In today's bizarrely social justice-conscious society it may be an irredeemable faux pas to suggest U2 isn't great, but I currently only have ten followers of this blog, all of whom know me well, so I feel justified in saying whatever I want.
Members of the band have all admitted that in the early years they had little to no musical talent or ability. That changed before they released a major album, but that was the last thing to change. Sure, Bono has a great voice, and The Edge is a quality guitarist. Larry Mullen, Jr.'s drumming is decent on most songs, superb on a few; Adam Clayton's bass playing has improved over the years but isn't quite to par with his bandmates' abilities. Together they make a sonically-pleasing ensemble with enough thoughtful lyrics to keep the masses scratching their heads and intelligent listeners glad there is a popular alternative to Blink182.
The problem with U2 isn't that they can't play or sing. The problem is that they can't seem to muster the creative courage to play or sing more than one song. For a band flouting their spirituality as much as these Irishmen like to, they feature a deplorable lack of soul. If you've seen It Might Get Loud, you know the reason it sounds like The Edge is playing one note in every song is that he is playing one note in every song, to which Bono adds his redemption-drenched lyrics. Lyrics which, if found in a book of mediocre Christian poetry (where they belong), would be mocked and ridiculed by half the fans that accord the band so much praise and favor now.
Fortunately for them, U2 originated amid the detritus of late '70s post-punk. Had they been preaching their songs at the punk crowd they may have gained a few straight-edge followers before the skinheads and hooligans beat them up and took their lunch money. In the '80s everything was acceptable, and anyway no one was paying too much attention to what was being said, just to how it was articulated, and you can't argue that U2 isn't ear-friendly. By the '90s the band's original fan-base was getting older and more ready for something with some substance.
The first decade of the 21st century was what they needed to have their iconic status cemented in the public consciousness, however. For some reason it became hip to fight for social justice and a measure of egalitarianism (not too much, though, or there would be no one to help). Mostly this was a media-fueled reaction to the perceived callousness of conservatism and was primarily no more than white-bread philanthropy concentrated in isolated acts that could be identified later as services rendered. Fortunately for the do-gooders there were plenty of high-profile opportunities to lend aid, from 9/11 to Hurricane Katrina to the earthquakes and monsoons in Asia and Haiti.
This is the favorite theme of U2—universal evil countermanded by good people finding redemption in selfless acts. And they shout it even when they aren't singing it, making one wonder how much they are motivated by their own search for redemption and how much by their need to keep a solidified front so people believe them and keep buying albums and concert tickets. Sure, every artist has a favorite theme, but a great artist never stops looking for creative avenues to express it, whereas a lesser artist grows accustomed to a single form of expression and never deviates, especially if it happens to be lucrative.
U2 either won't deviate from their successful formula for that reason, or they can't because they aren't truly great artists. My cynicism leads me to suspect the first option, but the second seems more likely in this case. They learned to play music as a band, starting with no skills and gradually becoming more-than-competent performers, but necessarily handicapped by their inherent homogeneity. Their creativity is similarly hampered, having reached maturity as a group rather than as individuals.
Of any of the artists represented on The Most Overrated Artists of All Time, Part 1, U2 is probably the most overrated. Not only is their corpus musically uninteresting in many ways, they haven't truly influenced that many artists. When asked to cite inspirations, how many musicians add U2 to the list? Maybe it's Bono's talk of the Holy Spirit and simultaneous use of profanity that endears him to fans and lands his band on best-of lists. Maybe it's because they're all so hip and yet so tenderhearted that albums keep selling. Or maybe it's because a music industry with no soul hopes that having a band with one at its center will be a good enough substitute when it's time to meet the Maker.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
No matter where I go, Tupac still blows.
People seem drawn to the incongruencies of famous people. Tupac's were manifold, whether it was his simultaneous celebration of thug life and desire to be remembered as a poet and writer, or his siding with the LA rappers in the East Coast-West Coast rivalry despite his own NYC roots. He was the descendant of African tribal royalty, and he was a gangsta sentenced on counts of sexual assault. The argument could be made that greatness more clearly illuminates the contradictions every human struggles with, and that Tupac and his faults were both larger than life.
