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My Kingdom for a Good Piece of Bubblegum

Posted in Essays, Music with tags , , , , , , , on May 31, 2010 by jnagle4

If you have visited YouTube in the past few weeks, you have probably seen the video of twelve-year old Greyson Chance performing Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi.”  Like most internet video sensations, Chance was invited on the Ellen show.  The Ellen show garnered huge ratings and even more hits for the adorably floppy-haired young man, whose interview was peppered with a bunch of precocious “likes” and “uhs.”

In this digital age of ours, the life cycle of an internet fad is about two or three weeks.  Chance will be around for at least another six months.  Last week, Ellen DeGeneres announced that she would be forming her own record label, eleveneleven, and Chance would be her inaugural signing.

My initial reaction was to write a blog about what a travesty this is. After thinking about it for a while, I realized that this is the way pop music has always worked.  A half-century ago, Chance would have been discovered on a street corner, singing with a group of his buddies.  He would have been Fabian.

YouTube is not the problem here.  Greyson Chance is being ascended to the pop star throne by a celebrity with a vanity label.  This is the kiss of death.

Pop music relies on A&R more than any other genre.  Behind every great pop group, there is a Svengali.  The Monkees had Don Kirchner. The Jackson Five had Berry Gordy. The New Kids on the Block had Maurice Starr.  These bands succeeded because the people backing them knew a hook.  Would Ellen be able to pick out “Last Train to Clarksville” or “I Think I Love You?”  There is a stark difference between liking a hook and being able to pick one out.

While in New York for my sister’s college graduation, I was lucky enough to pass by the old Brill Building.  I peered in the heavy glass doors and tried to imagine it in its glory days.  Paul Anka, Carole King, Gerry Goffin and Neil Diamond were paid to do nothing but write pop songs.  The names behind those songs have faded into time, but the work stands on its own.  Today is the age of the superproducer.  We have Scott Storch, The-Dream and The Neptunes.  There isn’t the same collaboration between the songwriters and the producers.

So instead of a rant, this blog is a challenge to Ellen DeGeneres.  Impress me.  Pull a rabbit out of your hat.  Give Greyson Chance a pop song that will make me overlook his negligible charisma.  Hire the dudes that wrote the first Click Five album.  Hell, hire Carole King to rewrite “Something Good.”   Do something, or else I will be forced to write yet another blog about the death of popular music.  I really don’t feel like doing that, Ellen.  I’m starting to sound like a broken record.  If you give me a great piece of bubblegum, I won’t make fun of Greyson Chance’s teeth….for two months.

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Leaving My Luddite Ways

Posted in Essays with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 3, 2010 by jnagle4

One of the first columns I ever wrote for my college paper was about the iPod.  I was convinced they were killing the thing that I loved most.  Kids weren’t buying albums anymore, picking and choosing the songs they wanted.  How distasteful.  An album was supposed to be an event, something you cut school for.  Downloading a record from this newfangled thing called iTunes just wasn’t the same.  I had a minidisc player, which was the unwieldy future!

Two years after that column was published, I got an iPod for my birthday.  I was completely wrong.  My iPod is practically an appendage, and I could not imagine my life without it.  Instead of making me apathetic towards music, it’s deepened my addiction.  I was stubborn for no good reason.

In 2007, Amazon announced that they were releasing the Kindle.  The Kindle could hold hundreds of books at once and was the size of an ordinary paperback.  The digital revolution had gone too far this time.  Music was one thing, but books?  The idea of reading Fitzgerald, Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Hemmingway on a screen seemed tawdry.   “Digital” and “literature” were two words that didn’t compute.  I was not going to fall for this one.

Reading has always been one of my favorite pastimes.   I wouldn’t have become a writer without it.  However, the physical act of reading had gotten harder for me. As I got older, the books got thicker.  I found that I could only read comfortably if I could balance the book on a table.

In February of 2009, Amazon launched the Kindle 2.  The new Kindle was thinner and more lightweight then the earlier model, about the width of a pencil.  The keyboard was bigger and easier to use.  The screen was a few shades darker, simulating an actual page.  This was an intriguing development.

