In Eight Hours I Strike

Sign says you've fueled our fire. Riot police stand behind

The police had slashed our tents; thrown away clothes, food, medical supplies; and arrested the protesters and the reinforcements that were ready to replace us. The police had thrown noxious chemicals and burning gas at us and shot us with rubber bullets. The police had showed their might and erected a flimsy fence to reinforce it. And as they were lying to the media about who did what and when, this sign went up.

Though their numbers had dwindled after Tuesday night’s police brutality, this sign captured the sentiment. The remaining occupiers stood in the street with a banner. They thanked me for coming. Everyone was angry. No one was daunted.

That was on Tuesday. By Wednesday at six the fences were torn down and the camp reestablished. Enough food was donated to feed everyone. A day later there was a library, school tent, and an agreement to have a general strike. My friend got six medical volunteers in a three-hour shift. Not hobos, not teenagers—People who know how to insert a catheter. Constantly there were meetings.

I have never in my life seen such a group of people so diverse, so motivated, so organized and so relentlessly determined. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, we are not quitting. We have been waiting. The time is now.

I say “us” and “we” though it’s unfair to say for I’m not among the campers. My tent wasn’t shredded. My laptop wasn’t “confiscated.” I didn’t have to sleep on the floor in a jail.

I say “us” because Occupy Oakland knows that the movement is much bigger than the campers. It is the farmers who provide the food, the bloggers and publicists  who share the news, the artists who make the t-shirts and photos, the designers and developers who build the website, the thousands who clashed with police on Tuesday. The campers represent us. They are our proxies.

Politicians count active constituents as representative of larger numbers of lazy voters. One email counts for a handful of miffed voters, a letter even more, a phone call counts for many, and you can bet if people are sleeping on your fucking lawn you can count on a crowd with torches and forks.

The campers sit for me. Tomorrow I stand for the protesters. Tomorrow there is no work. Tomorrow there is no shopping. Tomorrow, I strike.

Posted via email from Paperback Pusher

“Specific suggestion: General strike” By Garret Keizer

As for how the strike would be publicized and organized, these would depend on the willingness to strike itself. The greater the willingness, the fewer the logistical requirements. How many Americans does it take to change a lightbulb? How many Web postings, how many emblazoned bedsheets hung from the upper-story windows? Think of it this way: How many hours does it take to learn the results of last night’s American Idol, even when you don’t want to know?

In 1943 the Danes managed to save 7,200 of their 7,800 Jewish neighbors from the Gestapo. They had no blogs, no television, no text messaging—and very little time to prepare. They passed their apartment keys to the hunted on the streets. They formed convoys to the coast. An ambulance driver set out with a phone book, stopping at any address with a Jewish-sounding name. No GPS for directions. No excuse not to try.

But what if it failed? What if the general strike proved to be anything but general? I thought Bush was supposed to be the one afraid of science. Hypothesis, experiment, analysis, conclusion—are they his hobgoblins or ours? What do we have to fear, except additional evidence that George W. Bush is exactly what he appears to be: the president few of us like and most of us deserve. But science dares to test the obvious. So let us dare.

When I heard that Oakland is planning a general strike for November 2nd, I went and pulled up this fantastic article written by Garret Keizer for Harpers magazine back in 2006. It is among the best essays I’ve ever read.

I will post more excerpts from this on Subversive Soapbox but you should really just go read the rest of it right now.

Posted via email from Future is Fiction

Great indie lyricists #2: Los Campesinos!

This is song #2 of a playlist for Kat. The subject is great indie lyricists.

Hi Kat,

Since you've been obsessed with the Mountain Goats lately, we've been talking about who some of our favorite modern lyricists are. This playlist was made specifically to answer that question.

Los Campesinos! We Are All Accelerated Readers

There were conversations about what Breakfast Club character you'd be

"I'd be the one that dies" (no one dies)
"Well then what's the point?"
You should have built have a statue, and so I did of you
And you were ungrateful, and slightly offended at the dimensions of it
You said you looked less like the Venus de Milo, 

and more like your mother in a straightjacket.

