Murphy's Law

The good news: George W. Bush is no longer running Washington.

The bad news: He is now running the Washington Redskins.

No, not literally.

However: the comparisons go beyond simple simile and inexorably, enter into metaphor.

Daniel Snyder is George W. Bush.

I know.

The only thing more played out and passé than blindly bashing (or praising) Barack Obama is blindly bashing Bush.

He was the sine qua non for polarizing political certitude. And he is likely to remain the heavyweight champion for the foreseeable future. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, our country’s Asshole Emeritus. Like those wizened professors put out to pasture and summoned only at graduation ceremonies, Bush earned that status; he put in the time and we do him and ourselves a disservice if we ever forget how incredibly, and uniquely awful he was. This most untalented and incurious man had to experiment often to eventually understand—to the world’s chagrin—that his one true talent was being a moron. He was a genius at incompetence.

But everyone knows that.

So what is the point, where is the originality, not only engaging in the gratuitous name-checking of he-who-should-never-be-named, but using him as a basis of comparison for anyone? Logically, the rationale does not sustain itself; employing such a singular entity as a metaphor is a crime against grammar and sustained thought. But still, it is, in the end, inevitable. It was not a rhetorical flourish easily arrived at, and it was not for considerable lack of effort hoping to avoid it. Ultimately, it was as T.S. Eliot once wrote: We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I knew that place for the first time when I—along with a loyal and long-suffering fan base—watched the Washington Redskins go from being a disappointment to an enigma to disgrace to, finally, an outright caricature. This once-successful (I can’t quite say once-proud because the name has always been Redskins which is slightly worse than unconscionable by any reasonable standard) franchise has now become a veritable case study for how not to run a professional sports organization.

Let’s get the unspeakable out of the way as quickly as possible. Here is something I never thought I would say: Al Davis is not the worst owner in sports. And, for anyone who does not know, Al Davis is the gold standard for over-the-top, meddlesome, megalomaniacal team cancers. But, at this point, he’s got one thing going for him: he’s not Daniel Snyder.

Seriously, at least at one point Al Davis was a legend. At one point Al Davis did put in the time and build a respectable (and winning) franchise. Snyder, on the other hand, knows less than a little about the actual nuts and bolts of evaluating talent or inspiring confidence. He is literally a nerd who happened to get filthy rich, so he bought a team. Put another way, Al Davis got old and senile and has slowly but steadily sucked the life out of his organization; he is a sports version of King Lear and his is a straight-up tragic story. But Raiders fans can hold their noses and hang in there until he eventually goes to that big pirate ship in the sky.

It would be tempting, and too simple to decree Snyder a sports version of Macbeth, (or better yet the conniving, deeply evil Lady Macbeth) but that sells these great Shakespearean figures short. Better off turning to an earlier, less significant work: perhaps Danny Boy, with all the failed plots and burned bodies in his wake, could be considered a sports version of Titus Andronicus. But no. Snyder simply does not have the heft to be tragic; he is little more than a bit player in a minor comedy. And yet, the team he has ruined is still the second most profitable franchise in all sports: the stakes are substantial and the ultimate carnage is infinitely larger than the man creating it. Looking at a tragedy and finding comedy, Daniel Snyder is the Pigskin Polonius. 

This is a serious charge, not made lightly. So let’s consider this with the carefulness it warrants and examine the case before us before we feel we can render a verdict without reservation.

The first step is diagnosing the subject and determining certain inviolable symptoms. So, for starters, let’s confirm that some or all of the obvious ingredients, shared by any bad owner, are firmly in place.

Owner never actually played the sport at a competitive level: Check.

Owner’s wealth has obliterated any sense of perspective that might allow him to relate—with anything approximating authenticity—to the fan base: Check.

Owner is petty: Check.

Owner is a bully who insists on surrounding himself with craven and sycophantic lackeys: Check.

Owner, despite unimaginable net worth, is consistently cheap and will cut corners every time: Check.

Owner has the worst sort of interpersonal skills: Check.

Owner takes rabid and historically solid fan base largely for granted? Check.

Owner confident in powers of perception and intelligence that do not remotely exist: Check.

Owner alienates people who do—or have—worked as employees: Check.

Owner can’t find anyone not on the payroll to offer support, solidarity, or utter any sentiment that could be construed as positive: Check.

You get the picture.

But for a fair and accurate rendering of what an impossibly tone-deaf, cocky and self-immolating imbecile Daniel Snyder is, one act stands out (above and beyond the coaches who have turned the front office into a not-so-merry-go-round, the abrupt firing of a successful and respected GM, the cycle of signing increasingly outrageous and irresponsible “big name” free agents—often at the expense of high draft picks, the firing of a coach who had managed to wrestle the key away from the inmates only to hire the head lunatic, the unwarranted promotion to VP of Football Operations of the most singularly and spectacularly unqualified buffoon who happens to be his racquetball buddy) above all others: having owned the team for little more than a year—and on the heels of yet another in a series of mind-numbingly stupid free agent signings (Bruce Smith? Deion Sanders?! Jeff George?!?!)—had the temerity, nay the audacity, nay the chutzpah to charge fans admission to watch the team practice in training camp. If ever there was a moment where prescient people should have taken to the streets with torches and pitchforks (or, short of anything truly dramatic, just refused to show up at that dump called Fed-Ex Field—of which more shortly), this was it. Everything we needed to know about the man, and where he was coming from (hint: it rhymes with $), was abundantly revealed in all its non-glory. Practically everything that has happened since has grown out of that indelible desecration.

Anyone who follows the team knows the sordid details, so no need to rehash each and every awful decision, underperforming free agent, abandoned draft pick and stadium-related outrage. But speaking of that abortion called FedEx Field (how many rotations per minute do you think Jack Kent Cooke is doing in his coffin, by the way? Dude owned the Skins during the glory years, and paid for the new –albeit awful– stadium, which was appropriately named after him, only to be sold, literally, to the highest bidder, so Snyder could wrangle every stinking penny he possibly could out of his investment: file under: soul, sold), that is just a matter of terrible timing that JKC was in the process of building a new palace for his franchise (which never, ever should have left RFK –the best home field advantage in sports during the ’80s along with the also dearly departed Boston Garden) when most baseball and football stadiums were wisely following the excellent example of Camden Yards and incorporating old school aesthetics with modern amenities.

Suffice it to say, FedEx Field is old school in the awful sense of the word: it has every deficiency of those ancient concrete monstrosities from the ’60s and ’70s with none of the charm. It’s oversized yet underwhelming, it has an utter absence of character and it’s conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of utilizing that new-fangled concept of public transportation that most major cities use as a prerequisite before construction on a new stadium is undertaken.

