Note to Tea Party: Put Up or Shut Up (and Go Away)

Let's give the snakes their own dens!

I’m sick of the Tea Party. It’s not just the constant whining and the “We can’t” attitude. It’s more than the fact that many of its followers are dumber than a lobotomized salamander and the rest are boorish bullies. It even goes beyond the fact that a lot of Tea Partiers advocate overthrowing the government, sentiments that would land the average lefty on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I’m just tired of the pure hypocrisy of those supping on tax dollars moaning about Big Government. So here’s my challenge: put up or shut up (and go away).

Let’s take these anti-tax, anti-government cranks at their word. Let’s set up regional centers in which the Tea Party can put its bombastic rhetoric into practice. Each Tea Party center will be sovereign and autonomous--free to conduct affairs and pass legislation as deemed appropriate. They are welcome to abolish all income taxes, trim as much waste as they want, teach whatever they want in schools, outlaw abortion, and force people to pray nine times a day if they wish.

Here’s the catch: They get no--as in zero--federal taxpayer monies. They must relinquish control of all federal buildings, programs, property, and accounts. They get no Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security checks, federal loans, highway dough, postal service, military bases, federal contract work, educational subsidies, or anything else they don’t pay for themselves. They must raise their own revenues, fund programs without federal help, pay for their own schools, and figure out what to do with the sick, unemployed, and elderly. No more largesse from American taxpayers.

As a fair test, let’s pilot this with a center in each region:

Northeast--Maine: Normally this honor would go to New Hampshire, but given that old Teabag Paul LePage is now governor of the state, we’ll allow Maine the glory of showing just how far he can take an economy based on wood pulp, tourism, and blueberries.

Mid-Atlantic--Ohio: Yeah, I know that Ohio isn’t really a Mid-Atlantic state, but it has more than enough loose tea leaves to provide a region that--other than south-central Pennsylvania--doesn’t have that many. Ohio is a perfect place to let post-industrialism merge with post-intelligence. (Or is that the intelligence of a post?)

South--South Carolina: Where else but the first state to secede? The US should have let it go back when, so it’s only fair to let South Carolina have a go now. But just like in 1861, South Carolina needs to give back its nine military bases.

Northern Midwest--North Dakota: I was tempted to go with Wisconsin, but it looks like Cheese-Staters are starting wake up, so let’s go with a traditional anti-government hotbed. Give it a whirl, North Dakota, but don’t come crying on Uncle Sam’s shoulder when the Red River floods again. Get your self-reliant butts off the sofa and stack those sandbags.

Midwestern Heartland--Kansas: A no-brainer. Here’s my Cliff Notes review of Thomas Frank’s What’s Wrong with Kansas? Everything. So let’s free Kansans to pray over their problems and see if that works.

Far West--Utah: Hell, anything to make John Huntsman stay home and lure Mitt (“I Can Be Anything”) Romney off the campaign trail. Utah is also a good test case because it’s so friggin’ white (95%--98% if you don’t count the Utah Jazz) that if it survives on its own, maybe we really can blame all the “colored folk” for America’s troubles. But about those National Parks… no NPS staff or money.

Southwest--Arizona: Texas might be a logical choice, but to pick it might mean imposing a Cold War-like Berlin solution on Austin, so let’s go with ‘Zona. They are now free to build a fence as high as they want on the Mexican border, but they get no Homeland Security agents to police it.

Non-Continental US--Alaska: I can see it: the 24-hour All About Sarah Show. Why the ad dollars alone will be enough to buy every Alaskan an icemaker. Don’t spill any North Bay oil, though, ‘cause you’re on your own, baby!

An eight-state trial… that’s sixteen percent, which is more than Gallup surveys. If it works, run up the surrender flag, declare the US a noble experiment that failed, and let the rest of the states strike whatever deal they can--independence, regional consolidation, Wal-Mart takeover, merger with Canada…. But I’m placing money on the fact that a year of no government will lead the citizens of these states to hang Tea Party activists and beg for forgiveness.

