I kept that up until last week, when the BH editors asked me to do some digging into the band’s 2004 album American Idiot. Apparently Tom Hanks’ production company has bought the rights to make a film based on this record — no doubt in-between those periods when Mr. Hanks is pondering deeply about the causes of World War II, and America’s racial hatred of the Japanese and Arabs + anyone else who is ‘different.’ 

This is what I uncovered: 

American Idiot is a ‘concept’ album that tells a narrative story throughout its 13 songs. Green Day apparently drew inspiration from The Who, a band that in the 1970s released a couple of concept albums, the most famous of which is Tommy, the nonsensical tale of a deaf, dumb and blind ‘pinball wizard.’ Immediately this set off a red flag because although Tommy contains a few good songs, taken as a whole, it is pretentious to an ear-incinerating degree, while the accompanying film is unwatchable unless you are out of your box on magic mushrooms. 

So that’s not a good start. And the concept of American Idiot- such as it is- is at least as jumbled and embarrassing as anything The Who ever came up with.  According to Wikipedia, there’s this guy called Jesus of Suburbia and he: 

…emerged out of (Billy Joe) Armstrong (Green Day’s frontman) asking himself what sort of person the title of “American Idiot” referred to. Armstrong described the character as essentially an anti-hero, a powerless “everyman” desensitized by a “steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin”.’ Jesus of Suburbia hates his town and those close to him, so he leaves for the city. 

Hm. Difficult to believe this adolescent stuff could have been written by a man in his 30s but there y’go. Anyway, there are some other characters including St. Jimmy  “a punk rock freedom fighter’ and a female character called Whatsername (clever, that) “…who Armstrong describes as “kind of St. Jimmy’s nemesis in a lot of ways.” 

Lost yet? Well, apparently ‘Both characters illustrate the “rage vs. love” theme of the album, in that “you can go with the blind rebellion of self-destruction, where Saint Jimmy is. But there’s a more love-driven side to that, which is following your beliefs and ethics. And that’s where Jesus of Suburbia really wants to go.” 

So anyway, Jesus of Suburbia falls in love with Whatsername, but she breaks up with him. A bit later St. Jimmy commits suicide. Apparently however Jimmy and Jesus may be the same person and Jimmy is “part of the main character that pretty much dies.” Too deep for me, I’m afraid. Finally Jesus loses contact with Whatsername, and “the album ends with Jesus wondering where she is, and how she’s been.” 

OK, so just writing those last three paragraphs I felt embarrassed.

Apparently there’s also some biting social commentary in there, or something. As for the music I listened to the thing the whole way through and it reminded me very much of the pop tunes that bored me ten years ago. Then again, if I understood anything about the popular taste I’d be a much wealthier man, living on a giant ranch populated with peacocks and giraffes instead of an apartment.  American Idiot has sold 14 million copies worldwide, and its preposterous story has already been turned into a successful stage musical. I found a review  from somebody who caught it during the show’s original run in Berkeley last year: 

…not to spoil anything, but by the end of the 90-minute performance, the stage had been witness to half a dozen chugged beers, a couple of joints, several syringes of heroin, one drug-related suicide, one O.D., and one bout of very realistic-looking sex on a futon. 

Here’s the plot (such as it is): 

Jimmy leaves suburbia for the big city, falls in love, gets hooked on dope, hits rock bottom, and ultimately flees back home. One of his buddies goes to Iraq and loses a leg; the other is a loser who doesn’t go anywhere at all. The whole time a bank of TVs plays clips presumably depicting American idiocy: Slurpees and Twinkies at 7-11, night-vision bombing runs from the Middle East, Family Guy. It’s all supposed to represent the hollowness of the American dream, or how life sucks, or something. Anyway. Fight the power” 

Scathing stuff! And yet: 

It’s easy to imagine the kids a few blocks away at 924 Gilman Street, the famed Berkeley punk club where Green Day got their start, laughing at Idiot the way East Villagers in the ’90s mocked Rent—as watered down and cheesed up. The dialogue (what little there is) is all, “What the fuck?” this and “Motherfucker!” that—a 13-year-old Wicked fan’s idea of punk rebellion. And with tickets more expensive than seats at an actual Green Day show, there really doesn’t seem much point. 

And yet in spite of that pointlessness the show has just transferred to Broadway- – hence, no doubt Tom Hanks’ sudden interest. The news of Mr. Hanks’ involvement meanwhile has sparked off a lot of wild speculation.  According to the UK’s NME Hanks will not only produce but also direct — and Julia Roberts may star (doesn’t she always?). MTV however spoke to Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong directly and he sounded a more tentative note when asked if the film would ever become a reality: 

“I don’t know. It’s just talk right now, and it’s really exciting talk…So we’ll see what happens.” 

Indeed we shall. Until it becomes a reality however I am going to resume my decade-plus habit of never thinking about Green Day. And I encourage the rest of you to do likewise.

Well, the book got off to a good start, sort of. Cunningly written in the style of a high school project, every sentence contained multiple clichés (“In the heyday of the 1980s, before it all came crashing down a few years later, it was a joy to be alive’); nevertheless, thanks to Ms. Herbert I rapidly learned some things I had not hitherto known such as: 

1) Lady Gaga’s real name is Stefani Germanotta. 

And 

2) She attended the same elite Catholic school as Paris Hilton.

Again: not that I cared, of course. It began to get mildly interesting when I learned that upon graduation from high school Lady Gaga had worked as a ‘gogo’ dancer and spent a summer out of her tree on drugs. However as she got off the drugs almost immediately, it was clear that she was not really out of her tree on drugs, but interested in seeing what it felt like to be out of your tree on drugs, in an abstract, self-analytical kind of way, almost as a homage to artists who really were out of their tree on drugs, like David Bowie or Lou Reed. At the same time, however Ms. Herbert also reminded us that even when out of her tree on drugs, Lady Gaga was still a very moral Catholic girl at heart, which is good to know. 

Anyway, after establishing these vital facts the book explored Lady Gaga’s long struggle to become famous. To be honest it didn’t seem like she struggled very hard, or that it took very long. Lady Gaga quite rapidly met some producers and image makers who put her in touch with the right people, and before long she was writing songs for pop stars like Britney Spears and New Kids on The Block. I think she was around 20/21 at the time, although Ms. Herbert strives valiantly to makes it seem like a Charles Bukowski-esque four decade struggle with poverty and obscurity before finally hitting the big time. Simultaneously Lady Gaga was pushing her own material and quite quickly scored a record deal. Her records took off in the UK first where kitsch, camp disco stuff is perennially popular, before exploding stateside. And that brings us to the present day where she bestrides popular culture like a tiny colossus. 