In fairness, it’s important to point out that Snyder inherited this mess. So he gets a mulligan for buying a team that happened to have a brand new, terrible stadium. But, in his inimitable fashion, he has not only done nothing to improve the situation, he has actually exacerbated it. The parking lot was a disaster in 1997; it remains a clusterfuck in 2009. The concessions are the worst in the world (this is coming from a person who had the misfortune of eating cinderblock pretzels and dirty-sponge hot dogs at the old Shea Stadium), and they are expensive. No doubt, concessions are expensive everywhere these days, but at least in the new stadiums you get quality food and drink. Case in point: it costs a pretty penny to get a snack at Verizon Center but the food is consistently good (and hot) and you have options beyond plastic bottles of Bud or Bud Light. Speaking of bang for your buck, ever seen that monitor? You’d have a better chance watching replays via a Time Machine. And those graphics (DEFENSE!) are pretty cutting edge. Way to enhance the experience there, Danny Boy. Having sat in the upper, upper decks multiple times, I can propose with some degree of certainty that the PC speakers I had in 1995 were capable of producing louder sound with better fidelity. Think I’m piling on or being petty? Try tacking an hour onto the experience (especially after a loss!)  battling the catastrophe masquerading as a parking lot. Ernest Shackleton had an easier time navigating his ship through ice in the South Pole. But at least the parking is free. Just kidding.

Many Skins fans have gone through the familiar stages of grief over the past several years. Once Spurrier spurned Snyder, that seemed like a low point of sorts: the clown prince of college football couldn’t hack it as a pro coach and left many millions on the table to walk away from the team. Joe Gibbs seemed to represent an overdue oasis, but he too finally decided he could not get back to Nascar fast enough. He did try and anoint the controversial, but undeniably talented, Gregg Williams as the heir to his throne. Needless to say, Snyder (and his half-witted consigliere, Cerrato) put their clown shoes through that plan. Besides, who needed a proven veteran coach when untested, inexperienced and underwhelming Jim Zorn was waiting in the wings? (Hiring him was ridiculous enough; the Bataan Death March he is now being made to endure is…typical. Everyone knows Zorn is gone, it’s not a matter of when he’s fired, it’s how much meat will be left on his bones by the time his body is taken off the spit. The recent indignity of bringing in the Bingo-playing Sherm Lewis to call the shots is…typical. But if, as seems likely based on his track record and lack of character, Snyder is stringing the emasculated Zorn along in the hopes of inciting a resignation so he doesn’t have to pay him in full, well he is officially beneath contempt –not just as a scumbag businessman, but as a human being.)

Riggo speaks big truths.

Here’s the thing: it’s not the quarterback, it’s not the coach, it’s not even the useless GM (though it’s impossible to overstate the wreckage he has left in his wake); the reason this fish stinks is because it’s rotting at the head. And that head is Snyder. The only hope is for the owner to hire an accomplished (or merely adequate, if need be) individual to run the operations and step quickly and quietly out of the way. And stay out of the way. (Use some of that impulsive energy constructing a new stadium, in D.C.; or better yet, invest some money into revamping the cathedral otherwise known as RFK Stadium and get the team playing where it never should have left.)

One can only wonder what Snyder sees when he looks in the mirror.

Here is what the rest of us see:

  +  =

Presumably, disgracing a franchise and a fanbase was not the mission he wanted to accomplish.

In conclusion, it’s obvious what Snyder needs to do, and only he can do it. That’s the answer.

The question is, will he do it? Can he?

 

 

Everyone knows YouTube is the best shortcut to favorite, as well as forgotten video clips. And while it is well worth recognizing, and celebrating, the millions of anonymous DJs out there manning the Internets have been doing work bringing the noise. Literally. YouTube is becoming (or has become) a reliable source for tunes. Everyone knows this, but there is no accounting for what gems you might stumble upon while surfing for that favorite (or forgotten) song. Of course, that is what Last.fm, Rhapsody and LimeWire are for. YouTube is less for programmed setlists and more for dedicated investigatory treasure hunts. Like the universe itself, the site is buzzing with signs of life and ready-to-be revealed secrets. If you boldly go where some men (and women) have gone before, you can collide with some very happy accidents.

Category One: Live Gems

 

Marvin Gaye!

 

Emerson Lake and Palmer (prog-rock nirvana!):

Oh, you want more prog rock? How about some Genesis? You may recognize that reverse-mohawked lead singer…

The Moody Blues keeping it REAL:

Pink Floyd (not live, but there is plenty of that to be had; here is a rare promotional video, i.e., Prog rock apotheosis!):

John Fahey!!

 

Category Two: Jazz!

 

Big Friendly Jazz Orchestra: “Fables of Faubus”
(First of all, that these songs are available is awesome; that this is a high school band (!) of Japanese girls (!!) playing –among other things– Mingus tunes (!!!) is bordering on miraculous. God bless them and God bless the Internets.)

Version One:

Version Two:

Charles Lloyd and Billy Higgins:

Art Motherfucking Blakey:

 

William Parker!

(Special appreciation for the things you were looking for all of your life — but didn’t know it until you found them):

Sun Ra:

The Keith Tippett Group. Who? Exactly. (King Crimson fans will recognize this woefully underappreciated pianist):

Grachan Moncur III:

Pharoah Sanders:

 

Category Three: Personal Favorites

And then there are the old friends you sometimes need to dial up just to get through another case of the Mondays:

(I mean, a little Funkadelic never hurt anyone; in fact, it did a lot of people a whole lot of good. And hopefully a few of you have never heard of Standing on the Verge of Getting It On, and are now addicted. I know what you’re thinking: Wow, what an incredible album title! Here’s the best part, that’s not even the second best Funkadelic album title from the first half of the ’70s. How about Cosmic Slop? Or the truly hysterical (or hysterically true) America Eats Its Young? Of course there is also Free Your Mind…And Your Ass Will Follow. And, for anyone still not convinced, we can cut through the cleverness and get to the heart of the matter with Maggot Brain. Yeah, you may be thinking, but how serious can a band be with album titles like that? The answer, incidentally, is: serious as a fucking heart attack.

Two words: Eddie Hazel:

Category Four: The Wisdom of Crowds

And finally, there are the geniuses amongst us who take the time not only to upload great music, but create arresting –and original– images to accompany it:

Exhibit A, Portishead:

Exhibit B, OutKast meets The Peanuts:

Exhibit C, Jimi Hendrix meets Earl King!!!

