I know comedy is a man’s world, and it’s definitely much harder when all the other people in the line up are men, and most of the 18 people large crowd is male. I know that because of those reasons, a lot of female comedians try to make jokes about subjects generally considered taboo. Sarah Silverman did a good job in The Aristocrats (which I admit, even though I don’t like her work, generally speaking). But the spiel Novak had running I didn’t find funny in the slightest (well, to be honest, the whole line up was pretty unfunny, the staff were trying to stay awake and the audience hardly laughed). Her act ended with a long joke about her “post-rape fantasy.”

She starts by saying that even if a guy raped her, it wouldn’t be rape for long, because once he got her clothes off he would fall in love with her. (“Huh?” was all I could think when I heard her say that.) She followed that up by saying that she wouldn’t go to the hospital, she’d get home and wash up, get all comfy in her boyfriend’s t-shirt, and then he would wait on her. “Honey, do you want video on demand? Do you want delivery food? This is YOUR night.”

My shift ended at that point, which I couldn’t have been happier about. I was disgusted. No one was laughing. I was glad I was able to just leave, because I wanted to smack her and then everyone else who stood there, not laughing, but complacently accepting the joke.

Maybe that’s one of those types of jokes that go over well in certain New York clubs, but we don’t like to laugh or dance here in D.C., we’re very conscious about political correctness, and we’re rather stuffy about women’s rights (unless they’re non-white, gay, transgender, sex workers, drug users, or wives of politicos, of course — this isn’t San Francisco, et al.) We just don’t really laugh about rape.

Unless it’s exceptionally well done, of course. After her joke, one of my co-workers commented to us that he “couldn’t be paid to rape her.” Normally, that’s not funny. In this context, however, it was apropos. And I think that’s the most laughter the club heard upstairs, at least up until when I left. No clue about after.

* * *

My grandfather went back into the hospital yesterday, which meant I didn’t work last night so I could get some school work done. But with him still in the hospital, I didn’t have to go watch him this evening, which left my night free….until my boyfriend asked me to work for him. So now it’s Wed, Thu, Fri, Sat, Su. Somewhere in there, I have to be alive enough to take my exam. Tomorrow night, it’s three of the worst bands I’ve heard in a long time (at least by listening to their MySpace tracks). Fri, Sat, and Su are dance nights, which are hard on my body because it means standing up and dealing with drunken assholes (versus sitting down and dealing with sober people who are generally not all assholes).

On the upside, next Thursday night is one of our Dam festival nights, and if you’re in town, I highly recommend you come by. We’ve got four GREAT bands that night: Foreign Islands, Mahi Mahi, Drunken Sufis, and So Many Dynamos. I took our second festival night, Saturday, off, so that I can see one of my absolute favorite bands of all time, Upsilon Acrux, who are playing across the street at Velvet. I’m so stoked for this show, my ears are threatening to burn in advance. Thank you, Hactivist, for introducing me to Last Train Out. Ah, Pittsburgh. So often do I miss thee.

Fast-forward to 1:31 if the tuning up noodling is too much. After ninety seconds, be prepared for the brutal crazy math-prog rockin’ of it all.

I’m actually a big fan of storytelling, but TAL just gets on my tits. I think it’s the host, Ira Glass, more than anything else. It’s his dull, monotonous voice. It’s a perfect radio voice, to be sure, but it offers no hint of actual tonal flavor. Even when reading a passage of excitement, the man drones.

His ex-girlfriend, cartoonist Lynda Barry, wrote the story “Head Lice and My Worst Boyfriend” about him, in her book One! Hundred! Demons!. The story can be viewed here, on Amazon’s view the book. It kind of sums up that scratchy sort of feeling that I get about him, too.

When I was nine my parents finally allowed me to begin drum lessons. I gave up my beloved gymnastics — a sport of strength but also one of very structured beauty — to give myself over to the driving force of rhythm. Most band jokes revolve around the drummer: the stupidity of a neanderthal beating on some skins with a pair of sticks, the lack of skill or talent, how Ringo was never a great drummer, how there are no great drummers, how the only reason drummers are necessary in non-electronic music is because it is almost always the drummer who provides the practice space. Drummers are the women of musicians, and woman is the nigger of the world.

