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Tuesday, May 6, 2008
If Jack Tripper was running for president, which candidate would you rather have a beer with at The Regal Beagle?

The last thing I want to be accused of is venerating the same sitcom that, it seemed, virtually everyone who was not a teenager in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s felt certain signaled the end of the world as we knew it. But we felt fine. Hey, I lived through those dangerous days and survived. I watched Three’s Company and not only enjoyed it, then, I certainly don’t regret it, now. I regard that show kind of like I view my Catholic upbringing: it was probably not necessary and it’s likely that those hours (in church, in front of the TV) could have been better spent. But, for better or worse, they helped make me what I am, so I’ll make no tardy attempts to excommunicate Cardinal O’Connor or Jack Tripper from my memory bank. In this much-maligned shows defense, and unlike the Catholic church, it never pretended to be something it was not: an enterprise that puts profit above product and always answerable to a higher authority.


Not sure, in hindsight, if Father So-and-So’s sermons gave me more nightmares than Joyce DeWitt’s curious allure, or who was the worse actor—my divorced CCD teacher or Suzanne Somers (I’m pretty sure Somers wins purely on aesthetic points). We can point to Don Knotts’s (R.I.P.) floral crimes against fashion, but at least he was a product of the times, unlike the enduring sartorial styles still in vogue at the Vatican. And let’s get real: if Jack Tripper (R.I.P.!!) were, well, real, and he was running for president, which candidate would you rather have a beer with at The Regal Beagle?


But special props must be set aside for the immortal (yes, I said immortal) Norman Fell (R.I.P.!!!). If there was ever a “sixth man” award for TV shows, Mr. Roper would be a lock. In fact, it should henceforth be known as “The Norman Fell Factor” when a minor—but indispensable—character is given props by fans in the know. His sardonic asides to the camera were revolutionary in their own understated way; breaking the fourth wall to make inside jokes with the audience, edging toward something approximating postmodern long before, say, movies like Ferris Bueller or subsequent TV shows like Moonlighting made it an almost obligatory—and far less subtle—device. Of course, this strategy already existed on TV, dating as far back as stories have been told to audiences, and are recurrent in Cervantes, Shakespeare and Sterne, not to mention Melville (call him Ishmael) and the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. In other words, Fell was neither the first nor the most effective practitioner of this tactic—he was simply one of the funniest. In his relatively quick moments on screen, he could throw the audience, and himself, a bone each week—his antics would not have been nearly as amusing if his role were larger.


Maybe it’s a guy thing. Check that: did any women ever watch Three’s Company? Stanley Roper’s self-satisfied mugging was a highlight of each episode, and while the mere name Ralph Furley prompts a chuckle, by the time that bug-eyed, pants suit wearing rascal came on the scene, the shows best days were behind it (bet: that is the first time the words “the shows best days” have ever appeared in any appraisal of Three’s Company). And don’t kid yourself: I’m not about to forget our favorite used car salesman, Larry Dallas. Larry was more than just Eddie Haskell grown up and acid-tested; in many ways he anticipated both George Costanza and Cosmo Kramer (in other words, he was the original poor man’s Larry David). Okay, that’s stretching it, but one thing is for certain: while the Ropers got their chance to grasp the brass ring, the biggest crime Three’s Company ever committed was not spinning off Larry’s character for his own series. Just kidding. Sort of.


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Sunday, May 4, 2008
Yet the biggest question that lingers after seeing Justice's "Stress" video is simply this: what's the point?

Justice’s last two music videos—“D.A.N.C.E.” and “DVNO”—were graphic, fun-filled affairs that were visually engaging, culturally satirical, and just damn fun to watch. With “Stress”, however, the group winds up taking a turn for something much darker.


As you stream it below, you see something that’s very primal and very unpleasant: act after act of mindless, pointless violence. Romain Garvis’ clip features a gang of young hoodlums (all donning jackets with the Justice “cross” logo on it) going about town and destroying bars, throwing tourists cameras away, smashing street performers guitars, hijacking a car and much, much more. It will never get play on MTV, and its violence is tough to swallow: even the one shot at this gang’s come-uppance is foiled after the kids break off from a security guard sneak attack, leaving just one guard to try and stop them ... only to find himself on the floor being kicked repeatedly.


The video ends with the kids torching the car they stole, some of the flame even landing on the videos boom mic operator. They don’t even acknowledge his pain: they soon turn to the camera man, spit on his lense, and after what appears to be a brief struggle, everything turns to black.


Yet the biggest question that lingers after is simply this: what’s the point?


It’s doubtful that a video as well-crafted as this was done simply to provide an unfunny version of Jackass. Instead, given that Justice originated from France, this video could perhaps be seen as an expression of the outrage that the French youth felt during their tumultuous riots a few years back, the ones that shocked and outraged a nation: politicians calling said rioters “scum” and the youth of France returning the sentiment in kind by destorying millions upon millions of dollars worth of property. The “Stress” video could be seen as the youth having bottled up rage, societal resentment brewing in their blood ... and yet not having a single outlet of which to pour their energy. So, the kids in this video take to vandalism, crime, asserting their authority in any/all contexts possible, lapping up their camera-captured spotlight before, ultimately, turning on those who are documenting their accomplishments. Is the implication that such unfocused, unbridled rage will ultimately collapse in on itself, leading to one’s own destruction instead of on exterior, worldly things?


