Tag: Music

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When I attended the University of Kansas in the late 1970’s, a friend who was an actor got a small role in the Peter Shaffer play Equus. Equus had several nude scenes in it and he was looking forward to blowing the minds of the people in Lawrence, Kansas. Lawrence was playing its own role here instead of a university town with a mostly cosmopolitan population, it was taking on the the role of a small Kansas town rife with closed minds about nudity. I also was taking a course in Modern Theater. The professor encouraged his students to see the play because he thought it would blow our minds. Using almost the exact words as my friend. Hmm.

Blowing the minds of the audience was very much a part of the purpose of this play. To ensure that the damage done to our minds was not so severe, there were warnings about the nudity in the play so everyone who entered the theater was prepared for the genital reveal which , at least to my mind, spoiled the whole shock value of having nudity in the play. I was waiting for it.

Then, the type of person who would wander into a student play at a University is just not your typical small town Kansan. They would be more academic, more cosmopolitan, and more open to nudity in the theater. By 1979, even in Kansas, most people who followed the arts already had seen their fair of nudity before Equus exposed them to some more. But how do you get them into theater to see the nudity? Oh, yeah, why don’t we create a little controversy and, lo and behold, it worked, the controversy brought people into the show.

This is what I think happened with Bad Bunny’s Half-time performance. It was meant to provoke a certain segment of the population. It successfully provoked them. They lost their minds as they do and started demanding all kinds of things which cause the Media to follow the controversy. This created a demand to see the show. It was a genius marketing ploy — hyping the first Spanish language performer at the Super Bowl. The buzz was great, a lot of people watched it because most people had no idea who Bad Bunny was or what they were about to see. The television advertisers got their audience, so the money they paid was well spent.

Everybody is happy — particularly, I imagine, Bad Bunny who got a lot of free press and millions of potential new customers for his music. For the vast majority of people, though, it was a meaningless experience in a life filled with meaningless experiences. But no one’s minds were seriously blown here. It will hardly be a memory in a year or two.

But you have to give credit to the the organizers of the show, they certainly showed they knew what they are doing. If you got something to sell, I certainly would recommend them. Buzz is their middle name.

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I have mixed feelings about Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl Half-time show on Sunday.

I only half paid attention to it. I would look up whenever somebody shouted there is Lady Gaga or there is Ricky Martin but other than that it held half of my attention at best. Before you get all bent out of shape about me not watching the show, I can also make the same admission about every Super Bowl Half-time show I ever witnessed. Half-time shows are a time to refresh my drink, to grab some grub and to go to the bathroom. I can’t recall ever being so mesmerized by a Half-time show to commit one to memory. To be fair, the actual football game falls into that category as well.

Frankly, I am too old for the shows. I rarely, if ever, have any personal knowledge of the entertainer who is flying in from the rafters or appearing in a whiff of smoke. I am also just a little bit bored with the annual outrage of whichever artist gets selected to perform. Nobody they choose is going to please everyone in such a diverse population. The artist will be too niche, too controversial, too sexy, too tame, too boring, too young, too old, and I think you get my point, anyone selected will be too too something. It is a fool’s errand and I think the Super Bowl Entertainment Committee would be best to go back to marching bands instead of big name entertainers.

That said, I do think there was a problem with Bad Bunny. Someone somewhere wanted to deliver a message to Middle America and Donald Trump. Trump obviously received that message given his vitriolic response. He got angry which is what he was supposed to do and like a well tuned clock — he did. Taking their cue from their master, the conservative talking heads screamed their agreement. Does it make any sense though? Putting on a show in which a significant majority of the people watching don’t speak the language seems unnecessarily provocative and more than a little petty.

If you are trying to put on a show that celebrates immigrants, perhaps using a common language would be helpful to the people who you are purportedly trying to influence, otherwise you are missing your target. Oh, but it was the most watched Half-time show in the history. I think “watched” is a pretty strong word here. I would argue it was more background noise and that most of Middle America could care less. It is a quick conversation the next morning and then back to work. By the end of the week, the rest of the country will have forgotten about it and moved on to watching skiers fall at the Winter Olympics.

All we really got out of Bad Bunny was another experience of Donald Trump foaming at the mouth which, lets face it, we could have elicited by any number of pokes in the eye. It isn’t terribly difficult. I can’t wait until next year when the Super Bowl Half-time Entertainment Committee decides to have the best opera singers and classical music artist performs to ensure that Americans get exposed to a culture that they are unaware of.

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“Some Like it Hot” is a song I like that I lost track of. For some reason, I stopped listening to it. I have a habit of listening to a song I like until I am sick of it and then stop listening to it again for a very long time. I think this is what happened here because I certainly enjoyed listening to it again when I stumbled across it the other day.

