How Not To Include Politics in Your Music

This weekend, I had the good fortune of attending a Massive Attack concert at the Fox Theater. For those of you who might be unfamiliar with the group, it is (according to Wikipedia) "a collaborative music duo from Bristol" as well as the "progenitor of the trip-hop genre."

Okay, so what the heck does that mean? Basically, these guys (and occasionally gals) sing awesome, haunting melodies to an electronic though elegant drumbeat. My personal favorites are "Paradise Circus" and "Atlas Air."

The concert itself was pretty fantastic. Despite the fact that I was about three rows from the back door and surrounded by couples that felt that their love was meant to be shared, I had no problem seeing the stage. Sound wasn't a problem, either. Actually, my head is still ringing.

Now I've been to a variety of concerts, and most of them (thankfully) focused on music-making, not politicizing. So for me, a seizure-inducing light show that contained statistics about WMDs was a new experience. For the most part, it was interesting; it even added a new dimension to the work that I'd previously associated with the treadmill.

But there was one track (complete with corresponding light show) that I just couldn't rationalize: "Better Things."

Like most musicians and superstars that have the luxury of a soap box, Massive Attack crushed the wooden crate with its weight. Their intentions were good. Really. During this song, which, for those of you who decided not to have a listen, discusses freedom, a small screen scrolled through numerous quotes that related to the subject. For the most part, they were well-matched. Take a gander at some of these:

"No one can be at peace unless he has his freedom." Malcolm X

"Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you." Jean-Paul Sartre

"...If you're in favor of freedom of speech, then that means that you're in favor of freedom of speech precisely for those you despise." Noam Chomsky

You get the picture.

Here I am, reading and considering each quote, when this one comes scrolling along:

"Sometimes democracy must be bathed in blood." Augusto Pinochet

Hold it right there. Pinochet? Really? You mean, the Chilean fascist dictator who was responsible for the torture and/or death of thousands of his own people? According to the omniscient Wikipedia, 2,279 people "disappeared" for political reasons while he was in "office." Approximately 31, 947 were tortured under this regime--but that's not so bad, right? At least they lived.

So here's my question: why would Massive Attack choose to use this quote by Pinochet, a mass murderer and extortionist, when they could have easily substituted it with this nearly identical quote that is attributed to Thomas Jefferson?

"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

Oh, right. Jefferson is a dead white conservative male. In order to avoid citing someone so clearly evil, we instead turn to the immortal words of a fascist dictator. Ah, political correctness, thy name is irony. 

Oh, by the way-while researching, I found something interesting about the Noam Chomsky quote that I mentioned above. In context, it goes a little something like this:

"If you believe in freedom of speech, you believe in freedom of speech for views you don't like. Stalin and Hitler, for example, were in favor of freedom of speech for views they liked only. If you're in favor of freedom of speech, then you're in favor of freedom of speech precisely for views you despise."

So, if I follow this correctly, Chomsky is suggesting that we practice what our mothers (hopefully) preached: The Golden Rule. If you want to be able to exercise your right to free speech, you must be willing to allow others to do so as well. But--and this is a pretty major caveat--your right to swing your fist ends at my nose. Stalin and Hitler exercised their free speech to the detriment of others, which, to his credit, Chomsky condemns. Good for him.

In a sense, then, it could be theorized that Massive Attack used Pinochet's quote for the sake of upholding the noble Golden Rule that Chomsky cites in the latter half of his quote. Still, I'm going to have to say that I don't think they took the time to read the quote in context, seeing as the song ended just as these words flashed on the screen:

"Death solves all problems. No man, no problem." Joseph Stalin

And what makes me so sure that I'm right? This quote has been misattributed to our fearless leader. According to WikiQuote, the original source is a novel called Children of the Arbat by Anatoly Rybakov.

Something tells me these guys aren't big on research.

A Little Bit of Everything

So I just finished reading over the five types of writers as described by Betsy Lerner.