It’s hard to say, and this video does not provide any easy answers. It’s a polarizing clip, but it only goes to show that art of any kind—yes, even big-beat techno—can ignite a serious, pointed discussion.


(Oh, and yeah ... it’s also a great song to boot).


Tagged as: justice
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Saturday, May 3, 2008
Improbable as it may sound, Black Sabbath is quite possibly the most misconstrued super group of all time.

Question: Is it possible that a band could sell over one hundred million albums, be referenced constantly by groups spanning multiple genres, and whose very name is considered synonymous with an entire type of music be underrated?


Improbable as it may sound, Black Sabbath is quite possibly the most misconstrued super group of all time. This certainly is not to imply anyone should feel sorry for these very loved—and very wealthy—avatars of heavy metal. Shed no tears for Tony Iommi. He is widely—and appropriately—acknowledged as one of rock music’s seminal guitar gods, the architect of a sound that, while distinctly his own, is anything but stagnant or formulaic; indeed, his body of work, considering only the music he made in the ‘70s, is varied, nuanced and deep. No, really. Of course, he’ll always remain in the shadow of Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page—just to name two of the undisputed heavyweights (not unlike Ray Davies will forever play bridesmaid to Lennon/McCartney and the Glimmer Twins). And that is as it should be. Still, there are two crucial elements working against a more sober and salient appraisal of his genius: the name of his band, and Ozzy Osbourne.


The all-too-easily disparaged (and, for the easily offended, objectionable) appellation Black Sabbath ensures that the band could never really be taken all that seriously. Not only is this a damn (albeit not a crying ) shame, it is enough to make one wish they had simply stuck with their original name. Earth, as the band was initially known in industrial Birmingham, England, is, incidentally, a much more appropriate word to associate with this very blue-collar and bruising band. Earth is the opposite or air, the ground is not ethereal, and water turns it to mud; if ever a band basked proudly and beautifully (and always unabashedly) in the mud, it is Sabbath. And despite all the silly mythmaking, the only thing demonic about this band was its proclivity for employing the musical tritone (also known as the Devil’s Interval) in its music.


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Friday, May 2, 2008

Countless style section profiles and GLBT weeklies have recently noted the slow and steady demise of the gay bar as a cultural institution of the queer community.  Of course, news “trends” can frequently amount to one person with a deadline and ten with Google skills but still, in my own experience, I’ve seen a welcome transformation in the culture of the gay bar, especially musically.  A few years ago, my boyfriend and I started booking bands at this affectionate leather dive bar, known mostly for its assless chaps and a back patio that had something a bit beyond mood lighting.  And frankly, there was a palpable level of hostility to women that I quickly dispensed with by sheer force of numbers and a few shaming asides.  Any gay man who is not a feminist is miraculously moronic. 


The nights became something of a hit, precisely because it wasn’t exclusively queer space and it definitely wasn’t gay bar music (I know plenty of gay people who never want to hear “Rhythm Is A Dancer” ever again for as long as they live).  Although gay bars and gay music have an importance in gay culture that’s difficult to underestimate, I like the evolution of identity that doesn’t mean that a particular category of oppression compels anyone to adopt a specific set of tastes. Sure enough, all over Austin there are now bars that are considered “mixed”, or at least places you could hang with your significant other and not have to miss a kiss.  At least in my experience, there’s a soft, meaningful transformation that happens when queers and straights share the same space, drink a few cheap beers in a bar with a whipping crucifix on the wall, and listen to a great local band like White Denim.  As always, I’m open to the arguments of the importance of “gay music”, but I honestly don’t know what that even would considered anymore, unless it’s those horrible circuit party CDs where “California Dreaming” is given a hi-Nrg workover by an anonymous diva.  I guess this should come as no surprise since hip hop has become owned by no one in particular even while it clearly began in one community.  Does identity music even have a place anywhere anymore?  Or are these treasures(old school gay bars) that weren’t a particularly important part of life, something to be territorially protected.


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Tuesday, Apr 29, 2008

How is it that a song made of all the worst things possible is endlessly awesome? Contemplate this while enjoying Komar & Melamid’s “Most Unwanted Song” (link via Scott McLemee). The song was produced based on the results of a 1990s poll asking Americans what features they like least in music. Michael Bierut at Design Observer suggests the result is a triumph of design: “If working within limitations is one of the ways designers distinguish themselves from artists, America’s Most Unwanted Song is a design achievement of a high order.”


And naturally, the most wanted song is unlistenable. If American Idol is the future of pop music, this poll-produced contrivance suggests the future will be bleak indeed.


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