There are a few hymns that are guaranteed to make me cry, every time. The spirituals like “Oh, Freedom” tend to do it. “Great is thy Faithfulness” can do it, depending on the orchestration (it can soar, or be very tendentious.) “Guide me, oh thou Great Jehovah” is great, and makes me think of Welsh rugby. “Lift Every Voice and Sing” frequently makes me a bit teary. But for some reason, I always come undone when we sing “St. Patrick’s Breastplate.” The tune is murderously hard (makes “Lift Every Voice” seem easy), but cripes, it just flattens me. And it flattened me today.
Archive for the 'Music' Category
I know I have readers in Austin. I’m gonna plug my old friend and former student, Tara Craig; she’s got a free gig tomorrow night at Austin Java; other upcoming gigs are listed on her Myspace page. I’ve seen her perform many times, and I wrote a short post about her a couple of years ago. Hey, there aren’t many lesbian Christian folk singers out there, at least not many with talent — and none of whom I am as deeply fond as I am of my buddy Tara. Check her out.
She’ll be performing next month in Austin with another singer/former student of mine, Meg Baier. Check out her site as well.
I’m home grading, watching basketball, and resting. The mild cold I’ve been fighting just won’t let go, so I’m not hitting the gym or the roads today. Lord willin’, I’ll log a few mountain miles before church tomorrow.
I missed the game of the day — the Rutgers upset of Duke. Watching both tournaments, there’s now no doubt at all that the women’s bracket is wilder and far more exciting. That hasn’t always been the case, and it’s a welcome change.
One thing about transitioning from vegetarian to completely vegan: giving up favorite holiday treats. If there’s one thing I adore, it’s Hot Cross Buns at Easter — even those awful, gooey, store-bought ones. (Nothing like a gluten and high fructose corn syrup overdose to really celebrate the Resurrection, I’ve always held.) Thinking about going without this year, I felt the onset of a mild panic, and became determined to look for an alternative. I’ve found this recipe, and I may try and make it with my family the day before… if anyone has a better one, please send it along.
Other randomnesses:
I can report that I’ve rediscovered — inexplicable as it may seem — my great love for all of Billy Joel’s early albums. (Turnstiles in particular.) “Summer, Highland Falls” has never shown up on a Friday Random Ten, and (checking my archives), “I’ve Loved these Days” has appeared but once. Given that these two songs would go with me to a desert island, I find that very odd.
My wife and I have spent the last month watching all of the Sopranos on DVD. We’ve finished seasons 1-5, and will finish season 6 this weekend. We so rarely sit and watch anything together; we’re always racing about somewhere. But we’re hooked now, and have even ordered HBO in order to watch the final season when it begins a fortnight from now.
And let me commend two superb pieces at Huffington Post to you: first, Jill Filipovic of Feministe on the Miss USA pageant. Best bit:
If we actually want to move on from beauty contests, we need to tackle the broader problems of positioning women as consumable products, state attempts at controlling female sexuality, and the continued marginalization of women in the workplace. We need to drop the obsession with women’s bodies and with what women do with their reproductive organs. In a nutshell, we need to recognize that women are human beings worthy of full human rights, and that we are not decorations or vessels or servants.
And Harry Knox on the brave refusal of the bishops of Episcopal Church USA (including our own wonderful Jon Bruno) to back down from their inclusive positions on homosexuality and the ordination of women. Best bit:
The bishops have acted with great love for the Church and with a greater love for the justice God requires of all of us. They have reiterated their desire to remain in the larger Anglican Communion, but not at the expense of their lesbian and gay sisters and brothers in Christ. They have not abandoned women as sacrifices on the altar of an idol called the unity of the Communion. They have not given up their democratic principles in order to keep a false peace.
Good on you both, Jill and Harry.
Oh, and since it’s been a while since I’ve linked to my ultimate blog crush, go read all the goodness at Chris Clarke’s place. This post got me.
Saturday afternoon, my wife and I sat together on the couch, switching back and forth between the two rivalry college football games that absorbed our interest. I was delighted to see my Golden Bears beat Stanford for the fifth straight year (something that hasn’t happened since the Harding Administration.) My beloved was heartsick, as she watched her alma mater’s eleven fall to the UCLA Bruins. A happy “date night” followed, and lifted much of her gloom.
Since I care about all forms of football, I note that Anson Dorrance’s Tar Heels won their 18th NCAA women’s soccer title in 25 years; Dorrance may have a checkered record in terms of his relationships with the young women he coaches (it’s amazing that in this day and age, he’s held on to his job), but no one denies he’s superb at every aspect of the game, from recruiting to teaching. And my father, who taught at UCSB for nearly forty years, would have been vaguely pleased that the Gaucho men pulled off a surprise win in the championship game of the men’s college cup, knocking off heavily-favored UCLA.