Or you could say that he wasn't really a poet and all protests to the contrary were just posturing on his part, as well as on the parts of his fans and the critics. The lines "The Grammy's and the American music shows pimp us like hoes/they got dough but they hate us though," besides exhibiting an appalling ignorance of (or disregard for) grammar, sound more like whining than high art. Which, of course, is where the defendants jump in with, "But it's so real!"
How the hell is an insider complaining about the music industry's tight-fistedness "so real"? The only people who can really relate to lyrics like these aren't listening to Tupac anyway, they're busy recording their own albums, and whining their asses off. If Tupac's "poetry" consists of the reality of his subject matter, then it's surprisingly inaccessible to the general public—which is often the complaint made about true poets like Donne and Yeats, and the excuse given for ignoring them in favor of lesser artists. So what makes Tupac deserving of the effort, and not e.e. cummings?
He does talk about adolescent pregnancy, sexual abuse, his mom, his bros. And getting shot, dealing drugs, playing the rap game. While the first list is more universal, how many in America can really claim firsthand knowledge of the items in the second? They are definite problems in certain ghettos, but the majority of Tupac's audience and indefatigable defenders are middle- to upper-class white people who've never set foot in Compton and probably show up at anti-gun and anti-war rallies with some regularity. And with the image he creates of violence and angst and endless evil and fear, why would anyone want to enter his world?
They wouldn't, but they would like to imagine themselves in such circumstances. The great appeal of Tupac's music isn't the lyrical quality. A poet is someone who uses words to convey ideas and feelings that transcend the prosaic nature of life, not someone who continually tells people he's a poet until they agree with him. Tupac was a master of the latter method, a failure at the former. What he did for his listeners was to transport them, safely, into a sordid and dangerous existence they would never have, and then to transport them back out when they ejected the CD. Of course they couldn't admit that the only appeal was a sort of voyeurism, so they agreed that he was, indeed, a poet, and devoted magazine accolades to establishing this hypothesis.
I'm not trying to imply that for those whose lives are reflected in Tupac's songs his work has no value. But you don't rise to the kind of prominence he enjoyed without some help from The Man. And his complaint mentioned above reveals at least some of The Man's motivation—Tupac was (and continues to be) a big seller. But the people fueling the music industry machine with their purchases aren't living in poverty, they live in big houses and drive nice cars. They have everything they need, and can get anything they want, except excitement. Their lives are boring. What better way to infuse some thrills than with a rap album about thugs and shootings?
Tupac may have been doing his best to keep it real, but his continuing popularity is based on something far less visceral than the subject of his work. It's a kind of faux-realism for most listeners, an identity society has given them the freedom to assume as long as it is undertaken according to parameters and with a measure of privacy. Knowing they aren't alone, Tupac fans enter a kind of tribalism of their own, a less coherent version of the one he celebrates in his songs, but one that provides a sense of camaraderie they lack in their own lives.
The irony is that Tupac himself and his community would never allow any of these listeners into full communion. They will always be outsiders, arm-lengths apart, tainting their love with a distasteful element of self-loathing. The deeper irony, of course, is that the self-loathing apparent in the deceased rapper's lyrics is far more destructive in a healthy society than all the vice and violence he sings about in his songs.
Or you could say that he wasn't really a poet and all protests to the contrary were just posturing on his part, as well as on the parts of his fans and the critics. The lines "The Grammy's and the American music shows pimp us like hoes/they got dough but they hate us though," besides exhibiting an appalling ignorance of (or disregard for) grammar, sound more like whining than high art. Which, of course, is where the defendants jump in with, "But it's so real!"
How the hell is an insider complaining about the music industry's tight-fistedness "so real"? The only people who can really relate to lyrics like these aren't listening to Tupac anyway, they're busy recording their own albums, and whining their asses off. If Tupac's "poetry" consists of the reality of his subject matter, then it's surprisingly inaccessible to the general public—which is often the complaint made about true poets like Donne and Yeats, and the excuse given for ignoring them in favor of lesser artists. So what makes Tupac deserving of the effort, and not e.e. cummings?
