The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

Once again I come to my wombatly duties with little light left in my candle. In lieu of saying anything meaningful about, oh, let's see... the shame I feel for my country on a nearly hourly basis these days? I'll instead toss off a few squibs:

Frequent (and recent) quiz-dominator Scraps provides food for thought with this post about the concept of the "guilty pleasure." While I applaud the strength of conviction that springs from the Scrapsian breast, and even endorse his response to a certain degree, I'm not quite willing to toss this concept into that fabled, and jam-packed historical dustbin just yet. It is true that we may too-reflexively kowtow (and reflexive kowtowing is the worst kowtowing, being as it is so hard on the lumbar region) in the direction of Received Wisdom, i.e. Cool, when we categorize our enjoyment of (for example), a majestically overblown prog-rock epic (Yes's Close to the Edge, let's say) as a "guilty pleasure"; whereas our veneration of Fear of Music or Kind of Blue is given no such ridiculous modifier. The "guilt" in such formulations, sayeth Scraps, is a shameful self-abasement before the Altar of Hip, and as such should be spurned by strong-minded people.

I'll just note that (a) it's hard to counter-argue in music, and easier for me to counter-argue using film, television, or even books. There are narratives and spectacles which I experience as both (a) pleasurable at the time, and (b) disagreeable after consumption. These include the novels of Tom Clancy¹, various action movies (especially when seen on TV, for the seventh or eighth time), and ER. These entertainments, often involving enough, yield an immediate sense of torpor and ill-ease, not unlike that produced by having too much popcorn in one sitting, or drinking beer too early in the day. I feel guilty and crappy after having experienced them; but there is no less some pleasure attached. Hence, a guilty pleasure.

But I'm damned if I know what the musical equivalent would be. In that realm, I find it easier to agree: when I call something a guilty pleasure, I'm probably imagining that the other person doesn't find my taste refined enough, and am trying to hedge by anticipating their aesthetic condemnation by pre-supplying my own. I hope I no longer do it very often, and I hereby pledge to stop altogether if possible.

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Speaking of music, I was listening today to John and Beverly Martyn's album The Road to Ruin (which I picked up because I heard it playing in a record store, and was immediately taken with it; I've since learned a bit more about Martyn and understand it's not considered one of his best. Which suggest I should really investigate the others, because I like this one a lot), and I was struck again by one of the songs near the end of the record, "Say What You Can."

This song -- a somewhat energetic (on pretty mellow record), piano-driven number, has a sound I sometimes feel I hear in music of the 1970s, and usually not from much earlier or later (though perhaps there are a plenitude of examples I just don't know of or can't think of right now). I think of it as having affinities with glam, but more in some of the mood conveyed than in anything else; call it "Decadent Boogie." No artist I can think of exclusively specializes in this kind of stuff, but it seems almost like a vein or theme running through a lot of different peoples' songs. I think of piano, often some saxophone, in addition to the guitars 'n' drums that we think of as the standard for post-Beatles rock bands. And a sense of offbeat darkness, quietly informing what is by the 70's a not-bleeding-edge kind of sound. This is not the blooze of the Faces or the Stones, but something more sidelong and quirky. Some Warren Zevon, some early Kate Bush ("Saxophone Song" and "James and the Cold Gun" from The Kick Inside), parts of Hunky Dory and Transformer seem to fill the bill.

This is seeming more and more specious as I type it. Is it just some weird personal category I'm trying to define -- and therefore can't, since it's related to an inchoate emotional response I can't seem to articulate? Probably. But if not, would you let me know? Thanks.

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Finally, more in the chronicle of the Madness that Consumes Brooklyn. Look in -- and read the comments -- if you dare. It's a spectacle of 360-degree wrongheadedness of a kind that seems particularly prevalent in our neighborhood. But don't blame me if you're sucked into it. You'll read just one more missing-the-point comment. And another, and another. Like tortilla chips, these opinions are addictive, but instead of being fried, they're half-baked. A guilty pleasure? You bet.

¹Not so much anymore, really, but for a time in the early '90s Clancy was a definitely guilty pleasure of mine. Explaining my past fascination with Clancy would require not merely a separate essay, but a separate website. I'll note this much here: The Hunt for Red October, originally published by the Naval Institute Press, made its rounds in the naval officer community long before the author was widely famous, and I was handed it by my father. The part of me that loves descriptions of "how it works" was instantly hooked. I managed to retain my sense of fascination through Red Storm Rising, which brilliantly played out a (manifestly absurd, but wonderfully plotted) fantasy of World War Three with no nukes, and then -- with less keen interest -- Patriot Games, The Cardinal of the Kremlin, and so on. Eventually, the jingoism and homophobia rose to levels that could no longer be pretended out of consciousness, and I read Executive Orders with what can only be called Engrossed Revulsion.