woodenrocketpress

in the world of the press: a signing, a review, I’m afraid of the olympics and a robotic f’n eye.

Yeah? You’ve been good? That’s awesome. Here’s the press in a nutshell:

1. March 20th, at Indigo Yorkdale I will be signing copies of Blank State volume Zero, which they’ve been more than happy to provide on consignment for the past three months. I have nothing but gratitude with how pretty awesome they’ve been… and for those of you doubting the heart of big-chain stores, you’re fools. Fools. Time of the event to follow… but if all goes well I should at least have the galley of volume one to show off then too.

2. Pearls Before Swine Flu / This is Plague City has been reviewed! The reviewers over at Syndicated Zine Reviews gave us the old look-up-n-down and said, with confusion, “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say about this… still you ought to read this and decide for yourself.” And while there would be artists biting at the proverbial chopstick over the fact that they weren’t understood, I’d like to put forth this quote from one of my favourite minds, Jonathan Swift (couldn’t you tell?):

There are certain common privileges of a writer, the benefit whereof, I hope, there will be no reason to doubt; particularly, that where I am not understood, it shall be concluded, that something very useful and profound is couched underneath; and again, that whatever word or sentence is printed in a different character, shall be judged to contain something extraordinary either or wit of sublime.

3. I’ve been eating the Olympic coverage on CTVOlympics.ca like the fare at a very broad pan-asian buffet where I only want the chicken balls and the jello. I can tune in at any moment to watch the results of an event that I did not see, without the need to shell out for a cable package or a million drinks at a sports bar. Is this a good thing? It’s no secret that I’m afraid of the internet, but isn’t something lost in the translation if that shared, hug-the-dude-next-to-you moment of being there when it happens, of watching the final goal live is gone? What connection do we have to the events if we don’t get to see them happen as they happen? Where’s the “I was there” moment?

And furthermore… since this is a condition of PVRing and live video streaming, will television schedules eventually be a thing of the past? Will networks just put up new shows and tell us they are there and hope we watch them? I am wary of television as a medium, but part of its brilliance is its scheduling, its rigidity and its suitableness to repetition and formula (and, in recent years, its balls to break from that formula). Will TV be subject to the arbitrary reaches of our YouTube fingers? Am I defending television?

4. I just interviewed Rob Spence. He directed a film called “Let’s All Hate Toronto” a few years ago, but is now working on putting a camera into his head. Start following this guy… because he’s following you.

Talk to you guys soon.

dp

review of a moment: scream at the end of the Superbowl Halftime show (who are you to judge? who who, who who?)

I knew what songs they would play going in to it. I just waited for one specific moment to see if I should cling to or abandon all hope.

I have yet to read the multitude of messageboard hate-threads deriding the Superbowl’s only halftime attraction, The Who, as a bunch of decrepit rockers too old to be good at their game. It’s always the case that people complain about the lack of movement or entertaining performance from these “old guard” entertainment acts that are meant to bridge the gap between boomer armchair-quarterbacks and their kids. It happened with The Boss last year, and people laughed at the Heartbreakers the year before. Hell, they even complained that Prince didn’t play Purple Rain.

But before we get too ahead of ourselves complaining about Roger Daltry’s tired voice and Pete Townsends occasional missed notes and chord flubs, we have to remember that any disappointment we feel, we brought on ourselves.

First, arguing the band’s current relevance is like getting mad at all the garbage in all the landfills in all the world. We built them, we keep them going. Their setlist can be read like this: “Song from Rock Band 2,” “Intro to CSI New York,” “Intro to CSI,” then “Go to the Mirror,” and finally “Intro to CSI Miami.” We can’t argue why these bands are getting asked to play, when their greatest hits catalogue has been co-opted by so many different buyers over the years that most iPod owners have the songs tagged as “TV Theme – CSI Miami,” or “Teenage Wasteland.*”

But second, and more saliently, the Superbowl demands a band that is just relevant enough to be “interesting,” like wallpaper that’s really badass but eventually becomes part of the room. The game is an example of pure spectacle; a guaranteed packed house and millions of viewers each year keep ad revenues high and tune in to watch the eleven minute game.** The remaining elements of the show, by necessity and self-preservation, must be engaging enough to keep viewers, but not so self-aware that they detract from the football itself. The moment the event becomes transparently not about football, the jig is up. That’s why we need the bands that will keep people tuned in for just enough catchy songs to fill a four-tune, 8-minute mashup.

This brings us to the scream. Me waiting with baited breath to hear that high-pitched wail that I knew would be coming. The ear-shattering scream that finishes off the pinacle record*** by the kings of the British mod scene is such a powerful and iconic moment. It is still unparalleled in terms of its epic use and it is quite possibly the reason why CSI: Miami is the most popular of the series.**** It gives me chills each time I hear it and I know I’m not alone.

As I listened to Daltry’s voice struggle to maintain some dignity at his now lower register, I realized there was no way he could possibly hit the note. He had been a little off pitch, missing some cues, and singing in a lower key in each song. My heart was already let down… then the synths began plunking.

He checked his ear monitor, the lights went out, and exploded in a burst of white as Daltry bent over at the waist and gave’r into the mic. He screamed. Loud. He did it. But he did it differently. He did it lower.

He changed the note to match his range. He gave the scream a deeper growl instead of his former high-pitched wail. Sure, it’s because he can’t hit those same notes, but he didn’t just half-ass it. He didn’t try to hit the old note and fail, and his voice didn’t crack. He made the sound less “Chris Cornell” and more “Tim McIlrath.” He made it relevant to his own register.

Those that were disappointed by the old rockers trying their best would do well to realize (as I did) that they lived up to our ludicrously impossible expectations in their own way. They can not be as youthful and energetic as we have kept them, porting their iconic memories into every truck commercial and videogame as if the actual performers were hermetically sealed from history. You ask a band to be kept alive on a few hit records and are surprised when their live show is less than it used to be; you ask them to be interesting enough to keep viewers tuned in and are shocked when they do something different with confidence and ease.

Tell me, who the fuck are you?

dp

*For the last time, It’s called “Baba O’Riley,” God. Damnit.

**According to recent study, a one hour game is in no way one hour long.

***Arguable, yes, but Who’s Next is a fantastic departure from their earlier sound.

****It can’t be David Caruso. It MIGHT be the bikinis.

Tags: music, non-fiction, pop culture, review