Before I try my hand at intellectual analysis, can I just say: DJ Rupture's Gold Teeth Thief blew my mind. How dare you share this music knowing we'd have to drop everything and dance to the whole mix? Clayton's essay "Confessions of a DJ" actually made me think of an episode of my life ten years ago. I was enrolled in a hip-hop class on Manhattan's Upper East Side, which generally involves a veteran dancer from Brooklyn tasked with sprucing up a group of reticent white tweens (I could sense the teacher's frustration with our lack of swagger, and because of it, I danced twice as hard). One week, Ms. Aurelia reached a boiling point. She had just pressed play on (what I imagined was) one of her favorite songs for our warmup, and, as usual, the class of fourteen girls stood stiffly in our stiff "hip-hop" uniforms. The following quote is a paraphrase of what Ms. Aurelia said, assembled from memory:
"You have to pay respect to the music. Acknowledge the music. Bob your head or something. Tap your foot. Show respect. Show that you're listening. When you stand still like that it's like you're not listening."
From then on, I can't stay passive when it comes to music. Yeah, cool, I get to be an energetic dancer when it's expected: the club, concerts, listening at home. But the flip side is that I use all spaces that play music - supermarkets, coffee shops, bad concerts, food trucks, cars prowling at night - as an opportunity to bob my head and tap my foot. I can never go back to a place where music is neutral, because it isn't. Not anymore. Clayton uses his piece to dispel the myth of "passive" dancing in relation to a DJ. He describes building communication skills with regard to space and energy. To a lesser extent, I've encountered enough mediocre DJ's to weave criticism into my dancing (half-hearted swaying is one of them). But the bottom line is that all music deserves (initial) response. So maybe we should be more discriminate with where we play music. Or maybe we should play it everywhere.
This brings me to the Amen Break (which I noticed in the beginning of the Gold Teeth Thief mix). The Youtube documentary solidifies the Amen Break as a cornerstone of electronic music, to the point where it sounds intuitive, and sampling it is also sampling the entire history of its use, like building on a pile. As result, the drummer who originated the Amen Break gets buried a little, and hasn't received compensation anywhere close to what he deserves legally. But the way Clayton rationalizes this phenomenon toward the end of his piece is that DJ'ing (and musicking in general) isn't lucrative in its purest form, except if you consider experimentation and breakthroughs to be riches (which he does, in a way). Are artists supposed to swallow down a lack of recognition in order to contribute to a larger musical patchwork? If an artist needs money to survive but money ruins musicking, can music be made under a capitalist system?
One thing that Clayton only touches on is the listener's physical experience in a space. How does space determine the type of dancing, listening, and socializing that goes down on the floor? I was thinking about these things when I went to a concert at Finlandia two weeks ago. My roommates - Sarah and Abby - and I got there in time for the second act, Orange Guava Passion. Finlandia - the "venue" - is clearly someone's house, but that creates college atmosphere. Everyone is between the ages of 18 and 22. When it comes to the experience itself, here's my insight: height is capital. Being the tallest in my group, I had a wonderful time, barring one song where my head was right in front of the speaker. I could see fairly well without bobbing around, and I wasn't getting pushed as hard. I wanted to say that it was a problem with the space, but the truth is, this had been my experience in all "open-pit" concerts I've ever been to. The sweat, the violation of personal space, and the crushing were all part of the experience. But what if it was the space? OR: the lack of it.
The reason why Finlandia (dubbed Findi) is so successful (and crowded) is that it's one of the only not-Brown-funded-or-meddled-with spaces that hosts live music on campus. And maybe this is me signaling to Brown University that it should embrace these rough attempts at musicking, not quash them into nothingness, so that my shorter friends can enjoy live music, close to home, without suffocating. But what if the crowdedness is the experience?? Okay, that was all I had to say.