Exhibit D, Klaus Kinski, remixed:

And finally, Karlheinz Stockhausen — the only possible way to conclude this particular list:

Chris Hedges knows more than you do.

So it is his prerogative to be pissed off. He’s seen the things many of us have not seen (indeed, have not even heard about because it would require being in the places he has been since our mostly craven media certainly isn’t providing anything approximating an unfiltered account). It is sometimes painful to read his work because he is so obviously aware of what he is talking about, and he is so utterly vindicated by the courage of his convictions. The uninitiated are encouraged (and the ignorant are admonished) to pick up a copy of War Is A Force That Gives Us Meaning (excerpt here). Little is likely to change, but the war against war is a battle that can only be won one victory at a time, and each person who becomes awake and enlightened counts as a victory. The only people who can speak truthfully about war are the people who fight in them and the people who witness them. More on that, shortly.

Hedges contributes a column each week to truthdig and, as I say, his writing is both unsettling and essential. He begins this piece with a righteously indignant J’accuse wherein he takes Obama –and us — in his sights:

The right-wing accusations against Barack Obama are true. He is a socialist, although he practices socialism for corporations. He is squandering the country’s future with deficits that can never be repaid. He has retained and even bolstered our surveillance state to spy on Americans. He is forcing us to buy into a health care system that will enrich corporations and expand the abuse of our for-profit medical care. He will not stanch unemployment. He will not end our wars. He will not rebuild the nation. He is a tool of the corporate state.

The right wing is not wrong. It is not the problem. We are the problem. If we do not tap into the justifiable anger sweeping across the nation, if we do not militantly push back against corporate fraud and imperial wars that we cannot win or afford, the political vacuum we have created will be filled with right-wing lunatics and proto-fascists. The goons will inherit power not because they are astute, but because we are weak and inept.

He then elaborates one of the dirtiest and most despicable open secrets in American soceity: how we handle veterans of our wars. I feel obliged to quote extensively because there is little I could say that is as persuasive, intelligent and disturbing as what he so cogently lays out.

The Afghanistan and Iraq wars have unloaded hundreds of thousands of combat troops, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or major depression, back into society. According to a joint Veterans Affairs Department-University of San Francisco study published in July, 418,000 of the roughly 1.9 million service members who have fought in or supported the wars suffer from PTSD. As of August 2008, the latest data available, about a quarter-million military veterans were imprisoned on any given day—about 9.4 percent of the total daily imprisoned population, according to the National GAINS Center Forum on Combat Veterans, Trauma and the Justice System. There are 223,000 veterans in jail or prison cells on an average day, and an unknown number among the 4 million Americans on probation. They don’t have much to look forward to upon release. And if any of these incarcerated vets do not have PTSD when they are arrested, our corrections system will probably rectify the deficiency. Throw in the cocktail of unemployment, powerlessness, depression, alienation, anger, alcohol and drugs and you create thousands, if not tens of thousands, who will seek out violence the way an addict seeks out a bag of heroin.

War and conflict have marked most of my adult life. I know what prolonged exposure to industrial slaughter does to you. I know what it is to confront memories, buried deep within the subconscious, which jerk you awake at night, your heart racing and your body covered in sweat. I know what it is like to lie, unable to sleep, your heart pounding, trying to remember what it was that caused such terror. I know how it feels to be overcome by the vivid images of violence that make you wonder if the dream or the darkness around you is real. I know what it feels like to stumble through the day carrying a shock and horror, an awful cement-like despair, which you cannot shed. And I know how after a few nights like this you are left numb and exhausted, unable to connect with anyone around you, even those you love the most. I know how you drink or medicate yourself into a coma so you do not have to remember your dreams. And I know that great divide that opens between you and the rest of the world, especially the civilian world, which cannot imagine your pain and your hatred. I know how easily this hatred is directed toward those in that world.

 

Those who cannot cope, even by using Zoloft or Paxil, blow their brains out with drugs, alcohol or a gun. More Vietnam veterans died from suicide in the years after the war than during the conflict itself. But it would be a mistake to blame this on Vietnam. War does this to you. It destroys part of you. You live maimed. If you are not able to live maimed, you check out.

But what happens in a society where everything conspires to check you out even when you make the herculean effort to integrate into the world of malls, celebrity gossip and too many brands of cereal on a supermarket shelf? What happens when the corporate state says that you can die in its wars but at home you are human refuse, that there is no job, no way to pay your medical bills or your mortgage, no hope? Then you retreat into your private hell of rage, terror and alienation. You do not return from the world of war…There is a yawning indifference at home about what is happening in Iraq and Afghanistan. The hollow language of heroism and glory, used by the war makers and often aped by those in the media, allows the nation to feel good about war, about “service.” But it is also a way of muzzling the voices that attempt to tell us the truth about war. And when these men and women do find the moral courage to speak, they often find that many fellow Americans turn away in disgust or attack them for shattering the myth. The myth of war is too enjoyable, and too profitable, to be punctured by reality. And so these veterans nurse their fantasies of power. They begin to hate those who sent them as much as they hate those they fought. Some cannot distinguish one from the other.

It is we who are guilty, guilty for sending these young men and women to wars that did not have to be fought. It is we who are guilty for turning away from the truth of war to wallow in a self-aggrandizing myth, guilty because we create and decorate killers and when they come home maimed and broken we discard them. It is we who are guilty for failing to defy a Democratic Party that since 1994 has betrayed the working class by destroying our manufacturing base, slashing funds to assist the poor and cravenly doing the bidding of corporations. It is we who are guilty for refusing to mass on Washington and demand single-payer, not-for-profit health care for all Americans. It is we who are guilty for supporting Democrats while they funnel billions in taxpayer dollars to sustain speculative Wall Street interests. The rage of the confused and angry right-wing marchers, the ones fired up by trash-talking talk show hosts, the ones liberals belittle and maybe even laugh at, should be our rage. And if it is not our rage soon, if we continue to humiliate and debase ourselves by begging Obama to be Obama, we will see our open society dismantled not because of the shrewdness of the far right, but because of our moral cowardice.

