So, this is pretty much what goes down at a PDL band practice... Hashing out the moves. Here it's Jonathan, Nancy and Josh choreographing for the breakdown in Snap Goes the Gator Jaw.
Practice, practice, practice! Hash, hash, hash! If we ever practice the music, it's on the way to the show in the car.
(P.S. Why does the YouTube compressor darken the shiznit off uploaded videos?)
Friday, October 5, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Dear Everyone,
I was typing out a list of everything I'd be doing in the next week, but suffice it to say, I'm going to a wedding in N.J. this weekend, and this is one of those weeks where like literally every spare moment of every day is being scheduled to within an inch of its life. Tonight I got future america rehearsal, tomorrow improv class, next day I have to buy pants after work AND somehow find time to move a flat file from storage into my new studio. Thursday I'm taking a red-eye to NJ and I won't be back 'til Monday of the week after, and I have to spend all this time in N.J., so Chrsitina and I will only get to see New York for like 24 hours, if that. Craziness. Maybe during work I can bust some blogging. I'd love to. Something about Afro-American zionist cults or something? I left my work-laptop at home today so things have been weird.
Last week was fucking crazy and this week might be more of the same, in that it's been one of those times at work where you really actually spend the entirety of every day trying to solve work problems and actually working. then you spend all night trying to calm down (or learning improv. or learning future america songs).
Which is all to say this: Don't think I haven't thought the ponce projects into the ground already. I've thought about what I want these things to b e a lot. The videotaping of the musical as a musical was an art idea, not a commercial advancement idea, and maybe it has to do with my own eccentric aesthetics or something, but it was never an idea I expected to be particularly popular, nor did I think it would ever win any "new" audience over really (well, maybe a little). Just something I wanted to do. Doesn't matter, because there's not enough time to do that stuff in our life. If I can make any one of the 4 or 5 "good" ideas happen I'll be super happy. I'm already simply amazed that I finished the fucker (*the "fucker" is The Island of Florida: A Foundation Myth, the Ponce De Leon musical) for the first round. I'm honestly very busy at work right now and that probably won't change until late October. 30 minutes of music is fine. You throw some intro and outro dialogue in there, or write one more song "inspired by" the show and you got a 45 minute album, which fits on one side of a 90 minute tape, which means it's good enough for my 15 year old self, which is all I've ever demanded from music.
-John
Thursday, September 27, 2007
War Boner: A Certain Lack of Greatness
IN WHICH KEN BURNS' NEW DOCUMENTARY "THE WAR" IS REVIEWED AND REVEALED.
Scarcely relevant, but desperately desired in this time of national identity crisis, Ken Burns' "The War" drops this week onto our television screens like the grim discharge from a B-17.
Finally! A World War Two documentary I can masturbate to...
Over a pastiche of enchanting black & white footage of machine guns, amorphous explosions and assorted death, we are treated to a vying of narrational space by the septuagenarian "witnesses" and the omniscient "Lord of History," whose husky, muted tone--that of a middle aged man setting down his cigar to lean into our ear--sounds like nothing so much as a child molester.
When we do see the old-timers, it's an explosion of orange. And it's the warmth of the present compared to the grainy past that is most jarring; the story of their survival and the resemblance between them and our grandparents are similarly astounding. The stories are evocative and dear. Immediately, warning sirens go off in my head.
Am I being pandered to? Do treacly, sentimental talking heads captured by a camera lens smeared with vaseline paint an honest picture of history or is it all fantasy? I know and understand that Ken Burns is the master of the genre he created, because my raw emotional involvement with everything he does proves that.
But every time Tom Hanks affects a colloquial speech pattern, or the stylized editing calls attention to itself, or the cuteness of the old people bursts the lid, I sense the manipulation... Ken Burns running his fingers along the luscious flesh of my national pride, churning up a greasy self-loathing; enabling a stirring of vintage, nationalistic swelling; a self-imposed, self-testing of self-worthiness that bottoms out in self-love. A little Narcissistic smile ripples, transferred on the surface of a television to the nation, already eyeing the fife and drum hanging--waiting--on living room walls across the country. Did Paul Revere ever stop riding?
