Weekend Beats: Brown Sugar

Snowed in with grading here, even though it’s 70 degrees. Wacka wacka! More posts about books and school later this week, we promise.

In case you need cheering up as the days shorten and the cooler dark comes on, enjoy this pristine classic that you’ve sung and danced along to alone before (admit it), and also probably lied about having sex to (if you are over 25). As a fellow Virginian I can’t help but catch some residual pride off D’Angelo, and I wish the man well with his career’s evolution.

Summer gets sticky in the VA, especially in eastern cities like Richmond, D’Angelo’s hometown. Lucky for us that riparian mosquito-molasses vibe sweetens the song just right.

1.8 million “likes”? Should be more like 1.8 billion.

Weekend Beats: No Static

Given both TGR editors’ love of Steely Dan, it’s surprising that it has taken so long for this to happen: “F.M. (No Static at All)” (1978), an exemplary blurp of suede decadence. Man. The Carter era! Quaaludes and sideburns.

Named after a gigantic dildo in a William Burroughs novel, Steely Dan made sure to never be as entirely repulsive and boring as an “experimental” text like a Burroughs novel. They understood that pleasure is an art, and this oleaginous cut exemplifies how SD made some of the world’s best driving music.

Old Ghosts in the Grand (cough) Old Party

As an aesthetic object, the Confederate battle flag is kind of cool, what with that vivid blue field and the concise yet assertive “X” of stars. Its worth to civilization ends there, however, because it was flown by traitors and villains who sought to destroy the American republic so that some rich people could keep making money from an abomination. Even as a Southern boy, raised along the Virginia-West Virginia border, I have to say, Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson and their men betrayed the country. Yet you still get dongs like this guy, people who don’t seem to grasp that flying that flag means you don’t like America.

But as a Southern boy raised inside that ridge-and-valley moonshine truckstop range of the east Appalachians, dongs like that guy don’t surprise me. At least twenty cars in my high school’s parking lot (school pop. 950) had the Stars and Bars somewhere: on a bumper sticker or a rear window, tied around an antenna, on a trucker hat jammed on the dash, or translated via a custom horn blast. One could arrange for “Dixie” to sound whenever you leaned on your used F-150’s wheel: DOH I WISH I was in the land of DERP DERP.

Yeah, I know. Real catchy. I’m sure the ninety or so black students at my school liked it even more than I did, given that the near-universal understanding of Confederate paraphernalia is something along the lines of “I’m a country person who doesn’t much like nonwhites who aren’t from the country.”

While most Tea Party . . . uh, people . . . won’t do anything so crass, the Republican Party’s reactionary mood that they’ve stoked and embodied has roots in some gross racialized politics, as Jelani Cobb points out over at the New Yorker: “The Tea Party–inspired eruptions that have recurred throughout Obama’s Presidency represent something more complicated than a reactionary backlash to the sight of a black President; they are a product of the way he so tidily represents the disparate strands of social history that brought us to this impasse. The problem isn’t that there’s a black President; it’s that the country has changed in ways that made Obama’s election possible.” She’s one of their best new writers. Go read now, you.

Nativist racial angles aside, the Tea Party–deeply white, very rural–is appalling in another way, one that is ultimately more dangerous than simple wailing about the Kenyan guy and his coastal pals. Radicals like Ted Cruz and the Bachmann ghoul might call themselves conservatives, but traditionally, conservatives don’t try to tear down constitutionally functional governments in order to destroy the world’s economy. Ta-Nehisi Coates gets at this:

But the Confederate flag does not merely carry the stain of slavery, of “useful killing,” but the stain of attempting to end the Union itself. You cannot possibly wave that flag and honestly claim any sincere understanding of your country. It is not possible.

