Prologue: The Captain of the Expedition

Ninety-three ants remained out of the one hundred and twenty Fyodir took upriver four weeks ago. During the first week of the expedition, their small river fleet crashed into some rocks during a freak rainstorm. Ten were killed, and the rest of the expedition was forced to continue on foot. During the second week, a lizard wandered into their camp, and feasted on twelve more ants until it was finally brought down. A handful of other ants came down with climb disease during the third week, and had to be killed immediately.

 Fyodir gazed at a wasteland of dead trees across the water while the expedition took a short rest. The woods had grown scarcer by the day ever since the river forked into the south-flowing Feldspar River, and easterly Mud River. Few ants had ever been down the Mud River, but strange tales have been told from those who have been lucky enough to return.

There was something off about the Mud River, and everything around it. Even the dead trees seemed peculiar, but Fyodir wasn’t able to figure out what it was. They were trees, and they were dead, but they seemed too…perfect. They were perfect dead trees. Fyodir couldn’t explain it. The world seemed strangely unnatural beyond the frontier. Earlier, he had seen two jays and a heron flying in what seemed to be an organized formation. Instead of flying in a circular pattern to observe the ground below, they made quick, linear, flybys. It was almost as if they were being controlled.

Just then, a heavy bronze gauntlet landed on Fyodir’s shoulder. Startled, Fyodir jumped back, grabbed his spear with two of his hands, and his heavy bronze shield with his other two hands.

The owner of the gauntlet let out a bellowing chuckle. “Calm down, little captain. I’m no lizard,” she said. It was Relina, the biggest, toughest soldier in Fyodir’s expedition. Fyodir had known her for months. She had been assigned to the Muscovite Frontier, a long way from her home. Relina’s smile didn’t last long though, as she looked downward at her captain. “There are only four packmice left,” she said.

“Four? Only a short time ago there were five,” said Fyodir.

“Yes, sir. But one fell over when we stopped to rest. It didn’t get back up. Its feet are rotten, we discovered, and it’s been losing blood for who knows how long.”

Fyodir cursed his true god under his breath. “Which mouse was it?”

“The white one with red eyes. The one Councilant Zidney donated to us.” Relina lowered her head so it was closer to Fyodir. “Captain, we can’t keep abandoning supplies. This expedition has gone on long enough. If we turn back now, we can still-“

“We’re not turning back until we find what we’re looking for,” Fyodir interrupted sharply. “The Queen of Queens sent us on this mission, and if we all die, then so be it.”

“But if we all die, who’s going to-“

“Then so be it,” Fyodir said coldly. Fyodir liked a lot of things about Relina, but he hated her lack of loyalty. She was an ant from the Lower Empire. Her home was the coastal city of Halite, and she was a follower of the Sodden Pontiff, who had selfishly taught ants to value their own lives more than their Queens’.

Fyodir and Relina stood in silence for a moment until they noticed Vladmere floating past them, enjoying a bath. “What are you two brooding over?” he asked jokingly. When Fyodir and Relina didn’t respond, Vladmere became more serious. He stood up and waded over to the shore.

“We’re down to four packmice,” said Fyodir.

“Four?” said Vladmere. “That’s almost a mouse a day this week.”

“Indeed it is, Vladmere,” said Fyodir.

“And we’re still going to press on, I suppose?”

“Indeed we are Vladmere.”

“Well, maybe some lunch will help our spirits,” said Vladmere, trying to ease the mood. “If anything, it’ll lighten our load, huh ha! I’ll grab some lizard jerky.”

            Fyodir watched as Vladmere went over toward the remainder of the supplies. He was still dripping wet from the river, leaving a trail of water behind him. Fyodir thought for a moment, and then his eyes widened. “Relina,” he said hastily. “How long was Zidney’s mouse bleeding for?”

            “Quite some time, I’d say, but no way to tell. We should’ve caught it earlier, but the mouse was lagging behind the entire expedition. Nobody bothered to look back,” she said. “Could barely hop over a small rock before he keeled over, poor thing.”

            Fyodir quickly swung his shield around his back. “We need to go,” he said. “Now.” Fyodir hurriedly rallied the expedition back to their feet. “Pack what you can! We’re leaving now!” he shouted. As the ants tiredly stood up and gabbed their things, Fyodir saw the two jays and the heron from earlier. They were descending quickly. Fyodir cursed again. The trail of mouse blood, the strange birds, he wondered why his true god would send them so many dangers at once.

