Propagandhi - Supporting Caste

G7 Welcoming Committee/Smallman Records
(2009)

Stagnation often comes across as a necessary and accepted component of modern punk rock. When the Ramones played songs consisting of no more than three chords, it was in reaction to the superficial excess of egoist instrumental wankery that plagued music at the time. It must have been fresh. But at this point you have to ask yourself - do I really need the new NOFX album? Classics will remain classics, but in 2009 the style is stale like two day old shits. If only there were a way to make punk rock interesting again.

Actually, the self-proclaimed "prairie skids" in Propagandhi have been proving that the genre can cultivate forward thinking for some time now. Beginning with their third album - Today's Empires, Tomorrow's Ashes - the band established itself as an indomitable wrecking crew; songs were downright vicious, at times bordering on thrash metal, while still anchored with strong melodies. In 2005 they released Potemkin City Limits, trading some of the ferocity for a more expansive approach, complete with unorthodox chord progressions as well as few somber passages that just do not exist on a Pennywise album.

Supporting Caste strikes a fine balance between both the aggression and progression of its predecessors. "Night Letters" breaks out of the gate with a superior technical prowess of acrobatic fretwork and impeccable turn-on-the-dime tempo shifts. The following title track displays the band's clear understanding of dynamics, utilizing a hushed refrain in the bridge before once again exploding into blitzkrieg. A hearkening back to their melodic punk roots is evident on "Potemkin City Limits," which has a catchy chorus reminiscent of their work on Less Talk, More Rock. But even the more "traditional" songs are arranged with enough structural variance as to avoid becoming 90 second afterthoughts. The only thing really missing from Supporting Caste is the rollicking closer that was present on the previous two albums. ("Purina Hall of Fame" rips so fucking hard.)

Lyrical content runs the gamut of leftist politics, social injustice and animal rights. Not new territory by any means, but there is a certain eloquence to Propagandhi lyrics which transcend the expected profanity-laden one liners.

"The human impulse to explain hijacked: a controlled flight into terrain to ensure no passenger ever makes any connection between the proscription of mystery and their malaise. Tidy pairings of inverse binaries."

Sometimes there's stark imagery.

"She said she just turned six. She's got some good jokes for a kid. She's working hard to avoid a woman bleeding from her teeth. Her life goes on despite the fact her mom sleeps fucked-up on the cement."

Sometimes it's pretty simple.

"You're not really mad at Iran or Afghanistan. You're mad at the fact your wife can't stand you anymore."

Thankfully, all is not gloomy and cynical. "The Banger's Embrace" is a jovial ode to the Propagandhi's favorite metal band, Sacrifice, exuding a spirit so ripe with endearment that you cannot help but smile in remembrance of those initial bands that first induced the raising of a fist.

Supporting Caste shows Propagandhi adding another milestone to their catalogue. Taking relatively long breaks between releases has proven not to be a hindrance, but rather the time necessary to craft both a sonically and lyrically engaging punk rock record. In a sea of bands who release pedestrian records every other year merely to justify another touring cycle, let us hope that Propagandhi will return in a few years.

(A liner note highlight in the form of a borrowed quote: "You're supposed to be fed up by now. Let's turn the system upside down. Get up!" ~The Coup with Dead Prez)

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Ha Ha

Upon my daily viewing of lambgoat.com, I encountered the following at the bottom of the page in the "Unconfirmed Rumors" section:

Botch will reunite for a set of weekend shows in the Alps (ok, not really).

People tend to exaggerate their reactions when recounting scenarios to others. Make no mistake. My heart almost exploded. I let out one of the indiscernible exclamations ("ngha!") right before I hit the parenthesis.

Dead baby jokes are cool. This is cold blooded.

Be warned...

The beast hath awakened from slumber
Hear its ululation
Behold!
Awesome terror awaits...

Who's That Knocking At My Door

Directed by Martin Scorsese
(1968)

Along with writer/director John Cassavetes, Martin Scorsese's body of work ultimately revolutionized American cinema, presenting flawed characters in complicated dilemmas of relevance to the times - moving away from the more whimsical theatrics of the preceding Hollywood melodramas. Which is why, as pretty as it is to look at, Who's That Knocking At My Door stands out for its conceptual brilliance.

The main conflict the film explores is the apparent futility of a religious and/or romantic morality in the midst of ever-changing modernity. The main character J.R., played by Harvey Keitel, is our romantic. He's a Western enthusiast (claiming everyone should love the genre) of a Catholic who constantly slums it with his friends around the streets of New York. Within this circle of friends there is a brotherhood - a familial arrangement. While egos are challenged, words exchanged and dramatic exits made, most any misunderstanding can be cleared with a drink and a movie. Though there clearly is a pecking order (not as defined as in Goodfellas) to this motley crew, one which is made evident in a scene of inebriation where one friend taunts another with a handgun. J.R. and others' reaction to the scene is like that of associates in juvenile mischief, backing away with cowering laughter. The gun turns out to be loaded and is fired, though not at the bullied, but at bottles of alcohol scattered about.

There is an insanity to the lighthearted nature in which violence is depicted in this scene; an unreal ignorance in the fact that no one else intervened. This is modernity redefining social relationships. The presence of an excessive force changes the dynamic of a communal setting, where power can more easily be usurped. The force itself can be characterized as romantic by the westerns J.R. and company watch; good overtaking bad with all guns blazing. But when the simple narrative structure of a John Wayne movie is removed, violence becomes more difficult to enact justly in the static chaos of everyday interpersonal communications. And while this may come off like a whole lot of steam to be blowing about a scene which doesn't actually contain any mass violence, the depicted event and unobservant naivete are, at the very least, perturbing.

