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The magazine of the Columbia Spectator
4 October 2012 / vol. 13 issue 4
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Sounds of the Underground
Listening closer to New York’s experimental music scene by Zoe Camp
MoMA goes undercover for a James Bond retrospective, pg. 6
Editor in Chief
Ashton Cooper
Managing Editor for Features
Anneliese Cooper
Managing Editor for Optics
Meredith Foster
Art Director
Cathi Choi
Staff Director
Anthony Clay
Deputy Editor, Lead Story
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Deputy Editor, Online Content
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Online Associates
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Senior Design Editor
Zack Etheart
Visuals Editors
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Joe Girton
Visuals Associate
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Eyesites Editor
PJ Sauerteig
View From Here Editor
Melanie Broder
Interview Editor
Monica Carty
Features Associates
Somala Diby
Andrea Chan
Laura Booth
Anna Marcum
Zoe Camp
Nicollette Barsamian
Production Staff
Somala Diby
Adil Habib
Suze Myers
Katy Nelson
Zoey Poll
Allie Rickard
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Head Copy Editor
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Spectator Editor in Chief
Sarah Darville
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Find Us Online:
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© 2012 The Eye,
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ILLUSTRATION BY SUZANNA BUCK
SOUNDS OF THE EDITOR’S NOTE
UNDERGROUND
Listening closer to New York’s
experimental music scene pg. 07
by Zoe Camp
CONTENTS
03 EYESITES
MUSIC
04 Still Working It
Gina Segall
EYE TO EYE
05 Closing the Gap
Jessica Karch
FILM
06 From MoMA, With Love
Jack Klempay
12 TV
A Heroic Comeback
Kierstin Utter
13 20/20
Kanye Always Wins
Somala Diby
Cum-parative Literature
MUSIC
14 The Net Worth of Nostalgia
VFH
15 Trail Magic
Anneliese Cooper
Somala Diby
Michael Samuels
Last Thursday night, I found
myself at a midnight showing
of Glee copycat and general
disaster, Pitch Perfect. All I can
say is that I love Rebel Wilson.
Sorry, not sorry. One of the main
numbers in the movie (and one
that was also featured heavily in
the trailer) was BLACKstreet and
Dr. Dre’s 1996 hit “No Diggity.”
The college freshmen in Pitch
Perfect LOVED this song (full
disclosure: it has been stuck
in my head all week), but let’s
think about the actual cultural
relevance of a song like “No
Diggity” to people currently in
college. “No Diggity” came out
when I was six years old, and
if you are a first-year now, it
probably came out when you
were three.
While the film seemed to
frame a love of Dre as nostalgia
for the music of our childhoods,
I highly doubt that any of us
were listening to hip hop during
our toddler years. I for one had
the Backstreet Boys on serious
rotation (those boy-men simply
refused to “Quit Playing Games
(With My Heart)”). The power of
nostalgia for the culture of a time
we never actually experienced
seems to be an especially relevant
trend right now—or maybe it
always has been? Nostalgia for
nostalgia, anyone?
This week, we’ve turned our
eye to old favorites returning
and the influence of nostalgia on
cultural production. From Azealia
Banks’ much anticipated album
1991, to the CW’s upcoming
remake of Wonder Woman, to
a James Bond retrospective at
MoMA, nostalgia, it seems, is in.
Meanwhile, in the lead
story, Zoe Camp looks at the
most recent manifestations of
avant-garde music in New York,
particularly the advent of noise
music. John Cage’s experimental
legacy has resulted in the music
coming out of venues like Death
By Audio, 285 Kent, and Red
Light District.
If nostalgia means a revival of
a bunch of dudes dancing around
in white overalls (I’m looking
at you, BLACKstreet), I’m not
complaining. You know what,
Eye readers? I like the way you
work it. I got to bag it up.
Ashton Cooper
[email protected]
YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE
by Richard Whiddington
In the style of Craigslist’s infamous “Missed Connections,” The Eye has crafted a few posts ourselves—hoping and praying to reach a few anonymous day-makers who we just can’t get out of our
heads.
•
•
To the cluster of girls who stood outside Pinkberry in the sun last Wednesday, discussing the
health benefits of fro-yo (although I couldn’t see
the yogurt for all the chocolate-rainbow-caramel-waffle toppings): Ice cream tastes better.
To the man who cut in front of me in the Ferris
dessert line, and took the last carrot cake: I
hope your life ends in misery and emptiness.
•
To the professor I saw sprinting in high heels
across campus, wielding a bouquet of flowers
like a shield against the rain: In case no one else
has told you, you are wonderfully graceful.
•
To the guy who sat on the roof of Beta lasering passersby: Your secret location was rather
ingenious, I must admit. I look forward to us
meeting again, but hopefully under the guise of
a new prank.
•
For the man who has been filming outside Low
sporadically for the past few weeks: I have been
too shy to eavesdrop or linger. What are you filming? And, more importantly, is it a documentary
on despair?
EYE CAN’T TELL
THE KILLERS OR WALT WHITMAN?
by Amelia Pitcherella
O Killers! My Killers!
Last week, American rock band The Killers released Battle Born,
their fourth and arguably most Americana album yet. The lyrics on
this album are so Americana, in fact, that we’ve begun to wonder
whether the band didn’t rip its lyrics from a journal of Walt Whitman’s. So, for your entertainment, we’ve provided you with a quiz
to test how well you really know the new American frontier.
Six of the following 10 quotes are skillfully crafted lyrics from Battle Born, while the other four are lines from Walt Whitman poems.
Can you tell them apart?
a. I’ve gone through life
White-knuckled in the moments that left me behind
Refusing to heed the yield
I penetrate the force fields in the blind
b. I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,
I heard what the singers were singing so long,
Heard who sprang in crimson youth
from the white froth and the water blue
c. Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead
d. Deep in the night, I feel the presence
of something that was long ago told to me
There is a hand, guiding the river
the river to wide open sea
e. I love you, before long I die,
I have travelled a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
For I could not die till I once looked on you,
For I feared I might afterward lose you
f. Let the bugle blow us
all to peace time
You left wondering what
it was all about
You may deny it, but you
carry it with you
Down that lonely road in
a shadow of a doubt
g. Can you tell me, brother, was I deceived or in denial?
I was there in the back of the room when you testified
With your pitchfork tongue, you licked your lips and lied
h. Have you ever loved the body of a woman?
Have you ever loved the body of a man?
Your father—where is your father?
i. Be still, wild and young
Long may your innocence reign
Like shells on the shore
j. O! Rise up like the sun and labor till the work is done
Rise up like the sun and labor till the work is done
24 HOURS IN MOHI
EYESITES
MISSED CONNECTIONS
THE DEFINITIVE GUIDE
by Dunni Oduyemi
Morningside Heights is not characterized by
the hustle-and-bustle (read: the certainty of
getting elbowed on a busy street after narrowly
escaping a swerving taxi) of New York. However,
if friends are visiting you on their schools’ fall
break, here are some ways to make the most of
MoHi’s 12 streets, three avenues, and two drives
of quaint-when-compared-to-SoHo, but still
unmistakably New York charm.
Breakfast: Go to the delightful Kitchenette on
Amsterdam between 122nd and 123rd. Convince
yourself that it is, in fact, okay to order two dishes. Why else would a menu offer both red velvet
and chocolate-chip banana pancakes?
Activity: The Cathedral of St. John the Divine,
whose construction began in the late 19th century
and was never completed, is a must-see. Although
unfinished, it’s still technically the world’s largest
cathedral. How’s that feel, Europe?
Late lunch: Be sure to stop by the farmers’ market
right outside Columbia on Broadway. From perfectly autumnal cider donuts to rustic mini-pizzas,
there is definitely something for everyone (maybe
even more than one thing if we’re talking about
those mini-pies).
Activity: Riverside Park is a perfect venue for a
relaxing afternoon, especially in fall. Make the
trek down to watch the leaves change color and
fall, see dogs walking their owners, and ponder
the age-old question: Can running shorts be too
short?
Coffee: Pop by the Hungarian Pastry Shop, a
watering ground for artsy types, on Amsterdam
between 110th and 111th. The bohemian decor and
rustic pastries are great, but the show-stealer
remains the often inexplicable scrawling on the
bathroom walls.