Anyhoo:
My wife did some competitive ballroom dancing in her teenage years. I, on the other hand, have two left feet. She’s very patient with me, even as I trod on her feet while trying to pull off some cumbia moves at our wedding reception. Still,on occasion my exuberant clumsiness makes her laugh. Somehow, last night, as I was doing the dishes, I started singing to myself (not uncommon) and doing some solitary dance moves as I rinsed the dinner plates. My wife walked in to the kitchen, stared at me in wonder, clapped her hands in glee, and asked “Where did you learn THAT?”
So, a story about my first dancing experience.
It was early August, 1979. I was twelve years old, and I was spending four weeks at a summer camp in the Santa Cruz mountains. It was a riding camp, and though I had grown up in a Western saddle, this was my first experience learning “English” style. (It took me the entire time I was there just to grasp the different way of holding the reins and the strange phenomenon of “posting.”) Anyhow, at the end of our first week at this large, co-ed camp for junior high and high school aged kids, we had a dance.
The camp’s brochure had promised a dance. I was prepared, having brought some nice slacks and a button-down shirt. I was also terrified. I had never been to a dance of any kind, and I had no idea how I would ever summon the courage to ask a girl to step on to the floor with me. Equally worrisome, I had no idea how to dance; I had seen other kids gyrating and bouncing on television (disco was ubiquitous in 1979), but I had two left feet and had no sense of how to begin.
I confessed my worry to a guy in my bunk house named Dominic. Dominic was a year older, and to my eyes, a paragon of physical and verbal sophistication. Dominic was eager to tutor me, and on a Saturday afternoon, we had a brief dancing lesson. It’s difficult to describe, but I’ll try. Dominic said:
“Rock from side to side. Every once in a while, take your left foot and bring it behind your right one. Then bring it back, and take your right foot and put it behind your left. If you want, you can also take one or two steps to one side, and then the other. But mostly” — and here Dom was adamant — “mostly you just watch what the girl does and try and do the same thing.”
Twenty-seven years later, those same moves constitute the majority of my dance steps. Oh, I’ve had folks try and teach me more formal dancing. I was an escort to a Charity League cotillion in college, and tried to learn then. Utter failure. At my first two weddings, I tried to prepare for the “first dance” as best I could, and I suppose I didn’t embarrass myself too much. (Oh, FYI, at my first wedding, the first dance was to Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt’s “Don’t Know Much”; at the second, to Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You.”) And of course, my lovely wife has tried to teach me the basics of salsa many times. Mostly, I end up standing still and rolling my hips in a fashion that tends to promote hysterics. My wife’s Colombian relatives find my attempts at rhythm to be bizarre, tragic, earnest, and, apparently, touchingly captivating.
While I’m on the subject of that first summer camp dance, let me say it was a great success. It was a mixed dance for high school and junior highers; I was among the younger kids there. But several of the older girls took it upon themselves to ask the shy younger boys to dance, and after I had only been watching the hopping and bouncing for a few minutes, one gal — perhaps sixteen — suddenly took my hand and led me on to the floor. She was patient and immensely kind, and we danced two “fast” songs together. I don’t remember the second, but the first was Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded”. I did as Dom had instructed, noting that my generous and pretty partner was doing more or less the same. I felt extraordinarily satisfied with myself.
At the end of the second song, the gal who had taken me to the floor thanked me — she thanked me! — and went off to dance with a handsomer, older fella. I didn’t care whether she had taken my hand out of pity, or kindness, or because her counselor had told all of the older girls to get a shy junior high boy to dance. All I cared about was that this nameless brunette with the warm smile had taken my hand, done the hard work of asking for me, and had stayed with me through not one but two songs. She’d be in her mid-forties now, whoever and wherever she is. But whenever I hear “Hot Blooded” on the radio — and I know every word, of course — I think of that foggy August night in a large cafeteria in the Santa Cruz mountains. I think of a long-haired cover band, who in my memory were magnificent. I think of the girl in the grey sweater who made me feel as if I belonged on a dance floor, who made clumsy, shy, inarticulate and chubby me feel wanted, if only for a few precious minutes. (God of infinite wonders, continue to bless this woman and her family.)
And I think of Dominic’s voice in my head, telling me to rock back and forth and slide one foot behind the other. Last night, I found myself doing the same moves as I washed and dried the dishes. And I know I looked silly, and I didn’t give a damn.
The real question is, will my ballroom-dancing, salsa and merengue-mastering wife let me pass on Dominic’s suggestions to our children? The early word on that isn’t promising, alas.
