Not only has the release of U2’s latest record occasioned middling to poor appraisals as well as the inevitable, seemingly contractual 5 star hosanna from Rolling Stone, but there have also recently surfaced several full-throated defenses of Pop, the much maligned and misunderstood final act of U2’s ’90s trilogy. This is welcome news. Pop is far better than the conventional wisdom would have you believe. I’d place it at the low end of U2’s top 5 or just outside of it - a near great collection that deserves to be rescued from the dismissals and confusion that greeted its release. Sonically, it’s adventurous and a little weird while still being sufficiently mainstream. The dominant electronica motif is neither a cynical ploy nor a mere ironic prop. Lyrically, Pop is dark, probing, and very human (much like Achtung Baby and Zooropa). See "Please" and "Wake Up Dead Man" in particular. Both are masterful outings - pained, bewildered, wrenching. From the latter: “Jesus, Jesus help me / I’m alone in this world / And a fucked up world it is too.” That’s Bono, the consummate happy warrior for peace and social justice, helplessly lamenting his and all of creation’s disordered state. It rings all too true.
Front to back, Pop offers a riveting contrast of form and message.The ostensibly frivolous electronic-pop machinery belies the depth of Bono’s pleas and perspectives. As he goes “searching for Baby Jesus under the trash” (which may be something like Pop's mission statement [from "Mofo"]), don’t allow those critics who misread Pop years ago to dissuade you from following.
Here are two smart takes:*
“Pop is a trashy, vulgar, spiritually insightful, heart-shattering record. It takes a vandal’s thrill in deploying the self-declared world’s greatest rock band to deface rock and roll. It shapes the echoing blips, tape distortions, and drum loops of electronic music into a political statement as substantial and tightly packed as a pipe bomb. It rummages through the refuse of modern pop culture and finds a God worth loving still. And its critical failure was a miscarriage of justice.”
"Lyrically, Pop is also far more complex than it might seem; in fact, the record contains U2’s last great bits of unselfconscious songwriting. (Save for “Playboy Mansion,” a flimsy takedown of fame and stardom that aims for scathing but rings hollow.) In keeping with the clubland feel, its lyrics toy with sexuality—“Loved” is a particularly nuanced take on romantic confusion and temptation, while “Discothèque” obliquely captures the exuberance of a one-night stand. But for the most part, Pop’s ruminations on self-doubt, mortality, and regret contrast with the album’s steely digital sheen. “Please” criticizes the self-sabotage inherent with (and the magnitude of) Northern Ireland’s violent conflicts, while “Staring At The Sun” is both a crisis of faith and a condemnation of blind worship. And the distortion-cracked grayscale dirge “Wake Up Dead Man” is astonishing, a stark plea where Bono begs Jesus for guidance through despair–although the repeated cry of “Wake up, wake up dead man” also feels like he’s attempting to rouse himself.”
* One qualification: I think Dougherty overstates the case for Pop, but I still appreciate much of his argument.
4 “Lord, make me to know my end,
And what is the measure of my days,
That I may know how frail I am.
5 Indeed, You have made my days as handbreadths,
And my age is as nothing before You;
Certainly every man at his best state is but vapor. Selah
6 Surely every man walks about like a shadow;
Surely they busy themselves in vain;
He heaps up riches,
And does not know who will gather them.”
Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5)
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
It was hard not to think of the latter as I read the former this morning. One maintains Eternal Truth and the other utter meaninglessness, but both powerfully confront human frailty and the passing nature of things.
We are called the Church of Martyrs, That’s our pain and our saving grace. Our faith isn’t a theory. It’s not a set of teachings. It’s a person and we’re called to be like him. When I look at this evil, I want to be Rambo. But that won’t do any good. We carry the cross for a reason.
Bishop Francis Kalabat
As long as Western liberalism has existed, it has been found charmless or contemptible by some men. Western liberalism asks men to be governed by laws made by mere men and their politicking. It demands of most men that they be mere citizens. It urges thrift, prudence, and industry. This is not for everyone.
The Islamic State not only has the romance of revolution, and the promise of action and power, but also religious and apocalyptic appeal. Establishing the caliphate is a way for Muslims to “immanentize the eschaton,” to bring about the final, God-ordained order to a political reality. This is a persistent desire in human history in Europe and the Levant. These religious impulses can be sublimated within Western liberalism, but only with great difficulty. The Islamic State holds out real appeal for some men who have difficulty believing themselves to be just another part of a long, ambiguous history of human civilization, and who long for something more than a vote, a job, and a life that will be forgotten in a generation or two. It seems every so often, Western liberalism will help produce enemies bent on destroying its all-too-human order, and replacing it with one that has the imprimatur of the volk, the verdict of History, or the laws of God.
Michael Brendan Dougherty, “How the West produces jihadi tourists”
As I read Dougherty’s superb column, I kept returning in my head to a Pearl Jam lyric. From “Wishlist”: “I wish I was a sacrifice / But somehow still lived on.” I wonder if there’s a connection between the two. Do the same commonplaces and banalities of Western modernity that breed violent disaffection among jihadi tourists also give rise to the forked mentality that Eddie Vedder describes? To varying degrees, most Westerners are still spiritual creatures, with a sense of Higher Things, and a hope (however vague and buried) for some kind of Significance. At the same time, we’re so enmeshed in the prosaic order of our daily lives and life itself, and we grievously fear loss. The outcome of these conflicting tendencies? A desire for exultation but on the cheap. Comfortable transcendence. Ultimate meaning without the ultimate cost. The coups that overturn our lives must be bloodless and reversible.