At first, I thought that I might fall under the heading of the ambivalent writer; after all, I have a lot of trouble settling down to write much of anything. For instance, I've been struggling to come up with a topic for my Understanding Writing as Process class. After three submissions, I've finally settled down on a topic. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if my research takes another turn. But who am I kidding? My head isn't filled with tons of ideas. I don't have this irrepressible urge to create. I live and breathe even when I don't write.

I do, however, drive myself to distraction worrying that I am not creative, and that this somehow makes me a lesser writer. I fret so much that I neglect the assignments that I do have the capacity to complete. I agonize over all of my papers, never sure whether or not I've actually fulfilled the assignment. By the time the deadline rolls around, I just have to hold one hand over my eyes as I turn over my work to the critical eye of a professor.

In all likelihood, I am more of a neurotic writer than anything else. Still, I had my own brush with the "wicked child" syndrome this afternoon. My first attempt at this post discussed an old friend of mine, an ambivalent writer whose flighty approach to literature drove me crazy. While it wasn't a Philip Roth style expose, it revealed too much for my taste. What if this ambivalent dreamer found the post? What on earth would he think? What would my other readers think of me if I spent several paragraphs pointing out all of the faults in a fellow writer?

So in true neurotic fashion, I deleted it. (If any of you read it before I had the chance to erase it, please strike it from your memory. It never happened.)

My point in all of these ramblings, and I do have one, is that none of us are all one kind of writer or another. As Lerner points out, we are all a mixture of the addict, the wicked child, the ambivalent one, the neurotic one, and, of course, the self-promoter. I think that the key is to ensure that each of these characteristics is proportional to all of the rest. The trouble really begins when we start to believe that we are all one thing or another.

Hunkering Down: So Much Easier Said Than Done

Speaking of hunkering down, I really should be working on a paper for another class. I've been putting it off for weeks now; each time I sit down to write, I decide that I'm not familiar enough with the essay at hand. I should really read it one more time, just for good measure. I'll start writing as soon as I take some more notes. Really.

Since this is technically schoolwork, I feel that it is a socially acceptable form of procrastination. Once I finish this, I'll go spend an hour at the gym, just to get the juices flowing. Then I'll get started on my paper in earnest. Of course, I'll want to to shower first, and then maybe fix a little something to eat. After dinner, maybe I'll brew some decaf coffee and do a little reading to set the mood.

I'll admit that this is not the most efficient set of pre-writing activities; but after reading Wendy Wasserstein's short essay, "Holidays at the Keyboard Inn," I decided that this must be how the professionals do it. I've read several articles recently that touch on the overdone topic of procrastination, and they all seem to come to a similar consensus: a little pressure never hurt anyone. In fact, a looming deadline has the potential to produce truly magnificent work. Then again, this romantic notion of waiting until the last moment and then creating a masterpiece can be problematic. It leaves little time for revision, which most of us non-genius types rely on for quality work.

Still, I think that Wasserstein makes a subtle point as she recounts her own bouts with procrastination. As an undergrad, I started writing my papers approximately a week in advance, give or take a few days. (There were some infamous exceptions which led to disastrous consequences.) Though I may not have penned my final draft until the day before the deadline, I took pages and pages of notes, read and re-read the material, and talked myself in circles in the weeks after the paper was assigned.

In this essay, Wasserstein takes for granted that her readers (who happen to be aspiring writers) are familiar with this dance. A non-writer might marvel at the composition of a full-length play over a weekend at the Holiday Inn, but a writer knows that the ideas, though not concrete, had been floating in her head for days, weeks, or possibly even months.

Now. I've gone to the gym, had my ritualistic mug of decaf, and completed a blog post. As soon as I check my e-mail, I'll start writing that paper...

Too good not to share..."Found in Translation"

As I was perusing the op-ed section of the New York Times in search of a suitable piece for the rhetorical analysis, I came across this gem! Granted, I haven't read any of Mr. Cunningham's works, so I have no idea if the application of his philosophy works in his fiction. (Frankly, this article has inspired me to make a quick trip to the Cobb County Library this afternoon...as if I don't have enough to read already!)

