Music Writing by Carson Arnold
Music Writing by Carson Arnold
HEY JOE
The big-screen, Hollywood advertisement of my counterculture portrays an inexpensive life of accessible luxury. You know it well. The rich punk on the open road, beer and barbecues, pornography, a cell-phone here and there, and the list goes on. The entire pork 'n beef is sponsored by the average, model citizen named Joe, who the rest of the gang must salute to and take survival notes from in order for the security to stay heavily enforced. Anybody that slightly contradicts the armor of this campaign only finds themselves tried for treason by the courts of playground prejudice. Yes sir, it's possible that the face of Joe dictates and trivializes every move we make.
The reality within Joe's fabricated recess, not only compromises the fatigue of militarism, but has left the hallways of teenage gossip to be whored into the race for this imaginary paradise. And sadly it seems, when the spotlight shines on the stage, and the performer begins to sing, there is an abstract reflection of empty heat that rises into the white lights above, almost like it's Joe himself, clueless of what to imitate anymore.
***
Alright, so we kids have always been there in the past to avenge some sort of instinctive rebellion against Joe's colonies. Whether through a trend or style, the questioning of authority has been oral and evident without directly being socially involved with its power. As always, music was a breeding-ground for such young justice, being the visionary roar usually narrated by the sensations of rock music, and in return, the audience would compliment its expression with the priceless instrument of freedom. All in all, an inferior, beloved sense of adolescent spontaneity dancing under the eclipse of leadership and knowing. Joe's army would control and own the stage, choosing the stone and monument of the chorus, but he could never tamper with the eternal reins of one's inner victory and solidarity that were discovered within the primetime moment somewhere during the performance.
Ok, the question of commercialism and mass deception has always rung high bells in any age. The contemporary choir of drugs, confusion, and suburbia, that pattern Joe's televised reservoir, are indeed popular exhibitions of style, however that side of the bell tower is not inevitable to avoid, they are not essential features, and the other tones above, can still be appreciated without selling one's self to the doorman.
In short, as we all know, times have changed. Dangerously. It is safe to say that even the bell tower has fallen to the ground. Crumbled and paved over, the cathedral of echoes only heard within the squeak of some wheeling shopping cart, in the scratch of a turntable, or in the squeal of the internet modem. Amputation of the melody.
Every new day, Joe's growing population of model citizens are up at dawn replacing the path of the instrument with a roadway of neverending, derivative beat that, with the right ear, can be faintly heard pushing the people's feet along under the pavement and highways abroad. Yes sir, the beating heart of Joe. Our new music. Thumping and hollering as if it were the remains of the bell tower itself trapped underneath, a caged world banging its fists, muffled, gone. This beat is the bass of the rural life, the ambience of decision, and the rhythm of what we decide.
And here's the catch.
***
The teenage event of body piercing, cars, tattoos, concerts, techno music, taking drugs, and drinking, are all still voluntary choices just as they were back in any generation, any genre, except now, they're an absolute, damn necessity. A violent one, too, that's almost refusable to any kid in desperate need of easy attention. A necessity that most can't live without, and a short span of toleration to the one's that can. Joe watches...
The anatomy of all this? A proud Millennium lost in the temptation of Joe's irresistible demands, thus symbolizing much of what we use to know best about music, with the judgment of perversion, the explicit, the cheap, and the overall stuttering, feeling of no control.
Let's just say there aint' no vine we kids can jump on to swing over the waterfall shouting, my god, we are alive!
Now an example.
Here's the joker of consequence in Joe's cheating deck of cards:
What do you get when a club owner is too busy selling tons of booze to pay any attention to his place, and a band is so washed-up they have to use pyrotechnics indoors to entertain their audience? A hundred people burn to death. Yeah, and to prove just how messed up and more irresponsible this world is, what are your bets that this same band will go down in history with a gigantic cult following?
God bless rock 'n roll, Joe. That's why Elvis died on the toilet.