Was the Lady Gaga phenomenon explained by the book? Well, over and over again, Ms. Herbert uses the phrase ‘post modern’ as an all purpose signifier of arch cleverness on Lady Gaga’s part. Also over and over again she quotes interviews in which Lady Gaga is waffling on about her ‘art’, her desire for greatness, her refusal to behave like a normal person, her grandiose plans, and- Andy f*cking Warhol. That wig-wearing Slovak has a lot to answer for, friends. What becomes clear is: 

1) Lady Gaga is fairly intelligent

2) Lady Gaga is extremely pretentious

3) Lady Gaga is immensely self conscious and has done a great deal of thinking about fame and how to manipulate the media. 

OK, OK… but what is most interesting is how well tested- shopworn even- her tactics for manipulating the media are. For example, apparently there has been a lot of media blather about her supposed bisexuality. I can understand why this was a controversial topic in the early 70s when Bowie and Lou Reed were cavorting with both sexes, but today? Her constant shifting through images recalls Madonna or Bowie or Michael Jackson, only at a greatly accelerated pace. Speaking of Madonna, she also did that girl on girl thing a few years back when she kissed Britney Spears on stage, only that incident also included the frisson of gerontophilia, a shock as yet absent from Lady Gaga’s repertoire. As for mildly risqué lyrics and running around in her underpants … well we’ve had all that since at least the late 70s, only Debbie Harry was infinitely sexier and sang better songs. And so on. Gaga herself is aware that she is merely recycling pre-used shock tactics but her self-awareness only adds to the press’s fascination. 

So anyway, that’s what I extracted from the book- now available in shops everywhere! Just as I was finishing it meanwhile the video for Telephone exploded everywhere. A hysterical blog in the HuffPo accused Lady Gaga of all manner of filth and depravity, asking what was next- a snuff film? Reading the piece I realized it was a dreary recital of ‘liberal’ political prudery – very similar to other strands of prudery only dressed up in 60s/70s era political jargon about sexism, feminism etc. So I watched the video, and noted that it was made by a tiresome prankster from Sweden- Jonas Akerlund. Over ten years ago he shot a video for the Prodigy track Smack My Bitch Up which also featured girl on girl soft core action, violence, nudity, and attracted almost identical complaints from the same ‘liberal’ quarters. I’d at least commend him for getting up the noses of the sanctimonious left if his bag of tricks wasn’t so predictable (last year he shot a tedious hardcore porn video for the otherwise sublime German heavy metal band Rammstein). 

In fact, the Telephone video is only violent in the context of other pop videos. Any number of cop shows that are broadcast on cable at the same time as kid’s cartoons are infinitely worse. It is also less sexist than almost every rap video ever made. And while Ms. Herbert likes the word ‘post modern’ and Lady Gaga herself is fond of citing Warhol, well to me it’s all much more like a kabuki play, a ritualistic repetition of words and deeds that are in turn ritualistically accepted as shocking by the media, when in fact… nobody is really shocked. The Lady Gaga phenomenon is rather a weird acting out of now traditional gestures, largely emptied of their meaning, in which hacks longing for the genuine outrages of yesteryear settle for her ersatz reproductions. The interplay between Gaga and the hacks is itself a giant performance, much bigger than the songs, videos and concert tours, orchestrated and conducted by the Lady herself. 

As for me, well when she gets round to stripping naked and rolling around in broken glass and bodily excretions like the late GG Allin, that’s when I’ll start paying attention- ersatz reproduction or not.

Delia, O Delia
Delia all my life
If I hadn’t have shot poor Delia
I’d have had her for my wife  

Whenever I play American Recordings I find this opening as startling as when I first heard it well over a decade ago. Cash could get close to the darkness without screeching or posing. He was already there. He just started singing in that rumbling baritone and you believed. It’s so powerful that you forget he could also be funny- and indeed, the last track on American Recordings was a joke song, The Man Who Couldn’t Cry.  

Later I discovered that Delia was an old song, that Cash was covering himself. The American series always relied less on Cash’s abilities as a songwriter and more on his skills as an interpreter, even if he was reinterpreting an earlier version of Johnny Cash. Some of the songs covered were selected by Cash, others by Rubin. It was easy to tell which was which: Cash’s sensibilities were steeped in the broad country, gospel and folk tradition, while Rubin favored a narrower palate of heavy metal and alt rock. The miraculous thing was that it worked, most of the time. Cash could invest the adolescent self-loathing of Trent Reznor’s Hurt with the same authority and sincerity as an ancient standard like That Lucky Old Sun, a mournful lament for the difficult life of a working man. The songs on these records sat comfortably alongside each other because Cash’s experience, persona and interpretive gift enabled him to uncover the shared themes of God, pain, redemption, love, violence and longing in the unlikeliest bedfellows. 

The peak of the Rubin mix n’ match approach was reached on American III: Solitary Man. Cash’s versions of Nick Cave’s The Mercy Seat  and Will Oldham’s I See a Darkness  are revelatory, as good as if not better than the originals. By the time of American IV however some of the alt-pop covers were starting to sound like novelties. Personal Jesus is a trite rather than inspired song selection while even the much vaunted version of Reznor’s Hurt gains much of its power from the harrowing video. American IV is also marred by some disastrous appearances by celebrity guests. Nick Cave strangles I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry to death on his first verse, and then, as if unsatisfied, repeatedly kicks the corpse in the head before the song ends. Fiona Apple rots like a dead whale on Bridge Over Troubled Water. By far the best track on the album is Cash’s apocalyptic The Man Comes Around, which is as good as anything he ever wrote. When I play that album now I tend to skip the corny covers and concentrate on Cash’s choices. 

Anyway, Cash died before Rubin could throw Lady Gaga’s Poker Face at him and as a result the two albums culled from his final recording sessions are much lighter on the reinterpreted heavy metal/gothic pop factor. American V, released posthumously in 2006, was a decidedly stripped down affair. Recorded in the aftermath of June Carter Cash’s death, Cash was himself teetering on the brink of eternity. The album has an intimacy that can be painful, even claustrophobic. It is mournful and sad, and Cash’s once booming voice is reduced at times to a croak, almost a whisper. Unlike its predecessor however, it feels like a whole; and yet it wasn’t, not really- because Rubin had a sequel planned. 