If politics comes up in whatever situation, I tell most people that I’m a conservative just like Barack Obama. If I need to bob and weave with a subsequent justification, it goes like so: “[Person], the Conservative/conservative party in every other industrialized democracy on the planet is OK with socialized health care, gay humans, solid public education, and organized, rational approaches to climate change.” I tell them that I fear any faction whose spinal impulse is to malign modern science, disdain art and literature and other pillars of civilization, and sabotage the global economy.  Then I start talking about Andrew Sullivan and try to explain that Burkean conservatism as a philosophical orientation toward historical change is compatible with beliefs that are typed as progressive in the contemporary USA. Then I try to chill out and talk about sports, like, for example, the wonderful 2013 Boston Red Sox.

Weekend Beats: Numbers on the Boards

I try not to carry too much water for Slate by continually linking to stuff they publish, because they are a behemoth and do not need my slavish attention, but this is tough because they’re a great magazine (or website, or what have you), even if a neoliberal demigod owns them now. With that in mind . . . Over at Slate, Jack Hamilton has two fine pieces about Pusha T’s new album My Name Is My Name, in the latter of which Hamilton deftly annotates Pusha’s/Clipse’s “strange anti-charisma,” that Virginia blend of “brute creativity and dizzying swagger.” On the working top-ten list Hamilton assembles, one finds this new blood diamond, “Numbers on the Boards” (prod. at least in part by Kanye West):

The production showcases Kanye’s ability to chisel out beats that are simultaneously appealing and unnerving: it’s poltergeist pop. Good luck getting it out of your head. Buy King Push’s album, too. He has been one of the best MCs around for over a decade without ever making the Scrooge McDuck money he deserves.

Aaaaand because My Name is My Name is so good, here is another track, “Suicide,” a chilling diss of Drake, et al. Assuming you aren’t the kind of person who clutches their pearls (Ohmygod he’s cussing and just talking about money and drugs stuff and objectifying women) when confronting anything that isn’t piously middle-class—in which case you should not be reading this blog—you will enjoy it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXMTFNBfrjk

As one of the Web’s best vernacular hip-hop critics, Big Ghost (who has a new website and is not, despite some early rumors, actually Ghostface), puts it with his usual demotic verve (WARNING: salty urban language ahead):

Niggas at Def Jam musta lost they damn minds yo… This shit is reckless b. This is REALLY like some Hell Hath No Fury shit all over again. I aint eem playin when I say this shit make me wanna cop a kilo on consignment n snort the whole brick right muthafuckin now. Im liable to do some irresponsible shit while listenin to this muthafucka b. Ya boy liable to make some bad decisions n act out in a very irresponsible way right now yo. The sound of that money countin machine dont help matters none my nigga. I cant be held accountable for my actions right now…not if niggas is gon make songs like this n release em to the public. Yall reckless for that… Ionno how Pharrell can go from makin electro french disco n happy ass Captain & Tennille type shit to joints this filthy son. This shit jus dirty bruh. Im disgusted. Im makin faces like I jus walked into a room witta dead raccoon hangin off the ceiling fan right now. I might gon order a pizza jus so I can punch somebody in the face right now dawg. Word is bond I might gon bicycle kick the pizza man thru the skylight if this shit is playin again when he get here. The boy Push takin aim at certain inviduals in these bars too. [. . .] Ab Liva did his Ab Liva thing on this shit too. He might actually be the last rapper on earth still doin the Young Chris whisper flow that Hov made famous. Bars was on point as usual tho. Not like it really need to be said  it but I all the way fucks wit this shit right here.

Me too, Ghost. Happy weekends everywhere, everyone.

Full Disclosure About Our “About” Page

Since a footnote doesn’t look sexy on the actual “About The General Reader” page, here is a footnote on where the phrase “self-facilitating media node” comes from: the promising, bleak, unfortunately short-lived BBC show Nathan Barley (February 2005-March 2005), which was created by Charlie Brooker and Chris Morris, whose pedigrees as satirists will be evident if you do some Googling. I should have explicitly posted on this sooner, because it is dumb and lazy to assume that just because nobody reads your blog, and just because the allusion is meant as a homage, you needn’t cite your sources. Consider this my apology, framed as a plug.