***
Thirty-six years ago The Doors walked into Elektra studios to cut their debut album, spellbounded by the fact that they could record the whole thing on a four-track. Folks, imagine anybody even coming close to doing that today. Not to mention "Light My Fire".
***
Calling all shoppers, calling all shoppers, great deals on talent. Attainable, affordable, and expendable. Any buyers?
Welcome to the great, expensive age of digital toys. Oh yes, meaningless crap. Let's bite the honesty in the bud, fellow musicians, the instruments that are sold and cataloged in any music store, needless to say, we don't need. C'mon, we can drum on our lap and sing with our mouths. A guitar shop is Joe's way of saying to us peasants: "here, fight it all out with six strings, those of you who still look pretty when it's over, I might consider." The orchestral instruments of the symphony, and the four primary one's of rock, congratulates an appeal that harmonizes the budget of the state. But don't worry. There's a particular parabola of demanded tang that you can easily purchase now and, who knows, even become a star. Shake hands with Joe, go out to lunch with Joe, wear Joe's clothes, and tell Joe the time when he asks.
Today we have electronics. And god do we crave em'. The inner pizzicato of one's own acoustic sensibility....practically gone I'm afraid. Instead, we're a culture run by a circuit. A land of cold screens. No reason to go out. No reason to perform. No reason to try. Stay inside, in the laboratory, Joe's experiment of fiction. What music? No voice. Anybody with enough cash can get a hit off the latest buzz. Fill their basements with towers of computers, turntables, keyboards, and boom! they're a musician. Nutin' to it. No hard travelin', just easy as pie. The breakdown of personality. The theme to Joe's tango of speed and fantasy. Never would of thought that the desire, emotion, lust, and human poetry, would be stimulated by the exodus of a computer. The land where a melody doesn't have to be said, recorded, or played, but just repeated, and repeated, and repeated. And all is well. Yes sir, keep praying to a box, keep the channels patrolling, but let it be known, that your children are out at the crossroads with Joe, one by one, trading the old guitar in for the virtual, Metropolitan promise. And where will it go?
***
Recently in the papers, there was an article about all these rousty, young bands hitting California's Malibu scene with tiger-sweet rock 'n roll. You know, the "I don't care" attitude of the last three years. Fine. It went into detail of the bands and their community of rough devotion and brotherly love, almost glamorizing the clubs as if it were a west-coast CBGB. However, then I read in the fine print, that the members of the leading band are all son's of Roy Orbison, Dickey Betts, Lou Adler, and Olympic athlete, Bruce Jenner. What a coincidence! In other words, rich kids wearing torn jeans. Is it any doubt to why these wealthy descendants receive a front page column in the New York Times? Your tricks don't fool me for a second, Joe. Janis Joplin's voice only became huskier as she drank more and more. Is it really worth it, chaps?
Broadway is having a tough time keeping there musicians employed without financial turmoil, so instead, they have an electronic tape playing the abandoned arrangement and hire a bunch of actors to fill in the empty seats. Good one. Rest in peace, Charles Ives.
Ah, everything seems to be at a point of disillusioned mayhem right now. Nearly all the nation-wide, indie radio stations are owned by Joe's corporations who chooses everything that's heard. Why? Cuz' in war times such as they are right now, you wouldn't want the mass public to uprise with any cultural enlightenment. No way. Keep em' starin' at the ground, Joe. Paradise in the Disneyland of Doomsday.
But don't worry, we all see through it. We can all live without it. Maybe. Possibly. Can we?
***
Joe's medley is an arena housing a small, elite percentage that, one, only benefits a carpet-size of disposable stars, and two, tailors the preferred circle of stereotypes to dictate the social and financial vanity of the rest of the world, superimposed by repression, addiction, competition, and best of all, ruled by the pregnant dogma of insecurity that aborts all nerves of one's inner faith. It is simply a stage of jewels presenting its talents from the conditional exploitation of its cornered audience. Association by fear and aggression. Hey Joe, what a democracy.
-Carson Arnold
March 3, 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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