The older you get, the crueler life can be. This is particularly true of the evil and arbitrary nature in which we lose people we love. Early yesterday morning at the start of a new year, while a number of us were out celebrating, sleeping, scoping out the after parties, or rounding the drive-thru, we lost Esme. I’m mindful that her friends or family members may read this post and don’t want to cause them any more pain. But Esme was a wonderful human being who deserves to be celebrated. I hope to do that here. I believe I have a singular responsibility in paying tribute on this blog because of the folks who showed me support, Esme was an MVP in an over-sized Feminist Music Geek t-shirt. I’m lucky to be one of many people who can claim her as a friend.
Esme was a teacher and gave the gifts of listening, improvising, and problem-solving to her friends. She was an amazing Girls Rock Camp counselor and became a model for how I present myself in front of students and run a classroom. She was hilarious–always quick with a joke, a story about her mom, or a day-after reel about a night out on the town. She was also tiny, but always seemed larger in part because she could frequently be seen at shows or parties holding a tall boy or a long neck seemingly a third her size. When I lived in Austin, I would frequently chat with her while she pulled a shift at Waterloo, when we found each other in some mutual friend’s kitchen, or when we’d both be taking in a Ted Leo show. Every time we’d say our goodbyes, we’d always hug, bemoan that we weren’t closer, and promise to stay in touch.
Then I moved away. During the past month or so, she tried to touch base on gchat. But I selfishly couldn’t pull myself away from school work, and now I wish like fuck I had. Because I probably wouldn’t remember what book I was reading or what assignment I was grading, but I know I’d remember talking to Esme about the records she was listening to and nights out with her sister or our friends. I guess the truth is that you can never prepare for losing someone so suddenly, and thus there is never enough time. And quite frankly, I always imagined Esme would live a long life, wearing Keds and jean shorts and calling me “dude” at boat parties well into the twilight of our years. Damn.
In this instance, rock ‘n’ roll is our solace. Esme loved rock music. She was rock, as far as I’m concerned. Wild Flag’s “Romance” was one of my favorite songs from last year and the line “the sound is the blood between me and you” reminds me of this lightning rod of a woman. I’m going to close now with a holiday song she liked that takes on new resonance in light of recent events, a song we danced to after a music history workshop, a song from a band we always hoped would reunite, and song from a GRCA band she coached. Esme got it. She knew rock and roll was eternal. As long as we’ve got the sound, we’ll never lose her.
Visit Esme’s tribute site if you would like to make a donation to help Esme’s family pay for expenses.
I’ve been at a conference all day, listening to media scholars volley and bandy about ideas and concerns, as well as research and methodological questions related to television comedy. Though fascinating conversations were forming around me all day (I fumbled through a well-intended but unformed question too, because I make myself participate in these conversations), I was distracted by some sad news my partner imparted to me as I was waking up: Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore are separating.
Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore; image courtesy of wikimedia.org
As someone who has no personal investment in marriage, it might be odd that I would react to news about the split in this way. Though I disavow the wedding industry and the societal privileging of married couples, nor treat monogamy as a sacrament, I do like to see couples make it. I was sad when the Gores announced their divorce and am pulling for Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith to work it out.
Part of why this news hit me so hard has to do with projection. The move to Madison and transitioning into a life in the academy presents its own challenges. But my stepbrother was killed in a car accident this past summer, sloughing his mortal coil just shy of his 30th birthday and leaving behind a wife and baby daughter. I am still processing my grief over the loss, and keep returning to Avey Tare’s Down There for catharsis (a musical selection he would have hated). My mom’s best friend’s ex-husband passed away this month as well. In addition several friends back in Texas are planning weddings, returning to school, having children, and throwing birthday parties. I’m not lonely in Madison. I’m making friends. And between course work, class prep, administrative meetings, and writing and editing responsibilities, I don’t have time to be lonely. But while I love the work I’m doing, it’s hard to not have the time to reinvest in old friendships.
Recently, a few marriages dissolved within my friend group and, given the circumstances, I especially ache for the women in these partnerships. This causes me to reflect on my own partnership. My partner and I celebrate our eight-year anniversary next January. He is incredibly supportive of me and my professional aspirations. He also has his own projects, and I am incredibly proud of his contributions. But it’s hard to work through twelve-hour days and then come home and reconnect when you’re exhausted. It’s also challenging to expand our friend group beyond people in my program, which I hope doesn’t create any strain. But partnerships of any sort require tremendous attention and investment. Folks also change over time within them. In a 27-year marriage, both spouses evolve into different people. The challenge then becomes evolving with one another and not turning into enemies or more often strangers, which is precious and rare.
Gordon and Moore were married a year shy of my entire life. I will not speculate foul play, though I reserve the right to be disappointed in Moore if he takes up with Peaches Geldof. What most resonated with me about their union was that it was a demonstrably feminist marriage. Both partners voiced the importance of consensus, mutual respect, shared parenting responsibilities, equality, and balance. They also work together in a band, and thus constantly reconcile the band’s needs and their individual artistic inclinations. Gordon also had to deal with sexist assumptions about her husband’s instrumental prowess and routine dismissal of her musical contributions, even though she possesses one of rock’s most evocative voices. A few of my friends sustain romantic partnerships with professional colleagues. Such relationships are possible, but require compromise, attention, and negotiation.
Sonic Youth plan to finish their tour. For selfish reasons, I hope the band stays together. If they continue to create interesting, vital music, I want them to push on. There is some precedence for Gordon and Moore’s current position. The White Stripes, Quasi, Smashing Pumpkins, and Fleetwood Mac continued making music despite members’ romantic dissolution, though none of those groups had a high-profile couple with Gordon and Moore’s marital longevity. But I would be just as happy if the pair moved on to other endeavors. In 1988, artists Marina Abramović and Uwe Laysiepen ended their long-term relationship by meeting each other in front of the Great Wall of China after walking great distances. Once they saw each other, they said goodbye and continued their long journeys walking in opposite directions. Perhaps Gordon and Moore will do something similar in South America next month. If they do, it’s been a good run.
