Spam: Corporate Shit = Your Annoyance

Shepard Fairey was on The Henry Rollins show this past week, and while I think he's an ok dude, I think his art is just kinda eh. Though he does have a cool pic of Jay Adams:



I digress. The point Fairey (man, did HE get picked on as a kid) made that's worth echoing is the one about spam. Basically, why is it that he has to take shit for his graf when just because corporations pay all of a sudden their spam is legitimized, and moreover, we just accept it or shrug our collective shoulders.

Good point. One that Robbie Conal has been making for way longer than Fairey. And of course, the poster boy, Keith Haring.

But isn't it interesting that white dudes like Conal, Fairey and Haring are celebrated as art iconoclasts and even sometimes go on to commercial success, as Fairey admitted? Point: Graf is a staple where I came up, on the Old English tip and beyond.


The above is probably one of, if not the most notorious and steeped in East LA lore barrios: Cerco Blanco (White Fence). As a kid, I grew up near their arch rivals, Varrio Nuevo Estrada (VNE), but was always more taken with the lyrically named White Fence. Although I probably have it wrong, the way their name was handed down to me was that their founder was shot and fell over a white fence. My pops came up in Boyle Heights, steeped in White Fence.

And graf was everywhere in East LA. My favorite restaurant, Largo's Mitote, (RIP) had a back alley that was littered with spray paint way before it got going as "art" on the east coast.

Cholos - the prototypical/stereotypical "Mexican American gangbanger" - also had tats fired up decades before the current trend. Indeed, I remember being with Jerry Ortiz and going down to the Pike to get tatted. In the end, I chickened out because I just plain hated needles; as a kid I was always getting stuck because I had asthma and allergies. I hated needles.

But a cholo's placa isn't seen as art by the mainstream. And they certainly aren't getting on Hank's show.

Way to Go

Ha HA!!! PassiveAggressiveNotes.com

And peeps have to STILL ask why old media doesn't get it, let alone why it's struggling and/or dying. Oy. Hope I die before I get old...

Brilliant.

What Was Could Be

Golden Ears

I've been doing this gig at a major broadcaster (one of the big four) and happened to bump into an old audiophile friend, "Andy." Andy's a really bright guy when it comes to audio stuff as he works with state-of-the-art rigs in sota studios. We're talking Meyer Sound monitors (for the ultra audiophiles, they're industry standard for near-field monitoring), bass traps and RPG Diffusers.

This is about what I feel confident in saying was not just a near-singular experience while I was living it (because after all, aren't we all living those?) but one that was great.

Andy began telling me how he had a copy of the Alan Parsons quadraphonic mix of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and he not only had this but had the hardware and the environment to pump it through.

Needless to say, I imbibed. One of the best hours of my life, aesthetically speaking.

Now, before all of you audio freaks get it twisted up, I'm gonna tell you a thing or two.

On second thought, screw it.

This was a really cool experience. Leave it at that.

It's Ours, but We don't Want it

Appropriation. After "exploitation" it's the word that so aptly conveys the depth and breadth of white culture over and into mud peeples' cultures. When I mentioned Amy Winehouse the other day I thought how it might possibly appear to some of my friends who are sensitive to the subject of a white songstress using black musical tropes to meet success.

Without any apologies, I want to say that I'm a fan of Amy's talent, and that yes, I think it's fucked up when there are talented mud peeps who never even get a shot, particularly the kind of shot she had.

And yet there's no denying her talent; to have the depth of artistic vision she does and the chops to express it with so much bravura is, I think, a rare thing. But to have it while in your early 20's is hitting the lottery. As I write this I have her Love is a Losing Game on, and it's crazy to think that she's writing and singing like this at 24/25.

Should that talent be constrained by genre according to racial precepts? Of course not. Am I saying this because of her undeniable talent or, rather more precisely, because I like her talent? Yes, there's that degree of prejudice involved, but it's more a matter of being "real." Yeah, at some point, art crit does indeed boil down to intangibles and preferences. But it's actually much more, or rather, it can, and should be more. This is totally subjective but it's not a cop-out. There's simply no other way for me to put it.

What I mean. Some artists have that aura of authenticity. A guy like Tarantino comes along and totally jacks the cultural flow of mud peeps left and right and it's hailed as genius.

But to Asians who grew up on shit like Sword of Vengeance we look at something like Kill Bill and just laugh.

Look at Paul Simon, who I can take in limited doses. When he made his critically acclaimed Graceland I sneered. I thought it rang false. I still do. Put it this way; having a celebrity white singer fronting blacks is not only visually problematic but an aesthetic infantilizing that creeps me out.