The cameras have been coming around All Saints Pasadena a lot in recent weeks. Our famously progressive church has, as many know, been under IRS scrutiny for some months thanks to a 2004 sermon that may or may not have violated our non-profit status.
But the cameras and the reporters don’t come to Wednesday night youth group. And while it’s true that our inclusive, welcoming theology is hardly what is normally described as "evangelical", I am happy to say that our worship culture is being transformed. A few years ago, I felt like the token "Jesus freak" at All Saints; the theology of most of my fellow youth workers was more Unitarian than anything. Many of the older teens were openly hostile to any frank expressions of Christian faith; they preferred a youth group that was equal parts games, intellectual discussion, and group therapy. (Those are parts of a good youth experience, of course, but ought not be the sum total.)
In the last two years, the church has brought in some full-time youth ministers who manage to combine a respect for All Saints progressive political culture with an evangelical commitment to Christ. This year, our junior-high minister started a praise band, made up of himself and five kids from both the senior and junior highs. They’ve been learning basic worship songs, and last night, we had our first praise and worship time at All Saints in my eight years of working with the youth group.
My friends from the more charismatically inclined churches would have felt right at home last night. The band was good (we have a number of teens who attend arts "magnet" high schools and are nearly professional in their abilities), and the combined junior high/senior high group responded remarkably well. And the songs we sang! Most of the kids and the other adult youth leaders didn’t know them beforehand, but as someone who listens to Christian radio and has spent plenty of time in more evangelical settings, they were quite familiar to me. This one’s a favorite of mine, and it was a delicious bit of cognitive dissonance to hear it sung by 60 young voices at All Saints, many swaying and dancing as they did so.
At what may be the flagship parish of the American Anglican left, at a church where we regularly preach about the inherent goodness of humankind and where we deny the excesses of Calvinist doctrine, our 13-17 year-olds sang to Jesus:
I am full of earth
You are Heaven’s worth
I am stained with dirt, prone to depravity
You are everything that is bright and clean, the antonym of me
You are divinity
But a certain sign of grace is this
From the broken earth flowers
Come up pushing through the dirt
It’s lousy poetry, but it ends up opening a splendid praise song. Who says you can’t combine liberal politics, an open-minded understanding of human sexuality, and enthusiastic praise worship? Who says you can’t preach the theology of John Spong and sing lyrics that recall the theology of John Calvin? Isn’t adolescence partly about the triumphant recognition and embracing of contradictions? (Okay, I’m half-joking with that one…)
All Saints is gettin’ groovy.
Sunday notes:
A. My wife is out of town for the week. She and her best friend left for Europe two days ago, and won’t be back until October 9. I miss her very much, but am glad she and her buddy get this time together. I’m often away from her on weekend retreats with my youth group, after all. We spend 50 weeks a year together; it makes sense to us to spend two weeks (on average) apart. Earlier this week, I mentioned to one of my gym buddies that my wife was headed off on a trip, and he gaped at me. "You let your wife go to Europe without you?" He was incredulous. I set him straight about the whole notion of "letting" as quickly as I could.
Now mind you, I’d be sad if my wife would always rather travel without me, but we’ve done a lot of traveling together in the past year (three times to the East Coast; to Africa; South America; England; Dubai) and we’ll be traveling abroad together again over Christmas break. We both know our lives will change radically when we have children, so we’re racking up the miles while we have the time. (Someday, I will post all of my tips for accruing and redeeming frequent flyer miles. Stay tuned.)
B. I’ll be taking a little trip of my own next weekend: I’ll be in Berkeley to see my beloved Golden Bears play their homecoming football game against the Oregon Ducks. Both teams are ranked, both teams have potent offenses, and it should be a good battle. It will also be my first game at Memorial Stadium in Berkeley in twenty years; I haven’t seen Cal play at home since the 1986 Big Game against Stanford, when I was a 19 year-old sophomore. Many of today’s Berkeley students weren’t even born then…
C. I ran to the top of Mt. Wilson again today, and have now logged over 50 miles since Tuesday. This makes me realize that five things are guaranteed to happen when my wife goes on vacation:
1. My normally ambitious exercise program will move from the merely compulsive to the definitively obsessive.
2. I will live on peanut butter, coffee, rice cakes, protein shakes, pineapple rings, and Clif Bars.
3. As a result of #1 and #2, I will lose weight.
4. The bed will go unmade.
5. The television will be on all the time, set to CNN or ESPN News.
D. Finally, I want to report that a memorial concert was held last night to honor my late father. A group of his chamber music friends gathered at Santa Barbara’s Music Academy of the West to play a variety of selections that were special to my daddy. My father was dedicated to his cello; next to his family, it gave him the greatest joy of his life. The music was magnificent and wide-ranging: Dvorak, Somis, Schumann, and many others. (In our family, we really love Schumann.) The final piece, chosen by my father’s dear friend and teacher Nona Pyron, was Max Bruch’s achingly moving Kol Nidrei. Given that it was the (almost) eve of Yom Kippur, and given my father’s own deeply ambivalent feelings about his Jewish heritage, it was a magnificent choice. I knew most of the selections, but had never heard the Bruch. I’m ordering a copy now.