The more I read about the Kindle, the more appealing it seemed.  I’ve never been one to get in on the ground floor of technology.  I had my cell phone for five years before I upgraded.  I didn’t have a stereo with a CD player until I was fifteen, feverishly holding onto the cassette tape.  I bought a minidisc player.  The Kindle was my chance to prove to my friends and myself that I was not a Luddite.  I bought my Kindle in February as a birthday present to myself.

As much as I love my iPod, many of the things I love about the album have been lost in translation.  Looking at a cover on a screen isn’t the same as holding it in your hand.  This disconnect doesn’t occur with the Kindle.  The words look like they were written in ink rather than pixels.  Everything is easier.  I no longer suffer from arm strain, I can read anywhere I want, and it picks up where I left off.  I’m able to read more.

The Kindle has not replaced the book; it is simply a new conduit for the beauty of the written word.  It’s one of the best purchases I’ve ever made.

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I Just Wanna Go to Staples

Posted in Essays with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 22, 2010 by jnagle4

I usually don’t write about personal matters on this blog, but I felt compelled to write about my dealings with a certain state-run organization.  So if you are looking for snarky comments about music, wrestling or popular culture, please read another article.

Before I left for the Ottobar last weekend, I noticed that I needed to get more business cards made.  My friend, Cara, was coming over to hang out on Friday, so I asked her if she wanted to come with.  No big deal.

I have a van with a lift, but my parents don’t like my friends to drive it.  This is completely understandable, since the van is really expensive.  I can’t drive because I have problems with spacial concepts (directions, knowing left from right, ECT.)  So I called MTA Mobility to arrange a ride.

Mobility is a door to door van service funded by the state.  It’s essentially a bus for handicapped people, except you have to arrange rides ahead of time.  This sounds easy in theory, but as with all state-run organizations for handicapped people, it never quite works the way it’s supposed to.

I knew I was in trouble the moment the operator picked up.

“MTA Mobility, what is your ID number?”

This was totally new.  When I called for a ride two weeks ago, they just asked for my address.  I didn’t have my ID card on me, so I asked if I could give my name.

“*sigh* OK sir, but you need to know your ID number next time.”

This is the calling card of the Mobility office.  Since they are completely incompetent, they need to make the consumer sound like a moron.  It boosts their meager self-esteem.

After the woman explained the importance of ID numbers, she finally asked me where I was going.

“Staples on York Road.”

“What will you be doing there?”

I thought “I’m going to Staples,” was self-explanatory, but then I overestimated the intelligence of this woman.  Perhaps there is a brothel behind the copier and she was waiting to hear the password.

“Will you have a PCA with you?”

PCA stands for “Personal Care Assistant,” because handicapped people aren’t allowed to have unpaid upright friends.  If you are one of my upright friends, your check is in the mail.

“Yes.”

“What time do you need to be picked up?”

“10:00.”

“I’m sorry sir. We have no 10:00 vans on schedule for Friday.  How about 9:15?”

Mobility has a several hundred vans roaming around the state, but they won’t pick you up at 10:00.  An hour earlier is better though, because I want to hang out at Staples for an extra hour.  It’s such a thrilling place.

In this era of political correctness, handicapped people can supposedly do whatever the uprights can do.  There are dozens of Very Special Episodes where a handicapped kid moves to town and the precocious kid (Webster, Arnold Jackson, Michelle Tanner, Zack Morris), doesn’t know how to deal with him.  There are some comical misunderstandings and then there is a game of wheelchair basketball, because sports are apparently the only way that the upright man can communicate with us.  Everybody learns a Big Important Lesson and then Jessie overdoses on caffeine pills.  I can supposedly do anything, but going on an errand is impossible.  It makes no sense.

Mobility was founded upon the idea that handicapped people needed public transportation to get to a doctor’s appointment or their job at Walgreens.  It might interest Mobility to know that I am a taxpayer.  I have a job that doesn’t involve watering plants.  I pay rent. I’ve made major purchases.  When I take a pretty girl out to dinner, she’s not going out of pity. I’ve gotten drunk on purpose.  I can discuss great works of literature.  I am not Christopher Reeve, Geri Jewell, Corky or any other “inspirational” cripple that you say I should be inspired by.  I am a man, and I am tired of being talked down to.