Eventually, I gave up playing drums. I miss it tremendously. The very act of playing is like dancing, is like fucking, is like the agony of birth, and yet it is very much the spinal cord that holds the band in place. What is the rawk show without the beat that you can dance to? The kids on American Bandstand knew the deal.

A friend of mine once told me there are three kinds of music: that which you tap the beat with your toes (jazz-y), that which you tap the beat with your heels (funk-y), and that which you nod the beat with your head (intellectually pleasing but nothing to snap the fingers to). For me, I contend that there are only two kinds of music: that which doesn’t draw me into the beat, and that which makes me want to be the beat.

Oh, neanderthals though us drummers may be, I think of myself as more of a hentai character. If I had my way, a giant penis would slide out of my vag and would have such incredible muscular control as to be able to smack up and down on command for an entire three hour set. Out of my panties it would pop (I don’t need no stinking harness and strap-on), and that, my darlings, would be my rhythm stick. I don’t need my hole filled with anything but the driving force of the beat that I myself will keep, and which a room full of pogoing kids will follow. Literally being able to feel every beat in me, on me, and around me. My skin and my stick as one. Aw, yeah.

Well, a girl can dream, right?

* * *

I’m off to the ‘burbs for my grandfather’s 91^st birthday party. Cigars, brandy, and pie are the only things on the menu. All his presents are books. If I live to be that old, that’s how I’m gonna live.

A while back I started reading “On Not Being Able to Sleep: Psychoanalysis and the Modern World,” which seems to be about four different things at once. I originally picked it up because I thought it was about writers and their insomnia, then was swayed to buy it due to the blurb on the back cover:

“In these powerful essays Jacqueline Rose delves into the questions that keep us awake at night, into issues of privacy and publishing, exposure and shame. Do some women writers – Christina Rossetti, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath – have a special talent for self-revelation? Or are they simply more vulnerable to the invasions of biography? Turning to psychoanalysis, Rose explores its affinity with modernism and asks what it can tell us about the limits of knowledge, both about the most intimate and baffling components of experience and about the furtherest, hallucinatory reaches of the mind.”

Totally up my alley, eh? Hard to pass up. I’ve therefore been spending my time pondering Plath, Sexton, Rossetti, and Adrienne Rich, and their individual relationships to shame. Shame and writing. Shame and exposure. Shame and self exposure, and shame and public humiliation.

I can’t tell you what I’ve learned because I haven’t learned anything new. More fodder for old fires, yes, but no new sparks.

I’ve never read anything by Plath or her other female contemporaries. Fear. From an early start my style of writing was compared to her self-depreciation. My arguments for not reading those classics of feminist literature are those: I cannot be accused of imitating what I haven’t read, nor will I start to imitate out of exposure. A comment once made to me, that perhaps my writing would be appreciated as my Plath’s was – only posthumously – set in me the staunch resolution to never have that be the case with me. If I die an untimely death, promise me – my friends – that you will hack my computers and destroy the evidence of the years of work. Nothing is to be printed or left to remain on the web for the dead. Please promise me that. I want no virtual memorials

The pills have started to kick in and I have already gone off in an entirely different direction that the one I had initially decided to undertake. It is hard, however, to take any direction, when your bed becomes a water bed and your laptop is made of rubber.

The words are floating in 3D and my computer seems like it is my nicest little fried iwith its tale waggig behing the USB plug. S now we’re all going to go reliv trh 70d=s which most of ius never had, THEE 70sa, Partys. Fun. I got the drinkd the drug, the mudivv, snf yjod tpp,od big enouh to mske ud fly. No on here want t o plsy, though, tired of being on my born with boredo=m

time to invent the new typical gil who just gets hersel;f

I Never Had Much of an Edge to Begin With

I was four years old when all the great shows were happening. Gang of Four, Richard Hell, the Slits, Sonic Youth… my boyfriend was there, coked out of his mind with his various girlfriends. I still had a bed time of 8pm and was just learning to read. For the past ten years I’ve wished I was just fifteen, twenty years older — to have seen the shows that he taunts me with memories of.

Now, here in the double-oh five, I wonder if ten years from now I am going to kick myself for not having got my butt out the door and to the clubs. Will I be upset with myself for missing today’s underground faves? Franz Ferdinand? Modest Mouse? I think not.