            “Look out!” cried Vladmere. One jay swooped low over the expedition, grabbed a couple ants with its feet, and carried them off. Then the heron swooped over them and picked up Fyodir and Relina with ease. Fyodir could hardly breathe in the heron’s grip. He felt like he would be crushed if not for the sturdy shield on his back. The Heron flew higher and higher as the second jay picked up two more ants. Fyodir saw Relina wrapped tightly within the heron’s other foot. She was screaming, trying to fight its powerful grip. He then looked down. The last thing he saw was a great fireball, which came down on his expedition. He could hear faint screams of agony, and then he closed his eyes.

Teaser 2: Discoveries

"We went south today. We think we found more."
"More?"
"More cities. Like the one from the swamp."

Coming Soon: A Teaser

“Where’ve you been?”

“Exploring. There's a fork downriver. We followed the eastern path and ran into a swamp.”

“Did you find anything?”

“We found… something. It was in the swamp. It looked like a city.”

“A city? In a swamp? And so close to our settlement?”

“Yes, but not... not one of our cities.”

“I wouldn’t expect one of our cities to be there. We’ve only just arrived.”

“No… you don’t understand.”

INSTEAD OF PORN: JERRY LEWIS -- BOY

 / JERRY LEWIS / FRAMING/
A BAG FULL OF ORANGES/
   YELLOW DINNER SHIRT

Shitbox Recordings, Pt. I

JB-Guitar SM-Bass Guitar DN-Drumming

Please, I'm Sorry

Working on uploading some archival recordings, but I'm just not fast enough. In the meantime:

Josephine Decker's "Butter on the Latch," Anti-Industry & Some Optimism, Too

BUTTER ON THE LATCH 

The film industry in the U.S. tends to function in relation to its presence in the larger national economy. Its not a coincidence that as corporate influence became a fixture in the political economy in the late 70’s, so did the superhero and big-budget action movies of the same era become fixtures of the cinema. Think about all the movies that come out now. Their impossible production size and visual bombast seems to mimic precisely the fixated corporate presence in politics. These movies, cast out to the public at incredible rates, are, by definition, not based on cinematic merit but instead on their potential for meeting the public’s most shallow demands. We see them because there are no other options, and this is fine, but it still contributes in giving the studios the financial imperative to continue the practice. They say the middle class is shrinking. If that’s true then so is the mid-budget movie. What he have left then can be seen as a political battlefield: a free-associated legion of independent filmmakers forced to scrap for their movies in combat against Hollywood. I’d like to consider Josephine Baker the newest addition to the gang.

Decker’s first feature film Butter on the Latch (2013) is a twisted psychological folk drama about the darkness that influences the friendship between two women. It is sometimes slow-paced and naturalistic (all the dialogue is purported to be improvised) while other times surreal, chaotic and deeply ambiguous. It is a film that deserves to be seen, if not in theaters around the world, then at the very least, at festivals and streaming sites, as a compelling example of what a movie can accomplish when its budget and distribution are unknown variables.

There is not so much a conventional plot in Butter on the Latch as there is a collection of moods that transform within the social backdrop. So what does happen in the movie? Well I’m not so sure, but I do know its about two women whose friendship catches the invocations of folk tales and ancient spirits at a Balkans retreat camp in the woods. In this camp, men and women meditate and sing, dance and drink Balkan moonshine. There is an attempt in the camp to foster a unifying rhythm, a collective spirit. This is invoked in ancient folk tales and melodies: “part of our genetics,” according to one man. But are these spirits flowing from the retreat’s regimented harmonies or from something seedier, something dark and feminine outside the camp, in the wild of the surrounding woods? The camera captures this turmoil by invoking a spirit of its own, at once patient and documentary-like, and at other times spiraling into chaos and fast cut collage. This is credit to the filmmaker who edited the film with courage and an appreciation of risk-taking. The risks pay off and the end result represents some of the more compelling narrative work in recent memory. 