I’ve waded into these waters a handful of times over the past year, offering my thoughts here, here and here. Mostly, I’m content to pass the proverbial mic to those who know, and get out of the way. Tim O’Brien has spent most of his life reflecting on his time spent in Vietnam. Miraculously, he has been able to grapple with the demons and despair and somehow managed to turn his pain into profoundly beautiful fiction. Fiction that, in a phrase he is fond of repeating, is truer than truth. I consider The Things They Carried to be one of the five best books written by an American in the second half of the 20th Century. Let me put it this way: it is impossible for me to take anyone seriously who wishes to speak about war (and veterans, and the homeless) if they are not at least acquainted with the work of Chris Hedges and Tim O’Brien (not to mention Senator Jim Webb, who wrote one of the enduring masterpieces of the Vietnam experience, Fields of Fire). It’s true that some of the better fiction writers are able to imagine other realities and some successfully write about things with which they are not intimately aware. That said, no one who has not been to war could write The Things They Carried. And even most people who have been to war could never compose something as shattering as the short, deceptively simple “How To Tell A True War Story”. Here is an excerpt:

We crossed that river and marched west into the mountains. On the third day, my friend Curt Lemon stepped on a boobytrapped artillery round. He was playing catch with Rat Kiley, laughing, and then he was dead. The trees were thick; it took nearly an hour to cut an LZ for the dustoff.

Later, higher in the mountains, we came across a baby VC water buffalo. What it was doing there I don’t know – no farms, no paddies – but we chased it down and, got a rope around it and led it along to a deserted village where we set up for the night. After supper Rat Kiley went over and stroked its nose.

He opened up a can of C rations, pork and beans, but the baby buffalo wasn’t interested.

Rat shrugged.

He stepped back and shot it through the right front knee.

The animal did not make a sound. It went down hard, then got up again, and Rat took careful aim and shot off an ear. He shot it in the hindquarters and in the little hump at its back. He shot it twice in the flanks. It wasn’t to kill; it was to hurt. He put the rifle muzzle up against the mouth and shot the mouth away. Nobody said much. The whole platoon stood there watching, feeling all kinds of things, but there wasn’t a great deal of pity for the baby water buffalo. Curt Lemon was dead. Rat Kiley had lost his best friend in the world. Later in the week Rat would write a long personal letter to the guy’s sister, who would not write back, but for now, it was simply a question of pain. He shot off the tail. He shot away -chunks of meat below the ribs. All around us there was the smell of smoke and filth and greenery, and the evening was humid and very hot. Rat went to automatic. He shot randomly, almost casually, quick little spurts in the belly. Then he reloaded, squatted down, and shot it in the left front knee. Again the animal fell hard and tried to get up, but this time it couldn’t quite make it. It wobbled and went down sideways. Rat shot it in the nose. He bent forward and whispered something, as if talking to a pet, then he shot it in the throat. All the while the baby water buffalo was silent, or almost silent, just a little bubbling sound where the nose had been. It lay very still. Nothing moved except the eyes, which were enormous, the pupils shiny black and dumb.

Rat Kiley was crying. He tried to say something, but them cradled his rifle and went off by himself.

The rest of us stood in a ragged circle around the baby buffalo. For a long time no one spoke. We had witnessed something essential, something brand new and profound, a piece of the world so startling there was not yet a word for it.

This is a story that is truer than the truth. If we hope to see change we can believe in, more of us start need to believing –and confronting– the types of truths witnesses like Hedges and O’Brien are describing.

This face:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And this story.

Azaiah immediately took to the dog, whom he named RaeLee (pronounced “Riley”). Segovia and her sons bought the dog a collar, leash, ball and brown bed from the dollar store, and all that day, Azaiah played with the dog, laughing gleefully whenever RaeLee licked his face. “Don’t fall in love with him,” Segovia warned.

Segovia and Savige made 4,000 FOUND flyers with the dog’s picture, stuffed mailboxes and put an ad on Craigslist. When no one called, RaeLee stayed the night at the Segovias’ house. His dog bed was placed in the living room, but when the boys climbed into their twin beds, RaeLee dragged his bed down the long hallway and bunked with the boys in their room.

By Saturday — four days later — no one had called to claim RaeLee, and he was still living with the Segovias. The honey-colored terrier had started responding to his new name. He almost never barked, loved playing rambunctiously with Azaiah, and was tender with Christian.

One afternoon, the dog settled himself on the floor near Christian as he watched a “Barney” video in his room. Segovia was outside watering the plants when the placid moment was shattered by the sound of RaeLee crashing into the screen door and barking crazily. Alarmed, Segovia opened the door, only to have the dog race back through the house towards the boys’ room. Segovia followed, screaming when she caught sight of her son. Christian was “slumped over, his body writhing in a seizure, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.” RaeLee stood next to him yelping, but suddenly went quiet when Yolanda reached down to hold her son.

“If he hadn’t come to get me,” Segovia said, “the neurologist said Christian would have choked on his own blood and died.” The dog, she decided, was a keeper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know I’d be ecstatically grateful if, having never heard of these guys, someone turned me on to them. So in advance: you’re welcome.

Here is a trio of progressive rock bliss from the California Guitar Trio.

Performing Pink Floyd’s seemingly uncoverable “Echoes”:

An almost too-good-to-be-true cover of the ultimate prog-rock eargasm, “Heart of the Sunrise”, featuring not only bass god Tony Levin but the singer of the original song, Jon Anderson:

And then, when you are thinking: Well, that is damn clever and who knew they could craft all-acoustic covers so convincingly, they kick up the creativity a notch and combine two old classic rock chestnuts (apologies for the most gratuitous alliteration since Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Bells”, and speaking of bells, this is pretty tubular):

And a bonus cut of the boys performing with the ukulele maestro Jake Shimabukuro:

Any discussion of Beastie Boys’ third album is likely to divide fans into two camps: those who contend that Paul’s Boutique was—and remains—their masterpiece, and those who feel that their second album, while amazing, was also a necessary gateway for their best material. Put another way, they had to make Paul’s Boutique, and once it was out of their systems, they could embark on new challenges. This reviewer thought Check Your Head was a surprising and refreshing leap forward in 1992, and the passing of 17 years has done little to diminish its enduring appeal. It remains vital and engaging, in part because of the way it documents a particular moment when the band embraced the past while anticipating the future. A forward-looking album that establishes a distinctive ‘70s-era soul vibe? Only this band was capable, at that time, of pulling off such an ostensibly paradoxical achievement, and bringing the masses along to the party. That the group was able to establish a foundation from which their future work would flow was only slightly more momentous than the ways in which they turned a white-hot light on the myriad influences they wore so gleefully on their sleeves.

