Since my vacation to Las Vegas was cancelled I decided to blow the "gamblin' money" I'd been saving on music and books. I bought some good new albums but I had a hard time finding something decent to read.
Scouring through book stores is one of the greatest things in the world, and one of my favorite time-wasters. When it fails to end in the triumph of finding something to read, I'm left with a definite itch. Why couldn't I find anything that piqued my interest? I'll explain.
While I'm pretty much set on what kind of music I listen to and the kind of films I like to watch, my taste in literature is very eclectic. I admittedly love a good crime novel but once you wander past the writings of James Ellroy and Scott Phillips the pickings are disturbingly slim. So, I like to have an open palette for books that spans across genres. I only require that it interests me and makes me think. I’ll go into a book store, pour over the shelves and find something that meets my criteria. This last trip left me cold.
Every synopsis I read started out with "Carl, a disenfranchised black man..." or "Sara is a struggling and vulnerable young woman..." or "Manuel picks strawberries..." and on and on it went. It was all the same bourgeois agenda with different names and locations. Now, I’m positive that every book written in the last decade didn’t subscribe to the self-pitying underdog; I just couldn’t find one outside that realm. Anyway, I was left thinking as to why we have hundreds of books about the same stale and tired story? Every one was some sort of bestseller or had Oprah's stamp of approval (who made her some a literary authority anyway? I’d like to see her credentials). Am I the only one who finds these literary soap-boxes that force-feed the reader a healthy dose of altruism to be contrived and boring? I’m totally fine being the pooper at this particular pity-party if that means I’ll be able to find a decent read the next time I stop at the Barnes and Noble.
My problem is that the cutting edge on which great literature sits has become dulled by political correctness and social climates. It’s like these authors don’t want to take chances anymore. I mean, the only person who probably hasn’t heard about the “racial climates” of America is Paris Hilton and seeing as how she’s illiterate I’m guessing she’s not the intended audience. Seeing all these books is like staring at the same word written over and over: it loses all meaning. Same thing happens with these books. But what can I really expect from a generation of idiots who say things like “lol?”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Are You Experienced?
I’m calling all you musical heathens to repentance. Consider me a prophet of the Rock Gods sent to liberate you.
I was chastising someone the other day about her lack of musical prowess. “You’re one of those guys who buys whole albums still, aren’t you?” she asked in a particularly sassy rebuttal. Yes, I am one of those “guys who buys whole albums,” and let me tell you why: an album is supposed to be an experience.
I remember my parents’ old turntable very well. It was metallic gray and sat on top of their matching stereo system. I used to sit on the couch, entranced, listening to my father’s original vinyl of “Zoso” (what some of you might know as “Led Zeppelin IV,” or for the musically unaware it was the album that gave light to “Stairway to Heaven”). I would listen to the entire 45 minutes in silent wonder; absorbed into the album from the dirty guitar intro of “Black Dog” to the melodic strum of “Stairway,” at the end of which I would take my cue and flip the record to finish with the pounding, seven-minute, blues anthem (and my personal favorite from LZ) “When the Levee Breaks.”
Even now, decades after my first love-affair with Led Zeppelin, I make time to “experience” every album I buy. It’s more than respect to the artistry of it, but any real artist worth their salt makes albums that should be listened to in their entirety. An album is a product as a whole. Listening to only one song is like buying your favorite chapter out of a book. Yeah, it might be good, it might speak to you, but it’s only a single part of a greater work.
Maybe you can get away with your single-track iTunes purchase with “Nickelback” or “Beyonce” but there is a whole world of music that needs to be experienced as a sum total. How many hits would have remained undiscovered if a DJ hadn’t simply flipped the record over to see what was on the B-Side? Great music is waiting to be listened to, but you’re not going to find it if you only pick the mainstreamed hits you heard on the radio. Go on Philistines, go have an experience.
