Tag Archives: apathy

Americans Undecided for Apathy

THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM A CAMPAIGN SPEECH WRITTEN BY GRAVITY PUSHMAN AND DELIVERED TO THE ‘AMERICANS UNDECIDED FOR APATHY’ RALLY HELD ON DECEMBER 12, 1994 IN CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK. THE SPEECH WAS DELIVERED VIA AN ANONYMOUS TAPE VOICE BROADCAST OVER A REALISTIC (RADIO SHACK BRAND, A DIVISION OF THE TANDY CORPORATION, LOCATED SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS (one of the United States referred to in the next item), THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE, THE PLANET EARTH, THE SOLAR SYSTEM – the solar system: isn’t it really A solar system? Isn’t that like saying THE human race when there could in actuality be three or four dozen spread out over the cosmos like so much lox on a half a dozen day-old salt and onion bagels?, THE MILKY WAY (same comment), THE UNIVERSE (and again, and again) PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM WHICH HAD A MAXIMUM PER CHANNEL WATT RATING OF 40 RMS. THE ATTENDING CROWD (EXCLUDING CURIOUS PASSERBY JOGGERS, MUGGERS, FILM CREW STAFF, DOCUMENTARIANS, TRASH COLLECTORS, RECYCLING NUTS, HORSEBACK POLICE, SEVERAL THOUSAND PIGEONS, A RANDOM WASP COLONY, TWO BUTTERFLIES, SIX POINT EIGHT BILLION DUST MITES, AND A DISCARDED WRAPPER FROM A PAYDAY CANDY BAR THAT HAD OVER THE COURSE OF ITS SHORT LIFE ACHIEVED SELF-SIMILARITY, NUMBERED EXACTLY THREE PEOPLE. ONE OF THEM WAS THE SOUND GUY.

I had a dream – no, it was a nightmare. I dreamt that the only references I had to the 1970’s were from bad cultural definition films. I didn’t know about Watergate, the end of Vietnam, the bicentennial celebration, the assassination attempt by Manson’s children (and also by the Nation of Islam) on President Ford (who, by the way, was the only person in the history of the Executive Branch of the United States Government to serve in office, both as Vice President AND President – without being elected to either. Nixon appointed him when good old Spiro had to fly the coop, and then the man who played too many games for the University of Michigan without a helmet, whose forehead somehow resembled the front grill of a ’57 Buick Roadmaster, was sitting in the oval office – pardoning the man who made it all possible).

I was aware only that rock and roll died in 1972, hard rock, that is – Zeppelin IV, Purple’s Machine Head, Sabbath’s Paranoid – these were the tombstones on the blues rock of the sixties. Hendrix died in ’72. The guitar hero became mythology. 1971 and Marvin Gaye put out What’s Goin’ On and Let’s Get It On and then it began, the movies, you know. Trouble Man, Black Caesar, Superfly, Shaft, and on and on and on. Marvin Gaye, James Brown, Curtis Mayfield, and Isaac Hayes, respectively. The stories weren’t even important, but the music, man, the music was right on. Yeah, and those expressions, like right on, what’s happening, fly, and on and on and on… remember, white man, if you want to learn to dance the dance, don’t learn your steps from Club MTV or John Travolta or a Billy Ray Cyrus Video – do yourself a favor and watch any selection of Soul Train episodes from 1975 to 1980. Or picture Muhammad Ali fighting, and not sounding a lot like Don Cornelius on helium (who can forget ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, the great smell of Brut, and the punch of Ali?)
The seventies can be characterized by its prime time television – the variety show reigned supreme. Do you remember that these people had television shows – Mac Davis, Glen Campbell, Donnie & Marie Osmond, Sonny & Cher, Gladys Knight & the Pips, Tony Orlando & Dawn, the Captain & Tenielle, Flip Wilson. Not to mention the Jackson Five, the Harlem Globetrotters, Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids, and the whole Scooby Doo trip (which wasn’t really a cartoon at all, but a ridiculous sitcom). There used to be television shows about poor people, too – All in the Family, Good Times, What’s Happening, Sanford & Son, Barney Miller, Chico & the Man. It just figures that they were all comedies. And look what’s replaced them: the Cosby show, the Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Married with Children, for Christ’s’ sake. The variety show was it, people, and the private detective-streetwise cop show – Mannix, Barnaby Jones, Cannon, Streets of San Francisco, Starsky and Hutch, SWAT, Columbo, McCloud, MacMillan and Wife (starring, of course, Rock Hudson and Susan St. James), Police Woman, etc., etc.