When the boys picked up instruments and actually proved they could play them it was intriguing; that they produced an album brimming with original, occasionally indelible material remains something of a revelation. Who woulda thunk it? This is the same band that announced themselves (quite successfully) to the world as wiseass clowns on License to Ill. They rallied the underage troops to fight for their right to party and, beer bongs in hand, a nation of nitwits made them millionaires. But there was always a sense that this was a naked, calculated ploy for commercial success. To their credit, it worked. So it was impressive and, frankly, astonishing, to see how quickly they put away childish things and got busy concocting Paul’s Boutique. Indeed, the prepubescent fan base deserted them as quickly as it had embraced them, and their second album earned instant street cred simply for not being a retread of what had worked so wonderfully the first time.

Although it eventually became a cult classic, Paul’s Boutique was deemed a commercial dud when it dropped in 1989. It was such a departure from the simplistic, goofy boys-just-wanna-have-fun shenanigans of their debut, it obviously alienated some, and left many indifferent. By refusing to ride the gravy train, the band drew a line in the sand and has never retreated. It took a while for fans to catch up with them, but enough people eventually gravitated to Paul’s Boutique to ensure they had indeed made an astute decision, artistically and commercially. And so, some of these newer fans must have been shocked when, three years later, Check Your Head appeared, signifying another radical musical makeover. The response this time was immediate and undeniable, with the album breaking into the Billboard Top Ten. The first single, “So What’Cha Want” was so good, and so fresh, it managed to turn haters into backers. It was, and still is, a magic nugget of pop perfection.

Not everyone loved this release, and a critique that resurfaces to this day is that the album lacks cohesion; that it’s an uneven mess with some great moments, some weak moments, and some middling material. Another way of looking at it is to suggest that the rap-to-rock kitchen sink methodology works just fine, and is in fact an ideal strategy that allowed Beastie Boys to embrace their disparate interests and obsessions. The authentic DIY sensibility wins style points while augmenting what was, at the time, a burgeoning aesthetic integrity. If they couldn’t acquit themselves on their instruments, or their composing chops were weak, all of this would have been exposed and the album would have been a failure. By taking off the sample-phile training wheels, they effectively boxed themselves into a corner and put the onus entirely on their collective creativity. Where they once relied (too much?) on a hodgepodge of pirated pop culture treasure (courtesy of the justly venerated Dust Brothers production team and their set the controls for the heart of the sample M.O.), Check Your Head places the band itself in the spotlight and the focus is evenly split between music and mood.

Not to worry, the rhyming and stealing is still on display, but ultimately the words are part of a much bigger picture: where Paul’s Boutique was an elaborate comic book, Check Your Head is like a successful remake of an old B-movie. The music itself is the star attraction, with Adam (Ad-Rock) Horovitz handling the guitar, Adam (MCA) Yauch on bass and Michael (Mike D) Diamond doing drum duties. It is worth remembering that these gentlemen first formed a group in 1979, so it wasn’t as if they had never played instruments before; of course, it was as a punk/thrash outfit that they first gained attention. The best supporting actor is keyboardist Mark Ramos-Nishita (Money Mark) who makes crucial contributions throughout, adding color, flavor and sometimes a whole foundation the band builds on. It is difficult to overstate how important the organ player’s presence is: Money Mark is the fourth member of this outfit in much the same way George Martin functioned as an indispensable fifth Beatle on much of their later work.

The songs that retain their capacity to impress and amaze are the same ones that opened eyes all the way back in ’92: the instrumentals. Altogether, there are three tracks without any sort of vocals, a handful with minimal vocals and a couple where the vocals function as a part of the music (the chanting on “Something’s Got to Give” and the practically whispered words on album-closer “Namaste”). All of these songs are successful: once the novelty of these clown princes of rap playing instruments wears off, it quickly becomes evident that they also can compose memorable tunes. They have gone from sampling Curtis Mayfield (on “Paul’s Boutique”) to creating bona fide slinky ‘70s soundscapes. And yet, even as they are taking fairly giant strides forward, the band can’t help looking (lovingly) backward: many of these tracks invoke the aforementioned ‘70s soundtrack vibe (“POW”, “In 3’s”) while others recall the past as a springboard for the band’s unique vision (“Lighten Up”, “Gratitude”). And then there is the funkified anthem “Groove Holmes”, an unadulterated tribute to the jazz organist generally considered one of the forefathers of acid jazz. It was never this good before, and never got this good again.

 

Of course, there are some rambunctious reminders of the good old days, with marble-mouthed rapping front and center on songs like “Finger Lickin’ Good”, “Stand Together”, “The Maestro” and “Professor Booty”. The highlight of the band’s rap-and-roll 3.0 is the tour-de-force “Pass the Mic”, where they demonstrate that they can still pull off what worked best on Paul’s Boutique. This is their tightest, most authentic rap song, a tag team effort crammed with ideas and energy, incorporating everything from Jimmy “Kid Dy-no-mite” Walker to James Newton (a five second flute sample that inspired an ultimately unsuccessful lawsuit). Obviously words can’t convey what sounds achieve, and the best way to “feel what they’re feeling” is to watch and listen:

Sample junkies can have a field day with what could (should?) have been a simplistic throwaway, the infectious “Funky Boss”. In actuality, it is a clinic of sound-collage adrenaline, from the bongo beat/cop-show theme introduction to samples ranging from Barrington Levy, Ohio Players and Richard Pryor—all in just over 90 seconds. “Finger Lickin’ Good” goes all the way from Rahsaan Roland Kirk to Sly and the Family Stone to…Bob Dylan (!). Speaking of Sly Stone, the band’s cover of “Time for Livin’” is like a brick through the window: a short, sharp shock wherein they manage to represent their hardcore roots while working in some borrowed lyrics from the immortal Lee “Scratch” Perry. And here again is an opportune time to reiterate why this album somehow manages to be slightly better than the sum of its parts. An entire album of (or, even a couple more) punk rock workouts would be entirely too much of a not-so-good thing; but coming as it does between the droll “The Biz vs. The Nuge” (sampling Ted Nugent’s “Homebound” with the irrepressible Biz Markie’s serenade) and the almost shockingly subtle “Something’s Got to Give”, it explodes as a one minute and 48-second smoke bomb.