3.11.2019
Listening Across Borders + Middle Eastern Jazz
The movie and readings this week were a cool little music odyssey. I started by watching Yangon Calling. I enjoyed this documentary a lot because it shows how punk is a transferable cultural phenomenon. Indeed, many of the "punks" in the movie don Ramones and Sex Pistols t-shirts. One musician remarks, correctly, that one doesn't need musical talent to play punk rock. In the documentary, the genre's core values are geared toward a rebellion which has seemingly higher stakes than when punk was born (I think this is fair to say... countering 70's Western mainstream seems less heavy than risking death in a Burmese prison). The fact that punk is being used as a means for survival makes me proud, and while I initially thought of Scum as a deadbeat, I quickly came to sympathize with his chosen lifestyle: how can I judge someone who creates a sense of freedom for themselves against all odds? Thanks to punk's transferability and the role that it has taken in Yangon, the genre has grown as a whole, taking on new, deeper meanings and hues.
Clayton's discussion of Auto-tune also explores transferable music, though this time we're talking about software (which, I won't lie, makes me bubble... musicking for everyone!). What I found most interesting about the reading was Clayton's note about how certain vocal qualities are required to create "successful" Auto-tuning, and traditional vocal talent doesn't necessarily suit this style. In fact, it's better to purposefully hit notes off key. During the reading, I was thinking about the outro to Kanye West's "Runaway." This heavily auto-tuned segment makes sense of Kanye's garbled lamentation. Here we have a technology that celebrates "failure" and "misuse," and perhaps this is what makes Auto-tune so transferable. Listening to Berber pop music, and thinking about the Berbers' resistance to dominant groups, turns Auto-tune into a political matter.
Likewise, A Tribe Called Red cannot dissociate from politics: the quote "As indigenous people, I think we're political from the moment that we're born" really stuck with me. Maybe this is because ATCR reframes self-expression as survival, and it becomes a question of "which tools are we going to use to express ourselves (in order to survive)." These tools, as it turns out, can be borrowed from other cultures and help enrich these source genres (this is true for Burmese punk). How does the need to survive inform musical borrowing? Should all such exchanges stem from shared struggles?
On a different note, this week saw the return of sonidero studies. This time, the reading (by Lippman) focuses on the significance of sonidero performances for the Latin Diaspora. Creating a "home away from home" is central to this phenomenon in the US, and "¡Un Saludo!" allows just that. Relating to the other readings, I find it interesting how cumbia sonidera is both transferable and non-transferable: on one hand, this style of music travels great distances (from Columbia to Mexico City to L.A.) and on the other hand, the genre evolves new characteristics locally, plus the saludos are specific to a certain moment in time and space. It is cool that they're immortalized in certain mixes though. But who will know what they mean in fifteen years? How contingent on presence are Mexican cumbia mixes?
Well yeah, I've run out of logical segues. Last Sunday, Mea and I went to the Parlour, a bar that often features live music. In addition to witnessing Middle Eastern Jazz (which was novel and wonderful in and of itself), we made buddies with three Armenian women. Two of them used to be in a dance group and bravely performed a few steps during one of the livelier songs. The gist of this genre mashup was improv jazz using Middle Eastern instrumentation such as a reverb clarinet, an oud, and a synth. I've rarely felt so enriched by a musical performance, and I hope I get to return to the Parlour for some more quality music.
Clayton's discussion of Auto-tune also explores transferable music, though this time we're talking about software (which, I won't lie, makes me bubble... musicking for everyone!). What I found most interesting about the reading was Clayton's note about how certain vocal qualities are required to create "successful" Auto-tuning, and traditional vocal talent doesn't necessarily suit this style. In fact, it's better to purposefully hit notes off key. During the reading, I was thinking about the outro to Kanye West's "Runaway." This heavily auto-tuned segment makes sense of Kanye's garbled lamentation. Here we have a technology that celebrates "failure" and "misuse," and perhaps this is what makes Auto-tune so transferable. Listening to Berber pop music, and thinking about the Berbers' resistance to dominant groups, turns Auto-tune into a political matter.