The only thing I have a quibble about is some rather inane and juvenile lyrics which I find easy to forgive for the following reasons:

  1. The drums. There is some pretty intense and powerful drum playing – particularly at the beginning of the song. A solo drum start which gives the song a primal sound that brought me into the song and continues to pound throughout the song.
  2. Robert Palmer. I have to confess I have very few star crushes but Robert Palmer is one of them. His voice has a sexy pitch that it is difficult to define — masculine and playful — not exactly the words I am looking for but as close as I can get right now. He means to seduce you but he is also assuring you that it will be a lot of fun all the same. It’s weird. It could just be an irrational response to a man who gets my pheromones going. Whatever the explanation, I like Robert Palmer.
  3. Brass. I like horns in a band. Except for the tuba, brass instruments are easy to carry. A small band could certainly throw in a trumpet into the trunk of a car as easily as a guitar case so its absence in rock bands is a mystery to me. In this song’s case, the brass adds powerfully to the sexiness of the sound.
  4. It is entertaining which I think all any piece of art has to do. I enjoyed listening to it.

Here is a link if you want to give it a try. Some like it hot, I know I do. Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

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I am going through songs that I like and trying to understand my taste. Depeche Mode keeps coming up for me as a top group and one of my favorite songs of their’s is “You Should be Higher.” It remains true to the original album version while also being better. For me, very rarely is the live version better than the album and this is one of those times. Dave Gahan is a remarkable performer, easily dancing across the stage while also singing up a storm. He is both entertaining and thoughtful.

I even liked the light show which I usually find distracting but found this one supports the song and is interesting to watch while not overwhelming the band’s performance.

The lyrics are mix of cynicism and wistful longing for something better. I particularly like the phrase “your lies are more attractive than the truth.” Truer words, given the present world situation, have never been spoken and perhaps the root of our problems.

Give it a listen.

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When it comes to music, what catches my attention are the lyrics. One of my favorite songs, based on mostly on the lyrics, is “A Pain That I am Used to” by Depeche Mode. I prefer the Jacques Lu Cont remix to the Depeche Mode’s own version. The Lu Cont version has a bit more energy and the opening bit is much more listenable than Depeche Mode’s original version which I found grating.

But what really attracted me to the song was the line: “Give me a pain that I am used to.” This short sentence, more than any other, better expresses what modern life is all about for me. Everything we are grabbing for ultimately brings pain. All we are doing is exchanging one pain for another one so if pain is the result — just give me one that I am used to and be done with it.

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OK I am going to admit something about myself that I really really find embarrassing. The problem is it is what was rumbling through my head when I heard Peter Frampton’s Show Me The Way the other night. So, here goes, I can be a bit of a snob sometimes particularly about popular culture. To give you a good example of how this snobbery sometimes makes me behave, I have never seen the first three Star War movies. That is correct. I haven’t seen the Star War movies that almost everyone agrees are the best ones because someone had the audacity to recommend this popular entertainment to me. TO ME. That last vestige of advant-garde art and foreign films, depressing movies, John Cassavetes movies, that’s the movies I watch, not this nonsense that the hoi polloi watches. The nerve.

Which somehow brings me to Peter Frampton’s Show Me The Way. It is one of my guilty pleasures. I have to be in a mood before I deign listen to it but it generally does the trick for me. I particularly enjoy the live version which I linked to above. And I do not have a reasonable explanation for it. Frampton is a good guitarist who sings well and with a lot of energy but the song has pretty trite lyrics accompanied by pretty pedestrian music. So pretty much like most of the entertainment I encounter.

The lesson for me here is that is all I really should expect. A bit of pleasure. And if later I decide that it was a groundbreaking, earth shattering, inspiring piece of art all the better.

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“Architect” from Frighten Rabbit and Manchester Orchestra is my favorite depressing song right now. You know the song. The one you play when you are feeling blue and listening to this song connects somehow with your sadness and maybe if you play it, your sadness will quickly be purged and you get back to normal. And it usually does the trick better than a therapy session with a psychiatrist. You know the song. Well, this is my quick fix depressing song right now.

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I have already expressed my shock in seeing Kanye West’s wife near naked body at the Grammys. The bigger problem with Bianca Censori’s display of flesh is the attention it is grabbing from a compliant press. Since people are shocked, they are talking about it. I, writing about it now, am part of the problem. I apologize. It is just too big of a juicy target to ignore and I can’t help myself which is also part of the problem.

It is a self-replicating problem. Famous people know that they will get press if they do something shocking. The papers, because they think people will read it, publish the scandalous story. I, because it is a scandalous story, read it. Once the scandal has drained every bit of media attention, a new attention seeking celebrity enters the fray.