Dinner: Visit Community Food & Juice on Broadway between 112th and 113th, whose earthy and
organic food makes it the antithesis of the oncampus dining halls.
Activity: See if there’s anything on at Columbia’s
Miller Theatre or at the Riverside Theatre on 91
Claremont Avenue, and enjoy a night of excellent,
local entertainment. Who knew the theater district
started all the way on 116th?
Midnight craving: Visit Tom’s Diner on Broadway between 112th and 113th and try one of their
famous milkshakes. Shots of Tom’s exteriors were
used in the ’90s sitcom Seinfeld, which is Morningside Heights’ most substantial link to popular
culture.
Answers: a. Killers b. Whitman c. Whitman d. Killers e. Whitman f. Killers g. Killers h. Whitman i. Killers j. Killers
03
STILL WORKING IT
MUSIC
MISSY ELLIOTT RE-ENTERS THE GAME SHE HELPED CREATE
by Gina Segall
Illustration by Suze
Myers
If I find myself jonesing for some lady rap in my
nightly procrastinatory YouTube scans, there’s no
question what video I’m watching: “DJ please, pick
up your phone, I’m on the request line.” Bees buzz on
a record player. Swings swing in a post-apocalyptic
wasteland. Middle school flashbacks hit. There she is:
spiky-haired, blue fur-wearing, iconic. There’s no
other way to put it: Watching Missy Elliott’s “Work It”
music video is mesmerizing. Her singular facial features, her coat complete with her own visage printed
on the back, and her tendency to blend right in with
her male dancers are all just unarguably cool. Elliott
is a female anomaly in the male-dominated hip-hop
industry: She’s fearless, she’s powerful, she’s attractive—and now, she’s back.
After a seven year long hiatus since her last studio
album, Elliott reappeared over this past year on collaborations with artists from Busta Rhymes to Demi
Lovato. She released two much-anticipated singles
over Labor Day weekend, “9th Inning”—featuring
veteran hip-hop producer and rapper Timbaland—
and “Triple Threat.”
Elliott began her career as one-third of an R&B
group called Sista, which promptly disbanded when
it encountered difficulties with its record label. She
began writing songs for other artists, most famously
for Aaliyah, to much acclaim from record company
executives. By 1997, Elliott had her own album out—
Supa Dupa Fly—on which she experimented with
both melodic vocals and low, smooth rapping.
Women in rap date all the way back to the prehistoric mid-80s. MC Lyte (born Lana Michele Moorer)
was one of the first solo female rappers to make a
full-length album (Lyte as a Rock, 1988). Salt-N-Pepa,
an all-girl hip-hop trio, formed in 1985. Wendy “Lady
B” Clark, Queen Latifah, Eve, and Lil’ Kim are just a
few of many other early female MCs. Essentially, two
camps began forming, delineating the different ways
in which these female artists gained notoriety and
became successful: Lyte represented the hardcore,
aggressive, one-of-the-guys persona, while Salt-NPepa was more coy, sensual, and, well, girly.
Missy’s approach falls somewhere in between.
Her sporty style staples are just as recognizable as the
opening lines of “Get Ur Freak On” or “Lose Control.”
Missy doesn’t wear corsets, leopard-print bikinis, or
half-topless dresses (ahem, Lil’ Kim). Her baggy pants
and sporty kicks are reminiscent of hip-hop-inspired
men’s streetwear, which may lend her credibility by
allowing listeners to think of her as in league with
their favorite male MCs.
According to Grace McCreight, WBAR’s urban
music director, women in hip-hop “are placed under
extra scrutiny for being feminine intruders on a
masculine space. Because of this, it is much harder for
them to be taken seriously and to become successful,
especially in a mainstream sense.” One can recognize
this boys’ club simply by noting that male hip-hop
artists continue to dominate the charts.
“Missy Elliott is one of the few women to escape
04
the objectification used by the industry to market
rappers who just happen to be female, while maintaining the ability to rhyme about her own sexual
appetites,” McCreight says. Her lyrics are indeed rife
with a kind of girl power, a sexual pride and self-confidence that rivals the cockiest male rappers. In short,
even Elliott’s version of feminism might be termed
masculine in its delivery, making her music accessible to everyone, regardless of their gender-debate
persuasion.
Today, females in hip-hop have become even
more common. M.I.A., Rye Rye, Azealia Banks, and
Nicki Minaj are becoming household names, mentioned alongside male powerhouses Jay-Z and Kanye.
The era may be different, but the various artists’
approaches to their images have not really changed:
sexy outfits, outrageous lyrics, tomboy-chic style,
and a strong feminist agenda (or some combination thereof) still seem to be the attention-grabbing
options from which female MC’s must choose if they
want to be successful.
Of course, one could argue that, in general, the
rap industry is now more sexualized than it was at its
roots—just watch Grandmaster Flash & The Furious
Five’s music video for their 1982 hit “The Message”
and compare it to The Fixxers’ video for 2007’s “Can
U Werk Wit Dat.” It follows, then, that the cliché of
the role of women in hip-hop has evolved to a point
that would make any women’s studies major cringe.
Where, then, does that leave the ladies who are the
stars of their own music videos?
“Often, they work within those misogynistic
schemes to reach audiences,” McCreight says.
“See Lil’ Kim’s cover for La Bella Mafia—the
woman has more talent than most men out there,
but still has to be nearly nude for her album to get
attention—and so they have to balance artistic
endeavors with industry expectations.”
Oftentimes, that balance implies a sort of paradox: “Women attempting to fit into a male industry
sometimes write very sexual lyrics, using aggressive feminine sexuality as a response to aggressive
masculine norms,” McCreight explains. “At the same
time that they are transgressing social rules on how
“MISSY ELLIOTT IS ONE OF THE
FEW WOMEN TO ESCAPE THE
OBJECTIFICATION USED BY THE
INDUSTRY TO MARKET RAPPERS WHO
JUST HAPPEN TO BE FEMALE.”
women should talk about sex, they are also kowtowing to an industry that expects them to be primarily
sexual creatures.”
Ultimately, it’s a catch-22: whether one sees, for
example, Minaj’s risqué outfits as a capitulation to the
sexualized stereotype of females in rap, or as a strategic statement on (and a valuable tool in taking back)
sexuality, is ultimately a matter of opinion.
If Twitter support and attention in the blogosphere
are anything to go by, Elliott is being welcomed
back to the game with open arms. Her singular style
has not changed as the industry has. She’s femaleempowering without shoving ideals down anyone’s
throats, she’s hot without sporting barely-there
underwear in her music videos, and she’s the epitome
of cool without giving you an inferiority complex.
Missy’s accessible, timeless, and unique. And she’s
certainly saved me from many a night of humdrum
productivity. a
CLOSING THE GAP
EYE TO EYE
THE MEDICAL DIRECTOR OF WOMEN AT RISK TALKS WOMEN’S HEALTH
by Jessica Karch
photo courtesy of
Kathie-Ann Joseph
Dr. Kathie-Ann Joseph is currently an assistant professor of surgery at New York University Langone Medical Center and one of
the top breast cancer surgeons in the country.
Exposed to health disparities among the poor as
a medical student at Columbia, Joseph aims to
eradicate barriers to good healthcare amongst
women. With these goals in mind, she works
as the medical director of Women At Risk at
NewYork-Presbyterian/Columbia University
Medical Center and serves on various committees, including the American Cancer Society’s
Harlem Cancer Control Coalition. The Eye sat
down with Dr. Joseph to discuss Obamacare,
care options for underserved women, and yoga
as treatment.
Do you think the recent health care legislation
will decrease the cost of health care for women?
I hope it can. On one level, there is never one
easy solution. I think that improving access to
health care will certainly help. If women lack
insurance, they’re not going to be able to get
that mammogram that will allow them to detect
that breast cancer at an earlier state. Education is
another, because educating women about breast
cancer and the need to go for a mammogram—
these two go hand in hand. It’s something I spend
a lot of time doing—educating women about
breast cancer—because there’s this fear in some
women in some communities about cancer—so
people feel that once they get that cancer diagnosis, it’s a death sentence.
