VINYL TAP
spring 2016
V I N Y L
T A P
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S P R I N G
2 0 1 6
--EDITOR-Kristen Prossner
--CONTRIBUTORS-Arvin Alaigh Matt Arnold Iris Duan Alex Johnson Rachel Smith
--VISUALS-Colum Abby Kristen Alexis
Bowyer Kahler Prossner Sedgwick
Kristen Prossner
Taylor Swift AND Apple Music Iris Duan Last June, Taylor Swift took to Tumblr with her self-titled letter, “To Apple, Love Taylor”. Her piece was timely to say the least, in fact it came just days before Apple’s music streaming service Apple Music was officially launched. The letter, which was a short blog post, announced that she would not be making her album, 1989, available on the streaming program for one very reasonable reason: they would not be offering compensation to artists within Apple Music’s free three month trial period. Swift’s concerns are nothing short of legitimate--she’s spot on about artists, especially rising artists needing every bit of financial support they can receive. It’s no secret in the music industry that labels often drain every bit of profit off albums from artists and that the rise of the internet, illegal downloading, and purchasing singles, has just made it even harder for artists to make a decent profit off their records. The internet exploded in response--the public and the press reacted immediately to her letter. But they weren’t the only ones--Apple Music responded just within hours to Swift’s letter and agreed to compensate artists during the three month trial and in return, Swift made 1989 available on Apple Music. The internet cheered on, articles on Swift saving the industry emerged online, and Taylor Swift was the voice for the small artists living paycheck to paycheck. And now, just months later, Swift has partnered with Apple Music to release her treadmill commercial. Within a short span of time she’s taken on a dramatic transformation, from Apple Music’s opponent to its spokesperson. It is the perfect ending to the initial bad blood between Swift and Apple. And while it may seem cynical of me--I can’t help but believe it’s all a little too perfect. So perfect it’s artificial. I firmly believe that Swift and Apple’s entire debacle was not coincidental, in fact, I’d go as far and say that it was elaborately planned, leading up to her public debut as an Apple Music sponsor. While this may seem like a drastic stance to take, think about some of today’s most relevant, Top 40 musicians on the market. While it’s obvious that music plays a central role to an artist’s popularity, we have to remember the attention span of the general public is, to put it quite frankly, short to the point of nonexistent. So how do artists stay relevant when they don’t have new music to release? Two words: publicity stunts. Swift is no stranger to stunts, her serial dating being a perfect example. Publicity stunts are a necessary evil in the entertainment industry, and they’re not necessarily bad within themselves. Without stunts, we wouldn’t have a bulk of entertainment journalism, interesting material for paparazzi, and the very public celebrity relationships the general public seems to obsess over. Exposure is important. With stunts, celebrities can often partner together to increase exposure stay relevant in the fast-paced industry that is the entertainment industry.
Swift and Apple Music’s feud seems like a blend of a publicity stunt and a business deal all wrapped into one. While Swift might have meant every word she wrote in her letter, it’s especially suspicious to me that she targeted Apple Music over other streaming platforms such as Spotify. The fact that Apple Music was being launched right after Swift’s letter only bolstered my suspicions--her letter was the perfect way to not only paint herself in a positive light, but expose Apple Music, a brand new streaming platform in need of fast exposure to compete against other platforms, to a large demographic of people. The letter got wide media coverage and discussion about not only Taylor, but Apple Music. It was essentially an incredibly clever way to get free advertising, for Swift as a brand, her album, 1989, and Apple Music. It’s important to remember that businesses are clever and they employ a wide range of psychological techniques and strategies to market and promote a product to the public. It’s also important to know that artists themselves, are both businesses and products, and they have huge teams behind supporting them, creating strategy plans, and working to try and sell the artist along with their music. Both Taylor Swift and Apple are brands who saw an opportunity and took it. And it worked. Without Swift, Apple Music’s exposure would have never reached the level it did, and without Swift’s letter, Swift wouldn’t have been as prominent as she was in the press. If I’m right, and Swift and Apple’s entire feud was false, then it speaks volumes about the music industry and celebrity culture and raises a number of questions. Why do we, as fans, care so much about the intimate lives of artists we follow? Why isn’t the music itself not enough for the general public? What exactly is real when it comes to the entertainment industry? Is it ethical for brands and artists to psychologically manipulate and lie to the general public as an advertising strategy? These are all questions that I can’t answer definitely, but they’re worth thinking about the next time you read entertainment or music news. Examine what you’re exposed to and remember, there’s always a chance you’re being manipulated.