Special features in God’s Glory Bible:
- All of Christ’s words come emblazoned in red, white, and blue.
- Uses the prophetic spelling of Jerusalem -> JerUSAlem.
- First and Second Samuel have been renamed First and Second Uncle Samuel.
- A reworked version of Revelation that accounts for the First Intifada, 9/11, and Benghazi.
- A supplementary CD of Ronald Reagan reading the Psalms.
So what makes Lana the most effective advertisement for heterosexuality since, well, the cigarette? Her secret is simple. She doesn’t take heterosexuality for granted. Where other female pop stars lean back and assume a de facto straightness, Lana leans into her straightness so hard that she makes it seem tempting, even to her non-straight listeners. While other pop stars simply celebrate heterosexuality, Lana describes it in such alluring detail that even the most devoted disciple of Sappho might want to give it a whirl.
By making heterosexuality as marked as homosexuality, Lana explains straightness to me in a language that I can understand. She makes explicit all of its hidden wonders; she teaches them to me, song after song, video after video. She makes heterosexuality as hypervisible as my own sexuality and, in so doing, opens up the possibility of mutual understanding between us. No one tries as hard as she does to convince me that men are handsome, that sex is delicious, and that fast cars are the best place to experience both of them.
Samantha Allen, “Lana Del Rey Makes Me Wish I Were Straight”
Lana appeals to me chiefly for aesthetic reasons, but maybe there’s something to Allen’s argument from a hetero-male perspective. Maybe straight dudes like myself and others I know are drawn to LDR in part because she makes us feel so wanted. Indispensable even. From this vantage, her music might be viewed as a tonic for us, a counterpoint, in this moment of Western cultural history when the rhetorical guns have been turned on men. (To be sure, I’m emphatically *not* crying persecution or victimhood. But, these days, “You’re a straight male!” often passes as legitimate criticism, when life is far too complicated for that kind of glib, blanket, unsophisticated thinking.)
Lana doesn’t concern herself with ideology, which can have a flattening effect on art. She’s not interested in rooting out entrenched patriarchal power structures and the like. She’s too in the moment for abstractions. Her world is white hot emotion, old fashioned devotion meets pulsating desire, the unruly inner storm stirred up by love and lust. What results is compelling art - the kind of art that can bewitch lesbians, straight males, and others for many reasons, one of which is the bracing and even reassuring “raw heterosexuality” on display. Fascinating stuff. I highly recommend Allen’s article.
Claire Messud, "A New ‘L’Étranger’"
Camus famously said that “Meursault is the only Christ that we deserve”—a complicated statement for an avowed atheist. But Camus, of course, was more complex in his atheism than we might commonly expect: he was an atheist in reaction to, and in the shadow of, a Catholicism osmotically imbued in the culture (of the French certainly, but of the pieds noirs in particular). The inescapable result is that his atheism is in constant dialogue with religion; in L’Étranger no less than in, say, La Peste.
Sandra Smith has, in her admirable translation, plucked carefully upon this thread in the novel, so that Anglophone readers might better grasp Camus’s allusions. Here is but one key example: the novel’s last line, in French, begins “Pour que tout soit consommé,…” which Ward translates, literally, as “For everything to be consummated.” But as Smith points out, the French carries “an echo of the last words of Jesus on the Cross: ‘Tout est consommé.’” Her chosen rendition, then, is “So that it might be finished,” a formulation that echoes Christ’s last words in the King James translation of the Bible.
In a better world, “The Way Love Used to Be” would rank alongside “You Really Got Me”, “Waterloo Sunset”, and “Lola” as one of the Kinks’ crowning achievements. Actually, it does reside in that rarefied space - just not according to your average listicle on the subject or the band’s “greatest hits”. “The Way Love Used to Be” is a ghost classic mainly due to its undistinguished release history, appearing first on the soundtrack to Percy, a 1971 British comedy about "the world’s first penis transplant", and then two years later on The Great Lost Kinks Album, an odds-and-ends collection that was discontinued in 1975 after Ray Davies initiated legal measures against Reprise Records. What circumstance (or otherwise) has cheated listeners of is a gorgeous chrome-hued elegy from one of pop music’s high priests of nostalgia. Against a plaintive guitar, downcast piano, and swelling strings, Davies delicately articulates a vision of innocence: escaping the bustle of modern city life (“the mad rushing crowd”) to a misty locale where he and his companion can merely discuss how love was once understood and practiced. The whole affair is steeped in dignified melancholy and romanticism. In other words, “The Way Love Used to Be” is a very British creation. But it ain’t rock ‘n’ roll. It ain’t *the Sixties* (or early ’70s, as it were). Here and elsewhere, the Kinks defied the tastes and tendencies of the counterculture and the mainstream orthodoxy that followed. They forged their own path.