The Enfranchised Moratorium: Britney Bashing

I propose a moratorium on making fun of Britney Spears.

It feels a bit like Johnny Lawrence continuing to pile up the roundhouse kicks on Daniel-san even after the rest of his skeleton-clad Cobra Kai compatriots think he's had enough.

As much as it begrudges me to admit, Chuck Klosterman was exactly right about Spears when he profiled her for Esquire all those years ago. She is (or at least was) the least self-reflective person in the history of the world. And now you are witnessing the end of that, the shitty consequences of living a decade as a product of your handlers and nothing more.

One doesn't have to be a consumer of tabloid stories to know that there is a difference between criticizing celebrity excess and kicking a 26-year-old girl from Arkansas when she's down. It's the celebrity fanboy equivalent of the madonna-whore complex that got us here. There are other options besides unalloyed reverence and no-holds-barred hatred.

Let's leave the poor girl alone, she has no fucking clue what's happening to her.

Untimely Meditations

This morning, at 4:23 AM Greenwich Mean time, I was jolted awake from sleep; sticky with sweat, heart pounding, hands trembling and fixated...on that one eternally plaguing, endlessly nagging, infinitely mind-gnawing question:

Does Affleck regret every time he fucked her missionary?


...That we might all die wondering counts as proof that the Nihilists are right.

Punks for Christ

Jesus on the Half-Pipe

::blink::

Apparently... There are now youth ministers... The Jesus kind... who do their evangelizing... by doing skateboard tricks.

I say this all with what must seem like a great deal of hesitation because before every phrase I double check my sources to make sure that's right. But yes, in fact, the idea seems to be to "Ollie for the Lord." Pop shove it, then pray.

Quoth one Right Reverend Skater: 'You can skate and not be a punk. You can be about respect for parents, and abstinence, and no drugs.'

'Or, as Mr. Moore put it: "I knew God had given me this gift, and I knew I wanted to glorify him with my skateboard. I wanted to stoke God out."'

To stoke God out?

What happened to the good old days? When you could have more than one characteristic. Skate on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and alternate Fridays. Be known as a Christian on the others. But in these days of specialization the only way to be understood is to have one trade, no matter how specific or unrelated the trades in which you jack.

I guess I just fear for what comes next in the realm of confusing religious/secular mergers. Fire-eating Friars? Buddhist Car Salesmen? A pope who surfs? Heck, a pope who's alive would be enough of a change. Quaker Seismologists? Jews for Jesus?

The Discovery of Sub-Albumic Particles

Time was when the masters of Musicology practiced an archane and dark art. They wore flowing garments and charms, slept in subterranean quarters and ascended into the world of men only to bring blessings and tunes to house-parties and car tape-decks. They were melody-making medicine-men, Judas Priests if you will...Alright, they were the no-account longhair with the lazy eye at the Zeppelin concert; the roadie who could tune your Stratocaster pitch-perfect, but who couldn't play a lick himself; the guy in the garage with the headphones and the spliff; the Star Wars kid at the record store who could name all the David Bowie b-sides from the Ziggy Stardust to the foppish-fascist eras. They were the connoisseurs. They were the aficianados. They were the Tambourine Men---and they dealt exclusively in records.

Forgive me, I've just introduced a rather technical term of art without explicitly defining it. By record (record-album) will be meant, variously:

(a) A set of musical recordings stored together in jackets under one binding.
(b) The holder for such recordings.
(c) One or more 12-inch long-playing records in a slipcase.
(d) A phonograph record.
(e) A recording of different musical pieces.

There. Now, I'm sure even the most thorougly modern millie among you has come across one of these artifacts at one time or another. I remember my first find: It was at a waste disposal site about a hundred meters from from my basecamp. I stumbled upon 40 to 50 largely or fully intact specimens dating from the Late Acid-Lithic to the early Funktaceous. Most of the glyphics were too faded to be analyzed, but I conjectured from what was left of the markings on one sample that it was recorded by an artist formerly known (among contemporaries) as "Prince".

Needless to say my amateur musicological discoveries spurred me into investigating the archaeology of albums further. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon a sort of faux-record shop in a local mall called "Tower Records". As it happens, "Tower Records" sells digitized plastic reproductions of record-albums, complete with replica dust jackets and liner notes! Who knew you could get mp3s for money??!?!

