Music Writing by Carson Arnold
Music Writing by Carson Arnold
DINNER AND A WAR
Right. Pop-rock, rock, nation of the "weird", please exit the building. That's right, leave. Don't look back. You're irrelevant. Why? Shall I count the reasons? Or need I remind white America, the streets, and the entire anthem of neckties, of the apocalyptic crusade carpet-bombing its way through Baghdad RIGHT NOW?
Jeez, I dunno all ye' music lovers, Iraq is only the heartland of let's say, Music itself, and also that silly thing we call civilization, if that means anything to the good ol' Human being anymore. Does that passion ever occur as we slurp down the good ol' coffee? Bark at the good ol' neighbor? Buy the good ol' Stuff-Stuff? Yessir, cash in your tokens, taste the taste, folks, it's a new century, a new dawn, a new northern star. "The New American Century" as Washington is calling it. Or as Washington is manufacturing it, I should say. Or as Washington has been pimping, dealing, and selling, to us, for us, and against us, for the last few decades.
So get ready, here comes the sun, tax-dollars unite, the glorified age where the prejudicial, the foul, and the overall Sick, are all not only a tattoo emotion, but a concrete budget, an applaud, the fabric, reading: "you're either with us, or you're against us", "you're either an artist, or you're nothin", "you're either my friend, or you're my enemy". Clear the stage, let the Man through. Clap-clap-clap. Good-bye symphonies, hello artillery. Good-morning, sweet death. And the composition begins: a Mother's worse nightmare.
There's only room for fact and reality right now, friends. I'm sick of nonsense. Tired of listening to Noise. Sick of musicians. Not right now, thanks, go away. Come back some other time. Either save the children or don't. Otherwise, quiet, play for the sensual spirit of merely playing, dopers. Who wants to listen to a bunch of musicians whining over pooka-pooka: "key", "gig", "tune", "time", you know? Christ, I'll give ya' rhythm. How 'bout Iraq burning alive? How 'bout even our own country- The U.S.A- the proud and the brave, your home, inhibited into a blanket of absolute fear since 9/11 was sworn into oath. Eh? Dance to that, Barbara Bush- you who claim that all this shouldn't worry, quote: " your pretty head".
And how about those million dollar bombs anyway? I watched one sink yesterday, very slowly sailing along with three others, suddenly exploding, massacring, who knows, perhaps a hundred potential civilians, gashing open more of the flaming city of residents. And right there, that particular moment of bloodbath, that orb of destruction, is where the real 'shock and awe' bled through. Where the flames rose, the smoke settled, and the stars still continued to shine and glimmer above it all. And below them, Us. Who? Us. Who? Us.
The story is quite simple and without many complications. The bombs that we all see dropping, come from young pilots, who aren't drafted, but volunteers, yes, and volunteers, wait!, from a culture, of let's face it, lead by the belly of a very limited, narrow, stereotypical, you name it, if it's dumb, if it's dirty, it's here, land. Shout at the devil, whisper to ourselves, these clueless troops are the steel reflection of our flaws. They're trained to kill, they're duty, the national mission to kill all sons and lovers abroad. "Why?", the echoes ask. Cuz' these boys and girls born out of the driveways of the American pulp were never themselves, honestly identified. Corpses, yes. Humans, no. Just all part of the 20th Century Body Count, folks. And into the next one. Now! Amen.
Keep the smoke billowing from the factories and the children restricted to their desks. Keep the homes broken and the curtains drawn to the night. Yessir, designing the next helpless kid, producing the next troop, the next fear, the next invasion, the next funeral, the next power, the next wedding, the next home. Yours. And again. Hubba-hubba. Feed the Fat. Oh, and that's right, the next musician, pooka-pooka, still slurring, "well, what 'key' do you wanna it in?" Ah-ha, I wonder how it all begins? All together now, on we go, follow the leader, but wait, a city is exploding, children are dying, bones and ditches, bodies and rags.
Yesterday: Is this the sixties or some cartoon eulogy? My god, they were playin' Captain Beefheart in the record shops. But why? His comical voice seems to growl a somewhat retro spin. Who cares? Not now, not here. Desolation Row also spills out into the streets from another place. And why? Is Dylan whispering the almighty isis, the answered futile, the cure, or as of this very moment, this time, our new Flash of bravado, technology and mayhem; are his lyrics illustrating none but sheer nonsense, a distant aspect, to the wounds we all do, and will, face daily? Some guy, too, draped in red, white, and blue, stands on the corner of an intersection staffing and waving the American flag out into the pouring traffic. Yet blazes of teenage dopers squat behind him on the sidewalk rusting like wet pennies. A girl on a phone remarks on how something was like, like, like, "surreal".
And so it begins. Eateries are full to the core, dressed, advertised, laughing and shouting, buying and selling, wait!, thousands are now auditioning to be Mr. Jones!, always inhaling, but exhaling when? Exactly when is the time, that place, that striking hour, when we exhale this mad oven of sirens? This candy air-raid? When is the drumming of the Beast finally released, indeed? As the bombs sink overseas, killing, demolishing, ultimately Ending, or as we sip down the cool beverage, smiling, returning and laughing? Round and a round we go. Awards and Arrests. We are concerned, but are we aware?
-Carson Arnold March 23, 2003
copyright 2003 Carson Arnold
H(ear) is an online music column consisting of interviews, articles, and investigations written by Carson Arnold. As a freelance writer for various magazines and liner notes, living in the woods of Vermont with his family, Carson widely encourages one to submit their art, writing or any interesting piece of material that you would like to share. H(ear) is accepting both promos and demos for review or any other valuable music-related subjects. If you wish to make a comment or would like to receive H(ear) weekly by email please contact Carson at [email protected]
Thanks and enjoy!
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