Krafty – Page 3

Contra "The Gram Parsons Zone"

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This post is the first in what I hope will become standard fare at Mock Duck – a polemic against a prior post by a different author. My target is Dan’s “Gram Parsons Zone.” First, to be clear, I am entirely on board with the concept – it’s the use of Gram Parsons as a namesake that irks me.

I have actually had a very similar experience with Radiohead as Dan’s – I never really understood their appeal until, hilariously, I was asked to “jam” with some Radiohead fans who wanted to get together and play their songs. I was given a list of 15 or 20 songs to learn on bass, which I did, and over the course of the next 2 years I got together with these guys five or six times to play them – often, their insane Radiohead groupie friends would show up. (It’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to being in a cover band.) I thus became intimately familiar with Radiohead’s catalogue, and really enjoyed rocking out to it – but I was never able to escape that sensation that Dan describes of respecting them without every really wanting to listen to them.

What is it about Radiohead that is so “respect-worthy” but ultimately not quite as enjoyable as the constituent parts would suggest? Part of it perhaps is captured in the refrain to one of their more popular early songs, “I wish it was the 60s/I wish that something would happen” – they seem to be peculiarly trapped in a sound whose time has come and gone. The innovations they practice are no longer innovative. Their dabbling in electronica seems forced. And Thom Yorke, for all of his brilliance, just doesn’t seem totally convincing as a lead singer. I don’t know – probably there is a counter-argument to each of these points. But I think they are an appropriate namesake for this phenomenon because whether you like them or not, it’s hard to say how they really changed music – it’s more like they squeezed a few more drops of “innovative, Beatles-esque rock” out of a dangerously dry sponge.

Gram Parsons, on the other hand…along with Alex Chilton, Nick Drake and Lou Reed, he belongs, in my mind, in the Mount Rushmore of under-appreciated and wildly influential musicians of that era. He invented an entire genre, practiced today by lots of horrible mainstream country musicians but also by some pretty good ones too like Wilco or Lucinda Williams. And the first side of the Burrito Brothers’ “Gilded Palace of Sin” is one of the very greatest LP sides in existence, along with Side One of “Exile on Main Street,” Side One of “After the Goldrush,” and a few others (and, by the way, he was basically a member of the Stones when they were recording Exile, and a lot of its rootsy sound is thanks to him.) (Indeed, a little known Parsons fact is that the Burrito Brothers released the first-ever version of “Wild Horses,” which Keith gave to them.) “Christine’s Tune” and “Sin City” are one of the best one-two punches on any record, maybe second only to “Sweet Jane” and “Rock and Roll.” Considering how little music he released before his death in his mid-20s (a few Byrds records, a few Burrito Brothers records, and the two solo albums), the ratio of influence-to-released tracks is basically unparalleled.

In short, Parsons is way too influential and significant to be an acceptable namesake for this phenomenon. Dan would probably counter that it is exactly because Parsons is so revered that he fits the bill – the whole point of the “Zone” is that you have to respect the musician/band and accept his/her/its place in the canon, etc. But with Parsons, not only is he just too towering a figure, but also, I think that his cross-pollenization of country and rock, and all of the controversy this has caused, adds too many layers of complexity for him to stand in for the relatively simpler phenomenon Dan describes. I have a friend who is an obsessive country purist, and he hates Parsons, because he thinks that he bastardized country, just as the folk purists called Dylan a Judas. Likewise, lots of rock fans can’t get into pedal steel guitar, etc. (I still remember how I first discovered Parsons as a teen through Evan Dando’s cover of “Brass Buttons,” and how I scrunched up my nose at the country stylings of the original.) Whatever Dan’s particular take on this aspect of Parsons’ sound and influence, I think that it makes him too complicated a figure for the Zone in question. Or, to put it slightly differently, I think that the reasons why Parsons “just doesn’t take” for Dan or any listener are unique to Parsons and his particular place in American musical history, and can’t stand in for a similar reaction to Radiohead or anybody else.

So how about “The Radiohead Zone” instead? Admittedly it doesn’t have the same ring to it, but that’s just because Gram Parson’s name is so awesome.