I attended the last Babes In Toyland tour, much to the chagrin of the friends I dragged there with me. I’ve seen ancient godfathers Suicide — now that was worthy of four hours of ear drum blasting. I saw the best damn Pan Sonic show to ever grace the planet, let alone the tiny back stage with twenty odd people attending that it was. I got heckled by Peaches, I scored an interview with Gonzales, I danced with Justine from Elastica at the best post-punk show I have ever experienced. I saw a phenomenal come back tour from Wire, riding high on the then-new release of Read and Burn 01.

I saw The Roots get booed off stage. I fell asleep at a Lou Reed show. I watched Fat Bob turn a 180 backstage and actually smile. I left a J Live show before the man even hit the stage, and I don’t even recall why. I went to see the Spice Girls sans Ginger, with my red hair curled and my stompy platform boots on, and did all of her dance steps for her from the lawn, surrounded by nine year old girls. That was my shining moment — what indie cred is it that you speak of?

I queued up for tickets to see Garbage play the Black Cat before you even knew who they were. I hung out with Taylor Hawkins before he was in the Foo Fighters. I saw Radiohead live twice while they were promoting The Bends. I interviewed local rock stars on public access television in 1995, before Baltimore was on anybody’s radar.

But all that means nothing, because I was born twenty years too late. I missed seeing Madonna at the Danceteria. No Blondie or Television at CBGBs for me. I never saw Human League — before or after they started to suck. I missed out on seeing The Replacements drunkenly fumble all over their equipment. I was in a high chair when R.E.M. was a small name at the old 930. I missed the prime days of punk before the screaming divas took a swan dive into Blink 182 territory. But that’s okay, because I get to relive it all vicariously through someone who was there. If I’m lucky, maybe there will be another there to be at. More likely that it’s already here and I just have no idea where. Youth is now on my side, but my finger has fallen off the pulse of what all the kids are into these days.

I don’t know what I really want.

Ten Best Albums of 2004

Animal Collective – Sung Tongs [Fat Cat]

50 Foot Wave – 50 Foot Wave [Throwing Music]

Boban I Marko – Balkan Brass Fest [Piranha Music]

CocoRosie – La Maison de mon Reve [Touch and Go Records]

Dave Douglas Quintet with special guest Bill Frisel – Strange Liberation [Bluebird]

Jason Forrest – The Unrelenting Songs of the 1979 Post Disco Crash [Sonig]

knifehandchop – How I Left You [Tigerbeat 6]

Madeleine Peyroux – Careless Love [Rounder]

Spektrum – Enter The Spektrum [Playhouse]

Jozef Van Wissem – Simulacrum [Bvhasst]

I was thinking on that for the past two weeks and after sitting outside the NMAI in the rain for an hour today, staring at its hideousness, I feel that I can no longer remain silent on this subject. With that out of the way, here’s more of things that few other people give a damn about…

I cooked through the 300 pages of Stasiland: Stories From Behind the Berlin Wall in the last 24 hours. It was hard to put down, to put it mildly. I skipped the Mouse on Mars show so that I could finish it… don’t know if that’s saying more about the book or the music, though.

The writing style annoyed me; I was halfway through before I realized there is a byline on the cover that reads “non-fiction.” It unravels in a very sort of currently fashionable way, in that the author pays stunning amounts of detail to her own personal life and how it interacts with the story she is telling. Due to that, I thought I was reading yet another historical dramatization. I was startled and pleased when I realized I was not, which instantly made the storytelling more annoying. Guess I’m a stickler for history without an author. At any rate, the lives she was able to uncover are mostly fascinating, and she did a remarkable job of describing the literal landscape of East Germany. Dickens could have learned a thousand lessons from her on the wonders of mincing words while still painting a full picture.

The sum of the story is moving, though perhaps slightly wanting for those seeking more reasons for vitriol, particularly against the Stasi. While trying to explain the East German character, however, I couldn’t help but feel that Funder does, beneath it all, blame the population for bending over and taking it up the ass from the government and its various agencies. And admittedly, though, I am perhaps just paranoid and projecting my own fears about my country onto her.

Anyway, what an arse review. I feel like I’m going blind from all the staring at tiny print. Check this one out for an interesting read, particularly you history and politics vultures (you know who you are). Brought tears to my jaded and cynical eyes more than once, it did.

