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Stuck In Normal
by Chris Bertolet - bertolet@earthlink.netInstead I warm my hands on the
Flames of the flag
As I recall our downfall
And the business that burned us all
Set through the news and the views that
Twist reality
Enough- Rage Against the Machine
In my first year of graduate school, I went to see a promotions executive for a major record label lecture to a small gathering of aspiring professionals about careers in the record industry. The gentleman briefly explained that his job was convincing radio stations to play songs -- their songs -- and then opened the floor to questions. An eager beaver in the front row reached for the ceiling. "What kind of person succeeds in the music business?" she asked.
The executive laughed. Actually, it was more like a guffaw, self-aware and smug. "Well, let's just say it's not the best gig for someone with, um...ahh." He paused dramatically, his lips curling in a sardonic smile, as he searched for just the right word. Students sat erect in their seats, wondering what pearl of Zen the moustached mogul was about to unveil. Not the best gig for someone with what, exactly? Bad taste in hats? A pacemaker?
Finally, he found his word. "Scruples." That's when I got up and walked out of the room.
Dispute the suits I ignite
And then watch 'em burn
Burn, burn, yes ya gonna burnI don't believe in fairy tales. There is no Santa Claus, the tax man cometh, and Woodstock never happened.
I don't mean to say that a half million people never gathered on Max Yasgur's farm and got muddy while music played on a stage somewhere. What I mean is that Woodstock As It Has Come To Be Canonized never happened. The promoters (two of whom were self-described "hippies") hadn't set out to make any political statements; they wanted to make enough bank to build a phat recording studio where they could hang with rock stars. I understand that impulse. Contrary to popular misconception, the fences didn't come down because the money guys caught the free love bug and decided to flush a few million bucks; they came down because they were afraid the kids outside would get frustrated, tired and hungry and start breaking stuff (or them). I understand that impulse, too. Most of the kids who did get in wallowed serf-like in their own waste for three days, while the lords of the dance rubbed elbows with Grace and Jimi and smoked hash in the grassy expanse behind the stage. Given a choice, that's where I'd be.
For all its errant mythology, though, there was something important about Woodstock. Even today, the word evokes images, and suggests values: freedom, unity, hope and celebration. It punctuated a pretty new idea (at the time) -- namely that rock music, while primal and chaotic and libidinal, could also be healing and conscious of community. And while Woodstock didn't establish the peace movement, it demonstrated its heft in a way nothing else had. The bedraggled underdog finally won a game.
That means something. It's special. It's a piece of American history. Right?
You are the witness of change
And to counteract
We gotta take the power backI channel surfed past MTV one lazy Sunday last month and saw Wyclef Jean being pummelled by a blizzard of water bottles, lighters and miscellaneous junk as he attempted to solo through "The Star Spangled Banner" on guitar. I was disturbed by the image -- this casually nihilistic disdain for artistic risk -- and so it took me a few seconds to realize that I'd stumbled on highlight coverage of Woodstock '99.
At a loss to grasp or describe the banality of the audience's reaction to our own national anthem, Kurt Loder -- rock & roll's self-appointed town crier -- reported for the thirty-second time that things had "really gotten out of hand" the night before during the Limp Bizkit set. By the end of that day, it'd get a whole lot worse.
Heaping more drivel onto Irony Mountain, Loder went on to conclude, after much brow-wrinkling analysis, that a combination of heat, thirst, and the provocative lyrics of Saturday's metal marathon had driven the crowd to misbehave. Certainly, Our Man Kurt slathered between the lines, MTV had nothing at all to do with it. They're just journalists, war correspondents in a rock & roll hot zone, bringing you hot, cheesy Truth Pockets, exploding with flava, fresh out of the microwave.
Most of you are smart enough to know by now that MTV, for all its appetizing eye jelly, is an integral cog in the lumbering Machine that brought you Woodstock '99. This Machine I speak of has a powerful brain, but a big, sucking vacuum where its heart should be, and it's programmed to convert your dollars into Britney Spears albums, Ricky Martin posters, and $80 Jewel tickets with cruel efficiency.
Of course, the same Machine that pimps Britney Spears, Ricky Martin and Jewel also pimps Kid Rock (who at least seems to know that he's the luckiest piece of white trash on the planet) and Limp Bizkit (who don't seem to know that they're the most talent-unburdened contrivance since Poison). Kid Rock and Limp Bizkit might be turds in the gene pool, but the fact is that they sell records out the poop chute. They're jet fuel for the Machine.
Still, white suburban rage isn't what Woodstock was about. Was it?
Enter Michael Lang, one of the promoters of the original Woodstock. You might think that Lang, who still wears his hair and slurs his words like a good hippie should, learned something from his experience in the trenches. Maybe he felt lucky just to escape alive, or maybe he even harbored a little bit of pride for the gift he unwittingly gave the world. Like me, you might think he'd choose to mount a festival that honored the de facto ideals of Woodstock, even if he didn't have anything to do with them the first time around.
Like me, you'd be naive.
Believin' all the lies that they're
Tellin' ya
Buyin' all the products that they're
Sellin' ya
They say jump, you say how high
Ya brain dead
Ya got a fuckin' bullet in ya headThe Woodstock '99 web site slogan is "One World." Sounds dreamy and all peach-fuzzy, doesn't it? But in retrospect, I can't help but wonder exactly what it's supposed to mean. The answer, of course, is nothing -- at least explicitly. Implicitly, what it's saying is, "Hey, it's safe here. Come on down to the garden, hold that brother's hand in yours, and find that common ground in the music."
Maybe the slogan should have been, "One World, 200,000 People, Three Port-O-Sans."
In the end, Lang and his co-assailants hacked down a bunch of trees to jam in as many bodies as they could, then imprisoned their paying customers and robbed them blind. Their vending interests peddled Cokes and water for $4 (the free water allegedly "ran out"), and hawked soggy little burritos for $6. They scheduled an all-day, all-out sonic assault, paying no attention to concepts like variety, energy or dynamic. Worst of all, they didn't bother to empty overflowing toilets because, perhaps, their insurance policy covered hepatitis outbreaks.
When the smoke cleared, Michael Lang had the nuts to step in front of the press and bestow forgiveness on the crowd, explaining that a few bad apples were responsible for the violence that erupted and sullied Woodstock's good name. Shucks, Michael, nice to know you still believe in our generation. Now maybe you could restore our faith in yours.
If ignorance is bliss
Then knock the smile off my faceBelieve me, I don't like being as cynical as I've been forced to become. I believe in rock & roll from the bottom of my heart. And in fairness, I suppose I could have had a good time at Woodstock '99 had I been able to steer clear enough of the Sugar Rays, Bushes and Collective Souls (oh, and date rapes). But the overpowering predominance of Least Common Denominator Sludge on the lineup makes me wonder what attracted such diverse and deserving talents as Mickey Hart, Rage, P-Funk, Elvis Costello and Willie Nelson in the first place.
Could it be that, like us, they were too naive to see the Machine coming? Or could it be that they've already been swallowed?
Freedom, freedom
Yeah, rightThe night after I walked out of that lecture, a friend of mine named Ben called to tell me he'd heard about a surprise Rage Against the Machine gig at the Dragonfly, a local club that holds about 300 people. Sure enough, we rushed down there and finagled our way into the hometown warm-up for their world tour.
I was already a big fan. Regardless of what you think of Zach De La Rocha's politics, they're informed, sincere, and unimpeachable. Tom Morello is a twisted genius on guitar, and Rage's rhythm section throws down a groove like no one else. Sure enough, the show clobbered me like a speeding freight train, and plastered a shit-eating grin on my face. The music was crystalline and deafening; the front half of the bar was a Cuisinart of flying bodies, a storm of release.
In one unsuspecting moment, I turned and took the full brunt of a 250-pound mosher square on the chest, and flew through the air to the floor. Fully expecting to be crushed underfoot, I instead found a hand in my face. I took it, and the same 250-pound mosher lifted me to my feet with a smile.
This, I knew then, was the real business end of rock & roll.
Chris Bertolet just saw his first Ween show, and wonders whether there's a Church of the Flaming Boognish in the greater Los Angeles area. He's going to Banff next week because he likes the way it sounds. Come on, say it. Banff.
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