The More Things Change…

This is the first in a short series of posts responding to some of Dan’s more recent posts, which I’ve been digesting today after a return from a 2-week trip with limited internet access. Today’s installment: Sports Before Radio. I was totally fascinated to learn about this past phenomenon (where crowds would gather to watch crude mechanical reenactments of baseball games), but my reaction is actually exactly the opposite as Dan’s — it seems strangely contemporary, as I am constantly tracking baseball games in almost exactly the same manner via the various cell phone/online real time depictions available from mlb.com, espn.com, etc. Here’s a screen shot of one of them: mlb-mobile-pre

Eerily similar to the photos from Dan’s post, eh? It’s often struck me that the information contained in these stripped-down depictions is hardly less rich than what you get in a televised game, where the footage is basically identical from game to game. Think about it: if they replaced the live shots from whatever game you’re watching today with footage from some 1970s Phillies/Mets game, would it really be any different (other than the silly goatees being replaced by silly moustaches)? I’m not talking only about the “action,” as in a ground ball to 2nd or whatever, but even the recurring and always-identical Kabuki-like dramas that play out, such as the pitching coach picking up the bullpen phone to get a reliever ready when the starter seems to be tiring, the identical ways that managers fight with umpires over blown calls, or the ways that batters use body language to indicate their unhappiness with a called strike three. Indeed, when people who don’t care for baseball ask me how I can possibly spend time watching games, I tend to respond, “Well, do you ever spend any time doing absolutely or almost nothing at all? That’s what watching baseball is for me. It’s like meditation.”

Jack of All Trades

GOLD I’m not sure what gloss I can add to this amazing sign, which I found on Beacon Street in Boston. Partly it seems like a Bubble artifact, when everybody’s plumbers were getting into real estate speculation. But does he really have a law degree? And if so, is this a new sign that he’s put together since the crash, so he can peddle his more practical plumbing abilities? The mind reels.

A Journey to the End of Taste

celine I am reading, and very much enjoying, this little book about Celine Dion. It’s part of the 33 1/3 series of books about single albums (link is to the series blog), which is pretty awesome — for a retired record collector, the books (each of which is pocket sized and featuring the album’s cover on its cover) recall a little of the fetishistic pleasure of buying the record itself.

I previously read the edition on the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique, which was great, but mostly in a sort of “extended Rolling Stone article” sort of way (great stories and interviews about the album’s creation, etc.). This one is a little deeper than that — it’s written by a self-confessed music snob (a music critic named Carl Wilson) who grew up in Canada, and who therefore hated Celine Dion above all else, and it represents his effort to explore and better understand an artist who is both hugely, hugely popular, and also widely despised. He traces her roots in a particular French Canadian “chanson” tradition, and speculates that one reason she is so hated (more, for example, than certain equally cheesy African-American singers) is that it is so difficult to locate her in any sort of well-understood musical tradition that it makes her seem all the phonier. This is a topic that holds great interest for me, because I was raised in a snobby indie rock musical tradition, and worked for a college radio station where you would get in trouble for playing records that were on major labels, etc. Anyhow I have always taken great pleasure in certain Top 40 hits, while truly despising others, including Celine, so I’ve spent some time puzzling over the question of what value there is in my snobby view, if so many millions disagree with me. (One of my fondest classroom memories from college is the graduate seminar on Popular Music where the professor spent a 2-hour session purporting to demonstrate, objectively, why “Sweet Caroline” was so horrible and tasteless.)

I’m not done yet, so I don’t know yet if Wilson comes to any significant conclusions, but it’s great poolside reading in any case. I’ll also note, without comment, that James Franco somewhat mysteriously name-dropped this book on the Oscars red carpet earlier this year.

Zombie Caterpillars and Voodoo Wasps

caterpillar It’s time for another installment of creepy insect facts at Mock Duck (pun intended!). Today’s installment is much weirder than any ant fact, real or imagined, previously disclosed.

Apparently, wasps plant their larvae inside caterpillars, and the larvae then burst out of the caterpillars, Alien-style, where they spin cocoons and wait to turn into wasps. But here’s the truly disturbing part: somehow, while they’re in there, the larvae turn the caterpillars into zombie bodyguards, which stand guard over the cocoons until they hatch, and thrash around whenever a beetle or other predator comes sniffing along. And if you think that this is one of these cuddly animal kingdom symbiotic relationships, think again: the moment the wasps hatch, the zombie caterpillar bodyguards die!

