Today we take a look at that band from the "Always Save" tier of the late '90s boy band boom, LFO. As is custom on the Inexplicably Close Look, we're not interested in the group's megahit "Summer Girls," or even that entry on Jennifer Love-Hewitt's resume that just has to be screaming do-over, "Girl on TV" (though I've seen a few episodes of "Ghost Whisperer," and I must say perhaps Ms. Love-Hewitt would be better served returning to the realm of staring meekly into the camera as some has-been croons in her face...).
No, today we cast our gaze on that third and perhaps least entry in LFO's 15-minute oeuvre, "Every Other Time." While "Summer Girls" performs the perhaps forgivable feat of sending the mix between pop culture, hip hop and white guys in untucked dress shirts back fifty years ("Billy Shakespeare wrote a whole bunch of sonnets"? Really? There's no method in that madness...), "Every Other Time" performs the much more impressive feat of sending women's rights back to Susan B. Anthony days.
Let's take a look at the relationship dynamic that is explored in the song. Its title comes from the singer's admission that he's in love with his significant other on odd-numbered occasions. So, at the very least, we're dealing with an individual who's remaining with his partner either out of convenience, or a sincere lack of knowledge about what the phrase "so in love with her" actually means.
And these other occasions are not marked by indifference. Oh no, that would almost be forgivable. The give-and-take between these two is downright reprehensible, and the lack of lyrical talent only makes their dramatization in verse more painful for the listener.
"Keep it up home girl, don't you quit, you know the way you scream is the ultimate"
Yep, that sounds like a physically healthy relationship.
"Sometimes she's wrong, sometimes I'm right"
Dr. Freud would agree.
"But then I think about the time that we broke up before the prom and you told everyone that I was gay, OK"
Who knew that a girl who exclusively dresses herself in ridiculously marked-up clothing from a certain retailer would react in such an immature way?
You know, when you come to think of it, the entirety of this group's library reflects some kind of incompatibility to connect with women on a fundamental level. "Summer Girls" is about a girl that stays about just long enough to wallpaper the closet before moving on, and not having the bad sense to bring Chinese take-out to chow on after sex. And "Girl on TV" is perhaps the finest sonnet to objectification I've ever heard in a pop song (OK, I take that back, my mind intentionally skipped over that classic "Back that Ass Up" from Juvenile).
What you're left with, after all of this, are a trio of glossy, cartoonish prep-boys that fear commitment on a very fundamental level. I mean, if you can only love some one "every other time," and you think that's a sufficient way to connect with another individual (I believe they use the wonderfully trite image of two dolphins swimming around in each other's hearts), well — perhaps you're well suited to that bubble-gum sheen of the late '90s. Or you'll sound like one of those curmudgeons from the early '20s, too.
Or maybe I'm looking too closely.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Page-turning: A Review of Murakami's 1Q84
I will apologize in advance. This may be the most rambling, incoherent and needlessly shallow entry to a blog that is intentionally shallow. But I can't get Murakami out of my head, and I think it will be therapeutic to say a few things in this arena.
1Q84, like The Wind-up Bird Chronicle before it, is less of a novel and more of an undertaking — a surreal leap down the well (or fire escape, as imagery would have it in this particular novel) made by the reader. In the past, Murakami has been known to cushion the blow at the bottom just enough that my mind hasn't been spinning into an existential funk by the end of his work. And ultimately, that's what I've loved about his compositions. Post-modern to a "t," but always providing you with a concrete and defensible answer as to what the meaning of the piece of literature lying before you.
When I put down 1Q84, a 925-page epic in every sense of the word, at 11:30 p.m. last night, I had no comforting sense of meaning as to what I had just read. I knew it was impressive, and I was left with the general feeling and tone of a Murakami work. Some reviewers have suggested that to read 1Q84 is to experience contemporary Japanese culture. If that's the case, I'm not sure an international community will ever exist.
I've always loved Murakami because, in spite of his clearly different cultural and historical background, I felt like we were kindred spirits. I mean, hell, the guy even wrote a book about writing and running, my two favorite contemplative activities. His imagery and wit mimic those of Chandler and Vonnegut, rather than Basho or Kyoden. There is something that is very American and timeless about 1Q84, and at the same time nothing is familiar.
