Love this picture from Cropping Reality. It was taken in Dublin, and it reminded me right away of a poem I wrote while sitting in the ruins of Christ Church years ago. Part of the poem mentions horses just like this clodding past the ruins. Cutting Reality, thanks for bringing back the memory. Now I have to find the poem and some Dublin pictures to pair it with here on TDC.
via Cropping Reality
Lots of other great pictures on Cropping Realty. Do check them out.
When I was 16, I heard Gibby Haynes say the music scene needed a new punk moment and he hoped it was Beck. For one or two summers, it was (FEZtival ’97, I’m thinking of you). But then people my age graduated and started file-swapping and before you knew it, the Philadelphia region was the largest market in the nation without an alternative rock radio format. Mourning the death of high school preset king Y100 (“why? Because it’s good, that’s why!” said Noel Gallagher in my favorite station ID) I thought Gibby never got his wish: I didn’t seen any rejection of pop excess at the last decade’s end and a commercial reset. I didn’t see what I imagined the Clash did as the 70s waned or what coalesced as Nirvana circa 1990. As the 9’s tipped to the aughts like gasoline meters, boy bands roared back from their late 80’s exile, pop ceased being a meaningful qualifier when placed before the word music, metal ceased meaning anything when preceded by nu and grunge rather cynically faked a revival. This isn’t a full recounting, “American Pie”-style, of that era’s musical history, but eventually I came to realize that the punk moment had indeed come, that it was about distribution and choice. And hip-hop. And Wilco. But I can’t get into all of that now. I have an MFA thesis to write. And Sufjan Stevens.
I’ve been thinking lately that if the current global economic crisis is as game-changing as was the Depression, and if rock ‘n’ roll was birthed by a nascent youth culture cutting the tension of economic crisis, a few wars, and a war-fueled recovery, perhaps we’re about to see a whole new set of transforming creative moments like the 50s and 60s in Lubbock and Memphis and Detroit and Liverpool, like London and the Bronx circa 1976. Like wherever Kayne West was ten years ago. The art coming up out of those places drew from common pools, there’s a shared musical history, sure, between blues and rock and gospel and hip hip and punk, but there’s more to it than rightly cherished source code. These explosive movements came each in their own ways from conflict, from the merging of cultures, and, at their best, from a widening sense of neighbor and diminishing definitions of Other. I’m not saying music sets everything right, but there’s a reason the Clash covering Bobby Fuller is sublime, not ironic. There’s a reason Johnny Cash doing “Hurt” is better than Trent Reznor, there’s a reason everyone bought Thriller, that the Gaslight Anthem sing about Miles Davis, that the Fugees cover Don McLean and Don McLean covers Buddy Holly. That everyone covers Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, that Teddy Riley samples Bill Withers, that everyone loves the Beatles and the Temptations. There’s a reason I’m getting carried away.
This post started with the intention of getting into a discussion about books, but I’m going to table that for a few hours. Yesterday was the 52nd anniversary of the deaths of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper. It happened 21 years before I was born, but it still makes me sad. Here’s to the last train for the coast.
Special thanks to Jay Trucker for his Guest Post from yesterday. Looking forward to Part II on Monday.
And to all a good night.
I’m quoted today in a piece by Richard Curtis on ereads.com regarding News Corp.’s launch of The Daily. Curtis rightly points out that the final pricing model differs from the widely held speculation I cited in my original piece that ran on The Huffington Post. It’s .99 a week (not day, as many of us thought). Still, like I said at ereads, it remains to be seen whether The Daily’s staff can bring together the kind of curation that would make it worth anyone’s while to pay for things you can get almost anywhere online for free. Curtis also used the word shibboleth to describe the perhaps generational dictum about information wanting to be free. I like that word.
Thanks, Richard, for quoting me. The Daily: I do wish you the best of luck. You got a not-great review on Mashable yesterday, and the main point of contention was the quality of your written content. Mr. Murdoch and friends, I’m available.
These days, he may teach writing and blog about nightlife and baseball, but once, not so very long ago, Jay Trucker was the self-admittedly snarkier half of one of the greatest college radio duos of all time. Picture it: Collegeville (I’m not kidding), 1998. A boy from Monmouth County, New Jersey and a boy from the urban center of Pennsylvania Dutch country revolutionize the long-held mores of an academic outpost on the fringes of Main Line Philly respectability. They did it with a compelling hot talk format. With barbs directed at each others’ CD collections. They did it with prescient WWF vs. WCW analysis at the height of the Monday Night Wars. They did it with Pat Boone covering 12 Heavy Metal Classics.
