Albums of Influence: Endtroducing.....by DJ Shadow

If Rio is one of the quintessential 80s albums that both defines and transcends its era, Endtroducing..... does the same thing with the 90s.

For me, this record touches on all of the big developments from the 90s: there's electronica (remember how big that was going to be?), there's hip-hop, there's "downtempo" (albeit without the requisite breathy female vocals). And there's not a trace of "rock" on it in the conventional sense (though there are a ton of classic rock records sampled on it). There are plenty of records I could cite for this list that fit into all of those slots, but few that seem to rise above the conventions of the time.

The entire record was made D.I.Y. style by one young man using an MPC, a turntable, and an ADAT digital multitrack. Minimal equipment, no studio. A record made up of shards of other records, ranging from incredibly obscure to Bjork to Tangerine Dream. 20 years later, I am still recognizing new sources for samples.

This record has great compositions and a perfect late-night vibe. It crackles with a youthful energy. Nothing else really sounded like it at the time. DJ Shadow had been working towards this sound, but his early singles only suggest the mastery and vinyl alchemy on display here.

I was hooked the minute I first heard it, from MP3s downloaded over the internet (again, the 90s!) before eventually purchasing it on CD.

I wasn't the only one, and this record's importance has been cemented both by critics and by other musicians, who have made entire careers emulating aspects of this record's sound and vibe, or spinning variations on its themes.

This is another record I still listen to regularly. It still sounds timeless. Unfortunately, DJ Shadow never did anything remotely this great again.

[Updated] I neglected to mention exactly how this record influenced me. For one thing, it reminded me that one could make engaging and emotional music with beats and without vocals. It reinforced that you don't need gear or a great drum sound or big studio. You just needed a vision, work ethic, and some talent. Nothing was stopping you. It showed that truly clever and creative use of samples was possible and commercially viable. It also confirmed that "rock", if not dead, was at least no longer king of the hill, and that post-rock genres like electronic and hip-hop increasingly felt like they spoke to the current moment, and probably the future.

Albums of Influence: Rio by Duran Duran

This record inevitably turns up on any list of "best" or "most important" albums for me. A surprisingly rich, lush, and deep pop record. The feelings and moods the songs themselves conjure are long since fused to the feelings and moods I had while experiencing this album for the first time. It felt like many teenage experiences, that of discovering new frontiers and mysterious new territory.

Duran Duran crystallized my idea of what a modern rock band should be: synthesizers, guitars, bass (fretless sometimes!), drums, and vocals, all on equal footing. Writing catchy but still somewhat strange songs that don't reference "the blues" or rock and roll cliché.

Of course, Duran Duran (like all bands) had their own influences. Rio saw them moving away from the strict "Chic meets the Sex Pistols" vibe they had gone for on their brilliant debut and moving into more colorful territory (reflected even in the differences between their stark and minimal first album and the rich pastels of Rio's cover). I hear Roxy Music and Japan, among other things.

At the time, the band was frequently accused of being all image, a band for teenage girls. But the impeccably-designed cover doesn't even have a picture of the band on it (one of the only Duran Duran albums without their photo on the front, in fact).

A solid record with 100% great songs. They're all tight, hooky, and focused. Almost every track is danceable. There are some fancy intros and experimental bits ("New Religion"). A mellow ballad (the lovely "Save A Prayer"). The songs have dynamics, with rising and falling, and interesting bridges,to boot. I never skip any of these songs when they come up on shuffle.

Listening back to this record today, what strikes me is how unlike "the 80s" the album sounds, how not-cartoonish it is. 

There's no gated reverb on the drums. Yes, there are Simmons electronic toms on the record, but they're played by a real, live drummer (just like Van Halen!). While the songs have been played to a click or drum machine, very few parts sound sequenced. The record sounds like a band playing in the studio, with acoustic drums, electric bass, and electric guitar at the forefront. It sounds like pop rock, and I think it still sounds fresh.

There are very few synthesizers on the record, limited to Nick's Crumar string ensemble (frequently in the background, with Oxygene-ish phasing applied) and typically just one other synthesizer or piano per track (Roland Jupiter-8 or Jupiter-4). Those parts may be prominent throughout ("Save a Prayer"), but are usually driving in the background or only occasionally brought to the foreground. The synthesizers are brought up for emphasis or seasoning in tracks, and do not overpower the guitars or bass (see also: INXS).

The exception is album-closer "The Chauffeur", which is driven by sequencers and an 808 drum machine, until real drums and bass kick in towards the end. It still feels like a part of the same record, and not a radical shift.

Fretless bass pops up on a few tracks, but rather than the kind of busy bass virtuosity John Taylor displayed on most early tracks (listen to the bass part on the title track!), it's used for emotional effect, smoothly gliding around.

One cannot talk about Rio without mentioning the spectacular and ground-breaking videos the band did for almost every song. Like many artifacts from the 80s, they can seem a little campy today, but it is also impossible to imagine modern music video without the influence the videos provided. 

