Jupiter drops (three).
Momus—that creepy Scottish guy? world’s smartest pop star?—Momus wants to take your iTunes away.
That’s not an apt comparison, because literature is not a time-based medium that hogs bandwidth and restricts the other things you can do with sound while it’s “playing.” The comparison between an iPod and a book is a slightly better one, and I do note approvingly the iPod’s tendency to “privatize” the listener’s taste.
Well. Not so much take your iTunes away. Certainly not your earbuds. But your Limewire? Your BitTorrent? Your 60-gig hard drive? Your wall of CDs? Your ten thousand songs every one of which instantly sortable by title or artist or key words or album or genre or folksonomic tags or play count? Your Friday random tens? Your MP3 blogs? Your rack of audiophilic equipment capable of reading wax ripples or lit-up bits or magnetic tape and running the signals through knee-high speakers placed in the room just so?
Music’s availability, streamability etc seems to be liberating, but when other people have the same access to, and control over, music that I do it can lead to a kind of sound hell. I’d say a parallel situation is cars: sure, if I get a car I get more mobility, more freedom of movement. But if everyone has a car, not only do we all end up in horrible conflictual gridlock, the environment suffers. We are now reaching car saturation, and music saturation, car gridlock and music gridlock.
Well, not quite so much them, either. Not as such. There’s rhetoric, and there’s praxis. —But still, puritanical trickster that he is, he’s after some way to pull music back to a one true only—
But for whatever reason, Steve and Rupert and the others have squeezed music into every blank bit of space in our lives. We are rapidly reaching the limits of our own ears (tinnitus, my headphoned friend?) and the saturation point at which music becomes utterly unremarkable, and thus, effectively, inaudible.
As usual, Brian Eno was the first person I’m aware of to sound a warning note. In an interview he gave around the time he moved to St Petersburg, he said (I quote from memory) “I’m beginning to be dissatisfied with the idea of CDs, the way they make all music so available to us, the way that all musical experiences are supposedly able to be shrunk down to fit this little plastic disc. I’m beginning to think it should be as difficult to hear music as it was in the Middle Ages. Imagine just hearing a concert once a month, how amazing it must have sounded!”
current music: “Alegria,” Kirsty MacColl
Still a tool after all these years.
Andrew Sullivan cranks up the conveyor belt to help mainstream the dangerously stupid and disastrously reductive bullshit attacks on ecologist Eric Pianka. Roy tells you why it’s stupid and reductive, and PZ tells you why it’s dangerous and disastrous, and the Panda’s Thumb has some links to what really went down. Death threats and creationist anti-intellectualism, ahoy!
Aphorism.
When New Yorkers say “Fuck you,” they mean “Hello,” and when Angelenos say “Hello,” they mean “Fuck you.” —When the right wing says “Fuck you,” they mean “I want to take an axe handle and beat you to death, you traitorous cunt, and hang your faggot body from a tree branch for all the world to see.”
Jupiter drops (two).
There’s this co-worker I no longer share an office with which is probably for the best, since she didn’t really like my music. (Still doesn’t. Except the Ella.) She’d mutter about those fake Russian lesbians or that creepy Scottish guy (I think it was “Scottish Lips” was how she knew he was Scottish) and the Bollywood (though the Bollywood was okay, maybe a little funny, and you never know what they’re singing about), and maybe she had a point about how hard it was to work to Muslimgauze. (Before her, before I ripped our entire collection to a 60-gig drive the size of my hand, the guy I used to share the office with brought his CDs and I brought my CDs and we’d trade off and that’s how I learned about RJD2 and Sigur Rós and how he learned about Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Robin Holcomb, maybe.)
But the thing she really hated was the mashups. —She didn’t like covers in general, really; she wanted the platonic ideal, the ultimate Joe Meek effect, the one you hear on Akashic radio, and I can sometimes see her point: I’ve never been so disappointed as when I sat down to listen to Vladimir Ashkenazy’s rendition of Sibelius’ Fifth and found the sombre joy in the face of the inevitable that builds to those staggering, heart-stopping beats at the end of the third movement transformed to something nameless, brusquely middle-management, impatient to be done and up and on to the next. (It’s Lorin Maazel and his Wiener Philharmonik you’ll be wanting.) —But the mashups really got her goat: the look on her face, say, when Kelis starts rapping about her milkshake over Brian May’s crunch?