Beautiful, skin deep wraiths of history haunt our lurid fantasies, entwining with our self-worth, which balances against what we might be able to offer the world, and contrarily, wring from it for ourselves. That is masturbation. An unattainable desire leapt at. What we want for the future must always pass by the boards of the past.
Paul Revere haunts the woods of New England still, alert to bustles in the bushes. He will kick down the bedroom door and find you at your most vulnerable, asleep, a virtual baby, or in your most awkward prostrations. The ransom to pay him for knowledge of these humiliations (we are born with), is to accept his offer: this sacred monster's particular fantasy of a perfect, ideological identity. The true blessing of procreation: becoming.
It's that kind of sloppily motherly mythologizing that renders the atrocities meaningless and the images of death here so profoundly unmoving, pushing them past absurd into the realm of the fabricated. You get the sense that Ken Burns revels in this stuff, just so he can tell a "fantastic" story. I would be destroyed by the reading of the achingly beautiful article in Life Magazine if I couldn't also hear the producers loudly chewing on its entrails offstage.
Paul Revere's ride, interrupted by dark, pre-Freudian
urges: And a nation's Creation Myth fuddbuckered in the
ancient New England Woods
But I'm not so callous as to be unmoved by these autobiographies and to not feel for these veterans and interviewees. My heart breaks at the first mention of ice cream by sprightly Katharine Phillips, the ace example of the simple pleasures in her idyllic Mobile before bombers darkened the sky. I find myself looking for my grandfathers in the footage. One was in Alaska serving as a mechanic, and so I searched for him in vain from the edge of my seat among the faces in the film when the "Alaska" vignette took to the center.
Tonight I could have sworn I saw the other, pointing to a map, explaining something to other soldiers somewhere in Normandy with that sardonic, sober face he always had. I snapped to attention on the comfy couch, 800,000 miles from that stolen moment, either absolutely true, or completely fabricated by my brain.
I need this documentary. And I don't. It's like beating off that way. Repulsive and desirable.
I alternate between bubbling sadness over wars existence and anger at the enemy of my granddads. Meanwhile, my semi-studious face raises an eyebrow in salute to unknown facts... shocked and emboldened to learn that 60 million people died, the massacre of supply ships in the Gulf of Mexico, the zealotry of the Japs, etc. But the plot immediately performs a swan dive off the precipice of observation into the blubbery, gurgling tub that is national soul-searching. From there, it's a delicate ingress to the nursery, a softly wall-papered room adorned with gentle twin American flag sets, where my inner-child sleeps and paws at the cradle, tended to with a spatula by the miniature manservant that is my ego.
Like knotted muscles these concurrent emotions rub against each other, two globes of queasy emotion. It's that oscillation between feeling and knowing, that dull pumping motion, that begins to stroke my brain, lusciously. The confluence of empathy and knowledge of fabrication whips up the whirlpool of fantasy.
Dark Arbor HarborFantasies are not always sexual, and whatever the medium, they can cast a harsh light on what it is we are attracted to, and what we want from life. I say "can cast" because for the most part we get lost in swoons of reverie at their random appearance. You can't document life and live simultaneously.
To those who aren't paying attention, almost getting there is the same as getting there. It's the full acceptance of gauzy, adumbrated fantasies that calls a nation of paintballers to arms, and for them to violently reenact the quelled past with the murderous, livid present. Those that don't trust the past are forever condemned to be sustained at the fountain of mawkish biographies of it.
Unable to rectify what's happening outside with the primordial urges inside him, the wanker will recede to the nearest, darkest arbor to perform the rite of homage to the fantasy.