The Ramones first album came out in 1974. The Pistols ended in 1979. Post-punk emerged and then died (and how can something as undead as gothic vampire thrash ever die) in 1983, when Bauhaus split because they were becoming ‘popular’. Remember when punk meant trying to be an individual, before you could buy the hair color at a salon or the clothes at a chain store on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood? Here’s to Darby Crash, the lead singer of the Germs, the first person in Los Angeles to wear a Mohawk (which, my mother tells me, is something of a misnomer, because the Mohawks didn’t exactly wear their hair like that, but Mohawk is much easier to say fourteen times fast than Iroquois.

Besides, there was nothing else really going on in this country – the seventies belonged to Elton John and David Bowie, on the two British polar extremes, and to all those sappy self-searching singer-songwriter guys (think of how bad it really was – imagine David Soul from Starsky and Hutch singing “Don’t Give Up on Us Baby” all over again – yetch!).

Apollo-Soyuz – the joint Soviet Union American space linking thing, man, that was something – somebody had it going on, ’cause they played “Why Can’t We Be Friends” over the space link and the whole world was listening. And the hostages in Iran, that was something else; but Saturday Night Fever came out in 1977, and in my personal opinion, it caused Elvis Presley to die of embarrassment. He was the only one wearing a white suit at the time, after all, and where do you think those moves came from? Do you think Vinnie Barbarino invented them? Yeah, right. Reality check, welcome back. Rock and roll was really over, you know. And by the way, take a look at Six-One-Six or Red Square (prime examples in Memphis, Tennessee of disco so vintage it’s retro) some night and tell me that the Disco Sucks movement really had an impact. Maurice White is sitting somewhere playing a kalimba in the moonlight laughing his ass off. The three most sampled bands in the history of rap – James Brown, Earth Wind & Fire, and War. I’ve seen all three. There ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby.

The movie version of Hair came out in 1977 or 1978 – I guess that was the first indication of how ridiculous a flashback to the sixties looked out of context. Don’t look now, but Scorpio’s in retrograde motion. Here we are, and Sun Yung Moon is in his seventh house; M & M’s have merged with Mars; love still drives a ’68 Plymouth Galaxie, and the media sells us our stars. This is the dawning of the age of Aquariums – we are living like goldfish looking out from behind the Plexiglas – our eyes bulged, our little flippers pushing us through water murky with our own shit. Let the sun shine, and skin cancer be damned!!!!

What ever happened to rock and roll singers that didn’t look like waifs, that sang with low voices? Did Robert Plant really have that much influence, or did the sensitive male step in to fill the gap between Otis Redding, Joe Cocker, Jim Morrison, and now the only things left – Lemmy Kilmeister, Glenn Danzig, and James Hetfield? Gimme a break, man. And I’ve got nothing against Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots, but if you take Jim Morrison, subtract the acid and Bushmill’s and leather, and substitute Xanax and Thorazine and flannel, and what do you have – Eddie Vedder? I’m not sure.

Remember the campaign slogan for Carter-Mondale – Fritz and Grits? ‘Nuff said.

Fortunately, I woke up, and found out that I had actually lived through the seventies. I was wearing platform shoes and wide collars and all those obnoxious jackets and leisure suits and polyester nightmare designs the first time around – you can wear them again if you want to, but the seventies is something I’d like to try to forget, thank you very much. If you think I’m kidding, take a look at the best example of ’70’s culture in the ’90’s – Meatloaf, and laugh if you can. I remember when his FIRST album came out, and I hated it then, too. Remember, as I first said in August of 1994, I’m not funny, you’re not laughing, and that’s the way I like it. Thank you for coming out and pretending to support my campaign. Unfortunately, I didn’t feel like coming, so you’re there making complete assholes of yourselves without my immediate help. Have a nice day, and don’t kill anybody on my account. Thank you. Thanks for nothing.

Now, if I may close with something quite dear to my heart, I would like to play for you a recording made by a dear friend of mine, Homespun Gravity, with his band ‘The Undertown Minstrels.’ It is a song he wrote that pretty much sums it all up for me, as far as songs go, and it didn’t offend my mother all that much, so that should tell you pretty much where it stands as far as a rock and roll number; pretty much shit out of luck as an anthem for this, its own, or any generation. But nevertheless, it’s kind of catchy and makes you hum and tap your foot if you’re absolutely tone-deaf and have no sense of rhythm.

