#but the heart wants what it wants... and oftentimes it wants some sad dude singing his heart out in a musical

[starlene]

Never have I been less true to myself than back when I just nodded and agreed and said yeah when a very opinionated coworker told me they can't stand old men in fiction and there's nothing more boring than their stories.

[ourexes]

The "GIRLS" you hate are not on TV

Why the actual HBO show and its showrunner do not match the ones in your head.

              It’s so funny-slash-tragic that the overwhelming majority of people who hate Girls most adamantly are actually hating on a completely different show. One that must air in their minds whenever they get really angry at Lena Dunham or at Starbucks, but not on HBO at ten on Sundays.

               The latter is a half-satirized, half-empathy-demanding study on a very particular group of young women, with no intention or desire to represent the whole of either the millennial or female experiences—an impossible venture. Only that of these ultra-specific, oftentimes obnoxious four characters. Yet after six seasons of endless debate, many still don’t seem to get this.

               In preparation for the finale, I recently spent an afternoon scouring YouTube for old clips from the series, and in that dream-like coma made the always perilous and ill-advised decision to scroll down and scan the comments—if anyone cares to know, the post in question was a hilarious car-ride scene involving a Maroon 5 sing-along and Shoshanna’s thoughts on female presidential candidates. After some obligatory praise for Adam Driver’s character—the only dude involved—one observation with exactly forty defiant, icy blue upvotes read: Does Lena Dunham even listen to what comes out of her mouth?!

               Now, when I stumble upon things like these, me being the big boy that I am, my soul sinks a little—and unbidden red fury rises in its stead. Well, very confused person, A) Yes, she does, because this was actually put on paper many months in advance, perhaps even by herself, unless it was an improvised bit, and at any rate B) It’s really coming out of Hannah’s mouth, her character, the part she’s playing, and not hers. This is a scripted television series, not The Hills. Does not one of these people know the difference?

               In a wonderful piece by Jia Tolentino for The New Yorker two weeks ago, she attributes this tendency to conflate the two to the show’s ability to craft such raw, fully-fledged characters and stories. She argues that the writing and directing are so excellent, audiences can’t tell the difference between these scenes and real life. That’s high praise for a series with the naturalistic instincts and sensibilities of this one—for any scripted show, one would say, save for maybe Game of Thrones—, and a much more optimistic theory than the next most plausible one: sexism, and generational side-eye. These guys simply could not believe that a twenty-four-year-old woman could create a thoughtful, poignant fictional world, instead of the real-life version of UnReal’s very fake The Bachelor. Could she be capable of some actual, what’s the word? Self-awareness? Could she and her co-stars portray such narcissistic characters without they themselves being just as shallow? No, impossible. She doesn’t even look like a model! She must be a mess.

               Yes, it was mighty surprising to these folks when HBO—Deadwood-, The Sopranos-, Game of Thrones-, all-these-shows-these-macho-men-revere-HBO—succumbed to Dunham’s tricks, letting themselves be fooled by this chick’s—what, wanton sex-appeal? No, we’ve already discarded that. Um, art-world connections? Yes, HBO was tripping over itself to greenlight her pilot after that one.

               It’s so exhausting when everybody alive in this planet insists on having strong opinions about a TV show of which not even half of them have watched a single minute. Maybe a quarter of those have seen an episode, or two—if we’re being charitable. And then maybe ten percent, or five, actually understood what they were watching.

               And then they liked it—or they didn’t. Maybe it tickled their fancy, or they respectfully concluded that this wasn’t for them. But that makes Girls a perfect metaphor for the West’s current political climate—brace yourselves for we are reaching peak Girls think-piece here—: how can we have meaningful conversations about any one issue if we can’t even agree on what’s true and what isn’t? How can we talk about Girls, ultimately a piece of art, a work of fiction on premium cable, if we’re never even looking at the same show?

