Thursday, November 10, 2011

Barthes, the Curse of Exercise, and the iPod's Power


Because I am the consummate nerd, sometimes I like to imagine that I am Roland Barthes and think about culture in terms of Barthean “myths.” The Barthean notion of “myth”—drawn out of Ferdinand de Saussure’s system of signs (signifier/signified/referent)—is such that “signs” in the Saussurean system are elevated to a second level, in which signs end up becoming signifiers for larger cultural notions. While you might be thinking that this sounds somewhat too theoretical to be fun, Barthes's treatment of semiotics in his collection of articles Mythologies is both fascinating and funny.

For example, one of the cultural myths explored by Barthes in the book is that of “red wine” in France. Moving past the nature of the word as a Saussurean sign, Barthes discusses how wine exists in French culture, particularly in terms of how wine functions as an equalizer for the proletariat—citing how “wine will deliver [the bourgeoisie] from myths, will remove some of his intellectualism, will make him the equal of the proletarian” (Barthes 58-59). On one level, the notion is somewhat absurd (do the French really conceive of red wine as such?), but on a structural level, the claims he makes have a fascinating resonance with one another.

So while I cannot claim to make quite such elaborately staged arguments as Barthes in Mythologies (he does, after all, have this entire system of cultural semiotics behind each strange argument in the collection) as I’m  going about my day, I do have some thoughts that aren’t so far from Barthes’s notion of red wine

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One Barthean thought that I have fairly frequently is regarding the gym. I find the modern, American gym a riveting space, whose inhabitants operate between the polar principles of necessity and aversion. The gym demonstrates to me that physical exercise, in our society, no longer centers on pleasure; the pleasure that people now associate with the gym is the pleasure of having gotten something out of the way, of having crossed that "work-out" line off their to-do list. Exercise has become somewhat of a scourge; exercise is what everyone must do and what no one wants to do. This, in fact, is similar to how I talk about exercise and, I suspect, not so far from how you talk about it yourself.

But what does this have to do with an arts blog?

The answer to that lies in how people mediate between those two opposing notions of necessity and aversion, how people inject pleasure back into the act of exercise. This new thought, while less Bartean, seems to me no less intriguing. Confronted with something that they would rather avoid but cannot, people do what they have always done: distract themselves. 

When I do go to the gym, which is less often than I’d like (see above paragraph), I witness a swarm of people with ear-buds plugged into everything from iPods and other .mp3 players to the small television screens on treadmills and ellipticals. There are others who bring books or other reading materials to peruse as they do their half-hour on the stationary bike. There are even people who do more than one of these things at a time; I have seen people on ellipticals with a iPad “open” to a book while listening to music and even occasionally glancing up to the bank of televisions hanging over the fitness area.

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I would offer that there are two problems here. The first one strikes me as the more Barthean claim; these practices of distraction only contribute to the general malaise that has fallen upon modern notions of physical exercise. These modes of distraction—what seem like solutions to the problem of evading exercise—end up being more like an exacerbation of the problematic nature of exercise.

The other problem, far more pressing in terms of this blog, is that of what happens to those artistic forms we digest while we are running or biking or elliptical-izing. Let's look at reading: do we really think we’re “getting” the material we read while simultaneously pumping out legs back and forth or in or out or whatever? However, it’s a fairly small percentage of gym-goers who turn to reading for entertainment. The bulk of distraction is, without a doubt, manifested in the presence of .mp3 players and television.

To be honest, I don’t care much for how television programs are transformed by their being watched in a gym setting. Television, in my mind, is a medium that (mostly) doesn’t demand full attention from its audience. There is a core of primetime programming that really asks its audience to sit down and pay attention, but there is also an entire universe of television that asks for only a modicum of thought. In my college gym, the television programs shift between sports, news, and reality television. Only occasionally are there films or formal televisions series.