“WE ARE IN NEW YORK
CITY, ONE OF THE RICHEST
CITIES, YET WE HAVE THESE
COMMUNITIES WHERE WE
HAVE THESE HEALTH GAPS.”
What do you do to educate women?
Anywhere anyone asks me to give a talk, I
usually will go and give a talk. In a church, at
a conference, or so forth. I also have my own
annual conference that I had organized several
years ago—I think we’re in our eighth year—that
targets women of color. Every year we have really
distinguished speakers, survivors, that come and
speak in very plain language about breast health,
breast cancer. And that really seems to be a good
way, one good way, to get the message out. Also
to remind women that being uninsured doesn’t
mean you can’t get a mammogram. There are free
screening facilities to get a free mammogram,
and many women are unaware of that. Especially
with the economy being the way it is, many
women are unemployed, they don’t have insurance, they’ll skimp on their health.
What are you working on now?
We’re looking at services that can help
[women] with their aftercare—some of the things
that can help them with their symptoms after
they’re treated with breast cancer. We’re starting
a study right now, which is a yoga program. It’s
looking at how yoga will improve their spiritual
and physical well-being. There have been other
studies that have looked at that in the general
population, but in this population we have here
at Bellevue, it’s pretty much Hispanic and Asian,
and the majority of our patients don’t speak English. We get used to treating our patients, doing
the surgery, doing chemotherapy, and sending
the patients on their way. But this is a patient
conformation that is primarily
uninsured or underinsured,
who don’t speak English and
may not have a lot of emotional and social support as
they go through their cancer
treatment. We’re trying to develop other systems that can
provide them psychosocial
support, emotional support.
Medicine is more than just seeing a patient in the
office, giving an exam, and writing a prescription. It’s also about what you can do to help
society on a broader level.
I had an opportunity to work at Harlem Hospital and work with a doctor who was studying to be an epidemiologist, so she ran a clinic
that was doing free breast and cervical cancer
screenings. She was doing mammograms and
CAT scans. I think that was the first time it hit
me that there were all these women over the age
of 65 who had never had a mammogram or a pap
smear before.
This was when I was in college, and so I hadn’t
yet started medical school, but that was my first
introduction to the health disparity. We are in
New York City, one of the richest cities, yet we
have these communities where we have these
health gaps. These women have been coming
to the health system, yet no one questions why
they’ve never been offered these tests. And this
still happens, and I’m not sure why, and it still
happens in certain communities, and I think these
are the questions that remain to be answered. a
Did Columbia influence your
decision to help these people?
Definitely. I had an opportunity to work at a private
hospital, but also working at
other hospitals like St. Luke’sRoosevelt in Harlem, where
you had patients who were
not so well off, more challenging patients, really helped
me give me a better appreciation for the type of work that
I do now.
How do you mean, “challenging patients?”
I was in medical school in
the early ’90s, and that was
a time [when] HIV was more
rampant, AIDS, TB. These
patients were very sick, and
the residents really required a
lot of our help as medical students. I think that that gave
me a sense at that time, being
interested in public health.
05
FROM MOMA, WITH LOVE
FILM
THE MUSEUM’S RETROSPECTIVE SHOWS 007’S PERENNIAL APPEAL
by Jack Klempay
Illustration by Suzanna
Buck
On Oct. 14, 1962, a U.S. Air Force reconnaissance
aircraft photographed the installation of forty medium-range Soviet missiles in Cuba. These nuclear
weapons had an effective range of 5,000 kilometers,
and could easily reach major U.S. cities, including
Chicago, New York, and Washington, D.C.. President
Kennedy was informed, and two days later on Oct.
16, the Cuban Missile Crisis began; for the next two
weeks, the world held its breath and hovered on
the brink of nuclear war. The first-ever James Bond
film, Dr. No (1962), premiered in U.S. theaters only
six months later. The villain’s plot to disrupt U.S.
missile launches from his Caribbean hideout must
have seemed frighteningly timely to an audience still
recovering from the past year’s scare.
Ian Fleming may have created the character of
James Bond in 1953, but it is not without reason
that Bond waited until the height of the Cold War to
make his silver screen debut. Espionage, technological warfare, and political intrigue were then at the
forefront of our collective consciousness, and the
fears and anxieties of the time help to explain the
early success of Dr. No and subsequent Bond films:
Thunderball (1965) is a countdown to recover stolen
nuclear warheads in the Caribbean, while Goldfinger (1964) features a communist plot to irradiate the
United States’ gold supply.
“During the Cold War, the villains were generally
of an Eastern European nature and world domination was their goal,” says Anne Morra, curator of
“50 Years of James Bond,” a Museum of Modern Art
exhibition opening on Oct. 5 that will commemorate
the film character’s 50th anniversary. To celebrate
this milestone, MoMA plans to screen all 22 Bond
films during the month of October, leading up to
the November release of Skyfall, the series’ newest installment. The outlandish storylines of the
films were not far off from the hyper-imaginative
communist conspiracy theories circulating at the
time, and Bond’s fancy gadgets are hardly remarkable when compared to the technologies developed
by the United States and the Soviet Union to gain an
edge in the arms race.
Of course, the key to remaining popular was the
ability of the Bond franchise to adapt to an evolving
sociopolitical climate, capturing new contemporary tensions, even as the era of détente set in and
the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. Richard Peña,
the program director of the Film Society of Lincoln
Center, explains that “James Bond was very much a
Cold War creation,” but that in later films, “writers
developed an international criminal organization for
Bond to fight against, often even side-by-side with
Russians,” to make sure that the character remained
relevant. “The most contemporary villain, in my
opinion, is Dominic Greene, in Quantum of Solace,
06
who is portrayed as an eco-terrorist,” Morra says. “This plot
device is so current, a long
and far cry from the days
of SPECTRE agents and decoder machines!”
On the other hand,
there is a certain
timelessness about the
character of Bond that
crosses all generational
gaps. Despite having been
played by six different
actors, Bond remains one
of the most enduringly
popular and recognizable
cinematic figures of the past
half-century. The Bond of
2012 is more or less the Bond
of 1962, with a few changes in
interpretation. Sean Connery,
the first actor to bring Bond to the
big screen, “was stealthy, smooth,
sexy, and didn’t expend too much
psychological angst in order to bring down
the villain,” Morra says. Connery pioneered the
romantic idealization of the spy, ushering in the era
of tailored suits, expensive cars, and dry martinis.
“Spy work is kind of grubby, but Sean Connery was
transformed into this suave, far more elegant character,” Peña says.
Roger Moore, who took over the role of Bond in
1973, “brought the character to the point of parody”
with his sarcastic wit and debonair charisma, while
Timothy Dalton (1987-1989), on the other hand,
brought a renewed physicality to the character “in
response to the action mega-block buster of the late
1980’s, such as Lethal Weapon, Die Hard, and others,” according to Morra. Pierce Brosnan’s post-Cold
War Bond (1995-2004) was “very diplomatic,” and
Daniel’s Craig’s take on the character (2006-present)
“is a harkening back to Bond as written by Fleming.
He is modeled as a man who is both immune to and
disgusted by the work he does,” she says.
Despite their substantial differences, all these
men cultivated a rough yet sophisticated persona:
“Bond’s popularity and influence derive from being
cool rather than heated … His appeal has as much to
do with his restraint—a certain implosion—as with
his dexterous feats,” Annette Insdorf, a professor
of film at Columbia, says. Bond unites brutality and
civility, a paradox that does not fail to entertain
audiences. “There is an aspect of Bond that is both of
the law, but also beyond it, and people are fascinated
with this,” Peña explains. “The license to kill, this
ability to kill and get away with it, has always been a
major part of his character.”
Interestingly, the most controversial change to
Bond’s character was made earlier this year, when
“SPY WORK IS KIND
OF GRUBBY, BUT
SEAN CONNERY
WAS TRANSFORMED
INTO THIS SUAVE,
FAR MORE ELEGANT
CHARACTER.”
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Heineken announced
that in Skyfall, Bond will trade his signature martini
glass for a simple green beer bottle. Purists were
outraged by this break from the elegant figure so
carefully crafted by Fleming, Connery, and his
successors. A cold beer is certainly more modern
than Connery’s forty-dollar martini, but one could
argue that this change has disturbed the fine balance
between the timeless and the contemporary that has
kept Bond one of the most well-loved film characters of all time.