               A good illustrative example of this disconnect lies in the line that will likely go down as the show’s most memorable (and no, sadly it’s not “It was nice to see you. Your dad is gay”.) Near the end of the very first episode, an intoxicated Hannah rushes to her parents’ hotel room to hand them her manuscript, and announces that, while she doesn’t want to freak them out, she thinks that she may be the voice of her generation. “Or at least a voice”, she continues, “of a generation”.

               This comically self-aggrandizing statement is meant to be a joke on Hannah—who, it bears repeating, is on drugs in this scene—, on the complete lack of self-awareness that would come to characterize all the major players in the series, and most of the humor. But that didn’t stop smug bloggers and hot-takers from reading it as a mission statement by Dunham herself, all lines between reality and fiction be damned. In related news, Bryan Cranston cooks meth in his backyard.

               It is telling that these misunderstandings extend to Ms. Dunham as a creator and public figure. She first faced backlash for building a show that was ostensibly white—lambasted to an extent, it’s worth noting, that probably no other series in the history of television ever has or ever will be—, and supposedly trying (and of course failing) to act as a spokesperson for every woman in her twenties—an extremely lazy and outright inaccurate take, as we’ve established.  Never mind her much-repeated explanations that she, like so many of her peers, was only writing about her own experience—by definition limited—; and her willingness to engage with these conversations in a significant way, using them as a chance to learn; never acting dismissive or over-protective of her creative property. A willingness translated into attempts to bring on more non-white actors in guest-starring roles, her constant vouching for creators and storytellers of color (and of different genders, religions and sexualities) to be given the same chances that she got—a sentiment turned into tangible action with her feminist newsletter Lenny Letter, and her production company A Casual Romance, which provide a platform for those who lack one (both projects a result of her collaboration with Girls executive producer Jenni Konner)—and her own admission that, looking back, she “never want[s] to see another poster that’s four white girls”.

               And yet, has any of this been successful in appeasing the naysayers? Not a bit. Both Girls- and Lena Dunham-fueled loathing seems to exist in a stagnant pond near a fast-flowing river: unable to grow or morph into anything else, and unable to ever be challenged or debunked by the goings-on of the actual waters. Not unlike those liberal and conservative bubbles we keep hearing so much about.

               So, aside from the admittedly misguided remarks she sometimes makes in public (for which she tends to apologize), and a healthy little dose of envy towards her privileged status as a well-to-do white woman (which she seems aware of), the Lena Dunham you so vehemently hate probably does not exist either.

               This whole piece is not an attempt to shut down any criticism you might want to level at Girls if you haven’t consumed the sixty plus half-hours of content available—there’s a very important discussion about diversity that you’d still be rightfully invited to, for one (though I would still beg you to listen to what the people behind the scenes have to say on the matter, so that it is in fact a debate and not a monologue). But when we talk about the quality of the show, its value, again, as a work of art (and it is sad that so few of the conversations around it have actually been about this), if you haven’t even seen it—or you have, but refuse to engage with what it’s trying to tell you—, how to put this gently? Just shut up.

               You do not need to have opinions about every other thing under the sun (this is a hard concept for a lot of people to grasp, I know. I blame capitalism). And if you do, we certainly don’t need to hear them all. Girls is famously not a show for the faint of heart. Nor is it one for the lazy hot-take pitchers or the confirmation-bias-hungry. I mean, sure, you can still watch it—but it’ll be an entirely different piece.

               Having informed opinions to contribute to the conversation takes work. Work no one is forcing you to do—not every piece of culture needs to appeal to you, and not every Summer best seller or successful movie franchise requires your input. So, stop being lazy and make an effort to listen, to understand why a group of people have assembled all these different pieces to put together the product in front of you, what their goal is and whether they achieve it—and where, and how—, and how you might be expected to react to all this; or shut up, quit clogging the Internet, and put on Bones or whatever.

Find this post and more here.