As an example, the passage of time and pacing is completely different in Murakami than in any Western author I've ever read. It seems rather pithy to talk about pacing in a novel that comprises half the pagination of your usual dictionary, but it's true. It was noticeable in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, what with Toru spending half his time pondering his own existence in the bottom of a well, doing nothing in particular, but even at moments of great urgency in 1Q84 something is pulling the action back. The book's ultimate chase scene may not be a chase at all, depending on how you interpret the final five or six chapters of the work.
SPOILERS AHEAD! You've been warned...
To me, the death of Ushikawa is the biggest indicator that Tengo and Aomame return to a different world at the end of the novel. I haven't quite worked out in my mind what it means that both seem to have some power or quality to warp the world around them through the power of composition. Receiver/Perceiver is all mixed up in my mind at present. But Ushikawa's appearance in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, which (from what I remember) takes place after the events of 1Q84 (my timeline could be off here) seems to suggest that the "world" Tengo and Aomame leave at the end of the novel is not the same world as that which Toru inhabits.
But, of course, there's nothing to say that there aren't multiple realities at play in Murakami's universe. In fact, I'd say he probably welcomes the idea.
The shining achievement of 1Q84 is not as a love story, in my opinion. Yes, the resolution of the plot between Tengo and Aomame is needed to conclude the novel and the plotline that is established rather early in the text. In fact, the first twenty pages are probably the most earnest and urgent of the entire work.
Murakami shines when he brings us into the world of Ushikawa, a character that for all intents and purposes is impossible of producing empathy. Yet, in the novel's third volume (it's most interesting, though perhaps not the best written), Ushikawa is introduced as a third prism through which the tale of Aomame and Tengo plays out. The slight wrinkle in the narrative from the previous two volumes allows Murakami room to explore, and it is in the vague chronicle of Ushikawa that the most fruitful exploration of the human experience occurs in the novel.
After all, Ushikawa is the only character besides Aomame and Tengo (and our omniscient narrator) who can tell that there are two moons hanging in the sky. He is the only one we know for sure inhabits the same ethereal plain as our two principal characters. Murakami legitimizes him as a narrative force to deftly balance the final third of his novel, which takes place in a much more truncated time table than its first two parts. He weaves a story that allows us pity for a man who is essentially a personification of all that is contemptible about the human race. His lack of morals even physically manifests itself in his appearance.
Perhaps most telling is the pity that Tamaru shows Ushikawa after killing him. Tamaru is a man that can best be described as cold and calculated — we know he's gay, but we never see any kind of human compassion from him. His relationship with Aomame seems to be purely driven by curiosity, and while he does eventually enable the meeting between her and Tengo, it's less out of a need to see love requited than simple devotion to his job. Only in Tamaru's expression of remorse for killing Ushikawa — even as a seasoned killer — do we see his emotion played out in a tangible way. This speaks volumes, I think, for how Murakami wants us to interpret his sad sack of a character.
1Q84 lacks the historical significance of Wind-up Bird. It's central image — the two moons — doesn't resonate with me in the same way Toru's birthmark or his trips down the well seemed to. In many cases, it seems as though Murakami is recycling imagery in the work to say things he's said in more poignant ways in the past. But it is 1Q84's ability to leave me staring at the wall, wondering just how each of its narrative threads work together, that impresses the most. Who are the Little People? Are they a metaphor, as described in the meta-fiction personal reflections of Tengo at the end of the novel? Does 1Q84 exist? Where are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel? When are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel?
The mind recoils in horror. I'm going to sleep under two moons tonight, that's for sure.
Rating: 4.5/5 stars
1Q84, like The Wind-up Bird Chronicle before it, is less of a novel and more of an undertaking — a surreal leap down the well (or fire escape, as imagery would have it in this particular novel) made by the reader. In the past, Murakami has been known to cushion the blow at the bottom just enough that my mind hasn't been spinning into an existential funk by the end of his work. And ultimately, that's what I've loved about his compositions. Post-modern to a "t," but always providing you with a concrete and defensible answer as to what the meaning of the piece of literature lying before you.