—–

Which brings us to American VI: Ain’t No Grave. I had some anxiety about this record: as somebody who loves Johnny Cash’s music, I wanted it to be more than just good. It needed to cap not only the American series but also Cash’s career, reaching all the way back to his Sun recordings (best experienced in the excellent Bear Family box set. And after a few listens I’m starting to think that- just maybe- Rubin and Cash pulled it off. Although American VI like its predecessor finds Cash in frail voice over subtle, spare arrangements, the tone is different. Cash’s body may have been shattered, and he may have been in mourning for his beloved wife but the tone is calm, almost transcendent. On the title track he sings: 

Well there ain’t no grave 
Gonna hold my body down 
Well there ain’t no grave 
Gonna hold my body down 
When I hear that trumpet sound 
I’m gonna get up out of the ground 

The song mixes defiance with a joyful declaration that death is not the end. And it is this bedrock of faith, of an elemental Christianity that liberates Cash from fear and informs the rest of the album. This is the sound of a man at peace with himself, with his life, who is ready to meet his Redeemer. Indeed, he’s so at peace he can take a Sheryl Crow song, Redemption Song and make you forget about her musings on toilet paper and suspect for the first time that she might actually be a talented songwriter. Then he takes Kristofferson’s For the Good Times- basically a song in which a horny goat tries to emotionally blackmail his ex into giving him some pity sex- and turns it into a moving reflection on a long life nearly at its end. The fourth track, 1 Corinthians 15:55 is the last song Cash ever wrote and begins with the lines from scripture: 

Oh Death where is thy sting?
Oh grave where is thy victory? 

Before Cash continues with a plea to God for shelter, guidance, forgiveness and mercy; but it’s a plea given in the certainty that God is merciful, delivered over a cheerful waltz. Cash knows that if he asks, he shall receive. 

—–

American VI is Cash’s final articulation of his faith, his life’s experience, his long dying. At times it sounds like a ghostly transmission from the beyond. Some critics have complained about the emphasis given to Cash’s frailty and mortality on the last four American records; others have even accused Rubin of exploiting him, as if Cash was the sort of man to allow himself to be thus used. Other critics complain that the gothic darkness of the American series overshadows the richness of his persona, obliterating memories of the speed freak Cash, the rockabilly Cash, the historian Cash, the comedy Cash, the socially conscious Cash. 

They are wrong. Forget my crack about Lady Gaga on the way in: Rick Rubin deserves only praise for seeing the potential that still lay untapped in Johnny Cash when everybody else thought he was washed up. Cash was lucky indeed to have found such a great collaborator in his last decade, although he probably didn’t think it was luck. The other, younger Johnny Cash still exists; his records are out there, and are being rediscovered all the time. Nobody else has such a rich discography- thematically at least- for Cash could become a killer, a child, a dispossessed Indian, a randy husband and yet always remain Cash. But it’s the emphasis on mortality that makes the American albums unique and adds to rather than subtracts from that richness. Given strength by his faith, Cash could afford to be honest, even shocking in his expression of weakness. If it makes us uncomfortable then that’s our fault. Cash showed us how it’s done, this business of dying, and he did it in song. Let us all hope that when we get there we can do it with the same dignity, resolve and peace of mind as the Man in Black.

Chopra begins, complaining about Sarah Palin’s latest ‘seductive untruth’ delivered at the Tea Party convention: 

Her complaint about the Christmas bomber “lawyering up” wasn’t about finding the right policy against terrorists. It was a come-on to the Tea Party’s prejudices, egging them to believe that what Muttalab deserved was a dose of good old fashioned torture.  

You see, although she disguised her complaint as an objection to suddenly Mirandizing the pantybomber just as he was actively supplying intelligence to interrogators, what Sarah Palin really wanted was for Abdulmutallab to be tortured. Now she didn’t actually say this, but fortunately Deepak, being a perceptive fellow, can see inside her soul. And having peered into that dark, dark place he sees something else–that she does not really mean what she says, i.e. the thing she never actually said, but is rather ‘coming on’ (the hussy!) intentionally to an uncivilized, bigoted mob (much less perceptive than Chopra himself) appealing to their base urges with her populist rhetoric. In Deepak’s spiritual parable, you see, Sarah Palin plays the role of evil queen, dark seductress, coyly toying with the mob. Then, after a brief diversion into the confusing ‘Bush did it too’ school of Obama apologetics he continues: 

Of course, this is not true. A resident alien has many rights, but he cannot vote or hold public office. A non-resident alien cannot vote or legally work, but that doesn’t mean the authorities can beat him round the head with sticks for pleasure. I don’t think anybody is arguing against this. This in turn may have no bearing on the question of whether a non-citizen should have been Mirandized, I am no lawyer, I don’t know. However it is important for further establishing Deepak’s fairy tale categories, for of course the noble constitution is being defiled by the wicked temptress! 

He then ventures deeper into a world of children’s story: 

In the past year the Republicans have decided, as a group, that fostering lies, attacks, and smears is good politics. 

Indeed! Every single one of them, without exception, is committed to the cause of falsehood for purely political gain. Bad, bad Republicans! Deepak then reveals the brilliance of this wicked plan, you see: 

The very mention of terrorism still makes millions of people believe that the next 9/11 is just around the corner.  

Although it must be said that when a fanatic tries to blow up planes on Christmas Day, or shoots up a bunch of soldiers on a military base in Texas it also contributes to that climate of fear. But never mind, don’t let facts get in the way, the important thing is to stress the dastardliness of the Republicans, for their power is so great they create reality with their words. And yet to me they look like a fairly hapless, hopeless bunch. Anyway, Deepak continues: 

Rationality is cold comfort in such a climate.  

I did find this pretty funny coming from Deepak. I once sat through half a special he did on PBS and rationality was not what I saw on the screen. But I digress, for there are further deep insights to come: 

In politics, morality often comes down to whatever works. And what is working right now is to spike the tea with poison and tell people that it’s actually sugar. 

And thus Deepak not so subtly returns to his fairytale metaphor, for wicked queens always use poison to attain their sinister ends….  But with all of this evil- the wicked queen, her dark minions, and the poor dumb masses too stupid to read Deepak and learn what’s good for them- well it’s so depressing… I mean a fairytale has to have a hero, a knight, a prince right? Ah wait, here he is, and he’s beleaguered… 

America turned a dark corner when Nixon and Reagan inflamed the worst aspects of populism with manipulative demagoguery.