Abby Kahler
No Photos On Our Dancefloors: Documenting the Dancefloor Matt Arnold It seems obvious to most people why you wouldn’t be allowed to take photos in a dance club, and yet there are always still those people who do it. One thing I want to say is: the photo may be an inappropriate document of the dance club, but that does not mean there can be no appropriate documents of the dance club. For example, if we expand the definition of “document” to include any form of story, then you telling your friend about your experience last night in the dance club could be a document, a spoken document of your experience, saved in your memory and now potentially saved in the memory of the person you told. That document could be revisited by both of you. It could be reappropriated by your friend telling another friend about your night. It could be written down in your diary and exist there as a written document. It could be studied late at night. The point is, this happens, and since it does not alter the dancefloor experience in-the-moment the way photos do, it seems like an acceptable—and maybe even desirable—form of dance club documentation. What is the need to document the dance club? If there were no documents of the dance club, there would be no dance club. There would only be bodies and music moving in rooms. It is true that, “clubbing”, if it is a culture, is a culture built on myth. Telling stories about dance clubs contributes to their mythologies. By definition, the myth is not the real thing, and when it comes to club mythology, the sooner people accept and acknowledge this, the better. That way, there will be fewer misunderstandings. On the other hand, there might be such a thing as myth experienced directly—lived—through dance, in a club. You might have had the feeling of partaking in a fantasy while dancing in a club, feeling like you are in a wonderland, like this cannot be real and yet it is. This paradoxical experience is not to be negated. If it is real, then the mythology is real. But in that case the mythology is fleeting. The mythology as it is lived is not a document, until it has passed, until it is a memory. In the moment, there can be no true document of the dance club, and this is why photos are prohibited.
The problem with photos is that since they seem so realistic, they can be mistaken for the real myth. When you see a thrilling five-second Snapchat of your friends all dancing wildly together you might get the impression that it was really a thrill to be dancing there. Of course, it might not have been. Cameras make magic for everyone who is not there. They threaten to kill the magic for the people who are there, though, because suddenly, everyone becomes self-conscious. Boiler Room is like this. It is a video document of the dancefloor. When you watch the video, you get the illusion that you are there, dancing and having fun listening to a DJ set with all the people on camera. But if you look closely, there is something off. People are paying attention to how they look, how they are moving, who they are next to—because they are on camera—instead of losing themselves to the music, the motion, and the moment. Photo and video documents of dancefloors are misleading and cause a kind of cult of self-conscious vanity which misses the magic. But what about oral and written documents? People hear stories about the club Berghain. You have to do this, this, and this to get into Berghain. Don’t smile. Don’t be on your phone. Don’t talk in line. What a popular myth. Is it good? Well, Berghain is as popular as it is because people spread the myths, because they document. Would people wait for three hours in line if they hadn’t heard those stories? There is no way to know. Consider a scenario where no one talks about clubs, no one writes about them, no one takes photos or videos in them. They don’t exist, unless you happen to be there, dancing in one. The club would be a non-site. While you are there, you do not exist. Could there be a greater thrill than to be one of the lucky ones? Never had you experienced true escape. You would want to tell everyone about it, but you wouldn’t. The only residue would be your body, but that is not a document. “An antelope running wild on the plains of Africa should not be considered a document.” — Suzanne Briet
A GREAT MEDITATION ON BEING ALIVE herr beethoven’s 15th string quartet, 3rd mvt
Rachel Smith
there was a period of several years near the end of his life when—with the plague of constant health issues, distracted by the battles of his familial struggles, and emotionally drawn from his social alienation magnified by his deafness—beethoven did not write much music at all. he had contracted a painful stomach ailment that would paralyze him in bouts of agony and that interrupted the completion of the a-minor quartet. his mortality was a constant worry. in the summer of 1825, he seemed to have (at least temporarily) beaten his gastric malady and was physically and emotionally ready to compose again. that’s something to keep in mind, because that bout of grappling with his mortality is reflected in this work. beethoven isn’t known for including extra-musical detail in his music. therefore, it stands out dramatically among his work that he titled the third movement “heiliger dankgesang eines genesenen an die gottheit, in der lydischen tonart.” this translates as, “song of thanksgiving to the deity from a convalescent in the lydian mode.” it is an autobiographical musical offering of a prayer of thanks after his illness. the third movement is the emotional center of the piece and is one of the highlights of all classical music. at more than 17 minutes (my favorite recordings go toward 20), it’s also a hefty and demanding movement to pace and perform. i was an inpatient for a week last semester, and when i got out of the hospital, this movement was the only thing that could get me to feel anything.