That's the danger of this documentary. An artist floats his work out into the ocean like a toy boat and hopes that it catches the Gulf Stream, or the larger current of history. But how can something as ham-fisted as this temper our thoughts on the current war? Why should it, you ask? Because Ken Burns wants it to:
Is this the deepest we can go in attributing the past to our current woes? A weak similarity? The point of history is to forever compare it to the present, yes. I'm not asking for this documentary to compare itself to the Iraq war, just that it compare itself to something other than pornography. This, unfortunately then, is the deepest it will go--maudlin, storied pandering to the scant few of the US Weekly-addled crowd who feign to dip their toes in this or any other thought-provoking PBS documentary.
I immediately call into question Ken Burns' political affiliation, especially now that I hear him lamenting how we're not sacrificing anything for our war like they did in the 40's. Does PBS know that such a fierce conservative stalks their halls?
Someone call Bill Moyers,
there's a stranger in his house
The only connection to the present I can find so far in this documentary is that we won The War over insurmountable odds, thanks to the nascent stirrings of an as-yet unlearned beastly national identity. So here we are, with our well-proved identity, ready to install it anywhere it isn't wanted by those in power who refuse to learn from history. (Rape or masturbation, depending on the recipient being a human or a dirty shirt.)
Oh, how we come back to ourselves when no one will love us; alone in a sickbed with our empty ardor, waiting for the blood to condense in all the right glands, wanting only to be wanted again, promising to strike at the next opportunity, strengthened by our first mistakes.
Scarcely relevant, but desperately desired in this time of national identity crisis, Ken Burns' "The War" drops this week onto our television screens like the grim discharge from a B-17.
Finally! A World War Two documentary I can masturbate to...
Over a pastiche of enchanting black & white footage of machine guns, amorphous explosions and assorted death, we are treated to a vying of narrational space by the septuagenarian "witnesses" and the omniscient "Lord of History," whose husky, muted tone--that of a middle aged man setting down his cigar to lean into our ear--sounds like nothing so much as a child molester.When we do see the old-timers, it's an explosion of orange. And it's the warmth of the present compared to the grainy past that is most jarring; the story of their survival and the resemblance between them and our grandparents are similarly astounding. The stories are evocative and dear. Immediately, warning sirens go off in my head.
Am I being pandered to? Do treacly, sentimental talking heads captured by a camera lens smeared with vaseline paint an honest picture of history or is it all fantasy? I know and understand that Ken Burns is the master of the genre he created, because my raw emotional involvement with everything he does proves that.
But every time Tom Hanks affects a colloquial speech pattern, or the stylized editing calls attention to itself, or the cuteness of the old people bursts the lid, I sense the manipulation... Ken Burns running his fingers along the luscious flesh of my national pride, churning up a greasy self-loathing; enabling a stirring of vintage, nationalistic swelling; a self-imposed, self-testing of self-worthiness that bottoms out in self-love. A little Narcissistic smile ripples, transferred on the surface of a television to the nation, already eyeing the fife and drum hanging--waiting--on living room walls across the country. Did Paul Revere ever stop riding?Beautiful, skin deep wraiths of history haunt our lurid fantasies, entwining with our self-worth, which balances against what we might be able to offer the world, and contrarily, wring from it for ourselves. That is masturbation. An unattainable desire leapt at. What we want for the future must always pass by the boards of the past.
Paul Revere haunts the woods of New England still, alert to bustles in the bushes. He will kick down the bedroom door and find you at your most vulnerable, asleep, a virtual baby, or in your most awkward prostrations. The ransom to pay him for knowledge of these humiliations (we are born with), is to accept his offer: this sacred monster's particular fantasy of a perfect, ideological identity. The true blessing of procreation: becoming.
It's that kind of sloppily motherly mythologizing that renders the atrocities meaningless and the images of death here so profoundly unmoving, pushing them past absurd into the realm of the fabricated. You get the sense that Ken Burns revels in this stuff, just so he can tell a "fantastic" story. I would be destroyed by the reading of the achingly beautiful article in Life Magazine if I couldn't also hear the producers loudly chewing on its entrails offstage.