Decker uses the forced-DIY aesthetic to the film’s advantage, utilizing the small budget towards an even smaller cast and crew. There’s one primary location and the script is loose and apparently improvised. The running time: barely an hour. Why make it any longer? All of this makes for a quick but rich viewing. 

If Butter on the Latch seems to lose itself inside of a folk song of old East Europe, then Decker’s next feature, Thou Wast Mild and Lovely (2014) is the dark b-side to the American folk song. It has the editorial and psychological presence of Latch, and to an equally strong effect. But the important things are that a) it came out, and b) it came out only a year after Latch. This is indicative of another advantage of independently-financed, small budget movies: they can be shot, edited and produced at a rapid rate. For some, a nearly annual one. See Alex Ross Perry, who has made three greats in only four years. Or even the less-compelling but more productive Swanberg/Duplass/West/Brice gang who seem to have a slew of movies out before you got the chance to watch the previous bunch. 

This will have to be the model for filmmakers who have no choice but to look for other ways besides extravagant financing to create interesting movies. I mean we need something good and contemporary to watch in between Paul Thomas Anderson, Michael Haneke and Apichatpong Weerasathakul features. Josephine Decker not only meets this demand, but far exceeds it. Her two films are models for contemporary, experimental-narrative cinema. They’re perhaps not great or masterpiece-worthy in the context of film history, but they are nonetheless singular representations of good, contemporary cinema. 

Another theme to the current cinematic climate is the gender gap between Hollywood and the independent scene. Hollywood has long been a Boys Club power structure and this accounts for all the infantile glee rampant in modern movies, from Star Wars to The Avengers. The more women I see in contemporary film—as writers, directors, cinematographers, actors, etc., the more I understand the souls and desires of women. I’m offered a perspective thats only capable through the representation of art, narrative and experimentation. Notice the credits at the end of Thou Wast Mild and Lovely. The vast majority of the crew is female. This is an incredibly rare occurrence in film. Its also very exciting and one of the more optimistic traits of current cinema. 

Perhaps the future women of film will be the ones to lead the soldiers into battle. Lets hope so. Down with Hollywood.

"Fish Tank" and The Limits of the Social Drama

I'm going to start writing short criticism pieces on new-ish movies. As I've said before, I reluctantly don't go to the theatre very often. What with the cost of a ticket and the lack of compelling-looking movies, it just rarely seems worth it. So these reviews will be about interesting movies that have come out in the past 5 years or so, more or less. My aim is to take the power back from the shitty box office kings and transfer it to whatever better movies are being made with heart and soul but slip by under some of our radars. Okay, lets start.



FISH TANK



the second effort of British director Andrea Arnold is indicative of that burgeoning quasi-genre, the social realist drama. When we watch a film made in this vein we're usually following a cast of lower class characters as they interact within an isolated, bleak, and emotionally detached community. To convey this as a cinematic experience, the social drama tends to employ naturalistic, sparse dialogue and a conservative hand held camera style that stays close enough to show emotion but detached enough to never offer even a hint of interior life. The reason for this is simple: as prisoners to their environment (the economic, the physical), these characters are withheld the luxury of exploring their inner world and rendered incapable of dreaming or metaphysical desire. And this is my problem with the genre: by sacrificing style and experimentation for a strict focus of exteriors, it neglects the interior curiosities of both character and audience, and thus becomes victim to the same physical prison its trapped its characters in.

The social drama is also an inherently controversially genre because it keeps itself entirely in a world of economic poverty and lower class interaction. There's nothing wrong with that in itself, and in fact, it is urgent that places of marginalized, compromised and exploited conditions be given cinematic presence. Political films are needed now more than ever. But the social drama doesn't confront the controversy it sparks, it only tells a story about the surfaces of things and then slinks out of the theatre begging for a champion analysis from its nervous middle class art-house audience. One would hope the filmmakers of such strict genre pieces would have the gumption to reference this disease inherent in their movies by providing us with something, anything to call attention to the complex relationship between moviegoer and movie. I'm dying even for the most subtle stylistic touch or experimentation, like, you know, something cinematic perhaps?