I've already shared a few Los Campesinos! songs with you. I really want you to fall in love with this band. For a great lyric I picked "We Are All Accelerated Readers" because I think you'll appreciate the humor in these opening lines. Los Campesinos!'s front man mostly writes about his dismal love life. But like any good writer, those conversations are peppered with his obsessions: twee and the musical culture which surrounds it. There's also frequent pessimistic asides about the future of politics, humanity and, well, everything. It's surprising in such upbeat songs. You hear the high voices, shouting, and hand-clapping over lines like "We kid ourselves there's future in the fucking / but there is no fucking future" or, say, "And your very existence is a monument / To how I taught myself to scream" and realize these aren't exactly pop songs. They're punk for tweeny-boppers. Or twee for punks. Whatever, they're fun. Which makes it easy to dismiss the lyrics. But the lyrics are what make this band so great.

Posted via email from Like Dancing About Architecture

Great indie lyricists #1: Cloud Cult

This is a playlist for Kat. The subject is great indie lyricists.

Cloud Cult – Ghost Inside our House

lyrics

Image via Western Sun

The couple that fronts Cloud Cult released a ton of albums while working through the grief of the death of their young son. But the songs aren’t a diary of torment. There is real pain here, but just as often there is an appreciation for the beauty of life. Cloud Cult’s songs are drowning in duende. There’s so much love in this music. So many beautiful images and ideas.

We’ll start a little family
And call it our religion
Hunt for ghosts inside our house
‘Cause we’ll never give up wishing

Their lyrics give you the sense that life is tender and precious.

It helps that the music is interesting and every song is unique. This one is a slow guitar number but many of their songs feature strange interludes or booming orchestrations or meandering violin. It also helps that they’re amazing live. They’re one of those bands that make it impossible to pick a favorite. I believe you’ll especially like this one, but there are so many other Cloud Cult songs to fall in love with. Do it.

I Love to Hate LA

Ew, gross: Los Angeles.

As a resident of Northern California I take on the proud tradition of hating Los Angeles. There are many reasons to hate LA. It’s filthy. It’s superficial. The rats and roaches breed in abundance. The weather is hot and filled with foul smog but the ocean is still too fucking cold to dip a toe in. They put concertina wire around the freeway to keep out the graffiti artists. It’s nothing but mini malls and freeways from end to end. Traffic, traffic, traffic, that never seems to end with nothing of interest to look at but maybe some palm trees that aren’t native to the region in the first place. But who cares about that, no one is from LA, not really, people go there to fail at big dreams. It’s a fucking desert; the only things that truly belong there are tumbleweeds and rocks. 
I first decided I hated LA long before I ever lived on the West Coast. In Hollywood I saw a bunch of homeless punks holding signs that said “Photos with freaks $5.” I thought, these punk describe this place: everything is a commodity. Even the punks here are superficial: anarchist on the outside, capitalist on the inside. Further exposure only increased my disdain. Did you know that old Hollywood is in disrepair? They have so much land that instead of reviving it, they just built a new Hollywood further down the road. That’s how people in LA think. No appreciation for history or tradition, even when it’s for the thing that made their city a destination in the first place. Why fix up that dirty old hole where countless movie stars made their mark? Why bother? In their minds, newer is better.
But it occurs to me now that I take too much pleasure in my hatred. Truly, I love to hate LA. They are so counter to everything that Northern California stands for that we can hold them up like a gleaming beacon in opposition to our NorCal selves. When Stephen Merritt sings:

See them on their big bright screen

tan and blonde and seventeen
Eating nonfood keeps them mean
but they’re young forever
If they must grow up
they marry dukes and earls
I hate California girls