He does talk about adolescent pregnancy, sexual abuse, his mom, his bros. And getting shot, dealing drugs, playing the rap game. While the first list is more universal, how many in America can really claim firsthand knowledge of the items in the second? They are definite problems in certain ghettos, but the majority of Tupac's audience and indefatigable defenders are middle- to upper-class white people who've never set foot in Compton and probably show up at anti-gun and anti-war rallies with some regularity. And with the image he creates of violence and angst and endless evil and fear, why would anyone want to enter his world?
They wouldn't, but they would like to imagine themselves in such circumstances. The great appeal of Tupac's music isn't the lyrical quality. A poet is someone who uses words to convey ideas and feelings that transcend the prosaic nature of life, not someone who continually tells people he's a poet until they agree with him. Tupac was a master of the latter method, a failure at the former. What he did for his listeners was to transport them, safely, into a sordid and dangerous existence they would never have, and then to transport them back out when they ejected the CD. Of course they couldn't admit that the only appeal was a sort of voyeurism, so they agreed that he was, indeed, a poet, and devoted magazine accolades to establishing this hypothesis.
I'm not trying to imply that for those whose lives are reflected in Tupac's songs his work has no value. But you don't rise to the kind of prominence he enjoyed without some help from The Man. And his complaint mentioned above reveals at least some of The Man's motivation—Tupac was (and continues to be) a big seller. But the people fueling the music industry machine with their purchases aren't living in poverty, they live in big houses and drive nice cars. They have everything they need, and can get anything they want, except excitement. Their lives are boring. What better way to infuse some thrills than with a rap album about thugs and shootings?
Tupac may have been doing his best to keep it real, but his continuing popularity is based on something far less visceral than the subject of his work. It's a kind of faux-realism for most listeners, an identity society has given them the freedom to assume as long as it is undertaken according to parameters and with a measure of privacy. Knowing they aren't alone, Tupac fans enter a kind of tribalism of their own, a less coherent version of the one he celebrates in his songs, but one that provides a sense of camaraderie they lack in their own lives.
The irony is that Tupac himself and his community would never allow any of these listeners into full communion. They will always be outsiders, arm-lengths apart, tainting their love with a distasteful element of self-loathing. The deeper irony, of course, is that the self-loathing apparent in the deceased rapper's lyrics is far more destructive in a healthy society than all the vice and violence he sings about in his songs.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Beatles are not the greatest rock band of all time.
Most people who say The Beatles were great haven't heard enough of their music to make that judgment. Maybe they read it in Rolling Stone, or saw a VH1 documentary, or heard their friends saying it because they'd read it in Rolling Stone. The only necessary adjunct to popularity is stupidity, because it spreads so easily. One hears, and repeats; the next hears, and repeats; and on and on until everyone accepts the general opinion by default. The idea that The Beatles were the greatest band of all time probably started with a record exec who wanted to boost sales. Sales were boosted, and the monetary returns were all that was needed to immortalize the Fab Four forever.
As songwriters, collectively and individually, they were brilliant. I want to be sure I'm not mistaken here: The Beatles were musical geniuses, and just as they shouldn't be overrated, neither should they be underrated. Their influence was enormous, their innovation aurally thrilling, and their appeal nearly universal. But does that mean they were the greatest? To be great a thing does not necessarily have to be popular. In fact, popularity often signifies something less than greatness. Greatness is a property, not bestowed, but inherent. Mozart is not great because everyone says he is, but because there is an intrinsic element to his music that differentiates it both technically and spiritually from the majority of other compositions.
If you ask the average English-speaking person who knows anything at all, they will probably tell you Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time. Doubtless he was a master craftsman of the language. And yet, "all time" is a fairly extensive competition bracket. It would be easier to defend the claim with certain parameters, like "greatest writer in English" or "greatest playwright." Was he better than Homer? Than Dante? Better, even, than The Preacher of Ecclesiastes? The rank of greatest in any field is a delicate and often difficult award to bestow.