Made on surprisingly low budgets, the videos pay homage to films, play with colors and primitive video effects, and stay as far away from "lip synching on a stage" as possible. They are moody and fun, and the band look like they are having a great time. And for a teenager, the Helmut Newton-ian lesbian-ish S&M of "The Chauffeur" was shocking and powerful.

I was captivated by this record the moment I first heard it. I think it is Duran Duran's best album. I still try to make things this good, this timeless.

[these album write-ups are presented as they are written, the sequence should not indicate any sense of relative importance.]

Tantalized

You are floating in near-darkness. You have been here a long, long time. A cruel punishment for what was ultimately an act of love.

The fruit dangles in front of you, as it always has. The cool water buoys your body. You are hungry and thirsty, but you know the deal: It's not for you. It will all be taken away the moment you twitch your muscles.

You sigh, and crumple your dry, aching throat to swallow your own ropy saliva. It hurts a little.

After a time, you hear an echoing voice, simultaneously stern and oddly caring. "Tantalus, there is a way out. You must eat and drink it all. It is the only way."

You bend your neck to the water.

Miraculously, this time, it doesn't vanish. You gulp it down, feeling its cold finger stretch through your body, into your cramped stomach.

You crane your sore neck to the fruit, which remains in place. But when you take a mouthful, you taste only phantoms. It burns your cheeks, your gums, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. It feels like razor blades against your tongue. You can barely swallow it, and when you do, your stripped mouth continues to sting. The water seems to curdle in your gut.

"Tantalus, you must eat and drink it all."

The tree suddenly looms impossibly large, swollen with every fruit you have ever wanted, and some you don't. How will you possibly eat it all? You look down at the wine-dark sea in which you float, and wonder how many mouthfuls it will take.

Seven weeks? 2 years? 5 years? The rest of your life, such as it is?

You gulp. Tears roll down your face. It's this or...what? Nothing? Is this tortured gorging better or worse than the endless deprivation? If nothing else, at least it is different.

In the distance, you see the tiniest pinpoint of light. As you swallow, you think it grows larger. You're not sure, but maybe. Yes. It has to be, right? You cannot be sure. You will never be totally sure again.

You steel yourself, and take another bite.

Running

I pull my Nitzer Ebb cap down over my headphones and zip up my TuneTo.com fleece vest. I step outside. It's in the high 40s and raining. Time for a run. As my MP3 player kicks on, I will my feet to move, walking briskly for a few minutes on the path towards the ocean cliff before breaking into a slow jog. The cold air and the rain lash into me. This run is going to be tough.

***

I have been running since I was a child. I recall my mother encouraging me to do it, probably as much to get me out of the house and her hair and to burn off some youthful energy as anything else. I found that while I did not necessarily have an aptitude for it, I liked it. I liked the sense of achievement and the lack of competition with others. Running is just you, your will, and shoes.

***

After a few minutes, I'm warm enough that I can up the speed a bit. My lungs fill with the ocean air. I watch the birds wheeling into the sky. I pass by people, fluorescent nylon billowing in the wind, hands on hats, leaning sideways. I nod, give them the Prisoner's "Be seeing you" salute and run past. The ocean is teal and gray. My headphones play "Karabali" by Herbie Hancock, and I am instantly transported to 1984. The nostalgia and memories hit me almost as suddenly and tangibly as the wind and rain.

***

I think of being in the back of the family car, listening to this album, and wondering what chords and notes were able to summon these kinds of feelings and images. I think of my runs through McLean in the summertime, with and without music. Sweating in the heat. It feels like a dream, or like it happened to someone else and they told me about it. I think of the routes I ran. Did I really run that far? I remember sunsets and evenings at home, listening to music. Thinking about the future.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, my favorite vacations are on some level attempts at recreating some of my most favorite or intense times from my youth. The "Zero Summer" of 1990 was one of those times, a time of peace, creativity, happiness, and a sense that anything is possible.

And so I find myself returning to similar circumstances: A modern house, set against stunning nature. Water nearby. Sleeping in. Runs in the daytime. Delicious food in the evening. Bouts of creativity. Thinking about the future.

***

My run takes me along the cliff face. The ocean rises and falls below, occasionally exploding into surf and spray as it hammers the rocks. I enter into a cathedral of trees, all bent and blown into arches. I run through them a long, dry tunnel and respite from the squall. I check my watch. 25 minutes. This is a good halfway point.

***

For me, running is like meditation, with mental benefits that match or exceed the physical ones. Once I'm warmed up, I am able to attain a kind of mental clarity unmatched by nearly anything else I have experienced. I write songs. I think about problems.

***

I pause, turning slowly, before starting my run again. I emerge from the tree cathedral and the sun is blazing. No more rain for now. I gaze out at the sea, emerald and glittering in the sun, as my feet skip along the trail. Today, I am occupied by thoughts of the future, and attempts to avoid thinking about the same. I breathe hard. Don't stop. Keep going. Move.

It is good to be alive.

