If You Were On a Deserted Island…
One of the hardest questions you could ask me is the ubiquitous “If you were on a deserted island and could only have (x) number of books and/or albums and/or films, which would you pick?”
First off, I’ve always felt the question itself (or others like it) are closer to Buddhist koans than what they really are: idle, consumerist rhetoric. A koan is intended to divert the individual’s mind from overly-rational thought – one of the most common examples being the question “What is the sound of one hand clapping?”. The point is not to take it literally (i.e. provide an answer), but to allow the unexpected nature of the predicament to unearth a more creative, less predictable perspective on one’s inner and outer life.
Getting back to the “deserted island”, it’s not hard to see the comparison, particularly when electrically-powered audio/visual equipment needs to be installed on said “island”. Is there a company which specializes in such installations? How expensive is the shipping? Furthermore, I’m assuming there’s food on the island – that would be good, lest the subject, after starving for several hours and unable to drink sea water, begins to munch on their precious copy of Mann’s “Death in Venice”.
Let’s go further, exploring the impossibility of the question. If I was on a deserted island with, let’s say, only 5 books, I would probably lose my mind very quickly. The reason being that the 5 books we pick are based on what we’ve read within the comfort of more controlled circumstances. Can you imagine being stuck on an island with a stack of books written by Dickens and Shakespeare – tell me ye olde language wouldn’t grate after a while? What if you were only kidding yourself about them – pressured by peers, no doubt – then what? A stack of books you can’t stand but are forced to read? You might as well skip the island and go to university. But why only fiction? I’d sure like a moment – and a deserted island sounds perfect – to learn the basics of electricity; unfortunately, assuming all I have is a palm tree, it’s unlikely that I will be able to do much in the way of experimenting, and I’m the type who needs to get his hands dirty in order to understand things.
I come to the conclusion that, unless you are asking me the question in order to develop my non-rational consciousness, I must insist, despite whatever books, albums, movies, or magically-transported reruns of sports games I pick, that one thing be added to the stack without question: a pistol with a single bullet in the chamber.
How’s that for an answer?
Photo: Queen & Dufferin #4
The Death of the Guitar Solo
I was walking to the bank today, toting my “portable digital music player” [note: I’m not putting that in quotes to be trite, it’s just that I neither want to use the ubiquitous i-word, nor do I want to suggest that the mp3 format is the best as regards quality], listening to the song “Shoot Out The Lights” from Richard and Linda Thompson’s same-titled album. Critically hailed when it came out in ’82, it has since faded into obscurity, not helped by the fact that they divorced shortly after its release. I remember seeing it listed in a Rolling Stone magazine (again with the magazines, Cahill, you hypocrite), in a Best Albums of All Time issue in the mid-to-late-80’s. I’d never heard of them, but for some reason, when I see something I’ve never heard of before listed so plainly amongst the likes of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, I just have to take notice.
When I got around to picking it up on a whim – about 20 years later – I liked it, though the production on it is terribly dated [note: I can’t hold this against them or their producer since it was done on a shoe-string budget in a decade of much more heinously, shittily produced albums. And yes, “shittily” is a word I’m making up on the spot. I’m prepared to stand my ground on its use.]. The stand-out of the album is the previously mentioned title-track. It has a pair of guitar solos that remind me of what guitar solos were meant to do: attach themselves to the spirit of the song as an extension of the musician’s soul. The song and the solo are one; the solo extends the reach of the song, articulating something akin to a dialogue with the larger body of the piece.
When I listen to the likes of Link Wray, Tom Verlaine, and other great guitarists, I’m reminded that – as opposed to what took root in the 80’s, which was the Top40-EZ-Radio-Softcore-Metal wankfest we still have today – guitar solos weren’t necessarily about razzle dazzle. Yes, since the 
Classical period when soloing took root, one of the reasons for a solo was to display the technical proficiency of the player – this cannot be denied. However, technical proficiency and artistic discipline are not mutually inclusive – one does not necessarily carry both traits by developing one.