Last month, Ann Powers celebrated Madonna’s 53rd birthday by collecting her 53 favorite songs from the Material Girl. She posted suggestions on Twitter and I provided my picks along with several others. This went live shortly after Ellen Copperfield’s musings on Madge for This Recording and preceded Carilynn27′s Persephone post that twined Madonna’s music with autobiography and fandom. It also follows a sustained narrative of (predominantly white) women (and girls) taking about, listening to, and playing with Madonna. Lots of media studies criticism in the late 80s and into the 90s sought to understand Madonna as screen subject, fan object, and feminist star text. All of the stuff that will be written about Gaga will have to be built upon this body of work.
I came of age during this time, and remember listening to Madonna with my mother, a fan who didn’t think that allowing me to watch the video for “Like a Prayer” would make me a Satanist. Actually, it clued me in on Madonna being something of a racial fetishist. I also developed my nascent Madonna fandom during my pubescent years through my stepmother. I was fascinated by her outspoken love for Madonna, especially since it seemed so closely tied to adult sexual expression. As a ten-year-old girl, coming across a copy of Erotica was better than any of the Updike or Nin I snuck off my dad’s bookshelf at night. You can’t dance to Rabbit, Run. I also purloined my stepmom’s copy of Sex, which she tucked into the back of her closet.
Madonna; image courtesy of allaboutmadonna.com
Erotica was well-received critically, though underrated. Some thought Madonna ran out of ideas, or was just trying to shock people, or simply wasn’t sexy. A few critics claimed Erotica was too cold and calculated to be sexy. I think they miss the point–mediating an image of sexiness usually takes the sex out of it because sexuality tends to operate (and be obfuscated) at a subliminal level. Openly subverting expectations of feminine sexiness and reconfiguring what signifies as sexy for women causes a lot of discomfort. Power is an aphrodisiac, as long as it isn’t actually wielded by women. Many of the scenarios in the “Erotica” video are trite and regressive–lipstick lesbianism, celebrity friends, S&M, problematic assumptions about black sexuality. But I can’t imagine many contemporary pop stars exploring erotic menace or foregrounding explicitly queer images of sexuality in a mainstream context as Madonna did with Erotica, which was released during a time when AIDS casualties and HIV prevention were more greatly emphasized. Plus the album has “Rain” and “Bye Bye Baby,” which are two of my favorite songs. It also has “Did You Do It?,” which, as with all song where Madge raps, you should skip.
Gaga may come the closest to fulfilling Erotica‘s potential. There’s no question that Jo Calderone owes hir existence to Ralph Macchio, Annie Lennox, Andrew Dice Clay, Danny Zuko, and Lenny Bruce. But what I appreciated about Gaga’s drag performance at the VMAs was her commitment to it. She didn’t make any costume changes during the night to re-establish her femininity. She kept her breasts bound throughout the ceremony and didn’t wink at the camera. Sure, she was boorish for trying to kiss Britney, whose trembling bottom lip seemed to simultaneously telegraph “Is this a trick?”, “Should I?”, and “I don’t think my manager will approve.” But if you compare Gaga’s performance alongside Katy Perry’s egotistical assumption that a song like “Firework,” which vaguely addresses queer closeted identity by celebrating individual perseverance, is doing something good for the world when it merely aligns herself with a lucrative niche market, Gaga might be moving closer toward pop progress. But I hate “Born This Way” as both a pop song and a political message, so I’m actually hoping Janelle Monáe brings the sex and politics back to pop music. Androids need love too.
Sade; image courtesy soundonsound.com
But if we’re talking about pop music’s ability to inspire exciting sex, I can’t discredit an album I like a great deal more than Erotica. Sade’s Love Deluxe slunk into American record stores on October 20, 1992, the same day that Madonna’s fifth album initiated controversy. Janet Jackson’s janet. came out the following spring and is more potently erotic than Madonna’s offering, but I think that album requires its own post and a review of Poetic Justice. While many contemporaries sought reinvention to stay relevant, Nigerian British torch singer Sade Adu and her band continue to release reliably warm, enveloping jazz-pop for quiet storms, yacht rides, and power outages. I bought Love Deluxe on tape in junior high as a compromise. I wanted to see Indecent Proposal but my parents were like, “Ummmmm, absolutely not!” “No Ordinary Love” featured prominently in the trailer, so it sufficed until I finally saw Adrian Lyne’s sexist glamorization of kept women and poor business decisions at a girlfriend’s house. The scene in the kitchen is pretty hot, though. But “Kiss of Life,” “Cherish the Day,” and “I Couldn’t Love You More” are way hotter.
I don’t want to set up a racist, misogynistic binary wherein white female pop stars are cold sexbots and female pop stars of color have erotic energy coursing through their veins. Nor do I want to overlook that Sade’s songs assume heterosexual coupling. But Sade’s articulation of sexuality is predicated on the assumption that these forms of expression are something people do together. Also, sexuality isn’t the only lens through which Sade explores empathy and human connection. Despite the luxe atmosphere Sade’s music often seems to cultivate, many of her songs focus on poverty and the struggle for basic survival. Two such songs on Love Deluxe are “King of Pain” and “Pearls.” The latter track, which is about a poor Somalian woman, always makes me tear up a little. It may be a bit paternalistic in its storytelling, but it’s no less effective.
Thus, I think Sade’s articulation of the erotic is at least as powerful and enduring. Others seem to agree. Molly Lambert recently saw Sade in concert and raved about the performance, Sade’s enduring sexiness, and the sense of community the event created. Ms. Adu turns 53 next January. Let’s remember to wish her a happy birthday.
The other night, I watched Missy Elliott’s Behind the Music. It’s a pretty good episode. I forgot how many talented ladies Elliott worked with, including Tweet, Nelly Furtado, and Alyson Stoner. Joan Morgan champions “One Minute Man” for articulating that women can seek out sex for it’s own sake. Mary J. Blige backs Elliott’s genius regardless of her size. Elliott’s mother Patricia talks about coming forward as a domestic abuse survivor at her daughter’s behest. And Elliott speaks candidly about working through traumas related to incest and childhood molestation, living with Grave’s disease, struggling to break into the music industry as part of the girl group Fayze, and getting edited out of the video to Raven-Symoné’s “That’s What Little Girls Are Made Of” because she was fat, even though she co-wrote the song. Damn. At least Heart videos had Ann Wilson’s face, even though the camera lusted after Nancy’s guitar-slung torso.