Alexis Sedgwick
Kristen Prossner
Hip-Hop Contexts and Authenticity Arvin Alaigh The rich history of hip-hop is generally a topic relegated to the margins of contemporary hip-hop discourse. However, it may be worth examining to help navigate longstanding debates regarding hip-hop authenticity, and the feasibility of applying such ascriptions to modern hip-hop culture. During hip-hop’s infancy, it hardly existed as a product to be recorded, distributed, and consumed; rather, it existed as an activity, an in-person, and direct practice. In an article entitled ‘Challenging Conventions in the Fine Art,’ philosopher Richard Shusterman details, “It was originally designed only for live performance (at dances held in homes, schools, community centers, and parks), where one could admire the dexterity of the DJ and the personality and improvisational skills of the rapper.” In Spectacular Vernacular, cultural scholar Russell Potter elaborates the dynamic of how hip hop was first understood: “Hip hop was something goin’ down at 23 Park, 63 Park, or the Back Door on 169th Street; you could no more make a hip hop record in 1979 than you could make a ‘basketball game’ record or a ‘subway ride’ record.” The hip-hop experience was primarily concerned with articulating a particular locality, or local moment. It was a communal event, created by those within a given community, and subsequently incomprehensible for those in the unintended out-group. This meant that the hip-hop experience, as South Bronx residents in 1973 understood it, would be entirely unintelligible to the vast majority of modern day hip-hop consumers. The incredible success of The Sugarhill Gang’s 1979 hit record “Rapper’s Delight” spurred the transition of hip-hop as an activity into hip-hop as a product. Suddenly, the commercial potential of hip-hop was validated, propelling hip-hop culture into the public sphere to be consumed and analyzed around the world. As hip-hop historian Jeff Chang summarizes in Can’t Stop Won’t Stop, “For the next decade and a half, hip hop music moved away from the parks and the community centers and the clubs and into the lab. Indie labels invested in researching and developing how to make hip hop music, specifically rap, fit the standards of the music industry, how to rationalize and exploit the new product…” In this new context, hip-hop was largely understood to be a product experienced by way of recordings. The centrality on locality eroded, and as a result, hip-hop transformed irreparably. The hybridity of hip-hop culture introduces its own set of complications in the face of traditional conceptions of artistic authenticity. Hip-hop authenticity is a hotly contested topic within both academic and public spheres, so it would be mistaken to claim any sort of comprehensive cultural consensus has been attained. Considering the historical context of early hip-hop may have implications for how we construct these notions of authenticity. Frankly, our current iteration of hip-hop is not real in the original sense, as it is largely comprised of consumable objects in wholly different contexts. With a sincere commitment to authenticity, one must privilege locality and activity in articulating the hip-hop experience. This obligation leads us to limit the original audiences of the hip-hop experience – party-going working-class, Bronx/Brooklyn projects residents between 1973-1979 – as the only authentic participants in hip-hop. It would be absurd to suggest that only a select group from a specific time period can authentically experience hip-hop. Historical context demonstrates how hip-hop as an activity and contemporary iterations hip-hop differ paradigmatically, and to stake a genuine claim of hip-hop authenticity is an implicitly loaded, often irresoluble commitment. Still, this is not to deny the possibility of ascertaining any degree of hip-hop authenticity – rather, I merely hope to indicate an oft-overlooked nuance in an already intricately complex debate.