 Of course it did, I mean those poor childish masses, so easily fooled by the wicked Republicans, who single handedly 

‘….brought back selfishness, prejudice, and xenophobia’

 This is quite an interesting idea. I mean, what about Gerald Ford? He was a Republican and therefore a baddie. Did he also inflame the masses? And presumably when Carter was in power selfishness, prejudice and xenophobia magically disappeared before returning under Reagan. After all, the American people are that easily controlled by their leaders- except for Obama, who seems to be struggling to get anything done, but that’s because of the wicked Queen, remember. But wait, this is getting confusing. What I don’t understand is why Reagan and Nixon were so keen to bring back selfishness and xenophobia. Oh wait- now I get it- this is a fairy tale. We don’t need motives. They were evil. 

Using code words like “law and order” and “silent majority,” the right brought about a populism that was really the revival of the Know-Nothings of a bygone era. 

Code words! Ah, so the poor befuddled masses were fooled with ‘code words’, which they, being unenlightened, could not hope to understand, not like Deepak… and maybe there were secret messages on Judas Priest records too, I mean you can’t rule it out. After all, it was Al Gore’s wife who led that campaign against wicked music back in the 80s, and she’s a Democrat, so that must have been a good cause…  

Next comes my favourite bit: 

Palin plays into that Know-Nothing strain the way George Wallace* did with his “pointy-headed intellectuals.”  

Er… Deepak, I hate to break this to you but George Wallace may well have been a hood wearing ultra racist segregationist but he was also a Democrat. Way to the right of Sarah Palin. I note that you originally mentioned Spiro Agnew in the piece and that would have worked, but you had to change it after you got your facts wrong. But that really screws up your kid-friendly black/white, goodies/baddies narrative. Was the Democrat helping Nixon and Reagan do their evil? I’m confused. 

But never mind, undaunted by such a thing as a fact Deepak now moves into the pay off. Although: 

‘….the very smart people who saved us from a potential depression and who want to solve other looming crises can be vilified in favor of very crafty people who play upon rough prejudice…’ 

Wait, who saved us from a depression? Oh, you mean the stimulus package. You’re joking, right? No? Never mind. More simplistic, binary qualities on display here- after good vs. evil, we now get smart vs. crafty… The crafty people are obviously the Wicked Queen and her evil horde. But who can these smart people be? Who will lead us to salvation? Ah! It’s the Philosopher King: 

My positive take is that Obama and the other smart people (always remembering that they are more than smart but also good-hearted, far-seeing, honest, and credible)  

Note once again, Deepak’s ability to see inside souls. And whereas in Palin he finds only deceit and a certain coquettish seductiveness (the wanton!), in Obama he discovers the noble qualities of a true prince. Back to fairy tale land.  And now he reveals where he has been taking us all along: Obama and his sage advisors: 

‘…are playing the role of adults trying to call forth the adult in all of us. ‘ 

So you see, what we are living through now is not a time of political and economic  crisis but rather a grand spiritual quest, in which the immature, childish American people will be saved by their wise leader who shall bring them not simply to better times but also, at last, to adulthood. All they have to do is listen, and obey this wise man who has come to lead us out of darkness. Don’t question, because he’s right. Don’t doubt, because he’s braver and more noble than you are. Don’t fight, because you’re being manipulated. Obey your elders. Obey your betters. And then you will be grown up. Just like Deepak and the Philosopher King.    

Yes, my friends, this is what Deepak Chopra passes off as wisdom and truth! And yet still he makes millions! 

Snake oil, anyone?

Six years later and it is clear that the Super Bowl’s organizers are still terrified of Janet Jackson’s nipple, that it comes to them at night and haunts them in their sleep, threatening to embroil them in scandal and to lose them millions in sponsorship deals. For what else can explain the entertainment decisions made by the Masters of the Bowl ever since that fateful Sunday afternoon in February 2004? 

Let’s take a look at who has played in the years since: 

2005 Paul McCartney (Age: 67) 

The less talented half of the Beatles songwriting team, more famous these days for his disastrous marriage to one-legged model Heather Mills. After spending years trying to promote his lackluster solo work he now dedicates most of his live shows to his 1960s catalogue, and has thus become a tribute act to his younger self. Not that he’s bitter or anything. 

—–

2006 The Rolling Stones (Collective age: 260+) 

This once great ‘dangerous’ band, notorious for their decadent lifestyles and provocative antics, have long since been reduced to a semi-parodic tribute act to their younger selves. Their drummer is a skeleton with a few wisps of hair attached to his skull. Mick Jagger made a mockery of himself by accepting a knighthood after launching a sustained whining campaign in the aftermath of “Sir” Paul McCartney’s own ennobling. Then Keith Richards fell out of a tree. 

—–

2007 Prince (Age 51) 

A spring chicken by super bowl standards (he was only 49 the year he performed), it’s been a long time since Prince thrilled, or indeed, entertained anybody. Furthermore, his performance at the Super Bowl came after he had joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses and stopped playing his more scandalous songs.  

—–

2008 Tom Petty (Age: 59) 

Past it, middle of the road rocker whose interest in music began when he met Elvis aged 10: not exactly cutting edge, then. Is he a self-tribute act? I don’t know because like millions of others, I just don’t care. But I do note that he reformed his original band Mudcrutch in 2008 to pay homage to his younger self. 

—–

2009 Bruce Springsteen (Age: 60) 

Past it, tedious, ultra-earnest screecher who recently won a prize for a song about a tired old wrestler. Even Springsteen admitted re: the Superbowl: “…if we don’t do it now, what are we waiting for? I want to do it while I’m alive.” I suppose Springsteen at least still tries to stay vital, and many music critics have responded to his more recent efforts by kindly pretending to like them almost as much as the albums he recorded 20-30 years ago.  

—–

2010 The Who (Pete Townshend 64/Roger Daltrey 65/Keith Moon- dead/John Entwistle-dead) 

This year, clearly fearing that they were running out of heritage rock acts to hire, the Super Bowl organizers invited The Who to perform. Now I don’t mind a bit of The Who, they were definitely good about 40 years ago, possibly even still good 35 years ago around the time I was born, but ever since… well Who Cares? As they have only released one new record in several centuries they are perhaps the ultimate self-tribute band, not even interested in trying new things. Yawn. 

So it seems that the rules if you want to perform at the Superbowl post- Janet Jackson are:

1. No breasts, and thus no women
2. If you are a man, then you must have a prescription for Cialis. 

Now before anybody accuses me of ageism let me say this: I have nothing against venerable singers and guitarists, etc. A month or so back on this very site I sang the praises of King Crimson, who are very old indeed, if not exactly Super Bowl material. Johnny Cash did some of his best work in his 60s and 70s, although again I can’t imagine all that Rick Rubin produced death gospel going down all that well with the sponsors. Some people claim Dylan is still good, and although I’m not a huge Dylan fan, I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. (I have grave reservations about Neil Young, however.) But there’s a difference between being old and vital and being The Who, or the Stones, or Paul McCartney. And while these acts can be entertaining enough even though they lost their mojo decades ago, too much heritage rock is a fairly awful, depressing, suffocating experience.   

