show if it came to the U.S. And for the first time since childhood, I really meant it.
I hope Michael Jackson has finally found some peace. On the verge of my 30th birthday, I realize that he was, despite the action figure I had of him, only human. His untimely death made me wonder if he was my generation’s John Lennon, Elvis Presley, etc. But his was a unique American tragedy, one where the glass ceiling was shattered, but all progress was spoiled by human foibles.
When people say we live in a “post-race world”, my scoff always ends up a shrug. There are certain things that some people will never have to understand. For the rest of us, good thing we still have Obama.
––David Sason
Rest in peace, Michael. Hopefully, you heard Dave Chappelle’s kind words before you left this world. If not, here they are again (at 4:10) along with a triumphant moment that everyone enjoyed, hopefully you included. Thanks for the great music and dancing.
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New Release: R.E.M. - Reckoning: Deluxe Edition
June 23, 2009 – 12:05 am by David S.
As expected, the second installment in R.E.M.’s latest 2CD reissue campaign, 1984’s Reckoning, isn’t as revelatory as its predecessor, Murmur. While their classic debut’s remaster job unveiled a wealth of recording oddities – cigarette lighter flicks and billiard ball crashes – their sophomore effort was inherently more straightforward. Meant to replicate the Athens, Ga. quartet’s live sound, Reckoning is comprised of kinetic rockers, with even the lone ballad “Camera” bristling with communal energy. This relegates the remastering to the usual, less exciting results: a louder mix with clearer distinction amongst instruments (especially drummer Bill Berry’s frantic hi-hat).
While not all albums are headphone classics, Reckoning still holds up as a brilliant & playful album from start to finish. From the rocking’ abandon of “Second Guessing” to the country rock of “(Don’t Go Back to) Rockville” to the sweet melancholy of “So. Central Rain”, R.E.M. perfected their jangle pop through nuanced, more sophisticated melodies and richer, more narrative imagery. Reckoning is the zenith of singer Michael Stipe’s and guitarist Peter Buck’s self-taught innovations in their respective crafts. “Harborcoat” alone shows the breadth of Buck’s potent inventiveness, and the gorgeous, unnamed album coda (available on CD for the first time) confirms that Stipe’s impressionistic vocals could at one time transcend the utility of lyrics.
Unlike the Murmur reissue’s live disc, which juxtaposed the densely textured record perfectly, the bonus CD merely presents an average gig from the era, while giving insight into the beginnings of fans’ cult-like devotion. “This song is for the guy that broke his leg coming in tonight, and went to the hospital and came back,” Stipe tells Chicago’s Aragon Ballroom before a rendition of “7 Chinese Brothers” where he abandons the lyrics halfway through. It’s easy to see why college kids loved them back them: endless pop hooks and enough post-punk spirit to open a large headlining show with a Velvet Underground cover (a countrified “Femme Fatale”) before getting their “big hit” over with (a delightfully sloppy “Radio Free Europe”).
The embryonic versions of later gems (a nearly ripe “Driver 8”) provide an accurate account of the R.E.M.’s early writing process, but they pale next to the thought of the era’s oft-mythologized studio experimentation (especially for such an already-heavily-bootlegged group). Where are all the rugged demos and bizarre outtakes? Will the fabled “thrash” version of “Rockville” ever see the light of day? Hopefully, Universal will actually mine the vaults for next chapter, the murky, contentious Fables of the Reconstruction, on which they start significantly tinkering with the formula. In the meantime, Reckoning Disc 1 is still essential listening, if only to quarry why Stephen Malkmus hates “Time After Time” so much.
–David Sason
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Linkmania!
June 22, 2009 – 6:46 pm by Gretchen
What to look at now.
ArtBabble
Video interviews and small short features on the fine arts, featuring everyone from collectors like Indianapolis sweeties Dorothy and Hubert Vogel to such art stars as Brice Marden.
In which a smart, anonymous hipster with an acute eye travels to Peru to visit family, eats memorable meals everywhere, makes it to the Venice Biennale and has appropriate disdain for Damian Hirst.
Edited by Marc Spiegler Ian Charles Stewart,
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Tony Hawk Skates at White House; Go Skateboarding Day June 21
June 19, 2009 – 5:24 pm by Gabe MelineWhen I was a kid, my parents must have told me 1,000 times to not skate in the house. Today, 20 years later, President Obama invited Tony Hawk to the White House. Of course, what’s the first thing Tony did?
First black president? That’s old news. First person to skate down the White House grand foyer: Tony Hawk. Times are changing, folks.