I knew we were going to talk about protégée Aaliyah’s death, which brought back so many memories. The plane crash. The news reports. Fatima Robinson crying. The posthumous release of the video for “Rock the Boat.” Jackets with the singer’s face airbrushed on the back. DMX in the “Miss You” video. Her older brother Rashad weeping during her episode of Behind the Music. Missy and Tim’s hearts breaking. All these feelings came up again when I watched the Elliott episode, as I’m sure they do for the rapper-producer every day. They flooded back this morning when I read Leslie Pitterson’s Clutch Magazine piece, which commemorates the 10-year anniversary of her death excerpts Damon Dash’s Billboard interview about his relationship with the singer and the grief he worked through.
Aaliyah, always; image courtesy of billboard.com
In a weird way, the loss of Aaliyah also came back last week when I watched an episode of Buffy that featured Ashanti as a demon. She seemed to be channeling Aaliyah in Queen of the Damned, or maybe that’s who writer Jane Espenson and the wardrobe department were trying to conjure. I knew something wicked was afoot, because there’s no way Ashanti would date a schlub like Xander. This also made me think of what a weird time the early 2000s were when Ashanti broke Billboard records but left no impression on me besides coming off as impolite to a chauffeur in an episode of Punk’d because she expressly forbid him from talking to her. Ah, Punk’d. How it played into (and often betrayed) celebrity image construction. Justin Timberlake is a stoned mama’s boy. Magic Johnson is quite level-headed when dealing with his son’s scorned lover. Katie Holmes gets pushed around. Of course, the show also presented a lot of scenarios where black celebrities had to deal with law enforcement. Call out Ashton’s racial insensitivity, Dave Chappelle!
Anyway, Ashanti wearing belly chains and wielding swords just made me miss Aaliyah. This might have worked better if it was Rihanna. I’m willing to see her an action movie, even if it’s stupid to build a film franchise on a board game. Maybe the “Hard” video was her audition for a Tank Girl reboot. Maybe Michelle Rodriguez will be in it. . . . But I digress.
I love Aaliyah’s music, as do many friends. In high school, girlfriends made up dances for her songs. Ginny created an interpretive dance for the first verse to “Are You That Somebody?” Brooke came up with a routine for “Try Again” that she performed at prom. I was introduced to Aaliyah in junior high when I saw the video for “Back & Forth” on the Box (a channel in need of more academic scholarship and a Grantland oral history). Who was this cool girl with the silky voice and why was she wearing sunglasses? It’s staggering how many amazing singles she had in her too-short career: “One In a Million,” “If Your Girl Only Knew,” “We Need a Resolution,” an amazing cover of the Isley Brothers’ “At Your Best (You Are Love),” and my all-time favorites “More Than a Woman” and “4-Page Letter.”
For me, Aaliyah represented the future. In this and other ways, she reminds me of Selena. Both women were veteran entertainers who were just about to break into the mainstream when their lives were cut tragically short, at 22 and 23 respectively. They continue to influence artists and develop fan bases across generations and borders. They also seemed to have a lot of self-respect. Both women were sexy, but refused to be degraded or turned into objects. They seemed in control of their sexuality. They knew girls were watching them, and they also knew to save some of themselves from the public eye. Like Janet Jackson before them and Beyoncé after, they made self-possession sexy. Hell, Aaliyah was secretly married to R. Kelly as a teenager and that didn’t stick to her (or him, really). She kept quiet about it. It undoubtedly changed her, but she wasn’t a victim and it wasn’t your business what transpired between them. It didn’t define her. It was never going to. The cover to Age Ain’t Nothin’ But A Numbersays it all. Notice which figure is blurry and out of frame and who doesn’t have to take off her shades to look directly at the camera and hold your attention. All that, and she never had to raise her voice. You were one a million, Aaliyah. You still are.
I’ve been a digitization specialist in Text Archives a week shy of three years. Essentially I played with Adobe, cleaning up metadata and background text. I made the President’s Daily Diary Web-ready and built digital versions of his VP and Senate diaries, as well as Lady Bird’s diaries. I worked on oral history collections for a year and a half, helping process Joe Califano and Lady Bird’s oral histories, as well as tidy up the background text for the Miller Center collection. I served and refiled a bunch of boxes, did a rotation in AV Archives, and burned CDs of the telephone conversations for researchers. I gave tours for Education in Action and helped judge the Central Texas History Fair. I got to chase LBJ’s ghost through the stacks, poke through Lady Bird’s closet, experience Luci Baines Johnson Turpin speak in public, take a staff photo with Sandra Day O’Connor, show my mom Che Guevara’s diary, and count watching documentaries and going on guided museum tours as work. It was fun, especially since the job afforded me a lot of headphone time.
I’m also the last of a quartet of awesome women who quit this summer. One was hired by another Presidential library. Like me, the other two moved away to chart a new course. While I’ve enjoyed my work here, the pay isn’t great, professional advancement from within is nigh impossible, and there’s little managerial interest in paying entry level folks a competitive wage or grooming them for a career in archives. This is universal, regardless of whether we hold master’s degrees or, in one friend’s case, ostensibly run an entire department without credit or compensation. And they don’t seem to actually care about retention. The solution posed by our director to systemic problems in one meeting was breakfast tacos. I can’t be bought off with a damn breakfast taco, any more than I can abide top brass decisions to remove explicit mention of the Great Society in a forthcoming permanent exhibit on LBJ’s legacy. I got into the PhD program of my dreams. It’s time to go.