Like I said, most television programs don’t demand the full attention of their audience; news and sports programs are structured with exactly that in mind. These programs don’t provide the kind of in-depth reporting you'd find in a print or online setting nor do they beg for a “complete” viewing. Organized into a series of segments, which are even further broken up by commercials, news and sports television shows clearly don’t really pine for attention. As for reality shows…well…I won’t even go there.

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Music, it turns out, is my real concern. What happens to music when we listen to it in a gym setting—not simply for the sake of the music itself, but out of some half-baked notion of spicing up our exercise routine and making it, in some sense, “bearable”? The music, obviously, changes. Becoming a crutch for another activity, music is subsumed into a category of "audience interaction" in which music functions less like an activity in and of itself and more like a distraction from another, entirely separate activity. [By no means do I mean to refute the notion of art as a distraction from the emptiness and nihilism of the universe, for there is some validity to that claim, but rather I want to point out that we’re not talking about distraction from life, we’re talking about distraction from exercise. That’s a pretty severe distinction.]

If it sounds like I’m one of those people who has never been on a run with music, that’s almost true. I’ve never really taken to running with an iPod or listening to one while exercising in the gym…and that’s not for lack of trying. Indeed, there have been several instances over the years when I thought to myself, “Hey! That whole music-thing while working out would be a great idea!” But that’s never really the way that it turned out for me: the ear-buds were always falling out…my iPod would die halfway through the run…I would end up breathing to the beat of the song (not a good thing!)…in other words, there were just issues with the practice.

So, now that you know of my failed attempts, you might read me as a failed music-listener, a kind of pathetic pariah now stuck decrying a practice that never accommodated itself to him, but nevertheless seems to “work” for everyone else. 

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But does that mean that what I’ve pointed out about music should lie by the wayside? I think, regardless of my stance on music, that there’s an issue with how readily we employ music as a distraction from something we’re convinced is necessary but not fun. But while I’m tempted to take an opinionated stance on all this, it would feel self-contradictory. I must admit that if I could somehow get used to listening to music during my workout, then I would probably fall in with everyone else.

Thinking over this post, I see that it clearly looks back to my post about the legacy of Steve Jobs in terms of how he affected our cultural conceptualization of music; this notion of music as distraction in the gym is only a new manifestation of that new cultural role music plays. So maybe it’s not so much good or bad—as I’m tempted to think—but rather just different.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Saturday Songs – Nov. 5


1. “Ofrenda” – Pedro Guerra



Spotify, as I’ve raved to quite a few people in the past weeks, is not just an easy source of streaming music, but it is also a world-wide playground of music that had never been open to me before. I’ve listened to albums that escaped me in past years and I’ve found new artists with such ease that I’m almost frightened by the sheer bulk of unlistened to (for me, that is) music out there in the world.

In particular, one area of music that has opened itself up to me through Spotify is that of Latino and Spanish music—particularly music coming from Spain. I’ve had somewhat limited contact with Spanish-language music, something that is doubtlessly evident to anyone who read my “Canciones de Sábado” earlier this year. But now, with Spotify leading the charge for me, I feel somewhat more territorial about Spanish-language music.

One of my recent finds is the artist Pedro Guerra, who, while new to me, seems to be quite a big deal on the other side of the Atlantic. One of his songs that really caught my ear is “Ofrenda” off Guerra’s 2001 album of the same name. The song, filled with punchy horns and a fantastic guitar part, is a beautiful plea asking for a lover to return. The song ends with the repeated line: “para que vuelvas” (so that you return).

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2. “Oh Yoko!” – John Lennon



One of those songs that took me a longtime to warm up to, Lennon’s love song for Yoko Ono strikes me as funny in that while I have somewhat of a grudge against Ono (partly for pulling John away from the Beatles, partly for her bizarre contributions to cinema), there is still something warm and fuzzy and wonderful about the song that I can’t ignore. This country-shuffle-of-a-song is simple and happy and that’s about enough for me.