I believe I’ve mentioned these days I work in a document coding shop? Back when I was still out on the floor, back before iPods and iTunes, or at least their ubiquity, somebody set up a tinny little radio and left it tuned to this soft rock station day in, day out to help us get through the tedium of day in, day out data entry. —I still get this uncontrollable tic whenever I hear the opening bars of “Drops of Jupiter.”
Jupiter drops (some context).
It is told to us by a long and unbroken isnaad of men of good character, known for their memories and their precision, that the Prophet (may the blessing and peace of Allah be upon him) has said: “There will certainly be those among my ummah who will allow fornication and silk, wine, the playing of musical instruments. Some of these people will stay at the side of the mountain and they will keep flocks of sheep. When a beggar comes in the evening to seek alms of them, they will say to him, ‘Come back to us tomorrow.’ And during the night, Allah will let the mountain fall down upon them, and others he will transform to apes and swine. They will remain as such until the Day of Resurrection.” —This is found to be neither odd nor faulty.
The fact that listeners hear the same emotion in a given musical score is something a Neanderthal crooner might have exploited. Music can manipulate people’s emotional states (think of liturgical music, martial music or workplace music). Happy people are more cooperative and creative. By fostering cooperation and creativity among bands of early, prelanguage human ancestors, music would have given them a survival edge. “If you can manipulate other people’s emotions,” says Prof. Mithen, “you have an advantage.”
—Sharon Begley, “Caveman crooners may have aided early human life”
Early in the twentieth century, however, the new science of industrial efficiency management was electrified by the discovery made at an indoor bicycle race held in 1911 at the old Madison Square Garden in New York. A brass band was part of the entertainment, and statisticians clocking the race discovered that cyclists’ average speeds shot up by about ten percent during the band’s sets. Five years later, a commercial laundry experimented with playing ragtime records; productivity increased dramatically when ironing was done in time to the music. In 1922, the Minneapolis post office tried playing records in its night sorting room and found that sorting errors fell.
By 1930, many American factories provided some sort of music, either live or phonograph, and the numbers of workplaces where music was supplied increased steadily…
—Nick Humez, “Muzak,” the St. James Encyclopedia of Pop Culture
The important thing about music from an Islamic view is that music expresses, or seeks to express, emotion. The purpose of music, when performed or recorded, is to produce an emotion, or emotions, in the listener—to affect the listener.
Islam is concerned about music because : (1) Islam believes that human emotions should be controlled because this control of our emotions is demanded of us by Allah (tabarak wa’tala)—it is what makes us human, and civilized, and enables us to remember Allah (tabarak wa’tala), and so access and maintain the numinous (the sacred) in our own lives; (2) listening to or playing (or re-producing) music on instruments or musical devices involves a lack of control because the music is the product of someone else’s mind and/or emotions and in the vast majority of instances is un-numinous: that is, it is profane, and seldom if ever is a remembrance of Allah (tabarak wa’tala); instead, music mostly conspires to distance us from Allah (tabarak wa’tala): it is mostly entertainment; distraction; frivolity; and mostly, in the modern world, a representation of what is Shaitanic—lust, greed, self-indulgence, pride, arrogance, loss of self-control.
The point is that music is a human construct, a human creation, and when we respond to music we are responding to or being influenced by this human attempt at creation. This applies even if a piece of music is an attempt at some sort of “communication” rather than an overt, obvious, expression of emotion; the music is still a human construct, and it is still an attempt to convey something fallible: someone else’s ideas, concerns, beliefs, notions, limited understanding or whatever. This also applies even—particularly—if the music is considered “religious”: that is, it is an attempt to re-present something of the sacred, the divine. In this case, there is a reliance on someone else’s perception or understanding of the sacred, the divine, and this is and always will be imperfect, error-prone and ultimately unnecessary. For Islam believes that the perfect perception, the perfect understanding of the sacred, the divine, already exists—in the Holy Quran, and the example of the Prophet Muhammad (salla Allahu ‘alayhi wa sallam). Thus, music—of whatever kind—is itself at best irrelevant and unnecessary, and at worst, a distraction, a path away from Allah (tabarak wa’tala), and a denial of that self-restraint which makes us human.