Things are different now. Collegeville has a diner. Even a Wegman’s. WaWa isn’t the great Third Place it once was. But a friendship forged in a constant amazement of shirtless, nicknamed, drum-kitting roommates, of Kmart runs and starter check fails, of campus protests writ large in sidewalk chalk on every paved surface in the wee small hours before graduation, well, a friendship like that outlasts Eric Bischoff, the Clinton Administration, the 3.5 floppy disk and, as you know, the very foundations of analog media. These two brazen boys, now slightly less brazen men with slightly, ever so slightly, less hair, resume their media partnership today, here and now. These two men are Jay Trucker and Chris Cocca. They present to you a very special The Daily Cocca guest post feature in two parts. Jay, thanks for being here. You will always be the Black Album to my Tragic Kingdom. The Scott Ian to my Meatloaf. Actually, that would make you my son-in-law, but you get the point.
Pop Rocks! One Man’s Cover Song Garbage and Gold
by Jay Trucker, special to The Grizzly The Daily Cocca
Cover songs are forever. My guess is that the second song ever performed was a cover of the first. Some of these cover songs are inspired, many are horrifying. Artists who cover well-known songs are disadvantaged in that they are immediately judged against the original, though the instant recognition of a popular cover song often paves the way for radio play and concert sing-alongs. The best covers may pay tribute or put a new stamp on an old standard. The worst are soul-crushing cash-ins. Here are just a few of my personal favorites and least favorites. Feel free to add your own. But for the sake of my sanity, try not to defend Sheryl Crow.
The Garbage
Five Finger Death Punch – “Bad Company” http://www.last.fm/music/Five+Finger+Death+Punch
Bad Company isn’t a great band and 1974’s “Bad Company” isn’t one of their better songs. It’s no “Feel Like Makin’ Love,” that’s for sure. Hell, it’s not even “Shooting Star” or “Ready for Love.” Still Bad Company’s “Bad Company” from the album Bad Company is a harmless ditty about life as part of a group of badass cowboys (with guitars?), a mediocre song by a mediocre band. Think of the original as a precursor to Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive,” without the Aquanet. “Bad Company” is one of those songs you might leave on the radio or you might flip past, depending on whether or not you feel like belting out a country-tinged guitar anthem about life with a six gun in your hand.
From the start, dunder-headed dorks Five Finger Death Punch add modern rock humorlessness to the proceedings, replacing Paul Rodgers’ pseudo-soul with macho poseur bleats from a guy who sounds like Scott Stapp’s even more earnest little brother. While Death Punch singer Ivan Moody crotch grabs all over the song, nu metal guitar is provided by former Mandy Moore guitarist, current tough guy Jason Hook. Part of what makes this song so terrible is that a generation of teenagers, not all teenagers mind you, but the ones who like contemporary knuckle-dragging shlock like Shinedown (makers of the slightly less offensive, equally macho-earnest “Simple Man” cover), will mistakenly say this band and this cover is “cool,” “heavy,” and “better than the original.” It is none of the above, and considering the mediocrity of the first, that is telling.
Sheryl Crow – “Sweet Child ‘O Mine” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFU9qBEvEVw
Asking people whether or not they like the Sheryl Crow version of Guns ‘n’ Roses’ “Sweet Child” is a good way to pass judgment on them with swift accuracy. I don’t know what kind of record executive dreamed up this steaming pile of wrong, but unleashing it on an unsuspecting world was cruel, especially given the timing. Released in 1999, this empty cover was given to a pre-millenial planet still coming to terms with the end of GnR as we knew it.
How did Crow, an artist typically not noteworthy enough to provoke contempt, manage to turn an 80s classic into a pathetic whimper? By removing its innards and adding nothing but sap and ugly. The original “Sweet Child” manages to be a great 80s power ballad without being considered an 80s power ballad despite its sappy lyrics and goofy guitar chords because it is sung by a sociopath who sounds like he might throw his microphone at the crowd at any minute. And in fact, he did! Axl caterwauls “where do we go?” in a demon voice, if ever a demon were to ask a simple question. Crow, conversely, sings the same line like she is asking if the listener would rather stop at Chili’s or Applebee’s.
Musically, Crow’s version exemplifies that more is less, as she throws in some slide guitar, violin, and some kind of unappealing keyboard, creating a muddled sound that only her Taylor Hanson scream at the end can break through, and not in a good way. But hey, at least she was able to tweak the arrangement just enough to appeal to both the country demographic and adult contemporary radio.
And no, this doesn’t mean Crow’s version sucks just because it is feminized. It sucks because it is sanitized, which is the polar opposite of classic era GnR. Even Fergie Ferg, best known for rap-singing about her humps, does a comparatively much better version than does Ms. Crow, replacing Axl’s edgy wails with sultry swagger that would probably make Sheryl Crow blush.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBIpBNMzzGs&feature=related
Every time I hear Sheryl Crow strain to hit the opening lines of this song, I die a little bit inside. Then I check the unit prices on Folgers and Maxwell House.
The Counting Crows ft. Vanessa Carlton – “Big Yellow Taxi” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvtJPs8IDgU
The Counting Crows’ version of Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” manages to commit the very sin that the original is about, an accomplishment that would be impressive were it ironic. Sadly, it’s not. That’s right, Adam Duritz, the “they” who “paved paradise and put up a parking lot” is you, you blissfully unaware, fathead, jerk! [Direct all slander/libel complaints to Mr. Trucker’s legal staff directly. — Ed.]
