Tuesday, August 9, 2011

The Artist as Asshole: Two Case Studies

One of the safest assumptions to make concerning musicians is that they are assholes. They behave boorishly, crave attention, act selfishly, suffer from a wide array of addictions that cripple their ability to interact with others in an acceptable manner, believe themselves to be more important than normal people, and so forth. There are many possible explanations for why this is. It is conceivable that the environment associated with being a successful musical artist warps one’s personality. Given that most if not all musicians are surrounded by people assuring them of their genius and that there are veritable armies of women (and men) desperate to fuck them, it is not a surprise that most music stars become egomaniacs. An alternate hypothesis is that individuals are attracted to the rock star lifestyle because it allows them to express socially unacceptable personality characteristics they already possess – their inner douche bag, if you will. There is some evidence for this theory. After all, one must possess a confidence bordering on presumptuousness to assume people want and will pay to hear their music. Regardless of its genesis, the prickish nature of successful musicians is a fact. Below I present two case studies of jerkass artists from two ends of the musical spectrum, and how their bad attitudes affect popular, as well as my personal, perceptions of them.

Part I: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Even if you disagree with my thesis that most musicians are twats, there is no denying that Axl Rose, front man of the very loose consortium of musicians known as Guns N’ Roses, is a tremendous asshole. Contesting this fact is like arguing against the idea that the Earth is round; it’s indisputable. He is a douche both in his role as a rock star (showing up tardy to concerts or not showing up at all; walking offstage when every little thing was not to his liking, causing an actual riot in the process) as well as interpersonally (two ex-wives report various forms of psychological abuse; he’s such an asshole that even the heroin addicts and sex fiends in his band were repulsed by him, and left; he tried to fistfight Tommy Hilfiger). Dealing with Axl Rose can be most accurately and concisely summed up with his own words, from Guns N’ Roses’ cover of Nazarene’s “Hair of the Dog”: “Now you’re messing with a son of a bitch.”

Yet, in spite of these epic displays of dickery (as well as the decade-plus long incubation of Chinese Democracy), Guns N’ Roses, and by extension Axl Rose, enjoys a generally favorable reputation among both critics and fans. While most of the glut of late 80’s hair bands are sneered at by everyone besides Chuck Klosterman, critics have hoisted Guns N’ Roses to a comfortable position in the rock n’ roll pantheon. And it’s not as if Rose is apologetic for his various and sundry antics; he’s an asshole, he knows it, and he doesn’t care. So why the general acceptance of this behavior by critics and the music listening public? Because “Welcome to the Jungle” rocks your ass, that’s why. I’ll elaborate more in the conclusion, but I would first like to move onto my second case study.

Part 2: Wild Wild West


A few summers ago, some friends and myself went on a road trip which may or may not have culminated in burying someone in a shallow grave in the Nevada desert. As three young white men from the middle of the country, we of course had copious amounts of rap music with us. While listening to Kanye West’s “Stronger,” I observed that I couldn’t understand why some people didn’t like Mr. West, a claim at which my friends bristled. I explained that his lyrical prowess, clear flow, ear for great beats, and his heightened sense of self awareness should excuse him of some of his peccadilloes. Then, just a scant few months later, he’s on live television acting out middle America’s greatest fear (besides Muslims): a clearly inebriated black man mugging a young white girl.

Rap music, moreso than any other genre, is full of arrogance. A sociologist would probably tell you it comes from having to be outwardly hard to survive in the cutthroat hood, and the need to possess an alpha male attitude that conveys confidence and toughness – I believe they call it “swagger.” Whatever the reason, it is an intrinsic element of hip hop. For example, any rapper you can think of has probably, at one time or another, referred to themselves as the greatest rapper alive. Resident hip hop expert Legal and Tender recently listed a number of douchey things that rappers do. To add to that list, some rappers put forth the idea that their greatness transcends the material world and go as far as likening themselves to deities (Nas and Sean Combs have a video in which they are crucified in the same manner as Christ, and Jay Z’s nickname is Young Hova, the latter part of which is short for Jehovah, the name of God). But even in this miasma of douchebaggery, Kanye West stands apart. He’s done the whole “compare myself to Jesus” thing (see this Rolling Stone cover). He’s called out the highest authority in the land in front of millions of home viewers and a mortified Mike Myers. He’s implied in that song with that tool from Maroon 5 that HIV was created in a lab by whites and unleashed on Africans. He’s made fans wait hours for his show to begin so the stage crew could finish mounting his elaborate and unnecessary props. And, of course, he’s rushed the stage at multiple awards shows to air his displeasure with the results. All of these things make him not only an asshole, but quite possibly the most high profile asshole in hip hop music.