Fish Tank (2009) is concerned with a world of poverty but it is anything but a sentimental or preachy film. On the contrary, it is masterfully ambiguous in its judgement of the outside world, which is represented only through representations of culture themselves: music, in cars or CD headphones, a television that shows music videos and programs about expensive houses. The one thing in the world that seems to bond these isolated characters is dancing. And yet they need the outside world even for this. Songs give them music and hip hop videos on the Tube give them a technique to copy. They look to t.v. and CDs as portals to a better world, and find common bonds with each other as they do it.

Its an exercise in both patience and stability to watch Fish Tank. It portrays a gut-wrenchingly unloving place where even the act of communication and the very meaning of words spoken between characters has malfunctioned. In a rare tender scene, two sisters depart from each other, the future entirely unknown, with a heartfelt "I hate you"--"I hate you, too" hug and kiss exchange. Love is forbidden: to express it, one must say the opposite. This and with the constant breach of property boundaries--personal, private, emotional--makes for truly raw cinema, both in content and style.

Fish Tank may be a "social realist drama," but it does so much more than that. Oh boy, does it ever.
As a confessed social drama skeptic, I had to convince myself over my preconceptions, but once I opened up to the film's world, I saw Fish Tank for what is truly is: a film indicative of the experience, maturity, mastery and daring confidence of its director. Andrea Arnold has only one other movie to her name, 2006's Red Road, but she has one due out later this year, and I'm excited and curious to see what kind of bleak and damaged world she'll be showing us this time. I just hope she loosens up a bit.

new mix mon: vol1

Hello 2 Language

Organ Failure

Covered with greasepaint and later filled with mold, particle board makes little difference when a pipe bursts. COMO estas, Estey? In the garbage? Here's the best you had to offer. Listen to those overtones.

PC Music's Surreal Nightmarez

Less love more sex no calls just text new boy no ex more sleep less stress

Long before anyone knew about PC Music, the virtual contracts had already been signed, corporate sponsors partnered, and zillions of fans adorned in mimicry. Where did all this begin then? Duh, the internet. Where else could a group of artists transform themselves into pop stars by dint of declaration? 

Just so it's out there, I am a supporter of PC Music (though I admit that allegiance is sometimes riddled with embarrassingly existential angst).  Its impossible to say how much-needed their fresh and ingenious attitude toward pop music is. And their music, by the way, is endlessly impressive and labyrinthine and represents a pioneering feat for the electronic DJ. More importantly though, I like PC Music because they provoke more questions than they answer, not the least of which being the throbbing what does it mean?!?! upon first introduction.

So who/what/why is PC Music? Hard to say. We know they are an online record label based in London whose contributors include head honcho A.G. Cook, adorable petri-pop-star Hannah Diamond, foul-mouthed millennial GFOTY, the elusive DJ Sophie, the musicologist and “regular-guy” Danny L Harle, the energy drink cover girl from space QT, and a whole bunch of other personas who contribute electronic music. If I was asked to describe their identity as a whole I guess I would say something like: “hyper-pop consumerism via art-school nihilism with a touch of Dada-Minaj a Toi” but then I guess I would also sound like an asshole wouldn't I?

OK, if nothing else, PC Music is brilliant in meticulously maintaining the their surprisingly subtle image. 

And that’s the capital T Truth.

I’m thinking in particular of Hannah Diamond’s hat, or those GFOTY interviews.

I do, however, admit to feeling deeply unsettled if I give them too much time or attention. 

Cuz the thing is, their identity is such an unbelievable well-performed act that the only way it could be accomplished is if the players themselves embodied the characteristics their personas represent. Is authenticity just a bad joke? And who's laughing? And where does this leave "art"?

???????

………

!!!!!!!!!!!

What I am saying is: Any romantics left in the world (please stand up) will surely chew their knuckles in despair trying to understand why “Pink & Blue” is giving them the goose pimples.

……….

I don't know if I’m alone in this but watching GFOTY interviews is really scary!!! I mean holy shit WTF!!!! 

……….

Alright, the Truth is PC Music begs for reactionary commentary. It is vodka-drunk on paradoxes. They maintain an identity which is both unattainable yet unavoidable. The more you search for a meaning, the more you end up feeling like a schmuck. 