When away from his guy friends, issues stemming from J.R.'s religious morality arise. On the Catholic doctrine, J.R. doesn't appear to have that great of knowledge of the rituals required of him - outside of what not to do. This problem is illustrated subtlety in a scene where his "girlfriend" (unnamed, played by Zina Bethune) uses a ceremonial candle (those ones with the Virgin Mary on them) for a practical room lighting. J.R. corrects her, saying that the candle is special and can't be used for that purpose. She accepts his answer, but not before pausing briefly in a manner expectant of further explanation upon the candle's proper use. This is an explanation that J.R. never gives, and it illuminates a lack of understanding in what he practices, as he merely goes through the motions of avoiding missteps in ritual protocol.

The rift between traditional morality and modernity becomes greater as J.R.'s intimate relationship with his girlfriend grows. In a conversation with her, J.R. explains the difference between a woman and a broad: a woman being the type to marry and a broad...at this point, an excessive sexual fantasy begins, showing J.R. give it to what are basically whores. This gross contradiction comes to a forefront when J.R. finds out his girlfriend is not a virgin, as she has been raped. J.R. cannot process this fact. His traditional religious morality will not account for an anomaly. It does not account for gray areas; a woman is either pure or impure. So it comes as no surprise that he becomes angry when he hears of her "impure" state, calling her a liar, stating that rape is just a phony alibi to cover up her being a slut. Eventually J.R. reaches a sort of resolution on the matter, apologizing. Of course the apology is loaded, complete with his forgiveness. (She refuses.) He cannot grasp the notion of circumstance. Instead, everything comes back to sin, which implies a willful violation.

In the closing scenes, the futility of J.R.'s morality receives full cinematic expression. While praying in church, surrounded by religious iconography, he asks forgiveness for the event that has just transpired. As J.R. prays, the viewer is assaulted with an array of tight close-ups of a statue of Christ, revealing the various wounds on his body from crucifixion. Underscoring the scene is a catchy radio hit of the time, trivializing the apparent sincerity on screen; even the presence of these prominent symbols, J.R. has no idea of what he ask forgiveness for - other than that he feels he needs to ask it. The inconclusiveness of repentance solidifies as the film ends with J.R. standing outside of the church, making plans for the following day with one of his buddies.

Throughout this exposition I've frequently used the word "modernity" in association with some of the issues in the film. But because things like violence and rape have existed since the dawn of humanity, I think the word "reality" can be substituted with more accuracy. Reality is what crushes the faulty ideals of J.R., throwing him into an endless circuit of sin/guilt/repent. Who's That Knocking At My Door suggests a reevaluation of morality to attempt combat this self-defeating cycle and move towards a more coherent existence.

(Did I mention this was Scorsese's first film? It's hard to tell. For the most part, shit looks tip top.)

Tony Brummel and a loss of innocence

The controversy surrounding Victory Records founder Tony Brummel is hardly breaking news. The rumors along with direct words from unhappy bands have been circulating for years now. I always considered a lot of it hearsay, because it's not like I, or the few friends I have who like hardcore, had any direct involvement with the guy - outside of buying some of the albums his label put out. Below is a link to one former Victory employee's tell-all confession, detailing the horrible experiences he had working for the label. Again, this information is not new. The article itself is a year or two old. I missed its initial release, so I've had a bit of a nasty revelation.

http://www.motokoaoyama.com/about-the-pagoda/ramsey-deans-the-horror/

It bums me out to see the corruption unveiled behind something that I at one point had a certain amount of respect for. I'm not some OG in the game who cut their teeth on the Cro-Mags and Judge. My introduction to hardcore was through the Victory Style Vol. III compilation, with records from Hatebreed, Snapcase, Earth Crisis, Strife, Grey Area, and others soon to follow. While I believe that the importance of the knowledge of the pioneers cannot be understated, and thoroughly enjoy those bands, the 90's sound is my shit. Too many fond memories to get into here stem from listening to albums which brandish both the Bulldog and "Raybeez" logos. But if you haven't moshed in your bedroom by yourself while listening to "Last Breath," you just wouldn't understand.

The blame doesn't reside with any of the bands, obviously. They were the ones who got screwed. But it's still embittering to read this stuff, as it tarnishes the legacy I (perhaps foolishly) ascribed to Victory Records.

Can you have a loss of innocence at 25 years of age? Apparently so.

Employee of the Month

Directed by Greg Coolidge

(2006)

Watching television on a Sunday evening presents a challenging ultimatum. Rock of Love was the alternative. Not the worst thing I've ever seen. True, Dane Cook's incessant wit is overbearing, Jessica Simpson has zero capability for acting, and the jokes on the whole fail. But to lambast a movie of this persuasion would be unethical; you don't scold a kid with Down syndrome for their inability to grasp calculus. Judge a subject within its means. Jessica Simpson would therefore be exempt from any criticism.

Rather than the movie itself, it is the writers that I take issue with. Does this make any sense? Not really. But follow me. Regardless of whether or not you enjoy Employee of the Month, it would be dubious to deny that the plot follows a formulaic path littered with stereotypes: the underdog premise, the seemingly unachievable romantic interest, the irredeemable antagonist, humor at the expense of a midget, etc. These elements should be familiar to everyone, for they are the very fabric of popular comedies.

While I understand why these elements exist, I do not understand why it took two writers (Don Calame and Chris Conroy) to create the story and an additional third (Greg Coolidge) to help with the screenplay. This movie is pure stock. Why are three people needed to recycle cliches? I am reminded of a joke involving a light bulb and a certain amount of people necessary to screw it in. Yet, my laughter is subdued by the harsh realization that these three idiots most likely got rewarded handsomely for their unoriginal collaboration. Oh cruel world.