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Jews Do Count

Gary Lucas — Mon, 23 Oct 2023 14:43:17 +0000

Jews Do Count Gary Lucas October 23, 2023 - 10:43

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Gary performs The Golem. Photo by Arjen Veldt

My older sister Laurie Lucas asked me to write something about the current situation in the Middle East. Oy!

Okay here goes:

I am as horrified as any sensitive peace-loving dweller on this island earth at what went down Oct. 7th in Israel, and what is about to (apparently) go down in the region, where the situation is rapidly deteriorating. (And no I do NOT think Israel would be stupid enough to bomb that hospital, you've got to be kidding. Haters gonna hate, in any case).

I am appalled as any sensitive soul would be by the staggering worldwide rise in anti-semitic attitudes and violence -- please read David Baddiel's brilliant Jews Don't Count for further explication. I agree: It's Happening Again.

Please note that I have visited and have played in Israel several times--at the Next Festival in Tel Aviv at the Noga Theater with The Golem alongside solo sets by John Cale and Daevid Allen, and at the Jerusalem Film Festival with my Spanish Dracula project.

Last time I went over there to perform I got a lot of stick from various BDS supporting "friends" on Facebook.

But as I don't believe in cultural boycotts--and nobody tells me where I can and cannot perform--I lost a bunch of these so-called friends. Fine by me, c'est la vie, I'm not gonna waste time arguing with anybody, I just delete you. As Frank Zappa once said: "If you like my music, fine-- if you don't, then get the fuck out of here."

Don't misunderstand me too quickly also, as my political judgements have been known to evolve when, um, "new facts emerge"; ie, I'm constantly on the lookout for updated information so as to better understand and reflect on all sides of the issue in question before rendering an opinion.

Let it be said (ahem....very few else will, so I might as well):

Over 40 plus years I've played with a multitudinous bunch, nay, a veritable riot of collaborators, all the colors of the rainbow, all creeds and persuasions; ie, Black, White, Yellow, Brown, Red, Redneck, Gay, Straight, On the Fence, Jews, Jains, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Atheists, Free-Thinkers, Belgians, Brits, Scots, Swiss,Welsh, Irish, Chinese, Koreans, Poles, Turks, Dutchies, Moroccans, Israelis, Egyptians, Iranians, Argies, Portuguese, Hungarians, Frenchies, Austrians, Indians, Pakistanis, South Africans, Aussies, Norwegians, Danes, Swedes, Japanese, Spaniards, Canadians, Africans, Romanians, Brazilians, Colombians, Serbians, Slovenians, Croats, Mexicans, Ecuadorians, Cubans, Italians, Agnostics, True Believers, Pagans, Polygamists...am I leaving anybody / any special interest group out ? Sorry! (I'll get to you eventually).

Fact is, I'm a Big Tent equal opportunity kind of employer/collaborator/offender -- I'm a goddamn one-man musical United Nations. I'm happy to give anyone a shot to play and sing -- the Buckley/Lucas anthems being a case in point -- as long as they/he/she/it can actually play, sing or "make show" at a very high level (or not, I've lowered the bar for a few ringers even at times, what the hey) -- and that my collaborators exhibit a certain enthusiasm and respect for my music.

Please note that I am appalled at the vicious callousness which many academics and their benighted kinder at various universities are currently displaying regarding Israel and its very existence, esp. their views pertaining to Israel's current stance re Hamas terrorists -- oh sorry, "militants".

Regarding Israel -- if your next-door neighbor was loudly and vehemently sworn to your very destruction, and suddenly appeared in your living room brandishing deadly weapons and was about to murder you and your wife after already slaughtering your children and grandparents, what would YOU do? Try and "talk them down"?

Yes, the current situation is horrifying, and tragically is most likely not going to get any better for a long long time. I'm personally on the side of victims everywhere as a general principle, all for constructive dialogue leading to peaceful coexistence, if there was someone to dialogue with in Hamas -- but of course there is not.

The fact is that this murderous Islamic death-cult (let's be clear here) has seized not just 222 hostages from Israel, they have taken 2 million and 222 hostages south of the Gaza border, and are callously using them as pawns in a very sick and deadly propaganda exercise designed to destroy Israel while their paymasters sit in Iran, Doha, and elsewhere (not in Gaza of course!) pulling their strings.

People can beat their breasts and wave flags and bray about "Israeli occupation" till the cows come home. Israelis are gonna do what they have to do to defend themselves in order to survive like anyone else. As would you, and don't kid yourself.

Israel is not going to just disappear off the face of the map no matter how much a frighteningly large and growing part of the worldwide community prays for the country's destruction. They are emphatically NOT going gently into that good night.

By extension, post Holocaust Jews in general are not going to just fold their tents and slink off into the sunset, all 15.7 million of us (a pitifully small number, you Jew-haters -- there are not a lot of Jewish people left after the Holocaust, despite your best efforts to wipe us out).

Anyway, the old bromides still apply in the absence of anything better to replace them (I'm basically a one-world, multi-culti kind of guy).

So we still have to learn to live together.

We have to try, anyway,

And if not, well...

"We'll meet again" (cue the ending of Dr. Strangelove).

'Nuff said.

Gary Lucas 10/23/23

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Nuf said

What a sad time Gary. Thanks for a great article and food for thought.

Thank you, Gary, for your…

Thank you, Gary, for your brilliant, passionate essay. You write as well as you compose and play music.

thanks Gary it's how I feel…

thanks Gary it's how I feel. I enjoy your writing

Jews Do Count

When the false-flag Gaza hospital bombing took place, we knew that Israel was going to take off the wraps and go in on all 8 cylinders. Agreed, keep the lines of diplomatic communication open, but keep up the pressure and searching to bring home all of the hostages, with Gd-speed.

Way to go Gary

Your article

Your comments are eloquent, and I find little to disagree

Jews Do Count

Well,Gary, I cannot but agree with the essence of your thrust. I note you have dispensed with the "unfriending" comments of your original Facebook post, and can't comment about whatever critical flak you have received from BDS supporters. It's a great pity, to put it mildly, when courteous dialogue and differences of opinion are consumed by vitriol.
I cannot but reflect on a line from a Robert Wyatt song-"You've planted everlasting hatred in my heart"- and guess this is relevant to all victims of major conflict.
I'm appalled that some dismiss David Baddiel's book on the basis of ill-advised actions on his part in the distant past. He has apologised, things move on, and the tenets of his treatise are indisputable.
My thoughts are with the victims of Hamas, and the children of Gaza.
Peace be to you

Jews Do Count

My thoughts and feelings exactly. I've been appalled at the reaction of the Left to the Hamas pogrom and Israeli response. After almost a century and a half it bears repeating again: "Der Antisemitismus ist der Sozialismus der dummen Kerle."

Neither Hamas nor War on Civilians

Hamas is hideous and nothing justifies their terror attacks. Nothing excuses Israel's shutting off the water, food and electricity to Gaza. Netanyahu allowed this horrible attack to happen by moving the IDF away from the Gaza border and deploying them to the West Bank so they could be the personal security force for the ultra right wing settlers. Now he is trying to save face by collectively punishing a civilian population. You should check out the excellent articles in the Israeli press, especially Haaretz and 972 Mag. Killing thousands of civilians will not avenge the innocent Israelis. We need to get the hostages back, ASAP.

Palestine

We need an update where you express some empathy for the Palestinians in Gaza who are being incessantly bombarded by the IDF. I’m half Jewish. This has nothing to do with Judaism or Jewishness. Stop conflating Anti-Zionism with anti-semitism, it’s gaslighting. How many Palestinian children need to die before you recognize that this is vengeance not self-defense?

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The Well-Bred Hybrid

Joel Carreiro — Fri, 14 Oct 2022 15:09:39 +0000

The Well-Bred Hybrid Joel Carreiro October 14, 2022 - 11:09

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D. Dominick Lombardi, CCWS-25 (2018), mixed media, 21" x 14" x 12"

Cross Contamination with Stickers

Albright College in Reading, PA

October 27 through December 8, 2022

Cross contamination is usually a bad thing; having to do with bacteria transferred from one substance or object to another, with harmful effects.

