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I Wish I Was a Rock Star (Girl Talk/Professor Murder, Mercury Lounge, 8/18/06)
posted 08/24/2006
The only important art in the 21st century will be Editing.
I’m not saying that because every “funny” video forwarded around the net is, without exception, 33% too long (that’s just poor editing). I’m saying it because, culturally, there’s no more room at the inn. We’re all full up. Not only has it all been done, it’s all been uploaded and catalogued. We do not need any more bands that sound like Talking Heads or Talking Heads covers and we certainly don’t need the Talking Heads to reunite, because we can pull apart pre-existing Heads tracks and refashion the beats and sounds and words and tunes into whole new “Talking Heads songs.” The same way we don’t need any more photos of David Byrne, because we can – if we really feel like it – photomosaic old Byrne pics into new Byrne pics. Which would be even better than David Byrne pics, because they’re David Byrne pics made of David Byrne pics.
We sure as hell don’t need Chuck Klosterman.
Writers, musicians, actors, directors – we no longer need “content providers.” What I really need is someone to refresh my beverage. Thank you, and can I hear the specials?
Wait, didn’t you feature the orange roughy last week?
Gregg Gillis is a Pittsburgh music editor who sits at a laptop and calls himself “Girl Talk” (myspace), calls what he does “making dance music.” I’m not going to quibble with the assertion, but it seems beside the point. We don’t need any more music “made.” What Gillis does is hypersample or mashmashmashup, chopshopping moments or minutes from multitudes into bouncy little rides. You get the feeling Gillis watched the screen scroll for K-Tel comps when he was young(er), and thought, “Hey, that’d make for a pretty good song.”
It’s not so much ingenious as inevitable.
For one thing, straight-up mono-a-mono mash-ups rarely work. It’s cute, watching people convince themselves The Grey Album is functional more than 60% of the time. Why be a slave to a precious concept when it hurts the final product? Keep the parts that work, excise the ones that don’t. Move on, replace the beat or riff or rap, then replace that when that stops working. Otherwise it’s like that old Dark Side of the Moon/Wizard of Oz shizz, where you’re not mashing anything, you’re just concurrently boiling a pair of potatoes.
It’s not just an evolution of the form, though, it’s smart marketing. Gillis sells each song with iconic samples, dropping in so many aural landmarks it’s like living at EPCOT center. Who doesn’t warm up when they hear that little piano bit from “Tiny Dancer,” the organ from the Manfred Mann version of “Blinded by the Light,” a Busta Rhymes “Woo-Ha” or two? Does anything drive a song forward better than the bassline from “Cannonball?” Oh, maybe that Wire/Elastica riff. So why not use both?
Familiarity provides an easy way into the music, but it can be an easy way out, too. A lot of Girl Talk is more fun to puzzle at than dance to. Beats shift around a bit too much, at times, and even when they don’t you’re mostly getting psyched up for the next round of Name That Tune. The layers and the pace make the songs relistenable, but only up to a point: Once that particular sudoku grid is full, it’s time to move on.
One convenient byproduct of paring others’ work down to its basic bits is that you don’t have to pay for the samples. Or, at least, Gillis hopes you don’t have to. Night Ripper, his third CD, is – unlike Dangermouse’s Grey Album – going for cash moneymoney; his label even seems to be appropriating its name (illegalart.net) from a nonprofit anti-copyright organization (illegal-art.org). While lawyerly types can (and probably will) bark back-and-forth about whether or not this falls under the umbrella of “fair use,” Gillis’ samples didn’t make me think anything but passing thoughts of the artists whose work he borrows (other than realizing that, hey, I had a sudden urge to buy a James Taylor record, back there, shudder). Mostly, I thought of time spent as a kid listening to a friend’s parent’s Dickie Goodman records.
Long Island’s Goodman put together comedy/novelty skits wherein spoken-word reporters’ questions were answered by cut-out lines from popular songs. When sued by some (seventeen!) of the labels whose songs he’d used, a judge (at least according to AllMusic Guide) declared they weren’t owed Dickie, that Goodman had “created a new work.”
[In an effort towards thematic harmony, I basically downloaded and re-upped those two tracks from Illegal-Art.org and EarFuzz, respectively.]
No, those tracks aren’t funny anymore; I hate to think they were funny wayback. But that’s another reason Girl Talk is inevitable: We live in a culture so accelerated you knew I was going to bring up the “accelerated culture” bit as soon as you saw the topic. You’re waiting for me to bring up ADD, or channel-surfing. We simply process things faster. Faster than Girl Talk, that’s for sure. Here, this is from a GT 7”:
One of the nice things about Gillis’ work is that it really does come from all over the place. Hip hop, classic rock, pop pabulum, old soul, noise bands, punk, and TV show theme songs all intermingle without seeming out of place. Who wouldn’t want to be at a party that could play host to Ce Ce Penniston, Kurt Cobain, Rah Digga, Michael McDonald, Billy Joel, Billy Corgan, Karen O and Rayanne Graff?
