Marinetti's Manifesto (link)

The Futurist Manifesto, by F. T. Marinetti, is online!




Marinetti wrote this baby in 1909 to announce a break with traditional artistic conventions. Here are the Manifesto's bullet points:

1. We want to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and rashness.
2. The essential elements of our poetry will be courage, audacity and revolt.
3. Literature has up to now magnified pensive immobility, ecstasy and slumber. We want to exalt movements of aggression, feverish sleeplessness, the double march, the perilous leap, the slap and the blow with the fist.
4. We declare that the splendor of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing automobile with its bonnet adorned with great tubes like serpents with explosive breath ... a roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.
5. We want to sing the man at the wheel, the ideal axis of which crosses the earth, itself hurled along its orbit.
6. The poet must spend himself with warmth, glamour and prodigality to increase the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.
7. Beauty exists only in struggle. There is no masterpiece that has not an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent assault on the forces of the unknown, to force them to bow before man.
8. We are on the extreme promontory of the centuries! What is the use of looking behind at the moment when we must open the mysterious shutters of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We are already living in the absolute, since we have already created eternal, omnipresent speed.
9. We want to glorify war — the only cure for the world — militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of the anarchists, the beautiful ideas which kill, and contempt for woman.
10. We want to demolish museums and libraries, fight morality, feminism and all opportunist and utilitarian cowardice.



11. We will sing of the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure and revolt; the multi-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals: the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the workshops beneath their violent electric moons: the gluttonous railway stations devouring smoking serpents; factories suspended from the clouds by the thread of their smoke; bridges with the leap of gymnasts flung across the diabolic cutlery of sunny rivers: adventurous steamers sniffing the horizon; great-breasted locomotives, puffing on the rails like enormous steel horses with long tubes for bridle, and the gliding flight of aeroplanes whose propeller sounds like the flapping of a flag and the applause of enthusiastic crowds. 

Sounds a wee bit fascistic, yes? But then, Marinetti was one of the early supporters of Mussolini.

For me, this document's significance--beyond historical value-rests in its influence on Pound, Lewis, et. al. who created Vorticism as a response to/variation on Futurism. This work also influenced L'arte dei Rumori (The Art of Noises), by Luigi Russolo, which, in turn, had a profound influence on 20th century music (more on that another time--when I have the time and energy to laud Pierre Henry, Steve Reich, et al).

Anyway, just sharing.

Pierre Henry

I love this man. Genius of Musique Concrete and grumpy old guy. There is a great documentary out on him, Pierre Henry: The Art of Sounds, which is quite entertaining. I recommend it if you're intrigued by the post-war avant garde or just interested in how an innovator of mashups/sampling/electronica/noise continues to do his thing in his 80s.

Country Roads.

 Let me talk about music (some more)

While growing up, my exposure to music was limited. 

            My family didn’t have wide-ranging tastes. My mother collected LPs by standard artists: Elvis (Blue Hawaii, Gold Records, and 50,000,000 Elvis Fans Can't Be Wrong: Elvis' Gold Records – Volume 2), Gene Pitney (Greatest Hits), 101 Strings, and Henry Mancini. My grandparents had Sinatra (Sings for Only the Lonely and Ring a Ding Ding—still my favorite Sinatra album), and a multi-volume Time-Life classical collection. Mind you, no one ever seemed to listen to these albums; they collected dust.

             One Christmas, my grandmother presented me with a Mickey Mouse turntable and a few soundtracks from Disney animated films. I listened to those LPs until they popped and jumped, as LPs were wont to do, and then I moved onto the grown-ups’ records. I believe I was the only child in town who went about singing “A Foggy Day” under her breath. In contrast, my classmates were talking about Sweet’s Desolation Boulevard. I had no idea who Sweet might have been, and I certainly had no access to the LP (and Lord, by the time I heard my classmates talking about Desolation Boulevard, it must have been five or six years old). Someone wither inherited the album from an older sibling or they discovered it somewhere in “the city.” 

