Tag Archives: at least we have these internet memes

Notes on Summer Camp: Rebecca Black’s “Friday” and Jenna Rose’s “My Jeans” (both 2011)

by Chris Randle

Several days ago a lulz-starved Internet fastened onto Rebecca Black’s “Friday,” sending the Orange County eighth grader and her low-budget music video to viral fame. It’s already near 15 million Youtube hits, and there are many derivative memes, my favourite being the mashup with Ice Cube’s Friday. According to a Daily Beast article about the whole phenomenon, those monotonous drum machines and surreally bad lyrics were produced by the not-at-all-sinister-sounding vanity label Ark Music Factory, which charges rich parents $2000 to give their kids a fleeting taste of micro-stardom.

“Friday” doesn’t seem to be going pandemic from mockery alone; as I write, the single is #40 on the iTunes chart and climbing, which suggests genuine affection. You can point and laugh at it for free. (William Hung did manage to shift 300 000 copies of his Idol-assisted cash-in, but that was before Youtube existed.)

Paying even 99 cents for the mp3 of an ostensibly terrible song implies lots of tweens with a sophisticated sense of camp. Hearing Rebecca Black employ supercompressed AutoTune without a shred of self-consciousness or restraint, I thought of something John Waters once said: “Mink [Stole], when we were young, she would go to thrift shops the day after Halloween when all the children’s costumes were on sale for a nickel and buy them all and wear them all year as her outfits. That’s a good fashion choice. The day after Halloween, Halloween costumes are really cheap in thrift shops and the most pitiful ones are left. Just wear them all year.”

The track has piled up so many links that it’s sluicing off attention to other Ark Music jams. I can’t stop replaying Jenna Rose’s “My Jeans.” Its beat goes harder than “Friday,” but its guest MC isn’t so creepily adult: If you’re named Baby Triggy, your only promising career options are “cartoon dinosaur” or “contributor of non-threatening raps for 12-year-olds.” (My new dream job.) The breathless lyrics invoke pants as a magical sigil: “Hannah Montana’s wearing my jeans / Ashley Tisdale’s wearing my jeans / Keke Palmer’s wearing MY JEANS.” I think this is the first teenpop song about commodity fetishism in a while, unless you count Ke$ha. Stereolab should reunite to cover it.

At certain moments – like Jenna Rose’s “ha ha ha ha, jack my swag” non-sequitur – “My Jeans” almost feels too exuberant, so garishly wrong that it verges on vanguardism. My friend David Balzer IMed: “This is so close to a Ryan Trecartin video,” those Youtube pieces populated by the artist’s fluorescent, babbling drag tweens (see above). It’s also a jeans-obsessed clip that hardly deigns to show any. During last month’s Pop Conference in L.A., Carl presented a paper about “reality music” and tunes that trade in explicit non-fiction. Ark Music Factory inverted the concept: its amateurish signees, ordinary but for their privilege, would pretend to be generic pop stars for a weekend. And then, somewhere inside the assembly plant, the test subjects mutated.

 

 

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Filed under chris randle, music

Yesterday’s Tomorrow: Metropolis, by Fritz Lang (1927/2010)

by Chris Randle

Last week, I watched the almost-fully-restored new print of Metropolis. It was my first exposure to Fritz Lang’s monumental spectacle, but in truth I had seen large chunks of the film already, filtered through the homages, reinterpretations and outright swipes of eight decades. If you can sample people, these are sampled images.

The sinuously designed, poorly named Machine-Man, iconic after five minutes of screentime; a vast cityscape filling the sky while machines churn below; the precise clockwork movements of those hellbound proles, both anticipating music-video choreography and recalling Marx’s words: “It is not the workman that employs the instruments of labour, but the instruments of labour that employ the workman.” Even the final showdown atop a cathedral seemed familiar, because Tim Burton borrowed it for Batman. As we left the theatre, my friend Catherine said: “That movie had everything!”

Squint for meticulous order in a horn of plenty and you’ll be disappointed. Those aforementioned workers, for example, are shown toiling on one machine with a massive wall of dials and no apparent purpose. For its ludicrous dream that enough coaxing could move labour and capital to literally shake hands and make peace, Metropolis is sometimes called proto-fascist, but it’s hard to picture Mussolini bellowing Lang’s epigram: “The mediator between brain and hands must be the heart.” The film wedges religious allegory and industrial-relations homilies into the structure of a fairy tale, rebellious heir and all; I’m grateful for what little coherence it has.

Some of the politics are so confused that it begins to seem intentional. Brigitte Helm, just 18 years old during filming, plays both saintly Maria (champion of the downtrodden, love interest) and her android doppelganger. The plutocrat Joh Fredersen has the former’s likeness grafted onto the latter, scheming to incite a rebellious prole-frenzy with her jerky gyrations. (When the sexy psy-ops plan actually works, he sends in the security forces does nothing.)

The movie’s juxtaposition of demure protector and Evil Robot Slut is not subtle. But Helm is so obviously delighted by the sheer carnality of her character, vamping it up in Babylonian drag, that I started to think of the original as “False Maria.” She urges the revolution to devour its children with lip-smacking glee. No wonder that android keeps winking.

The new restoration job is impressive – the print’s only missing one major scene. I can’t imagine how earlier versions hung together, though I still have a perverse desire to see the Giorgio Moroder/Freddie Mercury/Pat Benatar cut. The new/old footage is projected at a smaller scale than the rest, and its flickering scratches are a humbling reminder that even radical modernist artworks can become worn and fragile.

Much of the rescued material involves various subplots. One features Fredersen’s creepily fastidious underling, the Thin Man, his face as sharp and toothy as a shark’s. Another fleshes out the mad scientist Rotwang, explaining why he plots to betray his hated master (there was a girl). I was struck by the fact that, in a city split between heavenly towers and industrial caverns, his lair seems far older than either, a snug little church for your next black mass. If the film has a great sight gag, it’s the shot of him fidgeting in a tuxedo at False Maria’s debauched unveiling. Rotwang is on neither side of the class struggle; maybe that’s why he turns out to be the real villain? (In this and other ways, he reminds me of a more oblique Bat-parallel: “I am the hole in things, the piece that can never fit.”)

After nearly a century of allusive references and unconscious transmission, Metropolis retains a strange power. Restored or not, the film can still inspire longing; Owen Hatherley once argued that its soaring skywalks are an example of the better tomorrow we’ve been denied. Though there are minor consolations. On the walk home post-screening I realized that my first glimpse of the movie wasn’t its famous expressionist poster, or a particular filmmaker’s tribute, or even some knockoff robot – it was this animated GIF. (Scions of capital all like to watch, apparently.) I’m not sure the monocled Mr. Lang would approve, but it’s the future we got.

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Filed under chris randle, movies