Today was crazier than the cat’s meow crawling up my back, something I got to experience today, on top of an amazing number of other things which will be discussed tomorrow. Friday, the 13th. My lucky day (no sarcasm, it really is). Tomorrow I am shutting in. No doctor’s appointments, no errands, no hospital visits, no trips to the office, nothing but time to myself to rest, write, and rock the fuck out.

To sum up today I would like to offer the following:

God has wrought many things out of oppression. He has endowed his creatures with the capacity to create – and from this capacity has flowed the sweet songs of sorrow and joy that have allowed man to cope with his environment and many different situations.

Jazz speaks for life. The Blues tell the story of life’s difficulties, and if you think for a moment, you will realize that they take the hardest realities of life and put them into music, only to come out with some new hope or sense of triumph.

This is triumphant music.

Modern jazz has continued in this tradition, singing the songs of a more complicated urban existence. When life itself offers no order and meaning, the musician creates an order and meaning from the sounds of the earth which flow through his instrument.

It is no wonder that so much of the search for identity among American Negroes was championed by Jazz musicians.

Long before the modern essayists and scholars wrote of “racial identity” as a problem for a multiracial world, musicians were returning to their roots to affirm that which was stirring within their souls.

Much of the power of our Freedom Movement in the United States has come from this music. It has strengthened us with its sweet rhythms when courage began to fail. It has calmed us with its rich harmonies when spirits were down.

And now, Jazz is exported to the world. For in the particular struggle of the Negro in America there is something akin to the universal struggle of modern man. Everybody has the Blues. Everybody longs for meaning. Everybody needs to love and be loved. Everybody needs to clap hands and be happy. Everybody longs for faith.

In music, especially this broad category called Jazz, there is a stepping stone towards all of these.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Opening Address to the 1964 Berlin Jazz Festival

I wrapped up my day today at the office at one thirty in the morning, listening to WPFW, the most important radio station in this area, play a full forty five minutes of Billie Holliday, which was occasionally interrupted by Big Tim’s pleas for station donations. It’s that time of year. Earlier tonight I helped check my grandmother into a nursing home. My grandmother met my grandfather as a dance instructor in the jazz and big band days. Between my grandparents and my father, who is a jazz musician as well as fan, I’ve been indoctrinated since pre-twinkle in my grandparents’ eyes. So I did the only logical thing, which isn’t logical at all, and got on my cell phone and pledged $35 with my credit card to keep the station alive.

I challenge you, all you motherfuckers with regular incomea and huge lines of credit in your names. All you motherfuckers who love the music. Who know the music. Who are the music. All you little monkeys, either stay up in your trees, or make a fucking pledge in the name of free jazz, free music, the spirit, and keeping it alive. $35. So you buy two DVDs less this month. Suck it up. What’s more important, really? The soul of the independent, local, non-commercial, radical news-driven, community rallying, uniting force, melodic and playful, screeching and painful, soulful and tearful, our history, our present, our future, our stories, our lives… or another Adam Sandler flick? You decide. I hope this is your decision. Tell them that damn gimp girl sent you. Threatened you, even.

Tomorrow night. My love with the Richmond lads of Tackle Squad. Be there or be a music hater.

1. Otto von Shirach rocks it harder than Andrew WK ever can or will.
2. Broadcast are the lead story in Grooves. I feel betrayed. In the past I had trusted Grooves to have far better taste in music, and now they go and put a medicore electropop band on the cover. What will they subject us to next? The wonders of some tripe like Stereolab? “All disco indie music must end in death.”
3. The Renaissance festival is high school meets Midnight plus carnivorous turkey leg eaters, captive elephant rides, and too many grown men dressed as pirates seriously partaking in a fight with other grown folks dressed as fairies, and is nothing but an excuse for “artisans” with useless, mass produced so-called medieval products to shove down the trinket hungry consumers who are happy to be robbed of their $750 for a piece of polished wood, $5 for a pewter object on a glass bauble that resembles a fairy only with much imagination, and a predominance of foul tasting “food.” Falafel, as far as I can recall from my history reading, was not present at meals in Renaissance era Europe. Nor was cheesecake on a stick, Rolling Rock, or honey dijon sauce in plastic wrapped individual servings.