       Radio-wise, we lived in a mountain-bound community where one AM radio station held sway; FM was non-existent without fancy equipment to help capture stations from 100 miles away. This radio station, based in Idaho’s Silver Valley (which I think was KWAL), operated only between 5:00 AM and about 7:00 PM daily. It played a blend of farm reports, news updates, Paul Harvey commentaries, and country/pop hits (for example, I remember hearing both Lyn Anderson’s “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden,” John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," and Wings’ “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey”). Essentially, you can say that while children elsewhere had the option of spinning a dial to discover radio stations offering different genres, I had what was pretty much a news station that played music, rather anodyne music, as filler. I did gain an appreciation for Paul Harvey that continues to this day.

Let Me (Start) Talk(ing) About Music For a Bit...

Last night I attended a show at the Keswick Theater in Glenside, PA (just outside of Philadelphia), which shook me in its intensity, its energy, and its theatricality. Sharon Van Etten opened the show; Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds headlined. Van Etten received a warm (if not always enthusiastic) response from the audience*; Cave and the Bad Seeds? The audience gave them a thunderous response throughout/

I was struck by this rapturous audience's makeup: many people older than me, sure (Cave himself is 55), but people younger (some much younger) than me made up a significant part of the crowd. How did these adolescents and young adults discover Cave and musicians like him, e.g., unconventional or non-mainstream performers? In the Internet age, it seems a foolish question, true. Really, though, isn't the answer the same as ever? Musical discovery, and the development of taste, is determined by environment and technology.

Contrast someone raised in a small, homogeneous community with limited resources with someone raised in a city like Philadelphia, with its diverse musical history and wealth of radio stations. In the latter, it's a no-brainer that you'll be exposed to music of all genres. Add the Internet, a primary source for music for at least 15 years, and the problem becomes one of filtering what's good rather than trying to find music at all.

My experience has been vastly different from that of the average Millennial, and I'm sure it's an experience that people born before 1985 or so could relate to, especially if they were raised in a small, rural communities. so I am going to talk about that in a series of posts (that's the plan, anyway). A musical biography, if you will. If your experience is similar, feel free to chime in with your own anecdotes and memories.

And if you have a chance to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' tour? Do it. Don't think. Don't consider, simply do it. You'll be well rewarded.

* Van Etten noted that she wasn't Nick Cave more than once, and at one point said she had "only two more songs" before the Bad Seeds would come on. Apparently, someone in front commented on this remark: Van Etten relayed that "the girl dressed like a princess says 'yeah!' [and to the girl in question] "Good to see you again."  Take from that what you will.

Let Me Talk About Music for a Bit

My greatest hits from childhood, all played on one of these: 

On Hole (You Remember. . .Courtney Love's Band)

I thought to add a rather brief musical interlude and talk a little about Hole.
While you might know Hole only as Courtney Love's old band, the one that released an album, Live Through This, the week of Kurt Cobain's death, or 1998's Celebrity Skin, which featured a slim and glossy Love, these are, in my view, lesser works.

Hole's debut album, Pretty on the Inside, came out when I was in my early twenties. I can say in all honesty that it knocked me on my ass with its anger, its pain, and its rawness. That album has stayed with me like few albums have. "Teenage Whore," "Garbageman," "Pretty on the Inside". . .the music articulated my own anger, pain, and loathing of the world around me (what can I say? I was in my twenties. I've mellowed out since). I'd forgive Courtney Love (nearly) anything because she provided a catharsis by expressing all the noise bubbling inside of me. Consider Hole's riotousness in an age of Tori Amos and Suzanne Vega: there was no contest as to who could "do" power rage (as a rape victim, I knew I was supposed to find Amos's "Me and a Gun" cathartic, but I didn't). Sure this was the age of the Riot Grrrl (is that term now antiquated or what?), but in my opinion, nothing by groups like Bikini Kill, L7, Seven Year Bitch and other valuable bands, ever touched Pretty on the Inside.

I'd like to add a bit more, but I'm too lazy at the moment. And I'm supposed to watch Into the Wild with my beloved. Perhaps I'll add to this later; if not, toodles.

Lux Interior R. I. P.

The "Teenage Goo Goo Muck," the "Human Fly," the "Garbageman," Lux Interior of The Cramps has shuffled off this mortal coil.