Since my awakening, I've become a bit of a reactionary vis-a-vis musicological theory. As those of you versed in the modern orthodoxies know, the at-the-time inconsequential discovery of sub-albumic particles ("singles"), as pioneered by the work of Casey Casem and Dick Clark in the 1950s and 1960s in particular, has led to the formulation of the radical "quantum" musicological mechanics, which explains musicological phenomena in terms of their "wave functions" (i.e. in terms of how often in a given time interval t they are broadcast over a given television or radio wave). The fundamental unit of analysis in quantum musicology (as opposed to the record-album of classical mechanics) is the "hook". The hook is not only sub-albumic, but sub-singular in nature (that is, it is smaller than a record single). Proponents of the hook mechanics claim that practical musicological systems (such as clubs, request shows, and even concerts) which at one time necessitated the time-consuming and tedious employment of singles or even entire albums, can now be recreated using only sub-albumic hooks (see the Usher World tour 2003-2004). These sympathizers further point to the tremendous explanatory power of the theory and its ability to accomodate the facts about teeny-boppers and metrosexual club-kids everywhere. Recent theoretical strides made by the collaborations of Aguilera and Daly (1998), Spears and Daly (1999), Nelly and Daly (2001) and Quddus and Kelis (2004) have only solidified Quantum Musicology's place as the dominant research paradigm of our generation.

As for me, I only wish that I didn't have to resort to such painfully overextended metaphors and third-rate wordplay to convince you troglodytes that you probably ought to listen to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, or Blonde on Blonde, or Ring of Fire, or Pet Sounds, or London Calling or Born in the motherfucking U.S.A. at least once before you die from lack of novelty.

-The Man in Black

Friends Don't Let Friends Whine Punk

How well do you know your punk-teen?

I know, its a scary question. Time was when you wouldn't even have to think about it. When you asked your punk-teen just where she thought she was going at this hour, you could be sure that her response of "Away from your Fascism, Helen!" meant the Social Distortion show at CBGB (OMFUG), where she'd spend her hours in a 120 decibel catharsis before emotionally enslaving the Bassist from Jones Crusher and brutally stopping his advance from Second to Third.

But in these trying times, can you be sure even of this? Every day--in the paper, on the evening news, at your dinner parties--there are new stories about punk teens trading in their mohawks for faux-hawks, piercings for clip ons, filthy for "vintage". Why, I'd be as wealthy as Good Charlotte if I had a nickel for every time I heard about a parent accidentally walking in on an embarrassed punk-teen scrambling to cover up his iPod or to change the channel from MTV2.

It wasn't long ago that you'd see cheap, basement-made EP cassettes and vinyl lining your punk-teen's bedroom floor, those days when your intrusions would meet with screaming and door slamming and even the occasional wish for your death. But sadly, this is no more.

The vaguely directed rage has turned to Meloncholy (sans, even, The Infinite Sadness); the mood-swings of emotional breadth have turned to brood-swings of emotional depth. I'm afraid to say that our children have lost the Parental Advisories on their music, and with it, their innocence. There is a growing underbelly of archy out there; of well-organized, well-funded music shows at big venues, complete with sound engineers and lighting technicians, tickets to which are available only from Ticketmaster (R). Indeed it seems that the only constants in this age of uncertainty are the amorphous angst and the black eyeliner. That's right, friends:

Your children are so fucking Emo that it literally hurts.

But its not too late. Talk to your kids, tell them that its ok to be effectual again. Tell them its ok to want to get laid for its own sake, and not just for the post-coital longing. Tell them that its ok to turn up the volume and the gain on their Marshall Stacks; or, if your youngsters have already unplugged, that its ok to play major progressions again. Tell your son that the number of tattoos he has should be proportional to his chances of winning a fight, not inversely proportional to it. Tell your daughter that there will be plenty of time for unexplained emotional distance once she's married, and that its possible not to fall in love with every sickly sixteen year old who sort of looks like Chris from Dashboard Confessional. And most of all tell them that sometimes, just sometimes, the sigh and the thousand-mile-gaze are inappropriate responses to external stimuli.

All this and more in my forthcoming educational video: Blood on the Frets.

An Open Letter to Pop-Punk Emo

Dear Pop-Punk Emo,

Why must you be so good? You don't help me feel better about myself, my life, or my future. In fact, you make me feel bad. And not naughty-but-exciting-bad or evil-archnemesis-but-worthy-foe-bad. I mean curling-up-in-a-corner- and-then-being-sad- that-i-can't-do-anything- even-just-crying-right bad. Why must your lyrics be so creative and compelling when they are, objectively, about situations and circumstances quite awful. Why must Saves the Day's chords be so angsty but also bubblegummy? Your ironical sense of the world, finding the cloud around every silver lining, is reminiscent of Hemingway or Fitzgerald, but instead of having short sentences or fluid prose, you pile misery upon bad luck.

And yet, I come running. I heart your titles with their poignant combination of literary allusions, pop cultural references, and more words than can fit on one line of my iPod/iTunes/iClaudius interface. I have come to you many a night when the last thing I needed was to dwell on matters now ancient. And you, you with your backing vocals and well-timed-regression-to-acoustic informed me that I still had open wounds by rubbing the salt of your melancholic melodies into them.

But it is time to take a stand. No more will I listen to any album whose subtitle could very well be "50 ways to kill your significant other". Or that tries to sound triumphant through 40 minutes of complaint. Please release from your grasp and take me off your mailing list.

Unless you have new releases forthcoming because, if nothing else, I need new songs to get stuck in my head.

I remain your humble servant, &c.,
Dan Bentley