I’m also a bit suspicious that these geriatric Super Bowl acts are those bands much beloved of the dismal late 60s Baby Boomer generation that has had a death grip on Western culture since the 80s at least, forcing its own nostalgia for a long passed youth down everybody else’s gullet. These coots just won’t let go: ‘Teenage Wasteland’ indeed. It’s enough to make you nostalgic for Janet Jackson’s nipple.

Tainted Love was the beginning and the end of Soft Cell in the USA as far as I’m aware, although in the UK the group had a string of hits while Marc Almond acquired a reputation for mind-bending excess. After that, he went on to pursue an eccentric/eclectic solo career that saw him duet with Gene Pitney, record the songs of Jacques Brel  and join the Church of Satan, founded by tedious baldy Anton LaVey, AKA the most boring man in the world. 

And yet in spite of that last affiliation (shared with Marilyn Manson) Almond is a genuinely bold artist, willing to take great risks, even if they don’t always pay off. A few years ago he released the hardly commercial Heart on Snow, an album of English versions of popular Russian songs. Almond knew the subject matter well- he had been performing regularly in Moscow since the early 90s, perhaps attracted to the city’s atmosphere of 1920s Weimar style madness. Even so, Heart on Snow is an uneasy mix of rock, folk, pop and soviet ballads, of electronic arrangements and military choirs. As Russian music emphasizes lyrics over melody the songs also seemed a bit amorphous, even though the translations were not terrible. Heart on Snow is certainly an interesting curio, but hardly necessary. 

Recently however Almond released a sequel of sorts: Orpheus in Exile, a collection of songs made famous by the Stalin-era crooner Vadim Kozin and this really is a remarkable record.  Kozin was born in Saint Petersburg in 1903 into a family of merchants- not a good pedigree for anyone hoping to make a career in the aftermath of the 1917 Bolshevik coup. He eventually found work as a pianist accompanying silent films, and then started singing. His repertoire of gypsy songs soon made him a megastar in the USSR, with massive crowds lining up to buy his records. 

Kozin survived the repressions of the 1930s, perhaps because Stalin was a big fan. He met the tyrant on numerous occasions, even though he never sang the kind of sycophantic ode to the supreme leader that was then in vogue. In World War II he performed at the front, travelling in an armored train carriage to entertain troops in dangerous zones. He even performed for Churchill and Roosevelt at the Tehran conference in 1943. Then in 1944 disaster struck: according to legend, Lavrenti Beria, the head of Stalin’s secret police pulled Kozin aside and asked why he never sang hymns to Stalin. Apparently Kozin responded that songs about the Leader didn’t sound good in a tenor voice. He was promptly dispatched to the Kolyma Gulag in the Russian Far East and his songs disappeared from the radio. (Some English critics have suggested that Kozin’s homosexuality might have had something to do with his sentence; Russian media usually draw a veil over his sexuality). 

Delighted to have a superstar in their frozen hell, the local Gulag chiefs gave Kozin a comparatively light regime and sent him on tours around the camps where he sang for prisoners and guards alike. Released early, he performed in the Musical Theater of Magadan, a city which at the time was a remote, grim outpost of the soviet empire (and it’s not all that great these days either)- so it was rather as if the US government had exiled Elvis to 1950s Alaska, multiplied by ten. Kozin resumed touring, but at the end of the 1950s he was thrown in jail again. After his second release he continued to perform in Magadan into the 1970s. He never returned to Moscow, and died aged 91 in 1994, just as Marc Almond was playing his first concerts in post soviet Russia.  

Orpheus in Exile is certainly fascinating as a cultural/historical artifact, for it allows us to experience a style of music totally unfamiliar in the West, even if electric bass and drums have been added to give Kozin’s repertoire a contemporary sound. Almond delivers the romantic songs and gypsy ballads in a parallel universe Russian cabaret style, and ‘outs’ the homoerotic subtext of a hymn to a Red Army soldier in Brave Boy. However whereas his cabaret versions of Brel tend towards the histrionic, here he is subtle and restrained- except for a chant of DEATH!DEATH!DEATH! in the WWII era song Day and Night that is both alarming and amusing coming as it does on the heels of Kozin’s melancholic, nostalgic ballads. 

However my favorite songs are those which date from Kozin’s period of exile in Magadan, in which Almond sings the praises of a grim hole in the arctic. Never before in English has socialist construction been hymned with such passion. In the Boulevards of Magadan the ‘beautiful and spacious’ arctic city built with slave labor is compared to Paris and not found wanting: 

‘Parisian splendor doesn’t make me jealous
For me my frosty land is fair and fine
But if one day I get to go and visit…
I will pass them warm and hearty greetings from all the boulevards of Magadan.’ 

In Autumn he denies the ‘malicious rumors’ that the Magadan region is an uninhabitable hellhole, singing the amazing lines, unimaginable in an English language song: 

‘The lights of the construction sites are blazing!
New towns and cities growing all around!’ 

And then reverses the contemporary desire for conservation by extolling the extinction of the old ways of life (listed earlier as bears and Shamen): 

‘And what was here before us
Has long since become history, my friends!’ 

In an interesting English review the critic suggests that these songs constitute bitter, ironic attacks by Kozin on those who had exiled him to this wasteland. Well, it’s a nice idea but highly unlikely. Kozin was working a theme that was very popular in the USSR in the 1950s and 1960s: the construction of new cities in the remote and hitherto unsettled regions of the country. Many poems, films and songs from that era strike the same optimistic tone as Kozin does here. However listening to Almond’s take on the material, performed in full awareness of Kozin’s tragic destiny, these naïve hymns from a dead empire become impossibly melancholic, their lyrics a thin, desperate veneer over deep wells of suffering, and not only Kozin’s. You see, Magadan, the city he praised, and for which so many lives were sacrificed, is now a half abandoned post-industrial monster crumbling in a frosty wasteland. What, we may ask, was all that death and suffering for? 

If there is an irony in these songs, and there is, then it comes courtesy of Marc Almond and not Vadim Kozin, who would have been forbidden to express such sentiments openly, no matter how bitter he felt. And here’s another irony: the English language arrangements, which are frequently drenched in balalaika and accordion, sound much more “Russian” than the originals which were accompanied either by solo piano or a 1920s style ‘jazz orchestra’. 