Sensational New/Old Release from Suzy Bogguss

SUZY BOGGUSS

American Folk Songbook

Loyal Dutchess Records 1006

* * * *

Suzy Bogguss fans--and if you’re not one, why not?--will be delighted with her latest record, American Folk Songbook. Bogguss, you may recall, was a country music queen in the 1980s and 90s--back in the days when they could airbrush and package her as a lil’ darling. When she decided she wanted to take time off to raise a family and maybe do something a bit different, Big Music dumped her like a hot potato.

Well… she’s now a graceful woman of 54 with a stunning voice and in charge of her own destiny. Her Website tells of how she had a revelation when appearing on A Prairie Home Companion. The audience went nuts over her rendition of “Red River Valley,” which became the germ of an idea to pluck seventeen old chestnuts from the American standards bag instead of making another Nashville flavor-of-the-month record. You’ve heard everything of American Folk Songbook a billion times, but Bogguss will make you feel like “Shady Grove,” “Erie Canal,” “Shenandoah,” “Wayfaring Stranger” and other such ilk are as fresh as a “Wildwood Flower.” Speaking of the latter, you’d better have the chops to do a song that everyone in America associates with either the Carter Family or Joan Baez. No fear. Bogguss presents mature full-throated renditions of everything on the record. Her controlled vibrato in turn stuns and soothes. Like the person fully in command of her craft that she is, Bogguss makes each song the star, not herself, as if she’s the conduit connecting the American past to the present. This is also the ethos of the top rate talent that backs her--folks such as Stuart Duncan (fiddle, mandolin), Pat Bergeson (guitar, harmonica, Jew’s harp), and John McCutcheon (hammered dulcimer). Nobody’s showing off here; as the liner notes accurately note, the goal was to keep everything “simple and beautiful.” Mission accomplished. By the time we get to the final track, “Beautiful Dreamer,” we are ready to roll into the sweet arms of Morpheus.

This album should receive serious attention for a Grammy Award. And wouldn’t it be delicious irony if it wins?

BEOGA

How to Tune a Fish

Compass 7-4561-2

****

County Antrim’s Beoga have released their fourth album. The last one was shortlisted for a Grammy, a hard act to follow, but this is a worthy effort. The band’s name means “lively” in Irish, an apt handle for tunes driven by the dual squeeze boxes of Damian McKee and Seán Ό Graham. Their collaboration gives Beoga a distinctive sound in that the accordions drive the melody lines, whilst fiddle and keyboards tend to join Eamon Murray’s bodhran in adding percussive backbeat. There’s lots of raucous racket on this album, though it’s actually a bit more subdued than the previous three. Not that this is a bad thing; the instrumental textures come through with a clarity that can get lost when bands dwell overlong in the midst of fast-paced big sets. Those desiring a funkier edge can find it on “Dolan’s 6 am,” a piece imbued with subtle whimsy and a bit of craic. No review of a Beoga album is complete without expending a few superlatives for the vocals of Niamh Dunne, who doubles as the quintet’s fiddler. She has a lovely voice characterized by clean sound and tones that range from whispers to wallops. She also likes to mix things up and we first hear her on this album doing an all-shucks country-like cover of “Home Cookin’,” a song penned by Rick Danko for The Band. She gives us some pretty stuff as well, including “Woman of No Place,” a tribute to Irish songstress legend Margaret Barry (1917-1989). Dunne stays in the past for her next song, but she travels to vaudeville for her version of the 1909 classic “Come in Out of the Rain.” Nice! Beoga are a band that do small things well and charm our socks off in the process.

Here's a YouTube of them performing on New Zealand TV.

Amira Sings Bosnian Gems

AMIRA MEDUNJANIN

Zumra

World Village 450012

* * *

Zumra is a Bosnian word that translates as “emerald,” a suitable title for this collection of fourteen Balkan gems. Vocalist Amira Medunjanin uses her glorious voice--full of keening, elides, emotion, and power--to interpret classics and standards. For those unfamiliar with Bosnian song--most of you I’d imagine--it’s what you’d get if you crossed fado and Greek music and tossed in a bit of the drama of North African singing. Much of that drama is due to the muscular accordion work of Merima Kljuco, who provides edgy notes off which Amira’s voice leaps and jumps. The duo draw upon the many passions emanating from Bosnia, including those of the heart, those forged on the battlefield, and those that come in dreams. As befits a nation soaked in as much tragedy as Bosnia, longing and loss appear more often than fulfillment and conquest. In fact, much like Bosnia itself, many of the songs are about continuing or unfinished journeys. This recording takes some patience as most listeners will recognize neither the language nor the styles, but it’s worth it--Amira’s voice is a treasure in any language.