I can take comfort in my suspicion that everything he describes is SoCal. LA is the Yin to our Yang. We declare what we are by pointing South and exclaiming that that is what we are not. 
If you don’t live on the West Coast, perhaps you are unaware of this rivalry. You may associate all of California with New York and Vermont and the stereotype of the liberal elitist. It’s true that we embrace our liberalism and drink lattes and eat tofu. But when Midwesterners accuse the left coast of being shallow, when they say we’re obsessed with fashion and celebrity, San Francisco replies, “Oh, no–you’re thinking of our sister, Los Angeles.”
Not only do I love to hate LA, I shockingly discover that I am proud to have this den of iniquity within the borders of my great state. Because Hollywood is worshiped by the rest of the country. In some ways LA is like Texas–all the worst things about American culture, and proud of it. The Texans are proud of being big and conservative while LA is proud of fast cars, big budgets, new money, fake tits and tans. Though the rest of the US wants to roll their eye’s at NorCal’s dirty hippies chowing down on government subsidized organic produce, it’s a plain fact that those same Americans are in love with California’s nether regions. They read celebrity gossip on their lunch breaks and talk about TV at the water cooler. They blog about all that goes into making the next summer blockbuster. Children suckled on the teat of Teen Beat grow up to gawk at paparazzi photos in People. If LA were wiped off the map tomorrow, this celebrity-obsessed country would have little to talk about besides Saturday night football. 

Haters Gonna Hate–I confess I love to hate LA

Of course, we NorCal types want nothing to do with all that. We watch more TV than we admit, and the stuff we see on the big picture is described as “films” which we scrutinize for underlying social messages. But I do like that the culture of California is subtly distilled in a nation raised by television. I love that The Lost Boys setting of Santa Carla is actually the NorCal town, Santa Cruz. I love that the Sunnydale of Buffy the Vampire Slayer is most likely based on the Bay’s Sunnyvale. I laughed when Lafayette on True Blood slept under thick velvet blankets. In Louisiana he would bake snuggling under a blanket like that but leave it to a set dresser in LA to think they know what hot weather is. I don’t want Americans to be obsessed with the fake lives of fake people. I moved here to get away from all that. But I get the best of both worlds. I’ve escaped the monster, but the place they keep it chained is a one-hour puddle-jumper flight away. 
Maybe that’s why Los Angeles is most appealing to me when it is falling apart. It is only pretty when it’s seedy, when there’s a patina covering all that glamor. LA is only likeable viewed through the lens of David Lynch or distorted through the Raveonettes grungy guitars. Only when the swimming pools and shopping malls are empty and covered in spray paint will a new America be ready to be born. 

Posted via email from The Bay is Better

What is Pop Music?

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art of music by ~josephine12cute

There is a long-standing debate in music criticism about whether pop music should be considered worthy of review, or whether it is a guilty pleasure best left undiscussed in polite company. With limited amount of time to write and listen and limited space to post reviews, these “rocktivists” argued that we should be focusing our reviews on Serious Art. The opposing poptimist camp won, as you’d expect: In a generation where the Internet promised there will always be a surplus of reviewers and space to post their opinions, why not review everything?

The problem with this debate is few people ever bothered to define what pop music is in the first place. It used to be so simple in the days of Nirvana. Pop music was inoffensive and danceable. Rock music was brash and unpolished. But the postmodern era we live in teaches us that labels are elusive bastards that refuse to divide most things in life into tidy binaries. The underground dance movement has shown us that there’s plenty of dance music that is clearly not pop. The success of corporate rock b(r)ands that “did it all for the nookie” will get the same snub treatment from rock critics, even though they aren’t thought of as pop. And even back in the days of Nirvana, what the hell was Bjork? Where did Future Sound of London fit in?

