This is fun!
This photo displays the names of the engraver and printer of the map
The new space aged aesthetics.
I’m still trying to puzzle out the aesthetics of our age. My sense is that it can be informed by either or both modernist and post-modernist tendencies and traditions. But I don’t want to stray too far down the path of irrelevant academic language and exercises in this. But it does seem there is a mood out there, a zeitgeist of our era, that should be describable, if even only as “indescribable.” This post, and line of exploration in general, is a work in progress, so please indulge in the ramble. Any thoughts?
First off, which age? Cyberspace age? Too 1980s. Certainly ours is a multi-disciplinary age. (Aaah, but this sounds too academic–careful, Jushi…) But how to define it? Is it all about the new? Well, no: viz. steampunk, for one. Old remade as new–nothing new about that. The aesthetics of our times are, of course, endlessly varied, leading to cross pollination of all sorts.
At this point, I’m tending towards The Space Age. But our Space Age is born from within the Information, or Media, Age. A bit of a difference there than from the past space age, whether you think the 60s or 80s when you read that. Yes, there’s still outer space as always, but inner space more than ever, plus social space, political space, and cyber space. All of this space provides us with places to express ourselves more loudly than before, while closely rubbing up against others doing same, only differently.
To say our lives are interconnected now more than ever is true enough, but what else? Where are we going with all this? Are we simply becoming at once more connected yet more fragmented as a social planet, without any implications?
There’s a lot to like about expressing oneself in this mashed-up world, but I suspect our hardwiring is changing, and I’m not sure we’ve questioned deeply enough whether this is a good thing.
We have now a fairly extensive and growing history of information and visual media at our disposal, as well as the easy means to manipulate it. Our very lives are saturated by media messages and communities, sometimes with our participation or acceptance, sometimes not.
The recent and ongoing events in Iran around the sham non-election show that space and the way we use it matters a lot. Don’t kid yourself: the thugocratic clerics are feeling the hard stare of global eyes, and the protesters know it. They’re using physical space to their advantage, attracting camera space, headspace, and wireless space to pressure the political space totalitarian regimes think protects and empowers them.
So is our zeitgeist this constant, never-ending, in-your-face exposure to one another’s whims and interests, etc both within our headspace and without? What do the aesthetics of this kind of life look like? Where’re we heading with this? Aaah, the unknown of the future…
Well, it’s been a long, long time. Perhaps if I just write shorter entries, I’ll post more frequently…
So, I see today that early word has it Michael Jackson’s dead. It’s very early “days” as I write this (the news came out in the last few minutes, with the obligatory “more to come…” caveat at the end of each article), but assuming it’s true (you never know with a guy who’s main objective in life in recent years was to become the world’s biggest bizarro) I imagine the combing through of his life and not least his physical person will captivate the ‘bloids for the next few news/infotainment cycles. I expect to hear about what truly lied under those wigs and other costumings, as well as other heretofore hidden secrets of the king of odd.
I wonder if he planned this in any way in advance. I wonder this only because I came across an article (http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/jun/14/michael-jackson) earlier today (by sheer and strange coincidence) about Jackson’s life that had him, in his most recent press conference for upcoming London concerts, saying “This is it, this is really it, this is the final curtain call.” Was he simply referring to his planned forthcoming concerts?
Michael Jackson, who for so long has been a bit of a lifeless, zombie figure, will maybe now have found his place in another, more appropriate realm somewhere.
I can’t say I’m gonna miss him, or even notice him gone.
As I often do, I was remeniscing recently about a bygone era (even if I was never there in the first place), and I submit that one of the most enjoyable jobs one could have had was being the dude who acted inside one of the rubber suits of Godzilla, Mothra, or any of their many colourful enemies in the Japanese films of the 1950s-1970s. What fun it must have been, climbing into these rubber suits, ambling your way about miniaturized sets of Tokyo’s street scape and Japan’s coastal islands, safe in the knowledge that your comical, blind stumbling would be made scary by overdubbed sound effects of serpentine slithering and screeching along with the fearful screams of the local paralyzed populace you were terrorizing. The only thing on your mind (other than “I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this!”) is the slight anxiety that one of the nearby FX explosions might spread to your rubber suit. And all in the name of reminding humanity of the hazards of nuclear war! (The whole subtext of the postwar Japanese franchise.) So not only was it fun, it brought the added satisfaction of contributing to social justice in the world.