I know I’m lucky to be an American with a job, even if I only got one raise and one cost of living increase despite consistently glowing performance reviews from my supervisor. Unemployment, job creation, and retention are real problems. We seem closer every day to a class war. China might foreclose on us. It’s a bad time, and I hope I get a job after all this schooling. But I have faith, and I’m not bitter. I don’t regret my time at LBJ. I had lunch almost every day with one of my best friends. I liked many of my co-workers and my boss. Also, I wrote a lot of blog entries while I was on the clock.
Hannah Fury
This post is a tribute. It’s a tribute to a remaining work friend who’s zealously followed this blog since he knew it existed and I hope lands a job at Beinecke when he’s done with school. But it’s also a tribute to singer-songwriter Hannah Fury. I don’t know her personally, but she worked here before I did. I guess she weirded some people out and endeared others. Based on her goth cabaret act, I bet I would have liked her. I respect the hell out of her for making music while she was employed at LBJ. I admire folks who keep a job to support the projects they’re actually passionate about. That’s basically every creatively inclined friend I have, and most of the bloggers I know on- and off-line. But I especially relate to someone who pressed on while working at a place that I know personally can be both rewarding and emotionally draining. If we worked together, I would’ve interviewed her in the copy room and posted the piece while everyone else attended a social media Webinar.
I also wonder if Fury vibed on the double life she led, or considered it as such. Some colleagues know I run this blog and freelance, but most don’t. Many of those who do had to discover my writing. That’s by design. I’m proud of my work, but suspicious of dogged self-promotion. There’s a difference between talented people and folks who are good at something and constantly need other people to validate that. I strive to be the former. Maybe Fury did too. I hope to meet her someday, so she stops seeming like a ghost. I salute you, Hannah Fury, as a person, artist, and kindred spirit.
If you’re really close to me, this is the most uneventful reveal ever. I have a knack for saying I’ll keep mum about something but it never exactly works that way. Yet I felt like I should make it official, since I told my boss and my parents and most close friends: I’m moving to Madison in late July, just after my 28th birthday. I accepted an offer from the Media and Cultural Studies program and will be a PhD student come September. I’m thrilled to finally start becoming a badass feminist professor and to do so in a program I regard so highly.
I wrote Feminist Music Geek’s first official entry two years ago today. Friends know that I got my MA in media studies at UT Austin in May 2008 and started this blog following a round of rejections from PhD programs. The idea for the blog actually formed as I was finishing up my thesis, and I was encouraged by friends who followed me on LiveJournal (where I wrote posts that would be right at home here). But when I knew I wouldn’t be going on for a PhD in the immediate future, I had no excuse not to start it.
When I started Feminist Music Geek, I knew that I really wanted to be a feminist media studies professor someday and had to evolve as a scholar. My application could be much stronger, and I decided to create a space for myself to explore ideas related to my subject of study. Writing has long been a reliable way for me to clarify or challenge my opinions, and running a blog could potentially get me in touch with people and volley ideas. I knew who I could be. My thesis adviser was a good mentor and model for someone who believed in education equity, social justice, feminism, media activism, and literacy and used her position in the academy to work toward this. I wanted to follow this example, and believed this blog could help me get there. However, I didn’t start it to get into grad school. I created it because I needed it to exist.
I was lucky enough to work on the UT campus, and thus took advantage of the libraries and various free resources available to me. I also started teaching music history workshops with my friend Kristen, who I met in graduate school. I’d pick up some guest lectures. I also went to conferences, even when I was afraid that no one would listen to my ideas because I was an independent scholar and grad school reject. As the blog evolved, so did I. Specifically, I became especially interested in musical convergence and a deeper understanding of how industrial and textual concerns inform how music traverses multiple media platforms. I used to say that Alexandra Patsavas took my job. Now I think she’ll help write my dissertation.
Actually, I still think she took my job. Which is why I’d still like to work as a music supervisor in some capacity.
I was wholly unprepared for what this blog became. Relative to the substantial efforts of some of my blogger peers, my aspirations for Feminist Music Geek have always been small. Flow was a good working template for me. But I just thought maybe some of my friends would read it. When I began getting 200 hits a day from people I didn’t know, it got a little weird. My daily traffic spiked considerably since then, but the excitement of seeing that there are readers remains fresh. Each time I post an entry, reply to a comment, contend an argument, correspond with a reader, do an interview, or receive a forwarded item about something I might be interested in, I’m thrilled to be in dialog with folks who care about interpreting music culture from a feminist purview. Some of my colleagues followed suit soon after and started blogs. I don’t credit myself with being the impetus, but would like to think I encouraged them to create a public forum for their ideas.
But as I kept going, I took to heart that facing rejection was hardly the end of the world. If anything, it could be the start of something else. Roughly one year after I started this blog, I began writing for Bitch. There’s no mystery as to how it happened. I saw a tweet that they were looking for someone to blog about television. I proposed looking at the intersection of television and music, an outgrowth of posts like the one I did about Peggy Olsen singing “Bye Bye Birdie.” They were on board. However, it was my second time pitching to them. Eight months before, I drafted an e-mail teeming with half-formed ideas I thought they’d like. Much like the statement of purpose I offered in 2008, it was too broad and vague. My second attempt demonstrated specific intent and a clear personal voice. This made the difference. More to the point, firing off the e-mail was not so scary. Literally, the worst that could happen was that they’d say no. Hardly a reason not to reach out, as they could just as easily say yes.
I’m curious about how this blog will evolve as I reenter the academy. Throughout its run, I’ve worked full-time as an archival aide. I’ve stolen writing time when possible, but have juggled this form of fun time with other responsibilities. As a result, I haven’t written for as many publications as I’d like. I’m jazzed about the possibility of contributing to Antenna and In Media Res. I also would like to, you know, get stuff published in a journal. I’m interested in what colleagues like Annie Petersen and Myles McNutt have done as academic bloggers. I’m challenged by brilliant folks like s.e. smith, LaToya Peterson, Jessica Yee, and the contributors to Womanist Musings, who question feminism and the academic industrial complex I am entering into. I hope to balance professional ambitions with more direct forms of political action, as well as continue to write. I’d love to work with them in some capacity, and they can always count me as an ally.