Here is the article in its entirety:

Found in Translation- Michael Cunningham

The idea of translation has baffled me for some time, primarily as a result of my own limited experiences with the Spanish language. In an effort to gain some fluency and better comprehension skills, I started watching some of my favorite television shows and movies in Spanish. Since my ears weren't quite skilled enough, I gave myself a bit of a crutch to lean on: Spanish subtitles. As I slowly learned to keep up, I was surprised to find that the words spoken in the voice overs were not the same as those scrolling across the bottom of the screen. I guess I really hadn't grasped the concept of translation; there is more than one way to express a similar sentiment, after all. My own translating skills were hindered by an irrepressible urge to translate word for word, rather than thought for thought, thus making it difficult for me to imagine any flexibility between meaning and phrasing.


Cunningham takes this concept, familiar to second language learners everywhere, and then suggests that we must engage in the act of translation to put our own thoughts into language. (Oh, the horror! I don't have a Caitlin-English dictionary...) If you are of the belief that language precedes thought, this is an especially sticky idea. But regardless of their philosophy, hasn't every writer suffered that same feeling of alienated bewilderment when faced with the daunting prospect of putting his or her spirit in ink? Even if you manage to find the "right" words, they don't always convey that something special, that je ne sais quoi. And if we as composers feel that our work is somehow foreign, then imagine the reader! (Which is, of course, what Cunningham suggests that we do.)

I could go on gushing over this piece for quite some time, but I'll spare you. After all, this text will conjure up your own metaphors and memories, just as Crime and Punishment was a completely different text for both Cunningham and "Helen."

Rules: Who needs them, anyway?

Unfortunately, I've recently noted that my literary education consists primarily of gaps. In an effort to remedy this painful situation, I started reading a collection of works by Dostoyevsky last week. Though I've only made a dent in Notes from Underground, I have successfully placed several excerpts and short stories in my repertoire.

I actually bought this modest collection several years ago. The impetus behind the purchase was a recent acquaintance; I'd met an upperclassmen in the Wind Ensemble who happened to be carrying a copy of the text in the inner pocket of his scholarly blazer.(Which, by the way, was complete with corduroy elbow patches.) He was quite honestly the epitome of the English major; he lived a dreamy existence in which he spent hours composing poetry and later reading it to his necessarily patient friends. I know it sounds cliche, but I was very impressed by the passion with which he discussed literature in general. I figured that if he liked Dostoyevsky enough to cart him across campus in his jacket pocket, the book had to be good.

The first story in the collection was "White Nights." (Incidentally, it was the inspiration for the recent quasi-indie film, Two Lovers. Who knew?) The initial description of the narrator's lonely walks through St. Petersburg, punctuated by his amiable conversations with houses, was captivating. After tearing through the first ten pages or so, I stopped short when I realized that the next forty pages were comprised almost entirely of dialogue.

This wasn't pithy dialogue, either. Entire pages went by with the narrator speaking to his new friend and secret love, Nastenka. Of course, she occasionally got to tell her own story in a nearly identical epic style. Imagine my shock when I realized that the great Dostoyevsky had habitually broken a cardinal rule espoused by creative writing teachers everywhere: never use dialogue as exposition! What is more, the interactions between the narrator and Nastenka practically screamed artifice. And to think of all the time that I spent worrying about the realism of my own attempts at dialogue.

I can think of at least a dozen books that I've closed forever because the characters were wooden mouthpieces, the structure was inconsistent, or the plot was ill-conceived. (Who publishes those things, anyway?!) Yet somehow, I couldn't put it down. I read the whole story in one sitting. (I'm notoriously restless.) Despite the fact that the story itself broke nearly every unwritten rule about writing, it was defiantly engaging. No, Dostoyevsky did not create a world that I could truly believe in. His characters were far too long-winded. He did, however, pen a story that stayed with me. On some basic level, one that is far more intangible than plot, characters, or dialogue, it resonated in my heart and mind.


So, to bring us back to Prose--I suppose that the only rule in writing is that there are no rules. Good writing is not based in any kind of formula, but rather a very loose set of guidelines that can be bent and twisted to suit our purposes.