THE SOUND OF FUMBLING WITH A RECORD NEEDLE, A FEW OBNOXIOUS SCRATCHES, AND THEN A SLIGHT HISS. THE SONG BEGINS. LOW MUSIC BEGINS IN THE BACKGROUND, THE SOUND OF TWO GUITARS HOPELESSLY OUT OF TUNE ATTEMPTING TO FIND HARMONICS ON THE SEVENTH AND TWELFTH FRETS, RESPECTIVELY. WITH A SUDDEN LURCHING, WRETCHING CRASH, THE DRUMS AND BASS ATTEMPT TO JOIN IN TO PROPEL THE SONG AWAY FROM THE CRASH-LANDING IT APPEARS TO HAVE EMBARKED UPON. A VOICE, HOMESPUN’S VOICE, IS HEARD WHISPERING-MOANING-SINGING-SIGHING THE FOLLOWING:

No way home
World is in a spiral
I don’t know
Where I’ll be tomorrow

Still I go
’round the endless circuit
Look out below
Found the brake but I can’t work it

Out into the night I’m going
Where I can at least forget my name
and remember that there’s no one left to blame
buried in eternal shame
can’t tell the candle from the flame
and in the end it’s all the same.

No way in
World is just illusion
I don’t know
Can’t tell my dream from my delusion

Still I float
’round and round the axis
Look outside
I’m through the egg between the cracks, and

Out into the void I’m falling
Where I can at least forget my fate
and remember that there’s no debate
born before my time too late
can’t tell the mirror from the lake
and in the end there’s no mistake.

THE CROWD IS MESMERIZED; WELL, AT LEAST THE PIGEONS HAVE ATTEMPTED TO CONTROL THEIR BODILY FUNCTIONS LONG ENOUGH TO COMPLETE A SORT OF HELLISH CHORUS TO ACCOMPANY THE MUSIC, WHICH IS MUCH LOUDER NOW THAN IT WAS, THAN IT EVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN, AND (according to memorandum G-47-B18, City Department of Parks and Recreation, New York, New York, dated December 18, 1994 and signed by a Mr. Reginald Moss) LOUDER THAN IT WILL EVER BE AGAIN IF ANY MORAL CREATURE HAS ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT. STILL, DESPITE ALL THE BAD PRESS FROM THOSE WHO CAN’T DO, CAN’T TEACH, CAN’T FAKE IT, CAN’T AFFORD TO RUN FOR PUBLIC OFFICE, AND SO THEREFORE ARE RELEGATED TO THE ROLE OF CRITICAL OBSERVERS, THE MUSIC GOES ON. Rock and roll can never die, as Neil Young once said. As the Rolling Stones have failed to prove.

No way out
World is locked inside a system
I don’t know
Can’t tell the maya from the wisdom
Still I try

’round the circle I keep turning
Look at me fly
While my wings are slowly burning
Out into the world I’m sliding
Where I can at least forget my pride

and remember that there’s no free ride
paid my fare somewhere outside
can’t tell the mountains from the tide
and in the end we all collide.

1994 from The Secret Undertown Ministry

Share This:

Deep End Abilities

You coughed, turned your head,
said are my eyes still red?
Some mornings I just can’t get out of bed;
feels like I’m sleeping with the dead.

You laughed, rolled your eyes,
then you cried about the suicide.
Some mornings I just can’t seem to decide;
feels like I want to be denied.

Underneath the rolling thunder,
I sit and begin to wonder:
how to segue to the final number,
how to break the spell I’m under
standing.

You coughed, lit a cigarette,
then wrote some letters to the alphabet.
Some mornings I just can’t seem to forget;
feels like I haven’t happened yet.

You laughed, began to frown,
then you sent a package underground.
Some mornings I just can’t hear any sound;
feels like I’m in the lost and found.

Underneath the quaking ocean,
I sit and think up foolish notions:
how to muster up sincere devotion,
how to make myself go through the motions
again.

You coughed, turned your head,
then asked, “Are my eyes still red?”
Some mornings I just can’t get out of bed;
feels like I’m sleeping with the dead,
or just a worm who’s not been fed.