I am the eldest son of a man who was very widely loved in his world. As sad as I remain, three months after his death, I am awed and inspired by how much joy he brought to others. Last night’s concert — which I attended with my stepmother and one of my sisters — was a tremendous gift to our family, and a wonderful reminder of just how many people cared so deeply for my Dad. Words do not have the power to convey my gratitude.
Yes, I will be leaving Typepad soon. I’m getting some technical assistance from a wonderful and well-known source in the feminist blogosphere, and within the next few weeks this blog will have an updated look (I’ll be using a Wordpress platform, for those in the know) — and a new address. I’ll keep you posted!
As for today’s FRT, once again only one of my wife’s tracks makes the list. #3 is an old favorite of mine; the sarcasm in Gram Parsons’ voice as he sings is delicious. I make no apologies for being fond of #6. I adore the splendid Shakira without reservation, and it’s not just because she’s a costena from the Caribbean coast of Colombia (where my mother-in-law was born.) And #10 is from one of my two favorite Christian bands.
1. "Wreck of the Day", Anna Nalick
2. "Make it Happen", Mariah Carey
3. "The Christian Life", The Byrds
4. "Cry Love", John Hiatt
5. "Battleflag", Pigeonhed
6. "Kickstart my Heart", Motley Crue
7. "Goodbye My Lover", James Blunt
8. "Fool", Shakira
9. "I Bid You Goodnight", Aaron Neville
10. "There You Go", Caedmon’s Call
Fourth post of the day. I’m thinking of revising and expanding the "wild oats" piece below to make it more coherent.
I’ve been playing Shakira’s Laundry Service over and over again lately. My beautiful and wonderful wife has nothing to worry about, mind, but like so many other folks out there, I’m totally captivated by the gal from Barranquilla. I can’t think of any other "top 40" pop artist in recent years whose music I’ve enjoyed so much, so consistently.
Though I’m no longer a member of Feminists for Life, I still get their email alerts. Today, in regards to SB 403 (dealing with the ability of minors to cross state lines to get access to reproductive services), I got this:
Dear Feminist for Life:
We have a final opportunity for the 109th Congress to pass legislation that would protect minors from being transported across state lines to obtain an abortion without parental notification.
I am asking that you contact both of your U.S. Senators today and urge them to support passage of the Child Custody Protection Act or CIANA (Child Interstate Abortion Notification Act), S. 403.
This newly passed version is an even more comprehensive version than the original House-passed CIANA. Some of the highlights include:
- making it a federal offense to transport a minor across state lines to obtain an abortion;
- the requirement that every doctor performing an abortion notify at least one parent before performing an abortion on a minor who resides in a different state;
- and the bipartisan Senate-passed amendment—included in the new House version—that makes it a separate federal offense for a parent who impregnates a daughter to transport that daughter across state lines.
- It also bars a parent who has impregnated a daughter from benefiting from the right to sue those who violate other provisions in the bill.
Okay, let’s leave aside the merits of the bill. What’s up with the section I’ve put in bold? Newsflash, my friends at FFLA: no girl has ever been impregnated by her mom. Not one. The only parent that can impregnate a daughter is the father. In this instance, it’s patently absurd to use the term "parent" when it clearly only refers to fathers.
Feminists for Life lost a lot of its credibility with me when it stopped actively campaigning against the death penalty as well as abortion (something it did throughout the late 1990s). It’s really just another anti-abortion organization whose actual positions have become virtually indistinguishable from the generally anti-feminist Christian Right. And using the term "parent" here smacks of an eagerness to avoid offending those who might feel as if fathers were being unreasonably singled out.
Clearly, the secular left no longer has a monopoly on politically correct language.
One more post on this Friday afternoon. Nothing again until Tuesday.
I think this post may be an important one. (Warning: lots of profanity a-comin’.)
The writing project I am working on at the moment concerns a book about men, certainty, and accountability. It’s slow going; writing a book proposal and sample chapters is different from blogging! Still, I’m getting some good ideas and some good support, and in due course, this project is going to turn out well. I am quietly confident of that.
I go back and forth between playing music while I write. When I blog from home, I just open our Itunes account and let the party shuffle bring out a gloriously random mix. When I need to do some serious writing, I turn down the sound to minimize the noise that goes into my head. But just before I sat down to write, two songs I’ve recently downloaded came on, back to back: James Blunt’s "Goodbye My Lover" and Blue October’s "Hate Me." Both songs have been getting quite a bit of airplay, and they were catchy enough that I paid $.99 each for ‘em.
In both songs, the male singer seems to be cataloging his own shortcomings. As popular and over-played as his music is, there’s something seductive about Blunt’s material, and his "Goodbye My Lover" ends:
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
I’m so hollow, baby, I’m so hollow.
I’m so, I’m so, I’m so hollow.
The "Hate Me" song concludes:
And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave
Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made
And like a baby boy I never was a man
Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand
And then I fell down yelling “Make it go away!”
Just make a smile come back and shine just like it used to be
And then she whispered “How can you do this to me?”
Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you
Hate me in ways
Yeah ways hard to swallow
Hate me so you can finally see what’s good for you
For you
For you
For you
And so here I was, trying to write my damned chapter, and all I could think of us how angry these two songs were making me. Mind you, I paid for ‘em, and they are fine tunes. But in our contemporary culture, the last thing we need is more celebration of male weakness!
I admit that as I age, I’ve grown less and less interested in what’s on the pop charts. I flip through radio stations from time to time, and the Blunt and Blue October songs are two that have caught my ear in recent weeks. But am I wrong in saying that in recent years, we’ve seen a marked increase in the number of what my be called "I’m such a hopeless piece of shit" music?
I’ve been told that the band Staind began the trend, particularly with their huge 2001 hit It’s Been a While. That song, which was inescapable on pop radio for months, included these lyrics:
And it’s been awhile
Since I can say that I wasn’t addicted
And it’s been awhile
Since I can say I love myself as well
And it’s been awhile
Since I’ve gone and fucked things up just like I always do
And it’s been awhile
But all that shit seems to disappear when I’m with you
And everything I can’t remember
As fucked up as it all may seem
The consequences that I’ve rendered
I’ve gone and fucked things up again
A couple of things strike me about these songs:
One, almost all the anger seems to be directed inwards. In earlier eras of rock music, young men were angry — at women, at their parents, at injustice, society, conformity, whatever. But the lyrics to these modern hits reflect a very specific kind of self-loathing that didn’t seem present in the "hot hits" of my youth. There’s no blaming of others — the message seems to be one of mea culpa,mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Two, there’s no real possibility of reconciliation, transformation, or solution. Blunt finishes his song with "I’m so hollow", leaving no sense that this is something that he thinks he can change. The writers of these songs are very articulate about their own shortcomings (which they spell out in nearly pornographic detail). On the other hand, they are completely mute about the possibility of redemption or change. Blunt’s hollowness is not a character flaw that can be overcome through attention and effort — it is an inherent part of his character, and it is apparently why he and his lover have had to say goodbye. In the Blue October song, the narrator is newly sober, but reflects only on the myriad reasons why he drove his girlfriend away. There is no desire to reconcile, only the fervent hope that his ex will forget about him forever and hate him as much as he already hates himself.
As someone who teaches and writes about men and masculinity, I’m struck by this growing phenomenon of male self-loathing in popular music. On the one hand, I find something very positive in it. The songwriters have a kind of insight that seems to have eluded an older generation of male performers. They don’t blame others for their problems, they take full responsibility for their catalogue of shortcomings. In the Staind song:
And everything I can’t remember
As fucked up as it all may seem to be I know it’s me
I cannot blame this on my father
He did the best he could for me
Taking responsibility for one’s failures is surely a step towards maturity. If these lads have figured out that it’s not all their parents’ fault — or that of their girlfriends — they’ve learned a valuable and important lesson.
But in and of itself, acutely accurate insight into one’s own psyche is useless unless that insight serves as a catalyst for change. Indeed, insight without action is particularly galling. It’s one thing to not recognize one’s own flaws, another to wallow in them in joyful misery! The writers/singers of these songs have no interest in saving the relationships, only in mourning them. They have no real conviction that they could actually change and stop being "hollow". There’s a kind of masochistic celebration in all this "See, I know I’m an asshole. But at least I acknowledge it! And I can’t do anything about it!" The self-pity is neck-deep and rising.
There’s another aspect to all of this "Self-Hating, Passive-Aggressive Male Pop." As many women find out, lots of men use self-loathing as an effective tool for deflecting female anger. Women very often express profound exasperation with their boyfriend or husband, only to have him hang his head and say "You’re right. I’m a worthless piece of shit. I’ve always been shit. I can’t believe you stay with me." If he fought back (not physically, mind you), a constructive discussion might take place. But if the fella says worse things about himself than his wife or girlfriend would ever say about him, then he cleverly tries to steal her thunder. She’s forced to either agree with him or to bite back her own anger and begin to comfort him. Many women find out sooner or later that male expressions of self-loathing are usually a passive-aggressive technique designed to avoid conflict. It’s a technique that invariably undermines and eventually destroys the relationship. It leaves both partners depressed and exhausted. And it has no place in a healthy relationship.