After all, it’s doubtful that the hero of the Cold
War will be taken seriously when he flags the barman
down for a pint at the local pub—neither shaken nor
stirred, of course.a
sounds of the
underground
listening closer to new york’s
experimental music scene
a
t first, there is nothing but
silence—an unsettling sense
of quiet, the calm before the
storm. And then, slowly but
surely, the madness begins to take hold.
An undulating stream of noise creeps in—a
mechanical tide, swarming my eardrums
and retreating, again and again. And then
come the screams—laser-sharp bursts of
industrial noise, piercing the drone and
opening a void from which more noise may
enter. A strange sense of panic sets in—a
claustrophobic madness, fed by the unrelenting churning of piston-esque drums
and high-frequency explosions. And then,
after what feels like an eternity—but is
actually just nine minutes and 34 seconds
later—I’m back in my tiny bed in Plimpton, beads of sweat on my brow, and I feel
like I’ve come out of a wormhole.
IN FOCUS
There’s a name for this feeling. It’s called
“Warm Embrace of Steam,” the opening track
on Fascist Starship, the 2006 debut from Brooklyn experimentalists, OPPONENTS. The title of
the song is in some ways a misnomer: the frequencies are more abrasive than embracing. The
track brings to mind the soundscape of an old
factory, abandoned by humans and reclaimed
by machines. If you played this at your standard
EC bender, people would probably wince, look
at each other incredulously, finish their drinks,
and head for the door. It’s no Skrillex, that’s for
sure. And while the sounds may not appear to
have meaning, I learn from a chat with OPPONENTS on a windy Friday afternoon that there
is an incredible amount of thought behind the
recording.
Joshua Slusher, one part of the triad, tells me
what he strives for in his artistic efforts. “The
main focus for me—not just in the music, but
even in things like the cover art—are these juxtapositions of beauty,” he says. “Setting something raw like nature next to hyper-industrial
civilization and seeing them collide—the transcendental against raw, harsh reality.” It’s the
sonic equivalent of a big bang, and you probably
would have missed out if you weren’t looking
carefully enough.
Nowadays, our generation has an unprecedented degree of instant access to practically all
of the world’s music. Between Spotify, SoundCloud, and the curated selections of internet
tastemakers, there’s no genre left untouched,
and in an artistic hub like New York, it’s pretty
08
easy to engage in the “scene”—the metal community at the Acheron, the indie obsessives at
the Cameo gallery, or the big-time spectacle
of Madison Square Garden. And yet, there is
another side to New York City’s musical identity—the id to our pop-obsessed ego, a scene
often marginalized because of its inaccessibility.
Drone, dark ambient, noise, no wave—they all
comprise a larger experimental movement that
has been part of the musical culture for decades.
It knows no rules, laws, or boundaries—instrumental or otherwise—and it’s everywhere.
IT’S THE SONIC
EQUIVALENT OF A
BIG BANG AND YOU
PROBABLY WOULD
HAVE MISSED OUT IF
YOU WEREN’T LOOKING
CAREFULLY ENOUGH.
t
o define “experimental” is a challenge in
and of itself: “experimental” encompasses
so many styles, instruments and genres,
and it is different for every listener. For
the purposes of simplicity, however, “experimental” is used as a descriptor for anything
outside the norms of contemporary music or for
sounds we simply don’t understand. Traditionally, experimental music has stayed well out of
the public spotlight, at least from a commercial
standpoint. Although touchstone figures like
Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and Can all
hold coveted places in the hearts of critics and
fans alike, they only enjoyed modest commercial success during their heydays in the ’60s and
’70s. More recently, high-profile alternative
artists like Bjork and Animal Collective incorporated experimental elements such as drone
and non-traditional instrumental patterns into
their music, resulting in a more populist awareness of the movement. Nevertheless, the avantgarde side of music has remained, for the most
part, buried in the murky depths of our cultural
consciousness.
But as Columbia junior and WKCR program
director Eric Ingam explains, a lot of that has to
do with external factors. “The forces that determine pop music do not exist within music. They
exist within economics and psychology,” Ingam
argues. “The reason pop songs are three minutes
long have nothing to do with the pop music itself. It has to do with what could fit on a 78 RPM
disc. So a lot of what we call experimental music
are those types which strive to be expressions
of music in musical terms that are not bound by
conventions like time signature or key.”
New York’s experimental heritage is also
undeniably nebulous. Over the past fifty years,
the city’s avant-garde scene has been in constant flux, with regards to form, function, and
location. One could posit that the scene began
in the ’20s and ’30s, when jazz began to emerge
as a key movement, and improvisation began
to embed itself into the fabric of modern music.
But most of the key rudiments of the city’s current scene emerged in the ’70s and early ’80s, in
a sort of Bohemian Renaissance called the downtown music movement—named for the lower
half of Manhattan where artists lived, worked,
and collaborated.
Kyle Gann, a music critic for the Village
Voice, asserts that downtown music was born
in 1961, when Yoko Ono began holding noise
concerts in her loft at 112 Chambers St.. He also
cites the influence of composer John Cage, who
advocated for alternatives to the Europeaninfluenced, serialist styling of classical music at
the time. In the quarter-century that followed,
a previously undefinable type of anti-pop music
had blossomed into a plethora of sub-sets.
There were minimalists, who toned down
the bombast in favor of a leaner, more potent
approach—chief among them Philip Glass and
Steve Reich, who cut their teeth at the legendary
art space that came to be known as the Kitchen.
There were improvisational, free-jazz musicians
such as John Zorn, who expanded on the stylings of Miles Davis and John Coltrane to create
a frenzied, ever-changing sound. And, most
famously, there were art rockers—comprising
an entire sub-genre in and of themselves—running the gamut from the fuzzy guitar-pop of the
Velvet Underground to the leaden brutality of
Swans.
How did New York come to be such a hub
for left-of-center movements? It’s a perennial
question for which there may be no definitive
answer. A simple hypothesis is that New York is
a huge city, one that has historically attracted
artists of all types. Get any large number of artists and cram them into a packed urban space,
and they’re bound to form their own factions,
many of them in opposition to the status quo. Of
course, this didn’t necessarily mean that it was
easy to make a living. In fact, the “starving artist” mentality was a very real thing.
“In the ’60s and ’70s, it [New York] was
where you went if you wanted to sustain yourself—well, barely sustain yourself—while still
being able to pursue experimental art,” Ingam
says. “A lot of the minimalism guys, they were
all taxi drivers.”
The glory days of downtown music were
accompanied by flourishing new venues, such
as the aforementioned Kitchen, Roulette, and
the Knitting Factory, just to name a few. The
most important, however, did not emerge until
1998: Tonic, a former kosher winery converted
to a performance space for the purpose of supporting avant garde and experimental artists.
Zorn himself supplied the two-month block of
programming that caused the venue to become
“A LOT OF OUR ARTISTS
ARE HYPERAWARE OF
THE LIMITING NATURE
OF A GENRE. WE LOOK
FOR ACTS THAT SOUND
ORIGINAL TO US.
legendary in a matter of weeks. In addition,
Tonic hosted concerts with the likes of Sonic
Youth, Cat Power, and even Ono herself. With
its rugged walls and small size, Tonic came to
embody physically the legacy of the downtown
movement—a place far from the corporate din of
Madison Square Garden, where artists and their
acolytes could engage in the most intimate of
musical conversations.
But as with all musical movements, change
was inevitable. As the experimentally-indebted
genres of new wave, punk, and alternative rock
lost their grip on the Billboard charts, popular
interest began to shift its attention to more traditional pop and R&B. Meanwhile, the looming
presence of corporate music, once confined to
uptown conservatories and record companies,
continued to grow in tandem with the gentrification of the Lower East Side. The Knitting
09
IN FOCUS
/ 7
/_(
|_|
|_|
|_|
|_| /\
/\|=|/ /
\ |_| /
) _ \
/ |_| \
/ -=-o /
\ /~\_/
\/
Factory switched hands in 2004, expanding into
a brand; there are now six Knitting Factories
across the nation, hosting acts like Avenged
Sevenfold and Mickey Avalon—a far cry from
earlier Knitting Factory headliners, which included influential free jazz pianist Cecil Taylor
and spoken-word fusion artist Gil Scott Heron.