This Sunday, June 21, is Go Skateboarding Day, a well-placed worldwide holiday that corresponds to the finishing round of professional golf’s U.S. Open. Dad gets to watch Phil Mickelson, the kids get to build a launch ramp, Mom goes to see The Proposal and everyone’s happy on Father’s Day.
Locally, Revolution Skateboard Shop in Santa Rosa is having a free barbeque and local skate contest with free food, drinks, and an obstacle course set up in the parking lot. It starts around noon; food is first come, first serve. 1240 Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. 707.546.0660.
Revolution proprietor Jon Lohne, who’s also an experienced cinematographer, was on hand at the Harmony Festival’s MegaRamp Eco-Cup this past weekend, shooting footage of Omar Hassan, Pierre-Luc Gagnon, Bob Burnquist, Andy MacDonald, Lincoln Ueda and more. I interviewed Christian Hosoi and Steve Caballero about the MegaRamp concept before the contest, and although Hosoi had to drop out at the last minute, Cab brought along his old Bones Brigade pal Lance Mountain as guest judge.
The stuff these guys were pulling off 30 feet in the air is just insane. Lohne’s slow-motion footage below of the Best Trick Contest captures every millisecond of suspense, every impulsive mid-air decision, and every moment of what seems like total gravity loss. Check it out:
Eco Cup Best Trick. from jon lohne on Vimeo.
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Fabric Museum and Workshop in Philadelphia
June 19, 2009 – 8:21 am by Gretchen[Note: I am currently on a NEA fellowship with the Visual Arts Journalism Institute, which brings 12 U.S. and 12 international journalists together for a two-week intensive at American University in D.C. This is the second assignment.]
Several Threads
Four from Philly take to the walls at the Fabric Workshop and Museum
By Gretchen Giles
Talk about your fish out of water! OK, not a fish but neither a mammal, Mocha Dick, Tristin Lowe’s 52-foot whale at Philadelphia’s Fabric Workshop and Museum is a sculptural dynamo that fills a full third of the FWM’s eighth floor gallery with the irresistible pulse of its presence. Prompted by Herman Melville’s epic comic novel Moby Dick—itself prompted by apocryphal tales of the killer albino whale said to have terrorized 19th century whalers in the South Pacific Ocean with an eerily human intent—Mocha Dick is a harmless, even benign being stuck far away from the ocean and placed high above city streets.
Made of white industrial wool felt and animated with a tight bladder that inflates during the day with a noisy fan, Mocha Dick is vulnerable to all exploration, and that is one of its many delights. Working with FWM staff, Lowe directed the museum’s seamstresses to mark the body with divets and scars, barnacles and the other random abrasions that come from a long life in the sea. The animal’s eyes are appropriately anthropomorphic, the viewer guiltily stopped by their sad silent stare before moving on (we, after all, are alive and it is not! sings the relieved cheer). Cleverly, the sculpture’s “skin” zips off the internal bladder, allowing the piece to be easily shipped in an ordinary crate, the zipper lines themselves adding structure to the whale’s fully tamed self.
Curious to a new visitor, Lowe’s massive woolen piece is only one of two installations in the FWM’s new exhibit to actually use fabric in its execution. Founded in 1977, the FWM has excitingly elasticized its mandate from the early post-macramé days to encompass work done in all media, some with nary a thread in sight. The FWM also seems to have tapped into some uncanny fount of funding that allows it to richly experiment. Sometimes, as with Mocha Dick, that money is delightfully spent; at other times, as with Pete Rose’s work, it is merely lavishly expended. Read the rest of this entry »
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Most Obfuscating (And Irritating) Project Tag, Or: Koan My Ass
June 16, 2009 – 7:51 pm by Gretchen
Pete Rose, Journey to Q’xtlan,
From the otherwise fabulous Fabric Workshop and Museum in Philadelphia.
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Live Review: Bat For Lashes / Hecuba at Great American Music Hall - June 13, 2009
June 16, 2009 – 10:31 am by Leilani
Buckets of glitter, antlers, feathers, headbands, horses, capes and wizards are just some of the guesses my companion and I came up with as we waited in line next to the Bat for Lashes tour bus. We’d gotten to the long-anticipated show at the Great American Music Hall a few minutes early in order to secure one of the highly coveted upstairs balcony seats. That gave us just enough time to play one quick round of “What’s in the Van?” as the grumpy doorpeople checked the tickets and purses of the fans ahead of us. Our guesses were driven by the dramatic, elfin persona cultivated by Natasha Khan (the woman behind Bat for Lashes) and her lyrics about emerald cities, singing moons and siren-like women.
