Holy Shit, Viktor Tsoi!

On August 15th, 1990, a man in Latvia died in a car accident after falling asleep at the wheel. Within hours, the story was all over the Russian media, and a message was spraypainted onto a Moscow wall in all black that simply read, "Viktor Tsoi died today." Soon after, a separate message appeared, insisting, "Tsoi Lives!" The second message became something of a rallying cry for the Soviet and post-Soviet rock scene in Eastern Europe. Because Viktor Tsoi and his band, Kino, were the most important musical pioneers in Soviet history.

Kino rose to fame at a time when it was suddenly possible to criticize the communist regime in the USSR. In the 1980s, Glasnost and Perestroika became a thing and censorship started to wane. Kino was at the forefront of the new wave of artistic freedom. They took their inspiration from Western bands like The Smiths, R.E.M., and The Cure. At the height of their popularity, they released an album called Gruppa Krovi, or "Blood Type." The title track goes like this:

The chorus roughly means, "My blood type is pinned on my sleeve, and my number and rank. Wish me luck in the battles to come. Wish for me not to lay dead in the grass. Wish me luck in the battle." It's a protest song about the war in Afghanistan.

The one where America was rooting for the Islamists

The band was just reaching its full potential when Viktor Tsoi died in the aforementioned car accident. Kino was in the midst of recording their highly anticipated eighth album. In fact, Tsoi was carrying a tape with him in the car that was the only copy of the recording of his vocal tracks for said album.

The crash was horrific. His car smashed into a bus and was all but disintegrated, and he died instantly. The tape not only survived, but it was entirely undamaged. Four months later, the album was released. Its cover was a mournful black with its title (KINO) in small white letters at the center. The name was quickly disregarded by fans, who dubbed it "The Black Album."

Where'd they get that idea?

The wall where "Tsoi Lives!" was written became a major cultural landmark in Moscow, and the phrase itself was repeated as something of a meme throughout Western Europe. It meat defiance in the face of grief. Rebellion in the face of loss. It was the new Russia. Or at least what the new Russia was supposed to be.

It's still there, too.

Holy shit.

"Victor Tsoi 1986 cropped" by Victor_Tsoi_1986.jpg: Igor Mukhinderivative work: Beaumain (talk) - Victor_Tsoi_1986.jpg. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons

"Mortar attack on Shigal Tarna garrison, Kunar Province, 87" by Erwin Lux - Private collection; apparently a crop of this image at Flickr. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons

"Кино, Черный альбом (Kino, Chyorny album) (1990)" by группа Кино - Чёрный альбом. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

"Tsoi Wall 02" by Superchilum - Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Holy Shit, Shanties!

Have you ever seen a wild goose sailing on the ocean?

Who hasn't these days?

If you answered "Ranzo, Ranzo Ray," (or some variation) you're probably very much familiar with sea shanties. Because that is one. And you're weird.

Sea shanties emerged around the 19th Century as a specific type of work song (though some theorize this was when they were revived from obscurity, not born). They were chiefly an English language phenomenon inspired in large part by African work songs. Just let that sink in for a second, considering the nature of the relationship between Europeans and Africans back then.

Oh, right. The travesties.

They existed because work on a sailing ship is difficult, laborious, repetitive, and requires a high degree of coordination. For example, to set sail on a square-rigged ship, you first need to hoist the yards. That requires a number of people pulling on ropes and pulleys in unison. All it takes is one or two people pulling at the wrong time to get the whole thing out of whack, which could delay departure or even endanger the crew.

Not like it's confusing to have the same word mean a measurement, field, and part of a sail.

The traditional solution would be to have someone count out, "One, two, three," and have everyone haul on three. That worked well enough, but it was no fun. A better way, certain enterprising sailors decided, was to have a sort of foreman/lead singer, the shantyman, sing out a line or two and have everyone else sing the chorus. For example, when hoisting the yard, the song would go:

Shantyman: Our boots and shoes are all in pawn
Crew: Go down, you blood red roses, go down
Shantyman: Its flaming drafty 'round Cape Horn
Crew: Go down, you blood red roses, go down

On every "Go down," the crew would haul in unison. For a great example of this exact situation, watch the 1956 film Moby Dick. If you're the impatient type, just watch the part below. If you're especially impatient, just go straight to the 1:04 mark. As a bonus, you get "Heave Away Me Johnny" right afterward.

All the classic shanties were associated with certain types of work. "Drunken Sailor," the one you definitely know, was for continuous hauling work. Songs with longer verses would be used for raising the anchor, which involved circling around the capstan over and over to wind the rope. Some songs had extremely specific meanings.

"Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her" was a pump shanty used for the last pump of a voyage -- thus, "Now those pumps are all pumped dry and it's time for us to leave her" means the water is all pumped back into the sea, and the sailors are free to disembark. There's a terrific note of ironic nostalgia in that one. It's about a voyage where everything was as bad as it can be on a sailing ship, but the minor key suggests that everyone is still sad to leave the awful ship behind.

Music can make any ship the Millennium Falcon

Well, the shanties may actually have something to do with that. Recent studies suggest that singing in unison with a group of other people actually makes everyone's hearts literally beat in unison. That sort of connection can't not be powerful, and it may help to explain the cohesiveness of a sailing crew and the pervasiveness of work songs throughout history. That's pure speculation, but it's not that far of a leap.

But that brings us to a problem. Where are our work songs today? When we do menial tasks with other people, we sit in relative silence. We chat sometimes. We even listen to music. But we don't have that quasi-mystical connection that songs can provide. Veteran sailors bemoaned the loss of the sea shanty with the rise of the steam engine, but what if it goes deeper than that? What if we're losing something critical to our innate understanding of the human condition by segregating music from everyday life?

I, for one, will be busy learning all the call-and-response work songs I can manage from now on. When my kids get to an age where putting them to work is reasonable (I'm thinking six months or so), they'll be singing bawdy songs all the while. According to science, that will bring us closer together.

DAD, WE DON'T EVEN HAVE A HALYARD.

Holy shit.

Holy Shit, Hook!

I'm gonna disappoint some of you loyal readers when you learn that I'm not referring to one of the best adventure movies to come out of the early nineties. Instead, I'm here to tell you about a song that came out three years later. The song that called us all idiots to our face, and we sat here bobbing our heads and proving Blues Traveler's point.

It was this movie. And if you disagree you can shut your mouth, Philistine.

"Hook" ripped its chord structure directly from Pachelbel's Canon in D. That's the song you hear at weddings that might as well be called "Here Comes Everyone Who is Not the Bride." The progression is eerily powerful as an earworm. It's a song that will inevitably described as either Good or Catchy by anyone who hears it, even if they don't like it.

That's why it was chosen. Not in a nefarious way or even out of capitalistic self-interest...sort of. It was an artistic choice in the same way the title "Hook" was. As were the lyrics, which you probably don't remember even seconds after you belt them at the top of your lungs. They're surreptitious and overt all at once.

Like Bryan Cranston disguising himself as Heisenberg

You see, "Hook" is a song about how easy it is to manipulate people into enjoying trite, simplistic, boring music. The only thing original about it is its self-awareness. If you don't believe me, just check out some of the lyrics:

It doesn’t matter what I say
So long as I sing with inflection
That makes you feel that I’ll convey
Some inner truth of vast reflection

But I’ve said nothing so far
And I can keep it up for as long as it takes
And it don’t matter who you are
If I’m doing my job then it’s your resolve that breaks

Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can rely

The hook John Popper is referring to is the musical concept of a riff that catches your ear and makes you stick around to hear the rest of the song. It worked, too. "Hook" peaked at 23 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. It got there by telling its audience that they were going to be taken in by the composition of the song and convinced that it said something meaningful even though it didn't.

And we obliged. Which actually kind of makes it an interesting song. Hell, check out the video:

If you can get past the incredibly '90s hair and tucked in t-shirts (and the realization that Paul Schaffer was in Blues Traveler), you'll see a perfect companion piece to the song. It's a guy watching television and being taken in by contestants in a beauty pageant and a Citizen Kane-esque politician, all of whom are literally telling him that he's only listening because of the way their words are presented, not what they're actually saying.

And the more you listen to the rapid-fire third verse, the more you understand that it's just John Popper saying, "This is really low and valueless as art, but hell, it'll make me some money."

Holy shit.

Holy Shit, Yoko Ono!

Remember The Beatles? They were this band back in the day. They had one or two songs that topped the charts. Or twenty-seven. They were a pretty big deal. Why'd they break up again?

I went ahead and answered for you.

Yoko Ono, you say? Well, you're only kind of right. She was part of it, but I wouldn't say she wanted to be. Sure, she followed John Lennon around everywhere he went. She even went to band practices with him, an unprecedented breach of Beatles policy. That was crossing the Rubicon. But do we blame Vercingetorix for Caesar's actions?

Look it up. History is important.

Of course we don't. And don't worry about not knowing who Vercingetorix is. The important thing to know is that John Lennon was an asshole, and both Yoko Ono and The Beatles were victims of the circumstances.

Now, I'm not going to say John Lennon was the only reason the band broke up. They were growing apart creatively, and they all started wanting different things for their careers. The group had an expiration date, and given how much strain fame places on relationships such as theirs, it's a miracle they lasted as long as they did.