To call The Beatles the greatest rock band of all time is better than simply calling them the greatest musicians of all time. At least it makes room for the prior centuries' worth of musical endeavor. But it still seems like a stretch, especially since they occupy no remarkable position (other than skill and popularity)—they weren't the first rock band, not the first to use electric guitars or distortion, not the first group to use drugs to stimulate the creative process. So why have they gained such incredible stature among a receptive if ignorant public?
Probably many reasons could be given, but there are two that seem overwhelmingly obvious. The first is that two of the members died violent deaths simply for being part of an illustrious musical ensemble. John Lennon and George Harrison (arguably the most musically gifted of the four) were shot and stabbed respectively because they were Beatles. Would MLK, Jr. be as revered today if he was still alive? Doubtless he'd be a favorite son for his important work, but martyrdom seals the deal when it comes to immortality. Two martyred members of one band already highly prized can only exacerbate the tendency toward overindulgence.
The other reason is even more compelling. The Beatles gained prominence in the 1960s, an era with its own turmoils certainly, but not, perhaps, more than any other era. What the '60s have become in popular memory, however, transcends the mere legendary and takes on an epoch-marking monolithic importance. Most of what transpired in that decade had been generating for a long time and only then found practical expression, but because people hold on to substantial elements and discard all abstract aspects, however important, the '60s themselves became the important time.
The Beatles represented the so-called revolutionary aspect of the times. They embraced many of the key hippy ideals (though to call them hippies is perhaps a misnomer), like love (free or otherwise), Eastern religion, political disentanglement through social action, drugs, and rock music. Music is possibly the most visceral art form, and therefore the easiest for people to "get" and to be influenced by. Even if they didn't listen to The Beatles themselves, people of that generation heard about them, and most of them will claim to have been fans back then, hoping for the now-compulsory accolades such an assertion demands. Struggle against authority and the hope for social correction associated with the '60s, and by default with The Beatles, is the mood of the moment which everyone wants to identify, or at least be identified, with.
It's sad that so much art is valued not for its intrinsic value, but for the popularity or perceived importance attributed to it—both poor gauges of true merit. When judged objectively The Beatles are of course in the front rank of 20th century musical artists. But such an admission does not justify ascribing the moniker "greatest." The ideals of rock'n'roll are not simply the ideals of the 1960s; to equate the two is a mistake at best.
And if you're wondering, The Rolling Stones are the greatest rock band of all time.
As songwriters, collectively and individually, they were brilliant. I want to be sure I'm not mistaken here: The Beatles were musical geniuses, and just as they shouldn't be overrated, neither should they be underrated. Their influence was enormous, their innovation aurally thrilling, and their appeal nearly universal. But does that mean they were the greatest? To be great a thing does not necessarily have to be popular. In fact, popularity often signifies something less than greatness. Greatness is a property, not bestowed, but inherent. Mozart is not great because everyone says he is, but because there is an intrinsic element to his music that differentiates it both technically and spiritually from the majority of other compositions.
If you ask the average English-speaking person who knows anything at all, they will probably tell you Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time. Doubtless he was a master craftsman of the language. And yet, "all time" is a fairly extensive competition bracket. It would be easier to defend the claim with certain parameters, like "greatest writer in English" or "greatest playwright." Was he better than Homer? Than Dante? Better, even, than The Preacher of Ecclesiastes? The rank of greatest in any field is a delicate and often difficult award to bestow.
To call The Beatles the greatest rock band of all time is better than simply calling them the greatest musicians of all time. At least it makes room for the prior centuries' worth of musical endeavor. But it still seems like a stretch, especially since they occupy no remarkable position (other than skill and popularity)—they weren't the first rock band, not the first to use electric guitars or distortion, not the first group to use drugs to stimulate the creative process. So why have they gained such incredible stature among a receptive if ignorant public?
Probably many reasons could be given, but there are two that seem overwhelmingly obvious. The first is that two of the members died violent deaths simply for being part of an illustrious musical ensemble. John Lennon and George Harrison (arguably the most musically gifted of the four) were shot and stabbed respectively because they were Beatles. Would MLK, Jr. be as revered today if he was still alive? Doubtless he'd be a favorite son for his important work, but martyrdom seals the deal when it comes to immortality. Two martyred members of one band already highly prized can only exacerbate the tendency toward overindulgence.