In the case of D. Dominick Lombardi's exhibition title, it can refer to his lifelong rejection of the High Modernist position that art forms like painting and sculpture should be pure of contaminants from other forms or, worse yet, from "lower" forms of art. Instead he has embraced the notion that artistic expression is renewed and extended through outside influence and interaction. He needs the combined power and reach of both "high" and "low" forms to address his concerns.

In their 1990 MOMA exhibition and catalog, titled High and Low: Modern Art and Popular Culture, Kirk Varnedoe and Adam Gopnik addressed the historic effort to keep separate and distinct such activities as advertising, comics and graffiti from the lofty realms of high art.

With their exhibition they told a very different story, one of mutual interplay and interaction between these different levels of culture in modern society. They traced the ways in which this dialogue between "high" and "low" allowed artists to redefine "the relationship between the private imagination and the shared energies of public communication."

In Lombardi's collage and assemblage works vigorous formal mixing mobilizes the artistic fuel necessary to investigate a big ticket item -- no less than what used to be referred to as "the human condition."

D. Dominick Lombardi, CCWS 99 (2020), acrylic, ink and charcoal on paper on canvas, 24" x 38"

What is it that we are? How do we build a self and determine our actions and beliefs?

What access do we have to the reality of our environment -- both internal and external?

Mining the collective unconscious, he layers discordant imagery such as figure drawings, themselves efforts at "high art," with floating signifiers from the nether world of dreams, racing thoughts and hallucinations. Set against activated paint backgrounds, these elements interact in a sort of parallel play, inciting each other and sparking the proverbial Surrealist jump in order to reveal the uncanny within the familiar.

In addition to formal contamination the title also points to the literal poisoning of our environment through pollution, of our bodies through transgenic foods and our minds through apocalyptic pressures. Just as Picasso's figural distortions evoked the horrors of war in his painting Guernica, an early and formative influence, Lombardi`s anatomical grotesqueries and mutations reflect our absurd flirtation with global destruction.

D. Dominick Lombardi, CCWS 92 (detail) (2020), acrylic, ink and charcoal on paper on canvas, 40" x 36"

His tragicomic hybrids wander hyperspace like cyborgs, surrounded by their indecipherable thought bubbles -- ad hoc survivors of a consumer society with nothing left to consume. This seriously bad news is leavened with humor and wit. Against the failed state of humanity he offers the high octane capacity of his protagonists to reinvent themselves from its toxic residue. Their resilience and ingenuity exemplify essential attributes, found in short supply today, that will be crucial for human survival and renewal. - Mr. Carreiro is an artist, writer, and independent curator, who teaches at Hunter College and is based in New York City.

An exhibition of works of D. Dominick Lombardi from the Cross Contamination with Stickers series will be featured at the Freedman Gallery at Albright College in Reading, PA, from October 27 through December 8, 2022. For more information please call (610) 921-7541 or email gallery@albright.edu

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Dominick Lombardi exhibition

We are so pleased to finally host Mr. Lombardi's work at the Freedman Gallery, Albright College. He's supplied us with some thoughtful and meaningful critiques, essays and analyses for other catalogues we've published, so, it's particularly relevant and cool to see his work in-person in our space for a change.

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What A Concept! (1)

Ian Alterman — Thu, 13 Aug 2020 14:00:00 +0000

What A Concept! (1) Ian Alterman August 13, 2020 - 10:00

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The term "concept album" is thrown around pretty loosely when people talk about rock music. However, not every "concept" album is in fact such a thing. At least, not as that term is, or should be, accurately defined.

In that regard, there are two very different types of "concept" album: one is narrative, the other is thematic. There are far fewer of the former than there are of the latter. For example, two of the earliest and most prominent albums cited as "concepts" were The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds and The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper. Yet neither is a "true" (narrative) concept album. They are both "thematic" in nature. The "theme" of Pet Sounds is (to be simplistic) personal angst, including love and introspection. The "theme" of Sgt. Pepper (such as it is) is that we are meant to suspend disbelief and accept that the songs were created by a fictional band; a secondary "theme" might be psychedelia.

The third most famous album cited as a "concept" album is Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. Yet here, again, we have a thematic, as opposed to narrative, concept: the depression and/or madness that can follow as a result of various elements and aspects of human experience and society.

The first true narrative concept album -- a story told linearly through the lyrics -- was The Who's Tommy ( 1969). (The Who is the only group to have two narrative concept albums, with 1973's Quadrophenia.) The second narrative concept album was Jethro Tull's Thick As a Brick (1972).

So now that we have a clearer working definition, and can separate the two types of concept albums, let's look at all of the narrative concept albums (those of which I am aware), and some of those in the thematic category. I will provide the narrative concept albums in the order in which they were released chronologically, and the thematic concept albums alphabetically by group. At the end I will provide a "favorites" list with the understanding that, as Mark, Steve, my older brother and I have noted ad nauseam, such lists are hopelessly subjective (or, as they say in French, chacun a son gout).

The Narratives

Tommy (The Who).

Released in May of 1969, The Who's first rock opera was a truly ground-breaking achievement, not just musically and lyrically (and in some ways even sonically), but by "making it safe" for other groups to consider creating narrative albums. The story of a young boy who sees his father murdered by his mother's lover, and ends up deaf, dumb and blind due to the psychological trauma (including some quite deliberate brainwashing), belongs among the masterpieces of rock, and is the progenitor of all other narrative rock albums. Tommy was also one of the first double albums (two discs) ever released.

Journey to the Center of the Eye (Nektar).

There are some artists -- including The Moody Blues, Nektar, Alan Parsons and Pink Floyd -- who specialized in concept albums, either narrative or thematic, and each of them have several. And while it took Pink Floyd until their seventh album to get to Dark Side of the Moon, Nektar (who were heavily influenced by Pink Floyd) came out of the starting gate with one. Their debut album tells the story of an astronaut on his way to Saturn when he is picked up by aliens who bring him to their world and give him knowledge beyond what humankind has learned -- about self-preservation, civility, peace, etc. Nektar would join Pink Floyd (and, in another subgenre, the Grateful Dead) in becoming the progenitors of concert light shows and theatrical extravaganzas.

Thick As a Brick (Jethro Tull).

Released in March of 1972, the first broadly-known progressive rock narrative concept album was also ground-breaking, by combining several different styles of music ("straight" rock, progressive rock, folk and medieval), as well as using shifting time signatures. Written largely by Tull's flautist/raconteur/jokester leader Ian Anderson, the album tells the tale of a young man who is thrown out of school for writing a pornographic poem. The conceit, of course, is that the album itself is the poem. And although Tull had been writing increasingly progressive music since 1968, Thick As a Brick cemented their standing among the leaders of progressive rock.

Quadrophenia (The Who).

In October of 1973, The Who released their second rock opera -- another double album -- which, while not as ground-breaking as Tommy, was every bit as good, and was actually more commercially successful than its predecessor. It was also the first album ever to be recorded at a studio built specifically to record it. (This would only happen twice more in rock: Deram Records' Panoramic Sound Studio, which was built for the Moody Blues to initially record Days of Future Passed, and Strawberry Studios, bought and completely rebuilt by Peter Tattersall and Eric Stewart to initially record 10CC's eponymous debut album.) The story of Quadrophenia follows the troubled youth of a "mod" named Jimmy, who likes drugs, fights and romance, and for whom nothing seems to go right. The album's closing track -- "Love Reign O'er Me" -- is among the band's greatest songs, and a sad and ambiguous, but brilliant coda to the story.

Journey to the Center of the Earth (Rick Wakeman).

Most people know the Jules Verne story about a German professor who finds an Icelandic runic key/map showing a path down to the center of the earth. Most of us have probably seen one or another of the seven films and two miniseries made about the story, the most famous of which is the 1959 film with James Mason, Pat Boone and Arlene Dahl (this is well worth seeing it if you have not done so). Wakeman essentially wrote a narrated soundtrack for the story, and it is truly extraordinary. Using a full orchestra, full choir, live narrator and full rock band, including himself on keyboards, the recording was done during two live concerts at the Royal Festival Hall in London in January 1974, and released in May of that year. The album went to #2 in the U.K. and #3 in the U.S. Wakeman got the idea for Journey when he participated as keyboardist during concert performances of The Who's Tommy in London with the London Symphony Orchestra.

The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (Genesis).

Having already firmly established themselves as one of the major forces in progressive rock with Foxtrot (1972) and Selling England By the Pound (1973), in November 1974 Genesis released what would become their tour-de-force, a double-disc narrative album telling the story of Rael, a Puerto Rican youth in NYC "on a journey of self-discovery." Based loosely on the Christian allegory The Pilgrim's Progress, Rael's story is told through a series of both "normal" and quite surreal encounters he has with various characters in a variety of situations. These encounters, and the story as a whole, are left just ambiguous enough to offer several interpretations; discovering and discussing these has been a serious pastime for many Genesis fans. (And yes, I have my own.) Although the album was not initially successful (though it was well-received by critics), it has gone on to become not simply Genesis' most beloved and influential album, but one of the most important and respected albums in all of progressive rock.

Joe's Garage (Frank Zappa).

A three-part "rock opera," this story tells the tale of Joe, an L.A. teen who forms a garage rock band, and the experiences he has with women, religion and sex. The album "explores themes of individualism, free will, censorship, the music industry and human sexuality, while criticizing government and religion, and satirizing Catholicism and Scientology." As an aside, Zappa is another artist for whom many of his albums could be viewed as thematic concepts, even when he did not intend them to be.

The Wall (Pink Floyd).

1979 gave us what is probably the most widely known narrative concept album of all time. After its release, it found life as a rock show that took arena concerts to their limit; a feature film directed by Alan Parker; a filmed concert; and several books deconstructing virtually every aspect of its creation and themes. A semi-autobiographical rock opera, it tells the story of Pink, a successful and popular rock star who has become seriously depressed, and has built both figurative and literal "walls" around himself -- his isolation a form of psychological protection. His story is told in "flashback" fashion, from birth to adult catharsis. Even setting aside the story, the musical arrangements, and the musicianship, the album's production gave us sonics and atmospheres that are occasionally unique and often positively breath-taking.

Zen Arcade (Hüsker Dü).

It took five years before we would see another narrative concept album, and it came from a very unlikely place. In July 1984, hardcore punk rockers Hüsker Dü released their second album, an ambitious double album with a narrative concept. Essentially, it is a punk version of Quadrophenia, replacing a British "mod" with an American punk, but telling much the same story, though with a "twist" toward the end. It would take another 12 years before we would get another concept album from this genre, Marilyn Manson's Antichrist Superstar.

Radio K.A.O.S. (Roger Waters).

In May 1987, former Pink Floyd founder Roger Water put out his second solo album, arguably the strangest of the narrative concept albums. Billy is a physically and mentally disabled young man from Wales. He also has trouble communicating normally, and is socially awkward. But Billy is actually a genius, and even has a superpower: he can hear all radio wave frequencies in his head: AM/FM, police band, corporate, military, etc. His brother Benny is arrested for dropping a brick from a bridge onto a road, killing a driver, but not before secreting a stolen cordless phone in Billy's wheelchair. Learning to make the phone receive and send the many frequencies he hears, Billy reaches out and attempts to befriend a DJ at Radio K.A.O.S. in L.A.. When the DJ fails to take Billy seriously, and mocks him, Billy uses his powers to manipulate a military satellite to convince the world that he has launched a massive nuclear strike on major cities. This causes real chaos, until everyone realizes it was a hoax. Taking a little bit from the film WarGames, but also anticipating the concept behind films like Lawnmower Man and Transcendence, Waters delivers a weird but quite listenable story of a "personal dystopia."

Operation: Mindcrime (Queensryche).

In 1988, we got the first of three narrative concept albums by progressive metal bands. Set in a modern dystopia, it tells the story of Nikki, a heroin addict who hates society and becomes involved with a group of political assassins, who manipulate him via his addiction and by brainwashing. When he finally realizes what he is doing and attempts to leave the group, it goes very badly, and he eventually succumbs to insanity. This album is particularly beloved among progressive rock aficionados, even with Thick As a Brick and The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway preceding it.

Brave (Marillion).

Tied for my personal favorite narrative concept album is this 1994 gem from Marillion, one of three groups who are credited with bringing progressive rock back from the (almost) dead in 1983, by helping found the neo-prog subgenre. It is based on the true story of a young woman found standing on the Severn Bridge, who did not know who she was or where she came from, and who refused to speak to authorities at all. The album provides a fictitious back story that is simply stunning in both its composition and execution. And even with all the pain and angst explored in other narrative concept albums, this remains the saddest story of them all -- and all the more brilliant for that.

Antichrist Superstar (Marilyn Manson).

Almost unquestionably the most difficult to listen to of all the concept albums -- both lyrically and musically -- Marilyn Manson's 1996 rock opera is nevertheless a brilliant work. The story of a popular rock star who becomes a powerful political demagogue, the themes include dystopian society, fascism, nihilism, and the complete rejection of morality of any type.

Subterranea (IQ).

Released in late 1997 by one of the other two bands that helped create the neo-prog subgenre, this narrative concept album tells of a man who is held captive in a condition of sensory deprivation for most of his life. He escapes or is freed, but does not know who he is, why he was held captive, or why he is now free. And since he knows nothing about the "outside" world, that world is one of intense sensory overload. As he tries to negotiate it, he meets and falls in love with a woman, who is subsequently taken from him by forces unknown. He then realizes he is being followed. He catches and kills the person following him, but not before that person gives him the name of the Experimenter, the one who kept him captive all those years. He all but loses his sanity at this point, but manages to keep it together enough to do some investigating. He discovers that he was not the only subject, as he notices a strange tattoo on his arm and sees it on others. The subjects band together to find and kill the Experimenter, but he is one step ahead, and lures them into a building, setting it on fire to cover all evidence of the experiment. Our "hero" survives, and kills the Experimenter. But he also realizes that his isolated life was much simpler than life in the outside world, and he voluntarily returns to it.

Metropolis Pt. 2 -- Scenes from a Memory (Dream Theater).

Tied with Marillion's Brave for my favorite narrative concept album, this 1999 album is the second progressive metal narrative concept album. This complex murder mystery involving a love triangle, a psychiatrist (who may not be what he seems), and hypnotherapy is positively brilliant in every way. The story is told in libretto form, the music and arrangements range from the merely great to the utterly breath-taking, and the musicianship is as virtuosic as you are likely to hear. This was the album that made me appreciate the possibilities of progressive metal, a genre I previously had very little love or patience for. And it turned me into a diehard Dream Theater fan.

Snow (Spock's Beard).

This August 2002 release from neo-prog band Spock's Beard is a mix of bildungsroman and messiah/savior story. It tells of Snow, a young albino man with extraordinary spiritual and psychic gifts. Initially shunned by classmates and others, he becomes highly introverted until he leaves home at 17 for the "big city." There, he acquaints himself with the "wretched refuse" (pimps, prostitutes, addicts, homeless, et al. -- all that is missing from the Jesus story are tax collectors), whom he befriends and tries to help. All is going well until the adulation feeds his ego, and then unrequited love (he is meanly rejected by a woman) all but destroys him, and pulls him off his path. However, he is redeemed at the end when all those he helped come back to help him. The story uses elements from Tommy, the film Powder, and the New Testament, and is told in the manner of a Christian allegory (Spock's Beard founder Neal Morse is a minister). As an aside, Mr. Morse left Spock's Beard to create the first true Christian progressive rock band, and all of their albums are thematic concept albums.

The Black Parade (My Chemical Romance).

It is perhaps not surprising that the most recent and last (?) non-"progressive rock" narrative concept album comes from one of rock's most recent subgenre's. Alt-rock/emo band My Chemical Romance released this, their third, album in 2006. It tells the story of "The Patient," a man dying of cancer, and is told in three stages: his death, his afterlife (in the form of a parade), and his reflections on his former life. And while it is not exactly uplifting (it is "emo," after all), his reflections at the end do include many positive aspects.

The Hazards of Love (Decemberists).

This 2009 love story starts with interspecies sex but also includes the murder of three children by their father, abduction, rape, ghosts and a double suicide. All the ingredients you would expect in a love story. Seriously, though, this is actually a well-told tale of love and tragedy and well worth listening to.

The Astonishing (Dream Theater).

What do you get when you take elements of Romeo and Juliet (star-crossed lovers from warring families) and Jesus Christ Superstar (a savior who is betrayed by "family"), and put them in a Game of Thrones-style atmosphere 200 years in the future? You get this 2016 album, the second narrative concept album from prog-metal band Dream Theater. The story is about a dystopian kingdom in which the ruler has eliminated real music, and only allows the NOMACs (Noise Machines) to provide "music." However, in the outlying, impoverished part of the kingdom, there is a man named Gabriel who still has the ability to make music and sing. Gabriel's brother is the leader of the resistance. The ruler considers Gabriel and his musical abilities a threat, particularly when combined with his brother's strong militia, and vows to destroy him. It only gets worse when Gabriel and the ruler's daughter fall in love. Not as successful overall as DT's first narrative concept album, this rock opera nevertheless has one of the best stories of all, and is executed in perfect rock musical fashion.

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Dudeness Is

Dusty Wright — Wed, 10 Apr 2019 12:15:13 +0000

Dudeness Is Dusty Wright April 10, 2019 - 08:15

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Photo Credit: d. Bindi

"My dad's a cooler dude than your dad!" bragged my ten-year-old daughter Mina to one of her friends on her phone.

Wot? I'm a dad and a dude? Hey, that's pretty cool. I still play music, but I thought Quincy Jones was "the dude." After all, he did release an album in the '80s called The Dude. But where did my daughter pick this "dude" tag up? From my wife? (Doubtful, she might not have married me if she believed I was a dude.) Probably from the Scooby Doo cartoons we watch together. Or from her older brother and his crazed sidewalk skateboard pals in our 'hood. Or maybe she caught The Big Lebowski at her one of her friend's apartments.

In the end it didn't matter, 'cuz I suddenly became obsessed with defining what makes a guy a dude. And more importantly, did I possess any of the dude DNA?

Fast forward...

"Hey, dude!" I grimaced, turned, and saw two tanned, healthy young men in their late teens in baggy, neon surf gear fist-punch each other and continue their conversation. I shuddered and continued reading my morning paper in some nondescript restaurant in Venice Beach. I was on the West Coast for my friend's wedding and a little business, away from the comfort and sanity of my family and home in New York City. Five days into my excursion had left me weak for good deli and something other than surfer lingo.

This dude thing had reached critical mass. Dudes everywhere were chasing me. Even on the radio as David Bowie's early '70s anthem, "All the Young Dudes" blasted from my rental car's speakers.

Malibu, Huntington, the Valley, and San Diego -- the entire Pacific Coast was crawling with them. From Sunset Strip to the Santa Monica Pier, I couldn't travel anywhere without hearing that word.

I decided to query my waitress about this dude thing; after all, she'd been talking to the two surfers.

Much to my dismay she said she didn't know much about it, but volunteered that her friend Buddy "probably-definitely qualified as an expert dood."

Buddy!?! Now there was a name I could appreciate. Love to meet the folks that decided that was a proper given name for a dude child. Come on. Nonetheless, if I were going to hack free this albatross clinging around my neck I'd have to confront the enemy, regardless of the consequences.

I assumed that by polling people I'd reach a coherent working definition. And, perhaps in some delusional manner, determine if I fit the dude criteria for dude-dom.

Over the next couple of weeks I randomly put forth the question -- "What is a dude?" -- to countless folks everywhere. From Los Angeles to Ohio to New York, I left them to ponder.

Once I settled back in New York, I would collect the data and hopefully piece things together. (And keep in mind this was without any government subsidized art program backing me.)

Much to my amazement, as I started to assemble this mythical character I discovered all sorts of shared qualities. And more often that not, these qualities were universals. So much so that the West Coast surfer had more in common with the East Coast Harlem tough guy than either would care to acknowledge.

If you asked the average person on the street to bridge such seemingly opposites, it's doubtful they could find any common bonding material. Yet there existed essential elements that were easily interchangeable between characters as diverse as the Silver Surfer and/or Shaft.

For starters, all dudes emanate a particular sensibility, lifestyle, and attitude. They neither wallow in squalor nor swim in ostentatiousness. And most importantly, they always remain righteously true to themselves first. Moreover, when possible, they seek out the truth, whether commandeering a woman to her full feminine sensuality or shooting the perfect game of billiards with their peers.

I examined my past. Did I encounter any such beings while growing up in Ohio?

Maybe they were the characters we referred to in school as "cool."

If that was the case, I remember one of my classmates in elementary school definitely fit the profile. His name was Jeff Thompson. And come to think of it, he did possess a certain something, although I'd bet our teacher felt he was a troublemaker. But I don't ever recall him actually causing trouble. (He never started any wastepaper basket fires, but he did boast of masturbating at a prepubescent age.) He just seemed bigger than life.

It is possible that dudes, in the purest sense, represent the essence of individuality. They don't copy anyone else. They don't dress like anyone else. They don't sound like anyone else. They exist within all dimensions of popular culture without being too trendy or too stylish. Just look at James Bond and all the leading men he's endured. While the Scotsman Sean Connery (image above) remains the quintessential dude amongst the Bond actors, Daniel Craig (trailer below) has breathed a much-needed dudeness into the contemporary 007 legacy. (Check out Sir Connery in Goldfinger!)

A real dude lives on the cutting edge, taking his life in new directions daily while the rest of us just try to keep up with his predestined course. Again, who else but 007 could single-handedly save the world defeating evil in the catacombs of Rome and, in the next moment, sit with the Queen looking unhassled, relaxed, and fabulous.

A true dude is free of ego and all of the destructive elements associated with it. He would never say, "Hey, baby, look at me, am I not the most dynamic fella you've ever encountered?" He doesn't have to announce his own self-worth. Those around him will usually do it for him.

A real dude doesn't aspire to anything except being at ease with himself. Whether he's feeding ducks in a pond or strolling in a summer rainstorm without an umbrella, nothing is too banal about experiencing the simple side of life.

As stated, he is a guy who embodies many desirable qualities. Many folks view him as dangerous, aloof, coy, cute, clever, charming, tough, handsome, endearing, righteous, free, timeless, spiritual, and true.

He is not necessarily the most handsome or the most spiritual, but rather the perfect blend of all these qualities. He may be a hero to some and provoke envy in others. And this depends on the individual's perception.

Who else but a dude would even attempt surfing a thirty-foot wave and pull it off and ride it all the way to the shore?

He doesn't hide behind his clothes. He's got his own style. Check out any cool urban movie, like Shaft or Superfly, to highlight this point. Do you honestly think that rapper Snoop Dogg would have graced Starsky & Hutch without some serious cuts? Or that Curtis Mayfield would've wasted his time writing the theme song for anything less then a perfect dude-heavy flick like Superfly? Ditto for Isaac Hayes and the very righteous Shaft.

Anything a true dude wears merely adds to his totality, whether he's chillin' in his tattered old button-fly denims at a BBQ during the day or playing baccarat in his tailor-made tux in Monaco at midnight.

A real dude is not without emotion, though many people may be fooled by his leather-tough shell. But once you get beyond his veil of 'tude, you'll find a soft side underneath.

He could be cheering for his favorite baseball team on Saturday and crying over the beauty of his sister's newborn baby on Sunday. Moreover, it's not the silly vibe of Ashton Kutcher in Dude, Where's My Car? It's the cool "abide" of Jeff Bridges in the Coen Brothers' epic dude paean The Big Lebowski.

So there I was, left with a much broader understanding of what a dude was, is, and probably will always be.

Did I possess any of that stuff? Since I've never surfed, this prevented me from drawing any relevance from the beach scene. And I've never been known as a tough street guy, even though as a kid I played two-hand touch football in the street in Akron, Ohio.

Yet, I always felt I could be engaging, even when people feigned interest in my opinion. And most of my closest male friends agreed that all guys were "dudish" from time to time. So I guess I could be, too.

Maybe all you needed to do was borrow a little -- "Bond, James Bond" -- from time to time. You know, you've been milling about some boring social function when your gaze meets some femme fatale trapped in some mindless chatter with some oafish chap. You imagine yourself offering her an expensive glass of champagne from a bottle you've hidden in the kitchen from the rest of the party. It's got to be better than the designer drink this affable clown offered her. Now if you only had the balls to approach her, maybe you could fulfill your fantasy.

Nonetheless, my observations lead me to one universal conclusion:

He represents the quintessential man -- a total Utopian state of malehood. Moreover, he is the apex of perfection in man; perfection that no man will ever reach. And he always abides by being truly comfortable with himself in each and every situation in his life.

If Adam was the first dude, does that make Jesus the perfect dude?

Country dude Kris Kristofferson thought so and even wrote a very dude-worthy song about him called "Jesus Was a Capricorn." Besides, who would argue with Kris, as he's still one of coolest older dudes on the planet.

But what about Or Krishna? Or Buddha? Or Muhammad? Or Ghandi?

Or your favorite teacher?

And what about Dads? Can they be dudes, too?

Sure. Just ask my daughter.

As for dudettes? Well, that's another story. Best check with my wife.

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On Quvenzhané Wallis

Pamela Grossman — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 19:32:10 +0000

On Quvenzhané Wallis Pamela Grossman March 5, 2013 - 14:32

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Dear Denise,

I've thought a lot about Quvenzhané Wallis. I've thought about the joke made about her, why it happened, what it means. I don't have simple answers, but it's heavy on my mind.

I watched the Oscars faithfully but did not keep up with "commentary" that night. So I learned about what happened, from you, on Monday morning. I felt your anger and your pain clearly through your words.

At first it seemed to me that the joke was, had to be, about the absurdity of hurling an insult like that at a child -- "What if we talk as if she's a 62-year-old, and a hateful one?" -- though obviously the "humor" didn't scan.

Then I began to realize that wasn't all. (Was it my whiteness that delayed my understanding?) This little (black!) girl sure seemed confident at the ceremony. She pumped her fists in the air; she corrected people who mispronounced her name. Had "cunt" become an obscene, modern-day version of "uppity"? Were they attacking this (black!) girl's strong character as much as joking about her youth?

We have no idea who wrote this thing about this girl; my friend Jeremy points out that, hell, it could have been written by a black woman. But he admits that's unlikely. More probably, the person who wrote this is used to seeing women (black women; all women; and by extension, girls) criticized in our culture but is not actually a woman. And furthermore, is used to seeing them criticized in certain vicious ways when they insist on holding their ground.

Would this ill-fated joke have been made if Wallis were white? There's a lot of debate on that, in general and among my friends. At first I would have said yes, but now I'm unsure. It's hard to imagine this exact word being used in this context, this joke being made, against a non-minority child. (Maybe "asshole" would be used instead? "Bitch"?) I know that you, Denise, feel that the word choice and Quvenzhané's blackness go intimately, horribly together -- that she is vulnerable and attackable in our society in a way that a white girl would not be. My friend Yvette, who also is black, compared it to a known disparity seen in missing-child cases in this country: "It's like saying black missing children are given the same priority as white missing children. It's horrible but they are not."

Another question is whether any such joke would have been made against a male child of any ethnicity. Would a boy, any boy, be called out for pumping fists in pride? But Wallis is a black girl. And so....

I am very sad thinking about her family -- that they would have to hear that this happened, on the night of her big triumph. How appalling. And though I'm sure she was shielded from this on Sunday, eventually Wallis herself will learn what happened, too.

But I can only hope -- and I do imagine -- that when she learns it, it will fuel her, strengthening her drive and determination. The people that lobbed this joke at her got fired, while she got Oscar-nominated. They fucked up; she continues on. All doors are opening for her, while they will be left to explain why they were terminated from their last job.

Denise, I know you realize this, but I'll say it once more: It's not only black people who care about what happened here. And it's not only women. People who care all over the country, all over the world, have rallied to this girl's side. This joke tried to take her power, to "put her in her place." It failed. They failed. Quvenzhané Wallis is a force -- a dynamic and exceptional young girl with her whole, remarkable life ahead of her.

Love, Pam

P.S. As a Jew, I also was not happy with the bit about how being Jewish opens special doors of opportunity. The only doors I feel my Jewishness has opened for me were the doors to feelings of discomfort and "otherness" in my WASP-y hometown. But that is another story.

Author's note: In the days since I wrote this piece, it has come to light that the death of Marco McMillian, a gay black mayoral candidate in Mississippi, appears to be the result of a hate crime. We have a tremendous amount of work to do on the path toward justice for all.

Editor's note: And yet Justice Scalia calls the Voting Rights Act a "racial entitlement." He and his ilk are a huge roadblock in "the path toward justice for all."

The Sweet Smell of Success, The Bitter Taste of Botox

Diana Geffner — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 07:16:33 +0000

The Sweet Smell of Success, The Bitter Taste of Botox Diana Geffner March 1, 2013 - 02:16

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Competition at the Oscars this year went beyond the awards for Best [insert category here]. While we praised and debated 2012's buzz-worthy performances long before the ceremony, it was facial expression, not artistic expression, that captivated me Sunday night.

Sure, the emcees have been mocking Tinseltown for years about keeping cosmetic surgeons in the black, right? But as I continue to mature into the grown-up my birth certificate says I am (it still looks like a typo to me, though it's not possible I've been 21 for 30 years, is it?), I become increasingly more aware of the "improvement" celebs my age and younger have over me.

Take Rene Zellweger, for one. Fabulous, as far as the eyes can see. Well, not her eyes, because whatever she's had injected into her face seems to have "cushioned" her vision. Either that, or she just lost her contacts before hitting the red carpet. She now can squint as never before. And Nicole Kidman, an understated beauty and naturally thin-lipped in her early days, has plumped up the volume over the years, almost to the point that her lips have become appendages. But to give credit where credit is due -- both Rene and Nicole have faces that are flawless, their skin smooth, tight and glowing -- how do they do that?

Which activated my curiosity into an IMDB search. Meg Ryan? Melanie Griffith? Jessica Lange? And plenty more. All of them, originally beautiful women who've chosen to replace nature with needle. What I find curious is, why would one go to such lengths to yield such painfully obvious results? Shouldn't the point of cosmetic "enhancement" be to elicit a "hey, she looks great, what has she done?" response, rather than announcing to the whole world, "I was looking kind of shabby and now I'm barely recognizable?" Shouldn’t the point be for us not to know? And along those lines, what I find troubling is, what do these gorgeous, talented, successful women apparently see in themselves (or no longer see), through Hollywood's eyes? To buy into the perceived shortcomings and unrealistic expectations suggested by an unnatural, contrived culture (Hollywood, remember?) is to inject oneself with more than Botox, Restylane, and Collagen. It's to inject oneself also with a sense that one's own beauty is not, in fact, skin deep, but is driven in to the very core of one's being. It's to tell oneself that when it comes to the natural aging process, all bets regarding beauty are off.

Now wait: Take Streep, take Keaton. Both in their 60s, right? We know they are, they've been around for decades, and they're not fooling us. They both look amazing -- and amazingly like themselves. Have they had a shot here and there? Maybe so, maybe not, who knows. And that's exactly my point.

But I digress, where was I? Collagen, Restylane, Botox, oh my. Rene, Nicole. Yes, that's right, Hollywood. The Oscars. Seems Hollywood has given Madame Tussaud a run for her money, these days. I wonder, who resembles these celebrities more, Tussaud's wax replicas, or the celebs, themselves?

And I wonder, what ever happened to character lines? Seems they're the only lines Best Actors these days have forgotten.

My Yoko "Moment"

Ian Alterman — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 05:00:56 +0000

My Yoko "Moment" Ian Alterman February 19, 2013 - 00:00

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I was hesitant to post this personal anecdote for fear of coming across as self-aggrandizing. However, as Dusty reminded me, "a good story is a good story." So....

Sometime between 1982 and 1984, I wrote some music for a memorial song for John Lennon. I had no lyrics yet, but I felt the music was pretty solid: very Beatle/Lennon-esque. In early 1985, while waiting for class in the cafeteria of City College, the lyrics suddenly came pouring out -- all at once. I skipped class, went home, put the lyrics to the music, tweaked it a little, and the song was done: "song for John" was complete.

As many will remember, in March 1985, "We Are the World" was released. You may also remember that, in addition to the video being featured on MTV, the song was played simultaneously on perhaps 50 radio stations around the country.

In October of that year, I fantasized recording "song for John" and attempting to have it played simultaneously on multiple radio stations on the fifth anniversary of John's death. I went into the studio in late November 1985 and, along with my friend Josh (who played bass and sang with me), my brother Eric (who played the lead guitar solo), and two additional back-up singers, I recorded the song. I then sent the song (on reel-to-reel tape!) -- in a package that included the lyrics, recording info, a brief intro, and a postcard of John -- to 11 radio stations in three markets (NYC, Philly, DC), requesting that they all play the song at 11 PM on December 8th.

On December 3rd, I got a call from "Bob Reid, at CBS." He told me that he had heard the song and really liked it, and that he wanted me to be part of a brief special they were doing for the anniversary of John's death. He asked me if I'd heard from anyone at WPLJ (at that time the #2 rock radio station after WNEW). I said no. He told me that they were planning to play it. He then asked if he could take some "footage" of me at work the next day. I asked why a radio station would need video. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I should have explained: I'm Director of Evening News for CBS television." I had to assume that he had somehow heard the song via WCBS radio. He came to my office the next day to shoot some video, and told me that the station manager at WPLJ (Larry Berger) -- as well as much of the staff -- had listened to the song and were excited about it. He also told me that, by chance, Yoko was at the WPLJ studio that morning, had heard the song, and also liked it. He then asked if he could come to my home later that evening for some footage of me actually playing the song.

I called WPLJ, and a receptionist answered. I asked for Larry Berger. She asked who I was. I said, Ian Alterman. She got excited and said, "Oh! Mr. Alterman! We've been listening to your song all day. It's wonderful!" She then connected me to Mr. Berger, who said, "Mr. Alterman, it is nice to speak with you. As you may know, everyone here really loves your song. We had Yoko Ono in the studio earlier and she also loved it. I want you to know that we are going to play your song twice on Sunday: first at 8:55 am, and then as the lead-in to our John Lennon Memorial program that evening at 11pm, as you requested." We chatted for a couple more minutes.

That evening, Bob Reid showed up at my apartment, took some footage, and then asked if he could interview me. I told him I had never been interviewed before and didn't want to come across foolishly. He gave me some quick tips on interviewing. We then did a short interview. He then asked if I had spoken with Larry Berger. I told him about the conversation, but said I was mystified by the 8:55 AM air time. He looked at me like I was a Martian. He asked, "Mr. Alterman, what comes on at 9 AM on Sunday morning?" I couldn't think. He said, "Casey Kasem's Top 40. By putting your song as the lead-in, Larry is essentially making your song #41." Needless to say, I was shocked. Mr. Reid then invited me to join him at CBS-TV on Sunday evening for the airing of the five-minute special on John, of which my song and I were a part.

Sunday evening, I went to CBS and watched as they aired the piece, of which the song and I were almost a full minute. I then rushed home where my brother and a handful of friends were gathered to listen with me to the 11 PM airing on WPLJ. At 10:55 PM, an announcer came on to mention the special, mentioned a song that the station had received earlier that week, and then said, "This is 'song for John' by Ian Ackerman." I was livid! I immediately picked up the phone and dialed WPLJ. Now, anyone who has ever tried to get through to a radio station on air knows how difficult it is even at the most normal of times. It never occurred to me that this was a night when thousands of people would be calling in. Yet my call was picked up on the third ring. I did not even say "hello." I simply said, quite angrily, "My name is 'Alterman' not 'Ackerman!'" The man on the other end apologized profusely and asked me to hold. Father Bill Ayres (the DJ and minister who was doing the memorial show) got on the line and said, "Mr. Alterman. This is Father Bill Ayres. I want to apologize for the mistake. I will correct it as soon as I am on air. Meanwhile, since I have you on the phone, would you like to be my first on-air caller?" As an aside, what are the statistical probabilities of that?!! I.e., that they would misstate my name, that I would get through on that night, and that I would end up on air? After all, if they had stated my name correctly, I never even would have called!

I took the phone into a hallway (since there would have been an echo from the radio), so I was alone, with everyone else in the other room. I was on hold, listening to Father Bill's intro, during which he actually (and very subtly, I might add) corrected the mistake not once, but three times. He then put me on air. Now, keep in mind that he had no idea who I was; i.e., for all he knew, I might be a complete bozo who simply wrote a good song. So he was taking a chance by putting me on the air. However, I remembered what Bob Reid had taught me, and simply stayed calm. Father Bill asked a question, and I answered. no tangents, no elaborations. When he realized that I "knew" how to be interviewed -- and was at least reasonably articulate -- he interviewed me for three or four minutes.

When we were done, I went into the other room and asked how I had come across. My brother was mock furious. He said, "You stinker! Don't you realize what just happened? From the audience point of view, WPLJ had arranged for you to be interviewed! They had no idea it was an accident!" I had not actually thought of that.

Anyway, it turned out later that the song had, in fact, been played on five stations simultaneously that evening in all three markets: WPLJ, WBAI and WLIR in NY, WAVA in DC and WMMR in Philly. (Oddly, despite the fact that WMMR was WNEW's "sister" station, WNEW -- the self-proclaimed Beatles and Lennon station -- never picked up on the song. And although WLIR played it every year on the anniversary until they were sold, and WBAI played it on and off during the years, WNEW never did.)

Now for the "punch line." I was serving as Business Manager for an afterschool program on the Upper West Side (where I live), and we had quite a few "famous" children, including Sean Lennon, who was in the musical theater class. (He was 10 at the time.) I used to see him quite a bit, as he used to come into the office and the staff would chat with him. When the class did its end-of-term performance, Yoko attended. I was able to say hello to her, introduce myself, and hand her a copy of the cassette of "song for John." She was quite gracious, and thanked me for my having written it.

I saw Yoko a couple of more times in later years, at fundraising events. She was always quite gracious, and I have always cherished knowing that she has a copy of "song for John," and actually likes it.

Happy Birthday, Yoko. And thank you for being there for John.

R.I.P.: Colony Music

Ian Alterman — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 19:10:19 +0000

R.I.P.: Colony Music Ian Alterman September 18, 2012 - 15:10

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On Sunday, September 16, 2012 at 6:00 PM, Colony Music -- located on Broadway and 49th Street in New York City -- closed its doors for the last time. This venerable music store had been open for over 60 years, selling CDs, sheet music, and music-related memorabilia, including entertainment-related autographs. Its closing marks the end of an era (or maybe more than one) in New York City: after the closing of Patelson's Music House (which specialized in sheet music and scores for classical music) in 2009 after an 89-year run, Colony was nearly the last store devoted primarily to sheet music and music scores -- mostly for Broadway, jazz, pop, and rock, but also some classical music -- and by far the most visible.

Now all that's left is the smaller, much newer, and vastly less famous Dowling Music, hidden on the second floor inside Steinway Hall at 109 West 57th St. (Frank Music, on the 10th floor of an office building at 244 West 54th Street, predominantly sells classical music and lacks the all-important browsing aspect: you ask for something at the counter, the staff gets goes in back and gets it.)

As with so many other businesses, Colony's demise was primarily the result of the Internet age: with CDs and sheet music available through Amazon and other companies, Colony's sales over the past few years simply began to fall off, and continued to do so year after year. Even with a few years remaining on their (very) long-term lease (a particularly low one for the increasingly pricey Times Square area), it was simply becoming impossible to meet the rent.

To say that New York City singers and instrumentalists -- in virtually every genre -- relied on Colony would be a gross understatement. I would hazard a guess that many if not most of the musicians who frequent Culture Catch -- particularly those who live or work in NYC, or made frequent visits here -- purchased sheet music or songbooks from Colony. For myself, I own at least 50 songbooks by artists as varied as Elton John and Genesis, Joni Mitchell and Klaatu, Billy Joel and 10CC -- and, of course, at least four Beatles collections. I also own a number of Broadway musical songbooks, a Tom Lehrer songbook, and well over 100 individual sheet music songs. All of them were bought at Colony over a period stretching at least three decades.

It was also great fun to browse their memorabilia, even if much of it was unaffordable to the average (struggling) artist. From $25 ties featuring rock greats to Beatles collectibles that ran into the hundreds -- sometimes thousands -- of dollars, Colony also served as a kind of museum for memorabilia, and many tourists came to the store for that reason alone.

Although I always considered their CD prices a bit high, and found some of the staff to be a tad gruff, they did carry some fairly rare CDs (including early jazz recordings and rare progressive rock CDs), and most of their staff was not only friendly, but exceptionally knowledgeable.

In its final two weeks, Colony was selling everything to the bare walls. I had already bought a series of songbooks with selections from the Great American Songbook. However, on my last two visits, I bought more personal items: a small wooden CD cabinet with a sinuous shape that includes a piano keyboard carved into one side, and an artwork that features a thin metal representation of a jazz band on a black-and-white background with thousands of musical notes. These items make me feel like I own -- perhaps even "saved" -- a piece of history: not simply a songbook, but items that were part of the store itself.

Colony was the last of a dying -- nay, near-dead -- breed, and served the music community for well over six decades. It would not be an overstatement to say that its loss is immeasurable.

"Gross" Negligence

Ian Alterman — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 23:07:40 +0000

"Gross" Negligence Ian Alterman August 27, 2012 - 19:07

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Superlatives are part and parcel of the entertainment industry, particularly with regard to cinema.

Words such as "extraordinary," "superb," "amazing," and "best" are tossed around so often that they lose their meaning when applied to film. And it is a given that award ceremonies -- Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, Grammys, etc. -- are hopelessly arbitrary, and mostly a promotional tool. Even award ceremonies based on "peer" review (e.g., Screen Actors Guild awards) are largely promotional "mutual admiration society" events.

However, there are some aspects of filmdom for which there is "hard" evidence. One of these is the term "highest-grossing." Even if revenue numbers are not exact to the penny, they are usually close enough to determine which film is "highest-grossing" in a particular year.

But is that same standard applicable to actors, directors and other film personnel? What does it mean that someone is the "highest-grossing actor" in a particular year, or lifetime? Even setting aside the need to adjust the grosses for some films based on inflation since the time they were made, what definition is used for “highest-grossing” when applied to people?

This question arises in the wake of a recent New York Times Sunday Magazine cover article about Samuel L. Jackson, whom the Guinness Book of World Records has recently included as "the highest-grossing actor of all time." ("How Samuel L. Jackson Became His Own Genre," Apr. 26.) I would suggest that Guinness has not only made a mathematical error (more in a moment), but also an error in the application of the term "highest-grossing."

Guinness arrived at their figure for Mr. Jackson -- $7.4 billion -- by simply adding up the grosses of every single film in which he has been involved. As an aside, the article does not indicate what source(s) Guinness used for that total. [N.B. The grosses I provide below were based on averaging two figures: Wikipedia, and boxofficemojo.com.] In fact, if we add the totals provided solely by Wikipedia, Mr. Jackson's actual lifetime gross touches $9 billion. But setting aside this mathematical error on Guinness' part, is this method – simply adding up grosses -- really the correct way to determine who the "highest-grossing" actor is?

For example, should Mr. Jackson be credited with the $152 million gross of Kill Bill Vol. 2 simply because he appeared for two minutes in a cameo role? And isn’t it more specious still to credit him with the $320 million gross of Inglorious Basterds when he did not even appear in the film, but only did some voiceover work? In fact, even though he had an important supporting role in Jurassic Park, should he be credited with the $914 million gross of that film? This would be the equivalent of crediting Billy Zane (who?) with the $1 billion earned by Titanic, or crediting Stephen Lang (who?) with the $2.8 billion earned by Avatar. Indeed, suppose it was found that some minor actor just happened to have four lines in both Avatar and Titanic. Should that actor be credited with $3.8 billion? Yet Kill Bill Vol. 2, Inglorious Basterds and Jurassic Park alone account for almost $1.4 billion of Mr. Jackson's total.

Doesn't something about this ring false? Is the “highest-grossing actor” simply the actor who, by working a lot and making some good choices along the way (and sometimes simply “happening into” a high-grossing film), ends up in films that have a cumulative gross of X dollars?

It would seem that the appellation "highest-grossing actor" implies at least a minimal causal connection between the actor himself (or herself) and the earned gross of the film. Yet Mr. Jackson has not always been the star of his films -- and, as with Kill Bill Vol. 2 and Inglorious Basterds (among others), sometimes did little or nothing, much less "carry" them the way stars such as Tom Hanks, Tom Cruise, Johnny Depp, or Harrison Ford do.

Which leads us to Mr. Hanks, whose $7.9 billion lifetime gross (using my two-source metric) is not only higher than Guinness' figure for Mr. Jackson, but reflects a direct connection between Mr. Hanks and the grosses earned by his films. Similarly for Mr. Cruise ($7.8 billion), Mr. Depp ($7.5 billion) and Mr. Ford (~$7 billion on two-thirds of his output). [N.B. Daniel Radcliffe, who unquestionably helped "carry" the Harry Potter films, is tied with Mr. Cruise for third place.] Note should be made that Mr. Depp and Mr. Ford have, between them, carried three of the seven most successful film franchises of all time: Mr. Depp, the Pirates of the Caribbean series ($3.7 billion), and Mr. Ford, both the original Star Wars trilogy ($2 billion) and the Indiana Jones films ($2 billion).

Of the remainder of the list of the top ten highest-grossing actors (using my metric) -- Eddie Murphy ($6.7 billion, including the Shrek franchise), Cameron Diaz ($6.4 billion), Will Smith ($5.7 billion), Morgan Freeman ($5.5 billion), and Julia Roberts ($5.5 billion) -- Ms. Diaz and Mr. Freeman generally fall into the same category as Mr. Jackson (sometimes "carrying," sometimes not), while Mr. Murphy, Mr. Smith, and Ms. Roberts are all "carriers."

As an aside, it is interesting that Sigourney Weaver falls into the next five, but only because fully one-half of the gross associated with her ($5 billion) comes from a single film: Avatar. The other four of the next five – Liam Neeson, Ben Stiller, Robin Williams and Angelina Jolie -- are all (mostly) “carriers.” [N.B. Of Neeson's $5 billion total, $1.5 billion is from the Narnia series, $715 million from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace and $250 million from Batman Begins, all of which he legitimately co-carried.]

Guinness' claim re Mr. Jackson runs into yet another issue: adjusted box office grosses for actors both living and dead. Of the latter, Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, James Stewart, Barbara Stanwyck, Elizabeth Taylor, and others come to mind. Indeed, given that Gone With the Wind is the highest-grossing movie of all time when adjusted for inflation (~$3 billion), and given that he appeared in over 30 feature films, it is probable that Clark Gable is the highest-grossing actor of all time. Of living actors whose earlier films have not been adjusted for inflation in any of the metrics being used (either Guinness’ or my own), the adjusted grosses of Sean Connery and Gene Hackman (among others) might be very surprising.

Ultimately, Guinness' anointing Mr. Jackson as "the highest-grossing actor of all time" fails on five levels: (i) if using a single metric, their own figure is low, (ii) if using a more accurate figure based on multiple metrics, other actors have higher total grosses, (iii) the crediting to Mr. Jackson of some grosses is highly suspect, (iv) no attempt to adjust for inflation has been made (for actors either living or dead), and, perhaps most importantly, (v) no attempt has been made to show a causal connection between Mr. Jackson's appearance in a film and the total gross of that film --i.e., the degree to which Mr. Jackson himself was at least a minimal reason why the film earned the amount it did -- and, if it were, Mr. Jackson would "fail" that test more often than not.

"Highest-grossing" actor/director/etc. is at best an imperfect appellation. However, if one is going to attempt to make that appellation stick, then there needs to be much more support than just raw numbers. In this regard, Guinness' entry for Mr. Jackson is flawed at best, and arbitrary at worst.

Pop Art Goes Bang!

Robert Cochrane — Sat, 24 May 2008 19:14:09 +0000

Pop Art Goes Bang! Robert Cochrane May 24, 2008 - 15:14

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Fame as an afterthought to madness. Valerie Solanas 1936-1988. Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, things took slower turns and more leisurely dives. Fame was usually a gradually developing state of grace or disgrace. Celebrity consisting largely of being noticed and the need for that desire to be fulfilled. It was about doing something worthy of note. It now consists of of shameless bravado. The right dress, the wrong drug or sex tape. Feeble-minded efforts at being seen or commented upon. Blame Madonna or the Spice Girls, Michael Jackson or Britney Spears. Or simply blame fame.

Andy Warhol knew a thing or three about celebrity. He admired it, and aspired to be one of its kind. The unsteady spawn of poor immigrant stock from Pittsburgh, turned strangely wigged wonder with a love of things Hollywood, even promised fifteen minutes of fame to everyone.

A surreal jester in the court of any despot or tyrant who would pay for a Polaroid-based portrait, his vacuous flippancy proved unintentionally prophetic. A touchstone for every kook, transvestite, speed freak, and misfit in 1960s Manhattan, he paid a Faustian price for messing with minds that were already profoundly scrambled.

Permitting them to indulge their delusional grandeur, their aspirational dreams, he made them "Superstars" in his cheap films. He gave them the time of day, and little else, but these were hours of attention denied them in the wider world.

Andy's Factory took them in and churned them out again, even more delusional than they were upon arrival. Some in turn had ideas of their own.

"The male is a biological accident; the y (male) gene is an incomplete x (female) gene, that is, has an incomplete set of chromosomes. In other words, the male is an incomplete female, a walking abortion, aborted at the gene stage. To be male is to be deficient, emotionally limited; maleness is a deficiency disease and males are emotional cripples."

An excerpt from her booklet S.C.U.M. (Society for Cutting Up Men) Manifesto was a feminist treaty by Valerie Solanas, another minor Warholite and wannabe who Warhol referred to as "a hot water bottle with tits."

A writer and actress and easy to dismiss, an attitude that profoundly undermined the shockingly lucid quality of her venom, something Warhol made the the near-fatal mistake of doing. Sexually abused by her father and homeless by the age of fifteen, Solanas who entered the world in New Jersey on April 9, 1936, resorted to panhandling and prostitution. Her tenacity is evidenced by her obtaining a degree in Psychology from the University of Maryland, and a year's graduate work at the University of Minnesota, before a decade of drifting returned her to New York circa 1965.

Solanas, a minority group of one, accosted Warhol outside the Factory; her mission was to present him with a copy of her play Up Your Ass, a work he thought obscene. Given the nature of much of his own output, that says something concerning its nature.

Certain that she was from the authorities and enacting a sting to ensnare him for filth and depravity, he proceeded with his usual patter of blandishments. She was just being pushy, wanting him to produce the work, and saw his world as a means towards widening her own.

Promising the world but delivering crumbs, he put her in his 1968 movie I, A Man in which she portrayed an angry lesbian. This didn't require much in the way of acting skill. Warhol promptly forgot about her script; the work of others only interested him if they were more famous than himself.

This disinterest festered in her mind till she was convinced that he was intent on stealing her brilliant ideas. His indifference was perceived as cunning, and the more he fobbed off her request for the return of her manuscript, the more delusional, paranoid, and resentful Solanas became.

In truth he'd lost it and didn't want to say. This was to cost him, and dearly.

Solanas got her hands on a .32 automatic and on June 3, 1968, she entered the Factory with murder in mind. Warhol hadn't been her first choice to introduce to death; that dubious accolade belonged to Maurice Girodias, her editor at the Olympia Press who'd promised to publish novels by her. He luckily was in Paris on business.

Valerie was also certain that he was exploiting her, but her initial mission denied, she remained intent on the avenging of her perceived slights. Through that absence, Warhol, who still hadn't returned her manuscript, moved to the top of the list in her settling of scores.

At first no one paid much attention as she prowled the office with a firearm. It wasn't an everyday thing, but in 1964, the self-styled feminist and witch Dorothy Podber (1932-2008), dressed in black leather, white gloves and escorted by a Great Dane called Carmen Miranda, asked Warhol if she could shoot some pictures. Assuming she meant photographs, he agreed. Podber proceeded to extricate a small German pistol from her handbag and put a bullet through a stack of Warhol's Monroe paintings.

According to Factory regular Billy Name: "She shot Marilyn right between the eyes." For this highly inspired act of absurdity she was barred.

Warhol, though, never one to miss an opportunity in turning disaster into art, renamed the wounded works The Shot Marilyns and sold them as such. Solanas was ignored. It was just Valerie with a gun. Another prop in the crazy play that Warhol inhabited in his silver lair.

She shot the curator Mario Amaya, but not seriously. Thought better of dispatching Fred Hughes, Warhol's associate and fixer. He'd been at the end of her gun, but his pleas seemed to snap her out of her initial firing spree.

Warhol was talking to Viva, another of his Superstars, who guessed from the noise that "Someone was cracking a whip left over from the Velvet Underground days." Warhol suffered extreme injuries to his abdomen, and Solnas left. The ambulance and police arrived. For Warhol the next twelve hours were life-or-death crucial.

As Bob Colacello details in his tremendously readable and insightful Holy Terror: Andy Warhol Close Up:

"He was pronounced clinically dead at 4:51 p.m. His chest was cut open and his heart massaged, and then doctors operated for five hours on his lungs, liver, gallbladder, spleen, esophagus, intestines and pulmonary artery."

Warhol survived, but only just.

Friends claimed the man who returned was a distant facsimile of someone who had always seemed several stages removed from others. He was deprived of a truly massive press response to his misfortune, which would have somewhat mitigated his terrible circumstances, because Bobby Kennedy was assassinated on the same day. And although Warhol's tragedy briefly catapulted him into living rooms in which his existence was previously unknown, American royalty naturally took precedence over the attempted murder of a faggy pop artist whose mercurial fame had its origins in disreputable ways.

Solanas turned herself in to a startled cop with the words, "He had too much control over my life." She later explained, "Talking to him was like talking to a chair."

Detained in a mental institution, she was eventually sentenced to a maximum of three years for "reckless assault with an intent to harm." Her actions seemed to merit a more harsh response, but in the mood of the time, she was crazy, and had attempted something her recipient was rather deserving of. In her wake the Factory closed its open door policy.

Warhol became understandably more paranoid, and Solanas, after her release in September 1971, had the audacity to call him. He dropped the receiver in horror. She remained a minority of one with a barbed manifesto. Warhol for the rest of his life lived with a road map of scars on his torso -- thanks to surgery and Solanas -- and was forced to wear a girdle to give support to his much maligned internal organs. If one is challenging something as inflexible as the construct of American masculinity, an extreme view and approach is necessary in order to get attention, and is in some way a means towards perspective and fueling debate.

Had Solanas shot a cigar-chomping executive, a five-star general, or even the President, there would have been a method to her recklessness, a cohesive intellectual reasoning. To shoot, as an afterthought, a diminutive fop with a taste for glamor and transvestites doesn't represent a reasoned attack on men's stranglehold over the lives of women, but then her actions weren't those of a balanced mind or rational thinker. Solanas was angry and mad as hell, and in that state she created the ultimate Pop Art collision. A fame of sorts was the frothy reward of her actions, whereas John Lennon's assassin, Mark Chapman, had that in his sights as well as his victim. Solanas would now be a talk show doyenne, the giver of lectures to earnest students, writing on feminist theory, a grand dame of the counterculture. Just as terrorists evolve into respected statesmen and politicians, the crazy when young become the voices of their strange times. With Warhol departed, his potential nemesis could have claimed the limelight and the center of the stage. She has, but only in absence.

Valerie Solanas outlived Warhol by a year, dying of emphysema and pneumonia in a welfare hotel called The Bristol in San Francisco's Tenderloin district. She had a drug problem and was still turning tricks in a silver lame dress. And her lost play Up Your Ass was finally staged in 2000. It had been discovered amongst Warhol's staggering array of clutter after his death. He didn't want it, need it, or steal it. He never even asked for it, but to Valerie in her paranoia, these amounted to the same thing.

Solanas was wonderfully realized by Lili Taylor on the big screen. I Shot Andy Warhol brought the circus that was the Factory vividly alive again. The S.C.U.M Manifesto she later tried to distance herself from has become a major tract in the canon of feminist rhetoric. If greed and fame had motivated Valerie Solanas, she could have milked both, but she died destitute.

In Songs for Drella Lou Reed's memorial collaboration with Factory survivor and fellow Velvet John Cale, about Warhol's life, he gives her a brief, but chilling acknowledgment: "I believe I would've pulled the switch myself." He never needed to. Valerie Solanas had a knack for havoc and destruction, once at the expense of Andy Warhol, largely at her own.