Likewise, A Tribe Called Red cannot dissociate from politics: the quote "As indigenous people, I think we're political from the moment that we're born" really stuck with me. Maybe this is because ATCR reframes self-expression as survival, and it becomes a question of "which tools are we going to use to express ourselves (in order to survive)." These tools, as it turns out, can be borrowed from other cultures and help enrich these source genres (this is true for Burmese punk). How does the need to survive inform musical borrowing? Should all such exchanges stem from shared struggles?
On a different note, this week saw the return of sonidero studies. This time, the reading (by Lippman) focuses on the significance of sonidero performances for the Latin Diaspora. Creating a "home away from home" is central to this phenomenon in the US, and "¡Un Saludo!" allows just that. Relating to the other readings, I find it interesting how cumbia sonidera is both transferable and non-transferable: on one hand, this style of music travels great distances (from Columbia to Mexico City to L.A.) and on the other hand, the genre evolves new characteristics locally, plus the saludos are specific to a certain moment in time and space. It is cool that they're immortalized in certain mixes though. But who will know what they mean in fifteen years? How contingent on presence are Mexican cumbia mixes?
Well yeah, I've run out of logical segues. Last Sunday, Mea and I went to the Parlour, a bar that often features live music. In addition to witnessing Middle Eastern Jazz (which was novel and wonderful in and of itself), we made buddies with three Armenian women. Two of them used to be in a dance group and bravely performed a few steps during one of the livelier songs. The gist of this genre mashup was improv jazz using Middle Eastern instrumentation such as a reverb clarinet, an oud, and a synth. I've rarely felt so enriched by a musical performance, and I hope I get to return to the Parlour for some more quality music.
3.04.2019
Music Everywhere feat. An Adventure at Alchemy
Well, I didn't find much common ground among the readings and movie for this week, but I was interested in most of them. Gopinath and Stanyek's "Anytime, Anywhere" was a dense read, and not particularly helpful. I get the importance of defining terms, but forty pages seems a bit overkill to describe such an intuitive concept as mobile music. What's insightful about saying that music is in motion? How else is it supposed to reach our ears and help us connect with others? We live in a three-dimensional plane involving exchanges of energy. What's new?
On the flip side, "Searching for Sugar Man" is a work of ethnomusicology that's both intelligible and concrete. The subject himself, Sixto Rodriguez, is a model of musical humility. Far from academic pontifications, the documentary actively untangles music issues: music can be transplanted, but at what cost? "Searching for Sugar Man" seems at times to suggest that ethical issues (regarding money and recognition) are tangential to Rodriguez's story - a rare take in today's academic circles, where social phenomena are examined primarily through power relations (thanks a lot, Foucault). "Well what about the struggles we have in common?" asks the documentary, showing how Rodriguez's music fueled the fight to end Apartheid in South Africa. I would be lying if I said I wasn't refreshed by this viewpoint.
Juris' "Frequencies of Transgression" grapples with autonomy: is autonomy about living independently from one's society and its oppression, or living within it, opening up "new social-historical forms" as means to resist? My favorite philosopher, Jacques Ellul, says "to exist is to resist," (implying that closing oneself off completely is impossible) and this is certainly true for Juris' radio show, as well as for other community ventures he describes. I sympathize with the EFF (Electronic Frontier Foundation), so Juris' mention of Mexican free software efforts really landed on me: how is pirating and sharing software a way of enforcing autonomy? What are the challenges of this? How does this struggle manifest differently in a country like Mexico, "given [its] widespread practice of unregulated media circulation"? In tech communities, we encounter problems with leadership, like how to give voice to individuals given the anonymity of free software. So who do we chose to define us? Where do we situate hope in the struggle for freedom, regarding software but also expression and music?
Finally, the article on sonideros was a fascinating read. I was in Mexico City over winter break and witnessed firsthand this relationship between power and sound: street vendors used their voices as marketing (a loud voice is an asset, I remember thinking, but is it a commodity?) and there were a few blocks dedicated solely to sound system shops (sound waves colliding for attention). The article added nuance to my experience, portraying a grapple for authenticity in a scene where music is becoming less and less important: "This is a critique that I hear from many seasoned sonideros—that these events have become too much about the sheer size and spectacle of the experience, and not enough about the music."
