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Chapter 6, The Revolution Will Not Be Dressed in Dockers, (Published by The Rogue Voice, July 2007)

"Sometimes I think that knowledge - when it's knowledge for knowledge's sake, anyway - is the worst of all." - Salinger, Franny and Zooey

I wake up unusually refreshed but still lost in the half-sleep haze. I was so damn fatigued last night that I forgot to set my alarm. It’s 11:47am right now. This just about guarantees that I’ll be late for Dialectical Investigations, which begins at noon.

Dialectical Investigations is my first class on Friday. I spent hours upon hours devising a schedule that would ensure that I wouldn’t have any morning Friday classes.

I did it because I was deeply envious of all of the kids that were free to booze on Thursday nights. Free to do whatever they pleased. Free to have a pleasant, luxuriating transition to the weekend.

I thought it would be worth it at the time. And it sort of was. It’s nice to able to sleep into late Friday morning. It's nice to occasionally go out on Thursday.

But little did I know last spring that I’d be working at Jamba Juice on Thursday nights. And little did I know about how much friggin’ work I’d have to do for Dialectical.

The mere quantity of work isn’t remarkable. It’s insurmountable for sure, but so is every class. The remarkable thing about Dialectical is that you actually have to do the work.

Professor will randomly call on people every class. He doesn’t do it a lot though. Maybe one or two people a class. But it’s enough to keep you on your toes. And he won’t relent. He’ll interrogate you until your sense of shame is unmistakably clear to everyone in the class.

I fear these interrogations for every class, even when I’ve done the reading. On days like this, when I’ve done none of it, I’m usually terrified. But this morning, for some reason, I’m pretty calm.

This morning the only thing I’m worried about is getting there on time. I brush my teeth and splash water on my face hastily. I toss the assigned reading and my notebook in my backpack, find some folded clothes in my drawers, put ‘em on, and get rolling.

I walk swiftly through Middle Campus, blowing by a herd of hambones and hooknasties that are as pure and refined as the lawns of the suburban homes they were raised in. The Campus Fountain is to my left and it’s looking immaculate as always. But I have no time to appreciate it. It’s 12:03pm, approaching a time when I’ll actually be embarrassed to be late.

I begin to move with deep urgency now, rhythmically strutting forward, somewhere in between speed-walking and a jog. The imposing, opulent façade of Gardner Hall is dead in front of me. It’s beautiful but it doesn’t really look like a university building. With it’s semi-wooden exterior and enveloping veranda it looks more like a rustic, antebellum mansion. I often imagine old, genteel men smoking cigars on the building’s front porch and that image hits my mind as I meet the front steps.

I plow through the steel, Coats of Arms-adorned doors and ascend a maze of staircases. I have reached Room 204, my destination. I take a seat in the back and check my watch. I am seven minutes late. No one seems to notice, however. All eyes are on Professor Gladstone; all minds are lost in the polysyllabic thunderstorm.

“…existence and achievement are the phenemological features of Kierkegaardian existentialism, according to the post-structuralism school. Kierkegaard, however, was a proto-existentialist, not a true existentialist, like Sartre or De Beauvoir. Nonetheless his ontological scrutiny influenced many. This is a digression, however. You see…”

Wordy, unfocused, digressive. Professor seems to be on top of his game. According to the syllabus today’s topic is Marxism in the Postmodern Age. And I sit there and listen and concentrate for a few mintues. But already a quarter of the way through the class neither Marxism nor postmodernism, as far as I can tell, have been discussed.

“…quantitative measures of radicalism can never been attained because the appropriate methodology that can feasibly enumerate the vast panorama of thoughts are too amorphous to be tangibly identified. Spinoza presciently understood this many years back as did Husserl, the grandfather of what is now known as phenomology. Husserl, however, like any good systemic thinker…”

Professor blabs on and on about metaphysics and meta-narratives and metanoids and I feel meta-fantastic right now. The guy is way too lost in his own pedagogy to be concerned about us and that means the chances of him calling on me, or anyone, are highly unlikely.