I’m also anticipating what this blog will look like away from Austin. This is an outgrowth of concern over what I’ll be like away from here. I’ve moved six times within the city, but only claimed residence in Houston prior to starting as a freshman at UT. Frankly, I don’t know what January is going to feel like in Madison. However, I’ve endured my share of humid summers to know that I’m willing to find out.
But this blog is called Feminist Music Geek, and Austin did a lot to make me one. I have no intention of cutting ties with this place or the dear friends who live here, and I’ll always come back for SXSW. I thought I’d close with some songs that are represent my time in Austin and will, much like this warm city of porch drinkers, critical queers, tough-chick rock bands, and professional Democrats, stay close to my heart. It’ll hurt like hell to write this come July, so let’s do it now.
My friend Caitlin recently posted ”You Are Invited” on my Facebook profile when she heard I got into Madison, because she’s a good person. I could pick a lot of Dismemberment Plan songs, as the band’s last two albums (and Björk’s Homogenic) pretty much define 18 and 19 for me. “The Other Side” was the first and last song I played on my radio show at KVRX. “Following Through” recalls much of the romantic angst I carried for a boy during the first year and a half of college. “The City” and “Time Bomb” speak to it more deeply, which makes them harder to withstand. But this song reminds me of a city that didn’t need metaphysical devices to make me feel included.
For about two years, I smoked pot every day. Credit my roommate Amy, a whip-smart survivor who I was close friends with throughout high school and three of my four years in undergrad. She liked her weed, in no small part because she was stressed from holding down multiple part-time jobs to finance her way through school. We fell out of touch senior year despite living together, mainly for petty reasons. Though we grew apart, we still keep in touch. I’ll always think fondly about hanging in our West Campus apartment, watching Dawson’s Creek reruns and Michel Gondry videos, talking shit, eating her oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, giggling, and listening to music. She reviewed Mount Sims’ Ultra Sex when she volunteered for KVRX and it was often the background music for our quality time.
I was in the middle of a fling with some guy when I fell in love with the original version of this song. However, I saw TV on the Radio open for Zykos with a much more important person. The things I remember from that night are: 1) this band could be huge and will be great and 2) the person driving me home doesn’t say much, but he laughs at all my jokes and makes me feel at ease.
I still live with this guy, and he’s moving with me. I love him with all I have and am very proud of him. We have a whole catalog of songs that evoke our relationship, but Visionaries’ “If You Can’t Say Love” probably comes the closest to being “our song.” We’re not married, but you can’t steal this one for your wedding. It’s ours. It’s us.
My feminist music geek awakening happened when KVRX twined with Alliance for a Feminist Option. I attribute this to becoming friends with Brea, who deejayed ”The Girl In the Band” (later renamed “I Like You As a Friend”). There were other women at KVRX whose shows I liked, most notably “Downbeat for Danger,” “Making Babies and Wearing Pants,” and “The Lonely Girls’ Co-op” and, later, “Asides and B-Sides” and “Breakfast of Champions.” But Brea was a lightning rod of activity with platinum dreads to match. I was pretty intimidated by her crew, who organized Ladyfest. I wanted to volunteer, but lurked on their Web site instead. Actually, I’m pretty sure Brea recruited me to come to an AFO meeting because she liked my show. I would have been way too scared to attend otherwise, even though I did interview a member over the phone for a school assignment.
Anyway, getting involved was tremendously influential and I’m proud to claim all of these amazing women as friends. They taught me a lot. My first semester with them was a crash course in queer identification, critical race theory, DIY event planning, veganism, anarchism, and collective organizing. Brea also taught me how to shop for groceries during our six-month stint as roommates. Through befriending the group, I learned that feminists like to dance. The movement requires all you have, including your hips and ass (not separate from the person, of course). Most meetings would end with us dancing in Brea, Catherine, and Chu’s living room. “Hey Ya” was inescapable at the time. Brea could lip sync The Sounds’ “Rock ‘N’ Roll” perfectly. Brea and Chu did the “Galang” dance at every party. But Le Tigre’s “Deceptacon” best encapsulates who we are. Note that the song is participatory. Stomp on that linoleum floor!
Oh, and since Brea was a deejay for hire at basically any grassroots event or house party, I’ll take this moment to announce that I inherited her deejay equipment and will gladly provide music for your happening. Does Madison need tunes for Take Back the Night? I’m your girl.
I saw a lot of great shows for free during my tenure as a college radio deejay. Deerhoof supporting Milkman. Prefuse 73 supporting One Word Extinguisher with DJ Nobody. But one of the best shows I’ve ever seen was Electrelane opening for Le Tigre on my 22nd birthday.
After graduating in 2005, I stuck around and applied to grad school. I also got a job as an editor and voiceover talent at an e-learning company that subsidized grad school (along with a TAship and an RAship–I didn’t sleep much). The gig was fine until my department was outsourced a month before I completed my MA, so I quit. My boss was really patient and would do fun things like take us out for snow cones. Plus he was hilarious, which explains how he could write a comic strip, become a local radio personality, and help launch a successful sketch comedy troupe. He also didn’t seem to mind that I’d listen to music all the time, even playing it faintly under the courses I was working on (actually, he probably minded a lot–maybe he just didn’t know). I especially liked that I didn’t have to take the job home with me. The mp3 server was pretty sweet too. I discovered Girl Talk and Oneida, and came to treasure Jorge Ben’s A Tábua De Esmeralda. I had no idea how difficult it was to find this uplifting 1974 record until my boyfriend procured a copy from Uruguay for my 23rd birthday. I’m so glad I share cat parenting duties with that guy.
I started grad school in 2006. By the end of the first semester, my relationship with my roommate fell apart. This was tricky business as 1) I don’t know anyone who completes grad school without slamming a lot of doors and crying in the bath tub, 2) my boyfriend had just moved in with us, 3) we shared a friend group, and 4) we were both feminists, and it’s hard to figure out how to continue to participate in a movement with someone who should be your sister but you don’t actually like that much. But for a time, we had a happy home. There’s a lot of songs that remind me of this abbreviated period of domestic harmony, but Animal Collective’s “Did You See the Words” comes the closest. I do regret that we didn’t get a band together like all the boys around us did. Luckily Follow That Bird, The Carrots, and Finally Punk were putting on shows.