What we’re left with is the realization that this is not merely a reflection of the absurdities of corporate culture but an actual immersion into them, where any distinction between image and reality is erased. Someone like James Ferraro toes the line in this genre, but the difference lies in authorship: he gives interviews and we know its him. Just like his music and twitter presence reflects the sensations of walking into a Best Buy from a gated community in Florida or coming across a glowing ATM at night, we know why he makes his art: to reflect the surreal feeling of living a contemporary life. Plus, Ferraro’s output still belongs to the art-space culture of museums and installations. PC Music on the other hand sings from the void. They obsess over the world of consumerism until it obliterates everything else. This is way fucking post-irony. They would probably align themselves with someone like Nicki Minaj long before Ferraro’s Lo-Fi High Concept work. Yet, at the level of intentionality, there’s no question that they come from (and still remain) in Ferraro’s world of cutting-edge philosophizin' arties. Its like they’ve taken the paranoid warnings of the Situationists— that the age of “the autonomous movement of the non-living” is upon us— and worn it as an accessory, proclaiming: everything that is true is false, everything that is false is true…  nothing is real, there are only mirrors. The artist is the product. There is only one true path of the universe and it is being bushwhacked by the zeitgeist. Observation and response is our only choice. Our God is a cursory trend. No values, no politics, no allegiance except to the nihilistic world of the cultural garde…

Upload Creativity into the coin slot, into the digital chip, into the Zone… 

If this all sounds like a robotic response system, its no mistake: the very Idea is in the absence of authorship. 

Then things get even more confusing. 

A few nights ago I was cruising the web and came across a photo spread taken at a PC Music premiere-thing where their “multimedia reality network” Pop Cube was revealed. It was terrifying. To be there in person would have been like living in a Bret Easton Ellis novel. And yet of course, for the few moments I was looking at the pictures, I did want to be there, more than anything. 

I saw with comic horror that the gang had somehow actually gotten Red Bull to sponsor the entire event, which was complete with limos, red carpet photo ops, and mock-paparazzi asking members their opinions about the latest PC Music releases. I now had faces to the once-mysterious A.G. Cook, who apparently is tall and thin with big glasses and mop-ish hair. He sported a Red Bull RallyCross shirt. GFOTY wore a bikini and thong with $100 in bills taped to it and QT sang her famous song inside a giant translucent Red Bull can. She even had the QT energy drink for sale this time. The price: $20 a pop. 

I learned later that SOPHIE’s “Lemonade” was picked up by McDonalds for a commercial. There’s no doubt all his friends at the sterile Red Bull Studios congratulated him profusely for the feat: Cook shakes his hand, promising him its just the beginning; Kane West turns up his track “good price” with those words pumping throughout the studio; GFOTY starts twerking; QT puts her conference call on hold; the film crew hands out Red Bull to everyone.

So PC Music is out of the closet, so to speak. We now have faces to the once-veiled wizards. Cook and Sophie give an interview to Rolling Stone from a Williamsburg bar (ha-ha!). Their goal: to take pop music (and culture) as far as its vanities will allow. Shallow conversation about deep conversation. Deep conversation about shallow conversation. One and the same. 

Hell / Party

A world according to PC Music (and don't be naive here, they do have Global Plans) would be all skittles, candy hearts and virtual reality games. I hate skittles and never play video games.

___________________________________________________________

That night, nervous and uneasy, with PC Music on shuffle, I fell into a strange dream…. 

Here is what happened:

I am on an assignment with three English professors who live deep in the Missouri Ozarks. They are debriefing me from the back of a jeep (only I am in back; all three professors are in front, like a comic trio) meandering through forests and small towns. We come to a small village resembling a colonial recreation, except darker and completely abandoned. The three professors look back at me and tell me this village is problematic…that they haven’t quite figured it out yet…. that they haven’t been able to stop these people. Why would you want to stop these people? I ask. “Its a cult,” one says, “they’re called 918. They attract members, kill them and feed the corpses to their animals.” I look around the grim village but fail to see any trace of animal activity. 

The general mood of the Ozarks is the blues. 

Next thing I know, I’m walking out of a campsite latrine to find an old schoolmate of mine walking in. We exchange greetings. I’m elated and showing it; he’s elated and feigning it. As we walk, Jack eventually discloses to me that he’s part of the 918 cult. The way he talks about it is the way you’d suspect someone from a cult would talk. “It has made me discover who I am really am. I owe everything to 918, everything,” he says, “and because you’re not a part of it, you would never understand.” Its behavior that is completely pattern within the context of the cult, but approaches lunacy to the rest of the world, and this is of course is where we get problems. 