[thebigcitynightsband]

Bus King/Busking/Night Moves

That’s a photo of me and my ex-gf. I just found it last week in my bag that Jamie brought to me from Burlington, thanks Jamie bro. Happier times, man. We’re still friends but we don’t see each other much. That’s a repeating pattern with me. Me and a gal will break up, declare an intention to stay friends, and then I be their friend while they work hard at vanishing from my life and into the arms of some dude who hates me cuz I’m still her friend. Happened with Jessica, happened with Courtney. Next time I’ll just do the sudden severance. Seems to work for other people.

Well, fuck. I’ve been struggling a little bit lately. Still sober, still pissing in a cup every day. My hours got cut at work for a few weeks but they’re back up to full-time next week, where they’ll remain until mid-December. I’m trying to save my apartment, need to find a roommate to take over the lease, which requires first and last, which I don’t have but I’m trying to acquire somehow.

A few days ago I went busking for the first time in about a year. Queen and University is my corner, northwest side. I like it there because you get a lot of 905ers coming out of Osgoode Station to go explore Queen West, people who don’t ordinarily see buskers, so they’re generous. I can only play for about three hours on an acoustic before my fingers start to hurt too much to play chords, and you average about six bucks an hour. I write a lot of songs that way. “Make It Mine” off the new album was written while busking last year and I came up with a few new ones the other day. It was a good day, actually. I woke up broke and without food and ended the day with a full belly and a pack of cigarettes and an Arizona Iced Tea. I felt content. So I’m gonna go back out there tomorrow. And probably the next day too.

My laptop died and I almost lost the record, but I was able to extract the files after a few days of feeling numb and worried. I really like our upcoming album, the songs have kept me good company over the past year, and the thought of losing the whole damn thing, save for “Fighting Ways” which is finished, and a handful of others, was a little scary. It’s not gone though. Sweet relief. BCN songs are like cockroaches. They find a way. Cue “Long Distance King” in your head as you read that last line...”we’ll find a waaaaay, we’ll fiiind a waaaaay.” Glory days. Before everything went to shit.

Hey, know what’s a great record? Break Up Break Down by Reigning Sound. Listen to the quavering, breathless delivery from Greg Cartwright on this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fWcZKZR3jg

Another great one off that record is called “Want You,” a really sad, pretty ballad. I’d like to make an album of Memphis ballads some day, in the vein of Break Up Break Down. We’ll call it Fuck Up Fuck Off or something.

I set up my keyboard tonight with a mind to do some overdubs tomorrow. I’ve been avoiding doing keyboard overdubs on the album forever because I’m a terrible keyboard player and it takes a really long time to get a single coherent take and I don’t have the patience that I used to. I finished “Night Needles” from A Steamroller Named Desire in a single evening, and that song has probably the most piano of any BCN song. I doubt I could do the same thing now. I’m older now and runnin against the wind, as Bob Seger would sing. Has sung, whatever. Running Against the Wind. I love that song. “Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then” is a great line eh? Legend has it Seger wanted to cut that line but the producer told him how great it was, which it is. Oftentimes artists can’t recognize their own greatness. Years ago, when I was sixteen or so, I was trying to put together a set of acoustic covers in my bedroom. I remember doing “Leave It Alone” by Moist, which is pretty embarrassing now, but also “Against the Wind” and an acoustic version of the Smashing Pumpkin’s “Ava Adore,” which I was surprised to find has a very similar chord progression as “Against the Wind.” I mean, those two songs sound nothing alike, yet they’re very alike, chord-wise.

ANYWAY I’m rambling. Just finished an assignment for a client (I do people’s homework for them as a side hustle. Forty bucks here, sixty bucks there, it all goes into the giant hole I dug for myself the past few years.) I owe money to one guy who actually chased me this past January, up near Dovercourt and Hallam. I had to jump a couple fences but I got away. He’ll get paid soon enough. They all do.

I’m working on it man. Pushing against the tide. Runnin against the wind.

