It's been a few years since I've owned a TV. After my first year of college, I stowed it away and haven't really bothered setting it up since. And why should I? Most of my favorite shows have been available via bootleg over the Internet for years and newer sites like hulu.com are only making it easier to watch what you want at your leisure with minimal commercial interference. Whenever I do get to flip around on one of those old boxes, I'm reminded why I don't miss them at all: They fill me with a feeling of indescribable hatred.
About 90 percent of this feeling can be ascribed to reality television, which seems to dominate my occasional bouts of channel-surfing. I hate this plague on American culture for many reasons, but if I had to pick one, it would be the genre's failure to depict anything close to reality itself. The worst of these offenders have been shows like The Hills and The City (both spin-offs of the equally carcinogenic Laguna Beach), wherein we follow the lives of brain-dead socialites while they try to make it in the real world.
These shows take place in Los Angeles and New York City, respectively, two of the most competitive and rigorous cities on the planet, and yet the socialites' meticulously designed lives are utterly devoid of serious obstacles. Their time is spent buying anything that glitters and shouting really vapid stuff at each other in dimly lit clubs and restaurants. They've essentially boiled down the difficulties of modern urban living to a lecture on social etiquette. Even more callously, they have completely ignored the reality of life in today's work environment, which is, as we all know, bleak. Something I would watch: an episode on how not to buy a $500 purse the size of my fist and the subtle art of eating lunch out of a dumpster.
So, leave it to a lowly sitcom, The Office, to educate our nation's youth about financial reality and the modern job market. It's an odd rule, but parody often holds more truth than earnest attempts at the depiction of reality. In this respect, The Office is to reality television as The Daily Show is to cable network news.
For most of its existence, The Office has operated in the realm of inconceivable professional behavior. When was the last time you and your male colleagues spent an entire afternoon inspecting the amenities of the women's restroom? When was the last time your business sent its clients a product marked with images of bestiality and didn't go under? It's been a fun ride for the staff at the Scranton, Pa., branch of Dunder Mifflin Paper Company, but the party is over and the realities of being an irresponsibly run small(er) business on the verge of technological irrelevance are knocking at the door.
Currently in its fifth season, sobering references to economic reality are increasing. In one recent episode, Stanley Hudson (Leslie David Baker), a slovenly, irritable fifty-something, describes his retirement plan in the wake of a minor heart attack but realizes that he doesn't have enough to retire and is too old to start working somewhere else. He likens his job to working in his own casket.
The branch manager, Michael Scott (Steve Carell), is a model product of the last two decades of decadent corporate culture in America. Comfortably paid, he is under qualified, devoid of intelligence and ability and responds to these shortcomings with bouts of selfish immaturity. Recently, Michael decided to quit Dunder-Mifflin after 15 years, a choice of which he learns the repercussions in the latest episode, "Two Weeks."
While serving his last two weeks as branch manager, Michael slowly pokes his head out of the office to discover an unforgiving world that he is no longer familiar with. In the reception area, a man eager to interview for Michael's vacant position describes the job market as "brutal." Shaken, Michael begins searching for jobs. One company he calls, Prince Paper, has gone out of business due to Michael's actions in an earlier episode. Undeterred, Michael decides to start his own paper company and invites his soon-to-be-former co-workers along. Each one, in succession, turns him down and gives him another sobering reason not to continue, such as the decline of the industry or lack of a salary. Later, when Michael is lying on the floor panting in desperation, he tells his coworkers, "Hello. I am your future." He asks them, "Who's coming with me?" If you're really into symbolism, it's a heavy moment.
Appropriately, Michael's replacement, at least temporarily, is Charles Miner (Idris Elba), a no-nonsense corporate fascist trained to cut dead weight wherever he sees it. In his presence, heads are kept strictly down at the desk.
But this is American television after all, and The Office has always had a sentimental streak (more like a full-on layer of paint), so we're left with a glimmer of hope. The receptionist, Pam (Jenna Fischer, consider this my marriage proposal), leaves with Michael, and the two saunter off into an uncertain future.
Now, anyone who's ever read an article on global warming knows that the Chinese word for "crisis" stems from a combination of the words "danger" and "opportunity." (Seriously, environmentalists love that fact). Perhaps that is what we have here. Perhaps the cast will leave with them. Perhaps they will begin anew. Perhaps they will learn from their mistakes and succeed. After all, isn't this what we hope for our own world?
Friday, April 10, 2009
MADE OF METAL: Nature's blackest candy
Some of you may remember that back in 2007, I gave Wolves in the Throne Room a rather favorable review, lauding the band for some seriously emotive modern black metal while giving it a stern talking-to about their penchant for filling its albums with ambient filler (roughly half the album was not exactly what you might call "songs"). There was a time, circa Diadem of 12 Stars, when Wolves was at the top of my list of black metal bands, until Finnish lo-fi necro warriors Horna pulled the rug out from under them.
But, here we are in the year 2009, and the Wolves have decided to step back in the ring with their latest release, Black Cascade. The results: much improved.