David Gabriel (1960 - 2013)

David Gabriel

I was writing to someone about singing today, and decided to look up my former voice teacher, David Gabriel. I was hoping to share some of my recent recorded work with him.

I was shocked and saddened to learn that he died 5 years ago at the age of 53.

I found David through the Music Connection in Los Angeles in the mid-90s, and I studied with him until I left Los Angeles in 2000, visiting his office at Hollywood and Vine once a week. We fell out of touch then, in that early pre-internet-for-everything time.

David was a fantastic teacher, with the perfect mix of kindness, patience, and mastery. He helped me understand what my voice was capable of (4 octaves!), and how to use it in an expressive, flexible, and sustainable way.

Before I started studying with David, I couldn't sing very long or very hard, and I wasn't even sure if I had a good voice or if I should be singing at all. David took me seriously starting from my first lesson. He was understanding of how sensitive people can be around their singing voices. He always made me feel like I could do it, and that the keys were practicing and understanding what your voice could do.

By the time I left, I knew that I had the technical skills and tools to sing at my own full capacity, and that the remaining barriers were stylistic and expressive. I may not have known exactly who I was as a singer, or how to make people feel something when I sang, but I knew I could do it, and was confident enough in my abilities to be able to tell people "I am a singer."

Over the years I studied with him, we got to know each other better and learned more about our respective lives, including the various tough times we both went through. David was a fairly private person, but he loved talking about his kids. It was years before he told me some of the other people he coached, perhaps most notably Axl Rose, but including a surprising number of other professional musicians across a wide range of genres. David was both modest about his work and protective of his other students' privacy. He also let me know that they weren't any better or worse than any of his other students. They all had challenges, problems, insecurities, and vocal things to work on.

If my singing is any good at all, it is because of the tools and training he gave me, and how those allowed me to perform and study on my own.

Thank you for the voice, David. I use it every day. I only wish you were still around to hear what I have been doing with it.

Grandmother Kirk

My paternal grandmother died this morning at 9:44 AM, CST. She was my last surviving grandparent, having lived into her 90s and outlasted her cohort by several decades.

We were not close. Despite the fact that I was her oldest grandchild, I saw her a total of perhaps six times in my entire life, and one of those was when I got married the first time. For reasons that are both complicated and simple.

I think of my father, and the complex mix of feelings he is certainly experiencing. I talked to him today for a bit.

I think of my own mortality, and the increasing challenges of age. Every new insult, lump, and twinge analyzed, considered. The question "is this how it is from now on?" lingers longer and longer. Most of the time, it will be fine. Probably. Then not.

All grandparents gone. A whole generation down. My parents are in their 70s and fortunately both in good health (knock, knock).

I wonder how much time I have left myself.. And how much of that will be enjoyable, between global warming, global dumbing, and personal infirmity. I hope it's enough, and I hope that I am wise enough to balance that time between living, enjoying living, and planning for the future.

I am still alive. I am OK. I wrote a new song today.

How are you doing?

48/17

I did not write on my 48th birthday, breaking a long-running streak of annual check-ins. It just seemed pointless, and I felt I had nothing to say or discover that I did not already know, or that anyone would care about.

Singing "Mr. Positive" at my 48th birthday.
Photo by Mark Jordan.

The rest of 2017 replayed and reinforced those feelings, and looking back there is much cause for unhappiness.

I write the following from a physical and mental location that can accurately be described as "my happy place".

My fury still burns for all who enabled Trump: The dupes, cynics, and self-serving cowards who voted for him. The lazy fools who did not vote at all. The useful idiots that voted for Jill Stein and Gary Johnson. Most of all, the corrupt-in-every-conceivable-way GOP and GOP-controlled Congress who continue to smash away at decency, goodwill, cultural norms, and the rule of law to achieve their ends.

While much of the legal damage being done can be reversed with time, it will take much longer to repair than it has taken to smash. Judges, laws, respect, trust. Real damage has been done.

One is torn between adopting and implementing the tactics of "the other side" with a fresh viciousness in order to "win" (at the cost of losing so much) or continuing to act with principles and dignity and suffer more short-term losses. 

When I think of our political future, it smells like blood and fire and sounds like an angry mob. History will not be kind, assuming we last long enough to write it.

Little respite was found in the arts. I listened to and watched much of what the new gatekeepers said was important and noteworthy. 

A bright spot was the new album from Slowdive, which suggested it is possible for old bands to simultaneously recapture what is best about their old albums while moving forward. Album closer "Falling Ashes" provided an eerie/beautiful soundtrack for the fires which burned so much of California.

U2's new album, however, was perhaps the polar opposite: a cartoonishly bad album by almost any standard, and the kind of thing that casts negative, unflattering light on their previous work, by showing how fragile and meager their abilities can be. At this point, U2 are nearly at the Rolling Stones inflection point of having been a terrible (or worse, mediocre) band longer than they've been a great one.