Paul Revere's ride, interrupted by dark, pre-Freudian
urges: And a nation's Creation Myth fuddbuckered in the
ancient New England Woods
But I'm not so callous as to be unmoved by these autobiographies and to not feel for these veterans and interviewees. My heart breaks at the first mention of ice cream by sprightly Katharine Phillips, the ace example of the simple pleasures in her idyllic Mobile before bombers darkened the sky. I find myself looking for my grandfathers in the footage. One was in Alaska serving as a mechanic, and so I searched for him in vain from the edge of my seat among the faces in the film when the "Alaska" vignette took to the center.
Tonight I could have sworn I saw the other, pointing to a map, explaining something to other soldiers somewhere in Normandy with that sardonic, sober face he always had. I snapped to attention on the comfy couch, 800,000 miles from that stolen moment, either absolutely true, or completely fabricated by my brain.
I need this documentary. And I don't. It's like beating off that way. Repulsive and desirable.
I alternate between bubbling sadness over wars existence and anger at the enemy of my granddads. Meanwhile, my semi-studious face raises an eyebrow in salute to unknown facts... shocked and emboldened to learn that 60 million people died, the massacre of supply ships in the Gulf of Mexico, the zealotry of the Japs, etc. But the plot immediately performs a swan dive off the precipice of observation into the blubbery, gurgling tub that is national soul-searching. From there, it's a delicate ingress to the nursery, a softly wall-papered room adorned with gentle twin American flag sets, where my inner-child sleeps and paws at the cradle, tended to with a spatula by the miniature manservant that is my ego.
Like knotted muscles these concurrent emotions rub against each other, two globes of queasy emotion. It's that oscillation between feeling and knowing, that dull pumping motion, that begins to stroke my brain, lusciously. The confluence of empathy and knowledge of fabrication whips up the whirlpool of fantasy.
Dark Arbor HarborTo those who aren't paying attention, almost getting there is the same as getting there. It's the full acceptance of gauzy, adumbrated fantasies that calls a nation of paintballers to arms, and for them to violently reenact the quelled past with the murderous, livid present. Those that don't trust the past are forever condemned to be sustained at the fountain of mawkish biographies of it.
Unable to rectify what's happening outside with the primordial urges inside him, the wanker will recede to the nearest, darkest arbor to perform the rite of homage to the fantasy.
That's the danger of this documentary. An artist floats his work out into the ocean like a toy boat and hopes that it catches the Gulf Stream, or the larger current of history. But how can something as ham-fisted as this temper our thoughts on the current war? Why should it, you ask? Because Ken Burns wants it to:
“The War” was begun before the United States went into Afghanistan and Iraq, and Mr. Burns is adamant that his film is not a political statement, but he acknowledged that parallels will be drawn. History “is the set of questions we in the present ask of the past,” he said. “It is informed by our anxieties, by our failures, by our successes, by our hopes, by our wishes, by all the questions we have.”
-New York Times
Is this the deepest we can go in attributing the past to our current woes? A weak similarity? The point of history is to forever compare it to the present, yes. I'm not asking for this documentary to compare itself to the Iraq war, just that it compare itself to something other than pornography. This, unfortunately then, is the deepest it will go--maudlin, storied pandering to the scant few of the US Weekly-addled crowd who feign to dip their toes in this or any other thought-provoking PBS documentary.
I immediately call into question Ken Burns' political affiliation, especially now that I hear him lamenting how we're not sacrificing anything for our war like they did in the 40's. Does PBS know that such a fierce conservative stalks their halls?
Someone call Bill Moyers,
there's a stranger in his house
Oh, how we come back to ourselves when no one will love us; alone in a sickbed with our empty ardor, waiting for the blood to condense in all the right glands, wanting only to be wanted again, promising to strike at the next opportunity, strengthened by our first mistakes.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Basically, This...
...videogame made for the Mac SE is the secret lodestar of our era (and so our new blog, "Buff History")... 8-bit slave trading from a simpler time when raising an army was as cheap as $500.
"Gold of the Americas: The Conquest of the New World"
Relevant Link: The Vintage Mac Museum
"Gold of the Americas: The Conquest of the New World"
Relevant Link: The Vintage Mac Museum
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