Check out the new video of Joey Ramone's song "New York City", directed by Greg Jardin. The jackhammer-fast camerawork produces Ramones-like visual effects, and the streets and faces are familiar -- that's Ramone brother Mickey Leigh opening and closing the video (we interviewed Mickey Leigh last year).
Cal Godot asked a good question in response to last weekend's post. When I use the terms "will" and "desire" in the context of ethical philosophy, am I using the terms interchangeably?
Yes, in a strict logical sense, I am using the terms interchangeably. Both "will" and "desire" point to the same thing, the same mysterious and omnipresent phenomenon of human (and animal) life. Yet there is a world of difference between will and desire.
The difference is not in the thing the words points to, but in the connotations captured along the way. The term "will" calls to mind three provocative philosophical texts that have become classics of the modern Western tradition: Arthur Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Presentation, Friedrich Nietzsche's The Will to Power and William James's essay collection The Will to Believe. Thus, "will" connotes European romanticism, existentialism and American Pragmatism. It carries a muscular, vigorous, dramatic and conflict-ridden sense. It feels Napoleonic and Apollonian.
Standing by the boat one night I watched the lake go
absolutely flat. Smaller than raindrops, and only
Here and there, the feeding rings of fish were visible a hundred
yards away -- and the Blue Gill caught that afternoon
Lifted from its northern lake like a tropical! Jewel at its ear
Belly gold so bright you'd swear he had a
Light in there. His color faded with his life. A small
green fish ...
Lew Welch was one of the very best Beat Generation poets, though he never quite got famous for it. He caught the tail end of the Beat movement, reaching his creative peak in the 1960s along with Michael McClure, Diane Di Prima and Lenore Kandel. Lew Welch worked as an ad man in Chicago before leaving the commercial world to become a full-time poet/dharma bum, and in this capacity he was part of the creative team that came up with the slogan "Raid Kills Bugs Dead". Welch was highly regarded by other Beat poets, but despite his savvy in the advertising business he never found a secure foothold in the fast-changing 1960s hipster/poetry scene, and seems to have considered himself a lost cause. Welch killed himself in 1971.
A new collection of Lew Welch's poetry has just been published by City Lights. Ring of Bone: Collected Poems covers his entire career, from his early attempts to write jazz poetry inspired by William Carlos Williams and Gertrude Stein to his increasingly self-directed, sardonic later verses, which encircle his creative frustration. Some titles: "Sausalito Trash Prayer", "Song of the Turkey Buzzard", "A Round of English", "Not Yet 40 But My Beard is Already White". This book now stands as the authoritative edition of Lew Welch's work, and includes a foreword by his close friend Gary Snyder.
Two interesting facts about poet Lew Welch: first, his stepson was the San Francisco 1980's blues-pop singer Huey Lewis (who must have taken the last name "Lewis" in tribute to his stepfather, even though in the 1980s it was hip to be square).
Paul Nelson was the most important rock critic you’ve probably never heard of. As a writer, he -- along with Paul “Crawdaddy” Williams and Greg “Who Put The Bomp” Shaw and a few other trailblazers -- helped turn rock ‘n’ roll fan-chatter into modern rock criticism by combining a deep intelligence and historic knowledge with a passion for the music itself. Nelson’s name had an added aura to it, though, because he came out of the pure, undiluted folk tradition and saw rock ‘n’ roll as a logical step in musical evolution. His name is attached to seminal folk publications like Big Sandy Review (which he co-founded) and Sing Out! (the venerable magazine that lured Nelson to New York from Minnesota), as well as the Village Voice, Circus and Rolling Stone.
Coming of age with fellow Minnesotan Robert Zimmerman, Nelson was an early supporter and friend of the man who would become Bob Dylan. Nelson did not flinch at all when Dylan “went electric” at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, to the chagrin of the folk purists. Nelson was, in fact, at the Newport festival cheering Dylan on. Nelson’s perspective was wider than most. Indeed, from his earliest folkie days to the end of his life, he devoted his energies to one simple idea that may or may not be true: pop culture -- music, books, print culture, film -- can change the world.
It might, however, be as a human being where Nelson made his biggest mark, at least from the evidence presented with sensitivity and intelligence by Kevin Avery in his new book, Everything Is an Afterthought: The Life and Writings of Paul Nelson. In a different time, Avery’s book would be considered “essential reading” for anyone hip. But that time is long gone and Nelson himself disappeared before his reputation could accrue the venerable status accorded Lester Bangs, Hunter S. Thompson and Greil Marcus.
Among the extraordinary things we learn about Nelson in Everything Is An Afterthought is that he was one of the only major rock critics who went on to work for a major record company when he joined Mercury (Bud Scoppa is the only other critic/company man who comes to mind). Nelson worked in Mercury as an A & R (artists & repertoire) man, not as a hack or flack. Inside the record company beast, he operated the way a mole tries to subvert the intelligence operation of a foreign enemy. That is, he nurtured and befriended the artists he admired, like the New York Dolls, Rod Stewart, Elliott Murphy, Graham Parker, David Bowie, Mike Seeger and Warren Zevon, and simply ignored those he didn’t.
It's the latest trend for Presidents and presidential candidates to go around having dinner with randomly selected donors. Given my general lack of social skills, it's probably good that I haven't been selected to have dinner with Barack Obama. Here's how I imagine it going if I did:
ME: Dude, I was born the same year as you.
SECRET SERVICE AGENT: Excuse me. Mr. Asher, this is President Barack Obama. Welcome to dinner with the President.
1. The classic science-fiction author Ray Bradbury has died. I never really kept up with his work, but when I was a kid I thought Illustrated Man had the coolest book cover in the universe. "The Veldt" was my favorite story from that collection. Here's more on Ray from Boing Boing, io9, Neil Gaiman and Ed Champion.
And while I've gotcha here:
2. Beautiful visualizations can occur when great authors pick up the brush.
Yes, my friends, the longest wait in film history is about to end, though you'll only get to see the movie if you're on the French Riviera. The Walter Salles/Jose Rivera/Francis Ford Coppola interpretation of Jack Kerouac's On The Road will premiere at the Cannes Film Festival tomorrow, Wednesday, May 23, at 7:30 pm francois temps.
Kerouac obsessives like me still don't know what to expect from this film, though trailers and still shots have trickled out. Will I love the film? Will I hate it? Indications are highly ambivalent, nearly straight down the 50-50 mark. On the negative side, I'm worried that Kristen Stewart's star power will magnetize the plot, turning the famous story about two men and a car into a story about two men and a woman. And, let's face it, we already have Jules and Jim (not to mention Willie and Phil).
Exactly sixty years ago, in May 1952, 81-year-old Zen Buddhist scholar D. T. Suzuki began teaching a regular course at Columbia University. 39-year-old modernist composer John Cage attended a few of his lectures, and this is the electric point of contact that starts everything buzzing in Nothing and Everything - The Influence of Buddhism on the American Avant Garde: 1942 - 1962, a new book by Ellen Pearlman.
Both men were trailblazers. Suzuki is remembered today as a premier ambassador for Eastern religion in the West, and as the author of the influential books Introduction to Zen Buddhism and Essays in Zen Buddhism. But, Ellen Pearlman reveals in the first chapter of Nothing and Everything, Suzuki had not been considered a very "successful" Buddhist as a young Zen student in Japan. He found a far greater calling as a highly visible foreigner in the West than he could have ever found if he'd stayed in Japan, since his idiosyncratic personality rubbed many Zen masters the wrong way. It was Suzuki's ability to translate key Asian texts into English that gave him a foothold in the United States of America, and he eagerly grabbed the opportunity to pursue his own unique vision of a global Buddhist awakening.
John Cage had already earned a reputation as a rule-breaker in the field of avant-garde music by the time he attended the elderly Suzuki's lectures at Columbia, but it wasn't until after he was exposed to Zen Buddhism (from Suzuki and several other sources) that he was able to conceive of his signature work, 4'33, which thrilled and outraged the world of classical music with its unspeakable simplicity. The composition indicated that the performer should sit at a piano (or any other instrument) and maintain four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence.
It's impossible to encapsulate modern, avant-garde and experimental arts within any formula, but Nothing and Everything's purpose is to follow a single thread of excitement among several 20th century innovators within American art, music, theater and literary scenes that was caused by a rising awareness of traditional Buddhist religion and philosophy. The first to follow John Cage were the Dada-inspired innovators of the Fluxus movement in the early 1960s, Alison Knowles, Jackson Mac Low, Num June Paik, Toshi Ichiyanagi and Yoko Ono (who, beyond the scope of this book, would eventually collaborate with John Lennon to present crystalline expressions of Fluxus ideas to the entire world, and become its most famous practitioner).
It's hard for me to describe how big an influence the Beastie Boys have had on my life. During the late 1980s and early 1990s, I found lifesaving inspiration in records like Paul's Boutique and Check Your Head that I could not have found anywhere else. If it were not for the Beastie Boys, I'm pretty sure there would have never been a Literary Kicks.
I know a bit about the Beastie Boys. I've seen them in concert several times, though the live format didn't play to their strengths. The best way to listen to the Beastie Boys is with earbuds in, the world shut out. Their recordings were dense, complex and sophisticated, their rhymes expertly crafted for maximum effect. Each of the three had a highly distinct voice; you can listen to any line in any Beastie Boys song and immediately know whose voice you're hearing:
Sometimes I lay off the heavy reading and dig into a rock and roll biography like Every Night's a Saturday Night by Bobby Keys.
Bobby's most well-known for his work over several decades with the Rolling Stones, but he's also recorded with Elvis Presley, toured as part of Delaney and Bonnie and Friends and Joe Cocker's Mad Dogs and Englishman, played sax on George Harrison's All Things Must Pass, and laid down the slammin' intro to John Lennon's hit single "Whatever Gets You Through The Night". The book doesn't waste much time on introspection or soul-searching; when the author of a memoir mentions "my wife at the time" in the middle of a story, and this story is not preceded by an earlier story in which he meets or marries this wife, you realize that this isn't going to be one of those intense and deeply personal memoirs. And that's okay. Sometimes you just want to read about a saxophone player and his saxophone. (We never find out his first wife's name, but his saxophone's name is Elmer).