“The new compact synths resembled an orchestra in a box; you didn’t need to have a whole band of instrumentalists. Suddenly pop was packed with duos who divided labour neatly between the composer-operator, and the singer-lyricist: Eurythmics, Yazoo, Tears For Fears, Blancmange, Pet Shop Boys. The shape of a synth-pop outfit was subversive, or at least enough to make rockists uneasy: the rock band’s gang-like structure replaced by same-sex ‘couples’ plus the occasional female diva plus male boffin partnership.”

Simon Reynolds, “One Nation Under a Moog”

A concise survey/leadup to the forthcoming BBC doc Synth Britannia, which sounds awesome, and not just for the title alone. Reynolds also makes note that Pink Floyd’s “On the Run” is something of a precursor to synthpop (using an EMS)–at least putting synths on a really big stage. I’d always considered it an interstitial between “Breathe” and “Time”, but listening to it all by itself is something different altogether:

Okay, let’s go through the sections of the disc in the order I watched them. First, there’s a bonus segment where Cavett sits down with Mick Jagger. Not just Mick Jagger, though, but a preternaturally old-looking Mick Jagger in 1972, at the height of the Stones’ remarkable streak of post-Beatles “biggest band in the world” debauchery. Given these circumstances, the sit-down is relatively uneventful, but Cavett does get in a mention of the fact that Jagger majored in Economics at University, then asked him if he was, in fact, a Keynesian. Jagger seemed taken aback, but then talked for a second about it in a moment of sentimental clarity that he definitely wasn’t used to at that point in his career. Elsewhere, after Jagger mentioned Marlene Dietrich still performing at an advanced age (Jagger was still sub-30 here), Cavett fucking broke into song, accompanied on the first line by Jagger. Just bizarre.

The Bowie part is why I ordered the DVD, and while it was a bit of a let-down musically (just horribly-mic’ed versions of “1984″ and “Young Americans”), the interview is total time-capsule material. This was Bowie’s coke-fueled period, and it’s made abundantly clear during the first third of the interview, as he nervously squirms in his seat, endlessly fiddling with a cane and, yes, rubbing his nose involuntarily. He was completely at home performing, but sitting still under uncomfortable stage lights was not his forte. It was still very entertaining, though (once the screaming kids in the audience quieted down), to see Cavett accidentally get Bowie, who’s obviously well-read, to talk about such seemingly square things as what books he’s reading and, yes, what his parents do for a living.

An unexpected surprise was the hippie segment of the DVD, which featured Joni Mitchell, Jefferson Airplane and half of CSNY (the C and the S, specifically), all of whom performed. That’s not the coolest part though; they had all just returned–Stills with dirt still on his jeans–from Woodstock, which had freshly wrapped up about an hour north of Cavett’s studio. I haven’t been too large of a fan of late-Sixties psych-rock since I stopped doing acid, and Jefferson Airplane proved why–despite the best efforts of super-hot Grace Slick, they earnestly meandered through two songs that were frozen in time before they were even written. Joni Mitchell brought the fucking house down, though—she was demure and luminous, performing two songs on piano and one a capella. Even Cavett realized her timeless vocal talent. Crosby and Stills strolled in about halfway through, and Crosby was his typically annoying, talkative hippie self—at one point issuing a fatwa against oil companies, recommending that they all just “go out of business.” Cavett seemed genuinely lost a few times–a bit overwhelmed by both the number of guests (who looked as goofy as Cavett sitting on naughahyde stumps) and the tenor of the conversation, which frequently got away from Cavett’s wheelhouse of high culture. Also, there was a very obtrusive boom mic. The best performance, though, was Stills’ just perfect rendition of perhaps his best song, the somber “4+20″.

And then, well, there’s Sly. I featured him the other day here, but this clip is much, much more entertaining. He barely makes it to his seat before engaging the game Cavett in some coked-up mind games that Cavett never falls for, either because he’s blissfully unaware (perhaps) or just a stalwart professional (probably). You just kind of have to watch (sorry for the bad quality, time-coded TV rip here):

If “Love Monkey” offers anything to critique, it’s not the fact that its source material is the sub-sub-Hornby book of the same name or the fact that talented co-star Larenz Tate, as “potent black guy”, needs to jump ship, quickly. The most important aspect of the show has everything to do with the manner in which it illuminates the intersection between rock and roll’s popular canon (determined by Jann Wenner and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame) and the massive entertainment conglomerates that produce it. In the Variety piece, CBS Marketing guru (and huge Test Icicles fan) George Schweitzer informs us of the show’s purpose: “It’s part of our new look. The net is getting younger, and this is a show that has appeal in many different groups”. All well and good, but “Love Monkey” doesn’t have the niche capacity of a show like “The O.C.”, which, because it’s on Fox, can take chances with lesser-known bands, thereby actually giving it some measure of credibility. So—and this is great—what we get to witness first-hand is the result of two remarkably out-of-touch corporations attempting to appeal to the youngsters, and failing.