And the wrestling!–we can’t forget that. As you-as-Godzilla took it to King Ghidora or Magalon, in hand-to-hand (or non prehensile lizard appendage-to-insect claw) combat, spicy fire breath being expelled all about, it must have been difficult to keep your claws from bouncing off the rubber suit of the other guy as you took a swipe, especially when you were supposed to be drawing blood (which would be added later). Not to sound homo-erotic in a wierd science fiction giant radiation-spawned creature sense, but it must have topped the scales of surreal experiences playing sumo with some other dude in a glossy green get-up or fuzzy king kong outfit sweating under the heavy lights of a sound studio, whilst not tripping over the two inch-high train set at your ankles. You gotta love the movies!
You think this all sounds easy? Then tell me how one prepares for the role of the larvae-staged Mothra? Being rolled in a sheet of mummifying toilet paper before sliding into this rubber encased sleeping bag? And then slithering around on the floor–man, there must be some kind of human ingenuity in that. Aah, the lost knowledge brought on by CG technology…
And where does one’s career go from there? Once you’ve been Godzilla or Mothra, been on top of the world, man, it’s only down hill from there. Only scraps left, like playing the Hamburgler or some such in those Saturday morning McDonald’s TV ads, whose bloated costumes never held a candle to the shiny yet mottled landscape of those rubber suits of Godzilla et al. When these ads came on around the late 70s/early 80s, you’d be an old man while doing them, left only to nostalgically daydream about the heady days of yore, when costumed creatures were constumed creatures!
As a bit of a follow up to my original post on the reunited Van Halen, I offer some remarks and observations on the recent Vancouver, BC, stop on their current tour, and the energy that surrounded it.
First off, my trip over from the island: BCFerries was PACKED (which it usually isn’t on a Wednesday morning crossing, especially not one in a month not named July or August). The whole boat (many hundreds of people) were going to the show that night, and clearly excited by it. Outside on the decks, it was all smoke of various aromas and classic Halen on someone’s portable player. It was often a rough and motley looking group, grizzled looking men in their 40s (not a pleasant sight), already corked at 11am–you get the idea. Also, whole clusters of guys making an event out of it, a group all wearing bright orange t-shirts they’ve commissioned (I think the bright orange ones must be cheap) with “What’s better than partying with Jesus? Seeing Van Halen,” and more of that kind of thing.
But really, all ages. Had next to me on the bus a mother in her 40s accompanying her 15 year old son, elsewhere a dad in his late 30s going to the show with his 11 year old son. So you had all sorts. But mostly men in their 30s and 40s–no surprise there.
Concert reviewer in the Vancouver Sun the next day: unimpressed. My review of the reviewer: weak. Cliched jabs at testosterone, “weathered” skin, “by-gone eras”, complaining about the quality of the sound from her “press box,” reluctant to move down to “sit among the fans,” like the riff-raff that we apparently are. Like seriously–what are you doing there? She noted that on the way in she saw a beer bottle flying overhead, seemingly thrown from an overpass beside the arena. Well, no one wants to get cracked over the head with the likes of that, but, frankly, it’s a rock show: enjoy it! Revel in the atmosphere and chaos. It is rockn’roll, afterall. What’s the Sun doing sending an a-feared square to review a hard rock concert, anyway?
With the very first note of the opening song, You Really Got Me, right on queue, emanating from somewhere unknown amidst the intoxicating ether of the darkened arena, a substantial waft of BC’s Best hit my nostrils. That smell, mingled with that belonging to second-rate beer, was to never leave anyone far behind on this night.
As for the music, well, in short, they delivered the goods. It was a flawless show, except for Dave’s early stumble down the steps from the main stage to the loop branching off into the crowd (nice recovery, tho’). They stuck strickly to the classics of the Dave years–absolutely no Sammy tunes allowed. All the classics that you would hope to hear were played, along with a handful of less radio-frequented gems.
As for the crowd, well, a beer in every hand. I’ve seen VH before, The Who, Stones, Floyd, etc.–never seen so many beers. People missing two or three classic songs to go get another one and a bathroom break.
