Showing posts with label Ricky Gervais Show. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ricky Gervais Show. Show all posts
Friday, May 21, 2010
Crossing Abbey Road
There are two sources I use to find out all I need to know about rock and roll music: my soul and Allmusic.com. This is what the Allmusic.com biography for the Beatles says:
So much has been said and written about the Beatles — and their story is so mythic in its sweep — that it's difficult to summarize their career without restating clichés that have already been digested by tens of millions of rock fans. To start with the obvious, they were the greatest and most influential act of the rock era, and introduced more innovations into popular music than any other rock band of the 20th century. Moreover, they were among the few artists of any discipline that were simultaneously the best at what they did and the most popular at what they did.
This quote is absolutely on point regarding writing or speaking anything about the Beatles. Like John sang in “All You Need is Love,” when it comes to the Beatles there’s nothing you can do that can’t or hasn’t been done. However, like that statement also implies, the same fact holds true for life in general. That is why when I finally decided that I had to write about the Beatles in some way on this blog, I knew I had to just jump right in and write about them headlong. Obviously, you can write about any number of the Beatles’ albums. They each contain pleasures that are revealed upon each listen; they are each enjoyable; and they each require multiple listens. The one album that has always fascinated me for its elevated mystique and stature as a cultural icon within the Beatles catalogue has been Abbey Road. Now, I know that it is nearly impossible to raise one Beatles album or song above the others in mystique or in iconic nature, but I truly believe that there is some quality about Abbey Road that does just that. It stands alone in album history – there is no other that sounds like it. It sounded simultaneously of time and out of time with the world of 1969-1970 and opened the door for the overproduction of the 1970’s when the music was placed in lesser hands. It leaves one to wonder what the Beatles would have done had they stayed together.
But first we have to begin with the album itself and you have to start with the artwork. The image of the Beatles walking across the crosswalk outside of the Abbey Road Studios has been imprinted on t-shirts, blankets and banners all across the world. Moreso than the inner artwork for The White Album, it shows the Beatles as the individuals that they were becoming. The image was interpreted as an “Italian funeral procession” and mythologized in the Beatles canon for the perceived messages regarding the supposed death of Paul McCartney towards the end of the Beatles’ time as a band. It is a clean, balanced image with a sense of depth. It is an everyday image on which the mythological and the supernatural can be imposed: that is the quality that all great works of art achieve, namely (haha!) James Joyce’s Ulysses. When I was younger, and had my initial delusions of writing a novel, I came up with a concept for a novel that would revolve around a young boy who loved a band (a fictional version of the Beatles) so much that he sought them each out individually after they had broken up in an attempt to have them reunite. The album image I used as the focal point to describe the band in the initial pages of an ill-fated draft, was a rip-off of the Abbey Road cover. That is exactly what sets Abbey Road apart; it is that element of story that the album artwork emits. The album benefits from being the last recorded album in the band’s chronology so one can see it as an end, which allows the story itself to then become fully formed. Abbey Road shows four individuals growing from boys or young men, through the guise of friendship (a band) into adult individuals. The Beatles were a cocoon that allowed each member to emerge as their individual self, fully formed and tinted with their own color and personality. Abbey Road is the point when you realize that original form is truly and utterly gone. When I describe why I enjoy the Beatles to other people, I say it is because it is the closest real life has ever come to a fairy tale; the closest real life has ever come to fitting in place. Abbey Road for its cover art and the strange wistful feeling of the music that lies within its grooves and tracks captures that wistful notion of wanting to go back to the beginning of a story; of not wanting to say goodbye to the characters; it is the end of a novel, the end of the saga, and although our characters continue on, they do not exist in the same way that we knew them. Abbey Road is what completes that image of the Beatles as a band and in turn allows the image of the band as story – the band as fairy tale.