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Listening Booth: We’ve Only Just Begun

Posted in Essays, Music with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 20, 2010 by jnagle4

There is something inherently corny about the Carpenters.  Many of their easy listening peers have been reappraised by critics, but the ornate arrangements of Richard Carpenter and his sister Karen rarely get mentioned.  Perhaps because you couldn’t go to a wedding in the 1970s without hearing one of their songs.  But when was the last time you actually listened to “We’ve Only Just Begun?”  It might be the most misunderstood wedding staple of all time.

For the first listen, I want you to take the song at face value.

There isn’t much there.  The arrangement is ornate, Karen’s voice is lovely as always, and the lyrics are full of treacle.  The couple depicted in the narrative are obviously going to be together for a long time.

For the second listen, concentrate on Karen.

The meaning changes completely.  Her voice is so fragile, especially on the first line.  She says that they have only just begun, but her delivery tells a different story.  When she sings “together,” at the end of the bridge, she is trying to convince herself that everything is going to work out.  If you look at her body language, she rarely makes eye contact with the camera. Even her smile seems tentative.

For the third listen, concentrate on Richard.

Richard’s smooth backing vocals are confident and self-assured.  When Karen is at her most vulnerable, he helps her along.  Karen is unsure about being together, but Richard has a lot more faith in her fiance.  Look at his body language compared to Karen’s.  He stands up straight and loos right at camera.  His little sister is going to be OK, and even if she stumbles, he has her back.

Without the dynamics between Richard and Karen, “We’ve Only Just Begun” would be an absolutely wretched song.  There is nothing special about it on paper, but Karen’s performance elevates it to great art.  That could be said for pretty much every great Carpenters song, except for “Superstar.”

She breaks my heart, which is why she is my favorite female singer of all time.

What do you think?


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Criticism

Posted in Essays, Music with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 12, 2010 by jnagle4

There are many reasons to become a critic.  You get free records, you go to shows for free, you meet rock stars, and attractive women line up to have sex with you.  The perks are great, but they aren’t the core attraction of this fine profession.  Critics are the most opinionated people in the world, and we live to share our pithy remarks with others.

With this power comes an extraordinary amount of responsibility.  When a writer is hired by a magazine, newspaper or website, the editor is essentially saying, “I have faith in you.”  The writer is no longer professing his opinion from a barstool, but through a public forum.  Each statement must be backed up by concrete facts.

Last week, I read a column entitled Love, Listen, Loathe on a website that I used to write for.  The concept of the column was simple.  The writer chose three musicians and explained why he loved, tolerated or loathed them.  The article focused on Elvis, The Beatles and Michael Jackson.  I think you can guess which artist he loathed.

The article was on the front page of a nationally known website.  His column was going to be read by thousands of people.  He has a huge forum, and the backbone of his argument is that Elvis Presley was nothing more than a white guy who sounded black.  That’s a fine argument.  Unfortunately, it has been debunked by two of the greatest critics of all time, Peter Guralnick and Griel Marcus.  If the author had done any research, he would know that Elvis always gave credit to the black artists that inspired him.

The moment you start writing about music, you have to be more than a fan.  You have to be able to go outside of your pet genre and soak up everything.   The job of the critic is to be an authority, and when a column like Love, Listen, Loathe appears, it discredits the entire profession.  Elvis Presley caused a legitimate cultural shift.  The only other artists who come close are Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, The Beatles and Bob Dylan.

The author doesn’t have to revere Elvis Presley, but every rock critic needs to have a basic grasp of his impact on our society.  John Lennon once said, “Before Elvis, there was nothing.”  If Elvis never recorded “That’s All Right,” rock n’ roll would have been a passing fad.  Elvis didn’t invent rock n’ roll, but like Louis Armstrong, he synthesized it into a universal language.  He gave a generation of teenagers access to a world that they didn’t know existed.

After they bought their first Elvis record, they wanted more.  Then they bought Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Ike Turner.  Elvis was the gateway into the harder stuff.   He exposed black artists to an audience outside of the Chitlin Circuit.  This is information that could be found with a simple Google search.

It’s a scary time for journalism.  Traditional print media is being replaced by blogs, websites and webzines.   It’s much easier for writers to get their name out there.  This is wonderful, but we can’t lose the fundamental values of tradition.  Research and well formed arguments are still the backbone of this industry.   A poorly written article not only reflects poorly on you, but also hurts the publication.

There are so many fantastic arguments in the world.  Why go for a lie?

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