Grad school remains the most demanding thing I’ve done thus far. The intellectual rigor is one thing. Making friends with really smart people is another endeavor entirely, particularly when your default mode is shyness. During the first year, I was completely intimidated by my cohort. Over time, I made friends. I also saw the Slits. I didn’t see the Gossip, even though Caitlin asked me if I was going to after a screening for the Feminist TV Criticism course we took together. Eventually I realized that I lucked into a cohort with a lot of nice feminists who baked vegan treats and supported Kill Rock Stars. I don’t have many songs that remind me of this period, primarily because writing a thesis while working full-time kept me from listening to much new music. But when I turned in something to my adviser, I played Battles’ “Atlas.”
However, we all know that M.I.A.’s Kaladominated 2007. And I felt so cool pretending to be tuff as I cranked “Paper Planes” on the stereo while trekking up MoPac. The doors were always locked for some reason.
From here, most of the stuff that reminds me of home made appearances on this blog. Kristen did pitch a post on Janet Jackson’s influence on her as a feminist. It never materialized, though she has an open invitation from me. But Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” factored prominently in the design of our music history workshops for Girls Rock Camp. Pop music was never the bad object to us, particularly when creating an inclusive curriculum that celebrated contributions from (among other identity groups) women and girls of color. I’m curious how our friendship will make sense of geographical distance, but confident we’ll figure it out. Despite having to puzzle through how to be friends after growing apart professionally, I have yet to find a better collaborator and feminist role model.
Oh, and Hercules and Love Affair’s “Athene” conjures many happy memories from 2008 and 2009.
There are plenty of other songs I could include, and might put on various mixes for the drive north. At some point in the near future, I’ll start a podcast series to accompany this blog and maybe I’ll include them. I’ll also revisit archived entries and remember being won over by tUnE-yArDs, Joanna Newsom, and Patti Smith, seeing the Shondes, Thao Nguyen, Gossip, Dessa, Christeene, and Screaming Females and putting on rocker girl movie nights, an event I hope finds a new home. Wherever I am, I know I’ll carry pleasant memories of dance parties, high humidity, and breakfast tacos. I’m a Texan by birth, but an Austinite forever.
Broadcast's Trish Keenan; image courtesy of guardian.co.uk
Yesterday, it trickled through Twitter that Broadcast front woman Trish Keenan was battling pneumonia. It’s just been reported that she lost that battle. She’ll definitely be missed. In Austin, it’s currently cold and overcast. In other words, it’s a perfect day to throw on a Broadcast album. If you’re looking for suggestions, you can’t go wrong with any of them, but Haha Sound and Tender Buttons hold special places in my heart. “Color Me In,” to borrow from my review of it for KVRX, sounds like an overture to a musical where the wistful female lead is dreaming of an imaginary beau as the floorboards creak underneath her. “Arc of a Journey” recalls a rollercoaster rider’s lone assent to heaven. And if you want to loop “And I’m Gone,” her collaboration with Café Tacvba that closes Prefuse 73′s Surrounded By Silence, you wouldn’t be the first. It’s powerful stuff.
Like Maura Johnston, Keenan possessed one of my favorite voices. At once saturnine and deceptively expressive, Keenan’s alto seemed a derivation of Stereolab’s Letitia Sadier but was evocative in its singularity. No one made sadness and longing sound quite as tangible yet remote as Keenan. I saw the band once, and they were kind of distant. I think the once-Birmingham-based outfit must have had some ugly run-in with Texan police officers and thought the crowd at the Parish were a bunch of hicks. One guy yelled “Free Bird!” which must have confirmed their suspicions. As a result, KVRX couldn’t get an in-studio recording or an interview out of them. Nonetheless, their hypnotic, esoteric pop entranced me. A pity we couldn’t be closer and we lost her so soon, but as we can gather from a band who knew full well about the unsettling power of melody and memory coming together, we’ll always have the music.
Teena Marie (1956-2010); image courtesy of wikimedia.org
Today at my cubicle was something of a catch-up time, not only for professional assignments but for diving into that bottomless well of new music. One why I don’t like making best-of posts — and why I avoided doing one for 2010 — is that I always forget to mention or overlook something. As much as we like to start each year fresh, remnants of the past always leave themselves to be tended to. When I talked about what I liked this year, I didn’t mention Aloe Blacc and Avey Tare’s most recent releases, which I got to late in the year but keep coming back to. I clearly slept on Lower Dens‘ Two-Hand Movement, which is especially sad because I’m always interested in any of Jana Hunter’s musical projects. Here’s hoping I don’t spend all of next month obsessing over the new Destroyer album, though (predictably) I love what I’ve heard.
An artist whose work I unintentionally put off for years also came to my mind today. Teena Marie died suddenly the day after Christmas. Her influence as an R&B singer was known by me, but mainly because a lot of people made a big deal about how she was a white lady (did people treat Daryl Hall like he was such an anomaly?). Thanks to Jonathan Bernstein’s write-up in the Spin Alternative Record Guide, I knew she was a Rick James protégée and Starchild catapulted her onto the pop charts. And like many white girls who watched Pretty in Pink several times at slumber parties, I remember Andie Walsh asking Blane McDonough if she liked her music to strike up conversation when he cruised into the record store she worked at.
I don't think you should dance with either of them, Andie, but I think Ducky might have been more of a fan of Teena Marie than Blane. He's certainly an Otis Redding fan; image courtesy of popmatters.com
Anyway, I kind of took a hiatus for a few days and didn’t take the time to do any research on her. So I spent some of the morning listening to this funky lady who had an amazing voice. Regrettably, I can’t embed a lot of clips from YouTube, but digging through them is its own treasure trove. I’m still entertaining recommendations on where to start following her career, but I’m sad her untimely death finally got me around to listening. Wish I got to you sooner.