The Beatles began, like most bands of the 60’s did, as a band that focused on singles. That is exactly what Side 1 of the album accomplishes. Each song is a snapshot of what the band meant when they were all together as a unit, as an object that they were directly seen and consumed as. “Come Together” is a classic example of John’s self-deprecating wit and word games. However, here, unlike his solo career, the groove feels slinkier rather than sparse or slick, which were the two poles his solo career veered between. And in the remastered version, the song has an overall immediate groove to the rhythm section that the original recording sorely lacked. Paul’s harmonies on the verses give the song a sonic depth that much of John’s solo work only grasped at with either heavy-handed production or excess echo (which did work in certain instances). George’s slide guitar playing would also be missed on much of John’s solo work, or, if said instrument was present, was terribly overproduced. “Something” is soulful, spiritual and universal without being too preachy as George was often wont to do when he was out on his own. Although All Things Must Pass is arguably the best solo Beatles album, and on it, George often sings very direct lyrics, he was never more direct in his message and lyricism than on this track. “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” although detested by the band has a McCartney playfulness that lacks the sap that would almost surely have been featured in the final product had he gone about recording the track himself. There is something in the brief guitar bite in the chorus and the devilishness of the over innocence of the backing vocals that Paul could only accomplish as a part of The Beatles. The same sentiment goes for “Oh, Darling!” Paul came close to duplicating the effect on both “Baby I’m Amazed” and “Monkberry Moon Delight,” however each track was either too schlocky (the former) or too repetitive and nonsensical, albeit rocking (the latter). “Octopus’ Garden” features Ringo’s inspired writing to see a concept through as well as the support of the entire Beatles cast, rather than just one or two as most of Ringo’s solo albums did, which leads to its success; that and George’s excellent guitar playing, especially the catchy little guitar line at the end of his solo. John could have only successfully pulled off “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” in the Beatles. If he was solo, the guitar wouldn’t be as melodic and he would have lacked the almost “round” backing vocals that help the chorus build into a steady storm that eventually will become the track’s coda. Without George and Paul (and of course Ringo) this would have been a more one-dimensional rocker that many of John’s solo albums would feature. And with the brimming confidence of the moniker the Beatles, comes the ability to cut the tape at the very end of the side.
Unlike The White Album, we do not necessarily see the Beatles as complete separate entities on Abbey Road. It has been well documented that Abbey Road was acknowledged by the Beatles as being the last album that they would record together, so perhaps that plays a great part in their taking a posture as being “a band.” The acrimony between the members was well documented by the time they reconvened to record the album and each member had his own desires of being a grown adult individual, as we all surely do when we come to a certain age. And that is where “The Medley” comes in.
Side 2 is known more or less as “The Medley.” We all know how terrific a song “Here Comes the Sun Is” and in the remastered version, its sonic power is even more evident and unstoppable than originally heard. As for “Because,” well, Paul could finally say that he really beat Brian Wilson at his own game – although it was a John song. What we really come to Side 2 for is “The Medley.” Allow me to tell a story. Last weekend, I had to leave a friend’s barbeque in Westchester in order to make it to Park Slope for another barbeque. This friend was visiting from Texas and so a bunch of us went up to his family’s home to enjoy the afternoon and the charcoal smoke. I, like I often find myself doing, helped myself to a bevy of afternoon beers. When it was time to catch the 6:52 train, I found myself jogging away from my friend’s home at 6:42 towards the train station, which was just down the hill. I ran down the hill breathing in the cool air of the May evening. Young girls, presumably without driver’s licenses, passed me, talking on the street; talking probably of what boys they liked or what tests they had or even how to score a bag of pot. I jogged and crossed a creek, pausing midway when I saw a clearing just adjacent to the creek itself, where the sunlight filtered through the trees. There was warmth, there was light and there was coolness. The shape of the space made me want to run to it, but I needed to run to the train instead, which I did. I boarded the train and as it barreled back to New York City, I sat slouched in my seat looking out the window. I was daytime drunk and feeling pleased. The light filtered through trees as I passed them rapidly. I felt a certain freshness, a sense of being alive, of how big New York City was and of how much it encompassed. How this motion of riding a Metro North train down to Grand Central Station was inherent in New York. I rode while listening to “The Medley” and its vague sense of melancholy. One does not gain very much from listening to the Beatles’ lyrics. At best, they grope at an obtuse poetry that merely aims to please. However, the Beatles succeeded so well because they could mix melody and put a phrase to it to make it sound profound, which is what “The Medley” perfectly exemplifies. “Out of college money spent/See no future, pay no rent/All the money’s gone, nowhere to go/But, oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go.” That sequence from “You Never Give Me Your Money” seems to have nothing to do with the song as a whole. However, it fits nicely with the melancholy of the melody. There is a wistfulness to it all, that, when riding on a train or a bus in the dimming sunlight of a late spring evening, makes you think of leaving college behind, makes you think of those green idyllic lawns of your college education and of the route you now find yourself on. What would you do to go back there? What would you give to be able to continue to leave it behind?
