One Million, Five Hundred Seventy Six Thousand Minutes

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When I first experienced RENT the week it opened, it was during a tumultuous period of my life, a life-altering turbulence. While the issues of HIV/AIDS and drugs that predominated this modern rock fable loosely based on Puccini’s “La Boheme” weren’t even in the realm of the personal terrain I was sojourning, Jonathan Larson’s score somehow managed to evoke the yearning, the longing, the sadness, the desperation, and ultimately the resolution of my very soul at the time.

I revisited the show over the years and was sad to realize that it didn’t hold up well, and the epiphany that my ties to the original production were based on my life cycle circa April, 1996. While I can still appreciate the vision Larson had embarked upon – and realized – by second viewing a year and a half later, it seemed somewhat passé. A ‘classic’, no matter how aged or of its time, should never feel antiquated and the issue, ironically, was the songbook – while a few memorable ones stand out after all these years (“Seasons Of Love”, “One Song Glory”, and “Without You” hold up particularly strongly), none are archetypal, too many forgettable. Which is problematic in a score with over 30.

RENT finally closed after 12 years, 4 Tony Awards (including Best Musical) a Pulitzer Prize in Drama and a devotional following in September 2008; my fourth and final viewing was in August, a month before final curtain. I was saddened at how lethargic it all was. The strength of the original players wasn’t necessarily their acting, but the power and conviction of their voices and belief in the material. That final cast had none of the these.

Is it too soon to bring back such a hallowed show (its rabid fan base call themselves “Rentheads”) only three years after it closed? Original director, Michael Greif, is directing the revival. Will he modify his own work? Will he remain faithful to Larson’s vision? I guess the Rentheads – and the critics – will have their word soon enough – the revival opens Off-Broadway at the New World Stages next week.

I’ve actually pondered whether or not to revisit the show, but if this promotional video is indicative of what’s in store, I think I’ll pass (though, nothing can be as brain-atrophyingly awful as the film version).

Music Box: R.I.P. Amy Winehouse…Another Dead Rock And Roll Cliché

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Amy Winehouse died this past week and the real grief is in the knowledge that no one was surprised at all. As of this writing the cause of death was still undetermined, but lest we fool ourselves, is there really any wonder?

Winehouse – whose breakthrough (2006′s fine, if overrated BACK TO BLACK) cemented the route for other Brit-soul contemporaries like Duffy and Adele to conquer intercontinental shores – didn’t “struggle” with addiction – she flaunted and reveled in it. She was a talented singer/songwriter who lived a stupid, foolish life and now she’s another stupid, foolish dead Rock star. She squandered her intrinsic gifts for years for pure hedonism, permeating her whole existence in drug-induced stupors, coked-up public performances, heroin-induced soporifics and a lifestyle that prodigiously overshadowed her musicality. Her brief skimps at rehab only solidified her lack of seriousness of getting any help. And because of that profligacy, she was the inadvertent queen of the tabloids, those subhuman succubi who lick their scabbed lips in deviant, debased glee at every fucked-up antic that befall any caliber celebrity. (Though we can scorn the tabloids for their evil, we can only blame ourselves for their successes.)

I’ll not belittle addiction. I understand the colossal power of control it has over the core of the mind and body and soul. And I also know that there are enablers and sycophants who are willing participants in someone’s destructive behavior (Winehouse associated with plenty, and even married one). But at what point does one’s self – the captain of that soul – take responsibility for the sinking ship? Millions battle addiction. Millions have beaten addiction. Millions will continue to do both.

Addiction is often touted as a disease, and perhaps it is – I can’t claim to be erudite in the science of medicine. But if it is indeed a disease, it’s the only one that is curable by the afflicted. Those who cannot – or who do not – overcome this malady are not wholly to blame, but do bear the crux of responsibility. Those who cannot are merely prisoners of the encumbrance of the albatross. Those who continue on their suicidal sojourn (which is what addiction is) understand the ultimate price payable. And they accept it. Those who do not wish to accept the obvious sober up. If it’s too late, then it’s merely another sad cautionary tale. And a cliché.

Or, in Winehouse’s case (or Jim Morrison’s case, or Janis Joplin’s case or Jimi Hendrix’s or Judy Garland’s, or John Bohnam’s, or Billie Holiday’s or any other icon who played one final game of Russian Roulette that cost them their lives) a dead Rock N Roll cliché. By joining a list of dead musicians, she has solidified her place in the annals of music history (that the tragedy of Winehouse is greater than her genius is foretelling – with a mediocre-at-best debut and a strong follow-up, many – post-mortem, of course – have histrionically declared BACK TO BLACK a classic).

On a website earlier this week, I drew ire when discussing my innate beliefs about Winehouse and addiction. One response I received after voicing these sentiments read:

“It’s disrespectful, whether you know Amy Winehouse or not, to simply pass her off at the end of her life as a “stupid, foolish dead RnR cliche”. I hope that you don’t have the misfortune of someone saying these horrible things about one of your loved ones one day.

My reply was simple and true: if someone in my family or one of my friends dies as a result of addiction, I would say exactly what I said about Winehouse. If accusations of cold-heartedness are hurled my way, so be it. If that mendacity makes you feel better, I’m glad for you. Only, it’s not. It’s the polar opposite. It’s a truism, and anger often deflects truth.

My empathy is miniscule for life-wasters. My sympathies are limited to the devastation of the loved ones and family members and friends that addicts inconsiderately leave behind.

This week, they buried the woman who possessed such promise but cared so little in nurturing it. Family and friends gathered in somber reflection, serene sadness and devout mourning.

Another daughter. Another sister. Another friend. Another artist. Suicide by selfishness. Another addict.

Music Box: Stevie Nicks…Come In Out Of The Darkness ~ BELLA DONNA Turns 30

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Bella Donna....

In paying tribute to one of my Desert Island Discs on the 30th anniversary of its initial release date (July 27, 1981), here is my original review of BELLA DONNA that was written for my school newspaper:

STEVIE NICKS – BELLA DONNA Where the wispy fairy/poet/waif we adored – and still do – on FLEETWOOD MAC, RUMOURS  and TUSK becomes the queen of rock and roll we are dared to worship, challenging the nay-sayers and snickering critics to finally take her seriously. With BELLA DONNA, Nicks not only solidifies her significance as a rock persona, but establishes herself as a great songwriting force to be reckoned with. Displaying that superlative craft, she employs an ultimate ensemble of musicians borrowed from the likes of Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty (including Tom himself on the striking and rocking duet “Stop Dragging My Heart Around”) and paints an incredible journey through the multi-facets of love. Her country music heritage is apparent on some of the best cuts here: from the bittersweet, elegiac “After The Glitter Fades” to the dark, but lovely, innuendo of “Leather And Lace” (sung with Eagle Don Henley) to “The Highwayman”, a tale that delves deeper than the title suggests. There is also a sure-to-be classic rock track “Edge Of Seventeen” which will span the ages ahead, and the albums best piece, the hauntingly beautiful, enigmatic title track. As if possessing, albeit arguably, the most distinct and recognizable female voice in rock’s short history isn’t enough, one could measure BELLA DONNA as an archetype of portraits to come. Stevie Nicks’ solo career is just beginning, but with the Mac on an unknown hiatus, one needn’t worry about the lack of Stevie in their lives – as this collection of provocative and gorgeous tunes prove, there’s more to Nicks than meets the eyes – and ears – of even the most casual fan.  Grade: A

To which I added, year later to a revised review on Amazon.com:

“…could anyone really see Prince’s images of lace, purple and doves without wondering if his evolution didn’t come via Nicks’ mirror? [He did play keyboards on "Stand Back" from her WILD HEART album]. And who begat the whole angels-as-rock-imagery but Nicks on her Mac recordings and solo work?”

Many  fans, and even some critics, have boasted that her recent, erratic CD, IN YOUR DREAMS, is Stevie’s best solo album (my review will come in a forthcoming Musical Report Card). I can’t fathom that peculiar statement while listening to BELLA DONNA again and marveling at its intricate harmonies and sonic splendors.

It remains her most consistent solo work to date, and it, above all her other works, remains an achievement that still towers three decades later.

...Come in out of the darkness...

Happy Anniversary BELLA DONNA…still we fight for the Northern Star…

Buju BYE BYE!!!

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It’s hard to believe that over 2 decades have passed since abominable Jamaican dancehall “artist” Buju Banton (whose real un-Jamaican name is Mark Anthony Myrie), then only fifteen years old, solidified his name in the Homophobe Hall Of Fame with his virulent and heinous ode to murdering gays, “Boom Bye Bye”. Today, this hatemonger was sentenced to ten years in a maximum security prison for drug trafficking.

In his honor, maybe we can change some of the lyrics to his most (in)famous song (which advocates skinning gay men, pouring acid over us then burning is alive). So, instead of:

(Its like) Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead

…we can sing:

(It’s like) Boom, Hi, Hi!
I give a batty bwoy head
If I no promote nasty man
Imma haffi be dead!

Just to put into perspective, here are the actual lyrics both in Jamaian patois and translated into English (underlined), courtesy of the Southern Poverty Law Center:

Boom bye bye
Inna batty bwoy head
Boom [the sound of a gunshot] bye-bye
In a faggot’s head

Rude bwoy no promote no nasty man
Dem haffi dead
The tough young guys don’t accept fags
They have to die

Send fi di matic an
Di Uzi instead
 Send for the automatic [gun] and
The Uzi instead

Shoot dem no come if we shot dem
Shoot them, don’t come [to help] if we shoot them

Guy come near we
Then his skin must peel
If a man comes near me
Then his skin must peel [as with acid poured over him]

Burn him up bad like an old tyre wheel
Burn him badly, like an old tire

Have fun on your knees in prison, you putrid piece of shit. I can’t wait until someone sings “Boom Bye Bye” while you’re slobbin’ on their knob.

Music Box: R.I.P. Big Man ~ Clarence Clemons January 11 1942 – June 18 2011

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“I looked over at C and it looked like his head reached into the clouds. And I felt like a mere mortal scurrying upon the earth, you know. But he always lifted me up. Way, way, way up. Together we told a story of the possibilities of friendship, a story older than the ones that I was writing and a story I could never have told without him at my side.” ~ Bruce Springsteen pays  tribute to Clarence during 1999 Rock N Roll Hall Of Fame speech

Here’s his obit from ROLLING STONE

Music Box: The Incredible Shrinking Women

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*****

I’ve always hated Christina Aguilera’s histrionic melismatics and pretentious, over-the-top trilling, so when she flubbed the lyrics to the “The Star Spangled Banner” a few months back during the Super Bowl, as funny as it was, her memory lapse didn’t offend me as much as the overall performance did (there’s rarely a half-note she doesn’t deem worthy – despite the unworthiness of the result – to elongate into five. Besides, in my opinion, “The Star Spangled Banner” is a heinous song that shouldn’t be our national anthem anyway. I’ve long been a proponent that “America The Beautiful” should immediately replace it as our country’s anthem – but that’s another conversation).

So, as a non-fan, when her BURLESQUE film – far and away the worst film of 2010 – was critically reviled and royally flopped, I couldn’t have cared less. It deserved to be loathed and unseen.

It didn’t phase me, too, when her “Bionic” CD – far and away the worst CD of 2010 (I’m sensing a theme here…) also bombed. It was a fiasco of epic proportions. Again, when shit is, well, shit, it should be called out as such.

And, while divorce may be tragic, it happens to everyone, and maybe more so in the entertainment industry.

So, you might ask why I bring up all these tidbits about a performer I think of only once a week while watching NBCs “The Voice”? Well, she talks about all these issues in the new issue of W magazine.

Still, why do I care? Well, I don’t.

What I DO want to know, though, is WHERE THE FUCK did the other half of Aguilera go?!

Now, before I’m accused of being cruel, this is not meant to be an insult to Aguilera. This isn’t about mocking her size, which she vauntingly displays. It’s about the Curse of Photoshop.

I know that photoshopping has been the norm in magazines for years, but this is beyond specious. I mean, bad enough it’s 2011 and the press is still defining beauty/glamor/style by the waistline of our female stars. And we all know Aguilera recently gained weight as the mother/maturing woman she has become. But are the editors at W that stupefyingly, uhhhh, stupid that they don’t realize that we can see as such every week while watching “The Voice”?  The girl has curves, and she flaunts them. I wonder, has Aguilera approved this cover?

Is this really what a girl wants?

Recent magazine covers of other plus-size female artists have also been photoshopped, if to a lesser degree. If you were unaware of her already, perusing recent tabloids (e.g. Rolling Stone, Q, Elle, Out) you’d never garner that the prodigiously gifted Adele was a lusciously plump powerhouse. And Britney Spears and Janet Jackson are amongst the most blatantly airbrushed/photoshopped female entertainers of the past decade or so, trimming inches off their bodies. Following Mariah Carey, of course.

It’s not a new phenomenon, as I already noted, and it’s not merely for the overweight either (paging Madonna…). But the acceptance into our pop culture mindset doesn’t make it any less offensive.

Perhaps , even 42 years after she first said it, Yoko Ono was right… “Woman Is The Nigger Of The World…”

(Portland) People Have The Power

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From TOWLEROAD:

On Sunday night, more than 4,000 people showed up to a Facebook-organized demonstration against last week’s anti-gay hate crime in Portland, Oregon and held hands across the Hawthorne bridge where the attack occurred.

Earlier I reported that volunteer patrols had started in the area.

Just Out reports:

Demonstrators packed into the space beneath the west side of the bridge at about 7:30 p.m., spilling over onto the ramp and stairs to hear from the attack’s survivors, Brad Forkner and Christopher Rosevear. Afterward, the crowd filed down both sides of the bridge with hands held. Despite being tightly packed together, some attendees could not fit on the bridge.

Read the whole story HERE.

We Hold Their (Un)Truths To Be Self-Evident…And Obvious

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Faces of Hate - Tony Perkins and Peter Sprigg of FRC

There are plenty of fundamentally, inherently stupid people in the world, as we all know, especially in politics (hello Queen of the Morons Sarah Palin and greetings Ol’ Crazy Eyes Michelle Bachmann – who, BTW, still refuses to debate 16-yr old Amy Myers after a tsunami of idiotic “facts” spewed from Bachmann resulted in Myers’ requesting the debate), but only a genuine mental midget would NOT call the Family (ha!) Research Council a hate group. But, a hate group they are, and have been deemed so by Southern Poverty Law Center – and they’ve been boo-hoo-hooing the new lapel since they were branded with that truth late last year. I mean, you’d think they’d revel in it, as hate groups on par with the FRC – e.g. irrelevant cow Maggie Gallagher’s National Organization of Marriage, Lou Sheldon’s The Traditional Values Coalition, zany crackpot Donald E. Wildmon’s The American Family Association and my favorite, closet queen Peter LaBarbera’s Americans for Truth About Homosexuality – are so brazen in their animosity that it’s almost comical! But, just in case anyone actually needed proof of their innately invidious rhetoric and loathsome politicking, seeing – and hearing – is believing.