I get too worked-up talking about why I don’t think Uber/Lyft car-sharing or robomobiles will replace private vroomster in your garage any time soon. So instead I’ll post about some other tech-shifts that have had more mixed results or less implementation than expected.
The first one is maps. In the last three-four years I’ve been astonished at how difficult it has become to walk into a bookstore or even a tourist center and grab an old-fashioned physical map of some place. Yer supposed to use a device attached to your (rental?) car or your phone. Now, this has been a huge benefit for professional passenger-drivers. Back when, if you got into a taxi and wanted to go someplace and neither you nor the cabbie knew exactly how to get there, a crisis could ensue. But I think there’s no question that looking over and reading physical maps teaches you the relationships of locations and the meaning of distance in ways that cyberlocators never will. Lacking that knowledge and sense leaves you more lost in every landscape.
My second topic is clock faces. Not long ago, digital time presentation was supposed to make old grandfather tick-tock hands obsolete. I even owned digital wristwatches. Never again. I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a household that didn’t have one or two easily checked hands-and-face chronometer. And seems to me all the clocks on the arm I see are the trad-look kind. This is because digital-only destroys your sense of the relationship between hours, minutes and seconds. So it becomes waaaay harder to decide if you better hurry up to get some place/finish some task or if you can take it easy. One of the prime reasons to know what time it is.
BUT IT ISN’T TIME FOR SHARED CAR OWNERSHIP, GODDAMMIT, AND [SLAP! KICK! BONK!]
I don’t have the strength today to explain what happened. Let’s just say this was taken in our backyard around noon today:
I admit, there’s a couple Roy Lichtenstein works I like a great deal. They’re sculptures. I always disliked his comic-book art from the first time I saw it because, undeniably, it argued that his source material was commercial junk and that his treatments transformed trash into Fine Art. Flooosh. All the vitality and wit in the works sprung from the originals, not Lichtenstein’s re-dos. And it constituted a narrow, square view of what comics could do. No weirdos. No underground.
The first time I encountered work by a Hairy Who artist was when I picked up a Screamin’ Jay Hawkins LP late in my Missoula era that featured the above as a cover illustration. In the language of the day, I thought it was way outta sight. But I believed it was just ace art done by the record company. Hah. (By Karl Wirsum, as it turns out.)
So we’ll skip a couple-three hairy Hairy Who encounters over the years and get to my Art Book present to myself this holiday: The catalog of this exhibit I would love to see in Chicago.
Now, these days Art Books have a real problem. Too small and too-cheap reproductions are the norm. This book is an exception. While I would like it to be inches bigger on all sides, the reproductions are beautifully precise and color-lively and include media like ceramic dolls and photos of the artists at those dazzled-’60s art shows that I had no idea about.
This gets down to it: the raging passions of comics and design and funk and rock&roll had a deranging delight that could be represented in the gallery. Sometimes with downright ominous tones.
If you like what you see, like they say: go, go, gogo.
Goblin, The Ultimate Collection (Pick Up Records)
The first disc is Goblin for the Dario Argento World and it is continuously weird and wondrous and flowing — the perfect Gothic Prog. You wonder if he told them what he wanted to hear and that shaped what came out. An enveloping atmosphere with distorted sounds and faces and moods that keeps you fascinated and a little scared.
Disc two, The Other Worlds of Goblin, which is part soundtracks and part not is way, way more uneven. Good chompy tracks (“Stunt Cars”), but clots of Europrog with bad rhythm section and even a few quite corny cuts. (Never think of doing anything “C&W” again, okay guys?)
As a regular newspaper column, anyway. Cecil tries to be upbeat about the online community aspect, but as far as I’m concerned, yet another sign that, right now, the World Wants Stupid.
An unfortunate, lingering side-effect of the persistent remnants of high-culture arrogance 30 years ago was the following “reasoning”:
Theater and classical music were Serious Art best explained by serious writers for a serious, intelligent audience.
Films and jazz had earned a seat at the lower end of the Serious table, but they had a essential commercial streak that made denouncing big hits something to avoid.
Popular music was garbage and nothing but commerce. So a serious writer who took on pop was a fool. Writing for a tiny audience of other fools. The correct move was dumb writing for dumb people, which would attract a huge audience.
Of course this never worked in practice. (Pointing out that those who read about pop music were already the intellectual fans didn’t seem to make any difference.) So the nonsense has fallen out of favor.
What has replaced it is the notion that gossip and celebrity-drooling will make a lot more bucks than serious discussion. And that, sadly, is hard to deny.