On the other hand, unlike the dick moves of his hip hop peers, I feel like West’s asshole antics are more about his vulnerabilities than his desire to be seen as a hard ass. After nearly every incident of questionable behavior, he apologizes. Most of the time, it seems sincere. I mentioned before that West has a greater degree of self awareness than others in his industry. This is evident in “All Falls Down,” where he acknowledges the emptiness of the types of material things for which hundreds of rappers have pined, and how he feels forced to live in this hollow existence. Take, for instance, “Man I promise, I’m so self conscious/ That’s why you always see me with at least one of my watches” and “It seems we living the American Dream/ But the people highest up got the lowest self esteem.” It’s hard to imagine someone like 50 Cent expressing similar sentiments. As a result of this level of introspection, I think West has some sort of grasp on who he is, and why he does the things he does. I think he knows that he’s a manchild, and that he is actively struggling to contain his raging id (check out this video directed by Spike Jonze that seems to support this thesis). He seems to lose that battle more often than not, but the idea that there is an internal conflict and that his impulsive actions lead to regrets is enough to engender some measure, however small, of sympathy.

Ultimately, however, I excuse him for the same reason I excuse unrepentant asshole Axl Rose: because I like the music he makes. As long as someone is producing vibrant, interesting work, they can basically get away with murder. In some cases, musicians can literally murder someone and popular opinion of their work doesn’t change. No one dislikes the piano coda of Eric Clapton’s “Layla” because its composer killed his mom with a hammer, nor does anyone complain about Phil Spector’s “wall of sound” production because he’s bugshit insane and shot a woman. There is a limit to how much we can allow, although that line certainly varies from person to person. A perfect illustration of this was the recent death of Michael Jackson. Pretty much everyone agrees that Thriller rules, but the public was split between venerating Jackson as musical Christ and demonizing him as a voracious pedophile. Similarly, some people actually can’t enjoy a Kanye West or Guns N Roses song due to the odious personalities of the artists, and I suppose that’s as legitimate a reason as any to dislike a musician. Personally, I can generally separate the artist from their end product. What are your opinions?


Tired Shit on Facebook: Drama Club Edition


Ever since its launch and popular adoption, Facebook has been a force for both good and evil. In “Tired Shit on Facebook,” our esteemed author tackles an aspect of the social networking site – emanating from either its creators or users – that should be forcibly retired. 

Facebook, unlike its social networking brethren Friendster and MySpace, has been able to stand the test of time. I attribute its continual success to the willingness of its creators to change the formula every few months to keep users engaged and interested. Although each new revision is met with a wave of complaining, it is finally accepted and loved, to the point when it is changed again, users lobby for a return to the previous incarnation. Facebook is the digital manifestation of Darwinian evolution, ever changing to better suit the Internet environment. Over the years, Facebook has added a blog function (through the use of “Notes”), increased capacity for photos and videos, addictive games, a marketplace, and – the focus of this post – the ability to keep friends updated on your status. The status update function, which predates Twitter by a couple of years, is likely the most abused feature of the entire website. Check your newsfeed right now. I’d wager 60-70% of the content there is comprised of people’s inane descriptions of what they are thinking, feeling, or doing. However, no type of status update is worse than the kind I shall bemoan here, which I term the “no drama” update.

You’ve no doubt seen this type of update before; personally, I see it nearly every time I log on. Here is a fabricated but very representative example:

“Jane Doe can’t believe how immature people are. I’m not going to let haters ruin my day. So over it.”
(I selected a woman’s name in the above example because these updates are issued exclusively by female users. I’ve never seen a male user post anything similar to the above on Facebook, nor have I ever heard a man express it in real life.)