The other reason is even more compelling. The Beatles gained prominence in the 1960s, an era with its own turmoils certainly, but not, perhaps, more than any other era. What the '60s have become in popular memory, however, transcends the mere legendary and takes on an epoch-marking monolithic importance. Most of what transpired in that decade had been generating for a long time and only then found practical expression, but because people hold on to substantial elements and discard all abstract aspects, however important, the '60s themselves became the important time.
The Beatles represented the so-called revolutionary aspect of the times. They embraced many of the key hippy ideals (though to call them hippies is perhaps a misnomer), like love (free or otherwise), Eastern religion, political disentanglement through social action, drugs, and rock music. Music is possibly the most visceral art form, and therefore the easiest for people to "get" and to be influenced by. Even if they didn't listen to The Beatles themselves, people of that generation heard about them, and most of them will claim to have been fans back then, hoping for the now-compulsory accolades such an assertion demands. Struggle against authority and the hope for social correction associated with the '60s, and by default with The Beatles, is the mood of the moment which everyone wants to identify, or at least be identified, with.
It's sad that so much art is valued not for its intrinsic value, but for the popularity or perceived importance attributed to it—both poor gauges of true merit. When judged objectively The Beatles are of course in the front rank of 20th century musical artists. But such an admission does not justify ascribing the moniker "greatest." The ideals of rock'n'roll are not simply the ideals of the 1960s; to equate the two is a mistake at best.
And if you're wondering, The Rolling Stones are the greatest rock band of all time.
Blue is the only color Eminem comes in.
If you're going to eat something unhealthy, especially if you're going to eat a lot of it, you probably want at least some variety, even if it's superficial. That's why M&Ms are so fun to eat: they come in rainbow colors, and though the taste doesn't change, the scenery does. By contrast, Eminem albums only come in blue. And because every mainstream rap album is long, listening to The Eminem Show or The Slim Shady LP means you're listening to the same song over and over and over. And believe you me, Eminem in any quantity is unhealthy.
Eminem frequently shows up on "Best of" lists, but he's not the best of anything. You don't even have to go underground to find better rappers: Notorious B.I.G., NaS, the Wu-Tang Clan and Common Sense all had (or have) something Mr. Mathers lacks—a talent for clever word play. Words are the heart of rap. Perhaps more than any musical genre, rap is lyrically-based (hence, Tupac's wildly inaccurate claims to poetry). If you can't put words together in a unique or well-crafted way you should probably consider another medium to convey what you want.
Which, in Slim's case, is rage. But it's not socially-conscious rage, or constructive rage, or intellectually-based rage. It's just boring, angsty, narcissistic rage aimed "in no particular direction," making it more sallow than his peroxide-rinsed complexion. He complains about his mom, his dad, his girlfriend, America, drugs, the same things every eye-shadowed mopey emo suburban kid complains about in his diary while listening to My Chemical Romance. Many rappers sing about themselves; Marshall Bruce Mathers III whines about himself, and the realism exists in the feeling one has (while listening to his bitching) of being trapped in a Detroit trailer with a junkie mom.
If his goal really is just to piss people off, he's a failure. There will always be people ready to boycott artists who use profanity or graphic descriptions of sex, but they don't need Eminem around—they'll pick on anyone with any degree of popularity or notoriety. For the rest of the public, listening to an artist like Mathers signifies hipness of a sort, and claiming for him the status of "artist" or "poet" validates their own bad taste. Real hipness, however, is predicated on distance from the in-crowd, so the instant something becomes generally popular is the instant it stops being hip. Eminem's listeners sidestep this difficulty by each pretending they're the only kid on the block listening to him.
It's hard to lose yourself in the music when it's two-dimensional. His beats are pretty good, but if that's the only reason you're going to listen to Encore you may as well listen to techno.