Forward//Epilogue Alex Johnson The Foreward Dipping a chicken biscuit into a styrofoam container of scalding sausage gravy, it was a special order, 1.5 cups of gravy for 99 cents. The globules of lard condense on the underside of the biscuit, soaking the bread with it’s fatty steam as the crumbs tumble upon the table, creating trails crisscrossing across the laminate, phantoms of the paths taken from hand to mouth. Bereft old men, with dangling earlobe reaching down their cheeks, shouting conversations to each other, mingle with young garbage-men, drooping upon the railing, the odor of their hauls lingering on their fingertips as they cradle sacks of food and an overweight couple wheezes in unison through cracked grins while they happily slap-box each other as their plastic seats warp and bow under the girth of their frequent visits here. Taylor Swift (or is it Kelly Clarkson?) softly sings sweet songs of forlorn love and loneliness, the sounds oozing outward and downward from the gray dusty speakers dotted haphazardly along the ceiling, creating sporadic aural vortices reaching towards the floor, small zones of respite from the cacophony of jowly laughter and sputtering oil, the acoustics are quite good in this irregular rectangular space lined with small ceramic tile in a faux oaken finish. Rolling across the table, unstoppable in its path, the final hash brown drops onto the umber floor. It is lost, the golden fried bits blending into the tannish tiles, truly lost. Where is it? (it will never decay, preserved forever by the grease of its nascence) What will become of it? 14 hash rounds preceded it, but this one, Milton’s potato lost, is the one missed the most. Each small bite that preceded it was ingested with the expectation of something more to come, of a continuation of the experience. But now, the last has long passed, leaving a void within the ketchup swirled within the small deformed paper cup turned over on the tray. “I can see the devil in your eyes”, the words cryptically hiss through the wizened peeling lips of a old women, an exorcism performed over a breakfast of stringy bacon and powdered eggs as the rain quickens its fall, the shimmering streaks it leaves upon the darkened panes of glass reflected in the thin plastic veneer wrapped around a half empty pack of Pall Malls abandoned upon a table as it’s owner dashed out to his car. It’s 8:20 The Epilogue Shit stained porcelain; the final resting place of a hundred china dolls, pulped and combined into an ivory chair. The seat is askew, as always, an invention dreamed by my father, a third central hinge, never found traction in the world of fixtures. Autographs scattered along a blue sheet stuck beside the door, nearly as forgotten as the limply hanging pamphlet above the dripping corroded faucet (nothing has been washed here in some time), the handwriting matches the slurs and poems scrawled in a lewd crossword. Surrounded by alliterative advertisements of luscious labias and pretty pussies and disconnected phone numbers a single note stands out. “R.I.P SPANKY” etched crudely above a pair of poorly drawn dice, disturbed attempts at capturing the third dimension within the two provided by these flat walls, an emotional and heartfelt eulogy tempering the ebullience of the other messages littering the walls. Sufjan Stevens called the past “bridge to nowhere”, Burroughs could give a fuck.
Colum Bowyer
Free Beer Musicians Collective Collin Ginsburg Saturday night marked the second show in the Free Beer Musician’s Collective house show series. As with anything related to Free Beer, it was raucous, cacophonous, and, well, free. But to preface, here’s a little about Free Beer. The Free Beer Musician’s Collective is the creation of some upperclassmen Elijah Righter, Charlotte Jones, Stephen Roach, Wave Langston, and Aaron Stapel. Free Beer started out as a folk/Appalachian band, but remained open and inclusive. Anyone who had any sort of musical inclination could jam along. At the beginning of the 2015/2016 school year, Aaron, Elijah, and Wave, having moved into a house dubbed The Brewery, decided to make Free Beer even more egalitarian. Thus, the band became the Musician’s Collective. As a first semester freshman, I remember seeing Aaron spreading Free Beer’s gospel during the fall activities fair. For whatever reason, the school would not give him a table. So the tall, lanky, and eclectically dressed Aaron paraded a cardboard-box-email-sign-up-sheet above his head. Needless to say, I took the oath immediately. The first email I received was intriguing. There’s a brewery near campus? Will I be carded? And of course, will I mesh well with these musicians? Ironically enough, there was no free beer at the first Free Beer (due to lack of funds), but there were plenty of good vibes. I arrived mid-jam, a circle of guitarists, cowhide drummers, and singers crowded the small living room. Quickly unpacking my gear, I plugged in my bass and joined the song. Aaron, who had been fiddling away, began to sing. His passionate voice, ranging from lower tenor to bass, belted out lyrics hearkening back to an older, more rural time. Meanwhile, Wave added some jazzy fills on the drums. It was clear that while these musicians had had very different musical backgrounds, they could complement each other over any given chord progression. They could reach genuine understanding and friendship through music. The song came to a close: an enthusiastic sonic sigh. There were smiles and “hell yeah’s” all around. Not only did I find a regular group of friends to jam with that Friday evening, I also met my good friends and bandmates Ben Chase and Ben Fox. Together, we formed Talk to Plants. So Free Beer fulfilled its goal upon its first meeting. It is a place, every Friday at 6 pm, where you can decompress and eat homemade stew--where “any folks looking for a community” can come together “to holler, jangle, collaborate, and create” (Free Beer Musician’s Collective FB). Fast forward many months and many beers, The Brewery hosted its second house-show. Aaron’s original idea for the house-show series was an all-acoustic, perhaps more low-key, display of campus talent in the Brewery’s living room (Ironically, a music professor had filed many noise complaints against the Brewery). But Free Beer can’t be tamed. Thus, the original line-up was the full electric sounds of