One last thing about that Bob Seger song: I’ve always thought that part where he yells “let the cowboys ride!” at the end of the song was stupid. Why couldn’t he have taken that part out? It’s so obvious that he was out of ideas and just mustered up the best open field imagery he could in the moment. Let the cowboys ride? Given the greatness that comes before that line, I can’t dismiss the song, even if it’s not as good as the immortal “Night Moves.”

A quick word about “Night Moves” before I go. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mRFWQoXq4c I honestly think it’s one of the greatest all-time vocal performances. There are three distinct parts in the song that always give me shivers. The first is that irresistible “summertime summertime” part @ 2:19. The second comes in that great breakdown, when the title changes from a sexual innuendo to a somber, forlorn musing on the passage of time and how time can move slower when you’re bored, faster when you’re absorbed and excited. Ain’t it funny how the night moves...when you just don’t seem to haaaaaaaave as much to lo-o-se. It’s that “have” that always gets me...just the way Seger gives it the perfect amount of witsfulness and gravelly gravity. Fuckin killer. Singing is always a fine balance between technical proficiency and emotional delivery, but on that line Seger’s 99% heart, 1% technique, and it still sounds incredible. To me, at least.

The last part is in the final minor descending refrain @ 5:04, even though it’s just Bob doing a bunch of “ooooohooohoohhhs.” It wouldn’t be as good if that vocal came over the main riff, but it doesn’t. It comes over the same chord progression as the chorus, that sad lilting minor key descent. Every time, man. Every time.

I’ve been trying to cover “Night Moves” since 2007. I don’t think I’ve ever got past the first chorus. I just can’t sell it. Those aren’t my memories, they’re Bob Seger’s. I never existed in the 1950s America he’s singing about in the song, the America of taking your sweetheart to the drive-in, cruising the strip, going to diners and pushing coins into jukeboxes. That wasn’t my adolescence. So it’s a tough one to sing. You have to know when you’re beaten. That’s part of growing up.

I don’t talk to my Dad anymore. He hates my guts and so does his girlfriend. It doesn’t bother me except for when I hear certain songs...songs like “Night Moves” or “Walking On The Moon” by The Police...first time I ever heard my father sing on the way to Owen Sound for a hockey tournament I was playing...it was the chorus, that “no way, chasing your cares away” part, and we had sunflower seeds and that was the night I fell in love with highways and movement and travel and all that Kerouac stuff I’d get obsessed with later, all those fuckin notebooks I filled with eager scrawling about road trips I hadn’t yet taken. I lost all those notebooks somehow, can’t remember maybe I tossed them all on purpose, kind of a year zero event. Too much in those notebooks was lines from existing songs. I remember one time going through an old notebook and seeing “the sea is foaming like a bottle of beer” and thinking I’d written it...nope...it was a Weezer song. I’d just scrawled out that one line hammered one night, drunk at 17, back when it was actually exciting to get drunk and not a sad chore like it later became.

I’m going busking tomorrow. I might not be able to do “Night Moves” but I can bust out “Against the Wind.” I ain’t licked yet. It ain’t over. I’m older now and still runnin against the wind. Let the cowboys ride or whatever.

Edit, PS: That was a really dramatic fuckin post. I’m sorry. For some much-needed levity, here’s a picture of me from last week. Some friends visited while I was in bed, and I came out to say hello still holding my book.  PPS: Hey, know another great Bob Seger song? “Still the Same,” especially those ghostly backing vocals in the second verse. Check it out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjDpKeiYxOU PPPS: Hey, know another song that has cool ghostly additional instrumental in the second verse? Bruce Springsteen’s “Downbound Train.” It’s not his greatest song and I don’t like Bruce’s overdone “blue collar accent,” the dumb slurring he likes to do in order to sound more like a mechanic making $20 000 a year, but that beautiful synth organ that comes in on the second verse is just heartwrenching, listen for it @ 0:49: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc_mv46NwT4 The organ has a pretty sweet solo for one-bar starting at 1:21. If I could get that organ tone, I wouldn’t put off doing keyboard overdubs, lemme tell ya son, I tell ya what.