40 year old air-guitarists extraordinaires, come to worship at the altar (remember the orange “partying with Jesus” shirts?). Kind of sad or amusing, depending on your point of view. I mean, I’m for people indulging themselves (hey, I went to this dinosaur concert myself, afterall), but somehow the sight of thousands of bespectacled nerds air-guitaring with frantic and furious frenzy, mouths a-droolin’ and tongues a-wagglin’, was somehow just a little too much for this old cat. And, about the air-guitaring, don’t forget about what I said about a beer in every hand–it wasn’t pretty. Smelly in a lingering way, too, as my post-concert ale-encrusted vest can attest to.
The players were all on form. Eddie was great, of course. You can’t be that talented and obssessed with the guitar and fail. New bassist Wolfgang was good enough, no problem there. (The original bassist, Michael Anthony, was no great shakes on the instrument–he was mainly important for the sound he contributed as the band’s main backup singer.) Wolfgang was noticably the weakest presence on stage, but for the most part he was just fine, filling in on backup vocals admirably (twice only, and briefly at that, I cringed slightly at the sound of his 16 year old vocal chords showing through).
Alex’s drum solo was very, very good. It’s always nice being able to appreciate a master craftsman at work. He seemed to enjoy himself during it, too. I think this portion of the show, which happened about a third the way in, marked a transition from an early phase of the concert in which the band was going through the motions in a workman-like fashion, working through the early show butterflies, to a more energized rest of show in which the players loosened up and started enjoying themselves a bit.
In lieu of the knife dancing of yore, Dave’s solo bit on this night amounted to an extended storytime session leading into Ice Cream Man. I would say that this was my personal highlight, as this kind of thing spotlights what Dave does best: play the role of raconteur with wit and humour (not to mention that this is one of my personal VH faves). Also, in this instance, it reminds us that he was so crucial to the VH classics, that his personality is so intertwined and inseparable with what made the band great.
Eddie’s solo was the intended centrepiece of the show. It was good, no doubt, but somehow it failed to inspire me. I think the sound could have been better.
The Jump encore included lights meant to dazzle, bright multi-coloured confetti falling from the sky, all to the joyous, melodic tune of the song’s pre-recorded synths (Eddie tends to prefer playing and pre-recording the synth bits himself for use during the show rather than have someone not in the band up on stage playing the keyboard bits live). Van Halen playing Jump for you in person can have no other effect than to leave you smiling.
Strange bit, right at the end of the show: the band had finished the encore, had bowed, waved, bowed and waved again, and were literally heading off when a kid about 18 or so came running onto stage, first having his legs pulled out from under him by a security guy on the edge of stage, then got up, tried to high five one of the band members, and kept running, knowing he was dead meat as soon as one of the multiple security guys caught him. Unbenownst to the kid, though, as he continued running off the stage, Eddie was PISSED!, and chasing and yelling after him, following him off the stage. The kid completely tripped off the stage, doing a major face plant, falling a handful of feet and then he was out of sight for the majority of the audience down at the side of the stage, with Eddie still chasing him, along with the aforementioned security. At this point, I can only guess what happened, whether Eddie pounded him, or the security did, or what. But an odd last moment of an otherwise flawless show. Hey, it’s rockn’roll.
For me, the most interesting aspect to the whole show was watching the group dynamics of the bandmembers on stage. Given the amount of bad blood between assorted bandmembers in the past, I was curious whether they could get over it enough to put on a vibrant show. For instance, Dave once said “Without a guitar in his hands, Eddie Van Halen’s a cruddy human being.” Lots of that kind of thing on all sides. (As an aside, oddly enough, the insults and in-fighting were basically started and hurled most vehemently and often by Dave’s replacement, the mediocre Sammy Hagar, which I always thought was weak: it’s pretty puny for a cliche like Hagar to knock someone who’s voice and screams are indelibly linked to dozens of rock classics now that he, Hagar, is firmly ensconced in the cozy bosom of the Van Halen brand.) So, how did they interact with one another on stage? Now, they are performers afterall, so we must be careful reading too much into their behaviour on stage. However, this is what I noticed:
Wolfgang at one point early on rolling his eyes in the direction of his dad after Dave shared a mike with him. Have to wonder how Dave’s been contextualised to Wolfgang by his dad and uncle coming into this reunion after such bad blood over the years.