But people blame Yoko Ono, and that doesn't really sit well with me. Because Yoko Ono didn't want to cross the Rubicon and sit in on band practice. She wanted to stick with her own avant-garde and admittedly kind of weird brand of performance and art. But John Lennon wouldn't let her.

The handcuffs are probably under the sheets. And not in the fun way.

Evidence came about in the last few years that Yoko Ono didn't follow John Lennon around everywhere, he practically dragged her around on a leash because his jealousy came dangerously close to psychotic levels. She was there, but not by choice. She was Vercingetorix in chains, awaiting Caesar's Triumph. I'll steer clear of that metaphor in the future, I swear.

My point is, just because John Lennon asked everyone to give peace a chance doesn't necessarily mean he practiced it at home. And when you really pay attention, doesn't "I used to be cruel to my woman. I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved. Man, I was mean, but I'm changing my scene and I'm doing the best that I can" kind of sound like something a Lifetime Movie villain would say?

I want to sincerely apologize to fans of The Beatles, but it has to be said. John Lennon was a Lifetime Movie villain, and Yoko Ono was maybe not so bad after all.

Holy shit.

Holy Shit, Brown Sugar!

Continuing on the earlier rock star theme, I'd like to address a song this week. A Rolling Stones song, and a popular one, to boot. Brown Sugar. It's not what anyone would call innocuous, and it's pretty clear to anyone who pays rudimentary attention to the chorus that it's a racy kind of anthem. But it's more than that. So much more.

Come to think of it, nothing about this man is innocuous

When Mick Jagger wrote Brown Sugar, he was in the midst of a secret affair with fellow singer Marsha Hunt. Predictably, the song was written partially about her. The raciness that most people pick up on when casually listening tends to be the part where it refers to an interracial relationship.

Yes, that is Marsha Hunt. No, I'm not giving you a better picture.

But wait, there's more! When Mick Jagger decided to go taboo with a song, he went over the moon taboo. The song is about an interracial relationship, but the first verse is about a "relationship" in the very loosest definition of the term. In this case, one party's ownership of the other adds a very interesting dynamic to the situation.

Yup. We're going there.

Because yeah, Brown Sugar is totally about a slave owner raping his possibly underage newly acquired slave. And I'm not joking at all. Just listen to the first verse of the song.

Gold Coast slave ship bound for cotton fields,
Sold in a market down in New Orleans.
Scarred old slaver know he's doing alright.
Hear him whip the women just around midnight.
Brown sugar, how come you taste so good?
Brown sugar, just like a young girl should

So that happened.

That's the first verse. He just jumped right in with the slave rape, and that's the part that really baffles me. I know this song, and I've known it since I was a child. I saw it in a commercial long ago. I listened to it with my parents. I never had even a passing suspicion that Brown Sugar was about anything but poking fun at taboos and rocking pretty hard.

There's no greater testament to the caliber of song The Rolling Stones had on their hands with this one. They made a song so compelling, a hook so powerful, that they could rub the audience's faces in underage slave rape and none would be the wiser.

Holy shit.

Holy Shit, Van Halen!

There are people who take fame in stride with grace and humility. Then there were the rock stars of the '70s and '80s, who evidently took fame as free license to take a figurative shit on anyone they met. The rock star prima donna is one of the most enduring archetypes of the 20th Century, and it's almost for good reason.

Almost.

If we're going to address rock star douchebaggery, we can't very well ignore Van Halen and their bowl of M&Ms. The band had a standard contract that they would send to all of the venues they planned to play. One of the riders stated in no uncertain detail that the backstage area must have a bowl of M&Ms, and every brown piece must be removed.

That's probably not even the album name. They're just that full of themselves.

If these demands were not met, the band had a legal right (one they always exercised) to force the venue to redo the entire setup process. What a bunch of assholes, right?

Ha ha, NOPE!

As it turns out, the whole brown M&M legend was both real and a legitimately good idea. Van Halen's live shows were filled to the brim with technical equipment, and things could go farther south than the Falklands if their instructions weren't followed to the letter. Sometimes it's hard to tell if your equipment is properly serviced and set up, and when that happens -- or rather, when that happened -- stuff broke, and their roadies got electrocuted.

There, but for the grace of a candy shell, go I.

So they came up with the brown M&M rule. If the bowl was there and the brown M&Ms were removed, the band and crew could rest easy knowing that everything was set up properly. If anything was even slightly amiss with their backstage refreshments, on the other hand, they could call out their hosts. They earned themselves a reputation for snobbery, but it's fair to say they also earned their loyal crew a night of not dying in a freak accident.

The thin brown line

In the world of rock and roll, brown M&Ms (or more accurately, a lack thereof) saved lives.

Holy shit.