The feeling I remember during this conversation was of a giant void laid out between us. It was uneasy to say the least: I’m paranoid and twitching, and deep down I know everything in the world will soon get sucked up into the void, that rift, caused by the presence of this cult. The wind howls. 

Next thing I know, Jack has taken me to a party inside a huge Victorian mansion in the woods, with dark walls and big windows, chandeliers and drapes swinging in the wind. There is an excess of stair cases, but no light or electricity. 

What happens at the party: I learn that the 918 cult has a reputation of attracting wealthy membership, which is how they maintain the cost of their extravagance. From eavesdropping, I gather than many members of 918 are the same Hollywood stars you can see walk red carpets to accept awards for t.v. and movies. The only celebrity yet to publicly acknowledge his involvement, however, is Harmony Korine (and you could say he is reveling in the role) who is at the party, drunk, and boasting about the many appropriate bridges 918 burns. His eyes are pure white. There are others at the party and I’m looking at them all wondering if they know. 

Later, I’m with Jack again and everything goes to shit. I’m gripping an old book in a dark room with a huge window facing the moon. Jack has his back to me facing the wall, explaining in a calm voice all 918 has done for him, literally listing the merits of the cult one by one. I’m thinking about those three English professors. I clutch the book. Then Jack admits that 918 needs me dead. He says they have to kill me, and that I wouldn’t understand. Suddenly, the window breaks into a million pieces and everything stops. 

Next thing I know: I’m alive, walking in the woods. Somehow, I have escaped death. I spot a road on the top of the hill and aim for it. I decide to track down a car and report the cult to the authorities once and for all. But the thing about cults: once you’ve sniffed the poison, you see its trail everywhere. Suddenly I know I can’t trust anyone. My own schoolmate wants me dead. Think: What do I know about 918? That they are rich and powerful. Even Hollywood is in their pocket. Those three English professors? Why do you think they brought me down here in the first place?? Fuck! So stupid. I feel the world closing in around me but I keep walking, avoiding the roads, sticking to the shadows, eating sleeping where I can. Walking, walking. The void is everywhere. The stars look real.  

Unboxing Tutorial

Hey guys!

Thanks for taking the time out of your day to check out this post. I recently purchased a MacBook Air and wanted to give some tips on the "unboxing" process: some pitfalls to avoid, important messages to get across, and plenty of sweet features that come with buying Apple! I hope this is helpful. Let's take a closer look.

Please leave feedback in the comments section. I'm always looking to improve my tutorials, because, in the end, these videos are for you all, my viewers! 

Peace & Knowledge,

Kevy

Let's Just Keep Going

Here is an improvised track that has just been squealing to be revealed.

Whether or not you believe what I am about to tell you doesn't really matter, because the truth is, this track was actually recorded under water.

From the hot tub sessions, "Laverne/Ursuline" :

The Sound of One Hand Getting the Clap: Rockin' Without a Rhythm Section

Chevy's got Kevy and Chevy, the rest of us have The Onion Twins.

Two electric guitars with eight strings between them, no more or less.

Air conditioning likely not working at time of recording.

Harangue The Resurrected: Two Pop-Improvisations in Altered States

This is the first in a series of posts that present the lost music of Chevy & Kevy.
Songs will be posted rarely and on a random basis. They are songs that belong in the grave. Help us harangue them back to death as you listen to them over and over and over and over....

Alack! What poverty my muse brings forth! :

Converse Chuck II, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism

In his magnum opus Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (1991), Fredric Jameson frequently laments the abject position of both the Marxist theorist and the revolutionary artist in Postmodern/Neoliberal/Globalized/Post-Fordist culture. Unlike his German progenitors (Adorno, Brecht, Benjamin, etc..) who upheld Modernist aesthetic practices as the only antidote to or way out of the all-encompassing superstructural adaptations of the culture industry, Jameson describes a period in which previously revolutionary/avant-garde gestures and styles have become assimilated into institutional practices and have thus been evacuated of any potential political valance. These styles, in turn, now constitute an aura-less archive which contemporary artists cite as debased pastiche; in other words, as Jameson famously states, "Modernist styles" (the idiosyncratic brushstroke that indexes a transcendent subject) have now become "postmodernist codes" (the decontextualized ironic deployment of previously oppositional strategies).