I find much current and popular hip-hop unlistenable. Perhaps it is because I am old, but the lyrics lack internal consistency, and what words can be deciphered are nihilistic and narcissistic (and not even in a cool way), lacking even the power to shock in any meaningful way. It's depressing like late-period hair-metal, with poses and imagery offering endless variations on tired and uninteresting themes. When an act stumbles across something approximating a "sound", they and everyone else reproduce it until it is meaningless. It doesn't even sound good, swerving from tinny and pinging to massively overcompressed. And it all quickly starts to sound the same.

Taylor Swift's latest album suggests that her aw-shucks mask seems to be slipping and showing the sociopath underneath, and not to good or interesting result. Her professionalism is solid, but her overwhelming desire to succeed means her songs are a Frankenstein's monster of current sounds and parts, bereft of soul and meaning.

The flipside here would be something like St. Vincent's new album "Masseduction", which finally allows her to subvert and comment on pop music and desire by becoming a sexy pop star and making a great pop album. 

The attention and energy dumped into superhero movies and Star Wars and its attendant mythology has stripped me of any real desire to see these kinds of films. Still, I am sure I will diligently trudge to the multiplex. I remain astounded at how the public continues to demand Big Media pander to them more, and how upset people get about the details of said pandering when it isn't exactly perfect, like children demanding pancakes and then screaming because they're not perfectly round or shaped like Mickey Mouse.

There's a larger point to be made about the lack of cultural literacy. The public "reads" content and critiques it on the basis of how well the characters conform to the public's ideas and ideals about how "real people" could and should behave. It's as though the public has never considered that these are not real people, but simply cardboard cut-outs being waved around in a frame for storytelling purposes. Treating them like real people, and grading the authors on their verisimilitude is absurd.

And perhaps one should ask further what the purpose of the storytelling actually is. (In most cases, the primary purpose is for you to give them your money/attention/time/data and the secondary purpose is to program your values and validate the values that have been programmed).

In fact, much of the fury and debate around these fictive endeavors was that their imaginary, created worlds did not conform enough to people's desires about what the world "should" look like, either by being insufficiently conforming to canonical ideas or by insufficiently demonstrating commitment to real-world political ideals and positions. 

Yes, there is probably some "good stuff" on screen, especially when calibrated by the standards of those who grew up with 3 big networks and lazy sitcoms. It's still just a way to kill time while time kills you. "This show changed my life", they say. Really? How? What did you do differently the next day?

I look at the wall of shows on Netflix and it reminds me of the sinking feeling I used to get in video stores. Or when I look at the endless rows of suggested albums in Spotify. There's too much. And it's all nothing. 

If you want to get really depressed, read the "criticism" or, god forbid, the recaps. 

At a higher level, 2017 showed that, at the moment, the culture cares far more about the artist than the art. Tear down the Picassos, because he was an asshole. But celebrate mediocre-to-bad art if it was created by people we like, with the right credentials or background or politics. As the public asks whether artists should even be allowed to use certain words or images or ideas -- or even have studio space -- we edge closer towards a world of truly corporate art. Rather than challenging or surprising us, we demand the content do the opposite: Comfort and conform and reinforce. 

2017 also marked the triumph of capitalism. In a time when people have no shame, the weapon wielded by both sides is economic exile: We'll have you fired from your job. For what you did on your own time. For your thoughts. For whatever. 

It's OK, though, you can GoFundYourself and if you do it right, end up ahead.

All of this darkness and bleakness is against a backdrop of what was mostly a good year for me, and somehow that made it all worse.

The author in Tokyo, October 2017.

I'm healthy as can be. In good shape. I like my job. I finished an album or two's worth of music that I cannot wait to release...to no one. I made a few new friends and tried to help my old ones. I had a nice coffee this morning.

The sun pokes through the gray skies and glitters against the churning ocean. I read over this and wonder if it's too dark, too bitter. Maybe. That was 2017 and 48 for me. Maybe too dark, too bitter. But there you go.

2018 is right around the corner. See you there.

Tokyo Rain

When I was a teenager and trying to learn about Japan, other cultures, and different ways of thinking, I read a Zen parable referred to as "The monk and the strawberry".

In this parable, a monk is out walking when he encounters a hungry tiger. As he backs away from the tiger, he finds he is now on a cliff outcropping with nowhere to go. As the tiger approaches, he stumbles over the edge, grabbing a vine. Hanging from the vine, he notices two mice, one black and one white, nibbling at the vine. Contemplating his fate -- tiger or vine -- he sees a single strawberry growing nearby. The monk plucks the strawberry. The story concludes "how sweet it tasted!"

At the time, I thought it was absurdist.

Today it is raining in Tokyo.

Most people will tell you this is a story about "enjoying the moment", or how one can find beauty even in the most dire circumstances. 20 years ago, I would have said "yes, clearly, that is what the story is about."

I spent the day in meetings, with colleagues old and new, catching up, working on plans, celebrating, griping. The things one does in business meetings.