Here’s my first draft of a theory about this music: it reflects an increased self-absorption and passivity on the part of many young American (and perhaps English) men. Growing up in a world where women seem increasingly confident — and increasingly willing to demand accountability and responsibility from their brothers, lovers, boyfriends and husbands — these young men feel overwhelmed. And rather than rise to the exciting challenges of a new and unprecedented period of sexual egalitarianism, these young men want to continue to behave recklessly and irresponsibly and self-indulgently. Knowing in advance that this sort of behavior will exasperate, enrage, and disappoint the women in their lives, some of these lads (of the sort in the Blue October and James Blunt songs) decide on a "reverse pre-emptive strike." They will simply announce in advance that they are hopeless, hollow, and incorrigible. That way, any woman foolish enough to hang around is only getting what she deserves, because after all, the guy was open and honest with her about his myriad shortcomings and his utter unwillingness to do anything about it.
Frankly, as a man who is dedicated to seeing men transform their lives and take responsibility, this is not a hopeful trend.
Thoughts?
A third post for my first day back.
While my wife and I were on vacation in Northern California eleven days ago, Los Angeles lost its one commercial country music station. On August 17, KZLA suddenly switched from a country to a "rhythmic pop" format. (No more Gretchen Wilson, but yet another outlet for the Black-Eyed Peas.)
The Los Angeles Times had an editorial on this yesterday. The reasoning behind the switch is summarized here:
The format change, as in other big cities that no longer have country stations, stems in large part from changing demographics. A top executive at Emmis Communications, which owns KZLA, told The Times that 60% of the local audience is Latino, Asian or African American, while "country fans are about 98% Caucasian." The top slots in Arbitron’s local radio rankings have been dominated in recent years by stations offering Spanish programming, hip-hop, R&B and pop hits, while KZLA’s ratings have been mired just outside the Top 20.
Now, I am not devastated by the loss of KZLA. I love country music, mind you, but commercial radio rarely played the artists I like. I have little time for Toby Keith, Keith Urban, or Faith Hill; I’m much more inclined to listen to old Merle Haggard, or new Tift Merritt. More importantly, I have access to a computer with a broadband connection — and I own an Ipod. Rather than endure the extraordinarily narrow range of choices (and the endless commercials) on broadcast radio, I can listen to the songs I want when I want them — at work, at home, in the car. Of course, I have to pay for them, but it’s worth it.
Black, Latino, and Asian teens — who seem to be the primary audience for this rhythmic pop format that took over the country station — have less disposable income. They are less likely to have satellite radio subscriptions, less likely to have access to internet radio. "Free" commercial radio is a far more important source of entertainment in their lives. Perhaps this is why we have five or six stations in Los Angeles now that play that maddeningly awful Gnarls Barkley "Crazy" song, and none that will play the latest from Tim McGraw.
On the other hand, perhaps there are other factors at play. Country music is often associated with working or lower-middle class whites. Since the 1970s, the white working class in Los Angeles has been headed east — to the so-called Inland Empire of Riverside and San Bernardino counties. They have lots of country stations out there, as well as a very popular site for NASCAR racing. Perhaps KZLA simply couldn’t cope with a shrinking audience of white listeners. The impact of satellite radio and the Ipod, combined with "white flight" to the eastern suburbs of the Inland Empire, made the market too small.
And there is still another question at hand. Why are so many young people of all races attracted to rap and rhythmic pop,and so few kids of color drawn to country? You’ll see many more young whites at a Peas concert than you will see young African-Americans or Latinos at a Brooks and Dunn show. Country has failed miserably at attracting young people of color, particularly in urban areas. Conversely, hip-hop has done famously well at drawing in many young whites, even in suburban and rural areas. Is there still a legacy of racism around country music, forty years after the great Charlie Pride smashed the color line in Nashville? Or do the sounds and melodies of country music (whatever the sub-genre) have little to attract young urbanites? To flirt with a racist stereotype, is it because country is perceived as undanceable by many young people of color — an audience for whom music that is danceable is the sine qua non?