The best part about this is that the scientists who have figured it out have no clue at all how it works — somehow these larvae are programming the caterpillars to guard over them, and then to drop dead the moment they’re no longer needed, but it is a total mystery how (although this article, which also discusses the wasp-in-caterpillar thing but doesn’t address the zombie bodyguard aspect, talks about the wasps somehow manipulating the caterpillars’ DNA, so that may have something to do with it).

This article, which explains the zombie bodyguard phenomenon, also makes reference to a similar ant fact, wherein parasites infect ants and then somehow convince them to render themselves vulnerable to snacking sheep, so the parasites can get inside the sheep’s bellies. When it comes to really screwy devious manipulation, we humans may have nothing on our resourceful insect and parasite neighbors.

The Blues Brothers

Somebody posted a link to this Polish poster of the Blues Brothers on Facebook yesterday. I think the post was meant as a joke — “Look at this weird Polish poster for this cheesy movie!” — but I immediately ordered a copy, which is now on its way to my house, I am assured via a personal email “with Kind Regards” from Krzysztof Marcinkiewicz.

The fact is, I love this movie, and when I tell people it is one of the greatest movies ever made, I’m only partly kidding. I honestly think it is as imitated as Star Wars, whether it is the themes (“Getting the band back together,” Carrie Fisher’s insane quest for revenge, the “mission from God” to save the orphanage that justified all of their middling crimes) or specific scenes (the jailhouse pickup to open the movie, the chase through the shopping mall, the over-the-top finale, etc.) And let’s not forget the incredible number of cameos: James Brown as the preacher (and Chakha Khan in the choir); Aretha Franklin; Cab Calloway; Carrie Fisher; Billy Crystal; Pee Wee Herman; Frank Oz; Ray Charles; John Candy; John Lee Hooker; etc. etc. For god’s sake, their backing band was comprised of the greatest soul session musicians of all time. And I haven’t even mentioned Belushi and Aykroyd, two comic geniuses at the height of their powers.

OK, I will admit that the timing of its release (I was seven, and it may have been the first R-rated movie I ever saw) had something to do with its oversized impact on me. And I’ll also admit that it hardly invented some of the tropes and themes that I’m still celebrating — but there is something about the way it melded all of that stuff together (along with the musical numbers) that seems totally innovative. And I’ll bet you that this, and not some older precursor, is the reference point for modern comedy directors when you see those themes/set pieces/tropes recur.

I wish I had something insightful to say about the Polish interpretation of it that will soon be adorning my office wall (I’m not even going to bother floating the idea of having it in the house to my wife), but perhaps my certified design instructor co-blogger can take care of that angle.

Ant World Domination

ant At some point many years ago, somebody (possibly my older brother) told me several “ant facts” that I have been repeating to anybody who will listen ever since: 1) The bio-mass of ants is greater than the bio-mass of all other living creatures on earth, including all other insects (and elephants); 2) There are more ants on one square mile than there are people on earth; and 3) Certain ants can blow themselves up to spread poison on their enemies, thereby protecting their colony. After a few years I added some other ones, such as that ants have psychiatrists. Of course, I have no idea if any of these “facts” are true, and I’m not about to use the internet or some other resource to find out now. But lo and behold, a credible news source (the BBC) has this headline to a story: “ANT MEGA COLONY TAKES OVER WORLD.” It appears that some tribe of ants has, well, taken over the whole globe, and they are all working in concert to accomplish their devious ant-aims.

Click here for more breathless details on “the true extent of the insects’ global ambition.” And don’t miss the links to related articles detailing, among other things, ants’ punishment for “cheaters” and their no doubt ill-intentioned cooperation with bees.

The Uncanny Valley

valley

Dan’s Robot Double post reminded me of one of my new favorite terms, “The Uncanny Valley.” It’s a hypothesis that humans have an instinctive response of revulsion to facsimiles of themselves. The “valley” is based on the idea that if you encounter a very crude and not-really-that-human-like robot, you are OK with it, but at a certain point as it gets too close to human-like, you have a response of revulsion that can be graphed as a dip or “valley” (and then you get out of the valley, presumably, when it becomes so real that you can’t tell the difference).