 

What about the obligatory goofball quotient? The balance is just right, proving that the boys, no longer brats, could still be bratty. The gleeful sample from (actual album?) On Wine—How to Select and Serve is a refreshing change of pace, and the faux night club noodling of “Live at P.J.’s” is amusing enough, while showcasing Money Mark’s flawless organ embellishment. But the ultimate inside joke is the opening section of “The Maestro” which utilizes an actual voice mail left for the boys by someone who called the number for “Paul’s Boutique”: “Yo Paul…you can kiss my ass, I ain’t interested in you anyhow…”

Special mention must be made of the group’s tribute to Jimi Hendrix, the moment when all of these elements come together. “Jimmy James” is certainly one of the ultimate opening statements of any album made in the last two decades, and it still reverberates as the shot heard ‘round the record industry. Listening to this one, then, was an immediate announcement that we weren’t in Brooklyn anymore, and listening to it, now, is an unnerving reminder of how many bands (the good, the bad, and the awful) tried to imitate this hardcore rap rock amalgamation, with little success. Of course the boys themselves emulated the great Run DMC. Obviously they understood they could never sound as authoritative (or make it sound as effortless, think “It’s Tricky”). On the other hand, “Jimmy James” sounds quite unlike anything anyone else had done (or has done): building a sound structure from the ground up, all on a groove from an obscure Curtis Knight song (“Happy Birthday”, featuring a young Hendrix). It anticipates Beck and the full fruition of live music married to samples on Beck’s (Dust Brothers produced) Odelay. Here, the sick sounds of the B-Boys’ science coalesce: the raw scratching and brilliant sampling interspersed with their newfound joy of playing music. Interesting trivia tidbit: Unable to get approval from the Hendrix estate, the original version was “refined” and the actual Hendrix snippets (from songs like “Third Stone from the Sun” and “Still Raining, Still Dreaming”) were smoothed over; although even in the album version you can hear the split second of “Foxey Lady” that spins the song out. Check out the “Original Original Version”, below:

So why now for the deluxe reissue treatment? This being the 20th anniversary of Paul’s Boutique, which itself was remastered a few months back, means there is no time like the present to spruce up the best of the back catalog (their next album, Ill Communication will follow this summer). Frankly, the sound on the original CD was top-notch (much credit should be given to co-producer and engineer Mario Caldato Jr, aka Mario C.), so while you can certainly hear all “eight bazookas” on this edition, the real draw is the second disc chock full of B-sides and remixes. There is plenty of throwaway material here, but for fans who never splurged on the 12-inches, here is an opportunity to get all the detritus in one place. There are some interesting, if inferior versions (and/or remixes) of the mega-hits “Pass the Mic” and “So What’Cha Want”, and there are some tasty nuggets, such as “The Skills to Pay the Bills”. The true highlight is that “original original” version of “Jimmy James”; you can hear all those Hendrix samples and the groove is as aggressive and gnarly on this take.

As always, the material left on the cutting room floor tends to put the final product in appropriate perspective. The fact that they decided to omit a song like “The Skills to Pay the Bills”, which is, by any reasonable criteria, a better “song” than “Live at P.J.’s” or “Mark on the Bus” is ultimately not the point; it wouldn’t have fit into the flow as well. Each song on Check Your Head eases (or crashes) into the next, coming out guns blazing with “Jimmy James” and drifting off to serenity with “Namaste”. It might be said that this is one of the first CDs that truly approximates the feel of a double LP: it has the ups, downs and (importantly) the in-betweens that ultimately add up to an artistic statement: if nothing worthwhile is being said, it’s forgettable, when the material is tight and timeless, it endures as a stylistic and soulful milestone.

“Gratitude” (A joyful riff on Pink Floyd at Pompeii):

And the original, from Floyd:

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/73740-beastie-boys-check-your-head/

The Easy Star All-Stars, to their credit, do not believe in half-measures. In 2003, they introduced themselves to the world with their reggae reimagining of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, appropriately rechristened Dub Side of the Moon. The results surpassed even the most open-minded fans’ best expectations. Not content to be a one-and-done novelty act and, no doubt, encouraged by the acclaim their first effort garnered, they returned in 2006. Having already tackled the quintessential ‘70s album, they turned heads, again, when they dropped Radiodread, their version of the near-universally worshipped ‘90s classic OK Computer. Incredibly, this release was even more impressive, expertly finding the ideal balance between respectful homage and brazen departure. Displaying an even greater sense of adventure than they demonstrated on Dub Side, the band went several steps further in reimagining Radiohead’s songs, occasionally even (blasphemy alert!) taking them in directions not attained on the original. It was—and remains—an instant and uncanny archetype, in part because it manages to sound so strikingly different while always feeling oddly familiar.

How could they possibly follow this up? Obviously by setting their sights on the most discussed, dissected, and influential album of all time. Simply stated, the chutzpah factor is officially off the charts with the release of Easy Star’s Lonely Hearts Dub Band. The band is now three-for-three in the sense that, before listening to a single note, they deserve substantial credit for even going there. It is, therefore, more than a little disappointing to report that they have saved their sophomore slump for the third album. ESLHDB is not a failure so much as a mediocrity; it’s less a failure of execution than a failure of imagination. How, it seems fair to ask after their previous, almost impeccable track record, could this possibly be? Perhaps they (finally?) bit off more than they could collectively chew, or maybe they have run out of creative steam (temporarily?) this time out. The results would seem to suggest that the band was ultimately reluctant to tinker too much with an album that is so important to so many people. Of course, this timidity tends to obviate the refreshing audacity that made their previous efforts so rewarding.

Obviously, there is a subjective line separating inspiration from appropriation, and while the Easy Star All-Stars need not worry about clueless critics impugning their integrity, this one still feels dialed in. A healthy irreverence is what makes their concept work, and too much of the time, that is what ESLHDB lacks.  Perhaps the clearest, and fairest, way to highlight what is missing here is to consider what worked so wonderfully before. It’s not difficult to recall the ingenious ways they mixed up Dub Side while remaining remarkably true to the letter and spirit of the original. For instance, the coughs and sputtered inhalations alongside the bubbling bong water that replace the cash register at the beginning of “Money”, or the free-form reggae rap substituting for David Gilmour’s immortal (and inimitable) guitar solo in “Time”. Or, later, on Radiodread, the melodica on “Subterranean Homesick Alien” or the brass replacing the guitars on “Paranoid Android”. Then there is the total reworking of “Let Down”, which remains a revelation: not just a left-field, upbeat redirection, but a thorough rethinking, obviously enhanced by Toots Hibbert’s irrepressible vocals. Nothing on ESLHDB is as arresting, or interesting, as the work they did on the first two albums. And that observation is not meant to imply that the random employment of oddball effects or disorienting tactics would necessarily invigorate the results. But by not putting their peculiar imprint on this material they constantly remind the listener of all the ways it fails by comparison with the original.