The above status is annoying in myriad ways. First, it’s baldly attention- and sympathy-seeking. Under these statuses, you will typically find a bevy of comments (again, primarily from women) agreeing with or emotionally supporting the author, which is of course the desired reaction. Second, by posting this sentiment in a public forum, the author has demonstrated that she is, in fact, not over “it.” Rather, she is in the thick of “it,” wallowing in “it” like a baby in its own diaper filth. The most astonishing (and infuriating) aspect of this is that you’ll see these updates time and again from the same people, despite their assertions that, from this point on, they won’t let drama affect their lives. Had I means to contact Mark Zuckerberg, I would suggest he inject some real drama into the lives of these prima donnas and exile them from Facebook permanently.

Hollywood’s Cliche Catalogue, Entry 1: Must See Murder TV

Characteristics:
A diseased society gets its jollies by watching condemned criminals slaughter one another in a specialized environment for a chance at freedom. One contestant – a former soldier framed for a heinous crime, usually by the producer of the lethal game show – must find a way to survive. However, the offer for freedom is counterfeit, and the show’s producers will do anything in their power to prevent anyone from ever winning the show. Finally, through force of will and help from an underground resistance cell, our hero escapes to freedom while utterly obliterating the show.

The Originator:
While the first actual movie to meet a majority of the criteria above was likely The Running Man (1987), the idea is clearly inspired by ancient Roman gladiatorial games. As such, Ben Hur and Spartacus can be considered early entries in the genre. A more recent precedent is The Most Dangerous Game (1932), based on the short story of the same name. In this classic tale, shipwrecked sailors are hunted for sport by an insane Russian count on his private island. While it lacks the crucial televised entertainment aspect, it does share some conceptual similarity with the genre. Rollerball (1975) and Death Race 2000 (1975) both feature televised blood sports, but the participants are professionals in their chosen fields, not inmates. As mentioned, however, The Running Man is the first true example.

Prime Examples:
The Running Man (1987), The Condemned (2007), Death Race (2008), Gamer (2009)

Discussion:

The Running Man, an in-name-only adaptation of a Stephen King (okay, Richard Bachman) short story, is a minor entry in the 80’s Schwarzenegger oeuvre (it holds a similar place within Schwarzenegger’s canon as Titus Andronicus does for Shakespeare’s), but it is a solidly entertaining action movie. It contains all the expected characteristics of an Arnold movie made in his prime, including nonstop one-liners and the audience’s unquestioning acceptance that someone with a nearly incomprehensible Deutschland accent was a soldier in the United States military. It also features Yaphet Kotto, Richard Dawson playing himself, pre-insane Jesse Ventura, and a fat guy in a Lite-Brite suit singing opera. It contains all of the story beats described in the Originator section. It was also referenced constantly throughout the early 2000s as being eerily prescient in relation to the increasing popularity of such reality shows as Survivor and Big Brother. In sum, The Running Man is a fun 80’s Arnold flick, which I sometimes confuse with Total Recall when I find it on TV. Subsequent films in the subgenre, as is usually the case, offered diminishing returns.



 I actually have not seen The Condemned, but given the content of its Wikipedia entry, I think it clearly falls within the criteria put forth above. Also, given that it was produced by WWE Films, which also excreted 2006’s limp dick actioner The Marine, it can safely be assumed that it sucked. Stone Cold Steve Austin 3:16 Says I Just Whooped Your Ass stars as, what else, a Special Forces operator caught and imprisoned for destroying a South American drug den. There’s a slight twist here in that the protagonist is actually guilty as charged, but the nature of his crime is such that he obviously does not deserve the death penalty, but instead a medal for being a God damn American hero. Another alteration to the formula is that the televised murderfest is illegal, and thus not a reflection of the diseased society that DVRs it, which in turn robs the story of any satirical subtext. As an extension of this change, the show’s downfall is expedited not by an underground rebel group, but rather by agents of US law enforcement. Aside from these minor changes, the rest of the story appears to be strictly standard “prisoners kill each other for TV” claptrap. Moving along.