Interspersed were visits to a conference room reserved as a workspace for my group. But I was the only one there, and in the hot, electrical office air, I gazed at the plastic chairs, cables, whiteboards and marveled in a jet-lag trance at the blankness and emptiness of it all, as my fingers clicked away on my laptop.

Last night, returning to the hotel after a delicious ramen dinner, our female cabdriver concluded transit by handing each of us a small berry-shaped candy as she thanked us for riding with her. A perfectly kawaii detail.

As I pocketed the candy and entered the hotel, I thought of the parable again.

A wise Zen writer argues the parable is about the opposite of what you think. It is, rather than being a celebration of "pleasure in the moment", a cautionary tale. "The moment's pleasure certainly dooms the monk through distraction. What an idiot [the monk is]." Life is danger and suffering, and forgetting that for a few moments of bliss is not a good or enlightened thing to do.

I think of the news. Whether at the public or personal scales, tragedy abounds. The world burns, and the air is choked with its ashes. And if it is not our homes burning, the smoke from others' gives us migraines. Death takes shots at the people we know. It misses some, grazes others, and takes the rest down.

I consider the conversation I had with a colleague over lunch, about how their attitudes about what "success" at their job meant had been changing. I indicated that mine had, too. As we talked, I wondered if I was just getting very good at justifying my own actions, or if I was actually learning something.

The rain pours down in Shinagawa. I step carefully across the wet gray stones of the plaza, trying not to slip.

Perhaps great ambition is a luxury afforded to those without fear, or those without knowledge of what they have to lose. Or those who think their actions will matter, in the grand scheme of things. Because they haven't yet met the tiger, or aren't yet hanging from the vine.

The fortune pinned to my board at work reads "Just to be alive is a grand thing."

I rub the sore spot on my face. Probably just a stone in my salivary gland. Getting older, I see the value of the things I have and the things I have lost. Everything about our lives is so fragile, so temporary. So imperfect. So perfect.

Tokyo is beautiful in the rain, and unseasonably cold.

In my jacket pocket, the berry candy rolls around in its plastic wrapper, uneaten.

Los Angeles, Like You

You remember this place. Los Angeles. You wonder if it remembers you. Cities should be able to do that, right? Seems fair. After all, you lived here for a lifetime. Paid taxes. Loved its streets and skies and parking spaces. Ate in its restaurants. Cried in its parks. Studied its outlines in the Thomas Brothers guide. Even played a few shows in its clubs.

Most of those clubs are gone now, and the rest practically museums. Your car drives you past the bleached bones of what was once the Coconut Teaszer [sic], en route to a meeting with a media-related agency doing business in the echoing carcass of the Directors Guild of America building. "Drive West on Sunset...". You think of Walter Becker's recent passing.

You look around. You've been up and down this part of town many times. It's hard to recognize now, with new construction, new facades, new tenants. Strangers replacing the buildings and businesses you knew, and the ghosts of their memories vanishing in the perfect fall gloom.

Your hotel didn't even exist 3 months ago, let alone 20 years ago. It's down the street from an old, storied Hollywood building. You used to go to that building for singing lessons, where David Gabriel gave you a voice and confidence. Long ago, too late. But you've still got that. You wonder where he is these days. You'd like to thank him.

The windows are dark. Maybe it's being redeveloped or re-sold. So many other places are. The Opium Den? Gone. You walk by its now-anonymous door, thinking of how many times you've found great parking here, waited in line, seen bands and met friends and went home buzzed and reeking of cigarette smoke. There was a time people could smoke in bars, until suddenly, overnight, that stopped.

Nearby Sunset still has some of the old landmarks, even if they've been rebranded for ridiculous dot-coms, news networks, or some kind of modern coffee/yogurt/spin class/boutique you can't quite figure out. A far cry from the all-but-endless strip malls. Everything used to look like an off-brand 7-11, and now it all looks like a cross between Virgin America and Starbucks, tasteful purple lighting and wood.

You wonder why coming back here makes you feel so melancholy, as you glance north towards the Hollywood Hills and Beachwood Canyon. You had some good times here, when the weather was just like this, the nights perfect for walking, laughing, getting one more drink, driving across town to see your friends play somewhere. Maybe it's just a reminder of how much older you are, and reinforces how fragile life is. You think of Tom Petty, gone too soon.

"Oh baby, don't it feel like heaven right now?
Don't it feel like something from a dream?
Yeah, I've never known nothing quite like this
Don't it feel like tonight might never be again?
We know better than to try and pretend..."

You sing to yourself.

It's funny. It's barely 10:30 pm. You notice as you're walking through the upgraded and renovated streets that most of the hip-looking bars, restaurants, and clubs are all but empty and/or closing. They all look nice -- much more expensive and richer than when you lived here, and yet, they're all turning in, closing for the night. Like you.

Is it that they have given up on the possibilities of the evening? Or that they just know better, because it's Wednesday night and everyone's got work in the morning and the weekend seems far away? Or is that just how they roll now, all early to bed and responsible and iron discipline and safety? Like you?

