Dichotome

First, let me start off with a third-grade-book-report statement. For context! ***  <3 *** (@). “Exit Through the Gift Shop” is a documentary about “street art.”

Sort of.

It is also a documentary about the film’s maker, or makers, plural*: both Banksy my (and everyone else who isn’t on Fairey’s jock’s) favorite street artist, and ****OMG, YOU IDIOT, SPOILER ALERT**** the documentarian-turned-street artist Terry Guetta, this impossibly-flawed, fascinating flaneur-hack. At some point during the filming of the doc, Banksy himself takes over the production, and like his art, a seemingly simple narrative explodes into a twisted, philosophically saturated, self-questioning, self-mocking tale.

Second, let me say that I have a love/hate relationship with Cambridge, where I saw the film. At the same time, the place, where I call home, is progressive and cliché, intelligent but trite, privileged in ways most people on the planet salivate over and yet complacent about basic community care, hyperconscious and naive, infused with youth and filled with old, dying hippies, driving their (biodiesel!) BMW to vote Democrat at the nearest public school that they don’t send their grandchildren to. It’s populated with both Harvard and the hood, which I love, but there is nary another brown face in Kendall Square cinema. This is important because this is a film about “street art,” n’est pas? A film about a movement that comes from the graffiti of a much blacker NYC, and is informed not only by canonical (read: European/Euro-American) art, but also the commodified pop cultures of “hip-hop” and “urban life.”** Oh, that means black folk. So, it’s weird, if not surprising, that there’s no black folk in the audience of this film besides me (black in the Obama’s census form” usage of the term, of course). In Cambridge.

To continue on this diatribe would take away from the review but it’s an important point to make: For all of the questions of class, race, oppression, and the power of the dollar, Shep Fairey and Banksy (who is faceless, and therefore raceless- we see hands but hands can mean anything. [Someone has since pointed me to a picture of his face and I'm blocking it out forever.] The absence of a face means he’s effectively gamed this system. Who knows and who cares about Banksy’s race? Well played, and good for you, sir.) may do well to ask questions about why their “street art” is revered, sold, popularized, gallerized, and taught, while a “graffiti” movement 30+ years old, with a different complexion remains illicit, and on the streets.*** Not that I think there’s a simple answer to that question…

But who can ask ANY of these questions better than Banksy? And who has the balls to? Just showing the balls and the brains of his work fills me with such joy (not to mention feeling like the film is and of itself, one of the biggest questions of all, about truth and purpose and what a documentary is) -not unlike the quasi-orgasmic feeling I get when hearing the last movement of part 1 of The Rite of Spring, trying on a La Perla bra, or staring at Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?, etc. (or, if I can bougie-balance a bit here, listening to Unknown Pleasures, trying on the perfect pair of jeans, and seeing a significant other pimp out one’s karaoke skills on Twitter.). Seeing Banksy actually risk his life (and the lives of his assistants) to paint the wall separating Israel and Palestine with stuff that looks like this:

Well, heart explosions, on multiple levels. That’s not even the most brilliant of his work- it’s merely the most ballsy. Artists- ask yourself if the piece you’re working on would be finished if someone was shooting warning shots at your head to stop. No? Good. If yes, kindly apologize to your parents. Your haircut is enough to make them disown you.

Of all of the Rocktober shows that I’m excited about (I swear to you, I will eventually clean up the upcoming shows list), School of Seven Bells ranks high on my zomgz list. I’m probably too old to zomgz. I’m not exactly sure what the Z’s are for. The Z is to the aughts what the X was to the 90′s, n’est pas?

My Cabal is probably my favoritest song on 2008′s Alpinisms, which is one of the CDs that I purchased too too late in 2008 to truly appreciate. I’m also too old to rhyme that much in one sentence.

Enjoy the video, which is also a zillion years old, but whatever.

My Cabal

Boston folks, School of Seven Bells is coming to town on April 17th at the Paradise. There’s more fun tour dates if you’re not in our fair city.

I care about nothing else except this video right now. There will be time for analysis later. Today is Friday and Friday is for dancing.

Robyn

OK, that’s a little bit harsh. But seriously, Sarah McLaughlin? You and your lovesick wailing and your sad abused puppies and your really weird and self-serving girl-unity message? Get out.

I was a riot grrrl AND a part time lesbian in the 90′s and I still didn’t go to Lilith. Why bother? All the cool chicks had their own shows. Think about it: the 90′s were rad! It was all kinds of Sleater-Kinney and Tori Amos and Liz Phair (v1) and Bikini Kill and PJ Harvey and Bjork and Ruby and (sorry) Ani Difranco and jesus, like, everything else. Lilith Fair was, to me, this weird and unnecessary festival for ladies who wrote songs about their vaginas and heartbreak that was created because there’s usually only enough room on the radio or in anyone’s brain for a few vagina-heartbreak songs at a time. Tori Amos had that space for a while and Sarah McLaughlin was all “BUT I DO THAT TOO! THAT’S NOT FAAAAIIIIIR!!!” and threw a party about it for a bunch of girls with barrettes in their hair.

I mean, in a way I thank Sarah McLaughlin for this. Lilith Fair helped a lot of ladies get in touch with their vaginas, and that is how I managed to survive my early 20′s, the era that I would like to call: Straight Girl Serial. I won so many toaster ovens. If I could get that on a beauty-pageant body ribbon, I would like that very much. Work, minions, work.

I thought it was over. I mean, no one listens to the radio and everyone can accept that mainstream music is crap (really for no fault of its own, it’s all part of a numbers game, and a lot of it is incredibly enjoyable crap), and for crying out loud, there’s enough people whining about their vaginas everywhere, somewhere between Scott Pilgrim and Death Cab For Cutie. That should have its own festival, like: the Beta Male festival. Everyone could all apathetically nod, revert to their childhoods, and quote from The Office together. Maybe they could borrow some barrettes.

Back to Lilith: It’s not over. Apparently there’s still vaginas to sing about, and people are willing to pay for a stadium show for it. Good for them. So I asked myself a few questions:

#1. Why does this piss you off so much? Well, I want to go to a show this summer, somewhere outside and massive with overpriced beers and expensive parking. This is a personal definition of “what summer is” and I’m bummed that there’s a lot of stuff touring that is either skipping Boston altogether or not anything I could justify paying more than $10 for. Maybe I’m just getting old, but I don’t think so, since as I get older I seem to be open to more and more music, not less and less.

#2. But what REALLY pisses you off about it? This is complicated. On the surface, I’m all about ladies getting together to rock, but that’s the problem: Lilith Fair embodies everything that’s narrow and stereotypical about women playing music together: It’s a huggy, feelgood, piano-snoozefest for ladies only. There’s so much music that women make- so much goddamn fierceness that I think we can now express without really lame definitions of femininity and “female rock.” Adia, I do believe you failed us. With yawning and songs about boys. Drag.

#3 Hrm, so, if you could magically wave your wand and have a festival of your own, what would it look like?
First off, let’s remove this whole “woman frontwoman” thing and create a diverse festival with women and men who fucking rock out. Sure, it can be female-heavy, cause I like chicks, but I like dudes just as much and I want them to be in the audience. Part of the problem in an all-women’s festival is that it encourages only ladies to hang out there, and there’s enough problems with getting dudes to hear our stories, though our stories are just as awesome and as valid as theirs. No need to ghettoize any further, ok? Second, there has to be a serious limit on slow songs, emo piano jazz, and songs that have appeared in any movie that Katherine Hegl has appeared in. THIS IS IMPORTANT. Admittedly, I’ve had a problem over the past year with the piano for various ridiculous and personal reasons but if I had the money, I would make a guitar out of a chainsaw and personally attack any number of bands with, say, one chick on piano and a bunch of under-talented studio musicians who write the same adorable pop song over and over and over again. Oh, you’re not going to write me a love song? OK COOL, LEARN HOW TO ROCK, CRAZY CATCHY SONG THAT ONLY EXISTS IN SUPERMARKETS AND PROBABLY ALSO TJ MAXX.

When Fever Ray added Zola Jesus to her RA podcast last Halloween, I paid close attention. (Anything Fever Ray tells me to do I do, even ritualistically communing with cows. I’m all in.) I was enchanted by the ZJ name first. Dark New Order synths with a voice that sounds like Kate Bush an octave down second.

That’s a horrible description.

It’s like some kind of dark faerie queen got into my brain and started playing all of the rudimentary electronic instruments that live there while love scenes and thoughts of global inhumanity play concurrently as I try to go to sleep. Better? OK. Now give it a listen.

She’ll be coming around to NYC on Oct 2. Pay more attention to her