Janelle Monáe did a lot to define 2010's year in music; image courtesy of newblackman.blogspot.com
Jennifer Kelly is my favorite writer at Dusted, my go-to music e-zine. Recently she conceded that this year in music had a lot of contenders, but no clear leader of the pack. She then went on to list ten albums she really liked regardless of music critics’ echo chamber. It’s a good list, and I recommend you check it out. I also think you should give some time to Wetdog, a British punk band I learned about from her list.
In many ways, 2010 was an embarrassment of riches. So many big-name artists released career-peak records and lots of up-and-comers made me excited to listen to music each week (day? half-day? quarter-day? how rapid is the cycle now?). On paper, it’s a banner year. Yet I can’t pick one album that defines it. But that’s probably a good thing.
If I were to draft a list, three albums would place at #2. Critical darling Janelle Monáe comes the closest to topping my list. She defied commercial expectations with a pop album called The ArchAndroid about a futuristic metropolis that fused Prince with Octavia Butler. Joanna Newsom channeled Randy Newman, Joni Mitchell, and Blood on the Tracks-era Dylan to create the dusky reveries on the enveloping Have One on Me. LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy lifted synths straight out of Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration and the Eurythmics’ “Love Is a Stranger” while borrowing from Berlin-era Bowie for This Is Happening, which was book-ended by two of the man’s best songs.
Joanna Newsom on David Letterman; image courtesy of stereogum.com
The last two artists also managed to follow up and improve upon the albums that made them big tent attractions. Like most great pop music, they transcend their influences and ambitions. Yet each album is weighed down by at least one song. I always skip Happening‘s “You Wanted A Hit?,” which is too long and repetitive, even if it is aware of these things. I won’t fault Monáe and Newsom’s scope, but pruning a few tracks off for an EP or as b-sides might have been helpful. I think “Say You’ll Go” and “Kingfisher” don’t have the impact they could have elsewhere. If Newsom were referencing PJ Harvey’s Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea, “Kingfisher” would be her “Horses in My Dreams,” but it’s buried here.
BTW, no one’s jostling for #3. It’s Flying Lotus’ elegantly trippy Cosmagramma all the way.
As with every year, there are albums that are overrated and underpraised. Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is a perfect #11. It’s got fascinating angst and pathos that recalls another celebrity guilt rock record, Nirvana’s In Utero while squarely situating it as a black man’s experiences with fame. West’s bionic, prog-inflected production is the most potent it’s ever been. “All of the Lights” and “Monster” are among the year’s best songs, though credit goes solely to Nicki Minaj for the latter. But Jesus am I tired of reading ovations that cite the rapper’s Twitter feed. Yes, it provides insights into his process. And yes, it is noteworthy how West made so many tracks available to fans before the album was released (and maybe I’d bump it to #10 if “Chain Heavy” made the final cut). But it’s hardly album of the year or even a career best (in my opinion, he still hasn’t improved upon Late Registration).
Conversely, Spoon’s Transference is an ideal #9. People seem to hold one of America’s best rock bands in lower esteem this year for making an incomplete-sounding album. To my ears, this is an ingenious thing for a band so preoccupied with space and compositional austerity to do with a break-up record. I keep returning to tracks like “Is Love Forever” and “Nobody Gets Me,” yearning for a resolution I know I won’t find. I’d also mention that Marnie Stern‘s latest record (which would probably round out the top five) and Dessa‘s A Badly Broken Code (a peerless #4) were slept on. If they didn’t place higher, it’s only because they didn’t feel the need to announce their greatness and came on as slow burners. The same could be said of Seefeel‘s earthy dub on Faults (possibly #7) and Georgia Anne Muldrow, who had an incredibly prolific year that peaked with Kings Ballad (between #8-10). Psalm One’s Woman @ Work series on Bandcamp has me anticipating her next album. Oh, and since this was a year largely defined by albums about break-ups and shaky make-ups, Erykah Badu’s Second World War (#8) needs your attention.
There’s also lots of new stuff I liked this year that I hope ages with me. I’ve made peace with my misgivings about the limited shelf life of Sleigh Bells’ bubblegum through blown speakers, in part because Treats (#12-15 with some staying power) sounds amazing in the car, which is where all great pop records become immortal in the states. I’d like Best Coast more if leader Bethany Cosentino just went ahead and wrote a concept album about the munchies or her cat instead of devoting so many songs to boys. Sufjan Stevens’ indulgence bored me silly, as did Surfer Blood’s inability to rise past their influences and sound like themselves. Big Boi and Bun B’s ambitious releases deserve their accolades, but they should excite me more than they do. I have yet to fall in love with Robyn the way everyone else has, but Rihanna continues to be my girl.
I’m really into the new Anika record, which is tailor-made for insomniacs. However, I’m certain that a woman with a Teutonic monotone snarling her way through catatonia as producer Geoff Barrow quotes post-punk’s buzzsaw guitar noise holds limited appeal. I always welcome a new Gorillaz album, and Plastic Beach certainly delivered. Among others, I liked new efforts from Baths, El Guincho, Noveller, M.I.A., Grass Widow, Sharon Van Etten, Soft Healer, Beach House, Mountain Man, The Black Keys, Cee-Lo Green, Tobacco, Sky Larkin, Tame Impala, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, Nite Jewel, Deerhunter, Vampire Weekend, Warpaint, Antony and the Johnsons, The Budos Band, and Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, even if the last two artists essentially release the same great album each time out. And even though I get a free cocktail if Merge wins the Album of the Year Grammy, Matador had a good year for me with Glasser, Esben and the Witch, and Perfume Genius, whose harrowing confessionals will hopefully find a larger audience (Sufjan fans, listen up).
(Note: don’t get me started on the Arcade Fire. I’m going to be mean and unfair, as I’ve been since I gave up on liking Funeral. Suffice it to say, I’m not fond of them and think I can tell you more about living in a Houston suburb than they can. But it won’t be a productive conversation because I’ll tear up my throat launching cheap shots about dressing for the Dust Bowl and wearing denim jackets to prove that you’re one with the working man. It’s not helpful, so I’ll be kind and say they’re fine at what they do but I want no part of it.)