—Abdul Aziz, “Why Music is Haram”
When I was thirteen, I had a friend who was in his twenties. He began helping my father, who was in charge of our youth group. The music he listened to was wrong, and as I became closer to this guy, I began to listen to his music and began to get deeper into it. Finally, it was to the point that it no longer satisfied the flesh and I wanted more. So I then started to listen to regular, secular rock music, and it caused moral failure in my life.
I would warn anyone who would experiment with “Christian rock” not to do so, or it is likely that the same result would happen to them. Thank you!
—a 16-year-old student from Michigan
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo—
Grandson of the Beast.
On the one hand, April fish. On the other, God damn but the resemblance is eerie, now you point it out.
Now that's airwolf.
Since Fanboy Rampage went the way of all flesh, I’m just not as plugged in to the gonzo side of the comics blogosphere, so it took John Holbo to point out Chris’s Invincible Super-Blog pointing out something I should have been up on already: First Second’s online catalog with sample pages, which includes snippets of the next book on my list: Eddie Campbell’s domestic apocalypse, The Fate of the Artist. —Also, there’s a blog, with among other items a glimpse of Paul Pope’s Battling Boy, which I’d’ve known about already if I was up on my Publishers Weekly Comics Week. Totally unairwolf of me, I know.
Jupiter drops (one).
I used to work in the Rax in Oberlin, Ohio, and one day I went to the manager to complain. I pointed to one of the factoids printed on the paper placemats they used to line the cafeteria trays. “It says you play soft rock, or jazz, or whatever.”
She looked at it. “Yeah,” she said.
“Not muzak.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“It specifically says you don’t play muzak.”
“I see that,” she said.
“You’re playing muzak,” I said. It was true. They were. I can’t remember what song was playing because that was the point, or it used to be the point. You know what I’m talking about.
She shrugged. —I got the skinny later: you subscribe to Muzak, like cable television. Literally pipe it in. The Rax had taken over the building from some other fast-food brand, Arby’s or some such, and the muzak system was already in place, wired up, switched on, chirping away. Nobody knew which particular service and nobody knew where the controls were and it would have been too expensive to rip the speakers out and anyway the stuff was bland and inoffensive and nobody ever got a bill, so why not? We’d close for the night, mop up, wipe down, just two of us and the echo of some airless afternoon in Van Nuys when some Nelson Riddle second-stringers phoned it in for a little mad money. We’d shut off the lights and lock the doors and leave the syrupy strings to serenade a dark and empty restaurant.
Stupidity is a process, not a state.
Pam Spaulding patiently explains how hair works to a baldly racist smashmouth prick.
And, being troubled with a raging tooth,
I could not sleep.
I’m telling you right up front: I have no idea what this means.
Apparently, oneiromancers find it to be (by far) their most popular request: tell me what it means to dream of losing my teeth. They fall out, she says, and I try to catch them in my hands and I can’t. I start to say something, he says, and they turn to dust and blow away. He kisses you and they shake loose in your mouth and you swallow one and it catches in your throat. I spit them out one by one onto an empty plate and wake up in a cold sweat. —Wouldn’t you?
“Teeth represent our ‘bite’ or our aggressive/assertive nature. When we can’t get our teeth into something it suggests we have little control. Please contact me so we can discuss this matter further. If you dial +1866 286 5095, follow the prompts, and dial in PIN code 032, I shall assist you.”
I always feel a little guilty for not liking China Miéville more than I do. Maybe it’s because I’ve only ever tried to read Perdido Street Station, which comes off like Clive Barker on a Warhammer bender? —I should really try to read more, I think to myself, at least finish the thing, so I pick it up again after having set it aside for a good long while, ignoring for a moment the piece of paper that flutters out (I’m always using odd bits of paper as bookmarks—receipts, bus transfers, that sort of thing), and read “The hovels that encrust the river’s edge have grown like mushrooms around me in the dark,” and I sigh, heavily. (Oh, to rise above this to not smell this filth this dirt this dung to not enter the city through this latrine but I must stop, I must, I cannot go on, I must.) Well, ought, maybe. —That internal monologue comes to a stop soon enough, thank God, and the book settles into a third-person past tense that’s, well, redolent of Imajica. Sigh.