Hecuba, a theatrical duo from Los Angeles, opened the show. Isabelle Albuquerque entered the stage wearing a tight grey catsuit and no shoes. Her hair was cut something like a cross between a mullet and a bowl cut. The stage set up was simple. Two microphones, a couple of keyboards, a computer and a seat for the other half of the band, Jon Beasley. From the start, they seemed like two kids in their bedroom, jmping up and down, banging on pots and cutting things with knives. Spazzy and brilliant, they bought a playful madness to the stage. Discordant and poppy, the songs crossed a gospel-style revivalism with sickly-sweet pop melodies straight out of the eighties. At points, the two performers brought things to a fever-pitch with their dedication to the purity of raw performance.
After Hecuba exited the stage, the crowd was warmed up for the entrance of Bat for Lashes. Natasha Khan has an adoring fan base, and the screams started as soon as she got on stage and proceeded throughout the entire performance. Khan plays with a full-band live, including drums, keyboards and auto-harp. Wearing a checkered jumpsuit straight out of a fifth grade yearbook, Khan took a while to warm up into the performance. After Hecuba’s searing confidence, Khan appeared almost shy and reticent. She seemed to be trying out different, slightly awkward dance moves to see which ones worked and which ones didn’t. Live, her voice sounded as soaring and glass-clear as it does on the album, especially on the more ballad-oriented songs, during which she switched to sitting at an electric piano to one side of the stage. The set was a mix of songs from her two albums. She opened with Glass, and did a gorgeous auto-harp solo version of Priscilla from her first album. One of the strangest moments in the set was a strangely seasick version of the plaintive dream-like long song, Good Love. The keyboard went out of tune on that song, or something. The stage decorations: twin lighted angels, star garlands, virgin mary statues, lamps and a wool blanket with a large wolves head and full moon, added a child-like drama to the event, like being in the playroom of the cool girl with the slightly awkward haircut.
With an album as epic as “Two Suns,” it can be hard to recapture the energy live, but Khan did her best. In the eyes of her rabid fans, she could do no wrong. She does seem to be still in the beginning stage of developing her live show and it will be exciting to see how she bridges the dramatic persona of her albums with the Khan that appears on the live stage. The night ended with an soaring version of one of the album’s best songs “Daniel,” a tribute to Ralph Macchio during the Karate Kid years, ending the show with a feeling of wild accomplishment. Like anything could happen and all was good in the world.
Leilani Clark
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Seeking America
June 16, 2009 – 3:28 am by Gretchen[Note: I am currently on a NEA fellowship with the Visual Arts Journalism Institute, which brings 12 U.S. and 12 international journalists together for a two-week intensive at American University in D.C. This is the first assignment.]
Seeking America
Can you define a country through its capital’s art?
By Gretchen Giles
“Are these all monuments to war?” the Colombian journalist shouts up from the back of the bus. As seen from a hired coach lurching along in June’s humid heat, Washington, D.C. resolves as a kinetic collage of green vegetation, burdened tourists and white structures honoring dead men who fought old wars. Not all, the tour guide reminds, remembering to point out the small marble bandstand commemorating the District of Columbia itself, the few nods to such virtues as valor, the Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln memorials and a newly constructed monument to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the four-time president who didn’t actually ever serve in the armed forces. Otherwise? Well, yes.
Washington, a grand city built with the specific intention of being the nation’s capital, relentlessly celebrates its wars and its war dead. A country so young is a country that still bristles with the don’t-tread-on-me creed of a challenged adolescent. Born of war, the fight and its human loss are celebrated in Washington. But is this really how America wants to be seen?
Indeed, America seen and America defined are central tenets to the art collections a rushed visitor flits past in many of the capital’s galleries and public spaces.
The country’s largest war memorial, Arlington National Cemetery—virtually a city, peopled as it is with thousands of school groups, weary parents and foreign visitors—has a surprisingly refrained manner of honoring its dead. The white marble headstones of those who have served are placed exactly 22 inches above ground and 22 inches below ground, their markings noting the rank and home state of the soldier who lies beneath. Others are simply carved with a woman’s name, her dates of birth and death, and the left-handed phrase “His Wife.” (Who “he” is remains a mystery to those unschooled in military etiquette or the cemetery itself.) On a hill overlooking the city, John F. Kennedy’s grave is guarded by an endless flame, his widow and their dead children placed close beside him. Lying adjacent to a silent infinity pool, Robert Kennedy merely has a single exquisite cross marking his spot.
In contrast, designer Lawrence Halprin’s 1997 monument to FDR wanders on for some seven acres, features five noisy water areas, three statues of the president and one of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, three bronze scenes of the Great Depression, several bas relief installations intended for only the tallest blind people and even a large friendly depiction of the White House dog. Set along the sweet-smelling Potomac, the rushing waters of the monument and its many seating areas provide the visitor relief but its flabby narrative ramble finally exhausts any captivation. How about just a single exquisite cross?