Thanks Lux.

Aside: Rolling Stone's review of 1984's Bad Music for Bad People.

Motown Turns Fifty.

Yes, Motown turns fifty, and we all get to feel really old. Anyway, to celebrate Motown's demi-centenniel, NPR's All Things Considered has music critic (and former Detroit Free Press journalist) Gary Graff run down six lamentably overlooked singles from Gordy's label.

Graff's list includes some great trivia. For example, one of the tracks he includes, "Does your Mama Know About Me," by Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers, features a young Tommy Chong on guitar. Yes, that Tommy Chong. Moreover, Graff claims that Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers "discovered" the Jackson Five, thereby deflating the Motown myth of Diana Ross's role in bringing the Jacksons to Detroit).

Odetta, 1930-2008

The musical historian and civil rights activist has passed at 77.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Rumor Central: Obama & Jay Z's "99 Problems"

Time to quash this oft-repeated tale:

The rumor that Jay Z's "99 Problems (but a Bitch Ain't One)" was played during Obama's Iowa caucus victory party is false. This story surfaced in the New York Post; it was picked up by Taylor Marsh and others. It did not happen.

Although debunked long ago, this items continues to be circulated amongst those who support Senator Clinton.

Kenneth Anger's Rabbit's Moon

I got through my MA thesis by viewing Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs daily. Whenever I settled down for a spate of scholarship, I’d plug my VHS tape in and start typing along to Tim Roth's howls ("I'm fuckin' dyin' here"). It was awesome (if a little disturbing). Anyway, I’ve lacked a similar soundtrack for my current project. I think I’ve found it.
Rabbit’s Moon, a film by Kenneth Anger, is gorgeously shot in blues and silvers and with a skipped-frame technique (I’m sure there’s a proper name for this, but I’m unfamiliar with it). Anger shot the film in a warehouse in Paris during 1950. According to the Anger's commentary on the DVD, three students of Marcel Marceau’s school of mime perform in the film; they enact traditional figures from the Commedia dell’Arte (Pierrot, Harlequin, and Columbine).

Anger re-edited the film in 1972 and again in 1979. The version that I find most captivating is that of 1979, and part of the reason is its soundtrack: Rabbit’s Moon features a kinda glam, kinda Beatles-esque, but supercool song titled “It Came in the Night.” A gentleman named Andy Arthurs wrote the song, and his Brit band “A Raincoat” released it as a single in 1975 (aside: Mr Arthurs is now a Professor at the Queensland University of Technology).
Rather than "ruin" Rabbit’s Moon with a synopsis, I’ll show you towards YouTube to view the 1979 version. Caveat: the visual quality isn’t the best, but you get a taste for this hypnotic film’s evocative, plaintive, lyric beauty.

NB: Superfilmsleuth Michael Cohen details his seven year search to identify “It Came in the Night” and its writer at Flickhead. Cohen's page also features an mp3 of “It Came in the Night” for download.

Rabbit’s Moon at IMDB

Cole Porter--Modernist?

Possibly.

While residing in Paris in 1923, the all-American songwriter noted for such pop standards as “Let’s Do It,” “Too Darn Hot,” and (my favorite) “In the Still of the Night” composed Within the Quota, a “jazz ballet” (or “ballet-sketch” according to the Yale online catalog of Porter material), for the avant-garde dance company, Les Ballet Suedois (apparently, second only to the Ballets Russe). A “comic tale about a Swedish immigrant to America” (Anderson), the ballet was a hit in Paris, but on Broadway—not so much.

The cubist painter Gerald Murphy (another American expat) designed Within the Quota’s décor and costumes and, according to some notes, wrote the libretto (The New Yorker ran an intriguing article on Murphy and his wife, Sara, in the magazine’s August 6, 2007 edition). Jean Borlin, Les Ballet Suedois’s principal dancer, choreographed the piece.

