Sunday, August 08, 2004
(RE)STATEMENT OF PURPOSE: I think the point where I stopped sweating over the cutesy-snarky VH1 shows (or started sweating over them for different reasons) was when they put "Don't Worry, Be Happy" on their list of 50 Most Awesomely Bad Songs Ever. The dread of multitrack a capella is something I can deal with, but the panel of "experts" went on to talk about how the song was a list of things that you really should be worried about, followed by the ubiquitous glib dismissal. They were shaking their heads, and so was I, because that was the whole damn point of the song, and these people were so overly clever that they missed it completely. Apparently, the Poseurs of the Apocalypse came to the conclusion that Bobby McFerrin was far too corny to be self-aware and wrapped in irony, and people who live in a world overloaded with cheap irony that can't recognize it when they're beaten over the head with it are operating at a disadvantage. However, we have a rich history of missing the point in this country, so I'm not completely surprised.
It reminds me of the Billy Jones/Ernie Hare novelty number from 1925, "As A Porcupine Pines For Its Pork (That's How I Pine For You)", which an online vendor of vintage sheet music describes as "a whimsical song that includes twenty two verses", almost all of which go just like the title line. I heard a recording of them singing this tune (thankfully not with all the lyrics), and caught myself thinking "They couldn't possibly know how unsurpassably dumb this song is, can they?" As if in answer, the next line was "If we find the guys who wrote this song/they won't be around for long..." So there you are, pre-irony but totally self aware, laughing back at you for taking the bait. Of course, if you dig too deep into the early part of the 20th century, you get confronted by an army of guys writing "coon" songs and singing them in blackface, and contemplating the self-awareness of those guys is too depressing for a white guy to consider without an arts grant to soften the blow.
Anyway, before I got sidetracked, I guess I'm saying that I'm not as unabashedly in love with current pop culture as I used to be...it's getting too shrill, too self-satisfied, and screaming is taking the place of genuine debate. That's not to say I don't like a few pieces of it, but I have to clear out the rest; if pop culture doesn't satisfy, it's no crime to ditch it for something that does.
The master plan is to take the concepts from the literature I'm currently loading into the deck, reshuffle it with the pop crap I didn't turn away, and make something bright and new based on a mix of the two. Then, when I have a fix on the new mix, to the point where I can see it as clearly as I can see my toes (no fat jokes, please), I'll write down my brain fever and inflict it on the world at large. I've wasted a lot of time being a passive consumer, rather than an active producer, but I'll believe it's too late only when I'm dead. So there...
(edited @ 10:08 to round off the point on my head)
It reminds me of the Billy Jones/Ernie Hare novelty number from 1925, "As A Porcupine Pines For Its Pork (That's How I Pine For You)", which an online vendor of vintage sheet music describes as "a whimsical song that includes twenty two verses", almost all of which go just like the title line. I heard a recording of them singing this tune (thankfully not with all the lyrics), and caught myself thinking "They couldn't possibly know how unsurpassably dumb this song is, can they?" As if in answer, the next line was "If we find the guys who wrote this song/they won't be around for long..." So there you are, pre-irony but totally self aware, laughing back at you for taking the bait. Of course, if you dig too deep into the early part of the 20th century, you get confronted by an army of guys writing "coon" songs and singing them in blackface, and contemplating the self-awareness of those guys is too depressing for a white guy to consider without an arts grant to soften the blow.
Anyway, before I got sidetracked, I guess I'm saying that I'm not as unabashedly in love with current pop culture as I used to be...it's getting too shrill, too self-satisfied, and screaming is taking the place of genuine debate. That's not to say I don't like a few pieces of it, but I have to clear out the rest; if pop culture doesn't satisfy, it's no crime to ditch it for something that does.
The master plan is to take the concepts from the literature I'm currently loading into the deck, reshuffle it with the pop crap I didn't turn away, and make something bright and new based on a mix of the two. Then, when I have a fix on the new mix, to the point where I can see it as clearly as I can see my toes (no fat jokes, please), I'll write down my brain fever and inflict it on the world at large. I've wasted a lot of time being a passive consumer, rather than an active producer, but I'll believe it's too late only when I'm dead. So there...
(edited @ 10:08 to round off the point on my head)
|| Eric 7:10 PM#