Naturally, the era defines the style. The Kennedy brothers were honored with the grief-stricken minimalism of the 1960s; FDR, with the money-drenched over-blow of the 1990s. The newly completed WWII memorial is as commodious as a Costco, but inviting to heat-flushed families, the children splashing through the generous fountain, the adults glad for a seat. Maya Lin’s 1982 tribute to the dark failures of the Vietnam War is a burial slash in a hill that visitors file past, some making rubbings of the names carved there, some leaving flowers, some crying; everyone can see themselves reflected in the polished granite face. Death, death and more death mark the traffic circles and lush parks of the city that defines America.
Outside of the marbles of the nation’s capital, America has easily defined itself as a nation through the skill of ad men and art directors, who readily show us who we are by what they want us to buy.
Less than an hour south of D.C., a private cache of art so uniquely American that none other than Americans crave it is thoughtfully displayed at the Kelly Collection of American Illustration. Situated in the private home of Richard and Mary Kelly, this is art that wasn’t intended to be such. Rather, these work-for-hire pieces—painted by such masters as N. C. Wyeth, Howard Pyle and Charles Dana Christie—illustrate the heroic tales found in young boys’ books, the chaste romance of women’s serials and the many allures of pianos, matches and new-fangled socks. Primarily crafted during a swift 50-year period after printing got cheap and before photography became king, these works richly accompanied the texts of the day, moved magazines and fueled purchases. More importantly from the Kelly’s point of view, they regularly brought art into American homes, making art accessible and populist. Representational, dramatic and fully activated, the work collected here is surprisingly rendered, the artists doing full-fledged easel paintings, earnest completions, that may give as much pleasure from the wall as they did within the covers of a swashbuckler.
While some Saturday Evening Post and Life Magazine covers are displayed among a delightfully quaint handful of advertising fancies, the majority of the work at the Kelly was commissioned to accompany fiction and, almost without exception, depict the moment just before or just after the story’s denouement. The actual events tend to occur, just as Americans like them to, exactly offstage. We don’t really wanna know.
Thrilling children with full-color imaginings of tidy pirates and depicting the rosy warmth of the perfect white Christmas not only sold books and gloves but showed a nation just out of infancy a new ideal, forming an outline of who a prosperous American, relentlessly fair-skinned and trim, should be.
Some of the artists made noncommercial efforts, most notably Harvey Dunn, one of eight illustrators commissioned by the U.S. government to document WWI on paper. The Kelly Collection has a handful of the gritty canvases that were prompted by Dunn’s experience of that horror. The U.S. government has perhaps none. The work that the eight artists brought home, drawn directly from battleground experience and relentless in their depiction of war’s truth, were deemed by the government to be too unsettling to exhibit.
Surely it would have been better if Dunn had only shown heroes amid triumph and, of course—made them from marble.
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New Release: George Harrison - Let It Roll: Songs of George Harrison
June 15, 2009 – 8:18 pm by David S.
You know, it really is a shame that the Beatles in power – namely the Lennon/McCartney juggernaut – never let the late George Harrison put more than a couple songs on each album. One listen to Revolver or Abbey Road, and it’s clear that the “quiet one” could compete. But his prolific solitude and pent-up material are what made his solo career such a triumph, as evinced by the new career-spanning collection Let it Roll: Songs By George Harrison.
Right off the bat with the landmark triple album All Things Must Pass, Harrison boasted solid, developed output with a maturity to counter Lennon’s and McCartney’s uneven 70s solo work. “All Things Must Pass”, “My Sweet Lord” and “What Is Life” still hold up as thinking man’s pop classics, all especially crisp with the new remaster treatment. But each tune has an underlying joyousness, even 1981 Lennon tribute “All Those Years Ago“.
Tellingly, the Beatles references are plentiful, from the live renditions of Beatles tunes (the best being a spot-on acoustic “Here Comes the Sun”) to fond reminiscences (the still-charming “When We Were Fab”). Harrison was so content that he actually did NOT run from his storied past. A latter-day highlight is the ethereal instrumental “Marwa Blues” from the posthumous Brainwashed album, which, along with the optimistic “Any Road“, suggests a serenity in his twilight years. But while this is a solo showcase, Harrison’s Traveling Wilburys hit “Handle With Care” would’ve been welcome, especially with its recent “modern classic” status.
Let It Roll’s most important revelation is Harrison’s distinctive, conservative guitar playing. Always under-appreciated – much like his deceptively rich voice – his fretwork shines throughout, especially in lesser-known tracks like 1989 slide-guitar workout “Cheer Down”. Highly recommended.
–David Sason
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