But that’s not a bad thing. Orpheus in Exile is a fascinating record. The songs are well constructed and easy to appreciate in spite of the passage of time and shift in culture. It is an alien, mutant, beautiful, bizarre and yet deeply moving record. And I admire the audacity of Marc Almond, who fearlessly pursues projects of the highest artistic integrity. He does whatever he finds interesting, and in the process has refashioned 1930s Stalin era pop for a new generation- which is not exactly what the new generation was asking for, but then again- who cares? 

*NB: For all you Internet pedants out there, I am well aware that the Soft Cell Tainted Love was a cover of a Gloria Jones song.

Track 1: Do Re Mi by Bob Dylan: I used to have the Woody Guthrie version of this song on my iPod. After about three years I noticed I had played it twice, so I swiftly deleted it along with the rest of the incredibly tedious ‘Pastures of Plenty’ CD. From the brief snatch I heard of Dylan’s version he’s rasping away as usual, but it still sounds better than the original, which is rotten.

Q: Didn’t Dylan explicitly distance himself from this whole protest thing in his memoir published a few years back?

A: Yes he did.

Track 2: The Ghost of Tom Joad by Bruce Springsteen: I’ve always found the boss’s aching sincerity difficult to swallow. Here it goes down a lot easier, because it ends faster.

Track 3: Masters of War: This is a Dylan original, another track that used to live on my iPod deleted due to its pointlessness. I actually felt embarrassed whenever Dylan’s interminable rant came up on shuffle. It always conjured up hideous images of the bearded children of prosperity playing at radicalism in the 1960s. Mr. Vedder takes the MTV unplugged approach to underscore his sincerity. Grrr! He’s angry!

Track 4: Dear Mr. President: This is by ‘P!nk’ who used to be married to a skateboarder or a motocross rider or something like that, and who once had a hit about starting parties. In fact, I remember this song: it is an original ‘P!nk’ composition from one of her more recent albums, a savage critique of the Antichrist George W. Bush, in which she addresses the former president thus:

I’d like to ask you some questions if we can speak honestly

What do you feel when you see all the homeless on the street?

Who do you pray for at night before you go to sleep.

Apparently she never sent the questions to Mr. Bush because his answers do not appear in the text of the song- which is sh!t, needless to say.

Track 5: Sail Away: Ah yes, Randy Newman. I believe he did that #hilarious# song about dwarfs. Some people like him. As for me, a friend once lent me a CD of a musical Newman had written about Faust that was so achingly unfunny it killed my ability to listen to his contrived crooning, even when he’s singing Disney theme songs. Still at least he’s playing a piano, and not doing that ultra-hackneyed earnest, soulful warble over solo acoustic guitar thing designed to convey SINCERITY like the preceding three artists.

Track 6: American Terrorist: The performer is a gentleman who goes by the name of Lupe Fiasco. I just checked, and his real name is actually Wasalu Muhammad Jaco which is much more exciting. The song title is a bit of a red flag, and in the Amazon snippet I noticed a few references to bombs, anthrax, the Bible and the ‘glorious Koran’- and also something about civilians and little children getting hurt. Thankfully the excerpt then ended. Note to Mr. Fiasco/Jaco: ‘misinterpretated’ is not a word.

Track 7: Drums of War: With a title like you’d expect something a bit aggressive, provocative, maybe even some drums. But no, it’s back to the clichéd acoustic guitar/voice combination again, this time courtesy of Jackson Yawn- I’m sorry-Browne, who succeeds in the mere seconds Amazon allots him to induce a crippling numbness from the waist down. No, really I can’t feel my legs. Help me, somebody!

Track 8: What’s Going On: The Marvin Gaye original of this song is actually very good, even if much of the rest of the record it comes from isn’t. This version, by John Legend is once again stripped down (to piano this time) and I’m actually starting to get annoyed by how unnecessary this People Speak record really is: I mean, whose idea was this pile of crap?

Track 9: See How We Are by Exene Cervenka: I just had a look at Wikipedia and discovered that Exene Cervenka is a member of the punk band X. Apparently she recently discovered that she suffers from multiple sclerosis, so I am not going to say anything horrible about this song, but will instead pass over it in silence.

Track 10: Blues with a Feeling, performed by Taj Mahal: Don’t you think Taj Mahal is an excellent pseudonym? Not as good as Sun Ra perhaps, but it’s up there. Excellent selection of name, Mr. Mahal!

Track 11: Brother Can You Spare a Dime by somebody called Alison Moorer, not to be confused with Alan Moore, author of the Watchmen, who used to sing in a band called the Sinister Ducks. More acoustic guitar, singing, etc. The good news is that even the full version on the CD is only 1:51 long, so at least it’s over quickly.

Track 12: A Pawn in their Game, another old Dylan song this time performed by Rich Robinson, whose Dylan impersonation is nowhere near as good as Adrian Belew’s on the Frank Zappa track ‘Flakes’- which was itself a protest song about bad plumbers, car mechanics etc. After this the record mercifully ends.

Conclusions:

1) At least it doesn’t have Joan Baez on it.

2) I’m actually glad that Verve didn’t send me the CD otherwise I would have played it, which would have induced not only severe boredom but a profound sense of irritation at having the ossified 1960s protest song industry rammed down my throat once again. If you like the sound of vain people who write pop ditties taking themselves very seriously, embracing ‘dissent’ while marching in political lockstep then this is the CD/download for you! If not, then I’d advise you to spend your money on something more worthwhile- some toothpicks, for example, or perhaps a lot of balloons with Spongebob’s face on them. Or maybe you could just burn your money instead, and send the ashes in an envelope to whichever musical criminals are responsible for the conception and execution of this rancid record.

You know, as a protest.

Consisting of four skilled musicians plus one lyricist from England’s West Country (among them the now legendary guitarist Robert Fripp) King Crimson enjoyed a rapid ascent to fame and success. The band formed on January 13th 1969; were declared the ‘best band in the world’ by Jimi Hendrix in April; played with the Stones at Hyde Park in July; recorded their first album In the Court of the Crimson King in July and August; released it to great acclaim in October; then played their last gig together on December 14th in San Francisco, having imploded while on tour.

To celebrate the band’s 40th anniversary, ITCOKC has just been re-released in a deluxe, remastered edition. Playing it now, decades after its release, the record sounds ambitious, grandiose, with a majesty bordering on the utterly pompous- it could only have been made by very young men, absolutely confident of their abilities and vision. ITCOKC provides the listener with a gateway into a curious parallel universe where rock is not blues-based but rather European, avant-garde, jazzy, pastoral and apocalyptic. The most famous track is probably 21st Century Schizoid Man, a blistering assault on the listener for its time. My own favorite however is the eponymous final track, which is ominous and foreboding and yet quite possibly about nothing whatsoever- and who can object to such a bizarre clash of meaning and meaninglessness? Not me. ITCOKC is a message from a lost world, where things were cosmic, and the world of popular music was filled with uncharted possibilities. 