But this whole appropriation business gets really dizzy when you consider someone like Clapton. Obviously his allegiance and devotion to the blues is real. Any dude who'd leave the Yardbirds at the height of popularity for the Bluesbreakers is making a statement. But I thought his cover of I Shot the Sheriff was limp.

It goes on and on. Led Zep's cover of I Can't Quit You Baby is one of the best I've ever heard. And of course, Stevie Ray who always gave props to Albert King and Jimi.

And I guess this is a way of turning the mirror back on America, because we’re so pathologically contemptuous of our own until someone else appropriates them, and then we climb on board. After all, it wasn’t until the Brit guitarists - Clapton, Beck, Page, but also Peter Green – reminded white Americans of what they had lying in their own backyard but had for all intents rejected. No, Elvis didn’t remind white Amerikkka where rock ‘n roll’s roots lie, no no no. Jimi had to leave and go to Europe to be “discovered.” A few, such as Mike Bloomfield, Duane Allman and many a southern rocker like Johnny Winter (Cool band name: “Johnny Winter And”) or Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top knew.

But for the most part we’re retarded over here. Sorta reminds me of the Churchill quote I heard in The Eleventh Hour: “America always makes the right decision, after exhausting all other possibilities.”

Oh well I haven't resolved the conundrum of a white girl "singing black." But it's doubtful that Americans, particularly young ones, can even see the line that runs from the blues to rock. It’d be amusing for a minute to hold up a picture of, say, Otis Rush, and one of Henry Rollins and ask college students if they think the two are musically related.

"We" can send a man to the moon but...

I always tell my daughter that the baby boomers were goofy, but they did some cool shit. They consistently got up off their asses and said hell no to a racist war, bounced a criminal and his hitmen from the whitey house [sic], fought for civil rights, and fought for women's rights.

But I also like to brag about our art: The films and music of the 60s & 70s stand the test of time. Here's one, courtesy of a reminder from the Stern show, who played it last week.

Note to all you fake azz wanna-be so-called "hard" or "gangsta" mcs that are merely hos for corporate conglomerates: y'all need to ask KRS1 and Chuck (dap to PE's new one on this - and KRS is on it) about the meaning of "hard." Maybe once you get it there, then you can talk to David Hilliard or Elaine Brown or Piri Thomas or Luis Rodriguez...

Yeah, right.

From back in the day, Mister Gil Scott-Heron, circa 1972, couple of years after our moon landing.



WHITEY ON THE MOON

A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face and arms began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

I can't pay no doctor bills
but Whitey's on the moon

Ten years from now I'll be payin' still
while Whitey's on the moon

You know, the man just upped my rent last night
'cause Whitey's on the moon

No hot water, no toilets, no lights
but Whitey's on the moon

I wonder why he's uppin' me?
'cause Whitey's on the moon?

I wuz already givin' 'im fifty a week
and now Whitey's on the moon

Taxes takin' my whole damn check,
Junkies makin' me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin' up,
An' as if all that crap wuzn't enough
A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face an' arm began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

With all that money I made last year
for Whitey on the moon
How come I ain't got no money here?
Hmm! Whitey's on the moon

Y'know I jus' 'bout had my fill
of Whitey on the moon
I think I'll send these doctor bills
Airmail special

to Whitey on the moon


Brotha GSH circa '96, holdin' it down.

Le Grand Jeu

Like any other form of art, what passes for the most part as poetry is garbage. But I recall as if yesterday my discovery of Robert Desnos's The Voice at Waldenbooks in Del Amo Mall. When I read the forward I discovered a key feature about Desnos that would forever change me: he was a Surrealist.

I plan on writing about Desnos in a future post, but since I've never addressed poetry I am going to lead off with one of if not my favorite poem. For me, it sums up everything great art should strive for. It's by Aime' Cesaire, a titan if ever there was one.

I dedicate it to you - you know who you are.

============================================

JUDGEMENT OF THE LIGHT

Transfixing muscles and blood
devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage
crowning with truth our usual lights
a ray a spray from the triumphant sun
by means of which
justice will be done
and every arrogance washed away

Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick
neck of the waves
silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most
substantial pressures

Around the circumference of the circle
among public activities along the riverbanks
the flame
stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgment

SWOOSH: Ode to Jeff Johnson

It is important that you risk trying things that you might not be very good at. It is important that you discover that failure is never final, and neither is victory.
-Jeff Johnson, NIKE Employee #1

Today I'm writing about Jeff Johnson, a little-known guy who occupies an enormous place in American entrepreneurship. As noted, he was NIKE employee #1, and he gave the then fledgling company its name. And if I distinguish here between "entrepreneur" and "businessman" that's purposeful, because entrepreneurs are the creatives, dreamers and visionaries who execute and make sculpture from clay.

There's so much to say about his entrepreneurial zeal, how he took a shoe, ripped off the sole and placed the sole from a flip-flop in it and created the first mid-sole cushioned shoe. The way he'd get t-shirts made with the name "Nike" on it before the era of big bucks endorsements, gave them away to winners of races and then took a photo of them holding a victory sign in their shirt.

The entrepreneurial genius of that move? Many a time, the runners would have adidas or Pumas on their feet.

In the '90's I started a small sports marketing company with my good friend Mitch. To call it modest is an understatement; we were young and very green. Yet, we revered Nike and devoured material about the company. I eventually asked everyone in the company who they thought really made Nike what it was and is - besides founder Phil Knight. The consensus was Jeff Johnson.

A runner and lover of sports, he met up with Knight who had concocted the scheme of undercutting adidas, the two-ton gorilla of athletic shoes, by importing adidas knock-offs from Japan, Onitsuka Tiger's to be exact. While not as quality a shoe as adidas, they were considerably cheaper and runners liked the personal touch of Johnson, who was pretty much the public face of "Blue Ribbon Sports," (BRS) the company's then operating name.

A rift would eventually ensue between Onitsuka and BRS, but Knight and company had accomplished too much - there was no looking back now, but they had some moves to make. They had a new logo; Knight had wanted "something like the 3 stripes," but could only muster what looked like a fancy checkmark from student designer Carolyn Davidson.

But they were stuck on choosing a new name. Knight threw out a name that he was stuck on, and all of the "Buttfaces" (an affectionate term for the inner circle, based upon their ability to tell one another they were full of shit) made fun of him. They broke to sleep on it - time was of the essence as they were on deadline, I believe to file articles of incorporation.

That night as Nike legend has it, Johnson, from a dead sleep, sat upright: "Nike, the winged goddess of victory! That's IT!"

It met with a lukewarm Buttface reception. In the eleventh hour, Knight begrudgingly went with it.

Among the many stories I know about Nike, at the top of the heap is this: In the early days they would attend the National Sporting Goods Association (NSGA) trade show, and their booth was a standard 10' X 10' with Knight and whoever seated on folding chairs and maybe some shirts. The adidas reps would walk by Nike's booth and sneer if they paid attention to them at all. But as Nike began their ascent, they heard more than one customer say to them, "Well, you have a few kinks to work out, but I like you guys a helluva lot better than those assholes at adidas."

Early on with our company, I made up my mind - I was going to fire off a letter to Johnson. I knew enough to know he was a voracious reader, loved the written word and, even with the advent of word processors, still used his old typewriter.

I called Nike and eventually got to Knight's secretary and inquired if she knew how to contact Johnson. She seemed mildly surprised that someone even knew who he was, but said that yes, Johnson still came around a couple times a year. He'd long since retired, a multi-millionaire in his forties. She said she'd be glad to forward a message to him. So I fired off a letter, but not before Mitch and I went down the street and took a picture in front of the location where Johnson set up Nike's first retail operation. The Asian Indian dude in the hotel across the street snapped the pic. I put it in the letter.

He wrote back!

From that point on, Mitch and I corresponded with him and it was, to say the least, inspiring. We had one of the founders of Nike advising us schmucks. We met once while Johnson was coaching at Stanford and Mitch and I were in the Bay area on business.

I remember soon afterwards attending "The Super Show," which is what the NSGA had evolved into. It truly is something, occupying the entire Atlanta sports entertainment complex. (The Omni, Georgia Dome, etc.) I remember talking to some really young Philly kids at some little basketball company, And 1 or something like that.

Nike's "booth" wasn't even on one of the show floors, it occupied the entire ballroom on the top floor of the convention center. As you walked past reception, the hallway was completely dark except for an enormous SWOOSH beamed down from above. As you got nearer the ballroom, you could hear the pounding of music, and upon entering it's all you can do but just stand there and gape.

The ballroom was dark and in the center were these huge, at least 20 feet tall stands, about six of them arranged in a large circle, and atop each one was an enormous video display with famous Nike Imagery. The light show and pulsating music combined with this to provide not an experience, but a total mind fucking environment.

Years later, when Nike was making their first foray into Nike retail stores, I happened to go to one of their openings. The store was all flash, but then I noticed something; there, high up on a column, was a small plaque commemorating Nike employee #1.

Today, the romance has been dulled by the harsh light of big money contracts to players like Michael Vick who screw things up and outsourcing horror stories; colonialism is still murdering and instilling miserable-ism, just in a more economic hitman-ish manner. But I do recall fondly our brush with the Swoosh.



Coda: The name Knight wanted for his new shoe company: "Dimension Six."

American Sports Gone Wild

What IS it about our twisted American culture that produces outliers that make foreign psychopaths drool? Of course there are sickos everywhere, but I guess like everything else American, we have to do twisted bigger 'n badder.

And so we come to the sad state of American major league sports, and a unique time in our history. Because major scandals are rocking them all.

To the non-sports fan here they are:

1. NBA: A ref is caught on the take, which means he has been fixing games.

2. NFL: Star quarterback Michael Vick has been indicted on animal cruelty charges, namely, pitbull fighting.

3. MLB: Superstar Barry Bonds has just broken Hank Aaron's all time record - one of the milestone achievements in American sports. Much of the public looks on with a jaundiced eye, as it is widely rumored that Bonds, at age 43, has been juicing roids and thus, his achievement is tainted. It explains why fans in stands hold up signs and wear t-shirts with huge asteriks on them, because his record will be footnoted by the controversy.

Now, when I was only a lad, sports were a big deal and the athletes we revered were gods. This was the birth of the Sabols' fledgling "NFL Films" with the timeless, basso profundo "voice of god" narration by John Facenda. Chicky Baby Hearn called the Lakers and the man known by some as "The Voice" and generally recognized as the greatest play by play baseball shot caller, Vin Scully, called for the Dodgers. The Rams, who walked on water, were straight old school: The Fearsome Foursome - Rosey Grier, Merlin Olsen, Lamar Lundy, and the great Deacon Jones (number 75!). They set the standard for the classic defensive four set, inherited/adapted later by Minnesota's "Purple People Eaters" (Marshall and Page were the standouts) and the infamous Pittsburgh "Steel Curtain."

For me, hoops was it. This was when Jerry West was coming into his legendary "Mr. Clutch" status, and I saw plenty of games where he just dropped like he was unconscious. As unbelievable as "Zeke from Cabin Creek" was, for my money, number 22, Elgin Baylor, was the man. I caught him at the end of his career - bad knees had slowed him - but the man whom no less than Red Auerback proclaimed the greatest forward he'd ever seen, was something else. For me, it boils down to that intangible, that jes nais se quois, what Breton said about reading Cesaire, that he possessed that unmistakable major tone that separates great from lesser.

And Elg had it. I once saw him grab a defensive rebound along the baseline and, while trying to maintain his balance as he was about to fall out of bounds, he flung the ball over his shoulder in a blind no-look, most casually but in total confidence, and hit a streaking Laker guard on the dead run at mid court. Perfectly timed.

How did he do that?

And in those moments, as small a kid as I was, I knew I had caught a glimpse of greatness, pure poetry, as pure as anything I've experienced through music, movies, literature, painting...

I loved sports and worshipped the gods who played and privileged us mere mortals by giving us glimpses of our humanity, the better side of us, under highly regulated conditions.

All of this rambling is to say that I think what's happening is just sad today. Everyone's so friggin' jaded, and that includes the fans. It just doesn't seem fun anymore. Damn.

Forbidden Zone

When people, particularly the tragically hip, discuss surrealism, it's always in the vein of the fantastical, "way out" imagery of Avida Dollars (Salvador Dali). Thus, a movie like Eraserhead is always mentioned as the leader of the pack in terms of American films. While I admire Eraserhead and think it's a terrific movie, I'd put Richard Elfman's Forbidden Zone shoulder to shoulder right by it.

One thing; surrealism is more, much, much more, than "weird" imagery and non-nonsensical rhyme. And I understand that that's EXACTLY the reason ignorant people sneer at it, because their eyes only see what they see. In reality (hey, I did resist saying, "in surreality," so cut me a friggin' break will ya?) surrealism exalted delirium and the high octane L'mour Fou that would become the title of one of Breton's most celebrated "novellas."

And Elfman's masterpiece is nothing if not delirious in the best Tex Avery sense (another iconic hero to the Surrealists). The entire movie is one long ode to the ridiculous and sometimes hysterically funny, kinda like the Marx Brothers on mescaline.

I recall first seeing it at the first true blue film fest in LA - Filmex. It's one of the most underrated films I can think of. And Susan Tyrell has got to be one of the best actresses who never broke through to deservedly bigger things. She's such a trooper, possessing a riveting stage presence that I was lucky enough to see in her one-woman show, My Rotten Life: A Bitter Operetta, motivated by the fact she so impressed me in Huston's, Fat City. (another really terrrifically under-rated flick) You know how some people seem to be born out of another era? She seems to come from another dimension.

Elfman, the elder to Danny who does a nice turn as the devil, was the founder of the LA new wave band, The Mystic Knights of the Oingo Boingo (later just "Oingo Boingo"), and he and crew (his then wife, Marie Pascale did the art direction/sets) pulls out all the stops here. If you love creativity run amok, then Forbidden Zone is not to be missed. One thing: At the very beginning, there's a brief bout of racist imagery with a white actor in black face and some minstrelcy.