Issue 52: Don't Bother Me, I'm Thinking
By Amdnarg Toh

Flight of the Conchords

So what happens when you combine an “ogre who looks like a librarian” with a scruffy, skater wannabe and a clueless ginger haired part time pseudo manager? The fourth best folk pop duo in New Zealand of course silly! My introduction to Brett McKenzie and Jemaine Clement, also known as Flight of the Conchords, was through a guy at work, who insisted that it was probably the funniest show on TV, and that he had just bought the season one DVD compilation. But alas, since I didn’t have HBO, I wouldn’t to partake… So I filed it away as one of those shows to check out when I’m traveling….

A few weeks later, my PHD (Pretentious Hipster Douchebag) buddy at work had a clip of some song playing on his computer and was almost literally falling out of his chair, so of course I had to check it out. He was playing a clip from Business Time, which I must agree was totally hilarious. Fast forward a week and I’m at PHD guy’s house playing poker. He hands me the DVD and says “If you thought that clip was funny, you’ve got to watch this”. I took it home the next day, cracked it open to see what comedic nuggets it might hold, and found myself four hours later still entranced by the sheer genius of these guys… I actually watched the entire season in just two sittings – the spousal unit spending just enough time in the room to say “Are you STILL watching that stupid show???”. Needles to say, a couple of months later when I found out that the guys had released a CD of the songs from the show, I was determined to get it. And I’ve got three words to describe my response – LUH HUV IT!!!

The only problem is that the whole CD is very contextualized. If you haven’t seen the show, many of the songs don’t make much sense. You have to immerse yourself in the whole experience before the more subtle points of some of the lyrics come together, and often, the visual comedy in the TV episodes provides some necessary sensory input to the interpretive process for most of these tracks. (Isn’t that what videos are supposed to do anyway?) However – this CD isn’t just a soundtrack of some esoteric show with a huge cult following… Ok – maybe it is…

Of course, I’m a sucker for parody – a vice which started in junior high with me tuning my boom box to the faraway FM station on Saturday nights when the Dr. Demento show aired.

But these guys take the parody to a new level – by participating as the object of their own self-parody – the way these guys “deadpan” their whole performance, on screen, and off, leave you wondering whether or not they actually take themselves seriously.

My recommended favorite tracks –
Foux de Fafa
Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous

And… Leggy Blonde brings a tear to my eye every time ;D

Not all of the songs in the series are on this CD, so if you’re a die hard fan, and your favorite isn’t included, you’ll have to stick with the grainy , low-fidelity tracks floating around out there on the internet, as extracted from the DVD… But for the songs that are included, we can enjoy FoC nirvana as we listen to The Most Beautiful Girl(In the Room) to escape the cubical world as we cruise down the two lane towards home – that is, if home is a sonic “Alice in Wonderland”…

Issue 51: Don't Bother Me, I'm Thinking
By Medulla Vesuvius

Music in the Cracks: The Deconstructive Art of The Bad Plus

Today, dear readers, I want to discuss with you a most interesting band called The Bad Plus and their recent album called Prog.

First, a word about the band. They are a trio consisting of piano player Ethan Iverson, drummer David King and bassist Reid Anderson. They are young-ish, regular-looking guys. However, the music they make together is far from regular. For, while for some people the word “Prog” brings to mind all manner of goofy imagery like Rick Wakeman in a cape playing a stack of analog synthesizers or Peter Gabriel in a giant bloated Slipperman costume struggling to get his microphone close enough to his mouth to lead Genesis through epic musical statements, there is the fact that in the music world, prog was always short for “progressive”: interested in new ideas, eschewing convention. And in the 70s this curiosity and exploration largely found expression in a preponderance of showy musical technique: odd time signatures, unexpected harmonies, difficult and sometimes extended solo instrumental passages, etc. and this album delivers plenty of that kind of skill.

But the genius of The Bad Plus has always been more complicated and nuanced than just “some guys who play their instruments well.” Nietzsche talked about philosophy being the process of taking a hammer to old statues to see which parts are hollow. The Bad Plus take a similar tack as nothing short of musical deconstructionists, all the while simultaneously rebuilding, (sometimes in the same song.) This is most readily apparent in what these guys do with cover tunes. Take for instance the lead-off track “Everybody Wants to Rule the World,” originally performed by Tears for Fears. Is this a cocktail jazz tune? A minimal, quiet pop song? Noisy avant-garde free jazz improvisation? An Erik Satie-esque piano piece? The answer to all of these questions is “Yes.” After the fundamental musical motifs of the original have been stated, the band stretches them out to their most logical and illogical extremes like auditory elastic.