   At the Renn festival, everyone romanticizes the idea of being gentry, and no thought is given to the massive amounts of underclass that predominated the era. Where were the starving, beaten serfs? Where were the quarantined death cesspools of those with tuberculosis? Where were the countless beggars, highway robbers, thieves, street walking priests warning of the upcoming apocalypse and threatening anyone dumb enough to listen with stories of repentance so as to not spend the rest of eternity burning in hell? Where was the horse, pig, cow, chicken, and human dung littering what passed for streets?

   In an attempt to escape a world where we, the suburbanites who idealize a life that in reality was little better than our own in
   terms of social structure and day to day injustice, we ignore the truth of the past just as we ignore the truth of the present, don our little costumes, drink bad alcohol, and cavort around our fenced-in play area, mindful of the land restrictions and unaware (or uncaring) of the exact correlation between a trip to Renn festival and a trip to a mall where you can carry around plastic cups of over priced booze. Folks who scorn football games going ballyhoo over “jousting tournaments.” Parents who look down on belly-showing shirts for their preteens, happily lacing them into bosom accentuating dresses. Yet another brand of escapism, this time for those who think they are a little different, a little better than the rest.

4. Last Sunday I finished reading the book Dharma Punx by Noah Levine, Stephen Levine’s son. I was so vehemently annoyed that I wrote my first Amazon.com review, which can be found here, I believe.
5. Why are the books that are published predominately for women these days such trite, driveling, crap? And what can be done to put an end to this?
6. Pittsburgh, October 29th through November 2nd with Mark and Will. Any other takers? Will be attending the Schematic Records electronic noise tour, as well as the incomparable Flux: Masquerade Ball, and lifestyle hunting and gathering.
7. Pittsburgh, PA is approximately eight hours by car to Milwaukee, WI (where it’s at), seven hours to Chicago, IL (where it’s also at), two and a half hours to Cleveland (where it is often at), four hours to Baltimore, MD and Washington, DC (where it can sometimes be found), five hours to Philadelphia (where it occasionally happens), nine hours to Montreal, five hours to Toronto, and six hours to New York (no comment).
8. NYC -> London, December 30 through January 13, $283 on Virgin Atlantic. We are so out of here for the hols.
9. The new Peaches album is even more obnoxious, contrived, and lacking talent than the first. Fortunately, the word over at Kitty Yo is that the lickable, fuckable, but definitely not cuddable, Gonzales will have a new album out soon to show just who in Berlin really does have innovative electro chops.
10. Will is going to be out of town for ten days starting Wednesday. When the master’s away, the monkey will play. And play time, these days, is getting complicated.
11. The cohabitation situation has become permanent. By 2004 we will have decided whether to stay here in the city and get a bigger apartment, or to get the hell out of Dodge for some place that actually has some artistic merit, not to mention affordable loft space and room for a dog.
12. I am now giving lessons in HTML in exchange for lessons in German, or whatever else you have to offer. Hit me up. 4.01 straight coded, no Flash, no Dreamweaver, just straight text editing.
13. According to Cosmo or something, yellow is the new black. Like, hello, that was so two years ago. Who wants to walk around looking like a giant banana, anyway?
14. Have been hanging out with the more interesting of my ex’s. Millenium NYE, a group of us actually convened in my flat in Edinburgh. It was alternately miserable and wonderful. Perhaps another cross-continental party is in order. This time, they can pay for their own passports and plane tickets. This time, how about Berlin? Hell freakin yeah yeah yeah.
15. “When you find your calling, answer the damn door instead of hiding under the bed.”
]]> http://cassandradisque.com/2003/10/06/music-is-killing-show-business/feed/ 0 http://cassandradisque.com/2003/09/29/review-of-dharma-punx/ http://cassandradisque.com/2003/09/29/review-of-dharma-punx/#comments Mon, 29 Sep 2003 06:30:16 +0000 Cassandra Disque http://localhost/wordpress/index.php/2003/09/29/review-of-dharma-punx/ Noah Levine supposedly set out to write a book about bringing Buddhism to street punks; instead he wrote 249 pages of self-congratulatory autobiography. Like many autobiographies, this one fails to portray an accurate image of the subject. When writing about one’s self, most of us tend to include our accomplishments rather than our negative impacts on life; Levine is no exception.