I was chastising someone the other day about her lack of musical prowess. “You’re one of those guys who buys whole albums still, aren’t you?” she asked in a particularly sassy rebuttal. Yes, I am one of those “guys who buys whole albums,” and let me tell you why: an album is supposed to be an experience.
I remember my parents’ old turntable very well. It was metallic gray and sat on top of their matching stereo system. I used to sit on the couch, entranced, listening to my father’s original vinyl of “Zoso” (what some of you might know as “Led Zeppelin IV,” or for the musically unaware it was the album that gave light to “Stairway to Heaven”). I would listen to the entire 45 minutes in silent wonder; absorbed into the album from the dirty guitar intro of “Black Dog” to the melodic strum of “Stairway,” at the end of which I would take my cue and flip the record to finish with the pounding, seven-minute, blues anthem (and my personal favorite from LZ) “When the Levee Breaks.”
Even now, decades after my first love-affair with Led Zeppelin, I make time to “experience” every album I buy. It’s more than respect to the artistry of it, but any real artist worth their salt makes albums that should be listened to in their entirety. An album is a product as a whole. Listening to only one song is like buying your favorite chapter out of a book. Yeah, it might be good, it might speak to you, but it’s only a single part of a greater work.
Maybe you can get away with your single-track iTunes purchase with “Nickelback” or “Beyonce” but there is a whole world of music that needs to be experienced as a sum total. How many hits would have remained undiscovered if a DJ hadn’t simply flipped the record over to see what was on the B-Side? Great music is waiting to be listened to, but you’re not going to find it if you only pick the mainstreamed hits you heard on the radio. Go on Philistines, go have an experience.
Monday, March 1, 2010
It's another sunny day in Hell
Let's clear something up, just because the blog is titled "The Weekly Misanthrope" does not mean I've resolved within myself or to some higher power that I will update this weekly. Simply "The Weekly Misanthrope" rolls off the tongue easier than "The Intermittant Misanthrope." This is my blog and it will hold no real weight over me. This blog is my bitch and I will write when I feel like it whether that is bimonthly or biweekly if my self-loathing is running exceptionally high. Let it be known I don't really even like "blogging," I just need an outlet because my editor won't let me use the word "poontang." Apparently it isn't objective.
Now that we've cleared that up lets address something more important: we might not be friends and yes, I'm totally fine with that. The point of writing is for someone to read it; it's a dialogue, an expression of ideas. I won't be one of those absurd digital natives who posts their shopping list in some vapid attempt to superficially connect because they're otherwise incapable of true human contact. I'll write about what I deem to be important. I'll write about my current obsessions or beefs or whatever I think is wrong. If you don't agree with me about something: tell me, I invite you; get it off your chest. I believe in opposition, I believe in conflict. And we'll both feel a lot better if you say what you want. We writers don't do what we do to be popular, we do it so that A) our progeny won't be left sifting through petrified baskets trying to determine our intellect and B) to express human thought in an almost tangible manner.
So, let's raise another glass to the unforgiven and kick this mother off. I'll be drinking to my own health, feel free to do the same.
Unfaithfully yours,
Sousa
Now that we've cleared that up lets address something more important: we might not be friends and yes, I'm totally fine with that. The point of writing is for someone to read it; it's a dialogue, an expression of ideas. I won't be one of those absurd digital natives who posts their shopping list in some vapid attempt to superficially connect because they're otherwise incapable of true human contact. I'll write about what I deem to be important. I'll write about my current obsessions or beefs or whatever I think is wrong. If you don't agree with me about something: tell me, I invite you; get it off your chest. I believe in opposition, I believe in conflict. And we'll both feel a lot better if you say what you want. We writers don't do what we do to be popular, we do it so that A) our progeny won't be left sifting through petrified baskets trying to determine our intellect and B) to express human thought in an almost tangible manner.
So, let's raise another glass to the unforgiven and kick this mother off. I'll be drinking to my own health, feel free to do the same.
Unfaithfully yours,
Sousa
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)