Hollywood Boulevard is still sketchy, between its higher-dollar outposts. You keep an eye out as you stroll on, stumbling over the cracks in the Walk of Fame. Your phone plays one of the last songs you wrote here. You think "this sounds better than I remember".

After dinner you found the CEO and told him that even though you hadn't worked closely together, you appreciated his efforts and thanked him. Surprisingly, he stood up, looked right into your eyes, and gave you a real, non-show-biz hug. Looking back at him, you had a brief flash that he, too, was evaluating his life here in L.A. as he considered his second act.

You pass the banks and the bars and closed clothing shops and loop around. Not really looking for anything, just enjoying being here for the moment. It's quiet and as beautiful as Sunset and Hollywood get between the day's heat and the relentless pummeling of the night's music. There were reasons you stayed here for as long as you did. And reasons you left.

No regrets. If anything, the opposite. But still.

You stand amidst the tangled, looping paths that make up the city's grid and consider how they took you where you wanted to go if you could figure them out, or got you lost, or left you fuming in traffic. Or brought you home. All those streets and vectors don't just outline the city, you think. Those roads, those choices, those outcomes, they are the city.

Thank you, Los Angeles, and good night.

The Sound of Silence

I have not been writing much here, as a glance at the past posts widget will tell you.

Since exiting the digital music business, I haven't felt a need to write much about it. From my perspective, not much has changed, and there's no new insights to be proffered. Some big artists withhold their new albums. Some do windowed releases. Some add or re-add their catalog. Services go out of business. Every service is still struggling, except for the ones part of big giant public companies, who are happy to fund them as part of deeper and longer strategies.

My current employer is not fond of employees commenting publicly at all, even when they are acting as private citizens or not in official capacity. As a result, I have not (and likely will not) blogged about virtual reality, augmented reality, or any other related technology.

Bigger picture, the current state of politics, debate, and discussion is so debased, I feel that it is all but impossible to have any real conversation around issues of substance. Facebook is filled with garbage of various flavors. People on the right are not going to change their minds. People on the left tell me they are exhausted and don't need to hear from people like me. I don't need to contribute to the outrage culture.

I have used my writing as an outlet for my creativity, but other projects have been consuming that as well.

I hope to get back to writing, at least for my own self.

Left and Right Fists

Torture

I find myself arguing points that any mature, educated adult should not have to argue.

I have to tell Trump supporters that torture is immoral, illegal, and ineffective . These points are indisputable (if anything, torture provides opportunities to recruit for "the bad guys). And they respond that they don't care about any of those things, and that they "believe in torture."

After that, it is difficult to accept anything else these people have to say. Particularly disturbing is these aren't all crazy-eyed John Birch Society gun-wavers. These are soccer moms. Students. People who should know better.

But when they advocate torture, I cannot see them as anything other than selfish, soulless, and hateful.

Their avatar, Mr. Trump, has said he is in favor of torture because "they probably deserve it".

This is a morally bankrupt position to take, and indefensible in every way. It is not something that any thinking or feeling person can debate. If our values include torture, we are in the wrong and our values are not worth saving.

Punching

The New Left has its own problems to wrestle with, or perhaps I should say "punch in the face".

The current fashion is to argue that we should be punching Nazis in the face at every opportunity. The justifications for this rely on a semantic shell game (as do some other New Left arguments), conflating those who espouse disgusting neo-Nazi views with actual Nazis invading Poland, building concentration camps, and engaging in a world-wide war; and engaging in the current practice of "just kidding/not kidding" intent-flipping.

At least in America, our laws and culture articulate that people are allowed to speak freely (with a few narrow limitations). And that this idea -- that our society tolerates speech that we might find offensive -- is something that makes us strong.

Without the freedom to express your ideas in words, written or spoken, society cannot evolve. For that most part, that evolution has been in a positive, more progressive direction. But not always, like anything. "Progress" is not always a straightforward endeavor.

Assaulting someone on the street while they are talking is wrong. Committing violence against someone for their ideas is anti-Democratic. It is contrary to our fundamental values as a nation.

There is no exception in free speech (legally or morally) for "when you disagree with them". That is part of the challenge with free speech -- you can't carve out the speech that you don't like, while insisting that everyone else has to accept yours.

As many have noted, freedom of speech does not mean freedom from consequences. Those consequences can include ostracization and wide dissemination of the fact that you said or did these things ("Hey, did you know Jane articulated neo-Nazi values?"). It can also mean that speech becomes part of the official record of the courts or government. Or that others can make recordings of same and put them up on YouTube or WorldstarHipHop or CNN.

In many cases, real-world offensive speech can result in physical violence. Walk into a bar, start calling people names, and you're likely to get punched in the face. Mouth off to a cop, see how that goes (sadly). Be nasty to a woman, get slapped.

However -- and this is critically important -- violence as the first response to speech is indicative of weakness and failure of reason for the listener more than it is the offensiveness of the speaker. For a long time, society considered those who responded to speech with violence to be lacking basic self-control or dignity, operating on a hair-trigger.