For those not in the know, which I suspect is most of you, Wolves in the Throne Room hails from the Pacific Northwest: Olympia, Wash. to be exact, a region whose breathtaking natural northern landscapes have a nasty habit of spurring some truly evocative metal brews that are sometimes brutal (Fall of the Bastards), sometimes ethereal (Agalloch), but always inspiring.
They are day-walkers, if you will. They bear the marks of cold, traditional black metal: raw production (though it's getting better), shrieking vocals and shimmering tremolo riffs. But they use these harsh elements to create much more melodic soundscapes than we're used to hearing in the genre. It's like getting a massage with a sandblaster.
The lyrical content is a breath of fresh air, as well (from what the band tells us anyhow; they don't print lyrics, and I can't really understand what they're saying). Those of you getting a little tired of hokey blasphemy-and I suspect that after almost 20 years of black metal bible bashing you just might be-can take enjoy Wolves' exploration of nature and shamanistic themes ... via shrieks.
At first glance, nothing has changed on Black Cascade. It's still four songs, and they're still really long, but this time the brothers Aaron and Nathan Weaver, along with guitarist Will Lindsay, have created some more immediately engaging material. I can actually remember, nay, have stuck in my head, the opening riffs of "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog," and I've only listened to the album 10 times! Beyond that, there isn't much else new in the Wolves' lair. They could still use a little more diversity tempo-wise. From the aforementioned "Wanderer รข€¦ ," the album flows with a rather wraithlike, sea-sickened rhythm into "Ahrimanic Trance," "Ex Cathedra" and finally "Crystal Ammunition." If you're not careful, the whole album can blow by before you know it.
Wolves catches a lot of flak from black metal purists for their refusal to adhere to the genre's traditional aesthetics, as well as their rise in popularity within some non-metal circles. But, there are literally thousands of tr00 kvlt bands out there to satisfy your traditionalist cravings. Are you really going to let what other people are listening to ruin your day? From a writer's perspective, it's refreshing to absorb and review something that, if nothing else, at least stirs up a little bit of debate. Wolves in the Throne Room, I thank thee.
But, here we are in the year 2009, and the Wolves have decided to step back in the ring with their latest release, Black Cascade. The results: much improved.
For those not in the know, which I suspect is most of you, Wolves in the Throne Room hails from the Pacific Northwest: Olympia, Wash. to be exact, a region whose breathtaking natural northern landscapes have a nasty habit of spurring some truly evocative metal brews that are sometimes brutal (Fall of the Bastards), sometimes ethereal (Agalloch), but always inspiring.
They are day-walkers, if you will. They bear the marks of cold, traditional black metal: raw production (though it's getting better), shrieking vocals and shimmering tremolo riffs. But they use these harsh elements to create much more melodic soundscapes than we're used to hearing in the genre. It's like getting a massage with a sandblaster.
The lyrical content is a breath of fresh air, as well (from what the band tells us anyhow; they don't print lyrics, and I can't really understand what they're saying). Those of you getting a little tired of hokey blasphemy-and I suspect that after almost 20 years of black metal bible bashing you just might be-can take enjoy Wolves' exploration of nature and shamanistic themes ... via shrieks.
At first glance, nothing has changed on Black Cascade. It's still four songs, and they're still really long, but this time the brothers Aaron and Nathan Weaver, along with guitarist Will Lindsay, have created some more immediately engaging material. I can actually remember, nay, have stuck in my head, the opening riffs of "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog," and I've only listened to the album 10 times! Beyond that, there isn't much else new in the Wolves' lair. They could still use a little more diversity tempo-wise. From the aforementioned "Wanderer รข€¦ ," the album flows with a rather wraithlike, sea-sickened rhythm into "Ahrimanic Trance," "Ex Cathedra" and finally "Crystal Ammunition." If you're not careful, the whole album can blow by before you know it.
Wolves catches a lot of flak from black metal purists for their refusal to adhere to the genre's traditional aesthetics, as well as their rise in popularity within some non-metal circles. But, there are literally thousands of tr00 kvlt bands out there to satisfy your traditionalist cravings. Are you really going to let what other people are listening to ruin your day? From a writer's perspective, it's refreshing to absorb and review something that, if nothing else, at least stirs up a little bit of debate. Wolves in the Throne Room, I thank thee.
Monday, April 6, 2009
MADE OF METAL: Nine Leaves dangerously lame
Sound the horn! I bid ye welcome to my land of brutality!
It dawned on me recently whilst sitting atop my golden throne that on the whole, I have been far too benevolent a ruler. In my time here I've dished out too many kind words, too much praise for my metallic idols. In other words, I found myself wondering if I'd gone soft, perhaps vanilla. There is a balance to maintain, after all, and there are those that must be made an example of. So, in the spirit of fairness and the cosmic equilibrium of good and evil, I grant you Made of Metal's first merciless sack beating (the burlap kind, not that kind) and execution by rusty, dull axe. Limbs will be served after the main event. But before we start the beating, perhaps you'd like to know a little bit about this poor soul and how they wandered into this land.
