Happy hardcore thrives in the US of A. A piece by the magnificently monikered Andrew John Ignatius Vontz.
"a Simon Reynolds level culture blog" ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^"my brain thinks bloglike"
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Rock Critics 4 Peace. Is what the sign I held said. Attached to the sign's handle was one end of an extremely long banner, made by some friends, which intended to declare ‘Violence Begets Violence’ (phrasing a tad Old Testament, but a valid point) but unfortunately stopped short at ‘Violence Begets Vi’. One could only hope the more rockhistorically-aware in the crowd took this as a reference to Vi Subversa (fortysomething-even-in-1979 frontperson of anarchopunx Poison Girls) and thus a celebration of the grand continuity of refusenik culture.
Shamefully, the big march eight days ago is one of the very few demonstrations I've ever participated in. Never been much of a joiner, I suppose. The only semi-excuse I can muster is that for some of my generation, the ascension of Thatcher was such a surprise, such a hope-dashing trauma, that, especially if it occurred at a formative period in one's youth when politics tend to lean towards the unfeasible (at the time I would have been oscillating between Situationism and Communism--an easy stance when you're sixteen and don't own anything), it opened up a massive chasm between ideals and politics-as-the-realm-of-the-possible. And in that chasm something close to resignation developed. Brief encounters with organized politics, whether it was anarchists (all-talk except for the really-just-up-for-a-ruck macho streetfighter types) or canvassing for Labour, merely encouraged the drift towards fatalism and quiescence. Not exactly resistance-is-futile, but biding one's time until the culture shifts again. For many of us in the Eighties, I suspect, the energy we might have in a more promising decade devoted to activism was instead channelled into music and its surrounding discourse; that was where our "battles" were fought. (Whether that was a massive diversion/waste of energy is something I'm trying to work out with this post-punk book).
At a certain point, though, regardless of whether demonstrations achieve their aims or not (and this one, as impressive as it was globally, appears to have made not a blind bit of difference to the USA and UK's headlong rush towards the geopolitical precipice), on an individual level there comes a point at which a certain better-out-than-in logic takes over. Keep on swalllowing your own anger/disgust/indignation/dismay and it turns poisonous. It was inspiring to see the creativity, humour, and high spirits of the marchers. And it was revelatory to witness--as visceral, glandular experience rather than second-hand, intellectualized concept---the police's heavy-handed and unprovoked crowd-dispersal tactics. As the cordon of mounted police started to advance down a packed 3rd Avenue--not quite a charge but more than a canter--I felt like the peasant in Monty Python & The Holy Grail: "Ah! Now we see the violence inherent in the system! Come and see the violence inherent in the system!”
Shamefully, the big march eight days ago is one of the very few demonstrations I've ever participated in. Never been much of a joiner, I suppose. The only semi-excuse I can muster is that for some of my generation, the ascension of Thatcher was such a surprise, such a hope-dashing trauma, that, especially if it occurred at a formative period in one's youth when politics tend to lean towards the unfeasible (at the time I would have been oscillating between Situationism and Communism--an easy stance when you're sixteen and don't own anything), it opened up a massive chasm between ideals and politics-as-the-realm-of-the-possible. And in that chasm something close to resignation developed. Brief encounters with organized politics, whether it was anarchists (all-talk except for the really-just-up-for-a-ruck macho streetfighter types) or canvassing for Labour, merely encouraged the drift towards fatalism and quiescence. Not exactly resistance-is-futile, but biding one's time until the culture shifts again. For many of us in the Eighties, I suspect, the energy we might have in a more promising decade devoted to activism was instead channelled into music and its surrounding discourse; that was where our "battles" were fought. (Whether that was a massive diversion/waste of energy is something I'm trying to work out with this post-punk book).
At a certain point, though, regardless of whether demonstrations achieve their aims or not (and this one, as impressive as it was globally, appears to have made not a blind bit of difference to the USA and UK's headlong rush towards the geopolitical precipice), on an individual level there comes a point at which a certain better-out-than-in logic takes over. Keep on swalllowing your own anger/disgust/indignation/dismay and it turns poisonous. It was inspiring to see the creativity, humour, and high spirits of the marchers. And it was revelatory to witness--as visceral, glandular experience rather than second-hand, intellectualized concept---the police's heavy-handed and unprovoked crowd-dispersal tactics. As the cordon of mounted police started to advance down a packed 3rd Avenue--not quite a charge but more than a canter--I felt like the peasant in Monty Python & The Holy Grail: "Ah! Now we see the violence inherent in the system! Come and see the violence inherent in the system!”
Thursday, February 13, 2003
Talking of squandered intellectual energy, it’s Pazz & Jop time!. And specifically, the annual Critics Comments fest--where the impress-your-peers pressure cooker and general meta-meta consciousness that afflicts this profession results in prose so burnished and honed and (that word again) infolded, it’s…. migraine-inducing, actually. Blinded by the insights, the droll dazzle of it all. For those who just can’t get enough, there’s a special ILM thread devoted to salvaging the comments that didn’t make the final cut (Sasha Frere-Jones's being especially entertaining, as is his Timbaland Vs Neptune essay in Pazz proper).
I suppose I should be chuffed that The Streets is Number 4 (the highest my favorite album of the year’s ever placed, it’s also the only album in my ballot that made the Top 40 this year). But I’m curiously unmoved. Being a Streets fan must be lot more fun in the U.K., where Skinner is a public figure--in the pop charts, nominated for awards, well-known enough to get slagged off by tabloid columnists like Jessica Wossname (for oh-yes-very-tenable-I-don't-think reasons like his lack of humour). In America, Original Pirate Material is--what did Christgau call it?--a success d’estime. Just thirteen thousand sold, so the rumour goes. A household name only among the hipoisie. And even those who love The Streets here, by and large, don’t fully get it. I have a whole micro-essay still hatching about the critical reception of Original Pirate Material over here, but later for that.
I suppose I should be chuffed that The Streets is Number 4 (the highest my favorite album of the year’s ever placed, it’s also the only album in my ballot that made the Top 40 this year). But I’m curiously unmoved. Being a Streets fan must be lot more fun in the U.K., where Skinner is a public figure--in the pop charts, nominated for awards, well-known enough to get slagged off by tabloid columnists like Jessica Wossname (for oh-yes-very-tenable-I-don't-think reasons like his lack of humour). In America, Original Pirate Material is--what did Christgau call it?--a success d’estime. Just thirteen thousand sold, so the rumour goes. A household name only among the hipoisie. And even those who love The Streets here, by and large, don’t fully get it. I have a whole micro-essay still hatching about the critical reception of Original Pirate Material over here, but later for that.
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