Part of why I can’t settle on a #1 is because I don’t think it matters. I don’t think I need an album to define the year for me. It’s always seemed that selecting one was a fool’s errand. Steve Albini may very well be an insufferable jerk, but he’s absolutely right when he said “Clip your year-end column and put it away for 10 years. See if you don’t feel like an idiot when you reread it.” Last year, I chose Neko Case’s Middle Cyclone. While it helped situate my feelings for the year, it can’t hold a candle to her modern classicFox Confessor Brings the Flood. But now I’m not even sure what the point is. This exercise doesn’t take into account all of the older music I finally prioritized this year. For me, 2010 is just as much defined by digging through Cocteau Twins and Throwing Muses records (4AD had a good year in all kinds of ways), as well as getting excited about Mary Timony, Jenny Toomey, and Carla Bozulich.
Carla Bozulich and I will be spending some quality time together next year; image courtesy of wfmu.org
Furthermore, I’ve sometimes lost sight of why I write in this medium. Apart from being vulnerable to having my content scraped by sketchy sites and feeling like I should be doing something more politically important with my time, it can be a challenge to keep the routine of blogging from dulling the impact of your work. This may have more to do with a need to explore scarier forms of writing, like the kind that requires the involvement of a guitar or a storyboard. As a departure, I started a film blog series for Bitch last month. It’s been the right kind of challenging, though I’m not always certain I’m effectively communicating what I hope to accomplish. Music allows for abstraction where films require exposition, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m writing several variations on “I walked to the chair and sat down.” But I’m learning and it’s been a lot of fun.
I don’t mean to be self-effacing toward my efforts, as I’m proud of them. It’s been a good year and it’s healthy to be critical when you’re taking stock. Perhaps I’m responding to a lack of stability. This was a year of change. Some changes were seismic, like when several friends had babies. Others were gradual, like my partner launching a successful music e-zine and me delving into the world of freelance writing in earnest while taking a deep breath and learning to play the guitar. While some friends returned to Austin, others moved away this year and more are soon to follow in 2011. There’s even an infinitesimal chance I’ll be in that number, but the likelihood of uprooting and leaving the food carts and backyard parties of my adopted home is so small and too profound to consider, so I push it away.
But as I’ve thought on these feelings during the year, the lyrics from LCD Soundsystem’s “Home” resonate. Though detractors may note Murphy’s manipulating my generation with lines like “love and rock are fickle things” and “you’re afraid of what you need . . . if you weren’t, I don’t know what we’d talk about,” I’ve taken comfort in crooning them in my car. That’s the best of what pop music can accomplish–taking abstractions and making them applicable to life’s mundane realities, at times clarifying their importance. In whatever medium, I can’t wait for another year of writing about it.
James Murphy, you and I had another good year; image courtesy of nymag.com
Ari Up (1962-2010); image courtesy of pitchfork.com
It’s just been reported that Slits’ frontwoman Ari Up died today following sustained ailing health. I literally gasped upon hearing this news and am tearing up a bit as I type this. For me, Ari Up’s legacy can’t be overstated, nor can the influence of her pioneering all-female punk-reggae band. The first song my college station played in its inaugural broadcast was “FM.” Here’s what she gave me.
The cover for the Slits’ debut record, Cut, which floored me the first time I saw it. I’ve refrained from writing a post on it because of its iconic status. But it always gets reactions when it’s brought up in the Girls Rock Camp Austin music history workshops I co-teach. Incidentally, I’m about to leave for a girls studies conference in New York where I’m co-moderating a panel on GRC, so this news has an additional layer of resonance.
Cover for Cut (Island, 1979); image courtesy of pitchfork.com
The electricity of politically charged lyrics, cheek, and amateurish musicianship that’s all over her band’s early output. Why not start a band at fourteen even if we can’t play? Why not sing about shoplifting? Why not cover “I Heard It Through the Grapevine”? Why not piss on stage in the middle of a performance? Why not drop some dub in the tracks? British punk and post-punk took itself quite seriously, but the Slits always made rebellion look like fun. When I finally bought this album on vinyl in my early twenties after years of it being in and out of print and listening to other people’s copies and shitty mp3s, it was a damn miracle.
Her band’s cameo in Derek Jarman’s Jubilee shows them destroying a car. Far more interesting and cool than Malcolm McLaren’s idea to feature them as sex slaves in his idea for the female version of The Great Rock N’ Roll Swindle that thankfully wasn’t made.
Let’s not forget Return of the Giant Slits either, as Everett True hasn’t. It featured “In the Beginning There Was Rhythm,” which I think was their best single. It was released as a split single with the Pop Group’s “Where There’s a Will.” I love the Pop Group as much as Lavinia Greenlaw. Up and the Pop Group’s Mark Stewart were later in the New Age Steppers. They were good too. And I certainly don’t think we’d get M.I.A. without them.
Ari Up introduced me to Sister Nancy. While I should probably call Ari on her bullshit as a German-British ex-pat Rastafarian who fetishizes the primitive to offset her publishing heiress roots, I think she believed in reggae and the guiding principles of her adopted ideology. She also never obscured her origins, but reconciled them with her mother’s bohemian tendencies and her need to keep herself open to embrace possibilities and conflicting impulses. Plus, few people could claim John Lydon as their stepfather without it seeming weird.
She was a hell of an interview. She may not have had much use for brevity, but her words were teeming with wit and brilliance. And if she was self-aggrandizing, well, I’d prefer my epic musical personae to acknowledge their own greatness than shrug it off.
Let’s not overlook 2006′s Revenge of the Killer Slits and their follow-up Trapped Animal either. I actually got to see a reunited version of the Slits that fall (sans Viv Albertine, who I’ve since caught as a solo act). I’ll always remember how energetic she was. She was also tremendously available. Even when she admonished a party girl fashionista who rushed the stage during “Typical Girls” for not getting its message, it was just gentle ribbing. And while the band got sharper, particularly bassist Tessa Pollitt and recruited drummer Anna Schultze, Up’s gleeful anarchic spirit remained at the center.
You were a strange, funny, brave, and inspired lady, Ari Up. You’ll be missed.