Mitchell’s folk song about the death of nature in the era of the concrete jungle is pro-tooled and suffocated of its hippie-dippy peacenik vibe and replaced with the Counting Crows’ corporate version of the same. Duritz poses as a 90s version of Mitchell’s love child, but he’s really just a gossip rag fodder with devil sticks. I mean, once you’ve dated two-thirds of the women on Friends, you kind of lose your right to complain about tree museums.
To make matters worse, the Crows’ glossy rendition includes cooing and “oh-bop-bop-bopping” from pop singer Vanessa Carlton. You remember Carlton, right? She comes from the era right after pop stars stopped writhing around on snakes and before they started wearing meat dresses. She had a hit or two when it was trendy for young pretty girls to play guitar or piano while staring at something just above and to the left of the camera. I forget whether she plays guitar or piano. She does neither in the video for this song, nor is there any evidence that she and the band ever met. My guess is they haven’t, and we’re probably all the better for it. [Fin. Part 1. Next Issue: The Gold!]
Jay Trucker teaches writing at the Community College of Baltimore County and studies Sociology and Education at the University of Maryland Baltimore County. He occasionally writes about the Baltimore Orioles for WNST.net and nightlife for the Baltimore Sun blogs.
[Jay passes hot mic back to Chris]. Thank you, Jay. I can’t wait for the comments to start coming in. A reminder to listeners: “Part II: The Gold” will hit the internet on Monday. That’s our show for today, friends. Pat’s gonna play us out like it’s 1998.
Readers Paradise image via David Watson on Flickr. Fair use on the WVOU image. BadCo awesome by I’m Heavy Duty on Flickr.
“A dying metaphor is a derogatory term coined by George Orwell in his essay Politics and the English Language. Orwell defines a dying metaphor as a metaphor that isn’t dead (dead metaphors are different, as they are treated like ordinary words), but has been worn out and is used because it saves people the trouble of inventing an original phrase for themselves. In short, a cliché. Example: Achilles’ heel. Orwell suggests that writers scan their work for such dying forms that they have ‘seen regularly before in print’ and replace them with alternative language patterns.” (Wikipedia)
We need to say the things we need to say in ways that only we can say them.
Do you find yourself falling in with dying metaphors? Flee them! Even if you’re trying to be ironic. These are the among the things that drive you crazy about bad writing, so make sure you keep earning your right to be bothered: excise all those dated, dying metaphors from your writing.
I understand. It’s not like we use them on purpose. We all know better already. But they are tenacious. They are good ideas at 3 AM. They are placeholders for better, truer thoughts and more honest and beautiful images.
What are some of the worst overused metaphors (or similes) you’ve come across?
I’ve had a few discussions recently about the utility and value of services like Facebook, WordPress, twitter, and Flickr. The reasons people use various social media platforms or begin sharing content online in the first place keep changing, but doesn’t 2011 already feel like the Year of Curation? That word is everywhere. I’ve used it two or three times in recent posts here, and it’s turning up in comments and discussions about whether the presentation offered by The Daily‘s (News Corp’s iPad newspaper) editorial team will be worth 99 cents per digital issue when the web is deep and wide like a Doors song and so much of it is free. If you’re already not paying for most of the content you enjoy, why pay for curation when your friends and colleagues are so eager to share opinion, art, entertainment, and news?
As the social networks have grown, it’s been fashionable to talk about how much information we passively consume through our various feeds. But we’re also busy passing on things that move us, that strike us, that frustrate or empower us. We don’t always do that with tact — we’re still learning. That we can do it at all, but also with power and speed, well, that’s still new to history. While you’re praying for Egypt and everywhere people struggle, think about what you consume and what you curate. Keep sharing those things that give life.
Today, I’m sharing this picture I found on Flickr. It took my breath away…the moment was, dare I say, holy. I hope you experience something like that this week. Happy Monday to all.
I’m pleased as punch about the first search term. I love Kris Kristofferson, and I not just because I covet his name for my own nom de plume. I’m going to have to go with Chris St. Christopher when I start writing hard-boiled crime novels.
The second search term is here because of my quote from this week’s “The Office,” and I’d like to try to answer it if I could. Mark Zuckerberg’s jet pack is the same place yours is: the government-confiscated files of this guy. That’s the only possible explanation for why this world hasn’t happened yet. I’m pretty sure I have a post somewhere in archives here simply titled “Where is My Jet Pack? Where Is My Flying Car?” (Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down.) Blame Thomas Edison and his smear campaign against Alternating Current. Blame whoever is holding on to those designs for the ion-repulsion flight apparatus. We should have jet packs by now. We should have flying cars. Mssrs. Hanna, Barbera, Disney, and Verne: you promised.
Chris Cocca 