I suppose I’m writing this because North American mass media is only interested in easily-digestible razzle dazzle. This is why a band such as Green Day was successful; they’re entirely about “lite punk” attitude, the inoffensive appearance of rebellion. Soul is neither required nor condoned. Neither is subtlety. This is why even the “classic rock” radio stations clip off the best parts of songs such as Television’s “Marquee Moon” – it’s simply too long for them. They’ll take shitty and short, thank you very much.
This is not to say that, musically speaking, I’m living in the 70’s, or that I’m some sort of acetic. I honestly don’t have a favourite genre of music – picking one has always seemed futile. I just like what I like. But one thing is clear: with few exceptions, my playlist contains musicians, groups, and styles that will never see the light of day on current FM radio. I was raised in rural areas where, waaaay pre-internet, the radio was the only escape for a confused kid. All I know is that I feel sorry for kids exposed to most of the crap currently out there, and I only hope that the proliferation of independently controlled internet radio stations succeed. For sake of variety. For sake of exposure.
Damn you, Harper’s
About eight years ago, I read my first copy of Harper’s. Up until then, I’d never been a magazine person (not counting the subscription I had, at the age of 16, to Psychology Today…and then later, Spy for a brief period, while they were struggling with bankruptcy). Okay. Let’s just say that, from my twenties onward, I wasn’t a magazine person. But one day I picked up Harper’s and I fell in love. I discovered something densely intelligent, funny, and with such a variety of content that one could spend countless hours reading (nay appreciating, savouring) every morsel it served. Lastly, for someone who was much more interested at the time in non-fiction, it was a godsend.
Then, after 9/11/01 [sidenote: it took a tragedy for people to officially confuse the order of the month and day when writing the date], I fell out of love. Not immediately, mind you – if anything, out-of-the-gate, Harper’s was one of the few mainstream voices of sanity in the aftermath. While everyone in the mass media seemed to conform to a dangerously singular mindset (i.e. being complacent), Harper’s was honestly critical and asked the necessary questions. But, over time, I found then-editor Lewis Lapham’s essays too predictably left-wing (and I think the fact that they were predictable was perhaps the greater sin). The magazine also began to suffer from the same Americentric cocooning as the rest – I believe the turning point for me was an essay on how pragmatism was a uniquely American concept. Oh, really.
I felt like I was reading something written by people who had never left their homes, or who didn’t want their presumptions challenged. In other words, for reasons arguable or not in hindsight, it became a magazine like any other.
Flash-forward to 2008: with the hell-job in its trailing throes, I found myself in a bookstore itching for something different to peruse – something less weighty (literally) than a book. And sure enough, as if face-t0-face with an ex-girlfriend, I was staring at a copy of Harper’s on a magazine rack. I picked it up, flipped through, and seeing a lack of blatant political indignation, sighed, and proceeded to the cash register.
Sure enough, I found myself addicted once again. The Readings section, with its immaculately edited selection of essays, fiction, poetry, and miscellaneous news items. The ubiquitous Harper’s Index. A fascinating piece on the possibility of transmissible cancer, by David Quammen. A report on the raw-milk controversy (with a Canadian angle, no less). Last but not least, a series of 22 short fiction pieces by Paul Theroux – each of them excellent.
While I am delighted at what seems to be the return of a full-blooded Harper’s, I’m equally despondent: it’s almost too much of a good thing. I can’t pick it up without devoting hours to reading every bit of it. As a result, I worry that everything else I’m reading (or promising to read – hello, Ulysses) will fall by the wayside.
Damn you, Harper’s. Damn you.
Photo: Self-Portrait (Ossington Alley)
note
I swear…
If there’s one thing I find annoying about blogs, it’s the “non-entries”. You know, the “I’ve been really busy due to (x). Sorry I haven’t been updating regularly.”. In other words, they’re writing to say that they haven’t been writing, and furthermore they have nothing to say, other than the obvious.
But true to form, I find myself in the same situation.
Oh, I have excuses. I can’t scan slides currently because the scanner is cursed (I swear), so I can’t post photos. Work is killing me (slowly). My phone won’t stop ringing with “life-and-death” (work-related) emergencies. I tripped on the sidewalk and lost my homework…etc.
So yes, I too have nothing to say, other than a little soft-shoe routine to overstate the obvious, and some empty-sounding promises.
Give me some time, and I’ll be a posting fiend once again.
Regards,
Management