As high-rise condominiums began to spring up
around Tonic, astronomical increases in rent
and the shuttering of the club’s downstairs bar
forced the venue to close in 2007. Zorn was able
to find a successor in The Stone, a new artists’
space on the corner of Avenue C and 2nd Street,
but by and large, Manhattan is no longer the
bastion for experimentalism that it had been for
decades.
b
ut before John Cage rolls over in his
grave, let’s shift our focus from the
supposed death of the scene stated
above to its rebirth. Because, modest as
it may seem, there’s a burgeoning avant-garde
community in Gotham. It’s not quite the easilydefined bloc that it used to be, but it’s even
wider-reaching: from Brooklyn to Far Rockaway, and even Morningside Heights.
There’s Northern Spy is a Brooklyn-based independent record label devoted entirely to “musicians who are tenacious, forward-thinking,
and making devil-be-damned fine music, while
finding substance in the disparate worlds of free
improvisation and popular music.” It’s an operation founded by former staff members of ESPDisk—one of the most prominent labels associated with the downtown scene, and one of the
city’s biggest exporters of free jazz and underground rock. In a recent email, Adam Downey,
Northern Spy’s vice-president, expands on
how the label came to be:“We were inspired by
the documentary style of the label, putting out
records by what was happening at that moment
and time. So, after a falling out with the owner
of ESP, Tom & I founded Northern Spy Records
to continue doing the same thing we were doing
before. Our first releases were working with
artists with whom we had already built relationships—Arrington De Dionyso, Rhys Chatham.”
Northern Spy’s catalog is more expansive,
10
SOMETIMES,
THERE’S NOTHING
MORE BEAUTIFUL
THAN THE PROCESS
OF HEARING THE
MECHANICAL MOTION
OF SOUNDWAVES.
with artists running the gamut from hypnotic
acoustic rock (Chris Forsyth) to feverish Hillbilly folk (Arrington de Dionyso), to caustic
noise rock (Zs). As Downey explains, there is
no definitive sound or genre for which the label
strives. For the two years that Northern Spy
has been in existence, intuition has been a chief
guiding force.
“We've tried to avoid genres,” Downey
writes. “A lot of our artists are hyper aware of
the limiting nature of a genre. We look for acts
that sound original to us. It's more of a feeling
than a specific set of guidelines.”
Another key roster of modern, noise-leaning
experimental artists are those signed to ugEXPLODE Records. The label is the brainchild
of multi-instrumentalist Weasel Walter, best
known for his work with the Flying Luttenbachers—a now-disbanded group that blended
elements of harsh noise and dissonance with
frantic punk rhythms and jazzy improvisation.
Now, as the founder and head honcho of ugEXPLODE, Walter helps to produce, master, and
release recordings for dozens of noise-leaning
musicians, often collaborating with the artists
themselves. When I asked him about the challenges of accessibility within the confines of
mainstream culture, he answered that aesthetic
tastes are largely dependent on how we define
ourselves.
“Most people are looking for recognition of
form and/or personal resonance from art,” he
writes via email. “We tend to project ourselves
and our desires onto much of what we like
culturally. We want to see ourselves in it. If we
cannot discern the form or it does not resonate
with us, we want nothing to do with it and look
for that which does.” Unlike your typical label
executive, Walter’s goal is not to convert Nickelback fans or to buy an entire block of McMansions, but rather to continue to make art that’s
genuine, intuitive, and sophisticated.
“I do the best I can with what I've got, and
I don't apologize about it,” Walter asserts. “My
art is based on striving and ingenuity as well as
a contempt for conformity. I'm sure it will continue to be that way long into the future.”
A 30 minute drive west of downtown New
York takes you to the Queens neighborhood of
Far Rockaway, the so-called “ground zero” of
the subprime mortgage crisis. There used to be
hundreds upon hundreds of cheery bungalows
dotting the coastline, but over the past decade,
nearly all of them have metamorphosed into
lonely ruins of stucco and sandalwood. But it is
here, in this sad little summer town, that the
city’s most surprising—and promising­—counter-culture has sprouted. Just a little way down
a quiet suburban street, a group of New Yorkers
have transformed the residence at 1034 Bay 25th
St. into the Red Light District, a bona fide D.I.Y.
paradise that regularly hosts shows and gatherings for the city’s “other”-obsessed. Conceptually and artistically, it’s not too far off from
Ono’s apartment-cum-concert hall. Consider it
a suburban cousin.
For the past four years, the Red Light District
has served as host to one of the most respected
experimental music festivals in the city: the
Burning Fleshtival, a two-day, $20 extravaganza. Last year’s Fleshtival featured more than two
dozen bands, eight DJs and several film screenings. When attendees weren’t checking out upand-coming noise, dark ambient, experimental,
and metal acts, they could cook up burgers and
camp out in the backyard.
The aforementioned scenes may be blossoming in places far from the calm of Morningside
/ 7
/_( /_(
/_(
|_| |_|
|_|
|_| |_|
|_|
|_| |_|
|_|
|_| |_|
/\ /\
|_| /\
/\|=|/
/\|=|/
/
/
/\|=|/ /
\ |_|
\ |_|
/
/
\ |_| /
) _ ) \_ \
) _ \
/ |_|
/ |_|
\
\
/ |_| \
/ -=-o
/ -=-o
/
/
/ -=-o /
\ /~\_/
\ /~\_/
\ /~\_/
\/ \/
\/
Heights, but Columbia is still very much involved.
WKCR and WBAR both broadcast experimental music to the tri-state area and beyond, and the former
has played host to many of the artists mentioned in
this article, including Walter, Cage, and Zorn. But
there aren’t just acolytes in our midst—there are
established artists, as well. One is GS senior Josh
Faber, a jovial, blue-haired guy who—when he isn’t
earning his double degree in physics and math or
working as WBAR’s punk music director—is hard at
work creating music on everything from an ancient
desktop computer to a guitar. His most well-known
musical exploits were those as the guitarist for punk
band FreeDoom, one of the most respected acts in
the New Jersey punk scene. But, as Faber explains,
he has always been in love with noise, and more
specifically, noise’s ability to affect the human consciousness powerfully.
“The amazing thing about noise is that it’s not
tied with any one concept— it means something
different for everyone,” he says. “We attach a certain set of expectations with a guitar—the story of
the lone guitar player, or the kid in a punk band.
But there’s something really beautiful about sheer
sound, and how it can affect people so profoundly.”
I distinctly remember a WBAR student showcase
where Faber performed alongside recent CC alumnus Alex Klein. They were the most avant-garde
act on the bill, but nobody really knew what to
expect. And then, after a brief silence, Faber took
a simple synth loop and tinkered with it, producing sounds that nobody knew could come from an
electronic device: explosive, nail-sharp screeches,
guttural wails, undulating aural whiplashes. I ask
Faber about that show, and what implications it
held for Columbia’s acceptance of such a style. He
playfully responds, with an anecdote, about one
student who, in a panic, ran out of Barnard’s Hive
in the middle of the performance, exclaiming that
the music sounded like her own funeral.
“I took it as a huge compliment, that my music
could create such reactions in people. The Columbia
community has been overwhelmingly supportive
of my work, and I think it’s because they’re very
open-minded, because they’re willing to take part
in this experience. Columbia is definitely open to
experimental music,” he says.
But even with experimental scenes cropping up
all around the city, geography may soon become an
irrelevant factor entirely. With the advent of sites
like SoundCloud, where artists can upload their
MP3s for the entire internet to hear, and the D.I.Y.
distribution hub known as Bandcamp, bands like
OPPONENTS can reach millions with the click of a
button. And in less time than it takes to boil water, a curious audiophile can find out about Zs or
Zappa on their favorite blog, do a Spotify search,
and begin listening to their entire discography. But,
as Walter explains, the ease with which we can glut
ourselves on new tunes has its drawbacks.
“Now, many people are very spoiled because
they believe they have access to everything—and
since they do, they're extremely apathetic about
actually concentrating on things, and really investigating certain threads in culture which aren't readily apparent,” he says. “I'm afraid the all-you-caneat music buffet has created a lot of indigestion.