Dave was very gracious throughout, particularly to Eddie. I imagine Dave feels this is the most visible area of rift to the fans, and probably the most important one for him to repair if he is to continue on in the band. The last time I saw Dave and Eddie on the same stage, it was April 1984, shortly before Dave left the band. Then, the two rarely, if at all, interacted on stage, other than Eddie coming forward at the prescribed time to bend over so Dave could do a summersault over him, before going back to his corner of the stage for the rest of the show. The interaction on the next tour between Eddie and Sammy was very noticably different in its enthusiasm and frequency. This time around, Dave often approached Eddie and indulged in the enjoyment of watching him play, hugging him several times, and generally never really straying too far away from the band into Daveland.
Generally, Eddie seemed ho-hum to Dave’s advances, though he might have been too busy concentrating on playing the right notes on his guitar. Once Eddie did playfully approach Dave and rested his head down on Dave’s stomach and noodled for a bit, leaving Dave frankly a bit surprised, not knowing how to react, a feeling he conveyed to the audience with a look of “Can you believe this? Eddie’s rubbing his head in my belly. He’s never done that!”
Eddie and son Wolfgang didn’t seem to interact too much, though there was a moment when they did riff off one another that Eddie seemed to enjoy.
I also noticed that at no time did Dave and drummer Alex Van Halen so much as look at one another, let alone touch. They were always at opposite ends while the band did the obligatory joining of hands and bowing en masse at the end of the show. I was interested in this after reading a number of years ago Eddie saying Dave never liked his brother for some reason or another that I can no longer remember.
I would have to guess, though, that there would be mutual respect all around fairly quickly if most shows on the tour go as well as this one. Everyone was a pro, licks and chops down pat and in good working form. Three seasoned pros and one 16 year old living every 16 year old’s rockn’roll dream delivering the goods to thousands of deliriously happy rockers. Not bad.
Now, if I can only persuade Mountain Equipment Co-op to exchange my vest, it’ll all have been worth it.
Alright, so the colour orange… You ever notice that orange never seems to get the attention or respect it deserves? I mean, you hear a lot of people go on about how their favorite colour is green or some such. But really, nothing matches the vibrancy of a good orange. It can be warm, dark, moody, bright, cheerful, bold, sunshine.
I think orange has suffered over the last few decades mostly due to a definite shift towards the conservative in design. Designers (fashion, home, furniture, car, etc.) have shied away from anything that could be perceived as “loud.” What that really amounts to, though, is a fear of going out on any sort of perceived limb, that painting a bedroom orange, say, is opening the door to someone not liking it simply on the basis that it’s easy to point to and say “An orange room? Strange.” For many people, anything out of the ordinary scares them, and as such they find it easier to knock something simply because it’s noticable rather than taking a liberal, open-minded perspective and looking at something in its own isolated context.
People like safe. Insecurities like safe. Fashion is the most telling in this way. Just take a look at the fashion of the 80s, 90s, and 00s. The 80s were, at best, a sylised and minimised 70s, with fashion becoming blander with each passing year since, so that by the 90s, let alone today, it’s all white, black, or blue. Compare this to the 60s or 70s, and it’s really quite sad, particularly for yours truly, who loves his orange. Check out the Beatles in the Let It Be sessions, for instance: orange turtlenecks, purple jackets, striped shirts, red jeans. Now we’re talking! Not a chance today. Only jeans you can buy are various shades of blue, maybe some black. Doesn’t leave much room for self-expression. Today, orange is relegated to vests worn by crosswalk guards. Orange deserves better! Don’t be shy, people: colour is good in life. Even more crucial during the dark, drab, cold, and wet winter months.
And let’s not forget the taste! Best encapsulated in my opinion in the form of a mandarin orange, preferably of the Japanese variety (harder to find even here on the West Coast. The Chinese ones are nice, too–sweeter, though less delicate). Listen, any colour that comes with its own flavour’s gotta be alright.
There’s more to life than walls painted white, jeans stained blue, and cars tinted grey. It’s a new millenium out there, folks–lookout orange!
P.S. Purple’s not bad, either…