Porter premiered his jazz ballet on October 25, 1923--four months before George Gershwin premiered Rhapsody in Blue (February 1924). Apparently, Porter considered Within the Quota as his “legitimate” work, his “one effort to be respectable” (qtd. in Kisselgoff)

Alas, I’ve not seen Within the Quota, and I’ve yet to read anything that considers it within a “modernist” context (although many commentators do link Porter to the “Lost Generation,” but, collectively, that group’s status as “modernist” is often queried). The question of Cole Porter as Modernist invites investigation--and a little re-tooling of the great lyricist’s creative biography. Sadly, I’m still up to my neck in another expat modernist (or two), so Cole Porter must wait.

Two Punks, One Grob

The Sundance Channel has been replaying its series, One Punk Under God, which focuses on Jay Bakker, the son of Jim and Tammy Fate Bakker. After the Bakkers' very public downfall in the late 1980s, Jay ran into his own difficulties--among them, an awareness of the too-common hypocrisy and destructive self-righteousness among certain Christians and Christian organizations. Jay also developed a drug problem.

Nowadays, Jay is clean, and he's come to terms with religion--at least, he's come to terms with God. He's shed conservative notions of Christianity; arguing that "Jesus is the Savior, not Christianity," and "religion kills," Bakker embraces and encourages a non-toxic, inclusive Christianity. The Younger Bakker's image of Christ presents Jesus as a loving redeemer who accepts people for who and what they are--regardless or lifestyle or religious affiliation. Jay Bakker's church--called Revolution--meets at Pete's Candy Store (a Brooklyn bar), and the group welcomes everyone. Take a look at Revolution's site. It's an admirable effort at unity and acceptance.

On another note, the heavily tattooed, pierced, and bearded Bakker looks significantly like a man named Terry Grob, who sported much the same look, albeit without tattoos and piercings, in the 1980s and 1990s. Terry Grob was a punk promoter ("Grobal Productions") of the highest order: he went above and beyond "normal" promotional duties to publicize and aid numerous struggling bands in the pacific northwest. Terry was sincere, take it or leave it; this means that the man could be too direct, too honest--and he could be offensive. He was poor (he saved and saved money to open his own club. He carried a huge wad of cash in his trouser pocket). People gave him boots when his own pair began to fall apart. He didn't drink, nor, to my knowledge, did he engage with the drug scene, but he did love his chocolate milk and cigarettes.

Terry had epilepsy. He used to have to leave his own shows if a band used strobes or similar lighting effects. Sometimes he'd get outside in time and he'd just kick around, smoking cigarettes and throwing overly-suggestive comments at nearby women (a breast man all the way, Terry could get pretty obscene if he wanted to).

I moved away for a few years, and I lost contact with Grob. I saw him last in 1997 or 1998. In late 2000, someone emailed me to let me know that, during a show, Terry had experienced a seizure he didn't survive. Friends, colleagues, and scenesters attended memorials for him in Portland and Spokane.

Terry was one of a kind--a man without hypocrisy, sycophancy, staged aggression, or mock outrage. I miss him like mad.

(a musician's remembrance of Terry here; an obit here)

C30 / C60 / C90 Go (online) !

Here’s a London fellow with an intriguing hobby: the Dalston Shopper.

Dalston Shopper visits local charity shops (primarily, it seems, Oxfam) to dig around in the cassette bins. He purchases the more interesting / curious / bizarre collections (be they mix tapes or studio releases) and uploads tracks and images to Dalston Oxfam Shop--one seriously cool blog. Dalston Shopper’s finds include Indian film music, obscure rave tracks, discarded personal collections. . .

I first read about Dalston Shopper's site in The Guardian, which featured the site in an article on MP3 blogs in its 7/7/07 entertainment guide. You can find it online (with links!) here. Enjoy!


And back to my attempt at dissertating (which seems to become more painful and less fruitful every day. I fear for my ABD status--that is, that I'll never move beyond it).

Remember "Cool Britannia"?

Blur v. Oasis v.2?

It appears that (by now middle-aged) Britpop relics Oasis and Blur will issue new CDs next spring. Jon Wilde at The Guardian wonders if we’ll be treated to a fresh burst of feuding. Wahey!

And on a sadder note, Isabella Blow, R. I. P.

The Amazonian fashion goddess Isabella Blow, she of the magnificently impractical hats and, well, unconventional style, has died at the age of 48 from “cancer and depression” (from that description, take what you will).