Well, okay, notsomuch Billy Corgan.
And that’s already not enough. Gillis brings music closer to what our world really sounds like, but falls short: I’m listening to all those artists at once, plus the SUV outside my window that’s thumping Kelis (so to speak), plus the ambulance siren blaring by, plus my cel phone going off, plus my dog, who’s whining to be fed. + + +. ADD is a survival skill, not an affliction, Ritalin does nothing but retard.
Girl Talk would be more than just a stepping stone towards more infotaining tunage if it had something of substance to it, if it was repurposing instead of simply reusing. Critics love to flop around in their own jism when someone “recontextualizes” something, but there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of that going on in Gillis’ music. Putting Neutral Milk Hotel over Jefferson Airplane over Juelz Santana... One of the most important aspects of editing isn’t using material, it’s choosing material, and here it really does feel like the DJ’s just grabbing the closest frog and dropping it in the most convenient blender.
Yes, I hate “clever” music too, but just a little wit would go a long way. Though there’s a bit of welcome perversity, backing 2Live Crew’s “We Want Some Pussy” with Wings’ “Silly Love Songs,” Night Ripper’s biggest revelation is that Gwen Stefani does sound better as a chipmunk. It’s more Reader’s Digest than Utne Reader.
Take a quick look at Gillis’ track titles: “Once Again,” “That’s My D.J.,” “Hold Up,” “Too Deep,” “Minute by Minute.” And so on. It’s clear we’re dealing with someone of limited creativity and purpose, here. His work will be bypassed, and soon. But Girl Talk/Greg Gillis has earned its/his place in the modest history of the genre as someone who’s goosed it forward.
*
It could’ve happened to a nicer guy.
I wanted to see Girl Talk live, because I wanted to see How He Do’d Dat. And, of course, there’s nothing to see. Recreating the music live would be impossible – I hear Cobain’s unavailable – and imitating it, at least, impractical. But thoughts of DJ 2muchcaffeine racing around behind a wall of turntables, some mad genius dropping inspired bits of this and that – that’s what I’d hoped for. What it is – as Gillis himself not only redundantly, repeatedly reminded, but reproachfully reprimanded – is a guy staring into a laptop.
Gillis’ first words to his paying crowd – after making them wait through a few minutes of complete silence while he changed into a three piece suit – were “What’s up, losers?” Charming. He went on and on and on about how everyone in the room had wasted their $10, including Natalie Portman, who was possibly maybe there. How in Pittsburgh they didn’t have bloggers, how in Pittsburgh they didn’t take pictures at concerts, and how in Pittsburgh people didn’t spend all their time at shows worrying about what they’d write about it later. (Later, he’d mention this was the first ever show he’d had with advance ticket sales, and that it sold out. Maybe Pittsburgh needs to get itself some fucking bloggers.)
Apparently in Pittsburgh they like their DJs abrasive and unfunny, and prefer that they, y’know, spend a tremendous amount of time talking, and not playing music.
It’s almost a real shame his show featured a couple of the best concert moments I’ve experienced this year.
Most of what was special about the room came from the crowd. People danced, even when the music didn’t quite inspire it (I know I wasn’t really feeling anything until the first “Woo-Ha!” hit). Early on, because he was just going to be “standing at a laptop,” Gillis invited folks to come dance around him on the Mercury Lounge stage. I’m all for people getting on stage, though it’s becoming A Thing to Do at Shows (I must have seen about a dozen, this summer, with some variation of this); it’s a punk sort of thing to do, erase the separation between performer and audience. In this case, though, there seemed to be a mix of “Wow, we’re on the stage, isn’t this cool!” and “LOOK AT ME! I’m ON the STAGE. Aren’t I COOL?!” One particular woman spent the entire show front and center, sweating through her “I Wish I Was a Rock Star” t-shirt, pawing at Gillis. Embarrassing.
But by filling the stage there was more room to dance on the floor (half-pragmatically, Gillis suggested anyone who didn’t want to dance should leave so that “people waiting outside” could get in). And – AND – the stage was so packed that people took to crowd-surfing. Crowd-surfing ON the crowd ON the stage. One guy crowd-surfed on the crowd on the Mercury Lounge stage while holding a beer. If there’s a video of that, it’d better wind up on the Wiktionary page for Awesometastic.
The other great moment was Gillis’. One of the stage dancers accidentally kicked a wire out of the laptop and all the sound went away. Gillis grabbed his microphone and just started howling at the top of his lungs, howling the silence away, going red while he darted around looking for the wire. It was perhaps the only time of the night where it felt like he had any compulsion to entertain the room.
The second time the wire accidentally got kicked out, Gillis barked at the people who were dancing. “Are you guys losers or something?!” Sure, buddy, they’re losers because you’re not smart enough to gaffer tape your fucking wires down.