The opening song sets the tone in a way that is emblematic of the entire album: Junior Jazz sounds fine singing those oh-so familiar words, and the song is a perfectly adequate cover. Therein lies the rub (a dub): that it is merely adequate is at once the best and worst thing that can be said of this effort. The next two songs are pretty much pedestrian reggae remakes: neither offensive nor particularly memorable. Of course, one alternate perspective might propose that there were so many unusual and previously unheard-of sounds on Sgt. Pepper that the more straightforward arrangements represent a kind of ironic alternative. If so, mission accomplished, but that faint praise only underscores the perplexing lack of vision throughout.

Some of the songs are more successful. Max Romeo’s trippy take on “Fixing a Hole” recalls the oddball energy of the previous Easy Star albums: the extended dub outro hits the mark while leaving a mark. “She’s Leaving Home”, featuring Kristy Rock (who did such a stellar rendering of “Paranoid Android”), recalls Radiodread’s “Let Down” in the way it takes a somber song and turns it into a rocksteady romp. This strategy does tend to undermine the original song’s lyrical import, but at least the band is stretching out a bit. It seems a shame that Lee “Scratch” Perry was not spirited into the studio to tackle “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite”—a song that screams out for his outlandish skills (indeed, he was spearheading his own primitive studio innovations at and around the same time George Martin and the boys began breaking the mold at Abbey Road).

The rest? More of the same, mostly. “Within You Without You” is another unremarkable rendition, although Matisyahu’s lugubrious vocals and subdued human beat-boxing are appropriate for the occasion. It is difficult to quibble with Sugar Minott’s ebullient reading of “When I’m Sixty-Four”, and it’s fair to suspect that some of this material might be conveyed more effectively in a live setting where it has room to breathe. Both “Lovely Rita” (featuring U-Roy) and “Good Morning, Good Morning” (featuring Steel Pulse) would seem to provide ample opportunity for interesting departures, but they are uninspired on arrival. Finally, the moment of truth: what will (can?) they do with “A Day in the Life”?  Nothing special, alas. Certainly, it’s a neat moment when we hear the lines “dragged my fingers through my dreads” (in place of “dragged a comb across my head”) but … we need more.

Ultimately, this seems like an extraordinary opportunity missed. Not wasted, necessarily, but in a way, that’s worse, isn’t it? It’s better to shoot for the (dark side of the) moon and fall short than to play it too safe by half and end up with something second-rate. In the end, no matter how iconic its intentions, this release must be assessed for what it is: an underwhelming set of cover tunes that comes entirely too close to sounding like a novelty act—the very fate this band managed to avoid the first two times out.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/72221-easy-star-all-stars-easy-stars-lonely-hearts-dub-band/

God I miss mixed tapes.

(Which begs the question: Is it mixed tape, mix tape or mixtape? I say all of the above, and shall use them interchangeably.)

I know this is an old school skill that everyone boasts about; people have even written books about it: some of the stories are successful, some are very good novels that were inevitably made into very mediocre movies.

You can, of course, approximate the experience via iPod and playlists. Anyone can do that. And that’s the problem: anyone can do it. It’s too easy. It might even be easier to create superior product, because when the entire world is your library (also called iTunes), there are no limitations a quick download can’t conquer. But a mixed tape, aside from being an art unto itself (which songs would, assembled in the appropriate order, come as close as humanly possible to 45 minutes per side, often requiring a calculator and album credits to ensure individual song lengths), demanded effort and considerable deliberation, all based on songs already available to the mix-maker. Thus, it was truly a reflection of one’s personality; these were songs the individual had cared about enough to own the album (or, ahem, the CD) in the first place.

For a mix of one specific band, it was a wonderfully excruciating exercise in mixology; the methodology was distinctly Darwinian: only the strongest would survive. Therefore, if you were making a 90-minute mix for, say, Led Zeppelin or The Doors, you had to necessarily eschew some of the longer (and better) tracks to ensure maximum bang for the proverbial buck. Not much point in taking up half of one precious side to ensure that “When The Music’s Over” and “The End” made the cut; or, while it’s hard to argue that “In My Time of Dying” and “Tea For One” don’t belong on any Zep mix, you could fit in “I Can’t Quit You Baby”, “That’s The Way”, “Down By The Seaside” and “For Your Life” in the same space. Of course, mixes for the ’70s prog supergroups were difficult, (think Genesis or King Crimson), to impossible, (think Yes or Pink Floyd.) Sometimes, you simply had to get creative: for a semi-encompassing summation of Rush’s oeuvre (understanding that at minimum two tapes were necessary: one for their first decade and one for their second), you had to cut and paste the old fashioned way. Can’t fit 2112 on, but it has to be included, so perhaps you just put in “Discovery” or “Oracle: The Dream”, or (like I did) just do a several minute pastiche of all the guitar solos from the entire opus. With Pink Floyd, you had to have the epic side-long suites represented in some fashion, so you just took the magisterial opening section from “Atom Heart Mother” or perhaps Part One of “Dogs” (or perhaps Part Two) and, obviously, you had to use your best judgment regarding “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”. It goes without saying that the type of band mix differed depending on the target audience: if it was for personal use, anything was allowed. For friends, particularly ones uninitiated with the artist in question, it was incumbent upon the mix-maker to ensure all the essential tracks (i.e., the ones that did or would show up on a greatest hits album) were chosen (whereas those invariably didn’t make it onto the personal mixes, for a variety of functional and aesthetic reasons). Mix, play repeat: Practice made perfect.

The primary M.O. for mix tapes, of course, was for the intrigue they added to relationships. A mixed tape was de rigueur for establishing, assessing and understanding the various levels of any serious romance. The first mix was as important, in its way, as the first kiss: too early and you could blow it; too late and you may have missed an opportunity to send the right signal at the right time. This ground has been covered ad nauseam and everyone who ever gave or received a mixed tape will recall the rules of engagement. If you remember mixed tapes you received without the slightest pang of remorse, enthrallment or unforced sentimentality, either the relationship or the tape sucked. Probably both. (My condolences.) I know I ended up missing some of the mix tape miracles I gave away more than I missed the women I made them for (which is not necessarily a commentary on the enthralling women who tolerated me for any amount of time so much as an unapologetic appraisal of the one thing I always got right).

Intermission: If this guy wasn’t on one of your mix-tapes, your problems exceeded simple musical myopia:

It occurs to me that I’m probably the only person who believes some of his finer mixes should be enshrined in The Smithsonian.