Since this pronouncement (which, it should be remembered, came during the rise of finance capitalism and the emergence of China as a new capitalist power), Jameson's positions, especially his critique of pastiche as a-historical and a-political, have come under fire from a myriad of critics. But however potent these critiques remain (particularly Linda Hutcheon's in The Politics of Postmodernism), Jameson's original thesis continues to inform many of the most significant voices of post-Marxism Left who have attempted to theorize the relationship between contemporary economic/social transformations and their aesthetic expressions.

Two accounts I have found particularly stimulating are Jeffrey Nealon's Post-Postmodernism (2012) and Mark Fisher's Capitalism Realism (2009). Like Jameson, Nealon and Fisher are of course interested in the same topics of assimilation, the cultures of finance capitalism, and the ideological apparatuses that foreclose even the unconscious disavowal of capitalism. What I find most interesting in their accounts, however, is their convergence on topic with which I know y'all are constantly engaged: Classic Rock.

To summarize, according to Nealon, classic rock has undergone a process of assimilation that is comparable to Modern art in Jameson's analysis, but which, according to him, evinces a much more intense, accelerated cultural transformation. Not only has Classic Rock's oppositional potential been totally neutralized, but it has now also come to stand for a right-wing/neoliberal position that would have been antithetical to its role in its original context. To quote Nealon:

"On this line of reasoning, the prescription for classic rock’s cultural longevity is then relatively easy to reconstruct: drain the leftist political stances and the druggy danger out of rock music, and conveniently forget or downplay rock’s roots in African American culture, and there you have it—not exactly the “durable Republican majority” that Karl Rove had openly dreamed about, but something parallel" (55).

"In other words, classic rock at this juncture functions in popular culture as little more than an endless incitement to become who you want to be, being your own person, not following everyone else, and all the other stuff that cultural subversives like Miss America contestants and former sports stars talk about in their Sunday prayer breakfast speeches" (55).

"Drained" of its original political context among student demonstrations, the New Left, experimental lifestyles, drug use, and sexual "freedom," classic rock has now become an expression of the fundamental tenets of finance capitalism and global consumer culture: total, deterritorialized freedom to invest and consume. The biggest irony that I notice about this transformation is that while a protest song in the 60s might have claimed its target as the oppressive social policies that facilitated America's aggressive neoliberal interventions abroad (in southeast Asia or Latin America for example), those very same songs are now being used to promote the policies that they used to condemn (think about Trump's use of "Keep on Rockin' in the Free World").

While I'm yet to finish Capitalist Realism, Fisher's argument seems intimately related to Nealon's. Like Nealon, Fisher wants to suggest that the cultural logic of late capitalism of the late 90s and 00s has not only confirmed Jameson's original thesis, but has indeed surpassed his observations. For this claim, Fisher also cites Rock music:

"What we are dealing with now is not the incorporation of materials that previously seemed to possess subversive potentials, but instead, their precorporation: the pre-emptive formatting and shaping of desires, aspirations and hopes by capitalist culture. Witness, for instance, the establishment of settled ‘alternative’ or ‘independent’ cultural zones, which endlessly repeat older gestures of rebellion and contestation as if for the first time. ‘Alternative’ and ‘independent’ don’t designate something outside mainstream culture; rather, they are styles, in fact the dominant styles, within the mainstream. No-one embodied (and struggled with) this deadlock more than Kurt Cobain and Nirvana..." (9)

While Nealon argued that Classic Rock evinced the cultural process of  assimilation-with-inversion, here Fisher claims that the culture industry now has been able to formulate and sell oppositional tactics before they even go through the process of political transformation.

But what does this all have to do with footwear? Cruising twitter last week, an ad popped up heralding the new "Chuck II" sneaker from Converse. The ad, which suggests a radical reformulation of the enduring basketball sneaker appears as the following:

Of course, it's no novel observation (more of a cliche by now actually) that Converse Chuck Taylors have long been intimately associated not with athletics, but musicians, particularly those positioning themselves against the perceived utilitarian normativity proffered by American culture at large. From Frank Zappa, to Kurt Cobain, to the Ramones, to Jim O'Rourke, the ironic (usually black) shoe has been adopted and re-contextualized, and for a long time remained a instantly-recognized sign which suggested a certain durable cultural mythology of the rock n roller. 