While there are thousands of pretty good bands languishing in obscurity probably eager to slap on some pancake and rub elbows with original indie-yuppie (and co-producer) Nic Harcourt, the producers and writers of “Love Monkey” play it financially safe with Geiger, whose musical credibility is about as believable as the apartments in “Friends” are affordable. But it’s not just the guest spots that taint the show’s (and, by association, Tom’s) tastes, it’s the musical references mentioned. Any music geek knows, the sign of a true aficionado is not what lies in his/her collection, but what names they can drop on the spot—James Murphy’s now legendary “Losing My Edge” serving as the ultimate example. But when Tom stands up and counters his boss’ fatwa against musical authenticity during the staff meeting, the show’s true colors become obvious. He mentions—ready for these?—The Beatles, Dylan, The Clash and Aretha Franklin. Let’s review: Pop? Check. “Meaning?” Check. Vitriol? Check. Black Soul-Person? Check. (A month later, and you know Wilson Pickett would have been in there). Not that these artists, otherwise known as the Mount Rushmore of rock for tuxedoed label execs, aren’t great. Of course they are. But they’re mentioned during Tom’s rant not because of their musical accomplishments as much as their untouchable standing as cultural icons. They’re being manipulated in much the same way that Ray Charles was twenty years ago on “Who’s the Boss”, or Stevie Wonder was on “The Cosby Show”, or even, yes, The Beach Boys were on “Full House”. Or the Who by Hummer/H2. Or Led Zeppelin by Cadillac. Instead of choosing the show’s music based on its thematic parallels to the quintessentially male dilemmas of relationship selfishness and/or commitment-phobia, like High Fidelity (which “Monkey” shamelessly rips) they’ve been selected based on careful consideration of the broadest appeal possible—which, by the way, makes Tom look like a vanilla Rolling Clone. This, again, is nothing new for commercial television. But it stands as Tom’s “means of expression” (Boston Globe) as much as a promo cut-out in a record store.

Most importantly, there’s no way that any of the artists mentioned have any resonance whatsoever to any “youth” market CBS or Sony could be aiming toward. It’s as clunky an attempt in that regard as Jason Priestley’s referral to Tori Amos as “vagina music” is to appeal to the Maxim crowd. Again, I should mention that there’s nothing out of the ordinary here, but the fact that CBS and Sony/BMG are recycling the collective memories of music fans and repurposing them as composite bait for the 18-34 demographic is, well, fucked up. Let me explain. I have (and I know you do too, if you’ve read this far) very distinct and specific memories of The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Clash and Aretha Franklin, and myriad reasons why I like some things (“White Man in Hammersmith Palais”, Aretha Live at the Fillmore West, the “aahhh” moment before the second chorus in “Ticket to Ride”, John Wesley Harding) and dislike others (Cut the Crap, “Freeway of Love”, Shot of Love, “Honey Pie”). But that doesn’t matter to CBS, Sony/BMG, and their cross-eyed step-child “Love Monkey”, who bundle everything together under the rubric of “classic”. If I buy Teddy Geiger’s new single “Love is a Marathon” (hey, Sony, I’m waiting for an mp3–see the name of the blog?), I’ve done my job as a viewer/consumer. While nothing I’ve mentioned here should strike any reader as new, this cross-promotional attack by the two corporations is definitely novel. And that’s what passes for good as far as network television and major-label distribution is concerned. A gimmicky method to attract viewers or listeners marks a product as innovative, regardless of content. Most times, it’s all that’s needed.

So is it just a case of the majority of viewers lacking taste or intelligence to appreciate this program, as many disgruntled fans and critics suggest? I think AD’s lack of ratings stems less from viewer practices, but more from issues involved in the ratings system itself. Ratings are seen by many in the industry as the site of viewer democracy, as people vote with their eyeballs what shows they want to watch and what they avoid. But Nielsen ratings are less like voting than like exit polling (and if exit polls were the measure of democracy, hello President Kerry!) — people cannot choose to participate in Nielsen ratings, and Nielsen only measures a miniscule fragment of the television viewing population.

Read the full article here.