Eminem frequently shows up on "Best of" lists, but he's not the best of anything. You don't even have to go underground to find better rappers: Notorious B.I.G., NaS, the Wu-Tang Clan and Common Sense all had (or have) something Mr. Mathers lacks—a talent for clever word play. Words are the heart of rap. Perhaps more than any musical genre, rap is lyrically-based (hence, Tupac's wildly inaccurate claims to poetry). If you can't put words together in a unique or well-crafted way you should probably consider another medium to convey what you want.
Which, in Slim's case, is rage. But it's not socially-conscious rage, or constructive rage, or intellectually-based rage. It's just boring, angsty, narcissistic rage aimed "in no particular direction," making it more sallow than his peroxide-rinsed complexion. He complains about his mom, his dad, his girlfriend, America, drugs, the same things every eye-shadowed mopey emo suburban kid complains about in his diary while listening to My Chemical Romance. Many rappers sing about themselves; Marshall Bruce Mathers III whines about himself, and the realism exists in the feeling one has (while listening to his bitching) of being trapped in a Detroit trailer with a junkie mom.
If his goal really is just to piss people off, he's a failure. There will always be people ready to boycott artists who use profanity or graphic descriptions of sex, but they don't need Eminem around—they'll pick on anyone with any degree of popularity or notoriety. For the rest of the public, listening to an artist like Mathers signifies hipness of a sort, and claiming for him the status of "artist" or "poet" validates their own bad taste. Real hipness, however, is predicated on distance from the in-crowd, so the instant something becomes generally popular is the instant it stops being hip. Eminem's listeners sidestep this difficulty by each pretending they're the only kid on the block listening to him.
It's hard to lose yourself in the music when it's two-dimensional. His beats are pretty good, but if that's the only reason you're going to listen to Encore you may as well listen to techno.
The Most Overrated Musicians of All Time, Part 1
1. The Beatles: A great band, doubtless. But overrated.
2. Tupac: Not a poet, loved only for his......martyrdom.
3. Eminem: Also not a poet.
4. The Eagles: Because they had one good song doesn't mean they were a great band.
5. U2: The same six songs. The same six chords. The same single theme.
6. Queen: Another martyr, and not one but five good songs.
7. Aerosmith: Steve Tyler looks like one of the greatest rock vocalists but doesn't sound like him.
8. Frederic Chopin: Only Mozart could stack notes effectively.
9. Michael Jackson: There was only one king and it was not MJ.
10. AC/DC: Neither innovative nor technically skilled.
2. Tupac: Not a poet, loved only for his......martyrdom.
3. Eminem: Also not a poet.
4. The Eagles: Because they had one good song doesn't mean they were a great band.
5. U2: The same six songs. The same six chords. The same single theme.
6. Queen: Another martyr, and not one but five good songs.
7. Aerosmith: Steve Tyler looks like one of the greatest rock vocalists but doesn't sound like him.
8. Frederic Chopin: Only Mozart could stack notes effectively.
9. Michael Jackson: There was only one king and it was not MJ.
10. AC/DC: Neither innovative nor technically skilled.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Aristotle's Catalogue Redux
Aristotle was the greatest philosopher of all time. He raised philosophy from a natural science to a contemplative metaphysical art (while not abandoning the scientific element). He also made lists of everything. The obverse of deconstruction, his method readily embraced the hierarchy of all things. Among other claims he insisted tragedy makes better art than comedy. Whether this is or isn't true, a bad list is certainly the most tragic thing on the internet (a fairly tragic entity in its own right).
I make my own lists, and they are not tragic. They are awesome. At the same time, they reflect my own (albeit excellent and well-informed) opinion, and any conflict they may generate is more than welcome, it is necessary. Great thought is always produced by conflict, and if great thought is not generated here then these are not great lists. But these are great lists. And the only potential tragedy is that they remain unseen amid the cyberswill currently eroding the public consciousness.
I make my own lists, and they are not tragic. They are awesome. At the same time, they reflect my own (albeit excellent and well-informed) opinion, and any conflict they may generate is more than welcome, it is necessary. Great thought is always produced by conflict, and if great thought is not generated here then these are not great lists. But these are great lists. And the only potential tragedy is that they remain unseen amid the cyberswill currently eroding the public consciousness.
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