I've
noticed that some (as they are called) Baby Boomers are like Jews who are
anti-Semitic. My mother was a classic
Jewish anti-semite. Hateful rhetoric
dropped from her mouth like crap from an owl's cloaca. "The Jews will trick you every
time," she often said. "You
can't trust them." Another of her
favorites: "Money's what they're about.
Money money money. Jews do one
thing well, and that's make money. It's
a shonda that Hitler didn't succeed in wiping them out!" The word "shonda" is Yiddish for
"shame" or "too bad".
As I got
into my early teens I stopped being afraid of my mother. I'd outgrown her. She couldn't beat me up.
"Mom", I would riposte,
dodging her clumsy right hook and restraining my urge to retaliate with
a knockout uppercut. "You're a Jew, I'm a Jew, dad's a Jew, Sandy's a
Jew. How can you say this horrible Nazi
crap?"
My mom
was crazy. I mean truly bat-poo
crazy. Her mind ran like the railroad
tracks that led to Auschwitz. There
were predictable stops at the same stations at the same times. There were no deviations. Is that one definition of crazy? "An extreme rigidity of thought in
which facts and nuances cannot be accommodated lest the pathological structure
of said rigidity be broken like a bridge without proper support."
Let me
get back to my original thesis, regarding Baby Boomers. I'm sixty six years old. Demographically I'm a baby boomer. In other cultures I would be a respected
Elder but in Amerika I am seen by some as an irrelevant, un-hip old fart who
still listens to Sixties pop music. Let
me correct this misapprehension. I
listened to (and still listen to ) John Coltrane, Charles Mingus and their ilk.
I admit to being a huge musical snob. Keyboard monster Jessica Williams is the
only living legend in my sandbox, and she refuses to be tied up by the label
JAZZ. I will also offer a place of honor to Leonard Cohen. He has given me enormous pleasure with his music.
I enjoyed post-1965 pop music. I bought a limited number of pop
records. I bought the second Rolling
Stones record. I bought five Bob Dylan
records, starting with Bringing It All Back Home and ending with Blonde on
Blonde. I hesitated at John Wesley
Harding. I had to wait a few years for Dylan's Multiple Personality Disorder to
roll over like slot machine fruit to a configuration I recognized. I never
bought a Beatles record. I wasn't a fan.
I am now, but I still don't buy their records. Who needs to?
It's
weird when I read articles in which Baby Boomers are generalized into a
sociological cluster that resembles a haul of mackerel in a giant net. Our nation has been dominated by some
nebulous force called Youth Culture since we were Youth ourselves. Now, if we don't understand or enjoy Hip Hop
we're relegated to the Outer Limits of cultural discard.
Some of
the best music I hear is television background music. These are theme songs, fragments or riffs designed to enhance the drama. They are sound-memes,
identifiers of hit series like Sons Of Anarchy (Review) or Breaking Bad. My ear tells
me, "Hey, that's pretty good stuff..". Fortunately one can buy a lot of these TV songs and themes.
They are sold as and by the show and the season, not by the artist. They're like playlists. They ARE playlists. The show's composer, such as Dave Porter from Breaking Bad, is not very interested in tearing up hotel rooms and snorting coke with groupies.
They are sold as and by the show and the season, not by the artist. They're like playlists. They ARE playlists. The show's composer, such as Dave Porter from Breaking Bad, is not very interested in tearing up hotel rooms and snorting coke with groupies.
The contemporary musical acts to which I am
exposed are forgotten as soon I've heard them.
I give Lady Gag props for her science fiction wardrobe and catchy tunes. But most of the singers or bands I hear get
me to wondering. Can they play at
all? Have they spent fourteen hours a
day practicing fundamental exercises on their chosen instruments? Can someone explain to me why the musical
acts on "So You Think You Can Dance" are so abysmal? We love the dancing and choreography. Love it!
I'm convinced that dance is in the midst of a golden revival, that we are witnessing the
invention of truly new languages. But
when each week's "musical guest" appears we shudder and watch in
horrified dismay. Is some paradigm being
revealed? Is music being sucked into a
rip tide and washed out to sea?
I
seriously doubt it. The distinction
here is that the music that's getting "play" is crappy. I have no refuge. If I want to listen to jazz I'm welcome, of course. But there is no more John Coltrane, no more
Charles Mingus. Now we have Marsalis
Gumbo, that well known New Orleans dish.
It's good stuff, it shows
awesome technical prowess and a smidgen of soul. It seems, however, that musical innovation is being led by technology. One can buy a machine that makes sounds that
might emanate from remote corners of the galaxy. It has no difficulty playing
in 15/8 time. We can write and play
whatever we want! Our imaginations have
been unfettered. Where are the people
putting these awesome tools to use? It turns out that the really good musicians, players who are imaginative AND proficient have migrated to the world of television and film, where they provide so many excellent sound tracks. They're not interested in being pop stars. They're interested in doing their work and making a decent wage.
There are no musical categories any more. Jazz as a dynamic art form ran out of gas around 1970. It had played itself into a corner called "New Wave" or "New Thing" and hardly anyone could tolerate the caterwauling that emerged from the saxophones of Albert Ayler or John Tchicai. (A confession here: at the time, I loved New Wave. I was taking acid).
There are no musical categories any more. Jazz as a dynamic art form ran out of gas around 1970. It had played itself into a corner called "New Wave" or "New Thing" and hardly anyone could tolerate the caterwauling that emerged from the saxophones of Albert Ayler or John Tchicai. (A confession here: at the time, I loved New Wave. I was taking acid).
I'm not
ashamed of being sixty six years old.
The alternative is to be dead.
Anyone who has reached such an age has survived a given
amount of horrible pain.
I'm proud to be a survivor. I know certain things. Pain is a great teacher.
My
mother taught me by negative example not to feel contempt for my own
tribe. Her railroad tracks ran out in
1980, when she committed suicide. She
rolled up on the terminal station of her mental Auschwitz and it didn't look
very inviting. The sign said "Arbeit Macht Frei" and poor mom was in no condition to Arbeit.
I know
this isn't my best-written piece, I know it's sloppy and barely hangs
together. I'm trying to start a
conversation. I'm tired of being
dismissed by little kiddies half my age who are now taste-makers, trend-setters
and power brokers.
I'm in the business of making a living as a writer and I passed
Rejection Slip #500 a long time ago for my novel, CONFESSIONS OF AN HONEST
MANhttp://www.artrosch.com/2014/06/my-novel-vice-of-courage-chapter-one.html. It's as profound and touching a
story as any novel in print, it will make you laugh and make you cry but it has no
vampires, nor anything with long teeth, it's just about people and the way they
go about healing themselves from having crazy mothers. Seventy pages of this book take place in 1982
Afghanistan! It's exciting as hell!
Literary
agents, editors, publishers,
taste-makers and other cultural filters and gate-keepers will some day be
either sixty six years old or six feet underground.
I invite them NOW, (before it's too late) to get on my
train, whose tracks are constantly being built right under the engine and we
never know where we might end up.
(Today's
magic word is "Duck on a string".
Okay, four words).
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ReplyDeleteI LOVE myself... So there!
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