Every artist is their own scene now, and nobody
cares about any of it outside of their microcosmic
focus.”
At the same time, these modules can be seen as a
continuation of the types of values that were at the
center of the downtown movement and its subsequent re-incarnations: the freedom to experiment
with sounds without the bureaucracy of a label or
press agent, and, more importantly, a sense of autonomy for both artist and art.
“We are in charge of not only our destiny, but
our business,” Faber says of the site. “Because I
have a SoundCloud, it means that the business
mode is the music itself. It’s hard to hide behind a
gimmick or a fancy MySpace page, to pass off fake
art as real—the music speaks for itself.
“When you make a SoundCloud, you’re pitted
against the whole world­—against big names, like
Kayo Dot, but also against, say, DJ QuAcK QuAcK
from Montana or something,” he continues. “It’s
not like MySpace, where you can get a record deal
with some glossy photos and a tinkered-with playcount. The art is the only thing to go on.”
Despite the ongoing discussions about the implications of the unprecedented inundation of music
that the Internet begat, there’s no denying it: it’s
never been easier for artists to jump into the din,
be they populist or peculiar. While the Red Light
District, Death By Audio, and 285 Kent provide New
Yorkers with the spaces associated with a veritable
counter-culture, the real scene may be something
greater than the city itself. It’s the whole world
that’s listening now.
W
hen I ask OPPONENTS about their future plans, there is no hesitation: they
want to make music for the rest of
their lives. It’s a constant, amidst a sea
of changing concepts, trends, and tastes. To some,
songs like “Warm Embrace of Steam” may sound
unsettling, or even unlistenable—the kind of thing
that makes you run out of the room, mouth agape
and ears ringing. Others might hear the same song
and feel connected with beauty at its rawest.
“We’re aiming for a kaleidoscope of sounds.”
Slusher laughs, as if he knows that I’m looking for a
cute metaphor. But that actually may be one of the
best ways to describe the most indescribable of musical forms. OPPONENTS, Walter, and Faber, along
with the thousands of contemporaries spread out
across space, time, and location, create sound for
sound’s sake: aural assemblages free from corporate influence, from which we may derive our own
personal meaning—be it intense rapture or sheer
terror.
And though listeners may choose to attach
meaning to what they hear, it’s worth mentioning
a bit of wisdom John Cage gave in a 1991 interview:
“People expect listening to be more than listening.”
In other words, the paradigms of byzantine complexity often assigned to experimental music are a
result of our own prejudices, rather than that of the
music itself. Which is why I invite you to do what I
did a few weeks ago: turn off the lights, get comfortable, and let your thoughts and expectations exist anywhere else in the room—just not in between
your ears. Because sometimes, there’s nothing more
beautiful than the process of hearing the mechanical motion of sound waves. And there is nothing
experimental about that. a
11
A HEROIC COMEBACK
TV
THE CW GIVES WONDER WOMAN ANOTHER CHANCE
by Kierstin Utter
illustration by Kady
Pu
Now that the novelty of the Pumpkin Spice Latte
has worn off, it’s time we turn our attention to the
harvest season’s greater virtue: Television premieres.
For the most part, we know what’s in the lineup:
Blair Waldorf, singing misfits, and that B in apartment
23. What you may not have seen coming, however, is
the impressive troupe of superhumans led by the CW
and its collection of new paranormal dramas. Word
has it Beauty and the Beast will be revisited with CW
flair (the beast will be known for his good looks) and
DC Comics’ Green Arrow will take to the small screen
on Oct. 10, in the network’s Arrow. But most intriguing are rumors surrounding the production of a series
based on another DC classic, Diana of Themyscira. For
those of you who don’t speak comic, we’re talking
about the one and only Wonder Woman.
The last time Wonder Woman had her own series,
it was our parents who were watching from their
retro college living quarters. In her classic garish
blue-and-red unitard, Wonder Woman acted as a
“defender of liberty,” running all too daintily from
one disaster to the next, poor sound effects abounding. The New Adventures of Wonder Woman was a
creative mistake of the ’70s that no one dared attempt
to redeem—that is, until the spring of 2011.
That’s when writer and producer David E. Kelley
(Boston Legal, Ally McBeal) pitched a new series to
NBC that would follow our Diana not only as a superhero, but also as a domineering, pantsuit-wearing
“corporate bosslady” in the modern world. A pilot
episode was, in fact, produced, but then quickly
rejected by NBC. Her character, critics felt, was all
wrong: arrogant, short-tempered, secretly tortured
by internal anxieties and loneliness.
Only a year later, producer Allan Heinberg
rides in Kelley’s wake, this time for the CW, out
to prove that Wonder Woman deserves a real
second chance. If he’s feeling confident, he has
good reason to: His past successes include Sex
and the City, Gilmore Girls, The O.C., and Grey’s
Anatomy. Heinberg is not only a wildly successful producer, he is also something of a comic veteran, having spent time working for both Marvel
Comics and DC: He penned Young Avengers and
a five-issue arc in the Justice League of America
series, respectively. With a track record like his,
Heinberg’s got the chops to restore Diana to her
celestial glory.
Still, the ghosts of failed Wonder Woman
series past are unsettling. The pressure is on to
make a show that redeems the subpar portrayals of yesteryear. In short, Heinberg has quite a
daunting task ahead of him—but one that will, of
course, be all the more heroic if successful.
So how will he approach the legendary Diana?
Superheroes, unfortunately, weren’t made for TV.
They were born in print, and while their movie
12
counterparts have certainly been well-received,
television is a whole different game. There’s something too vintage, perhaps, about the superhero that
doesn’t translate well to the small screen, and when
they are “modernized,” given new costumes and
put up against a contemporary urban backdrop, the
result sometimes comes off as forced, disingenuous,
and uncomfortably out of place.
But never fear: Heinberg’s Diana won’t be
fighting injustice in a 21st century metropolis. In
fact, she may not be doing much fighting at all.
Instead of relaying the stories of Wonder Woman
as a gallant, recognized superhero, Heinberg will
explore her humble beginnings as an Amazon on
Paradise Island (aka, Themyscira), and as such,
the show has been given the working title Amazon. As the original DC comic tells it, Diana is
the offspring of the Greek goddesses. She spends
the beginning of her life in the lush rainforest of
Themyscira amongst her “legion of sisters,” until
the gods one day request an Amazon emissary to
restore peace in “Man’s World.” Diana accepts
her mission, slips on a unitard, and presto-changeo, you’ve got Wonder Woman.
It’s unclear how true Heinberg’s series will stay
SUPERHEROES,
UNFORTUNATELY, WEREN’T
MADE FOR TV. THEY WERE
BORN IN PRINT, AND WHILE
THEIR MOVIE COUNTERPARTS
HAVE CERTAINLY BEEN
WELL-RECEIVED,
TELEVISION IS A
WHOLE DIFFERENT
GAME.
to this original tale. Since DC left most details of
Diana’s upbringing to the imagination, Heinberg will
have great creative liberty, and the show could go
in any number of directions. We could see Wonder
Woman in her most vulnerable state yet: transitioning from a young, curious, and effortlessly ethereal
Amazon to a citizen of the 21st century, discovering
she has divine gifts. On the other hand, Heinberg
could interpret the Amazon in her quintessential
element: stern, scantily clad, Lasso of Truth in hand,
ready to take on the mortal world.
There’s no question the CW will find a pretty face
to play the part, but many are curious just how much
the network will avoid or embrace the inherent sex
appeal of Wonder Woman. The CW’s most successful
shows (think Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries) are
also among its most risqué. They’re all about forbidden love, their characters as lethal as they are alluring.
In this vein, and especially given her past characterizations, one might imagine Wonder Woman following suit as a femme fatale.
The closer Wonder Woman comes to a sex
symbol, however, the less apt she may be to deliver
the overarching feminist message that her character
was originally intended to send. Of course, we won’t
know for sure what Heinberg has resolved to do with
Wonder Woman until next Fall, when the show is tentatively scheduled to premiere.