But I did pick it up just the other day, in an attempt to refresh my memory on certain points to be made later, and a piece of paper did flutter out, one of those things I’d tucked into the book when I’d last been reading it, and I picked it up and had one of those moments when the world cracks, when you’re presented with evidence of something you’d not so much forgotten as never bothered to think about again when thinking about the things around it. (Comes to much the same.) —I got on the train and went to work and heard the news and stood there, stunned, and shook my head; and then I went to the dentist. I had an appointment, you see. —Later, we bought newspapers.
Planes?
“Beware, not all tooth dreams are symbolic. Once in a while a tooth dream is telling you to get yourself to the dentist’s chair.” Sure, fine, but I’m telling you: I have no idea what this means.
Say: Who hath forbidden the beautiful (gifts) of God, which He hath produced for His servants, and the things, clean and pure, (which He hath provided) for sustenance?
“Except,” Babe the Blue Ox; “Complainte Pour Ste Catherine,” Kirsty MacColl; “Read, Eat, Sleep,” the Books; “Stone,” Cibo Matto; “Avignon,” Chuck Coleman; “Mimi on the Beach,” Jane Siberry; “Qu’ran,” Brian Eno, David Byrne; “Robin Hood,” Momus; “Bloodletting,” Concrete Blonde; “Let Me Be Your Liquor Man,” the Minni-Thins.
I mean, I knew somebody’s daughter went to see her father and he killed her.
According to statistics obtained from the World Bank, about 113 million total number of women are missing as a result of female infanticide (female fœtuses being aborted or newborn girls being killed) and neglect of young girls, which has led to a severe gap in the demographic composition of the population of China, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Indonesia, the Philippines and Turkey.
—Geneva Center for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces, “Making the World a More Secure Place: Combating Violence Against Women”
Just to put it in a little perspective, that’s about the number of women and girls in the US.
—zuzu
This mind-set needs to be broken. A culture that carves the genitals of young girls, hobbles their minds and justifies their physical oppression is not equal to a culture that believes women have the same rights as men.
—Ayaan Hirsi Ali, “Women and ‘gendercide’”
I’m not intimidated by the threats and the attempts to make me shut my mouth, because living in a rich western European country like this one, I have protection that I otherwise would not have in Somalia or in Africa or in any other Islamic country.
—“Moving stories: Ayaan Hirsi Ali”
In our remaining minutes, I learned that Bill doesn’t believe that women don’t always have a choice about whether or not to have protected sex. He swore that I was the first woman ever to tell him that sometimes contraception fails. And he doesn’t believe that women who do choose to abort take that decision very seriously and aren’t happy about it. He claims that 99% of the 800+ abortions that were performed in South Dakota last year were “abortions of convenience”—whatever the heck that means.
—Nancy Goldstein, “My dinner with Napoli”
I returned to the office. Mayor Blount was sitting down, looking very tired. He had cleaned himself off. He said, “I did it for you. Do you understand?”
He seemed like my father, I can’t say it better than that. I realized he was under a terrible strain, he had taken a lot on himself for me. He went on to explain how Dr. Fay was very dangerous, she was what they call a cripto-female (crypto?), the most dangerous kind. He had exposed her and purified the situation. He was very straightforward, I didn’t feel confused at all, I knew he had done what was right.
We discussed the book, how man must purify himself and show God a clean world. He said some people raise the question of how can man reproduce without women but such people miss the point. The point is that as long as man depends on the old filthy animal way God won’t help him. When man gets rid of his animal part which is woman, this is the signal God is awaiting. Then God will reveal the new true clean way, maybe angels will come bringing new souls, or maybe we will live forever, but it is not our place to speculate, only to obey. He said some men here had seen an Angel of the Lord. This was very deep, it seemed like it echoed inside me, I felt it was inspiration.
Then the medical party drove up and I told Dr. Premack that Dr. Fay had been taken care of and sent away, and I got in the car to drive them out of the Liberated Zone. However four of the six soldiers from the roadblock refused to leave. Capt. Parr tried to argue them out of it but finally agreed they could stay to guard the oil-drum barrier.
I would have liked to stay too the place was so peaceful but they needed me to drive the car. If I had known there would be all this hassle I never would have done them the favor. I am not crazy and I have not done anything wrong and my lawyer will get me out. That is all I have to say.
—Racoona Sheldon, “The Screwfly Solution”
Yup. Still trying, Ringo.
“I will no longer link to any writer who does not disclose his identity and affiliations in an obvious place or manner, or reply to online commenters who decline to disclose their names.”