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3. “Fuck This Place” – Frightened Rabbit



In a wonderful twist of fate (thanks to my girlfriend Kayla’s helpful contribution), my free offering this week is from one of my favorite bands, Frightened Rabbit. The three-song EP includes all new songs: two well-planned duets, “Fuck This Place” and “The Work,” as well as “Scottish Winds,” a cathartic ode to Scotland.

While all three songs are great, I’m particularly fond of “Fuck This Place,” a duet with Tracyanne Campbell, the lead singer of the Scottish band Camera Obscura. Campbell’s presence not only adds some stature to the song (Frightened Rabbit lead singer Scott Hutchinson was apparently flabbergasted that she wanted to record the song with them), but it adds a happy new texture to Frightened Rabbits gruff, extraordinarily male repertoire.

I also recommend checking out the other duet on the EP as well, which features legendary Scottish folk singer Archie Fisher (who penned one of my favorite songs, “Dark Eyed Molly”). You can download the entire EP here.

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4. “49:00” – Paul Westerberg

In my two-part discussion of track listing this past week, I used Westerberg’s single-track album as an example and inadvertently fell in love with it. The album (or track?!) is a roughshod, nostalgic trip through Westerberg’s basement recording studio, revisiting the ramshackle sound of The Replacements at their messy best and at the same time leaning on Westerberg’s careful pop songwriting. The secret of the album, I think, is that it sounds both breathless—almost nervously thrown together at the last minute—and self-consciously clever—jumping out of one song and into another, briefly citing famous rock songs, sending up the music industry. It’s a kind of joyous ride. I can’t really offer you a full listen or direct you to a place to buy it (it’s not being sold anywhere anymore), but I assure you there are ways… (take that as a hint, not a directive…)

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5. “Hangin’ Your Life On The Wall” – Guy Clark (and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott)

http://www.last.fm/affiliate/byid/9/7687888/6/trackpage/1281548363

Off of Clark’s classic 1995 album Dublin Blues (which also features the title track “Dublin Blues,” which counts as one of those songs that has made me cry), this tune is typical Clark: carefully constructed and nostalgic, sad, and funny all at the same time. There is a delicacy to his songs that you don’t hear in the country blues that Clark mostly plugs his lyrics into. This song, a duet with fellow country legend Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, is a laughable ode to old people not throwing out the towel and “hangin’ their life on the wall.”

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

A Discussion Of Track Listing (II)


The Internet has created an essential polarity in how musicians play with track listing—pulled back and forth between the choices made by musical acts such as Coldplay and Paul Westerberg.

If you missed the first part (it is right below or to your right, so you can read it), I began with the tentative case studies of Coldplay’s Mylo Xyloto and Westerberg’s 49:00 as albums that represent opposite ends of how artists are choosing to deal with track listing in the past couple years. I’ll start by looking at Westerberg’s approach because it’s certainly the more extreme of the two cases.

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Westerberg, for those who are unfamiliar with his work, was the lead singer and songwriter for the Minneapolis-based alternative/punk band The Replacements through 1991 when he broke up the band to pursue a solo career. That solo career has been spotty, but not without its highlights—including two songs on the soundtrack of Cameron Crowe’s film Singles as well as a host of well-reviewed albums (though nothing in his solo ouerve has been quite as well received as the classic Replacements albums). Westerberg has, in recent years, journeyed further and further away from the music industry, not only recording albums in his own basement, but eventually releasing them on the Internet more or less as according to him whim.



[My discovery of this YouTube video is fascinating, because any YouTube user/viewer is confronted immediately by the reality of the "tracked" version of the albumone would not be able to listen only to "Terri" in the case of Westerberg's album without some serious iTunes / music player fiddling.]

Westerberg’s DIY impulses reached a climax with 2008’s 49:00—released without (much of) a title, any track listing or liner notes, cover art, and available only for download on Amazon.com for the mere trifle of $0.49. (Get it? $0.49 for 49.00!) The most striking part about the release, however, was not its lack of presentation—many people download music these days and couldn’t care less about album art or liner notes—but rather the stark reality of a single .mp3 file without even any easily divisible “tracks.” There are certainly songs on the album that might be easily excised as single tracks given some fun time in a sound-editing program, but there are other tracks that blend together and tracks that interrupt other tracks.