What is interesting about the shoe's latest iteration in the "Chuck II," however, is its apparent refutation of this whole previous mythology. While the original Chuck Taylor, its obstinate minimalism, suggested a monetary, physiological, and stylistic equivalence (solidarity?) between those who wore it, the new shoe suggest specialization, comfort, athleticism, and health, namely, many of the qualities that its previous customers would have repudiated. In light of my initial discussion of Jameson, Nealon, and Fisher, I want to claim that the newest iteration of the Chuck Taylor is a product of precisely the new attitude towards Rock mentioned by these critics. 

This conclusion seems to suggest itself from a number of angles. First, in relation to Jameson's initial logic, its clear that rather than embodying a particular aura of originality, the new Chucks offer only a virtual, mediated experience to its original historical referent. While when buying the "original" Chucks there was still a faint feeling that you were "in the shoes" of Dee Dee Ramone, that hope has now been vanquished as a "foam-padded collar," "non-slip gusseted tongue," "perforated micro suede liner," and "Nike Lunarlon sockliner" have invade and displaced the ethos of originality.

Secondly, and more importantly, this new sneaker shows a shocking avowal for the health culture that has been dominant for the past 20 years, which, as Foucault might suggest, is itself an expression of the need for the corporate state to produce disciplined, docile, and productive bodies. While the original Chucks were often cherished as literal canvases that recorded one's experiences (Miller Lite spills, cigarette ash, discarded roach bits), this sleek new thang seems to be instead suggest a gym membership and a bottle of coconut water; while the shoe used to be associated with a particular transgressive regime of substances, the Chuck II is instead suggestive of the modern clinical and pharmaceutical market, with its weight loss pills, dietary supplements, protein shakes, skin toners, hand lotions, and body sprays, all of which exist to tame and control natural bodily processes.

In closing, the question quickly arises to what alternatives are available, or whether or not thinking oppositionally is still even an option. Taking le Chuck as an example, we might ask with equal parts innocence and facetiousness, what becomes the radical footwear of choice? Doc Martens? They've been absorbed by the sororities! Chacos? Christian hippies! The suggestion that lingers in the background, although I cringe at its presence, is the norm core or accelerationist strategy of just wearing those brands (Nike being the prime example) that are most complicit with capitalism and taking some sort of ironic performative attitude towards them. The problem with this, however is the epistemological deadlock that it suggsets: are you wearing Jordans ironically or do you adopt an attitude of irony just to make wearing Jordans and participating in global capitalism palatable. Alternatively, even going barefoot, in its apparent disavowal of these trends, is itself informed by a green logic of the return to a prelapsarian symbiosis with nature. Duct tape shoes maybe? Idk, I guess we're fucked...

Here's one heavy hitter. Archie Shepp's 1969 sax jazz opus:

feat. Jeanne Lee on the condemnation of men 

feat. Bob Dylan on harmonica, I'd wager

Chill those bones. It's hot out.

soda pop 101 presents: "Orient" + What We've Been Doing

A journey from the suburbs to the city and back





Orient from William Linhares on Vimeo.
.......................................................................................................................................

I, Leo

July 23 - August 22 is the astrological territory of Leo, the fifth sign of the Zodiac. 

How are you preparing for the cosmic month of the Lion? 

Are you even ready for the planetary shift? 

 As a Leo myself, I suggest listening to soda pop 101's stunning tune "Calling Card" 

(available to stream below) everyday at dusk, preferably as a guest in a hotel pool, 

or as the only back seat passenger of a minivan driving slowly through yawning suburbs. 

If these options don't present themselves, playing it very loud on speakers 

while you stare out your bedroom window will do. 

Ask yourself, who is this Leo? Did he save your life or did he break your heart? 

And what would it feel like to swim in a warm blue pool 

in L.A. beneath the shadow of the Hollywood sign?

Did I mention that Leos are known for their strength of heart, 

as well as their overwhelming compulsion to use the stage as a demand for attention?

Think it over. And have a wonderful Leo.