The musical "collective" known as Nine Leaves made several grave errors that led them to these gates. First, they named their new album Peace in Death. Reasonably metal, no? Second, they plastered on the front of this new album apocalyptic artwork strikingly reminiscent of the great metal cover artist Ed Repka. Third, they sent this deceptive package into the hands of an aspiring scribe of brutality eager to review his first press materials: me.
So, imagine my surprise when, upon looking to welcome this new subject into my kingdom, I discovered that Nine Leaves is in fact a social/eco-conscious hip-hop project, and a really lame one at that. Shocked, hurt and betrayed, I called out my minions to drag Nine Leaves away to the dungeon to await punishment. The executioner's blade grows hungry. The time is now.
Nine Leaves is the brainchild of Zack Hemsey, a composer, according to his own Web site, "known for awakening the emotions of his listeners" (the site is smothered in similarly stock, trite descriptions). Strike one for humility. The site also reveals his affinity for wearing brown and gray. Strike two for being blind. Peace in Death, the group's second album, is a kind of mish-mash of hip hop and obnoxious female warbling set over beats so weak they make Will Smith's albums sound downright dangerous.
And therein lies the problem with this whole pathetic production; for an album and promotional package that claims to break the rules and push the envelope, Peace in Death is about as tame a work of art as I've ever experienced. The beats are thin and simple, sounding not unlike something I might tap out on the desk while I'm bored in class. Hemsey tries to spice the record up with a choir of incessant my-first-Casio-Keyboards, but fails to play anything I haven't heard in a depressing insurance commercial. Likewise, the look-how-deep-we-are lyrics are rapped out with zero enthusiasm.
I have no problem with hip hop, environmentalism or social consciousness. I don't really even have that big a problem with dudes who wear brown and gray, but history's greatest fanatics and dictators taught us that if you want your message to be heard, you have to put a little more zing in your brew than Hemsey and co. saw fit to on this release. The Care Bears are more militant than these guys. Give me rage. Give me give me calls for the bombing of oil rigs. Give me Malcolm X on meth set to blast beats and trip-hop. Give me something dangerous. Then we'll talk. Or not. Off with their heads!
It dawned on me recently whilst sitting atop my golden throne that on the whole, I have been far too benevolent a ruler. In my time here I've dished out too many kind words, too much praise for my metallic idols. In other words, I found myself wondering if I'd gone soft, perhaps vanilla. There is a balance to maintain, after all, and there are those that must be made an example of. So, in the spirit of fairness and the cosmic equilibrium of good and evil, I grant you Made of Metal's first merciless sack beating (the burlap kind, not that kind) and execution by rusty, dull axe. Limbs will be served after the main event. But before we start the beating, perhaps you'd like to know a little bit about this poor soul and how they wandered into this land.
The musical "collective" known as Nine Leaves made several grave errors that led them to these gates. First, they named their new album Peace in Death. Reasonably metal, no? Second, they plastered on the front of this new album apocalyptic artwork strikingly reminiscent of the great metal cover artist Ed Repka. Third, they sent this deceptive package into the hands of an aspiring scribe of brutality eager to review his first press materials: me.
So, imagine my surprise when, upon looking to welcome this new subject into my kingdom, I discovered that Nine Leaves is in fact a social/eco-conscious hip-hop project, and a really lame one at that. Shocked, hurt and betrayed, I called out my minions to drag Nine Leaves away to the dungeon to await punishment. The executioner's blade grows hungry. The time is now.
Nine Leaves is the brainchild of Zack Hemsey, a composer, according to his own Web site, "known for awakening the emotions of his listeners" (the site is smothered in similarly stock, trite descriptions). Strike one for humility. The site also reveals his affinity for wearing brown and gray. Strike two for being blind. Peace in Death, the group's second album, is a kind of mish-mash of hip hop and obnoxious female warbling set over beats so weak they make Will Smith's albums sound downright dangerous.
And therein lies the problem with this whole pathetic production; for an album and promotional package that claims to break the rules and push the envelope, Peace in Death is about as tame a work of art as I've ever experienced. The beats are thin and simple, sounding not unlike something I might tap out on the desk while I'm bored in class. Hemsey tries to spice the record up with a choir of incessant my-first-Casio-Keyboards, but fails to play anything I haven't heard in a depressing insurance commercial. Likewise, the look-how-deep-we-are lyrics are rapped out with zero enthusiasm.
I have no problem with hip hop, environmentalism or social consciousness. I don't really even have that big a problem with dudes who wear brown and gray, but history's greatest fanatics and dictators taught us that if you want your message to be heard, you have to put a little more zing in your brew than Hemsey and co. saw fit to on this release. The Care Bears are more militant than these guys. Give me rage. Give me give me calls for the bombing of oil rigs. Give me Malcolm X on meth set to blast beats and trip-hop. Give me something dangerous. Then we'll talk. Or not. Off with their heads!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