The first few chapters are only moderately inspiring. Levine takes us through the dysfunctional, privileged upbringing of a child born to hippies. Instead of teaching young, bratty Levine right from wrong, his parents took the approach of allowing him to run wild in an attempt to “find his own way.” This led to a life of crime, heavy drug use, dropping out of high school, and violence. Instead of enlightening the reader as to what Levine and his friends were so dissatisfied with, Levine regales adventures he and his friends had breaking into the homes of their rather well off families in order to obtain money for drugs.

Levine’s famous father, Stephen Levine, often comes to Noah’s rescue, showing the reader how easy it is to be a criminal, broke punk, when your father has influence and money. Once the younger Levine discovers meditation while in juvenile hall, the reader is mislead into believing that he will start down a path of righteousness. While Levine clearly believes that, nothing could be further from the truth. Noah spends the rest of the book boasting of his various spiritual accomplishments, claiming that because he has apologized and made amends for all his youthful trespasses, that he is forgiven and free of that karma. He focuses entirely upon every self-gratifying situation, and avoids or gives little attention to the times when he acted like a blatant jerk. Similarly, his treatment of his former fiancé, for which Levine makes multiple excuses, is dismissed by saying that he was in love and foolish. He then makes sure that we know that despite his emotional abuse and contribution to her suicide attempt, that in the end she sought psychological help and forgave him.

His lack of detail regarding relationships with other people, are just as self-involved. While he admits to having treated his original Asian traveling companions, Vinnie and Micah, with ill regard, he addresses this in one sentence, while complaining about their actions in several paragraphs. One can only wonder how his surviving friends reacted when having read his portrayal of them. Levine expresses even less emotion and sympathy for his deceased friends than he does for the surviving ones. When his childhood friend, a former addict, is found dead years later, Levine immediately assumes he died of an overdose, though, “they hadn’t found any dope or needles” (Pg. 236).
Levine then spends the next five and a half pages moaning about how the lack of this friendship affects his life, and feels robbed and betrayed. He even goes so far as to say “My oldest friend in the world was dead. And with him died the only witness to see me both shoot dope and teach meditation. Now I was all alone, surrounded by people who I could tell about my past but who would never really know what it was like” (Pg.238). Levine fails to give thought to his friend’s family – his new daughter, girlfriend, parents and friends – rather focuses upon himself. Perhaps the ultimate sin in his account of his friend’s death is the hypothesized charge of death by overdose, without ever mentioning the results of a toxicological report. The reader is instead left to think the worst about his friend, and to be inundated with Levine’s woe-is-me account of the giving of his friend’s eulogy.

Levine’s self-pitying attitude and sense of entitlement are prevalent throughout, and though he fails to call his life what it is, the holes he leaves in the reader’s knowledge are easily filled. When Levine and his friends decide to pack up their belongings and travel to Asia, it takes them only a few months of planning before they are on a plane. Though he and his friends were working jobs retail jobs and he has an occasional stint as a counselor, they all mysteriously have the funds to bum around Asia not once or twice, but three times. They also manage to maintain lifestyles of week long Buddhist retreats in the mountains, traveling into San Francisco for punk shows, and renting apartments in well off areas, all while sporadically working and in Levine’s case, occasionally pursuing a degree. His parent’s financial support, while obvious, is never mentioned and must be the only way he would be able to live the opulent life that he lives. Levine’s wish to reach the young gutter punks through his memoir may only result in alienating them due to his obvious financial status and inherited social advantage.

“Dharma Punx” reads like one giant pat on the back, a story of privilege and so-called enlightenment. While much is made of Levine spiritual growth, he devoted only three pages, found after the epilogue, which explain his practice of meditation. Though this book is found in the “Eastern Religion” section of stores, the book gives little attention to actual religion and instead reads like a who’s who in modern Eastern philosophy. When Levine describes his attendance to Ram Dass, he makes sure to let the reader know that Dass is a friend of the family and helped teach the young Levine while growing up. His treatment of famous others such as Jack Kornfield, Norman Fischer, etc., is much of the same, so it is of little wonder that such figures in Eastern teachings gave positive reviews of their friend’s son’s book, which can be found gracing the back sleeve in large, bold print. Nepotism is rampant in Noah Levine’s life. As neither conceit nor nepotism are Buddhist or punk, one must wonder how it is that Levine feels he has the right to portray himself as an example of either community.

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