One of my favorite recent "pop" country songs is "Redneck Woman", a major hit for Gretchen Wilson a year or two ago. It’s a humorous, boisterous, celebration of a particular kind of life: rural, unpretentious, candid, bawdy, hard-working. I listened to it the same way I listened to the marvelous Don Williams track from a quarter century ago, Good Old Boys Like Me. (Famously quoted in "Primary Colors", it features an homage to Thomas Wolfe and Tennessee Williams, indicating that "good ole boys" can have intellectual aspirations as well.) Both songs celebrate a kind of life that is familiar to me, albeit from a slight distance.
But I wonder, do these songs come across as having racist, unwelcoming undertones? Are there still folks out there who confuse "redneck" and "good old boy" with "racist" and "intolerant"? Is that why my students (85% non-white) don’t listen to Gretchen Wilson, while white kids in West Texas enthusiastically download Snoop Dogg?
I’ve got a CD playing on my office computer now — the heavenly voices of Ricky Skaggs and Emmylou Harris in bluegrass duets fill my office. I can’t imagine many of my students would be much interested.
After having taught 20 classes in the past twelve months (seven per regular semester, three each in the winter and summer intersessions) I am enjoying the break until August 28. I’m working on a book proposal — about which I’ll say more when that project is further along. I’m spending lots of time outdoors in "my" mountains, and indoors at the movies.
Today’s movie recommendation: Quinceanera. Filmed in and around nearby Echo Park, it’s a joy to watch. I caught the matinee today by myself, and wept enthusiastically through the last fifteen minutes.
Early this morning, I ran up the Brown Mountain fire road and counted no fewer than three dozen rabbits. Bunnies are among the chief joys of running just after dawn. Near the top of the climb, I came across fresh mountain lion tracks, the first I’ve seen all summer. Since it was still fairly near dawn, and I was running alone, I cast quite a few glances over my shoulder. I don’t fear large mammals; the chances of getting attacked by a lion or bear in these hills are pretty remote, though I see their paw prints and scat fairly often. The only creature I fear up there is Mr. Rattlesnake, and the earlier in the day I get the run done, the less of a chance I will find him sunbathing in my path… I am terrified of snakes, so much so that I actually pick my running routes and times to avoid them.
This morning’s run wraps up fifty miles of running in the past six days, my best total so far this year. I was once able to sustain this mileage for months at a time, but it’s really only on vacations that I can push that hard these days. I need to find a fall trail race.
I had a very strange, vaguely sensual dream (no details, sorry) last night, the sort that lingers with you throughout the day. One key tidbit: Billy Crudup was in it. If someone makes a movie of my life, I want him to play me. He’s also my answer to the question, "if you were going to change your sexual orientation for a celebrity, who would it be?"
I’m reading novels again too! I’ve rediscovered Robertson Davies, one of my favorite writers when I was in grad school. This week, I’m making my way through my favorite of his books, Murther and Walking Spirits. I may get through the wonderful Cornish Trilogy again before school starts if I make a push. Davies infuriates me and comforts me — and yes, his snobbishness strikes an uncomfortably familiar chord in my life. It’s been long enough that I’ve completely forgotten the plots, which makes ‘em more fun to read.
And like everyone else these days, I’m listening to James Blunt. "Wisemen" is in my head constantly; it’s also in the trailer for the new BIlly Crudup movie, so it all is connecting somewhere.
Back to the novel. More reprints for the next 18 days, and then — Lord willing and the creek don’t rise — some inspired blogging again.
Given that I needed to get up at 4:30AM to go boxing, I was perhaps foolish in staying up late to follow the California primary returns on line. In general, I’ve got to say I’m disappointed. While the candidates I supported in the Democratic primary for state-wide office all won, I was saddened by the defeat of the two initiatives that would have increased funding for libraries and provided for universal preschool. I’m also disappointed to learn, thanks to the estimable Dan Weintraub, that in six state senate primaries where pro-business moderate Democrats faced off with labor-backed progressives, the moderates won all but one. Though the Dems will surely retain control of the state legislature after the November election, this means a clear move towards the right.
Community colleges had mixed results with bond proposals.
Somehow I made it through boxing with energy to spare, and feel invigorated and alive despite just four and a half hours sleep — again.
I’ve been listening to the new Dixie Chicks cd and loving it; yes, my Chick fandom long predates their public criticisms of President Bush. I don’t let politics affect my musical choices. While my favorite living artist is the solidly progressive PETA spokeswoman, Emmylou Harris, I’m also happy to listen to those whose views are firmly to the right.
Speaking of music, my wife and I went to a choir concert at a local high school last night; one of the girls from my youth group was singing. It was an interesting and daring set of choices for a high school choir: Faure, Shostakovich, Robert Muczynski, and, of all the darned things, Geddy Lee. The kids sang a rather sweet version of the former Rush frontman’s "Tears." I doubt any of the teenagers at South Pasadena High even have heard of Rush, but back when I was in high school, they were enormously popular with a certain set of kids to which I didn’t belong. I never liked so-called progressive rock: in high school I was too fond of British and American punk (from the Clash to the Circle Jerks to Jodie Foster’s Army).