If obliged to select a few for canonization, among the first inductees for my mix tape Hall of Fame ballot would be Say It Once Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud Vol. 2 (Volume One covered off some of the more readily accessible (i.e., car-friendly) material from mix tape MVP James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Sam Cooke, et cetera, while subsequent volumes covered the bases and the outfield with everyone from Otis Redding and Louis Jordan to Johnny Ace and Sly Stone). Vol. 2 was the sum of its parts, which means it was an embarrassment of riches. It started with Marley’s “Natural Mystic” and ended with Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put A Spell On You.” Songs with words were not always necessary; for instance, Herbie Hancock’s “Speak Like A Child” melted into Shuggie Otis’s ”Rainy Day” and then Young Holt Unlimited’s “Soulful Strut” to round out side A. Flip that sucker over and business gets taken care of courtesy of Aaron Neville, Jerry Butler, The Shirelles, Isaac Hayes, Etta James, Elmore James, The KINGS (B.B. and Albert), Lightnin’ Hopkins and Vernon Reid’s Lightnin’, Dennis Brown and Black Uhuru, The Gladiators and The Chantelles, Bessie Smith, Abbey Lincoln and Fela Motherfuckin’ Kuti. I could say more, but I’ve told you too much already.

Another epic mix that is at once too arduous and too awkward (for the author) to detail is the self-explanatory “Some of the Future Mrs. Murphys” series. This title referred to some (but not all, hence the “some”) of the female artists I would eagerly marry, purely on the basis of what their music did to me. More about them another time, maybe. For now, a handful of sirens who enjoy Emeritus status are lovingly represented, below.

       

Forward progress, particularly in technological terms, is seldom an unfortunate scenario. Letters are almost instinct now that we have e-mail, canned vegetables have mercifully been supplanted by aisles of organic goodness, clunky video cassettes have been replaced by online pirating, I mean DVDs. Even big, energy inefficient monstrosities (cars, as well as TVs) that once signalled American predominance are quickly becoming cuckoos of the 21st Century. These are all welcome and overdue advancements.

And yet…

Not to get all Ray Davies or anything, but the old ways ain’t ever coming back. So it’s seems respectful and perhaps more than a little necessary to let out a little howl for the way we used to roll. What we’re left with now when it comes to mixmanship is, by default, an exercise in onanism: we make playlists for ourselves. The sound quality and song selection are unquestionably superior, but the impetus for creativity and the urgency of the interaction is lacking. A playlist listened to with headphones on the morning commute can never compare with the indelible memories an effective mixed tape could inspire. It was always a fundamentally human exchange: it was an unspoken act of love. Giving was often as good as receiving. There was a specific message that only a mixed tape was capable of conveying, and once we lost that, we all lost a small but irretrievable portion of our souls.

In today’s NYT, Sudhir Venkatesh (author and Sociology professor at Columbia) contributes an op-ed entitled Too Down To Rise Up, In it he posits the intriguing, and depressing, theory that perhaps too many of us are too preoccupied to rise up in any real (i.e., compelling) fashion. Preoccupied, as opposed to distracted; it’s not that people are uninformed, it is, perhaps, that a great many people are too engaged. The only explanation for this seeming dichotomy is the electronic machine you are reading (and I am composing) this text on. Venkatesh points out that, between our blogging, online news surfing and (mostly) innocuous navel gazing, we are firing on all intellectual cylinders, including ones we couldn’t conceive pre-Internet, but what we are lacking is a primal, collective forum for expressing that awareness and those feelings. Despite the well-documented populist rage, albeit a white collar rage, that we’re reading about (in mostly staid reports inside mostly staid mainstream publications), most of the ire, directed outward, dissolves in the ether. Put another way, is it pretty much impossible to rage against the machine when you are plugged into the machine? Hardcore bloggers would bristle at the suggestion that their concerted efforts to absorb and disseminate information and affect change can ultimately be shrugged off as inaction. Certainly, they could correctly point to the recent election to illustrate the ways in which online organization paid undeniable dividends in terms of galvanizing and directing energy for a common cause. There are millions of other minor examples that one could accurately invoke. Nevertheless, where the Internet has radically democratized, and advanced the retrieval and dispersal of information, and it obviously serves as a powerful organizing tool, does it not, by its nature, necessarily mute and muffle a more unmitigated, more human response?

But if American anger remains corralled on the Internet, into e-mail messages to Congress and in sporadic small-group protests, it is unlikely that the Obama administration will do much to assuage the anger of taxpayers. Administration officials certainly don’t seem concerned that rage will heat up and overflow; after all, anticipating unrest would mean a broad and intensive campaign to shore up housing, food and welfare safety nets. The proposed budget contains a few such line items, but a comprehensive, coordinated program to prevent violence and defuse anger would need sustained commitments from mayors, service providers and civic leaders.

That we are too smart, or soft, or satiated for our own good is debatable, and there is probably a refreshing amount of gray straddling the extreme of either being aggressive or supine. But perhaps a more disconcerting possibility is that our collective reticence is already accounted for in the eyes (and intentions) of our politicians and the still-resurgent masters of the universe. Maybe it’s an intrinsically understood (and eagerly embraced) condition of our contemporary status quo that the people making the Big Decisions recognize that our capacity for outrage is several degrees more docile than it was a few generations ago. Oh we rant, we rage, we howl; but the sound of a million citizens tweeting is not going to shake, much less raze, the foundations of the temple.

But these days, technology separates us and makes more of our communication indirect, impersonal and emotionally flat. With headsets on and our hands busily texting, we are less aware of one another’s behavior in public space. Count the number of people with cellphones and personal entertainment devices when you walk down a street. Self-involved bloggers, readers of niche news, all of us listening to our personal playlists: we narrowly miss each other. Effective rebellions require that we sing in unison.

It would not seem especially effective, or intelligent, to make a case that what we need most is more anger, or the type of unified uprising that (invariably) results in violence. But it does seem fair to propose that in our current state of affairs, when the usually (take your pick) quaint or radical word populist has again gained cachet, it would be to our considerable detriment if we failed to harness some of this outrage in a productive way. It wasn’t until people let their voices be heard, in a tone that conveyed genuine indignation, that Obama began to acknowledge the inconsistency (or, worse, the consistency) with which the AIG bonuses had been handled. The point being: without any vocal demand for accountability, we can remain certain that our elected officials won’t feel unduly obliged to be accountable. Venkatesh’s piece today is a timely and invaluable reminder that even while our inboxes glow and our ire is evident, we may still be acting in accordance to the script that was already written for us.

Oh really?

I know this thing will grow big enough to eat me but….this is simply uncalled for.

I’m not trying to get all Fuck You, Penguin here but…give me a break. This aggression will not stand!