Safe Sex, Say Your Name, and The Pyramidions. Talk to Plants were planning on showing up half-way through the first set, as we were playing the Title IX show earlier at the Meridian Coffeehouse. However, we got word that Safe Sex dropped out, or as Aaron put it, “pulled out.” It was slightly hectic, but our friend Michael quickly shuffled us and our gear off to the Brewery. The second band, Say Your Name, had their amps already set up, so all we had to do was plug in, adjust the drum set, and start playing. The crowd filled the room, right up to the makeshift floor-level stage, and spilled into the adjacent rooms. As we were missing lead singer Ben Fox for this set, we limited our set list to Sam Wiles’ and Ben Chase’s songs. We are traditionally more folky/alternative rock, with a psychedelic/space rock bend. But because it was such an irregular and spur-of-the-moment show, we decided to play be a bit more experimental. We cranked the volume. While Samir, our drummer, provided quick fills, Ben and I messed around with our pedals, adding a spacey feel to some older tunes. We also invited Aaron to the stage for some songs to provide some fiddle on top of our chaos. It proved to be a fun opening set and a great way to give back to our second home. Say Your Name took the stage after us. After I first saw them at a Homebrew in the fall (where their massive double-stacked cabinet amps blew a circuit), I immediately recognized their impassioned driving force. They are the quintessential pop-punk band and everything about them screams. Three guitarists, as well as a bass guitarist, stood in an impenetrable wall of angst, distortion, and crab position (my bandmate Sam told me this is what holding your guitar nearly at knee-level is called). The wall guarded SYN’s equally formidable drummer. His complex rhythms, full of double kicks and an elevated splash cymbal, held down the fort. Sometimes I regret not bringing ear-plugs to SYN’s shows, but then I realize that without them, I get to experience more of their engrossing anger. The crowd definitely clung to this anger, as there was full blown moshing during their entire set. Moshing in a cramped living room emphasizes the “free” in Free Beer, if free is being in a sweaty, survivalist state. I’m sure everyone left SYN’s set only slightly battered. The final act of the night was The Pyramidions. They are more classic punk, with avante-garde no-wave elements. The Classists were the growling bass lines and driving drum beats, while the singer/guitarist John and saxophonist/screamer/piano-player Alaric took us for a wild ride. John donned a tan furtrimmed coat and an eye patch. He took on a curmudgeon, anarchist persona(?), sweating profusely and howling up towards the dim, low-hanging light. Between sets, he rambled about the government and fluoridated water. Alaric added to the cacophony with whirling, staccato saxophone, and by intermittently slamming the keyboard. I felt like I was in a haunted house at some points, and at others, it was more like a satanic sacrifice. When Alaric picked up the guitar for a few songs, I saw his performance art past. Violently scraping a recently shot-gunned beer all over a semi-hollow (what would B.B King do?) and viscerally moaning about his now injured hand, his beer was freer than anyone else’s. Period. Guitar amps were stomped, while the bass continued to drive. John, now on the floor, slapped guitar pedals to make siren-like squeals as The Pyramidions blazed through a song called “Kerosene.” But then Aaron Stapel’s bright phone screen got my attention. He frantically looked up and hustled over to the band, silencing them. “Cops, Cops, Cops.” John’s pedals were eerily foreshadowing. Someone from the crowd tried to figure out where the cops were, but the living room’s only unsound-proofed window was long fogged over. Apparently, at 11 pm, cops make the rounds and dole out noise violations. Luckily for the Brewery, it was 10:53. But staying quiet(er) did mean effectively ending the show. “That went as well as it could have” a band member said gruffly. Punk rock attitudes aside, the show was more than a success. The turn-out was immense, but the Brewery still maintained its genuine and personal atmosphere. Free Beer continues to instill a sense of tolerance and open-mindedness within all who visit its domain. This really speaks to Free Beer, but not as a dedicated group of musicians, dogs, and friends, or a house full of eclectic art and instruments with a chill back porch. Free Beer is more of a mindset and a code of conduct. I hope to be able to carry the torch in some way. Perhaps we will find a suitable place to hold weekly jams after Aaron leaves. But I guess that doesn’t matter too much, because Free Beer can be anywhere.
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