When I put down 1Q84, a 925-page epic in every sense of the word, at 11:30 p.m. last night, I had no comforting sense of meaning as to what I had just read. I knew it was impressive, and I was left with the general feeling and tone of a Murakami work. Some reviewers have suggested that to read 1Q84 is to experience contemporary Japanese culture. If that's the case, I'm not sure an international community will ever exist.
I've always loved Murakami because, in spite of his clearly different cultural and historical background, I felt like we were kindred spirits. I mean, hell, the guy even wrote a book about writing and running, my two favorite contemplative activities. His imagery and wit mimic those of Chandler and Vonnegut, rather than Basho or Kyoden. There is something that is very American and timeless about 1Q84, and at the same time nothing is familiar.
As an example, the passage of time and pacing is completely different in Murakami than in any Western author I've ever read. It seems rather pithy to talk about pacing in a novel that comprises half the pagination of your usual dictionary, but it's true. It was noticeable in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, what with Toru spending half his time pondering his own existence in the bottom of a well, doing nothing in particular, but even at moments of great urgency in 1Q84 something is pulling the action back. The book's ultimate chase scene may not be a chase at all, depending on how you interpret the final five or six chapters of the work.
SPOILERS AHEAD! You've been warned...
To me, the death of Ushikawa is the biggest indicator that Tengo and Aomame return to a different world at the end of the novel. I haven't quite worked out in my mind what it means that both seem to have some power or quality to warp the world around them through the power of composition. Receiver/Perceiver is all mixed up in my mind at present. But Ushikawa's appearance in The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, which (from what I remember) takes place after the events of 1Q84 (my timeline could be off here) seems to suggest that the "world" Tengo and Aomame leave at the end of the novel is not the same world as that which Toru inhabits.
But, of course, there's nothing to say that there aren't multiple realities at play in Murakami's universe. In fact, I'd say he probably welcomes the idea.
The shining achievement of 1Q84 is not as a love story, in my opinion. Yes, the resolution of the plot between Tengo and Aomame is needed to conclude the novel and the plotline that is established rather early in the text. In fact, the first twenty pages are probably the most earnest and urgent of the entire work.
Murakami shines when he brings us into the world of Ushikawa, a character that for all intents and purposes is impossible of producing empathy. Yet, in the novel's third volume (it's most interesting, though perhaps not the best written), Ushikawa is introduced as a third prism through which the tale of Aomame and Tengo plays out. The slight wrinkle in the narrative from the previous two volumes allows Murakami room to explore, and it is in the vague chronicle of Ushikawa that the most fruitful exploration of the human experience occurs in the novel.
After all, Ushikawa is the only character besides Aomame and Tengo (and our omniscient narrator) who can tell that there are two moons hanging in the sky. He is the only one we know for sure inhabits the same ethereal plain as our two principal characters. Murakami legitimizes him as a narrative force to deftly balance the final third of his novel, which takes place in a much more truncated time table than its first two parts. He weaves a story that allows us pity for a man who is essentially a personification of all that is contemptible about the human race. His lack of morals even physically manifests itself in his appearance.
Perhaps most telling is the pity that Tamaru shows Ushikawa after killing him. Tamaru is a man that can best be described as cold and calculated — we know he's gay, but we never see any kind of human compassion from him. His relationship with Aomame seems to be purely driven by curiosity, and while he does eventually enable the meeting between her and Tengo, it's less out of a need to see love requited than simple devotion to his job. Only in Tamaru's expression of remorse for killing Ushikawa — even as a seasoned killer — do we see his emotion played out in a tangible way. This speaks volumes, I think, for how Murakami wants us to interpret his sad sack of a character.
1Q84 lacks the historical significance of Wind-up Bird. It's central image — the two moons — doesn't resonate with me in the same way Toru's birthmark or his trips down the well seemed to. In many cases, it seems as though Murakami is recycling imagery in the work to say things he's said in more poignant ways in the past. But it is 1Q84's ability to leave me staring at the wall, wondering just how each of its narrative threads work together, that impresses the most. Who are the Little People? Are they a metaphor, as described in the meta-fiction personal reflections of Tengo at the end of the novel? Does 1Q84 exist? Where are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel? When are Tengo and Aomame at the end of the novel?
The mind recoils in horror. I'm going to sleep under two moons tonight, that's for sure.
Rating: 4.5/5 stars
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