Audiophiles take note: the sound quality of the new edition (remastered from the original tapes) is excellent, and there is also a 5.1 stereo surround mix on DVD for those in possession of high quality sound systems. As is usual with re-releases there are various bits and bobs tabbed on as extras; however the best bonus is unquestionably the excision of 3 minutes of meandering improvisation from the track Moonchild. 

Having disintegrated at the end of 1969, King Crimson went through a dizzying series of personnel changes over the next five years. Thus the second album in this series of anniversary re-releases Red, has an almost entirely different line up from the band’s debut. Reduced to a trio of Fripp (the only constant in the group’s history), Bill Bruford and John Wetton the band had actually ceased to exist when Red was released in 1974 The buzz prior to the breakup was that Crimson were about to achieve Pink Floyd levels of success, albeit with infinitely superior levels of musicianship. Fripp didn’t much care: he had experienced a spiritual awakening and believed the world was ‘coming to an end’.   

Gone was all the florid stuff about purple pipers from ITCOKC; this King Crimson had a much darker, more brutal and yet still complex sound. Fripp’s guitar frequently had a harsh, grating quality; Wetton’s bass was incredibly heavy; Bruford’s drumming was jazzy and crisp. And yet in spite of this stripped down quality the record shows King Crimson still searching for new possibilities, exploring the space between jazz, improvisation and some alien form of the then embryonic heavy metal. The album’s finale, Starless is lyrical, melancholic, sinister, the sound of a man alone and adrift in the depths of space. It veers between mournfulness to terror and then back again. It is the sound of a last farewell, a slow descent into the abyss. It is also the rest of the record in microcosm, veering between aggressive assault and more delicate, exploratory passages. Red is one of the best albums of the 1970s. If you don’t own it, you should. 

Once again the re-release features bonus tracks plus a 5.1 stereo surround mix; it also includes ultra-rare video footage of the band in action on a French rock show, complete with period visual effects. 

King Crimson’s dissolution in 1974 was not final. Fripp returned with yet another configuration of the band in 1980 and since then King Crimson has materialized and dematerialized periodically, whenever- as Fripp puts it- there is music to be played that only King Crimson can play. A man of ferocious personal integrity, Fripp pursues his own path. Rumors swirl that he may reactivate King Crimson next year. If we are lucky, he will: for even after 40 years and nearly as many members the Crimson King sounds fresh, challenging, aggressive and uncompromising. The same cannot be said for any of Crimson’s peers who played at Woodstock, nor alas, for the works of the King’s other great contemporaries Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch. Although Oscar is still moderately aggressive, it must be admitted.  

1) The Scorpions- hair metal popular in the 80s, approximately as good as Winger.

2) KMFDM- plodding industrial metal from the late 80s/early90s.

3) That Nena chick of ‘99 luftballons’ fame. 

In short, a roster of acts so unnecessary that we could safely consign them to the same dark abyss as Croatian thrash or Russian hip hop and the human race would be none the poorer for it. And yet fortunately for the glory of popular Deustche musik this is not the end of the story- for in the mid 90s what rough beast slouched towards Germany to be born? Breathing flames and reveling in death and all manner of deviancy, its name was Rammstein. 

Formed in the early 1990s by veterans of several crap East German groups, Rammstein consisted of six men in their 30s who had grown up under communism. They took their name from Ramstein, a US military base where a terrible disaster had occurred during an air show in 1988, adding an extra ‘m’ to dislocate it slightly. With the Berlin Wall fallen, the band was now liberated to steal as many sounds and ideas as they desired. These included elements of classic heavy metal, industrial metal and gothic synth pop such as Depeche Mode; not to mention liberal appropriations from Laibach, a Slovenian group fascinated by the links between mass culture, pop music and totalitarianism. (If you have a few minutes I recommend you watch Laibach’s reinterpretations of Queen’s One Vision and Opus’ Life is Life: the originals will never sound the same again.)

From Laibach, Rammstein also stole the cross as a symbol, a collectivist ethos, and a fondness for flirting with totalitarian imagery. Most strikingly of all Rammstein’s singer Till Lindemann’s vocal style ‘borrowed’ heavily from Milan Fras’ absurdly deep bass snarl. As Laibach did not believe in ‘originality’ they did not complain; and as Rammstein were a much better band, they did not compete either. 

But Rammstein also introduced elements hitherto absent from hard rock, such as lyrics informed by German romanticism (decadent and otherwise), and elements of martial music. Rammstein thoroughly embraced their national identity and this unabashed ‘Germanness’ became key to their success- disciplined, ultra precise drumming, grinding riffs played by two guitars in perfect synchronicity, futuristic synths, a surprising ear for melody and sturm und drang lyrics sung entirely in German, with every guttural sound emphasized, and every ‘R’ rolled almost to the point of parody. On the last tour two members even wore lederhosen. Rammstein had thus revealed that heavy metal in its ideal form was not Anglo-American but Germanic, and having done so built a massive fan base in Europe, Asia and Latin America.  

–

Rammstein’s live shows are legendary. The band loves fire: walls of flame; fire-breathing; self-immolation, you name it. At the center of this grandiose spectacle however stands front-man Till Linemann wearing a look of profound suffering on his face, as if he is being martyred every night. When he’s not in pain he inflicts it, usually upon the keyboard player, Flake, who is as lanky and skinny as Lindemann is huge. On Rammstein’s last tour, Lindemann roasted Flake alive in a giant cauldron while singing an ode to the German cannibal Armen Meiwes. Flake was also Lindemann’s victim in simulated male rapes that took place on a nightly basis during the band’s tours of the late 90s and early 2000s (I shall spare you the link.) And yet however outrageous that sounds, Rammstein’s provocations are always informed by an ultra-dry, ultra-black German humor.  