The episode aired in December 1982, five years after the disbanding of the Sex Pistols and almost three since The Clash carved punk’s epitaph with London Calling. Punk had moved underground, and wouldn’t rear its head again on a national level until 1991. Mainstream record buyers had much preferred scene-dwellers Blondie, and followed the band and the synthetic new-wave sound it helped found to the Top 40.

However, there was a documentary released in 1981 about the Los Angeles punk music underground called The Decline of Western Civilization. Directed by Penelope Spheeris, it charted the course of legendarily volatile west coast punks The Germs, Black Flag, The Circle Jerks, and Fear. Instead of viewing the film with a critical eye toward its ethnographic underpinnings, most took the title of the film as literal and saw it as a cautionary tale about, well, you know.

The latter group of Decline viewers no doubt included the producers of Quincy, who created an entire episode about the deleterious effects of, you guessed it, punk music. The story centers on a stabbing that occurs during a concert by punk band “Mayhem” which looks and sounds much more death metal than punk, but I digress. There is much moralizing, and when Quincy takes the stage to lecture the kids, hilarity ensues. Some quotes (contained in the clip):

“If I knew where that girl was, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell a cop. ‘Cause that’s all you are, man, is a dog without a uniform.”

“That’s a crock, mister. You think we’re all zombie killers!” followed by: “You’re the killers! Your whole sick society!”

Find more clips here.

Also, last week’s New York Times featured a great piece by Alessandra Stanley on Cruise, approaching his antics as those of someone who’s finally broken free of publicist-driven talking points.

This is what I love about British serial television. The best programs know to quit when they’re ahead:

The numbers don’t lie, folks. Three of the most popular and acclaimed British television programs outnumbered by three of the most popular and acclaimed American television programs 874 to 32. Does that make them any better? That’s a matter of much subjectivity. No, wait, it’s not. Statistically, they are better. From my calculations, the British shows are batting 1.000 on the quality scale. Not a bad episode in the lot. On the other hand, the amount of bad television included in the American triumverate could fill 26 years of programming on the BBC. Don’t get me wrong, “The Simpsons,” in my opinion, is the best family-centered program ever to air on television, period. I base this assumption, however, on episodes aired before 2000, when they “jumped the shark.” On that note, has that term ever been applied to a British sitcom? (By the way, “Happy Days,” 255 episodes.)What this leads me to is the recent decision by NBC (and, more importantly, creators Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant—who looks remarkably like your author) to reappropriate “The Office” with American actors and pop-culture references in an attempt to regain their “Friends” and “Frasier” audiences, geared to a slightly hipper and smarter type of comedy. My initial reaction, probably similar to many other fans of the show, was one of outrage—at the cynicism of NBC to assume that blatant copying of distinctly British humor with American coloring would pass for entertainment. Surely the general viewing populace would be smart enough to boycott the show and watch episode one of season two of the original on DVD instead. Then, after throwing up after laughing for several minutes, we regained our composure and realized that, of course, that’s what American television is all about.

The only smart move NBC made was hiring Steve Carell as the David Brent character. Carell is a marvelous comedic actor, capable of playing distinctly stupid and unlikeable characters like no one since Chris Elliott or, perhaps, Will Ferrell. However, Carell’s strengths as an actor lead to the main problem with the Americanized version of “The Office.” It’s dumb. And unlikeable. Carell may have stolen camera time away from the likes of Jon Stewart on “The Daily Show” and Ferrell in “Anchorman,” but, despite his best efforts, he can’t save this show.

Ricky Gervais, who had very limited acting experience before embarking on “The Office,” imbued David Brent with a smarmy insouciance that made you feel sorry for him even as you gasped at his complete lack of social grace and interpersonal communicative competence. And he was funny as hell. The show was created as a vehicle for the character, and succeeded wildly based on it. In the American version, Carrell is simply a culturally lobotomized buffoon, with no charm or grace to create any sympathy for his obliviousness. The same goes for Gareth Keenan, played by avian-faced Mackenzie Crook with an innocence that belied his completely annoying behavior. His American counterpart, while equally strange-looking, strikes me more as a two-dimensional “stapler guy” from “Office Space.”

Finally, getting back to my original point, what is the marker for the ultimate success of the American version of “The Office?” It seems that its ostensible American success (a long run) would run completely counter to the original premise of the British show, a documentary camera crew following a bumbling manager around a middle-class paper distribution office. Part of the brilliance of the British version was its verisimilitude. More even that Christopher Guest’s genre-defining mockumentaries, the look and feel, combined with its short broadcast run, gave the feel of a distinct television event with clear character arcs and a clever avoidance of mawkishness. It’s only a matter of time before the American version runs out of jokes from the British version—at fourteen episodes, it looks like it jumps the shark at the beginning of Season Two.