 Death Race, a very loose remake of the 1975 Roger Corman-produced cult classic, is yet another slight variation on the same theme. Jason Statham stars as a…wait for it…ex-race car driver (got you, didn’t I?) who is framed for the murder of his wife, put on death row, and offered a chance to earn his freedom by competing in the titular death race, masterminded by the prison’s cold as ice warden Joan Allen. The only major addition to the prisoner deathmatch mythos is the simmering gay subtext between Statham and Tyrese Gibson’s character. Homoerotic underpinnings haven’t been this apparent within the action genre since Schwarzenegger penetrated Freddy Mercury in Commando. Otherwise, as per director Paul W.S. Anderson’s modus operandi, the movie embodies mediocrity.




Gamer, the most recent example of the genre, is also its absolute nadir. The film is more or less a straight rip on The Running Man, only much, much dumber. Gerard Butler is a former soldier and current death row inmate who participates in a real life version of Modern Warfare 2. Everyone within the game – including Butler – is controlled by a player; this led to a great deal of confusion on my part, because the movie would have us believe that Butler’s success within the game is due to his background as a professional killer, but it also indicates that the in-game players are completely controlled by the gamers. The movie also features Ludacris in a spectacularly flat role as the leader of the rebel group opposing the game and Dexter’s Michael C. Hall in a truly unhinged performance as the creator and programmer of the game. Hall is the only source of entertainment or joy in the whole movie; chiefly, his absurd Southern drawl and an extended, highly choreographed dance number are the highlights of the movie. Everything else about the movie is dour, without fun, and sucks.

Conclusion:
Ultimately, this genre is a mixed bag, in that it’s mostly full of feces with a few diamonds scattered throughout. If you are for some reason in a mood to watch people under a death sentence murder one another for a home television audience, stick with the original. You can’t go wrong with 80’s Arnold.




Things That Are Terrible, No. 1: Long Distance Door Holders

With Door Wide Open

Millions of years of evolution as well as thousands of years of civilization have engendered in humans a proclivity toward pro-social behavior. This drive manifests itself in a number of ways, ranging from the micro (surrendering a seat on a subway to an elderly rider) to the macro (participating in the electoral process to pass laws that are beneficial to society). An excellent recent example of widespread pro-social behavior is the tremendous amount of money raised by the Hope for Haiti fundraiser. Many would contend that the human capacity for compassion is our greatest attribute as a species. However, there are particular circumstances under which the desire to help other results in a misfire. Instead of committing an act of random kindness, the initiator of the action instead engages in wanton annoyingness, and that, dear readers, is terrible.

The particular example I have in mind is the simple action of holding a door open for another person. It is a scenario that many of us experience daily, if not several times a day. I’d like to preface my complaint by stating that, in general, I have no problem with holding a door open for someone. In the correct conditions, it is a minor act of politeness, a small sign that the fundamental building blocks of society are still in place. But when the door holder is half a football field away from the recipient, the action becomes an absurd spectacle. I’ll refer to this as long distance door holding (LDDH). First, I think it is important to analyze the benefits obtained by both parties from a normal door holding instance. The holder gains a small measure of self-satisfaction from helping their fellow human. The person for whom the door is held is spared the inconvenience of having to open the door themselves, which, under certain circumstances (e.g., when holding groceries), is actually helpful. Now compare these benefits to what happens during a LDDH episode. The door holder must remain frozen in the uncomfortable position of propping the door open while the recipient must engage in an awkward walk/jog to quickly reach the destination. It is an uncomfortable situation for both participants and is advantageous to neither. The well-intentioned deed becomes an inconvenience for both parties.

So what then can we do about this? I propose to you, reader, that the revolution must begin with you. If someone trails you by more than twenty feet, do not hold the door open for them. You’ll be doing a service to both yourself and the other person. If someone far in front of you holds a door, do not reinforce them by hurrying to the door. Instead, continue at the same leisurely pace you would if the door was closed. Society is responsible for the cult of LDDH, and society is merely an extension of our collective attitudes. If we want to eliminate this annoyance, we have to make a stand, preferably while not against a door jamb.