To Smallville fans, this may all sound familiar. It’s
another modern-day origin story, another 21st-century-assimilated superheroine. But there’s comfort in
these similarities: being like Smallville means potentially being as successful as Smallville. And if Wonder
Woman can procure the same viewership as Clark
Kent can, she may finally live up to her name. a
by
Somala Diby
1. Kanye won our hearts.
In 2004, Kanye the pauper hailed in from
Chi-town, a relatively dormant hub of industry activity. He debuted with a huge slice of
humility (apparently enough to last his whole
career), giving us The College Dropout, which
was an honest, novel, and unequivocally solid
album. “History in the makin’!” Kanye cried
as we smiled and nodded, too busy bumpin’ to
“Slow Jamz” to notice the flame he was lighting under our asses. Still, the semi-conscious
album was real—Kanye spoke to us, joked with
us, and smoked with us. It was love.
by
Anneliese Cooper
2. Kanye won our minds.
Kanye crowned himself as prince in the form
of the those awful “Kanye Sunglasses” (which I
owned in yellow). But it wasn’t until 2008, with
the release of his fourth album, 808s & Heartbreak, that we began to conceive of his sphere
of influence, into which we were inextricably
absorbed: He got the Bushwick hipsters, Tennessee trapstars, Columbia frat stars, my suitemate,
and the remainder of the population seemingly
above it all. He even got people to administer the
borders of his proliferating empire: Kid Cudi,
Daft Punk, Chris Martin, Nas, and Jay-Z (more on
that relationship in a moment). It was all strategy
we began to appreciate and came to admire, but
he hadn’t yet instilled the fear of God in us.
20/20
KANYE ALWAYS WINS
3. Kanye always wins.
And so he is risen. He got Jay-Z, the ultimate
veteran, to acknowledge him as an equal (Watch the
Throne was a supposedly retired Jay-Z’s acquiescence to sharing the throne with Kanye); he got
Riccardo Tisci (rumor or not, he’s penetrated the
impenetrable world of high fashion­—not for his
fashion, thankfully); he even got Kim Kardashian to
throw out her wardrobe (which comes with a slew
of misogynistic implications—and not one person
I know has come to Kim’s defense). Kanye is our
Chuck Norris. The ultimate trump card. We’re
actually watching the throne, right now. Kanye will
never have to take one bite of that humble pie, because he’s draped your baker in gilded robes. Kanye
is king. And Kanye. Always. Wins. a
CUM-PARATIVE
LITERATURE
A few days ago, a friend of mine posted a video
on Facebook titled “Hysterical Literature: Session Four: Stormy,” accompanied by the all-caps
endorsement “DUDE, THIS IS THE BEST.” As I
trust her taste—and as I’m well versed in the root
meaning of “hysterical” (from the Greek “hystera,” meaning uterus), thus hip to the potential
pun—I smiled and clicked, eager for some sort of
funny feminist polemic, a cheeky lady lit rehash.
What I saw was a static, black-and-white shot,
taken waist-up across a typical school desk, of a
woman in cat-eye glasses and a polka dot blouse.
“Hi, I’m Stormy Leather,” she stated, perfunctory,
audition-like, into the camera, “and I am reading
from American Psycho, by Brett Easton Ellis.”
And that’s just what she did, beginning with
a passage in which the deranged narrator waxes
poetic on Whitney Houston. After more than a
minute, I’ll admit, I was a bit confused, if not disappointed—left wondering what, exactly, qualified this pseudo-adult storytime as “hysterical.”
As Stormy went further, though, her tone began
to change, rising and falling at odd intervals,
Ellis’s prose getting gradually jauntier, even belabored—until, at last, it became eminently clear:
she was cumming.
Indeed, since this past August, the makers of
“Hysterical Literature” have been putting willing
women in this rather interesting position: asked
to choose a favorite literary work and read it aloud
for the camera, their voices rising over the steady
hum of a vibrator going to work under the table,
reciting valiantly on until they—well—finish (if
you know what I mean). Each of the four installments made so far goes about how you’d expect:
Gasps and giggles flutter up between lines of Walt
Whitman, words gradually cresting and thinning,
until at last, prose gives way to nonsense noise.
The question remains, though: Why? Sure,
there’s stranger stuff out there on the Internet—see: my favorite procrastinatory destination,
“Will It Blend?” which features a man in a lab coat
attempting to answer that very question very literally, putting a series of objects, from glowsticks
to iPhones, into the standard household appliance
and hitting “Purée.”
Still, “Hysterical Literature” is perhaps more
pertinent than other random online fare, if only
because it pushes a great deal of oft-capitalized
conceptual buttons—e.g., Feminism, Obscenity, or, you know, Porn. It’s easy, of course, to
write off these videos as fairly standard erotica:
We’re all well versed in the trope of the “hot
librarian”—the ultimate “good girl gone bad,” a
Platonic prude made even more alluring through
the fact of her transgression.
But “Hysterical Literature” doesn’t feel particularly sexy—or, at least, not in any tried and true
sense. In the first place, it’s essentially an endurance test; unlike in traditional smut, viewers may
actually find themselves rooting for the subject
to rein in her passion (at least until the end of the
paragraph). Indeed, if these videos can be termed
pornographic, then at the very least, they are
fascinatingly so: From the sub-desk manipulations
to the videos’ guise of literariness, everything
remotely sexual is intentionally obscured.
So, is “Hysterical Literature” obscene? Or is it
humorous? Perhaps obscenely humorous—even,
say, “hysterical?” The Supreme Court once famously ruled that we’ll know pornography when we
see it—but after watching these videos, I honestly
can’t be sure. What I can say is, they’re entertaining—and perhaps even educational: not only are
the books themselves well worth a read, but also,
sexual politics in this country being what they are,
it’s likely not everyone has seen (or had) a legitimate girlgasm. Plus, for all us logophiles, watching
ladies appear to lose themselves merely through the
fervor of ecstatic prose is at least tongue-in-cheek
amusing, if not actually a little hot.
If nothing else, we students can take it as a study
tip: What dry assignment wouldn’t be spiced up by
taking a page from these ladies’ books? a
13
THE NET WORTH OF NOSTALGIA
MUSIC
ARTISTS TODAY REPURPOSE THE CULTURE OF YESTERYEAR
by Somala Diby
illustration by Gabriela
Loredo
1991 was a big year. The world witnessed the
end of a war spanning nearly over half a century
and the dissolution of “freedom’s” greatest foe
in the East. The Chicago Bulls vanquished the LA
Lakers in the NBA final, winning their first NBA
Championship and laying the foundation for
Michael Jordan’s legacy. Arnold Schwarzenegger put a new face on reassurance with “Hasta la
vista, baby.” Home Improvement was relevant
to television. Paula Abdul was relevant to music.
Dances With Wolves won Best Picture. Mariah
Carey wasn’t married to Nick Cannon (who was 11
at the time).
1991 also served as the cradle of identity for
those of us coming of age in the aughts: me, you,
your Econ TA, Lil B, Grimes, and most of all,
Azealia Banks. The breakout rapper titled her
latest EP after this riveting year in world events
and pop culture, and on a personal level, the
year of her birth. The video for her “1991” single
doesn’t fall short when it comes to representing that moment in time. Banks dives in head
first, donning the trademark pants suit, crop
top, and matching lipstick of a decade past—all
the while tickling the fancies of my childhood
imagination. Watching the video, I saw T-Boz,
Left Eye, and Chilli voguing in black and white;
I saw Missy Elliott in a magnifying glass; I saw
Aaliyah, Foxy Brown, Lil’ Kim, and the slew of
’90s R&B groups that filled the charts and now
populate the VH1 Soul music video selection as
nameless throwbacks.
1991 is very much an homage to those strongholds of ’90s pop culture, as well as a nurturing of
the widespread obsession with this decade we’ve
developed in the last few years—i.e., the return of
the “’90s Kid.” But there’s also a distance implied
in the production of “1991,” one not merely a
function of the time elapsed between 1991 and
2012. It’s the distance of a business transaction.
Artists aren’t truly “reliving” this moment in
culture: they’re mining and selling it.
Essayist William Deresiewicz explores the
phenomenon in an article for The New York
Times, titled “Generation Sell”: “Today’s ideal
social form is not the commune or the movement
or even the individual creator as such; it’s the
small business. Every artistic or moral aspiration—music, food, good works, what have you—
is expressed in those terms.”