Further, there is the refrain of “Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight/Carry that weight a long time” from “Carry that Weight.” This line obviously has no direct correlation to the rest of the medley about Polythene Pam (my favorite Beatles song) or Mean Mr. Mustard or “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window.” Yet, it sounds profound, because, yes, we are all going to carry a weight through our lives. That weight is usually that nostalgia to get back to that time that came before – the beginning of the story. Now, perhaps Paul didn’t mean that when he wrote these lyrics. However, there is something that strikes you as true about “once there was a way to get back home.” For some reason, there seems to be no real way to get back home and that’s what all our greatest literature and music seem to echo. Abbey Road magnifies this because of its falling into place at the end of the Beatles catalogue and makes one think of the simpler times. The Beatles as young boys before all of the music business games they had to play and their identity as cultural and global icons. “The Medley” manages to pull this effect off through its melody, which changes hue from melancholy to triumphant with “The End.” There was no better way to end an album than with each band member (I know, I know, not Ringo) taking a turn at guitar solos. That just makes sense as a swan song. Paired with Paul’s lyrics, which have since become a modern day proverb, of “And in the end, the love you take/Is equal to the love you make” and you have what is perhaps the perfect coda to a career.
So, then, that weight is not just the want to go back, it is that greater sensation that we have to love others or to love a time and to feel that love again when the weather is warm and the sunlight falls in such a way that it reminds of something within ourselves, it reminds us as Joyce once said, “of that word known to all men.” What that word is, can be interpreted in many ways, but it is that feeling that makes us feel those overarching senses of longing and melancholy and love, which a train ride, while drunk during the day can certainly make you feel. Especially as you feel stuck in between the vastness of New York, its sense of history and the impossibility of your future and some image of an idyllic past that most likely belongs to a work of fiction. This is what well-placed phrases can do when mixed with a melancholy melody.
Before I conclude, I just want to mention the Extras Special, which was in fact the finale to Ricky Gervais’ show Extras. Extras explored the notion of fame and loyalty and the decision a person or artist has to make about whether they want to be creatively viable or famous. The Extras Special is perhaps the best television I have ever seen in my life and it fits nicely into the idea of the weight that we carry. At some point, we have to decide what we actually want out of life and our creative endeavors. I have had no level of notoriety at all for my creative work, but I know different people at different levels of creative achievement in different areas of the arts and I see these crossroads rapidly approaching in different directions. How does one remain creatively viable and successful? It is nearly an impossible feat to achieve and at some point, you have to remember that pride can only be carried in bulk for a certain amount of years before you have to make room for other priorities. I don’t know if this blog will catch on with anyone or if this writing will, but I want to avoid a fate of ignorance.