Nathan Barley is well worth a test-view on your part, and you can watch some of it on YouTube. “Self-facilitating media node” is how the astonishingly, (sort of) endearingly fuck-witted main character describes his website, trashbat.co.ck, which is, yes, registered in the Cook Islands. Cock Islands. No, no, Cook. At times the episodes falter, which is understandable given that the show only had six episodes to work things out, but the comic high points remain vicious. Nathan’s invented slang is especially good, or, as he’d say, “well weapon.” (Hoot your trap off, mate.) When you watch, keep in mind that this was made in 2004-2005, and be suitably unnerved by its anticipation of Vine, “selfies,” the Vice empire, web shows, iPhone commercials, Reddit, and a wealth of other slick brain damage.

2014 UPDATE: Our “About” page doesn’t use this language anymore. Go watch Black Mirror.

Topical Verse: The Short Game

With the exception of Dorothy Parker, American poets have never been much for light verse. Ogden Nash doesn’t count, because his writing blows (File under: The Rhymes Usually Seem Forced, and also The Poems Are Not Funny). Things are different for English poets. This probably has something to do with their culture’s flair for irony, discomfort, and verbal wit, as well as its historical lack of an entrenched fundamentalist Protestantism. Think about it: even many of their Serious Poets are funny, like Shakespeare, Pope, Browning, Auden, Larkin, Louis MacNiece, Lord Byron, Donne (the dirty early stuff) and, well, you get the picture. Though not Milton. Oh god, not Milton.

Kingsley Amis is best known for novels like Lucky Jim, The Old Devils, and One Fat Englishman, all works that established him as one of the past century’s great comic novelists. But he was also a bang-up poet (seriously, he’s in the Norton anthologies) and a solid critic, so it isn’t surprising that his edition of The New Oxford Book of Light Verse (1987) is great. Here are two poems, both short, both always topical, neither serious.

“Limeraiku” (by Ted Pauker)

There’s a vile old man
Of Japan who roars at whores:
“Where’s your bloody fan?”

—————

“Miss Twye” (by Gavin Ewart)

Miss Twye was soaping her breasts in the bath
When she heard behind her a meaning laugh
And to her amazement she discovered
A wicked man in the bathroom cupboard.

Stir It Up: Rebecca Schuman Lands Some Punches

Back in April, Rebecca Schuman published a piece on Slate titled “Thesis Hatement.” (Come on, lulz: low-hanging puns can be great.) Dan actually mentioned it as part of a “Saturday Links” blast. Despite the fact that it is sane, reality-based, and urgent without being shrill, “Thesis Hatement” caused a lot of Slate commenters (including a fair number of academics), to go batshit. She addresses the haters in a delightfully acidic response on her blog, Pan Kisses Kafka, which is part of the rapidly emerging “postacademic” community. (Post-acad stuff from other writers here and here and here and here, for starters. And also a recent piece RS wrote for the Chronicle of Higher Education).

Given the seething response the essay got from some quarters, it bears repeating that Schuman’s piece is a humane, valuable polemic. I re-read it today as I sat in my studio apartment, just after I paid this month’s student-loan bill, in fact. (Back when I started graduate school I actually believed insane bullshit like “Student-loan is good debt.”). Her work is based on personal experience but is not narcissistic or even all that autobiographical. It is precise and witty. And it underscores some dreadful things that any reasonable person (even many tenured Boomers!) with a functional knowledge of US academic culture would have a difficult time refuting: that the present labor environment at too many American colleges and universities puts terrible psychological and social demands upon too many faculty, especially younger PhDs and graduate students; that it offers little material incentive for facing these challenges; and that it trains the tormented not only to accept their torment as a professional duty, but to view any escape from that torment as a personal and professional failure.

A bummer, I know. So here is a picture of Iggy Pop vacuuming his living room. Cheer up, y’all: it’s the weekend.

Good Reviews: “Common Ground: Brenda Stevenson’s ‘The Contested Murder of Latasha Harlins'”

As a blog person, I do my best to profit secondarily from brilliant friends. Rachel Monroe is one of these, and, lucky for you, she just wrote a cool piece about a cool book about American violence (et cetera) for the Los Angeles Review of Books. Stop looking out the windows! Stop checking Instagram! Go read!