For most of the show, Gillis stood at his laptop. He had two dance moves: He’d fall back and arhythmically mime the shakes, or he’d grab the table holding his computer with both hands and do a jackass kick. Early in there were a couple blasts of confetti. Woo! Confetti! But that was it. He played a bunch of tracks from Night Ripper, and a couple others. Occasionally it sounded like he manipulated some sound, live; mostly it felt like he Just Pressed Play.
After an hour, his suit soaked (the room got hot), he declared himself too tired to go on. We losers – losers don’t tire as quickly, apparently – wanted more music for our wasted money, and as an encore Gillis performed (because “in Pittsburgh, every band does a Nirvana cover” – a joke that must be hilarious... in Pittsburgh) an awful piece of punk karaoke to Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice.” Backed only by a lazy synth riff, Gillis spazzed out. But the room came to the rescue! An honest-to-God impromptu mosh pit exploded, one of those magical instances where music inspires everyone to do the exact same thing all at once. Except that, now performing, Gillis wanted us to look at him. So he wrapped himself in his mic cord, took the mic in his teeth, jumped in the pit and killed it by falling on his back.
It’s a shame Gillis’ attitude sucks so hard. While at the end of the show he said in passing that he “appreciated” the crowd, there was too much petty vitriol to take it seriously. I understand why punk bands spit at the audience; it’s so the audience knows they can spit back. It establishes that this is a forum where we’ll all be getting out our aggression. But Girl Talk is dance music. If the approach is an act, Gillis needs to lose it in favor of something with a little humility. If it’s a manifestation of some sad little insecurities, he needs a therapist. For now, I look forward to the someone who’ll come along and do what Gillis does better than Gillis does it. Then, I can actually recommend their show. And then, “Girl Talk” will fulfill his destiny and go back to making his co-workers in that IT department miserable.
*
Girl Talk’s next scheduled appearance is a November 2nd “Fanatic CMJ Event.” The venue, as far as I can tell, hasn’t been announced... but the combination of Greg Gillis and a CMJ crowd makes me pretty happy I’m having my testicles removed through my tear ducts, that day.
*
See? Editing. Important.
*
Maybe the Girl Talk guy was such a whiny little bitch ‘cause he was totally outdone by his opener. I knew next to nothing about Professor Murder (myspace) going in. I knew – and you do too, just looking at it – the band name was pretty bad, like the World’s Worst Clue Character (“It was – duh – Professor Murder with the Weaponthing in the I-Killed-Him-Room.”) I’d seen the Pitchfork number for their EP (which you can buy here), but hadn’t read the review. For some reason, I thought they were some sort of dull electronica thing.
But instead of synthy bleep-blorp they were kinetic bang-bang-tweet. It’s simple, it’s immediate; it was instantly, obviously awesome. There are a couple synthesizers, and a melodica, but mostly there’s a nice, sharp bass, a couple different drum stations, plenty of cowbell (shut up, all you morons who ever thought anything Will Ferrell did was funny), and a whistle. There’s a lead singer who I swear doesn’t speak English. I’m told they’re from Brooklyn, but I’m saying they’re from Sweden. Because coming from Brooklyn makes you think, “Yes, !!! was a marginally neat thing three years ago, wasn’t it?” But there’s no ellipsized sprawl, no jammy spillover, no annoying coo-coo-coo lead in P-Muddy (man, I hate the band name).
Around 3:20 during this year-old live track, that’s what the whole show felt like:
It’s really fucking tight. They know exactly how to develop their rhythms without overcomplicating them. They fall back on world music beats without feeling like another bunch of appropriating Afro-brats. Every single thing they did totally clicked for me. They made me very, very happy.
Which is strange, because they all looked so depressed. Except the guy with the whistle. Maybe the others had whistle envy.
Anyway, the band is playing a free show Saturday, September 16th, at the East River Music Project, and it would be a real shame if they were faced with a near-empty amphitheater. Professor Murder in the afternoon, Balkan Beat Box at night. Your legs are going to love you.
*
In Pittsburgh you wouldn’t be able to read/view these:
Oh, no, blogs!
Oh, no, pictures!
UPDATE: Girl Talk Talks Back
YES? YOU THERE IN THE BACK? (5)
1. Pat left...
08/24/2006 3:27 pm :: http://poptartssucktoasted.blogspot.com
Hey uh, there's no hyphen in Pop Tarts Suck Toasted! (I don't want to get
sued by Kellogg's) And I completely forgot to make the points about Girl
Talk as a performer, I was too busy dancing it up on the stage. Yeah that's
right look at me too!
2. J____ left...
08/24/2006 6:32 pm
Dude, chill. It's not a hyphen. It's a yummy, levitating toaster pastrie
(tm).
4. J____ left...
11/21/2006 12:37 pm :: http://heartonastick.blog-city.com/
Wretch, you can download that one direct from his myspace.