While there’s lots to be said about the fascinating nature of the album and how it plays into Westerberg’s ostensible ideas about rock music and recordings, the takeaway point in this discussion centers on how the album celebrates the idea of “album” rather than “song” or “track.” In the case of 49:00, the division of the album into separate audio tracks would probably have left many of the pieces feeling disjointed as well as simply superfluous. The twenty-second songs thrown into the mix of 49:00 would have certainly been scrapped in putting together a traditional album. But, with the single audio file, all the random musical ideas presented by Westerberg are perceived as part of a larger whole rather than as individual files that can simply be deleted (quite literally…I have deleted some of those “inter-tracks” myself).

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But what happens when we have all those “inter-tracks” or—to be blunt—a more segmented listening experience? The reality, of course, is that given choice, people will choose. In discussing Mylo Xyloto with my friend Chelsea, I came to the odd conclusion that, for some reason, I appreciated how Coldplay went ahead and divided up into separate tracks songs that might have clung together as in a Viva La Vida-style track such as the quite-obviously-double-song “Lovers In Japan / Reign Of Love”—looking in particular at the pairing of “A Hopeful Transmission” and “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart.”



My appreciation stemmed from the fact that I might play “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” without sitting through the introductory 33-second bit of “A Hopeful Transmission.” Perhaps that sounds like a silly reason for liking an album, but my gut reaction really was a singular admiration for that willingness to chop up a song into its separate parts and sell them that way. The reality of iTunes and other digital music stores is, indeed, that a shorter “Don’t Let It Break Your Heart” without the instrumental lead-in will sell better than the alternate longer one.

But my admiration for that move has slowly soured. After a few listens through Paul Westerberg’s bizarrely-constructed album, I’ve come to a new appreciation of the open-ended album (or track) listen that hasn’t been effectively marketed out into its solid pieces. And that’s not to say that I am making a blanket statement about marketing and selling music for financial gain. Rather, it’s to say that I’ve gained a new appreciation for the intrinsic value of a track or an album. The cohesion of “Lovers In Japan / Reign Of Love” strikes me as somewhat unnecessary, but the cohesion of a song such as Frightened Rabbit’s “Skip The Youth,” off their album The Winter Of Mixed Drinks, strikes me as central and important.



In an interview (that I now cannot find—but I swear I read it and it is real!), Frightened Rabbit’s lead singer Scott Hutchison was asked why the band felt compelled to add the opening section and whether they ever considered leaving it out. Hutchison—or at least this was how the interview transcript conveyed it—reacted in a really negative fashion to the question, seemingly upset at the suggestion that the opening section could have ever been left out of the final song. In Hutchison’s view, the song presents the listener with three distinct parts—it doesn’t, I think, favor one part over any other. Thanks to that understanding of the song, all parts were set together as a single track, rather than split apart.

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In no way do I wish to suggest that Westerberg’s track listing model is the best one (or even a very good one for most artists…though it works for Westerberg), but I want to rather implode the notion that track divisions are a necessary thing. I myself confessed earlier to the unreasonable joy that Coldplay had it in them to separate “Mylo Xyloto” from “Hurts Like Heaven;” that, of course, is an initial reaction and subject to reflection and change. For those out there who consider the division of songs as a sacrosanct notion, I think they ought to reflect a little on that idea…imagine dividing up “Stairway To Heaven” into three parts… (For those inclined to “hear” such a version of the song, I suggest dividing around 4:20 and then around 5:34.) Or, for that matter, imagine the first part of Derek & the Dominos “Layla” divided from the second part…where is the balance in that?