In the hands of The Bad Plus there is no musical territory that is fenced off. They effortlessly glide from one aesthetic into another, but not in broad or ironic genre exercises. This music is deep and dramatic. They choose to not hang their hats on stylistic clichés, (e.g. “This is our reggae song…”) Once you’ve heard the crazy extremes that they are capable of pursuing together, the start of each song brings with it a thrilling sense of expectation of the unknown. For they play so dynamically, what is a hush now is just as likely to remain a hush for a whole tune as it is to erupt into angry cluster chords and wild-man octopus drumming. This makes for interesting, engaging listening.

The other cool deconstructive element of The Bad Plus is their subversion of expectation. Their instrumentation, the piano trio, is one of the icons of jazz history. Think of Bill Evans’ infusion of a minimal, spare aesthetic into jazz improvisation in the sixties and millions of cocktail jazz trios playing the finer restaurants in the world today. Clearly these guys are at home in the jazz world, but they offer so much more. Book these guys at your local upscale Italian eatery with dimmed lighting and six minutes into their first tune the longing look of seduction on Valentine dates will quickly turn to looks of horrified alarm as Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” comes crashing down around them. In the movie I Am Trying to Break Your Heart Jeff Tweedy and Wilco discuss taking perfectly good songs and de-composing them by adding digital and electrical noise elements to them. This method of “uglying-up” creations is now de rigueur for any indie rock band worth its “artistic” credibility and has been around at least since The Beatles stopped playing live and concentrated on making musical art in the recording studio. (Think: the radio sections at the end of “I Am the Walrus” or “Strawberry Fields Forever” or the white noise which slowly builds up at the end of “I Want You/ She’s So Heavy.”) But what makes The Bad Plus so interesting and unique is that they obviously have a similar compulsion to deconstruct, yet they achieve their ends using the same conventional instruments that have been around for at least a century or so and the same twelve notes of the scale that were used by guys in powdered wigs.

This is the new postmodern amalgamation of angst and art, consonance and dissonance, beauty and ugliness. Welcome, brave travelers!

Issue 50: Don't Bother Me, I'm Thinking
By The Rambler

Chapter 1 – The World (And the Way It Works)

There are cities that seem like they come right out of a noir film, with guys in them who seem perfectly-suited to be the schmuck detective to receive the unusual call from the damsels in distress that turn out to be a big tease into a case that could cost the poor guy his life. You know the cities, with the steam that rises out of every possible crack and crevice, the shadows that mask all of the dark goings-on. They’re the ones that are serenaded by cat screeches and saxophone songs from smoky, crowded jazz halls. The drunks stumble through the lonely streets, tripping on their own feet and falling against the door of an old Cadillac. Sure, there are streetwalkers, but most are classy, if you can say that about those that people call whores. This is my city, that place of the lonely dog barking and the back door to a restaurant slamming after the trash has been tossed in the alley. Sadly, I’m that schmuck who gets tangled in it all. I’m not waiting for the dame, I’m not waiting for the check. The money is regular in my profession, and dependable, for the most part, but hardly rewarding. I’m the schmuck who believes in something a little different than the way the world works, and that way collars me in white under black.

You guessed it; I’m a minister.

Not the usual ones who get a little congregation in a white steepled church in a farm town. Not the ones in suits and ties on television flinging spit and dripping spirit-filled sweat onto the next person needing healed. I’m not even the metropolitan pastor trying to keep up with the sweep of the trends from suburban sprawl to recentering in downtown, otherwise known as regentrification. And yes, I’m a fan of big words for fun. No, the reason the checks are dependable is because they are sent from the central office of my employing denomination, which is unimportant. The reason it’s hardly rewarding is because being the pastor of a ‘mission’ as they call it, isn’t a prized profession. Sure, some launch from this area, but I haven’t had the opportunity, nor do I really want it. The night life is what I see on the way home, as I go to my wife, in our little two bedroom apartment. And the nightlife is what keeps me up with phone-calls of the drugged out, drunk, abused, and abandoned. I get to sleep-in most mornings, because my congregation depends on nightlife and on the morning cup of coffee around noon.

I guess I started rambling without actually introducing myself. I’m Michael. Michael Logan O’Shanisey. Yes, I’m Irish. Catholic or protestant, take your pick, I like them both. I’ve been called Mick, Michael, Mikey, Mike, Logan, Shawn, O’Shan, Shawney, Father, and the rest go downhill, so take your pick, I’m not too concerned. Most of the parishioners either know me as Father, Pops, Pastor, again, take your pick. I’ll go ahead and introduce the Misses: She’s a pretty little girl, with ashy blonde hair, and a pretty medium build. She smiles like the best, and her honesty cuts like a knife. Genevieve Marie, but most call her Gene. Her brown eyes cut like diamond. That’s the gist of my place here.