This post may not be very enlightening and, to be frank, there is very often nothing enlightening about the Beatles. They simply trusted in themselves and made the smartest creative decision in the moment. When they recorded “Long, Long, Long” on The White Album there was a wine bottle on top of one of the pianos in the studio. As the piano was played during the recording, the glass of the bottle made a groaning sound, which George imitated in the song. This gives the song a better sense of longing, which makes it more powerful. Trusting coincidence and leaving yourself open to creative opportunities will create success. Will there be another Beatles? Of course not, it was a fairy tale. A mixture of timing, coincidence, talent and friendship. Those four virtues are hard to come by. However, that is not enlightening. I love the Beatles. They made the most enjoyable music I can think of, they seemed to make every smart decision possible. The Beatles were able to balance creative viability with success and that is the weight you have to carry as you grow older. Abbey Road makes you think of what the Beatles could have accomplished had they remained together as band, however the truth is that they never would have remained together. But maybe one of the reasons that we keep coming back to the album is because we like to think that perhaps there was a chance they could have. We keep coming back to Abbey Road because there is the fairy tale; there we don’t have to grow up and leave our friends and have to make decisions between success and loyalty, creative viability or economic survival; there we don’t have to take that uncertain step into adulthood and the mature (hopefully) individualism that lies there. That is the weight that we must certainly carry as we try to find that balance in our lives, while we ride on trains in dimming sunlight back and forth between cities.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
This One's On Me
After a series of podcasts and two more polished posts yesterday, I want to do a bit of a mixture of comments and thoughts, some links and then a little more of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt, which is currently being pitched to literary agents around New York City - we will see if anyone bites. Now to the random assorted thoughts:
- The picture above is courtesy of the blog jonberrydesign. This guy has a pretty entertaining blog with some good photo documentation of his life. And I mean, that picture - you don't get any more ridiculous than that.
- As if you couldn't tell, I loved the Allen Iverson documentary No Crossover: The Trial of Allen Iverson that aired last night on ESPN as part of the 30 for 30 documentary series. I thought it was just absolutely perfectly done and was riveted for the entire sixty plus minutes. To hear some insight on the making of the documentary, you can hear a podcast that Bill Simmons conducted with the director, Steve James at his website.
- While you are there, also listen to Bill's podcast with TV critic Tim Goodman from the San Francisco Chronicle. Bill and Tim breakdown Conan's decision to choose TBS as his home over potential suitors in FOX and FX. There are some really insightful comments to listen to. Its the second best podcast on the internet after Podcast of Myself.
- Going back to No Crossover: The Trial of Allen Iverson, I have been getting some positive feedback on the post and I just want to thank those of you who have sent your comments. Especially Adam Kalker who sent me a Facebook message out of the blue when he found the write-up via a Google search. Its good to get that kind of news, so thanks again, Adam.
- Tomorrow the next episode of Podcast of Myself will be going up and it is a discussion with my friend and artist Janelle Sing. On the podcast, Janelle mentions a few websites that you may want to check out, so I am going to plug them here. The first is her colleague and collaborator Andrew McNay who I have had the pleasure of meeting once or twice. He also has another website that you can view here. The second reference that she makes is to Poppies and Posies, which is an event planning enterprise she recently did some work with, which we discuss on the podcast. So take a look at a few of these things and then take a listen to the podcast once it is up tomorrow.