Unsurprisingly, Rammstein’s love of shock tactics has embroiled the band in numerous scandals. Their first album cover was an outrageous piece of totalitarian homoerotic camp, depicting the band as oiled, muscular Übermenschen stripped to the waist, standing in front of a giant flower (I remember wondering whether I had made a terrible mistake the day I bought it on cassette in Moscow’s Gorbushka market). German music critics accused them of being Nazis. Delighted, the band then used footage from Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia in the video for their cover of Depeche Mode’s Stripped. Later however Rammstein would insist that they were perplexed by all the Nazi hullabaloo- was it not obvious that they were fervent leftists? After all on their 3^rd album ‘Mutter’ (the one with the dead baby on the cover) they had recorded a song entitled Links 234. Now admittedly this is simply the march ‘Left 2, 3, 4’ sung in German and the video showed thousands of ants stamping around in militaristic fashion, even saluting grainy black and white footage of the lead singer. But Rammstein insisted that it was a song of praise for left ideas, and really meant ‘forward with leftism’, or some other such nonsense. Whether the band’s members were being naïve, humorous or archly ironic, none of the other songs on the album were notably left in orientation (‘Zwitter’ was a song about a hermaphrodite in love with him/herself, ‘Rein Raus’ a spectacularly blatant metaphor for sexual intercourse). 

It was perhaps a different set of scandals that stung the band more. The Columbine massacre shooters were big Rammstein fans, and around the same time as that tragedy members of the band were arrested in Massachusetts when Lindemann prepared to rape Flake on stage with an ejaculating dildo. Clearly that experience left a bad taste in the mouth, because Rammstein have never returned stateside. Indeed the band has had a troubled history with the USA. On their second release Sensucht (Longing), they succumbed to record company pressure, recording some embarrassing English language versions of selected songs. Although Rammstein swore never to do this again, they have since played with the English language on tracks such as Amerika and Pussy (find that video yourself). Now however there is a political undercurrent to their use of English- admittedly it is a tedious, Coca Cola bashing, anti-globalization kind of undercurrent, but then, nobody’s perfect. 

–

At the end of October Rammstein released their sixth record ‘Liebe ist fur alle da’ (Love is there for everyone). The record goes nowhere new, Rammstein choosing instead to elaborate upon the sonic and thematic realm they have made their own. However this lack of innovation is no weakness, and from the very first track ‘Rammlied’ all memories of Rosenrot, their wretched fifth album, are dispelled. ‘Liebe..’ is their heaviest release in years, faster, darker and more punishing, a brutal noise made by ageing men striving to prove they can still crush their peers, and succeeding. It is the sound of six Germans on the march, six Germans out to conquer, six Germans intent on proving that they reign supreme over the heavy metal reich. 

The plan seems to have worked. Liebe entered the charts at #1 in multiple countries; # 16 in the UK and most remarkably of all- #13 in the Billboard Hot 200. As a Briton, I am already accustomed to the fact that Rammstein have superseded the accomplishments of metal bands from the UK, in much the same way I know that Germany has a superior infrastructure, stronger industrial base and higher standard of living than my homeland. And now with Rammstein’s unprecedented assault on the American charts, will all you patriotic Americans begin to feel that you are living inside a Philip K. Dick style parallel universe? Are Slayer, Metallica, Mastodon et al about to surrender before the might of their Teutonic metal masters?  Is this the latest sign of what the perpetually grinning Fareed Zakaria- a man who looks as though he just swallowed a live hamster and is terribly pleased with himself for this achievement- calls ‘the Post- American World’? 

Ich don’t think so. But it might mean that Rammstein will come here on tour. And as someone who has seen the band live four times in three different countries I can reassure you that that would be a very good thing indeed. Unless you don’t like middle-aged East German provocateurs bludgeoning you to death with heavy music, that is. Then you might want to consider staying home, and play your Colbie Caillat records instead. I don’t know- whatever turns you on.  

Auf Wiedersehen!

‘Yeah, it’s like the first time you win a square go with your dad!’ 

Now for those among you who did not grow up in West Fife let me explain the meaning of ‘a square go.’ This is a game that requires you to take turns punching your opponent in the face as hard as you can, until one of you passes out or begs the other to stop. 

Naturally my brother looked at Kenny in shock. And for the first time in his life Kenny began to suspect that smacking your dad really hard in the face and vice versa was not necessarily a universal bonding experience. 

Oscar-winning actress Hilary Swank may be having that kind of moment right now. If she isn’t, she should be. Earlier in the month she gave an interview to Joanna Coles of Marie Claire magazine (one of my favorite reads, of course) when the entirely banal conversation took a surprising turn: 

Coles: What do you sleep in?

Swank: I don’t sleep in anything. Do you sleep in a nightgown?

Coles: I sleep in pj’s. I have two young sons, so I have to be conscious of that.

Swank: Well, my boyfriend’s son is 6 years old, and you wonder at what age you should stop walking around nude. Every morning he comes into the bedroom, and you’re just nude. But he doesn’t look twice; he doesn’t think about it yet. I just toss and turn too much when I sleep, and if I’m in clothes, I get all twisted up.

Don’t you just hate it when you get all twisted up? That’s why I do my grocery shopping nude. Now admittedly, they call the cops every time I get near the entrance. But I just can’t stand restraints on my personal freedom, man.

But I digress. What I really want to do is address Ms. Swank directly (I know she’s a keen Big Hollywood reader). So here we go. 

Hilary: I hate to break it to you like this, but speaking as a former six year old boy… 

HE DOES THINK ABOUT IT. 

Trust me. He’s just not letting on, out of fear that you’ll put some clothes on. In fact, he can’t believe his luck. Every day he gets to see a naked chick walking about the house, just letting it all hang out. Now he doesn’t think about it in the same way a sixteen year-old boy would, but believe me — it’s like Christmas come every day for that little boy in the Swank household. I’ll also wager he races to school every day and boasts about it to all his little friends. And they’re all jealous. 

The truth is, I’m not sure what to make of this story. Is it yet another example of whacked out showbiz values, a bit like Iggy Pop taking his son to seedy nightclubs when all the kid wanted to do was stay home and play with his toys? That didn’t work out well. Pop junior never talks to his dad, I hear. Then I thought maybe Swank had grown up on some kind of hippy commune and that mutual grown woman/little boy nudity might be ‘normal’ for her. But I just checked Wikipedia and Swank’s father was a military officer, so that explanation is out. Or is she just incredibly naïve? Either way, she doesn’t seem very flustered by the fuss her admission has caused in the media. Speaking on the “Today Show,” she said: 

“I think it’s great that people can talk about things that bring up debate… I think every family is different, and you have to know what’s right for you and your family.” 

Well, yes. But different doesn’t mean equally good. I mean, the Manson family, they were very different, but it doesn’t mean old Charlie M. is a good role model. 

So, Hilary, if you’re out there striding about nude and the little lad’s in the vicinity — put some clothes on, eh? Childhood is short enough as it is, especially in a place like Hollywood. You don’t need to make it any shorter.