Here’s a link to Amira singing “Mujo” from this album.

The Doors Acoustic? Yep. It Actually Works

JAMES LEE STANLEY AND CLIFF EBERHARDT

All Wood and Doors

Beachwood Recordings B004VMX65Y

****

Skepticism doesn’t even begin to describe my initial feelings about this project. Let’s see, let’s take a dozen classics from The Doors and let two folk music veterans cover them—two guys known for their guitar picking no less. Those who remember The Doors will recall it wasn’t a guitar-based ensemble; Robby Krieger played bass more than lead and the band’s distinctive melodies were built around Ray Manzarek’s organ riffs. “It can’t possibly work,” thought I. Wrong! It’s a very fine piece of work and another confirmation that if you’re going to mess with iconic stuff, take it to the limit. Neither Stanley nor Eberhardt seek to channel Jim Morrison, even though Krieger and John Densmore guest on several tracks, as do well-know folks such as Peter Tork (The Monkees), Timothy Schmidt (The Eagles), and Paul Barrere (Little Feat). If anything, a lot of the covers and harmonies evoke a slightly trippier version of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Nothing here is quite as you’d anticipate. “Break on Through” has underlying Motown soul peeking through, “Love Me Two Times” feels like a country song, and “Light My Fire” is dreamy and slow. “Crystal Ship” as a folk ballad? Who would have imagined? Crisp guitar licks—mostly done on the “wood” of the album’s title—round out this thoughtful release. It’s way more than just another tribute album; this is a considered rethinking of The Doors—a fresh coat of varnish if you will.

Somewhere Goes Nowhere and Takes Forever to Get There

Somewhere (2010)

Directed and Written by Sofia Coppola

American Zoetrope, 98 mins. Rated R

*

Sofia Coppola’s fourth feature film, Somewhere, won a Golden Lion Award at the Venice Film Festival. From this one can only conclude that the judges spoke no English. The appeal of Sofia Coppola escapes me entirely. Her reputation rests on being the offspring of a real director, Francis Ford Coppola, and for the hype given to a single highly overrated film, Lost in Translation (2003). The latter was so enhanced by Bill Murray’s droll performance that many reviewers were blinded by a script as lightweight as gossamer. It seems like an anvil compared to the inconsequential boredom of Somewhere, a film that goes nowhere--slowly.

Pay attention to the opening sequence of Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) driving his expensive black Ferrari in circles. It lasts about three minutes and then Marco parks and steps out of the car. End of sequence. Pay attention because that’s absolutely riveting stuff compared to the rest of the film. (It’s also supposed to foreshadow something weighty, though it doesn’t.) Marco, it seems, is a disaffected Hollywood superstar. When he breaks his arm in a fall, he suddenly becomes aware that life in Hollywood is shallow. (Imagine!) Marco has become the kind of guy who falls asleep watching a private pole dance or whilst administering oral sex, and we’re to conclude that ennui, not painkillers, is to blame. So what will make Johnny Marco a whole man again? Why reconnecting with Cleo (Elle Fanning), the eleven-year-old daughter he had with his ex-wife. The latter has a mysterious (contrived?) mental collapse that forces Marco to take temporary custody of Cleo.

Because Johnny is a big star and has commitments he must honor, Cleo goes on tour with him. Insofar as I can tell, most of the film’s $8 million budget was blown on the Italian sojourn part of the road trip. Too bad; Coppola could have used some of the dough to hire a real scriptwriter. Here’s the film’s revelation, which I give away because I don’t want you to spend your time watching it: Johnny discovers that being a father is what’s missing in his life. He doesn’t want to have sex with any of the bare-breasted women who throw themselves at him. He couldn’t care less about the flash, fame, and fine food that surrounds him. He’d rather duck into an old church with Cleo. (Well who wouldn’t, eh?) That’s it--the whole film….