First, and most importantly, it is about absolutely nothing other than Kanye West’s need for publicity. He knows how to create controversy and he did it. But what now, other than a few more days of Kanye making the headlines, is this about?

This trivial event, also, reveals how sadly out of touch Hollywood and the Media is with the rest of the country. It’s both titillating and boring. Kanye has become so lame, so desperate for attention that he will ask his wife to expose herself in front of millions. The media will roll out all the really important people to talk about the controversy. Opinions will churn for days to come but nobody outside the environs of Hollywood much cares.

But West, Hollywood and the Media think we do. This has long been an explanation for the sensationalist press. It isn’t our fault. We are giving the public what they want. They want to see people behaving badly so we, wishing we could report on the serious issues of the day but also needing to make money, will report about it. We aren’t the villain here, the public is.

I am not sure what to do here. I understand. If perusing the headlines and you give me a choice about reading about the problems in the Middle East or a naked celebrity, I’m afraid I am going to choose the naked celebrity every single time. Between my need to be entertained and the media’s need to make money, I am stumped on how to proceed.

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When I listen to a song, I create a movie about the song. The song creates images when I listen to it and these images carry on through out the song. Once I have these images, my tendency is to have the same images the next time I listen to the song. Different images may evolve over the years if I listen to a song for a long time but usually fixed images based on my first listening take over and see the same images.

Recently this has become a problem as I am learning that my understanding of words can be wrong. Last year I learned that I misunderstood a line from Joni Mitchell’s song California. I thought Sunset Pig was an animal unique to California. She is actually using a term that people in the 1960’s used when referring to cops.

For almost 40 years, I took a different meaning from the song which is OK. I mean it is the audience’s song once the singer stops singing. But learning this changed the meaning of the song for me and I can’t get back my original understanding. It is a less sweet image. Thinking about Joni trying to kiss a cute little pig who is trying to wiggle free of her embrace is kind of sweet while thinking of a policeman on Sunset Boulevard that she derogatorily calls a policeman isn’t. It doesn’t amuse me any longer. It changed my experience with the song.

This brings me to Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale. “ The song is an enigma and people debate what it actually means and often are wrong. Keith Reid, the writer of the song, wasn’t referring to Chaucer when he wrote the line about the Miller telling his tale even though most critics think that is what he is referring to. So trying to understand what the song actually means is probably a losing battle. It isn’t meant to be understood in a straight forward manner in the first place. Still, one line now bothers me because I realized something about the song writer. The line is:

And would not let her be/One of sixteen vestal virgins/Who were leaving for the coast

I have assumed for years that the coast meant California until I realized that Reid was British. Does “the coast” mean something different for somebody from Britain. I could only find definitions that meant California although one person defined “the coast” as the whole American Pacific Coast. But mostly when people use the phrase “the coast,” they meant California.

As far as I could learn, British people mean California as well. But it has begun to bother me because why would a British person getting on a plane and saying they were leaving for “the coast” mean California. California is pretty far away and “the coast” is pretty vague. I would think any British person leaving for California would actually say California.

But I do think it would be important to know what Reid actually means here because it changes my understanding of the song. If a British person is taking a plane to Blackpool instead of to California “the coast” means something different. For the time being, I am sticking with California unless someone can give me a reason to think differently. Let me know.

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Jann Wenner, publisher of Rolling Stone, just gave a master class on why diversity is important. He is hawking his book on the Masters of Rock and Roll — all who happen to be white men. Wenner, also, happens to be a white man and claims that Blacks and women don’t “articulate” at the same level. What this means, I haven’t the foggiest. But I am betting it is that he feels comfortable talking to them, they speak a common vernacular which he easily understands and thus is able to flesh out these ideas better when he writes. He also admits that perhaps he shouldn’t have used the word master because it sounds like he is limiting the illustrious designation of master to white men which wasn’t his intention. But he did, after all, choose the title and he now rightfully is defending the absence of a more diverse group of master musicians.

This is why diversity matters. People’s opinions about the world are influenced by where they live and who surrounds them. Since Blacks and women might articulate in a different way, people, like Jann Wenner, may not be as comfortable with their experience and what they are saying. In order to understand their experience and their influence on music, it might be helpful to sit down and have a chat with them in order to understand the music world. Wenner clearly has no interest in doing this and that is a big problem.

What is more alarming is that nobody tried to persuade him that excluding women and Blacks might be a bad idea. I am wondering who he worked with on this book and am surprised that nobody brought this omission to his attention. How could this book gone all the way to production and distribution without someone bringing this up is shocking to me. Maybe if someone would have brought this to his attention sooner, he might have had a better explanation ready when questioned about it. He is welcome to his opinion, but then so am I. As it is, he sounds like a racist sexist idiot. I hope I articulated that in a way that could be understood.