Oh, and the new Carnival of the Feminists is up. Go now.
A more serious post coming up!
Another busy morning with several things to be done. I doubt I’ll have much time for a serious post today.
We went with some friends to see Emmylou Harris last night at the Disney Concert Hall. She was magnificent, as always (this is the third time I’ve seen her play live.) As with the last time I saw her, she made explicit reference to her work on behalf of PETA and the Humane Society, and asked that her audience remember the animal victims of Katrina at Christmas. I clapped enthusiastically when she said this, and heard the young woman behind me mutter, "Oh come on and sing already." I resisted the urge to turn around and fix her with a baleful stare.
I’m fortunate, I suppose, in that for the most part, I share the politics of my favorite artists. The music I love most is folk/alt country/Americana; my musical idols range from Pete Seeger to Steve Earle to Dolly Parton and Emmylou. And though "pop" country has a reputation for flag-waving jingoism (think Toby Keith), the bluegrass/alt. country world is fairly consistent in its left-wing politics. It’s nice to both admire an artist’s music and his or her political stances, but it isn’t essential. I loved Merle Haggard, even if "Okie from Muskogee" was an appallingly reactionary song!
I thought a lot about Tookie Williams and his victims last night as I sat and listened to Emmylou. Since we were in downtown L.A. fairly late in the evening, I thought about the rumours I’d heard about gang violence and retaliation in the event that Tookie was actually executed. I was acutely aware of the comfort of my seat, and the expense of the ticket, and the heaviness in my belly from the pre-concert meal at a trendy restaurant. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a really visceral attack of "middle-class white guilt", but somehow, I felt it very strongly last night.
The solution to that feeling, I’ve come to believe, is not to sit and wallow in it, but get up and do stuff. And when I look at how much time my wife and I give in volunteering, and I look at the fact that we give a genuine tithe, I’m comforted that we are sharing our good fortune. But I also know I can do still more, and finding ways to do that will be one of my main goals for 2006.
In any event, Emmylou was magnificent. I sang "Boulder to Birmingham" all the way home last night, interspersing the lyrics with stream-of-consciousness prayers for those in harm’s way (especially in Iraq) and for those whose motives and actions I struggle to understand (like death penalty advocates and those who wear fur.)
Some random notes at Thursday lunch time:
1. I thought I had the market to myself on the topic of men, women, and domestic obligations when I posted yesterday. But there’s been a lot of talk in the blogosphere about this Linda Hirshman piece, particularly at Bitch Ph.D, Pandagon, and Majikthise. All good and thought-provoking.
2. For reasons that I’m not ready to blog about yet, I updated my CV today — something I haven’t done in many, many years. One of the things about tenure is that I don’t apply for jobs very often! I’ve got something in the works that may or may not pan out, so I’m keeping it quiet — but I do have cause to fiddle with the old resume. (Neither fear nor rejoice; I am not leaving Pasadena City College). The last time I wrote a CV, it was 1993 and I was banging it out on a first-generation portable Mac (pre-Powerbook).
3. At Christianity Today, Sarah Sumner has an interesting point about how we read Ephesians 5. Great stuff. She writes the article I wish I had written when I quickly banged out this post back in February: NIV, TNIV, and Ephesians 5.
4. I can’t decide whether I’m rooting for UCLA or USC this weekend. As a Golden Bear to my core, it’s easy to say "a pox on both your houses." On the one hand, I did spend years and years of my graduate career at UCLA, and they did pay me to tutor their athletes. On the other hand, my wife is devout Trojan fan and a proud alumna. She cares a great deal, and I want to see her happy. On the third hand, UCLA has lost six in a row to ‘SC, and are due a win. I’ll wear red and blue on Saturday and enjoy the game. In my days as a Berkeley student, I hated both schools — and I was fond of saying that I would "root for a tie, marred by significant and demoralizing injuries to both squads." I’ve become a more charitable fellow in my old age!
5. Last night in youth group, we asked the kids to name their favorite Christmas carols. We got several "All I want for Christmas is you" responses, (perhaps thanks to Love, Actually) . Of the traditional carols, several of the choir kids backed "Masters in this Hall" (because they sing it each year). We got one vote for Dar Williams "Christians and the Pagans" (a song I love, by the way), two votes for "Santa Baby" (how do they know such an old song?), two for "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer", and a few "Jingle Bells". No "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer".
I cast my vote for "Joy to the World", but my real favorite is one my mother sang to me as a child in German: "Oh, du froehliche". I am singing it to myself now.
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