When we resort to violence as a first response to someone else's ideas, we effectively state that we have no argument, alternative or retort to the ideas being put forth. We say we are afraid of the ideas.

Put another way, I'm comfortable letting neo-Nazis talk, because I believe the neo-Nazi ideas are disgusting, powerless, and absurd -- and everyone exposed to those dumb ideas will see that. Perhaps a few wackos and losers will adopt them, but so what? There will always be some flavor of hateful and ridiculous ideology out there for people like that to embrace, and we will always counter and defeat it with better, stronger ideas.

And if we cannot trust in the robustness of our ideas and our rhetoric in the face of darkness, evil, or just some other competing ideology, it suggests a much more significant problem with our beliefs (or at the very least our way of "marketing" and delivering them) might be lurking.

The Westboro Baptist Church engaged in some of the most inflammatory and distasteful displays of free speech I can think of (short of people advocating for child molestation, and, yes, neo-Nazis). And yet society still felt physically assaulting them was largely inappropriate, or at least not celebrated to the degree our current moment has been advocating punching Nazis.

Perhaps the neo-Nazis are an appealing target at the moment, because, aside from being loathsome and taboo, they're embodied by the only allowable out-group for the left: white men. That particular demographic allows the left to say "anything goes", because everyone hates Nazis, right? You're with us or against us.

Ask yourself how you'd feel if the video was of someone punching a Muslim cleric (even one who was known to advocate Wahhabism, or had endorsed terrorist attacks). Or punching a woman who happened to be identified with the alt-right (for example, Kellyanne Conway). Or someone on whichever side of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict you disagree with. Or an abortion doctor. Or someone protesting abortion.

Making an exception for violence against certain speech and ideas is dangerous, because what happens next is what always happens in these situations: anyone who disagrees with the ruling dogma gets labeled a ____ (by definition! Because "we" are anti-____). Or a ____ sympathizer. Or just someone who looks like a ____. Then they're fair game. Here comes your beat-down.

Sticks and Words

Over the last decade, our ideas of speech have been deliberately made murky by various parties. The internet and its apps are speech. Money is speech. Marches are speech. What isn't "speech"?

There are even people advocating liberal or left-leaning values who are bringing reactionary thinking and Orwellian philosophy into the picture, They claim destroying property (by smashing it or burning it) is not violence (as long as it isn't yours). It, too, is speech.

And sucker-punching people isn't violence. It's "speech." If that is speech, what is violence?

In some people's views, speech is violence. To say the wrong things, or even say the right things using the wrong words, is violence. They say "words hurt" and that speech can "seem like an assault" or "feel threatening". Yet instead of responding in kind, with their own nasty speech, the proposed solution is the aforementioned physical violence.

So in some contexts and arguments, actual speech is "violence", and actual violence is "speech".

There is a huge difference between someone espousing hateful ideas and someone committing actual physical violence, as anyone who has experienced both will tell you. "Sticks and stones..."

We erode that distinction and clarity at our own peril.

The Quality of Speech

A minor diversion. The current societal moment also likes to chastise people for the words they use, absent original context and intent, amidst shifting definitions. As an example, the word "racist" now has different meanings depending on the people you're talking to, and the chasm in those meanings is being specifically exploited as part of the current political discourse.

It used to be that "educated" people wouldn't use what they referred to as the "f-word" in polite conversation, in art, and certainly not as part of public discourse. Now, the "f-word" is not only no problem, but failure or refusal to use it marks you as some kind of fuddy-duddy (or perhaps f-word duddy.) But if you use the "n-word" in any context (assuming you're not part of the group "allowed" to use it), you will be in big trouble.

There is something almost quaint about the idea that some words can still shock, and still have that kind of power. I say "almost" because more than quaint, I find it ridiculous and arbitrary, or perhaps more accurately an indication that words, language, and society continue to evolve and change. Maybe we shouldn't take it so seriously, or at least recognize that speech we deem "offensive" can be ignored, or says more about the speaker's deficiencies than our own.

Context and intent also matter, and perhaps matter more than the actual words. The words themselves have no meaning or power. It's how they are deployed. It's like if people started using the word "pickle" as a hateful term for people of color. You get upset about the intent and the context, not the word. No matter what words someone is actually using, if their intent is to hurt, they're in the wrong.

This works the other way, too. Certain people jumped all over Steve Martin for a tweet he shared after his friend Carrie Fisher died. Rather than accepting and understanding that he was grieving for a a friend and saying nice things about her, they chose to ignore the context and intent and focus on policing speech. Even if you believe Martin or his choice of language were sexist or representative of the patriarchy or whatever, is this really the best target to pick here? And the best time? It is clear to everyone (including the Speech Police) what Martin meant and was trying to do. Unfortunately some people saw a rich target for making an ideological point.

When people focus on which words you use, instead of what you said and meant with them, every speech or dialog becomes a list of good words to be ticked and bad words to be avoided. And when that happens, the speech you end up with when you do that is bland and empty, "positive" but unable to actually advocate anything for fear of upsetting people.