“…although Foucalt’s understanding of meta-narratives sharply diverges from the Derridian emphasis of subtextual relationships. When I heard Foucalt speak many years ago I was swayed by his criticism of the Enlightenment emphasis of an exaggerated valuation on reason. Reason, in a metaphysical sense at least, can never be fully understood nor can we truly conceive of it. This is because it’s metaphysical properties…”

I wish I knew what meta- means. Like, “very” or “uber”? That’s my guess, but I think it means that in a much deeper sense. A sense that can’t be explained.

“…the crass dialectic of man and industrial efficacy furthermore relegates the proletariat and the disadvantaged masses to sub-human environment, mere slaves to the conditions that their masters have imposed on them. This diminution of their personal self-worth and essence – what many postmodern scholars have called ‘Being’ – subsequently reduces their independent, cognitive ability, and thereby chance of rebellion within…”

We have hit today’s theme, it appears. I begin to stare at Professor intently. He’s a sharp dresser and he looks good today. Louis Vutton beret, Gucci jacket, a dashing scarf. The Revolution Will Not Be Dressed in Dockers.

“…an orgiastic expression of proleterian rage is impossible due to the cultural paradigm that is cultivated by the master class. And when the system becomes inescapable, and the system is the only institution one is familiar with, all impressionable individuals unknowingly capitulate to the free-market zealotry that is so ubiquitous in contemporary culture. When all you see are avaricious plutocrats, when all you feel is the masochistic impulse of self-indulgence, when all you hear is the self-righteous propaganda of the bourgeoisie…”

I begin to seriously space out. Professor’s verbiage has catalyzed memories of last weekend and my own philosophical rager. I was at a post-party at my friend Brian Adams’ place. I got into an argument about some dude who I recognized from my Philosophy gen ed class last year. I was pretty drunk and really in the groove. Being a goofball, the life of the party. But then I recognized this guy and started going on about class. He mentioned something about existentialism; he may have just mentioned the word. I don’t know. But then I just went off.

I felt embarrassed the next morning, hoping I wouldn’t run into him. I didn’t and haven’t so far. I guess I forgot what he looks like.

“…because we are incapable of distinguishing between the subordinating, master values and the so-called ‘terroristic,’ Fanonian virtues we are led to understand that a conflation of these values is permissible. And because this conflation occurs it is inevitable and understandable that the reflexive totalitarianism of certain groups can be justified due to the skewed cultural paradigm that the master class…”

Like most recent Crisis classes I get lost in the monologue and longingly daydream of Alexis. Images, mere images, cross my mind. Cherubic face, welcoming demeanor, a pubescent glow. A warm, plaintive feeling fills me and I feel like I could get lost in this daydream forever. A blissful, redundant slideshow. But that bliss is broken up.

“Josiah!” Professor shouts. I react alarmed and the thoughts immediately vanish. “Are you confused? You look confused. Why are you smiling?”

I shake my head meekly and squeak out, “Um… no. Sorry.”

“Okay.” He gives a big, toothy smile so authentically confident that it leaves me unnerved for a few minutes.

And it motivates me, out of pure intimidation, to pay attention. But it doesn’t last. Those same images of Alexis swirl through my mind with a deep, relentless placidity.

As my mind wanders and I envision tonight and wonder what will happen. We get back from the dance and the parties begin. I make her a strong drink and she begins to act looser, babble about whatever, and I listen and listen and pretend to care while I formulate plans to bring her into my bedroom. Go to my computer. Woo her with my iTunes collection? Who knows. It’s not hard to impress people when they’re drunk.

I get deeper and deeper into my strategy and begin to really consider this as a realistic scenario when I realize I’m lost in my own world. I quickly change face and stare at Professor Gladstone. He’s gesturing to no one in particular, lost in his own bombast, getting more cartoonishly self-absorbed in his lecture. He doesn’t notice me. He doesn’t notice anyone.

