I watched the Grammy Awards for a while. It was striking how much of the presentation
consisted of spectacular lights and explosions and special effects. This is an acknowledgement
of what the music industry really is about-- making everything bigger and louder-- rather than any kind
of nod to actual musical qualities. If you want to impress the audience even more than the previous
performer, God forbid you would do something more artistic. Hell no-- just turn up the volume, get
bigger amps, bigger lasers, bigger breasts, use a trapeze, strip.
The problem, of course, is diminishing returns. Like the previews at
the Cineplex-- eventually the amp is at 10 and then what do you do to
impress? Tell a story? Develop a character? Couldn't we
just go to 11?
In the middle of all this--- an award
for Leonard Cohen-- "lifetime achievement". They couldn't even spare a moment to actually perform
one of the legend's songs. Besides-- how do you do a laser show to:
Suzanne takes you down
to her place near the river
you can hear the boats go by
you can spend the night beside her
At what point in
the song do you set up the fireworks?
Well... you could. Why not?
February 8, 2010
Who was lip-synching? And does anyone care? Apparently Pink was not, even while drenched, hanging upside down
from her silks. Beyonce looked to me like she synched. It's pretty safe to assume that most pop/rock artists do.
But I wish they would tell you before and during the performance. If you're not ashamed of it, why hide it?
The Who did not appear to lip-synch their Superbowl appearance.
They sounded awful all by their lonesome selves. Did Pete Townsend, 40
years ago, ever dream he would be doing a medley of his hits in front of 100
million people? A medley! I'm guessing that this
appearance isn't going to do much for their careers.
The problem, always, with Paul Simon is that lurking behind every clever
turn of phrase and every strong image is the college sophomore desperately trying to call your attention
to one line or another written specifically to have attention called to it. Simon's a good writer-- sometimes
an excellent writer. The pitch-perfect tone of "Homeward Bound" cannot be denied. But for every "on a tour
of one-night stands/my suitcase and guitar in hand" there's a "like a rat in a maze" ("Patterns") or a "you read
your Emily Dickenson/ and I my Robert Frost" ("Dangling Conversation").
And you cringe a little.
A critic once referred to "The Boxer" as "one of Paul Simon's few unpretentious songs". I thought that was right
twenty years ago and it seems more right now. That means I can throw on a CD of 20 or 25 Paul Simon songs and
thoroughly enjoy them... about once every two years. Try not to think about whether "So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright" proves his
sophistication, or "El Conder Pasa" his world-weary sensitivity.
One of his better songs-- though I barely noticed it for years-- is "A Poem on the Underground Wall". Typically,
it's not a novel concept or a highly original insight: graffiti as some kind of authentic urban poetry. In
this case, I liked the last verse, as the hyperventilating bum slashes onto an
advertising poster "a poem/comprised of four letters".
The author of the poem is one of those
vaguely ghostly, invisible personages that inhabit the landscape of urban decay
and disillusionment, a ragged man, a
shadow, who races away, his heart beating madly, after making his "statement". Simon has the sense to stop the poem
before it becomes too weighty, though he needlessly conjures an image of the vagrant being suckled by
the "breast of darkness". Yes, there's the preciousness. You could never imagine Dylan doing that line.
Simon has occasionally slyly complained about being taken less seriously, or monumentally, than Dylan.
That's why. That and the fact that Simon's best five songs wouldn't crack
Dylan's best 25. But it's a good song. The urban world back in 1965
seemed madly in love with regimentation, conformity, mindless consumption, and
the endless pursuit of trivial gratifications even as it rotted from within. It seems even more so today
and the pathos and futility of the four-letter poem seems even more poignant.
A casualty talks back. Ten years later, maybe he occupied a Harry Chapin
song: Sniper.
In an earlier song:
And the sign flashed out it's warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said the words of the prophets
Are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And echoed in the Sounds of Silence.
Okay. Bit cheesy. But most clichés exist for a good reason. Somewhere in the faint, dark echo of their original inspirations
lies something true and interesting.
All Contents Copyright
© Bill Van Dyk
2010 All Rights Reserved
Font: Verdana