According to Deresiewicz, we belong to a
“post-emotional generation. No anger, no edge,
no ego,” lacking the emotionality of youth
movements of the past, such as the pursuit of
“individual transcendence” exemplified by the
beatniks, the rage of the ’80s punks, or the angst
of Generation X. But most of all, we’re in it to
14
win it. As a consequence, we may be incapable
of organically reliving a moment in culture
because we’re so busy buying and selling it. Being “’90s” is marketable, and everyone—from
Drake, to Joey Bada$$, to Azealia—is selling. We,
the artists and the little people, have put a price
tag on nostalgia.
This business model makes sense as it pertains
to Azealia, who gripped this throwback by the
throat and, to her undeniable success, explicitly
branded her EP with it. After all, as Banks was
only born in 1991, she couldn’t have truly experienced that cultural moment. The real question becomes, then, can she be an artist in her own right,
without the buttress of our ’90s Kid obsession? Is
the widespread extraction from this decade crippling creativity, especially when the basic goal of
the musician—to connect emotionally—is driven
by an inherent ambition to sell? Where do we
draw the line between being and branding?
Still, in a way, this cross-generational
repurposing has made musical genres multiply
exponentially. As artists take their inspiration
from the past, genres as we knew them ten, 20,
even 30 years ago have compounded to produce
novel sounds.
“People my age had the Internet when they
were kids,” Grimes said to Interview Magazine.
“So I think I just had a really diverse musical
background, but from a really young age. People
who are 30 and older don’t have that—they
were raised with genres of music. But people my
age had everything all at once, and that’s why
BEING “’90S” IS MARKETABLE,
AND EVERYONE—FROM
DRAKE, TO JOEY BADA$$, TO
AZEALIA—IS SELLING. WE,
THE ARTISTS AND THE LITTLE
PEOPLE, HAVE PUT A PRICE
TAG ON NOSTALGIA.
we get Animal Collective and all these weird
medley bands.”
Confining the expanse of creative pursuits in
the 21st century to “showbiz,” as Deresiewicz
does, shouldn’t completely diminish our ability to
connect or to feel—or for artists to continue to put
out good music. On the contrary, we “’90s Kids”
are privy to an amazing phenomenon in culture,
one that will characterize the relationship between artist and listener for years to come.
All hope is not lost. In fact, I know I can still
rely upon the artistry of Azealia to compound my
point into five brief rhymes:
“1991 my time has come
Oh, nah nah Ma, your time is done
Pre-Madonna mama, like a virgin
Private jets, my flights, no fly Virgin
I sell you, you buy, that’s my version.” a
TRAIL MAGIC
by Michael Samuels
illustration by Tenaya Izu
There’s a joke among thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail: While you’re on the trail, all you
want is off, but once you’re off, all you think about
is getting back on. For the uninitiated, a thruhiker is an in individual who traverses the length
of a trail continuously, walking for months at a
time. On March 15 of this past spring, I flew to
Georgia. The next day, I started walking North,
Maine-bound.
It’s a migration that, each year, draws around
a thousand hopeful souls who don’t know what
they’re in for. By Damascus, Va., 500 miles later,
more than half of them have quit. By Harpers
Ferry, W.Va. with another 500 miles in the bank
(including the maker and breaker of thru-hikes,
Virginia), half of the remainder goes home. Those
who remain do so out of a sick devotion that’s
taken root in their souls. They’re not having fun—
at least, not the kind glossy ads for The North Face
promise. They’ve lost weight, they’re hunchbacked from carrying a pack all day, and they
smell like freshly ripened garbage.
Disapproving mothers from trail towns across
the American Mid-Atlantic give wide berth at the
grocery store to the perennial surge of long-haired
20-somethings who show up each year on their
six-month odysseys to “self-discovery,” bushybearded and filthy as they are. Some locals enjoy
the vitality of the idea at arm’s length. They walk
in the forest with backpacks just because, and
some give you a hitch into town, sipping a little
of the vicarious Kool-Aid that the husbands seem
to enjoy much more than the wives. Along the
way, they ask about your camping gear or parents.
Maybe a church group leaves a cooler of soda by
the road. Most “trail-adjacents,” though, have
their own lives to think about and don’t have time
for hippies, calling them “hiker trash.”
By Pennsylvania, thru-hikers are haggard and
lean. They joylessly devour jars of peanut butter just to stay at weight. Their brains subsist on
a streamlined to-do list of block-cheese, sleep,
and footfalls. The mind gets strangely quiet. The
woods aren’t scary anymore. They move, by now,
with a mechanical pace and preciseness of footfall,
robotic almost, that’s weirdly
mirrored by the deadened
look in their eyes. This is just
what they do; they walk. It’s
what they did yesterday, it’s
what they did today, and it’s
what they’ll do tomorrow.
“Hiking the Trail” might
conjure up images of wild
outdoor adventuresomeness to the uninitiated; fierce
thunderstorms braved on big
mountains and bears at every
turn, but in fact it’s just a
matter of routines. The making camp routine; the breaking camp routine; the
forcing-down 8000-calories of cheese and peanut
butter a day just to stay at weight routine; the generic conversations with day-hikers heading the
other way who always ask the same questions to
which you always give the same answers routine;
and most of all, the miles routine; the four-step of
alternating foot- and pole-plants that takes you,
yard by yard, from one end of the country to the
other.
VIEW FROM HERE
IS SELF DISCOVERY WORTH 2,180 MILES OF WALKING?
Eventually, the daily mileage grind can feel as
pedestrian as a day’s work at the office; it’s put off
in the morning with the same near-sighted lackadaisy and cunctation (swimming spots always make
for prime procrastination, an escape from the midsummer heat), and then it’s crunched, eventually,
as the daylight starts to fail, with the same resigned
sigh, and an almost lazy casual confidence borne of
having done this a thousand times.
Walking 20 miles becomes a daily habit. It’s
just what they do, and the woods are just where
they do it. I got strangely good at putting my feet
just where and how I wanted them, like a veteran
dancer. With a thousand miles done, and a thousand more to go, the “green tunnel” feels no more
alien than a hometown street.
So the routine can get wearing, and sometimes
it’s hard to even keep from hating it. When it’s
too cold, or too hot, or when it won’t stop raining, and when the view is the same as the last
hundred ones, the chance
good fortunes of hot food,
trail magic (charity in the
form of food and showers
provided by trail locals),
and flat miles are what see
you through.
Forty miles out of
Hanover and three days
soaked in rain, I sat in the
dirt on an unnamed roadside, crying, thinking how
easy it would be to just go
home, until a man in a jeep
let me shower in his guest
room and watch movies in his basement for an
afternoon, out of the rain, while his wife did my
laundry and cooked me pasta. The trail is a magnet
like that. It pulls hikers, and with them a social insulation of associated culture and lifestyle, around
itself and forms a bubble.
Most of the other people you talk to are thruhikers. You spend all your social time with people
who share the same single-minded purpose as
you. The trail is everything to everyone around
you, and, thus, is everything to you. It’s where
you eat, it’s where you sleep, it’s where you live,
and it’s where you think about anything, anything all day to pass the time and miles. Then suddenly you’re standing on Katahdin’s (the tallest
mountain in Maine) Southern flank, staring at a
sign that says you’re done walking 2,180 miles. So
you go home, and get ready to go back to school,
in the torturously complicated-by-comparison
real world, longing for the simplicity of the one
you’ve come to know.
This must be what inmates feel like when
released from prison. Maybe that’s dramatic. But
really, it’s not easy, I can tell you. The calluses
on the ends of my toes are peeling off, and I feel
the piano-string taught tendons in my knees and
ankles getting weak again. My posture is growing
reaccustomed to not wearing a pack all day, and
my calves are shrinking back to normal. A thin
layer of fat has begun to reemerge on the surface
of my stomach. I feel the shell of a thru-hiker
body, so honed to its craft, melting off again for
want of exercise. It’s not all bad, though—showers still feel glorious.a
WITH A THOUSAND MILES
DONE, AND A THOUSAND
MORE TO GO, THE
“GREEN TUNNEL” FEELS
NO MORE ALIEN THAN A
HOMETOWN STREET.
15
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The Eye is looking for
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For more information, e-mail us at
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