We labeled those acts as “Alternative;” today we call them “Indie.” Even label status can be a misleading marker though. The biggest label in a small country will be perceived as independent in other countries far from where their marketing efforts can reach. This is more and more a factor in a global economy. At the other end, you have indie labels that are swallowed up by major labels. Do the bands on these labels still count as indie when their label is bought? Does it matter if the parent corporation allows the staff to continue running their company exactly as they did before the takeover? Does it matter if the label gets a bigger publicity budget? And then you’re haggling over a dollar amount to define a genre.

Many will agree that we need to stop defining indie as a genre. The same thing needs to happen with pop music.

So What Is Pop Music?

No definition will be perfect, but here’s what I propose. Pop music is music produced by a team of people who collectively are designing a product. That product happens to be art, just as the designers who produce the sheets and lampshades at Target are also producing art. Pop music is first and foremost a money-making venture, and artistic decisions will be guided by marketing factors like target audience and branding. By this definition, Britney will be pop no matter how many giant rock guitars she locks her legs around. Weezer is an example of a rock band that became a pop band when they got rich and started making the songs they thought their teen audience wanted to hear.When you begin to think of Pop music as a product rather than a genre, the rocktivist argument makes a lot more sense. Art critics could write reviews of the output of graphic design firms, but usually they leave that task to Ad Week.

From NPR’s piece on the costs of making a pop single:gr-pm-song-cost-462.gif

Pop music is absurd. It is absurd to pay someone who can sing fifteen grand to write a song and then have someone who isn’t a particularly good singer record that song because her face is the one you want plastered on album covers. It’s absurd that the same system that pays $78,000 to create a single pop song will ask the rock bands they woo to sell their song and soul for a dime. Pop reduces the art of music the way a butcher cuts up a piece of meat. Every aspect of the song is outsourced to different experts who turn in their perfect little cog. All these cogs are reassembled as the clockwork machination we know as the pop star. The empty smile, the calculated cleavage, the vague unreality, the overly clean, slickly produced sound—all of these are symptoms of turning music into an assembly line process.

Conversely, all the rage and hubris the rock critics have flung at the poptivists seems almost silly. The poptivists have done themselves a dis-service by asking critics to take pop music seriously. Pop music is serious business but it is not, cannot be, serious art. Serious art stands for something. Serious art reflects someone’s vision. Because it is a hodgepodge of the cogs, whatever vision the writer began with will be diluted by marketing teams who wish to promote trends or avoid offense. It’s the difference between Jill Sobule singing in favor of kissing a girl and Katy Perry the product who sells the kissed-a-girl brand.

We need to move away from thinking of pop music by the symptoms that describe it—polished, electronic, trite, overly-produced—and think instead of the machine that produces it. We need to stop thinking of pop stars as artists and think of them instead as the logos for carefully tailored marketing campaigns. These surgically perfected smiling dolls are as sad as Frankenstein’s monster, as close to music as hamburger meat is to fillet Mignon. We can take pleasure in what is the fast food of the art world while seeing it for what it is, while going on to chase these monstrous stars with our pitchforks and torches. We love the monster. We hate the monster. We consume the monster. She sells art, but she is not an artist.

Rules for Shows #3: The Front of the Pit is Over-rated

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Rule #3

 

The first strings have been strummed and the singer has claimed the mic. The shovers are staking their claim in the pit. There is a rush to the stage, a general movement: the show is starting. The young and foolish punk will rush forward so they can be closer to the sweat and angst flying off the stage. It seems rational. But if you’ve taken the time to push to the front-and-center position, standing in front of the fresh mosh pit is the worst way to claim that sweet spot. Not so much because the pit is unmanageable but because the task of managing it is in the opposite direction of the band. So you can turn your back on the show and push the pit kids. Or you can watch the show and get elbowed in the face. Thus what seems initially like the center of the action turns out to be a major distraction. Just when you think you can maybe take some time to actually watch the show you paid to see, you remember the crowd surfers. They like to remind you by kicking you in the head.

If this all still seems like a great plan, then you probably have a fierce abundance of ass-kicking energy. In that case, dive into the actual pit instead of turning your back to it. Now that’s a nice view.