This is a perfect segue to my musical adventure this week. Three friends and I went to Alchemy on Sunday to check out an event titled "Grind Mode Cypher Presents: Open Mic & Performances." The performance ended up being a bit disappointing, but I did witness a couple of things. For one, the performers were all male-presenting and displayed extraordinary levels of self-confidence. They just barked away at the microphone, regardless of the fact that the dance floor hosted a sparse, lethargic group. It's interesting to see patriarchy in practice after being so sheltered on College Hill. If I could stand up on a stage and accept failure like that, what else could I achieve? Where can I get that kind of self-confidence? Is there anything to learn from hyper-masculinity? Where do I situate empowerment? This is especially intriguing to me, as a longtime fan of hip-hop: how can I reconcile my gender with the sexism in certain songs I love? Is it okay that they empower me? Should I be listening to these songs at all?
On the flip side, "Searching for Sugar Man" is a work of ethnomusicology that's both intelligible and concrete. The subject himself, Sixto Rodriguez, is a model of musical humility. Far from academic pontifications, the documentary actively untangles music issues: music can be transplanted, but at what cost? "Searching for Sugar Man" seems at times to suggest that ethical issues (regarding money and recognition) are tangential to Rodriguez's story - a rare take in today's academic circles, where social phenomena are examined primarily through power relations (thanks a lot, Foucault). "Well what about the struggles we have in common?" asks the documentary, showing how Rodriguez's music fueled the fight to end Apartheid in South Africa. I would be lying if I said I wasn't refreshed by this viewpoint.
Juris' "Frequencies of Transgression" grapples with autonomy: is autonomy about living independently from one's society and its oppression, or living within it, opening up "new social-historical forms" as means to resist? My favorite philosopher, Jacques Ellul, says "to exist is to resist," (implying that closing oneself off completely is impossible) and this is certainly true for Juris' radio show, as well as for other community ventures he describes. I sympathize with the EFF (Electronic Frontier Foundation), so Juris' mention of Mexican free software efforts really landed on me: how is pirating and sharing software a way of enforcing autonomy? What are the challenges of this? How does this struggle manifest differently in a country like Mexico, "given [its] widespread practice of unregulated media circulation"? In tech communities, we encounter problems with leadership, like how to give voice to individuals given the anonymity of free software. So who do we chose to define us? Where do we situate hope in the struggle for freedom, regarding software but also expression and music?
Finally, the article on sonideros was a fascinating read. I was in Mexico City over winter break and witnessed firsthand this relationship between power and sound: street vendors used their voices as marketing (a loud voice is an asset, I remember thinking, but is it a commodity?) and there were a few blocks dedicated solely to sound system shops (sound waves colliding for attention). The article added nuance to my experience, portraying a grapple for authenticity in a scene where music is becoming less and less important: "This is a critique that I hear from many seasoned sonideros—that these events have become too much about the sheer size and spectacle of the experience, and not enough about the music."
This is a perfect segue to my musical adventure this week. Three friends and I went to Alchemy on Sunday to check out an event titled "Grind Mode Cypher Presents: Open Mic & Performances." The performance ended up being a bit disappointing, but I did witness a couple of things. For one, the performers were all male-presenting and displayed extraordinary levels of self-confidence. They just barked away at the microphone, regardless of the fact that the dance floor hosted a sparse, lethargic group. It's interesting to see patriarchy in practice after being so sheltered on College Hill. If I could stand up on a stage and accept failure like that, what else could I achieve? Where can I get that kind of self-confidence? Is there anything to learn from hyper-masculinity? Where do I situate empowerment? This is especially intriguing to me, as a longtime fan of hip-hop: how can I reconcile my gender with the sexism in certain songs I love? Is it okay that they empower me? Should I be listening to these songs at all?
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