How and Why

How we do things and why we do them matters as much as, and perhaps more than, the actual results. Winning by cheating isn't really winning, is it? If we defeat our enemies by destroying our values and replacing them with their values, who is the victor and who is the vanquished? We win, but what have we lost?

When we adopt the tactics of the brutal because we are convinced we are right and justified, we give in to the trap of "might equals right". We give in to fear. We give in to our worst instincts. We play by their rules instead of ours. That is what happens when we start by punching people whose ideas we disagree with. We go to the dark side. Or Iraq.

Maintaining the moral high ground isn't just "nice". It is the thing that makes our cause just and gives us the right to exercise force if needed. It is literally what allows us to be better than and different from those we are fighting.

(And I suppose I have to clarify again that I am not talking about self-defense, or responding to individual physical aggression, though depending on where you live, local laws may or may not support you).

What is so ultimately disturbing about all of this for me is the Ourobouros these right and left actions forms. This is not some "both sides do it" argument, but rather an uncomfortable parallel.

Because when you're fighting Nazis or the out-group or ____ or whatever boogeyman you have, why stop at sucker punches on the street? Based on the logic and justifications you used to start punching, you cannot stop there. Ideological purity demands it.

After all, they're evil and we are righteous. What about guns? Assassinations? Blowing up their houses? Attacking their families? Torture?

They probably deserve it.

Grammys 2016: The Mall is Lame

Artists A and B.

I caught the last 5 minutes of the Grammys -- enough to see Adele win "Best Album" for her record "25" (beating out Beyonce's "Lemonade"), and enough to see Adele's all-white crew on stage.

As Adele fought back tears and gave props to Beyonce, I couldn't help thinking that part of why she was crying was the Internet was about to start laying into her for winning and for being #GrammysSoWhite.

The world is predictable, sometimes. Let's clarify a few things.

"25" was a massive record. How massive?

"In 2015, [Adele's] '25', which ended the year as the most popular release by a mile, sold more than the best-selling titles of 2013 and 2014 combined. 

...no album has sold at least 7.4 million copies in a calendar year since Usher’s "Confessions" just barely missed the 8 million mark back in 2004. It’s also worth noting that 25 was released in November, so it added up all those sales in less than two months. 

Adele’s latest blockbuster was responsible for 3% of all albums sold in 2015. That percentage is greater than any record released this millennium, and while it sounds like a small number, remember that this data counts all albums sold from any artist.  

In terms of actual physical CDs sold, 25 was still in the lead, and in fact, the album that spawned the gargantuan worldwide hit “Hello” was responsible for 4% of all CD sales."

The absolute numbers may not be in "Thriller" territory, but in terms of industry impact, that is an astounding achievement. And note that is just for 2015. This was the 2016 Grammys, which means she racked up even more sales and impact. And in the much-diminished music business of 2017, that means a lot.

Regarding Beyonce,

"Lemonade" is 2016’s third-biggest-selling album and one of only two albums released in 2016 to sell at least one million copies. Drake’s "Views", with 1.196 million sold, is the other. Adele’s "25" -- which was released in 2015 -- is 2016’s best-seller, with 1.334 million sold this year. (In total, "25" has sold 8.774 million.)

Beyonce made a record that made a big splash. She did an entire "video album" filled with provocative imagery which slotted nicely into the ideology of her fans, who felt it made a statement.

As of today, her album "Lemonade" can still only be streamed on TIDAL -- it is not available on Apple Music or Spotify, the two largest streaming services. This almost certainly contributed to the lower sales and lower recognition.

Perhaps more importantly, The GRAMMYS are lame. They always have been, and they probably always will be.

Complaining about the Grammys selections is like griping that the mall doesn't have any cool indie stores. Duh. It's the mall. That's not what they do. If you're looking for cool or cultural relevance or good taste, you are not going to find it there.

The list of great artists (of all colors) ignored by the Grammys is long. (I am sure artists of color have been treated worse than white artists.)

None of us should be looking to the Grammys for any kind of artistic validation. They are meaningless, and largely driven by industry insiders who are paying attention to things like how well the record was engineered or the marketing campaign or, yes, raw sales.

I see this as part of a trend in the culture. Today, people demand that institutions, power structure, and "the man" support or pay tribute to their ideology. This is a contrast or change from a few decades ago when people simply ignored the institutions and power structure and created their own DIY systems and structures for validation.

Put another way, we didn't go the mall, we started our own cool indie shops. But now, people demand the mall be cool.

I'm not sure which is more righteous, effective, or "correct". I do know that I listened to both albums by A & B, and I thought they were perfectly competent, enjoyable representations of what pop music sounded like in 2016. I did not buy either one, and I have no desire to hear either of them again.

The 2016 Election: tl; dr

Jonathan Pie covers some of the same ground of my previous piece in a powerful way. Worth six minutes of your time. Contains bad language: