I heard that the Wisconsin unions are greedy. I also heard that the greed o the rich is what makes capitalism function. Could somebody remind me how much you need to make a year before self-interest becomes a virtue instead of a vice?
Facticity (throwness): We find ourselves existing in a world not of our own making and indifferent to our concerns. We are not the source of our existence, but find ourselves thrown into a world we don’t control and didn’t choose.
(this is inarticulate, but I meant it. I wrote it while i was very very tired.)
Sometimes I talked about things, and said “Look, there’s a thing, let’s talk about it, let’s talk about how it’s bad., it didn’t work, it’s dumb.”
And people would say “You’re an artist, that’s special, it’s special to be an artist”
And I’d say “No I’m not, look at all these crap artists. It’s not special. I just am doing the thing that I have to do.”
And older artists would talk like it was voodoo super magic to be an artist. Hippies.
But now, seriously, I am reconsidering. I feel, increasingly, like things are settled, like everyone thinks they know how things are supposed to be, and how they are supposed to be is in a box. There are boxes.
The boxes are like: movie, reality tv, post-radioheadband, little gallery with a picture in it, little book for housewives who went to college to read. Little boxes for little artists to be in so they can be part of this economy and world. And there’s no chance any of these things will spill out of the boxes that they are in. No one expects them to do anything, result in anything. As a creative person, you provide a service so that people with brains can stay entertained enough to not blow those brains out so we can keep putting them to work for us. You’re like the movie on the plane. Nice. We’re flying a plane here. Keep it rolling. Soon we will arrive.
There’s a cynical, hipster-Tshirt, pillpoppped, tired Vice Magazine reading oh-we’re-all-grownups-here thing here that is saying Oh come on, one day you will be one of them, to survive you will be one of them, and only Them run things. So grow up. Stop expecting to not be in the box. Maybe wait for a computer geek to make a new and interesting box. Have a drink. Have a cigar. The best it can get is basically Bill Clinton America. Lets go for that. Yeah, let’s do that. That was fun, right? You’ll have a house, you’ll have a job. Maybe everyone will have a house and a job. A chicken in every pot. What could possibly be better than a chicken in every pot? Especially in this economy. Doesn’t that sound like heaven?
You cannot make art like that. You can’t make art assuming it’s a thing to go in a box to be checked. Even if it will go in a box and that’s it. Things do not have to be this way. Things do not have to be this way. Things can be anything.
Please, everyone: do things anyway. Do them. I am sure it looks hopeless now: Like, at best, like some scheme for one more person to get a house. But it’s not. You can get out of the box. Humans can get out of boxes. Always have. If we can’t, there’s no art, there’s no fun. there’s no anything. Do it anyway, and know that it gets better. Know that if you are still doing it in this world, under these conditions, in this situation which is designed in every detail and on every level to constantly compare you to the lamest possible interpretation of you, then you are doing something,
I was cynical for a long long time. I am cynical. Cynicism is good and will help you. But do the thing that you do. Perform far beyond and outside the expectations. Without it, without the conviction that it doesn’t have to be this way, then it does.
Every single one of you. Do it. And know that one day, they will thank you for having kept on doing it, when it was so unfashionable to do anything but make more money and joke about how once you thought you could do it.
Please do things, Please. One day someone will thank you for it. They will look back and say “Oh thank god people kept doing things, despite the constant derision poured on things and the doing of them”. Please do things. Please. Please.
“At the end, the reason why I yell all the band names, is because I suddenly realized that this is what you do when you know things. Knowing things, knowledge, or your attachment to things, your self-association with other bands, or books, or whatever. It’s often like this weird amulet that protects you. Like “No, I am serious, look at my library, listen to this!” I can list all the books I’ve read, and now you know I am a serious person. And so it’s just supposed to be this amulet swinging around me to protect me from being seen as anything I didn’t want to be seen as.”—
But have you seen my records? This Heat, Pere Ubu, Outsiders, Nation of Ulysses, Mars, The Trojans, The Black Dice, Todd Terry, the Germs, Section 25, Althea and Donna, Sexual Harrassment, a-ha, Pere Ubu, Dorothy Ashby, PIL, the Fania All-Stars, the Bar-Kays, the Human League, the Normal, Lou Reed, Scott Walker, Monks, Niagra,
Joy Division, Lower 48, the Association, Sun Ra,
Scientists, Royal Trux, 10cc,
Eric B. and Rakim, Index, Basic Channel, Soulsonic Force (“just hit me”!), Juan Atkins, David Axelrod, Electric Prunes, Gil! Scott! Heron!, the Slits, Faust, Mantronix, Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines, the Swans, the Soft Cell, the Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics, the Sonics.
MIDNIGHT RADIOfromHedwig & The Angry Inch by Stephen Trask
Here’s another cover I RECorded a little while ago. Been waiting to post it until today.
Believe it or not, BURNING dAN was not always the tremendously extroverted swashbuckler he eventually became. Most of his life, he was pretty shy. One of the first times I remember seeing him dress up loud was to play Sgt. Luther Robinson along with a midnight show (sorta like Rocky Horror) of Hedwig.
We celebrated his 30th birthday six and a half years ago, just me and him talking all night. I miss him. But that’s one thing about becoming a tremendously extroverted swashbuckler. He made himself real easy to recall.
“No great book is explicable, […]. Interpretation replaces the original with the lamest sort of substitute. It tames, disarms. “Okay, I get it,” we say, dusting our hands, “and that takes care of that.” “At last I understand Kafka” is a foolish and conceited remark.”—from William H. Gass’ introduction to William Gaddis’ The Recognitions