He goes on for a few more minutes and then announces that he’s returning last week’s papers. It was our second paper of the year. I got a C on the first one. I’ll admit it was mediocre but I figured I wouldn’t get worse than a B-. It’s close to impossible to get worse than a B- at the University. It’s also close to impossible to get better than a B+. I swear the professor collude to ensure this. I don’t know how else this could be possible. This cruel confederacy for mediocrity.

Professor hands me the paper. As usual I flip the pages gingerly, afraid to check the big, bold letters at the last page. I eventually get there, and it’s a hardly surprising but disappointing C+/B-. I spent awhile on this beast. No other professor would give me worse than a B+. But this guy is hard. The hardest professor I’ve ever had.

While reviewing the paper and his annotations I decide to talk to him.

“Hi Professor.”

“Hi Josiah.”

“I was wondering if I could talk to you about the paper sometime.”

“I have office hours today. You can come by then.”

“Okay. See you… then.”

He nods and leaves. Providing the hours up front would be too much of a plebian task I guess. I whip out my syllabus.

Office Hours: M W F 2-4. The investigation is over.

8 Album Reviews (Published in The Reviewer, June 2008)

Bayadera, Rotation of the Earth

An unironic cover of the most overtly commercial song pop song in history (Wham!’s “Careless Whisper”) says it all: Bayadera want to make it, and make it big.

Their template has potential. Gina Bandy’s vocals are smooth as the synth sax in Wham’s original while the light, Latin-inflected guitarwork is technically solid.

But everything feels restrained. The choruses seem suppressed, Bandy’s suggestive lyrics are too coy, and the music is always a couple bombastic riffs short of head-bobbing. What could be fun radio rock ends up being indistinct, mid-tempo mush. (http://bayadera.ning.com)

Company Car, Collars

There is a branch of emo that is fun, noisy, and self-affirming. Company Car embraces that side of emo with abandon.

Collars is garagey romp chock full of sloppy, infectious guitars and workman-like drumming. In a lot of rock music, however, the most important instrument are the vocals and singer Dave Parker knows it. His wail is whipping hurricane of a hook and from “Couch Critics” to “Driving Star” it never relents.

The songs themselves are almost completely indistinguishable from one another but it doesn’t really matter. The sheer force of the music as a totality is what counts and that’s what makes Collars hugely entertaining. (http://www.companycarmusic.com/index.cfm)

Death on Mars, Tomorrow’s Today

Death on Mars scream prog-rock with their name and shout it even louder on the first track. “True” opens with a rapid drum intro, Mars Volta distorted guitars, and doomstruck lyrics about hell.

The album as a whole is much more eclectic though. Death disco (“In the End”), lush balladry (“Curve of the Earth”), and even chamber pop (“Doorways”) infuse Tomorrow’s Today.

If a particular genre dominates, though, it’s post-punk. It never exactly fails but often the band has a tough time reconciling this Ian Curtis-style rage with its compositional perfectionism.

Overall, though, the eleven tracks cohere fluidly due its heavily textured soundscapes, as Death on Mars announce they are one of San Diego’s most promising bands. (http://www.deathonmars.net)

Marya Roxx, 21?! the EP

With its straightforward crush of guitars, monotonal vocals, and calculated iconoclasm, 21?! the EP sounds like it’s fronted by someone whose knowledge of American rock music is severely limited.

This makes sense with Marya Roxx. The 21-year-old singer is from tiny Estonia, the former USSR country in Eastern Europe. And what she lacks in breadth she makes up in energy. Marya barks her way through her punk-metal debut with the ferocity of Axl Rose and in general it works. From the album’s opening chug on “21?!” to the death drone of “Nothing Going On” the rage of 21?! never relents.

Lyrically, though, the album needs a lot of work. The whole “rebel” angle is as authentically anti-establishment as Hot Topic (there is even a song titled “Rebel”) and the guitar racket needs some variety. But in general the album is immensely entertaining and strangely endearing. (http://www.myspace.com/maryaroxx)

Down and Away, “Reclaim the Radio”

Scandinavia has produced quite a few angsty left-wing rock groups given the area’s political stability and quasi-socialism. Sweden’s Down and Away is one of them and they announce it loudly on their fourth release, “Reclaim the Radio.”

Their proletarian punk is energetic as expected and recalls the pillars of the movement, like Against Me!, The Business, and Rancid. But unfortunately their revolutionary potential is drowned among interchangeable riffs, bland thrash, and derivative pop-punk choruses.

It’s too bad because some of the lyrics are excellent. In “You Can’t Break Me” lead singer brilliantly Marcus skewers corporate culture: “Am I a number? / A face in the line? / I am somebody / Accept or decline.” Unfortunately Down and Away's acute lyrical punch is meaningless behind indistinguishable blasts of sound that are as anonymous as the monoculture they assail. (http://www.uppsikt.nu/new/user/mainpage.asp)

Sorrow Town Choir, Espinas De La Vida

Even on the rocking opener “Simpleton” there is a latent sense of anguish. Excavate underneath Greg Dale’s growl and slashing guitarwork you’ll find a skeleton of moodiness and vulnerability.

That skeleton is revealed throughout Espinas De La Vida. Pitiless mediations on missed opportunities and self-doubt accompany every song.

Musically, meanwhile, Sorrow Town Choir borrows heavily from southern rock. But in tone it’s dominated by Robert Johnson blues music, with its understated, Biblical sense of dread.

The only problem is that it’s too understated. Beef up the Allman Brothers-style slide guitars and a major label might be calling for Sorrow Town Choir. (http://www.sorrowtownchoir.com)

The Press Project, Get Right

The Press Project are one eclectic band with their fusion of lite funk, soulful grooves, and lucid rapping. But eclecticism doesn’t guarantee good music. Look at 311.

Most of Get Right feels flatly uninspired. The injections of neo-soul and old school funk are flavorless and don’t enrich the LP’s hip-hop core. They just water it down.

There are some high points. The muscular lilt of “Moment pt. 4” evokes the jazzy pop of St. Germain and their lazy, mellow rhythms create a pleasant, chill-out whole to the album.

But few of the individual songs blossom out of their harmless, adult contemporary shell. If you want hip-hop to do laundry to buy this, otherwise stick with the Roots. (http://www.myspace.com/thepressproject)

Mary Knickle, Weave

Contemporary Celtic artist Mary Knickle’s third album presents an interesting problem. Is Weave merely an homage to Irish-Scottish folk music that has been around for hundreds of years? Or are the traditional arrangements and anachronistic lyrics an attempt to accentuate simple, everyday values that we tend to forget about in our busy world?

My guess is that Knickle aspires to put her own twist on Celtic music and make it relevant to today’s world. But instead Weave sounds like a facsimile from another century.

She doesn’t do a bad job either. “Tears of a Woman” is a great story and the stark, piano-driven “Grail” is plaintively beautiful. But most of the album is dominated by an expected stew of weepy fiddles, earnest harmonies, and “lost at sea” lyrics.

All pleasant songs, but nothing you wouldn’t hear at your local Irish pub for Tuesday night entertainment. (http://www.maryknickle.com)

Death Valley Pizza, From the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (Published in the San Diego Troubadour, June 2008)

Contrary to what you might think imaginary soundtracks can open the creative gates. Rather than restricting the musician to a particular story an imaginary soundtrack can serve as a catalyst for artistic innovation. By inventing a fictional narrative the artist can transgress musical boundaries they would otherwise be inhibited to explore as “themselves.”

This has been reinforced throughout rock history. Arguably the Flaming Lips’ best album is a faux-soundtrack. The hallmark of U2’s experimental era was Original Soundtracks 1. That album’s producer, Brian Eno, got into the act years earlier with his Music for Films series, a touchstone of his ambient work.

But their futuristic, grandiose textures are more cinematic in tone rather than theme. With Death Valley Pizza’s From the Original Motion Picture Soundtrack the theme is more important.

They do a good job with it. Themes of desperation and loneliness blanket Soundtrack, while buttressing the overarching narrative of a western. The music is distinct, meanwhile, and the instruments carry their own personality. The cry of the violin could be the anxieties of an unfaithful spouse. The light pedal steel guitar could be the unfulfilled dreams of a prospector.

But what about singer Ian Zalewski. What character is he? Maybe he’s a hardscrabble oilman or a misread, small-town pariah. Beneath his stoic vocals lies a resigned alienation that sounds pretty authentic.

You can only make guesses, however, because his lyrics are generally incoherent. Often vocals can be powerfully used as nothing more than an instrument. But in a concept album the narrative is huge and the lyrics are crucial. The better part of Zalewski’s vocals are suspended deep in his esophagus and come out in a colorless, muffled rasp.

There are some problems with the music too. The straightforward folk tunes are a little bland and a couple of the most conventional songs like “Last Laugh” approach John Mellencamp-style generica.

But even these are always saved by an inspiring guitar or mandolin lick out of nowhere. And not only do they save the songs, but they’re a testament to the band’s sheer musical skill. From the ringing harmonicas of “Yodi” to the slow-burn psychedelia of “I’m a Nut” Death Valley Pizza demonstrate that they can alternate genres seamlessly.

Predictably Soundtracks best moments are on tunes that sound like they’re from movies. The big-band weirdness of “I*T*Y*L*Y” has a mythical edge to it and the ethereal instrumental “If Wishes Were Horses” works well as an interlude.

But the best song is “Drama,” which sounds like a cue straight out of a film score. Its sweeping, symphonic melody is densely elegant, gently drifting like a lonely gust of wind over the band’s Desert Valley milieu.

None of the album is as transcendentally emotional as this piece. But despite the inconsistencies to their debut, Death Valley Pizza have to be applauded for their courage. From old-time hootenanny to space travel instrumentals, Soundtracks proves to be a thoroughly interesting, if uneven, affair.

Private Domain, Great Leaders (April 2008)

Legend has it that by the early 80s punk and new wave killed bloated arena rock and revitalized popular music. But over-produced, mainstream rock didn’t die; it actually got bigger. Bands like Genesis, Jefferson Starship, and Journey that were on the cusp of success in 1976 roared through the new decade with a catalog of hits and millions of adoring fans. Their proteges, meanwhile, further deadened mainstream rock into a monotonous crunch of guitar noise. Private Domain, which released its first album in 1985, is a product of that movement.

On their fourth release, Great Leaders, Private Domain marries their corporate rock heritage with an anti-establishment ethos. On the titular opener lead singers Paul Shaffer asks: “Where are the saints and all the great leaders? Why do the good ones have to die so young?” On the third song, “Spiritual Warfare,” he asks, “Why does pleasure bring us pain?” By the middle of the album I’m asking, will this guy ever have anything original to say? Not even close. From “Politix” to “So Comfortable” Shaffers skewers political complacency, televangelists, and plutocracy with the insight you’d hear at an 8th grade current events class.

The corollary to the one-dimensional lyrics is the rudimentary song structure. Hyper-conventional in arrangement, cadence, and instrumentation, Private Domain makes Hootie & the Blowfish look like Kraftwerk. They follow the verse-chorus form religiously while the arc of every song is predictable and uncreative. Musical spontaneity isn’t encouraged either; there is no improvisation on the entire album and almost every song is between 3-4 minutes.

Touches of eclecticism are apparent, however. “Say No (to the Freedom Killers)” and “Two Hits” are reggae tunes. Shades of Widespread Panic-influenced jam band music pepper the LP too. But these qualities are only notable in their unusualness, as Great Leaders never comes close to the heights that their revolutionary message promises.