- During my podcast with Janelle Sing, I left out a discussion that we were having prior to the actual recording and I want to connect that to my post on Joanna Newsom and She and Him from yesterday. Now, prepare to indulge me here. Janelle and I had been discussing the state of an "independant woman" in today's world and when a girl/woman is indeed an "independant woman." Now, I am no feminist scholar and I have always been attracted to women who are strong and independant, but that term seems to have become lost recently. When I say lost, I mean lost in the following way: Take the Joanna Newsom song "Good Intentions Paving Company". That song ends with the following line "when I only want for you to pull over and hold me until I can't remember my own name." Now, of course, Newsom is a recording artist and she may be inhabiting different characters and speakers when she sings, but if we are to take the lyrics on face value, then it would see odd that a woman who I find to be bold, intelligent and in every way independent (though, of course I don't know her personally) is espousing losing herself in another identity. If you follow the narrative of the song, this identity is a man, which strikes one as absolutely dependent. The point is this, that in the past 20 years or so, the idea of an independent woman has become such a commodity, a good to be stocked up, a badge to wear (Destiny Child, Beyonce, etc.) that is has lost the original ability to encapsulate a tender moment that all people share - a moment of true interaction, love, a moment of rest and solace with another person. It is OK to lose yourself with someone else that you feel love for or are in love with and in doing so, you will not lose your independent woman badge. All you have to do is retain that terrific intelligence, boldness and passionate nature that so many independent women have. I'd like to think that those items are beyond becoming commodities, but then again, no sentiment, idea or theme truly is beyond objectification. In any event, that is a muddled thought for someone to get angry at or agree with.
- Sticking on the topic of podcasts, if you don't watch the Ricky Gervais Show on HBO, which is essentially an animation of his extremely popular podcast with Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington, you should really try to locate an HBO distributor and watch some of the episodes or track down the podcasts. The most recent episode where Stephen and Ricky read out of Karl's diary is absolutely terrific. They even make mention of a classic literary figure that gets overlooked (except in Joyce) Samuel Pepys.
- Baseball season has started. Yankees vs. Phillies World Series rematch is imminent. Who is going to beat either of them honestly?
- Finally, the NBA playoffs start this Sunday. I am going to try to give a comprehensive rundown and some picks either by Sunday or soon after before the series really start to dig in and take shape. However, my initial impressions are that the Celtics look terrible; the Thunder are going to give the Lakers more of a run than people are letting on; Orlando may just upset Cleveland again because the offseason speculation is going to build and build to a fever pitch as the playoffs go on; the Spurs and Mavericks are poised to make a run with the Mavericks possibly coming out of the West. The Lakers may pull it all together, but they are going to have a tougher run this year than the past two years. Every series is going to be entertaining as hell, though. Watch it.
Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt:
The traffic slowed up again at the turning light onto Nicolls Road. Mr Kosciuzko looked at the Domino’s Pizza out of his window. He focused on the logo and realized that it had been changed to Papa John’s – he’d passed it so many times. He leaned back in his driver’s seat and pushed his cap up as they idled. He caught Maggie O’Donnell’s red hair once more, it was almost unavoidable, just as was thinking of his daughter. The fact that they did not speak, did not stop him from thinking of her.
He rememered the phone call. She called him in the middle of the night.
“Dad?”
“What’s up, honey?” He pictured her in some sparsely furnished San Franciscan apartment with a red spiral staircase.
“I’m at the train station.”
“Where? Stony Brook?”
“No, Dad. Here.”
“What’re you doing there?” He’d felt the dryness of his throat. He padded to get a drink of water.
“I don’t really know, Dad.”
The electric green light on the stove shone 2:14. That meant 11:14 there.
“Are you alright?”
“I think so,” she’d sounded tired. He heard the station noise behind. The sound of people talking in a large room with a high ceiling. The sound of ongoing sound.
“You sound tired.”
“Dad.”
“Is Lee alright?” He held a glass under the faucet. It had nutcrackers on it. Ellen brought them out when the weather turned and the holidays approached.
“That’s the first time you’ve asked that,” she’d sounded impressed.
He took a drink and pressed his hand on the counter. His feet were cold.
“Well, you don’t call me at two that often.”
“I’m pregnant, Dad.”