A Discussion Of Track Listing (I)


I'll begin this discussion post by offering two case studies of track listing: Coldplay's Mylo Xyloto and Paul Westerberg's 49:00

Mylo Xyloto tracks:


No. Title Length
1. "Mylo Xyloto"   0:42
2. "Hurts Like Heaven"   4:02
3. "Paradise"   4:38
4. "Charlie Brown"   4:45
5. "Us Against the World"   4:00
6. "M.M.I.X."   0:48
7. "Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall"   4:01
8. "Major Minus"   3:30
9. "U.F.O."   2:18
10. "Princess of China" (featuring Rihanna) 3:58
11. "Up in Flames"   3:13
12. "A Hopeful Transmission"   0:33
13. "Don't Let It Break Your Heart"   3:54
14. "Up with the Birds"   3:46


(via Wikipedia)

49:00 tracks:

(No official track-listing - 10-15 songs as a single .mp3 film)
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With the advent of the Internet era, track listing is a something that artists are really beginning to struggle with. Traditionally—with records and CDs—artists experienced a kind of physical restriction or limitation on what they could do with their albums, particularly in terms of length. They were allotted usually something around 40 minutes to a single record/album and, in the case of popular music artists (overlooking jazz and classical music), divided that space into a series of distinct songs. [There are, of course, exceptions to every arbitrary, simplistic law I draw up for anything on this blog and I’m sure some of you would be quick to pull out examples (What about the Beatles medleys? What about the entire vinyl side of “Mountain Jam”?).]

Anyways, I doubt that anyone out there would hesitate to admit to the sheer power the Internet has exerted on musicians’ conception of the traditional “album.” That’s not to say that everything about the album is suddenly different now that we’re frolicking in the Internet era; the reality, of course, is that most artists follow the same album formula as before. But just because that formula is still generally followed doesn’t meant that musicians (or, more importantly, the recording companies) aren’t shifting their focus.

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Indeed, it saddens me to think that the definite heyday of the album is, more or less, officially over. At one point it would have been commercially permissible—even encouraged—to put together and polish a complex, long-winded concept album in the vein of Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd. (If there are disagreeing parties out there as to the unbelievable success of those artists' albums, I’d only point to Dark Side Of The Moon’s 741-week presence on the charts and presence on every best-selling-of-all-time list ever made.) Thanks to the burgeoning .mp3 download market—especially in connection with portable .mp3 devices and ever more transportable forms of digital music—commercial concerns have been somewhat revamped around the power of a few singles off an album.

That’s not to say that this hasn’t been the focus of musicians in the past; there have, of course, been countless acts over the past half-century in music that have relied on the power of singles to move albums. I will readily admit that the idea is nothing new…but rather point to the application of that idea as having attained a drastic new high. I realize that this argument still sounds contentious, but I realy mean my argument to focus not so much on the nature or presence of singles, but rather on the formation of the album as a whole—i.e. we don’t have any multiple mainstream musical acts pursuing grand visions quite the way we saw before the Internet.

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Perhaps my historical and theoretical understandings of popular music trends in the U.S. could stand some revising, but I think that as a general notion, it somewhat holds together and, either way, it serves to lead this discussion back to its actual concern: the practice of track listings. Faced by the economic realities of a world that often separates songs (as .mp3s or other music files) out of their context within an album, it becomes a fascinating issue to watch how the music industry deals with track listings. For instance, it’s common enough to see longer tracks (usually 8+ minutes) on iTunes listed as “Album Only” such that the songs cannot be purchased as separate tracks. While there is certainly a sense of the song being “worth more” than just 99¢, I think there is also an issue of the track being central to the album and not simply a track capable of being separate unto itself.

One song that comes to mind in following with this example is The Fiery Furnaces’ “Quay Cur”—the 11-minute dose of musical schizophrenia that opens their album Blueberry Boat—which actually contains several songs within its somewhat unclear framework.

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Looking back to the Internet’s influence, I think that the Internet has created an essential polarity in how musicians play with track listing—pulled back and forth between the choices made by Coldplay and Paul Westerberg on those track listings you see above. 

So what is that central dichotomy? (Check in with Part II later this week!)