Morning Phase is terrific. Thanks for making it! I enjoyed pirating it.
I debated doing this. I had heard the same, stern lecture from labels, the law and lack-wit fans who told of taking food off the table of artists who live off shekels they make playing notes for a living.
Then I saw This Is War, a documentary that’s supposed to be about the contract dispute between the Jared Ledo-led Thirty Seconds to Mars and EMI. But it really is a stunning examination of the record industry, which routinely signs artists who sell, literally, million of records and relinquishes, literally, not a cent to its artists.
More important than the latent corruption, however, were the larger x-ray results of a cell structure that’s become the music industry. They show an organism that has apparently grown an ass where its head should be. And vice versa.
Please find the enclosed check for $8. ITunes is charging $7.99, which seems awfully cheap. But if the largest company and the third-largest record label in America says that’s what it takes to turn a profit, who am I to question?
But I’ll send it to you, since you actually created the work. Feel free to divvy as you see fit between fellow musicians, back up singers, recording techs, crew — and of course, producers and labels. You may enjoy doing their math.
One, it forces you to grapple with life’s inequities and mysteries, to face the unseen-yet-apparent, to reveal how you view the world and, more importantly, how you’d right it.
Two, you never know.
Hence:
Bring back the following words, in the following context: “swell,” as in ‘That’s great,’ not as in ‘That’s enlarged;’ “sore,” as in ‘I’m sore at you,’ not, ‘I’m sore from you;’ “hoosegow” in place of jail — or anything. (it’s just a kick-ass word.)
Officially declare three a magic number.
Invent and make mandatory the front goddamned brake light: Why is it the only angle you can’t see whether a car is slowing down is when it’s coming straight at you?
Atheists: admit it’s a faith.
Faith: admit it’s a science.
Science: make pets outlive us.
Add the Prius to the list of douchebag cars, joining BMW’s, Range Rovers and the Hummer H3.
Ban seatbelt laws. Americans have the right to be stupid.
Change the national anthem to ‘America the Beautiful.’
Stop using “impact” as a verb; it’s not.
Adjust daylight savings time so regular people care: “jump back” at 6 a.m. on a workday and “jump forward” at 4 p.m. on a workday.
Redefine rich. If a) You can buy anything on a restaurant menu or b) You believed you could be anything as a kid; you’re rich.
For every demand that’s not met, a hostage gets it. Beginning with “impact.”
In the meantime, I claim the following words, just because I don’t want them prostituted by the vernacular
Technically, this story contains spoilers to a show some unfortunate souls have yet to see. If so, read no further. However, in this Twiteration, any plot point not revealed 30 minutes after a show airs constitutes less a ‘spoiler’ than an ‘archaeological find.’
First, a firm and earnest caveat: I am perhaps the planet’s most ardent fan of Breaking Bad, and it remains my favorite show of all time (though Mad Men, considering its subject matter, may be the greatest). So I realize this is blue meth heresy.
But the fifth and final season pales in comparison to the first four, and, however slightly, tarnishes the show’s legacy.
That’s not to say the fifth season wasn’t awash in genius. Todd and “Ozymandias” should take their rightful place as two brilliant offspring of their (crystal) Glass parents. “Ozymandias” may be the most tense, melancholy and heartbreaking 42 minutes of television.
But consider the first four seasons as a whole: It was unique in that it a) Turned middle class rage inside out and b) Paid attention to the grisly, pesky details of death.
Walt was the ultimate nerd anti-hero. And who was the show’s greatest villain? Fast food manager Gus. Our relatable hero? Jesse, a skinny junkie who sucks at math. It took three episodes (its first shows) to dispose of two bodies, blasphemy for a crime drama.
And remember: Vince Gilligan and writers weren’t sure whether the show would be picked up for a fifth season, so he wrote the fourth-season finale, “Face Off,” as a prospective show-ender.
And what an ending it was! Never has a book seen a more elaborate final chapter. Walt, ever the chemist, luring Gus into one more bump from the one dope he could not resist: vengeance. Gus and Tio’s final, wordless exchange. That Walt simply provided users the tools of their destruction (much like his meth to junkies) proved a perfect, explosive finish, as did the upbeat-yet-bittersweet postscript of the poisonous depths Walt was willing to plumb.
But overdue popularity made a fifth season (and its drawn-out cash-in over two years) inevitable.
And let’s be honest: The fifth season didn’t match the previous in subtle decadence.
For one, the fifth season finale is terribly derivative of the fourth: Jesse, imprisoned in a lab, forced to cook for evil dealers while an armed Walt with uncertain motives arrives for the showdown.
The fifth-season nemeses, as well, lacked that unexpected villainy. Aside from Todd and Lydia, our evil-doers are white supremacists with prison records and swastikas tattooed on their necks. Not hard to hate — or spot, in a run-of-the-mill crime story. Our fifth season cliffhanger is a dying killer on the lam with nothing left to lose. It can turn out only one way.
And to have Walt’s cancer return was a misstep. It made his death a certainty and his life a waste. Walt needed to die from the life he’d chosen (even if it’s by Jesse’s or Skyler’s hand), not from the genes he inherited. His dramatic turn on Jesse, from protector to predator, strayed the what were always the show’s true addictions: Jesse’s need for a father fix; Walt’s high from dealing it.
Of course, this is to critique a Monet. That the show invited such fine-toothing, debate and dispute is to testify to its greatness.
And yes, I still know your name. You’re that high school chemistry teacher. The one with the doting-but-watchful pregnant wife and the high school son with Cerebral palsy that you’re desperately trying to still impress.