But why did I even start like this? Well, I’ll tell ya. It’s to get you acquainted with the scenery before you get involved in the story. As I keep talking, you’ll get to know more characters, trust me.

Now, guess I should tell you the way the world works. You see, there’s times I get caught in my office twirling and weaving thoughts about the way the world should work. Yeah, it’s what people in my profession do, getting caught in ideas like peace, love, justice, and righteousness – you know, the way the world should be. Key word there is should. But there is something different about the way the world is. In my thought, the world works out of a kind of wisdom. That’ll be a recurring theme, get used to it.

Definition of wisdom: the way in which the structures of nature, science, and all of life are put together in order for the world to work a certain way. For every way that the world works, there is a different kind of wisdom behind it. The drug addicts, drunks, and nightwalkers all have a wisdom behind construing the world in their addiction. The pushers and peddlers may be close, but trust me, their wisdom is different. Your grandfather or grandmother show you their wisdom in the good old days, and your kids show it in their talk of fairness. Everything has a wisdom. That’s the way the world works. The question is, which is best? Ponder that as I keep going.

So I’m caught in my office, weaving my thoughts and studies when the old speaker on my desk crackles with the voice of Loraine, the receptionist calls me. Yes, we have the cool old speakers seen in the vintage movies with the security door buzz as the call sound. This call was about some stranger coming to see me. His name was Peter. That’s all I knew at the beginning, and all you’ll know about his name for now.

“Father, There’s a man out here to meet with you,” came her coffee-enthused voice through the intercom crackle.

“Not on the schedule. Did you tell him I was in study?”

“He says it’s urgent. Life or death. Should I send him in?”

“Yes,” I heave. “Send him in.”

My door squeaked on the old hinges, painted enough to have a nice, rubber looking coat. The glass on my door leaves the outline and colors of the man fuzzy. Everything is a bit nineteen-forty about my building. So the old hinges squeak, followed by the heavy footsteps of this Peter guy. He steps in, heaving a sigh and dabbing sweat from his brow. His head is bald, his eyes blue and beady, and his face round. He’s the teddy bear guy with the bat in his left hand, hugging and loving the family, but smashing the jaw of the guy who owes the boss some money. That guy. His shirt is wet around the collar and pits, and unbuttoned once to let his neck have some room. This guy comes from a world structured by a wisdom. I’ve got to figure that out. It’s my job.

Issue 49: Don't Bother Me, I'm Thinking
By Medulla Vesuvius

Meditation on The Great Gatsby: 1953 Paperback Edition

I recently read The Great Gatsby for a book discussion group. I happened to have a paperback copy of the book that my dad used when he was in college. The $1.50 printed price was only one of many visual cues that this was a relic from a bygone era. In my head the Mondrian-esue, sea-foam green minimalist cover, now very faded with sans serif font, belied an attempt by the publisher to market this particular tome to the bohemian hipster set. The fruitlessness of that particular project seemed slightly wrongheaded, as any fan of the stream of consciousness of the beat writers would have felt swindled by Fitzgerald’s elegant, sometimes dense prose. He used words like an artist would work with solid steal beams in a gloriously complex abstract sculpture, not a single element wasted or out of place.

I am a fan of reading used books. There is a particular kind of nerd that gets excited to see someone else’s handwriting in a book. I would be that particular kind of nerd. To see someone else’s notes in the margins or a well-placed “Hmmm” next to a sentence that wouldn’t have elicited the same thought for me adds another layer of appreciation to the reading act. I’ll never forget the mysterious, sprawling mathematical equations in pencil that accompanied several pages of the local library’s copy of Zen and the Motorcycle Maintenance, looking something like very orderly, concise hieroglyphics to me.

For when someone else’s response to a book is so handily documented for you, the two-way conversation between reader and author quickly becomes a three-person party. Not to mention the reminder that you are merely one in a chain of people throughout time to face the same ideas. Sometimes you need to be reassured of your role in a larger story, convinced of the idea that maybe the world isn’t created anew by your gaze, no?

Imagine my excitement at not only reading this well-revered American classic, but reading the exact same copy my old man did when he was in college. What a rare opportunity! To get inside dad’s head when he was twenty-something! Maybe I would find out that my dad had a clandestine artistic impulse that he learned to suppress long before I ever came along. Or perhaps it would become apparent that the college version of dear old dad’s soul would have resonated with Gatsby’s isolated, individual longing for the past and his idealized love for Daisy. A hand-written notation could make that apparent in ways he never showed by going to work at the office every day. To say the least, holding this particular copy of this book held promise for finally getting a look inside the head of my progenitor.