What the hell is this, a Hollywood version of a Family Values Epiphany? (I doubt that the Christian Right is watching.) Okay, fine, Johnny reconnects with his daughter. I’m sure this happens, though I suspect that most out-of-control thirty-seven-year-olds seek wisdom from mentors older than eleven. Somewhere isn’t as unrelentingly awful as Marie Antoinette (2006), Coppola’s previous film, but only because it didn’t have the budget to be as extravagant in its vacuity. Will someone please tell Coppola that she’s forty now and needs to make movies would more depth than the MTV videos she used to make. It’s also time to stop riding the old man’s coattails. I can’t escape the feeling that if her last name was Prole she’s the sort who would have earned a C in filmmaking at some second-rate arts college. Remove its accreditation if she gets above an F in scriptwriting.

Postscript: Apparently the public agrees with me. This film earned less than $2 million in its American and European release. It has made costs thanks to video residuals, but let me urge you again to avoid it lest you inadvertently encourage Sofia Coppola to make another feature.

Carmageddon Hoax Shows Media at Its laziest

Did the “Carmageddon” story capture anyone else’s imagination? I don’t mean did you hear about it, I mean did it strike you as lame as it struck me? Forget for a moment that it was as big a nonevent as Y2K or the (non) end of the world on May 21. Allow me to introduce another element and label all three as examples of how pathetic “news” coverage has been in recent years.

Carmageddon was never a real thing; it was a media invention from the get-go. In the golden (pun intended) days of yellow journalism, media sources creating stories out of thin air at least had the good grace to bring their inventions to life. The most infamous version of this occurred when William Randolph Hearst sent Stephen Crane to Cuba in 1898 to report on the “war” for independence from Spain. Crane arrived in tranquil Havana and cabled Hearst to report there was no war. Hearst was alleged to have wired back, “You provide story. I’ll provide war.” Maybe that’s apocryphal, but few historians doubt Hearst’s role in providing the drums that war hawks subsequently beat.

I’m not advocating that reporters start wars, but I would like them to get off their lazy rear ends and report on matters that require investigation and research more grueling than a half hour on Google. Carmageddon was perfect for the current breed of smug and sardonic typists. (They do not warrant the titles “reporter” or “journalist.”) First invent a phenomenon. Hey that’s a story. Then report on the buildup to the invented event--a second story. When nothing comes of nothing, story three becomes the reaction to what didn’t happen. Pretty neat--three stories without ever having to stray from the blue light of the computer monitor and the deskside stash of Cheese Doodles.

Where are the new Bob Woodwards and Carl Bernsteins? If Watergate happened today, who would have the patience to investigate a story for nearly two years? Yeah, I know; Mother Jones, The Nation, and one or two others still do this sort of thing, but who (besides me) reads these? What impact do they have? The mainstream media has practically much abdicated investigative reporting. Celebrity and junk news is so much more glamorous and so much less work. If one must go out into the field, by all means be embedded with your sources. That way all you have to do is cut and paste rather than check out the veracity of what’s being spoon-fed.

So what goes uninvestigated unreported? Only serious stuff like who’s behind the drive to gut Social Security. Wouldn’t you like to know about the network that convinces Americans that it would be a disaster to make rich people pay taxes? Wouldn’t it be nice to pull a Watergate and “follow the money” to see how bankers, investors, and CEOs managed to jam the T.A.R.P. bill down our throats and take billions from our pockets? How about why Pakistan still gets any U.S. aid? Where is the ongoing analysis of America’s failed mission in Iraq? Or the faux reasons for getting us there? Where are the critical voices questioning the presumption of a rise in “democracy” in the Middle East? I could name dozens of other stories that beg for investigation, but we don’t get them because, “Oh my God! It’s Carmageddon.” You can pretty much guarantee that if Carmageddon or the end of the world does happen, you won’t read about it in the paper or see it on TV. It will probably get reported on an obscure blog like this one. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear a rumor.