Peter cradled his glass against the armpit seam of his t-shirt. He hadn’t known how to react. He looked at his water in the dark. He felt a great joy fill him – the same joy he felt when reading an eloquent sentence or seeing white blossoms on a tree in mid-April. It was the feeling he had always though of as the melancholy of creation. That same feeling Little Chandler had considered the melancholy of the poet’s soul or the artist’s soul as they stood before the easel or page. He himself had never created anything but his children and he had not felt a melancholy at those moments – it was more duty and the heat of his loins. But then, maybe the creation of a child was a prolonged melancholy – a melancholy of creation and of life. Perhaps the throbbing he felt with the blossoms, the refined language and his children were all in fact that melancholy that is life. Peter had sipped his water. He felt the moment he was in fill around him – his wife’s choice of glassware, the small window above the sink, the draft on his feet. He remembered to speak.
“Oh, honey.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to take care of it.” Her voice had an edge. She was attempting to assume responsibility, but it didn’t fit.
“What does that mean?”
“Dad.”
“Does Lee know?”
She was quiet and the noise of the station returned to fill the space. “Now you’re so interested in Lee.”
The wind rattled the windows. He’d heard the sound of branches brushing each other. The last remaining wind chimes struck and sounded like a ghost. He walked away from the window.
“Honey, I can’t say I approve of this.”
More station noise had filled the receiver; he thought he heard a woman announce a train going to Los Angeles.
“I can’t stay here. I can’t have this.”
“Why? Why can’t you?” He sat on the floor with the glass of water between his legs. It hurt his knees and his lower back to sit on the floor.
“Because I’ve got to go. This is who I am. My train is here."
“Sonya,” no response. “Sonya.”
Mr. Kosciuzko picked up speed as the light showed a left turn signal. He followed the slow sloping turns of the drivers ahead of him as they merged onto Nicolls Road under the train trestle and past the North Entrance to the university. There were white flowers spelling out “SBU” by the North Entrance sign. Peter pushed the limo up to sixty. He imagined his daughter driving from the cornfields of Iowa across the Missippi, through the long blue grass of Kentucky and the mountains of Virginia before she landed snug in the nation’s capital. She was like one of those wandering men from Old America, from the Depression or earlier, that he’d admired in old movies. He imagined her, with her brown hair in a bun with hairpins, innocent, and a satchel over her shoulder. The difference was that she was his daughter and she wasn’t innocent and he didn’t want her to wander. She had to wander and that was what he had wanted to encourage in her, albeit simply intellectually. She wandered in her action and her decision and Mr. Kosciuzko saw that as a fundamental reaction to her pregnancy. Sonya had loved Lee – maybe – but when she knew the child was inside of her, instead of life she saw the nails being driven in, the force of circumstance and responsibility.
Peter pushed the limo through stoplights until it reached the intersection of Nicolls Road and Nesconset Highway. The trees on the side of the highway were still lush wth their deep summer green and Mr. Kosciuzko’s back felt hot. He adjusted the air conditioning. Sonya was like the rest of the kids of this new generation. She was intelligent like Maggie O’Donnell sitting behind him. Sonya was full of the same ambition too. She wanted the entire experience of the world and had enough education to have a tangible view of the earth and history – the sphere of the plane graspable in ones hands, so that if you squeezed hard enough, the ruins of Rome, the pyramids of Egypt, the secrets of Confucius and Christ, the prehistoric mystery of a morning haze would all come bursting out, like the nectar of a fruit; they could drink it all. However, it did not always work that way – more often than not, it was you that was gripped and compressed to the breaking point. There were governments and taxes, financial institutions with mortgages giving you a way to buy a home and build a dream, but making you a servant to payments towards established orders. The dreams of being a philosopher or musician died with the grocery bills and a leak from the upstairs bathroom. He thought of Sonya coming home to her apartment after a day of work. What kind of kitchen table did she have? Did she have one? And if so, what bills lay waiting for her there? Would these children know the value of something simple to get them past the vicegrip, the mess of their nectar? Would they know the pleasure of a cold beer and the feel of finished wood on their forearms and wrists? The stupid things that had shape and were real and not made out of the stars and spirals of imagination and ambition?
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