Indeed, my dad had made some notes, but unfortunately they were simultaneously unexpected and exactly what I would have expected. Next to the following evocative passage in the book, displaying Fitzgerald’s full descriptive powers:

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

Dad had written: “Indent and single space. No quote marks except single quotes.” Mere lecture notes on how to properly format a paper!

I should have known. Dad was a procedural guy just like me.

Looking back on the book and my frustrated expectations, I find that Dad and I may have re-lived one of the more pathetic elements of the book, only in reverse. Gatsby’s dad travels half-way across the country to attend his son’s funeral. Impressed by the signs of the young man’s wealth, it quickly becomes apparent that Father didn’t really know the real son, but rather an idealized image of honesty and success, neither of which corresponded to the reality of a man dying alone with only a handful of strangers who could be bothered to show up for his last rites. I wondered if this would be our fate-dad and I, to be largely unknown to each other.

What an awful, morose culmination for Fitzgerald’s tale and mine!

Happily, it’s not the end of mine.

For just yesterday I was discussing the book with pops over a light lunch and he was going on and on about Fitzgerald’s style, breathlessly telling me how “perfect” every word seemed, how artful and intentional the sentence constructions, the importance of symbols like God’s eyeglasses and color, the beautiful descriptions of The Valley of Ashes and his favorite Fitzgerald short story…

All of which he remembered from when he read it back in college.

Issue 47: Don't Bother Me, I'm Thinking
By Medulla Vesuvius

The Greatest Sham of All

You wanna know one of Medulla Vesuvius’s favorite things to do?

I like to come home from a hard day at work on the construction site, turn down the lights real low, light some short-bread scented candles, draw a hot bubble bath and drift away to a wonderfully relaxing world of pleasant thoughts. But the only way to get to that world is when I am accompanied by my silky-voiced friend, Delilah.

The little plastic radio by the tub is permanently tuned to her show, lifting me up with dedications to special people and stories of love-both lost and regained. Her soothing voice is like a fresh-smelling balm in a mad world at war.

But last night I realized that Delilah has been surreptitiously poisoning my mind with a seemingly innocent little song by Whitney Houston called “The Greatest Love of All.” Here are the full lyrics:

I believe the children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be

Everybody searching for a hero
People need someone to look up to
I never found anyone who fulfill my needs
A lonely place to be
So I learned to depend on me

PRE-CHORUS
I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone’s shadows
If I fail, if I succeed
At least I’ll live as I believe
No matter what they take from me
They can’t take away my dignity

CHROUS
Because the greatest love of all
Is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all
Inside of me
The greatest love of all
Is easy to achieve
Learning to love yourself
It is the greatest love of all

I believe the children are our future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be

PRE-CHORUS & CHORUS

BRIDGE
And if by chance, that special place
That you’ve been dreaming of
Leads you to a lonely place
Find your strength in love

I heard two major issues with the lyrics of this song: 1) short of the entire solo catalog of Syd Barrett, (the insane original mind behind Pink Floyd), I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more muddled mess of non sequiturs and confusion. 2) Besides how the song says what it says, what it attempts to say is equally as upsetting to a particular type of person. I would be that type of person. Let’s get to some specifics.

Look up there at that first verse. “The children are our future.” No qualms about that. Assuming they aren’t outlived by their parents, children inherit tomorrow’s past. If I hadn’t heard this song before I would have predicted from this first verse that it was going to be about the innocence of children and how we could learn a lot about life through their instinctive happiness.

And I would have been wrong in that assumption.

For, where does this song go from there? Oh, it just starts talking about mentors and how the singer never found one. Double-u Tee Eff?

That’s a pretty drastic subject change, to say the least. But it seems we’re going from bad to worse, for in the pre-chorus, (”I decided long ago…”) the singer confesses a pretty isolationist individualism that is followed by the coup de grace: a non-specific paranoia. (Who exactly, I wonder, is the “they” who is trying to take away the singer’s dignity?)

I want to stop for a moment and regroup during this descent into madness. Let’s approach this song with a little more tenderness and just accept for a moment that the propositions follow each other naturally for a moment. What is the appropriate response to innocent children and a learned self-sufficiency? Why, it’s learning to love yourself of course! Is that really the greatest example of love we can fathom? To unconditionally serve and protect and wish the best for and praise and worry about and long for…yourself? Mother Theresa would have kicked your ass for even thinking that.

Let me tell you why this song is so subversively nefarious. All of the preceeding mental imbalance and monstrous egotism is delivered in such a lovely package- undulating electric piano and highly memorable melodies lulling you into a noncritical sleepy aesthetic coma. It’s a Trojan horse of the music world. Just think of Apollo Creed cranking his right arm like a windmill to distract you and then sucker-punching you with the other hand.

That is “The Greatest Love of All.” Stay far away.

You’ve been warned.