1992

Share This:

My Generation Waits

They do not call us Boomers,
born too late to wear that name,
and Generation X we’re not
having slipped into life a bit too soon

Each generation bides its time
Seeking its voice and words to say
But in the waiting we seem stuck
Adrift in some self-wrought malaise

The roll of my peers, so much caught up
in decades outside our recall —

the sixties, that we barely saw

the seventies, our childhood strife

the eighties, when we came of age,
barely surviving the complaisance of greed

the nineties, that we’d lief forget

And in the absence of great cause,
we manufacture strife and angst
to disenfranchise our own selves,
disown our own, and silent, sleep

While other generations’ seers
and sages, poets, pens now silent, lost
await rebirth among our ranks

I call them out and wonder why
they do not answer, are not found:

Faulkner, Cummings, Hesse, Frost
Williams, Roethke, Breton, Plath
Lewis, Huxley, Sanburg, Hughes
Cassady, Steinbeck, Fleming, White
Eliot, Cocteau, O’Connor, Maugham

must you all wait, in restless graves,
denied rebirth this time around?

01 MAY 2004

Share This:

Add Chris Rock to the List of My Generation

In my last few posts, I was lamenting the fact that my generation seems to be missing writer voices. Well, I just picked up Rolling Stone issue 947, that included an interview with Chris Rock. I’ve always appreciated his comedy on a number of levels; but something he said in this interview struck a chord with me:

[RS Interviewer, Neil Strauss]: When you were doing the Janet Jackson bit in your show, you decided to come down against her. What’s the other side?

[Rock]: On one hand, you are crazy to whip out a titty on a Sunday afternoon. On the other hand, there are jet fighters flying over the stadium and people are cheering, “Hey, go murder more people.” This titty, we can’t have this — but murdering jets, now that’s all right.

[RS]: I’m surprised by the near-apathy of popular artists to what’s going on in the world right now.

[Rock]: Can you believe there’s no Rage Against the Machine? There is no Public Enemy? There’s no Arrested Development? No one is talking about anything. Nobody young gives a f**k. The only people that even mention that there is a f**king war are, like, me and Al Franken? It’s a f**king sad time for art. Art is dead, man.

[RS]: Especially since now the right song can make a difference before the election and maybe put a catchphrase in people’s heads.

[Rock]: There is not one record on the radio that reflects anything that is going on, except for the guy, what’s his name? McGraw? Chesnutt? Toby Keith, I mean. I don’t agree with those guys. But I respect them, because at least they’re f**king dealing with what’s going on — in their own crazy right-wing way.

We’ve got AIDS, SARS and all this s**t going on. All these dead dolphins rolled up on some beach the other day. We are at f**king war, people are f**king broke, mothers are killing their kids, and the welfare thing is going on. And everyone is singing, “Everybody in the club getting tipsy.” It’s f**king insane.

Props to Chris Rock. A voice from the 1962-1968 born generation worth listening to.

Share This:

Songs for the Deaf

Heart strings be stilled, and bring on the noise
that dulls into senseless, hard men hopeful boys;
Just pound on the floor, if you must have a beat,
and perhaps you’ll vibrate the tips of your feet.

We must find other, quiet joys
To fill up the void where the Music once played,
for our audience fidgets and acts quite dismayed
if we take up their space with a moment in time
of anything that might be unique, or sublime,
suggesting the beauty arrayed
In a brief pause of breath, when the talking has ceased,
and like seeds from a flower, our thoughts are released
in the atmosphere, freed from these cages of sound
that we build to protect us from life, all around
(it seems like that to me, at least)
Yet praise of the average demeans genius in man;
we crave mediocre sounds, all we can stand
are the songs that we know, ones we all know by rote
so that even the tone-deaf can find all the notes,
and our Music sounds hollow and canned.
What good is it to sing out from deep in your soul,
if the listener’s ears are beyond your control?

If you must shake the walls, and the floors, and the chair,
soon there will be only a harsh rhythm there,
while the soft melodies that roll
Gently off the tongue, on the faintest of sighs
will be carried off; and then, we’ll all act surprised
when our lives have no meaning, and seem flat and dull,
empty of beauty, and no longer full
of anything apathy has not compromised.

21 FEB 2003

I seem to be fascinated, as of late, by the myth of Odysseus, particularly with his interaction (or adamant lack thereof) with the Sirens. In the book The Third Ear: On Listening to the World, one of the ideas put forward is that the Sirens, having no audience for their song, simply gave up singing (and since their singing was their purpose, they then retreated under their rocks and died). This is advanced as the plight of those who would appeal to the ear, a much more honest organ of interpretation than the eye. In our vision-based culture, where we seek to penetrate outward into the world, rather than listen, and bring the world into us, the hypertrophy of the sense of hearing in favor of seeing causes all sorts of maladjustments and (to use a vision-based word) misperceptions.

“I see,” said the blind;
“I hear,” said the deaf;
“You’re a liar,” said the dumb
— punchline from a joke my grandmother used to tell

Share This: