A Tale Told By an Idiot, Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing

Now to art. Sorta.

                Saturday night I spent the evening in a relatively-typical fashion with my wife. Glass of wine, rented movie, stayed up late enough after the movie for some Saturday Night Live. I went to bed dwelling upon the poor-quality “art” I encountered (namely the movie and the musical guests on SNL), and felt this was a trend I’ve seen a lot lately. Thinking that perhaps I was tired and cranky and over-thinking about the state of the world, I turned in. Yes, by “thinking” I’m sure I mean “hearing from my wife.” When I woke up, I was rested, but in no way consoled.

                That movie sucked.

                That band sucked.

                Okay, okay, that happens. We’ve all seen bad movies and heard bad bands. In fact, bad enough movies or songs can really be quite enjoyable experiences. It’s like a flush of the system, seeing something you hate that much, feels good.

                I could have left it at that, except the film wasn’t just bad, it was horrible, and yet critics, the masses, the supposedly smart and the unabashedly dumb, that is, everyone but me and the missus, loved the film. The band was similar to many I’ve heard and seen creeping on SNL lately. It was bigger picture. Sad state. The world is sucking, we need a revolution (so, I guess this is Part 2).

                The film in question was Drive. I persuaded my wife to watch based on the numerous reviews I had seen and heard just screaming what a grand movie experience this one was. One of those leap out and grab you Forrest Gump or Little Miss Sunshine or (closer, but still not there) Taxi Driver types that everyone gets something out of. Well, if anger counts, count me as part of everyone. An art house action thriller, huh? Half-way through we realized that it (and, for my suggestion, I) were unforgivable. What a hunk of crap! Taking a gory snoozer with a paper-thin plot, no characterization, no discernible theme worth mentioning, then slowing it down (presumably because if you played it in real time it woulda been, like, 25 minutes long), screwing with the lighting, using Blade Runner’s soundtrack and then unimaginative “guy driving and thinking” scenes (Taxi Driver again) does NOT ART MAKE! In doing everything to put together anything butt just another action film, Nicolas Refn used all of the above to try to toss together a film with substance. Then he told us it had substance. Then the critics told us it had substance. It’s like people who brag about reading an especially hard book that they didn’t get at all, but pretend they did for fear of looking stupid, ignoring the fact that it probably just sucked.

                It’s been so revered, that I went through a moment similar to the analogy above where I thought either I’m stupid or everyone else is. In this case, sicerely, I must say it is everyone else.

                Sitting through it hoping it might redeem itself, too lazy to shut it off, guilty for having paid for it so feeling we must ride it out, we experienced relief when the end credits flashed. Here we clicked on SNL (I won’t address the skits, which appeal widely to moods as suited, and never express to be art), and took in the band. Who they were doesn’t matter. Wait, that’s not quite right. Who they were matters because they don’t matter, because they were so typical, the kind of band you can get twelve of for ten cents, as the saying goes when butchered.

                I try not to get too caught up in that thinking that the music I grew up with is best. This can be hard for anyone, and I do find it trying at times because the music of the first half of the 1990s was reactionary in many ways. There was something revolutionary there. Like punk before it, “grunge” (shudders, but admits ease necessitated) and its ilk cast off the excesses of the previous cycle, in this case the glam and sheen of hair metal and the worst pop ever,  music that reflected the materialism of the 1980s.

                Fifty years ago, when modern popular music was well under way, a revolution occurred. At this point they were saying—for the first time ever!—that rock was dead. The pop, doo-whop, she-boom, ooh-baby themes was being hucked aside for more experimental music, more revolutionary music. Music with meaning and message. Someone read a book, they wrote a song. George Harrison dabbled in Indian mysticism, he wrote a song. Neil Young lost a friend to heroin, wrote a song. Bob Dylan saw inconsistencies in a wealth-driven society, song = written.

Suddenly pop stars had become activists, leaders. Everyone on earth was already listening to their voices, so many of them tried to say things that mattered. Success varied. (This has remained a mandatory job requirement in musical stardom, for better or for worse. They are expected to form and express opinions. Never mind that most of them failed to even finish high school, or were so wealthy at such a young age that they can’t ever be accused of being in touch with reality on any level. What does Angus Young think of the famine in Africa? What, can’t find it on a map? Immaterial!)

So, when the same happened in those early 1990s, heroes like Pearl Jam, Sinead O’Conner, REM, U2 (hanging on from the 80s), started standing for issues. We, the youth who worshipped them, made decisions about these issues as well.

How we need a revolution of thinking music now.

Back to my disgust at the past few musical guests I’ve caught on SNL. With only one exception—Lady Ga Ga, whose spectacle is only matched by her talent—the groups have been composed of airheads. Doofuses who couldn’t form a concrete thought on anything outside of Twilight and the kind of shoes they want to wear if their hairstyle depended on it. And so many doofuses! Why do you need seventeen members in a band if you’re playing fewer chords than the Sex Pistols on one string? What’s the deal with that guy who just hits something with a stick once every second verse? Or that dude doing jumping jacks in the back? What's he for? Why does every group need to have an overweight black man? That stage is getting so crowded that the two lead singers in skinny jeans or pleather tights or whatever can’t properly strut as they spout “nu-uh-uh” or “yo-oh-oh.”

Excess and excrement, that.

Talk like this can come off as sounding crotchety, outside the times. I have a healthy respect for that opinion, although I don’t share it. Just am aware. As with all other matters on which I like to electronically opine, in music I know my fair share of older folks who have a decided “with-it”ness. A favourite uncle of mine is approaching sixty, and he has not lost step with what is current in music since the Beatles were still together. Because I’m not happy with the state of popular music should not see me labeled as a middle-aged codger. I have an awareness of what is now and the ability to appreciate what is GOOD in something that is not MINE. These navel-gazing whinies with their grandiose yet simple, loud but unlistenable nonsense is the sign that, hopefully, we’re about due. That musical revolution is a-comin’. Punk did it to stadium rock in the 70s, grunge (ugh) did it to glam in the 90s, we’re about due for that two-decade shift. But be sure to grab hold and love it while you can, because it only lasts for about seven years before Hanson and the Backstreet Boys take over.

Mainstream art is at a low. All this 80s worship has us producing art like in the 80s, a decade notable for the great distances between works of relevance. Flash and dash, sound and fury, little substance.

My hope is the wheel, or the worm, is set to turn. 

So I Say I Want a Revolution. Well, y'know . . . (Part 1 of Many)

                When you get old enough (as opposed to just “old”), you start to notice the patterns. You start to see that culture, society, nature, life in general, all turn on great wheels, intersecting with each other at certain points, and in certain variations. Given time, a wise enough person or a good enough scholar of history will note the number of variations is finite, and repetition is inevitable. One can predict literal and figurative revolutions, if I can get Asimov-y on ya.

                Those of us who are feeling particularly jaded with today—those of us who are anti-war, anti-capitalism, anti-Harper, pro-environment, pro-Occupy, pro-the future—see that we’re at a very ugly out-turn of the wheels. We are saddened by this and anticipate—crave, even—a revolution, a change in sensibilities.

                Everyone who reads my blog frequently or interacts with me via social media (digital or no) knows my opinions on this. Having lived through the greed and materialism of the 1980s, as well as its constant fear that the end was near, I then lived through the subsequent hope of the 1990s. Politically, Reagan, Bush and Mulroney gave way to Clinton and Chretien (not to say the latters were without fault, but anything was better than the formers). Walls came down, Cold War ended. There was a real sense of hope in many ways as the 20^th century wore itself out. It would be foolish to ignore the Rwandan genocide or the war in the former Yugoslavia (as examples), but as a young man living through that time I felt an awakening hope that the First World was going to start doing the right thing for the Third, and that the Second would rebuild itself. But all the hope in the world means little when—within a decade—the wheels cycle and we enter the world of W. Bush and Harper, of Islamic fundamentalism, of the War on Terror, of tarsands and environmental apathy, of banks acting like banks and the economic (insert noun indicating anything from a slowdown to an all-out, grab-your-monkey-and-run-for-the-hills-crisis here).

                We want a revolution, those of us. But who, exactly are we? Who exactly am I because I’m not, strictly, one of them. I have friends on the poles (or wings, if you’re chicken), right out there in the extremes. I’m extreme in some regards, less so in others. I can say that I feel that if you find the current similatrities with our world and that of the 1980, politicially, socially, culturally are good things, then you don't love your children. Fact. 
              Over the next little while I’m going to be posting some bloggity blogs detailing the revolution that I see and crave. These will range from the global and pertinent, to the trivial. Whatever tickles my fancy. 

10 Reasons I Love Living in Alberta (and 5 Issues I Still Have)

     In March of 2003 I moved to Alberta to work, and the following fall I made that a permanent transition. I have been here longer than anywhere I lived since leaving my home town at eighteen. When Calgary hosted Grey Cup a couple of years back, I wrote a blog reacting to all the Saskatchewan-bashing I see here, and how I had resolved where I'm from despite where I am. As a result of that blog, I was asked 1) if I love Alberta and 2) assuming I do (and I do), what do I love about it.
     I've been experiencing a lot of contentment lately with where my life has ended up, and with where it's still going. With that contentment in mind, I'd like to present my 10 favorite things about my new(ish) home province, as well as 5 things that still bug the hell outta me.
     (Things like my wife, kids, friends, and band which are ALL Albertan obviously come first. I mostly want to address the quasi-universals here. [How does one express the universal provincially?] Oh, and this will have something of a Calgary-centric, Southern flavour.)

1. The Mountains. Being prairie farm-boy stock, I still look out the window at the Spine of the West with my jaw dropped. Daily. Though I have no desire to live where the sun goes down at three and winter starts in the summer, I visit them as much as possible. That ready access to the world's greatest mountain range should not be taken for granted.

2. Calgary venues. Saskatoon will always be my frame of reference for city experiences. Everything is compared with there. Calgary is bigger, Red Deer smaller; Regina colder, Edmonton comparable. Though I'll always love Toon town best, and defend it to its critics, cities of 200,000+ get overlooked a lot when it comes to music and sports. Having access to one of Canada's biggest centres has given me all the concert, big-venue culture, NHL and CFL I can handle and afford. No, it doesn't have to be big to be good, but at least now I know to compare.

3. Culture. This will never be the jewel in commerce-mad Calgary's crown, but on any given day I have access to a wealth of museums, cultural attractions, historical sites. I don't just mean the city, either. There's Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump, Tyrell in Drumheller, Rosebud, fringe and folk festivals, Wordfest. So rich I have to be choosey. Oh, and if I ever choose to go, I'm told Stampede is all right as well.

4. Booze. I like a bevvy now and again. The low prices in this province aside (my brother moved back to SK and had to give up scotch, ouch), this area's rich collection of micro-breweries, those BC wineries, Kensington wine market, etc. all keep me on the happy brink of Hemmingway-hood.

5. BC's right there! Hey, it's a gorgeous province. So's Alberta (and Saskatchewan), and I'd never want to live there, but to be able to travel in a day to the Okanagon, or to my pals in Vancouver, to the island . . . I mean, no one in Regina says, "Plus, we can go to Manitoba whenever we want!"

6. Camping and hiking, and with some variety. I love the outdoors here. That touch of alpine je ne sais quoi really plays on me, after years of pitching tents in the prairie grass, or down shrub-lined river valleys. On any given day, I have the choice of prairie river, mountain park, grassland, Badlands. Fishing, hiking, skiing, climbing. Rah, rah, rah.

7. Jobs. Yes, the cost of living is higher. Yes, I have a job that is (proven) transferable all over the world. Yes, education is an oft-crapped-upon service in money-mad S. Alberta. However, I work in a great school, with great support, and I'm hardly collecting chalk nubs to use next fall.

8. Chinooks. The last winter I spent in Regina, we were under what the weather dudes called an "Arctic Dome" for two straight months. My last winter in beloved Saskatoon, it was -30 from November to early March so near consecutively that you barely noticed the release. Hereabouts, even the hope that a Chinook could be over the horizon of the next forecast, even the hint, gets me through any cold snap. However . . .

9. Winter. I love it, I do. That's not like a person claiming they like mussels and eating them just to show how tough they are slurping a slimy sea creature from its cold shell. I truly do like winter. Sensible winter, no Arctic Domes, please. Skiing, snow forts, ice fishing, the hush that falls at night during a heavy snowfall. This area gets some of the most violent and pleasant winters. Manic depressive weather, maybe, but it keeps you attentive, right?

10. Topography. My particular home is a prairie town surrounded by farm and grassland decidedly flatter from where I grew up in Saskatchewan. Yes, really. But Strathmore's dominated by a historical canal system that built the Palliser region. It's a half hour from the Bow River. The Badlands and their hoodoos are just down the hill. Foothills and mountains in short reach. Really, all we're missing is ocean, but then we don't have to worry about earthquakes or hurricanes.

The Bad. I'll try to be brief for fear of contradicting the good vibe I've cultivated above.

1. Politics. Maybe because I didn't grow up here, experience the NEP, or don't have an inherent hatred for the colour red, but I've never gotten the "a vote for the Conservatives is a vote for the West" nonsense. People back right-wing parties like they're hockey teams out here, never really looking at the issues.

2. Oil is god. I have many friends who work in and around the oil and gas industry, and yes many other jobs are tied to that industry (though not on the molecular level the O and G folks would con us into believing). But, c'mon, what's good for oil doesn't mean it's good for the rest of the province, and Big Oil is a group pf un-altruistic corporations first. Fact.

3. Expense. High quality of life comes at a pretty damn high cost. The "Alberta Advantage" sure hasn't done much for escalating fuel, energy and food costs, and Calgary's rapidly-growing homeless population aren't all there because they're lazy.

4. Calgary overall. It's the city I access and I like having that access, but it's an exploitative relationship, I've got to tell you. 1, 2, and 3 on this list alone are my biggest beefs with what we satellite folk refer to as "The City," and that doesn't even cover urban sprawl, weak culture, and pathetic public transportation. Fortunate location does not equate to greatness.

5. Those Jonses. It's worse in parts of BC, especially the cities, but that urban and American drive to race your neighbors to a finish line that's been carved by the keen blade of the cutting edge, to have the newest thingy, to be the expert on the newest trends, to one-up those about you sure seems an obsessive pursuit out here.