So in the handy chart above, industrial and even “humanoid” robots are fine, as are stuffed animals, “healthy persons,” and “bunraku puppets” (whatever that is) — but corpses, zombies, and prosthetic hands all fall within the Valley. These examples all seem to conjure up images of death, which may be what it’s all about — or maybe an instinctive fear of being replaced by robots? Anyhow, Dan’s robot doubles would surely have to contend with the Uncanny Valley as they went about their masters’ business.

More here, including a laundry list of possible explanations, with both the fear of death possibility alluded to above and some other interesting ones.

On the Old Apartment Rule

I wholly support the Old Apartment Rule, partly because I’ve had the good fortune to experience it. For about half of the decade that I lived in New York City, I made my home in a tiny sixth floor tenement walk-up on Houston Street. I first lived there for four years from ’95 – ’99, and in ’97 I got a roommate named Slink from Chicago. I got him on the lease after I moved out, and he has stayed there ever since, although he now uses it for only a few nights a week when he commutes in from a home in upstate New York. (It’s behind the two top left windows in the building on the right below.) The Pad

Thanks to Slink, I have continued to return to this apartment on periodic trips to New York, including a year-long stint living there again in my final year in NYC (during this year we formed a band called The Pad whose entire repertoire was songs about the apartment), and I’ve seen it go through a remarkable number of manifestations: as an art gallery, a fashion designer’s studio, a recording studio, a go-go dancer’s lair, etc. (Just your typical Lower East Side progression — remember that we’re talking about 400 square feet here at best.) I am always extremely grateful at the opportunity to return, and particularly to get onto the roof and see Manhattan through 20-something eyes again.

World Series of Poker

I traveled to Las Vegas this past weekend and played in a World Series of Poker tournament. One hears a lot about the “Main Event,” but they have fifty-odd other smaller tournaments, and the whole production turns the convention center annex to the Rio Hotel and Casino into a sort of Poker Nirvana for almost two solid months in June and July. Or, to put it another way, a “degenerates’ convention.” The scene was truly surreal: multiple airport hanger-sized rooms, all filled with hundreds of poker tables, and, incessantly, the eerie clatter of a million poker chips in thousands of anxious hands, occasionally punctuated by triumphant/enraged shouts. The prize money for each of these tournaments is significant: in the one I played in, first place won $650,000, so life-altering consequences await at the turn of a card. (Of course, the vast majority of the entrants get nothing other than the thrill of participation.)

I had expected to see a much more subdued scene than in recent years given the economic climate, but there is apparently still no shortage of people willing and able to put down $1500 or more for a chance at big winnings and celebrity. At my table, there was a Midwestern gentleman with a beard and Cardinals’ hat who, I quickly realized, had come in third in last year’s Main Event, winning $4.5 million. Others at the table were huge fans of his, so I got to listen in as they quizzed him. “Did you quit your job?” they asked. “No, I bought the company.” He explained that in the past year since his victory, he had signed on with some poker web site (whose logo was emblazoned all over his body), which had flown him from world capital to world capital (more than 150,000 miles in the air) and paid his buy-in to all the major tournaments. And all this happened because he won a minor satellite tournament in St. Louis and hit the big money in Vegas one weekend.

I went with three friends from work, and we all gave one another a 4% stake, so that if even one of us made a serious run, we’d all come out on top. And that’s exactly what happened: while two of us (myself included) lasted about 9 hours into the first day before busting out, and a third made back his buy-in with a small payoff, the fourth was still in it late on the second day. We (and an increasing group of others who were interested in his fate) were tracking his progress on the internet, as poker blogs posted updates about developments on the felt.

By Monday afternoon, he was one of the final 25 players, already guaranteed a significant prize, and within shouting distance of the big money. At this point, of course, he had played about 24 hours of poker in the past 48 hours, and endurance became a significant factor. People like to joke about poker as a couch potato’s “sport,” but it is no joke to keep your mind sharp, observing your opponents’ every move, recalling the intricate details of betting patterns (“What happened before the flop? Has he done anything to suggest that he’s capable of laying down a hand?” etc.) for hour after hour on end. Our hero combined excellent and disciplined play with some incredible lucky breaks, and by late afternoon on Monday he had made the final table and was in second place in chips. Visions of a $20,000 payout for me were dancing through my head.

He finally busted out, in seventh place, on an aggressive move that backfired, for a payout of $93,000. Not life-changing, perhaps, but eye-opening for sure. And the three of us got all of our expenses paid and then some. I have a feeling I’ll be back next year.