Extra! Extra! The Socialist Is Online!

After much ado, the complete September-October issue of “The Socialist” is finally available online.

The United States Postal Service has apparently revamped its bulk mail
rules which has resulted in an extremely disappointing delay in this
issue getting our readers’ hands all ink-stained and sloppy.

When this issue went to press, back in late August, articles like B.
Guise’s expose of Bush’s ExxonMobil connection and Barbara Garson’s
skewering of Paul Wolfowitz were poppin fresh and relevant. Now they’re
merely relevant. Sadly, David McReynolds’ “troops out now” article could probably be published verbatim two years from now and still be fresh.

In any event, please check out the new issue, and consider subscribing. Thank you for your support.

Sell Out!

I miss the days of “selling out” in rock and roll. It’s hard to fathom the purist fury that fans once generated over “plugging in” or signing to a major label. These days, not only does the clearest act of selling out – licensing music for teevee commercials and even performing in such commercials – not generate controversy, it is rewarded by higher sales!

The once-underground techno star Moby became famous by licensing all of the songs off of his 1999 album, “Play,” for use in movies and commercials. For many, it was their first exposure to his music, and it led to more radio airplay and huge record sales. Established “catalog” artists discovered that this strategy could work for them as well. An old Who album cut, “Bargain,” has become a classic rock radio staple after being used in some car commercial. New Who “best of” collections had to be assembled to include the track, which sold like gangbusters.

What’s worse is that some stars are appearing in these ads. As a fan, I want to go to concerts and see rock stars, not ladies’ lingerie salesmen. Yes, fine, my objection is partially some kind of hipster elitism about what is cool. So shoot me. It’s also based in my commie revulsion of crass commercialism. But, while many artists may not have once shared my objection to such commercialism, and thus can’t be argued to have sold out any of their own principles, they are still selling out something precious by licensing their back pages.

“People lost their virginity to this music, got high for the first time to this music,” says former Doors drummer John Densmore. “That’s not for rent.” That’s well said, even if his refusal to allow Doors songs to be licensed in commercials is a high-minded cover for his longtime estrangement from his former bandmates.

Still, Densmore is passing up a $15 million payday for sticking to his guns. That kind of money is something of an aberration, I’d wager. My friend, Alan Amalgamated (himself a rock drummer, who spent years in the industry), predicts that one day corporations will make artists pay for the privilege of having their music promoted in these ads. Already, with so many artists willing to sell out, I’m sure the market price of one’s soul has dropped considerably. $15 million for a famous rock song like “Break On Through,” which is not yet associated with any corporate product is kinda understandable. But what about a song like “Lust for Life.” That bugger’s been used for everything. What corporation is going to pay the big bucks for someone else’s sloppy seconds?

The problem for many of the artists is that they get robbed left and right, by producers, managers, directors, A&R men and many more. It is not uncommon for rockers who are made “millionaires” by their major label record contracts to wind up “thousandaires” once the final accounts are settled.

Recording artists desperately need some sort of collective action to balance the power at the major labels. Fans should engage in some kind of boycott themselves. I would say, don’t buy any song that’s used in a corporate advertisement. Don’t encourage this lousy system. If you like what you hear, and don’t already own it on scratchy, dusty vinyl, then, by all means, illegally download.

Even better, throw your teevee out the window, like I did years ago. You won’t even know who’s selling out anymore, and you’ll have more times to simply listen to the music.

More Turkeys

I got a check for $400 from Mike Bloomberg yesterday. He’s so thoughtful! It came right in the nick of time, too: all those start of the month bills were piling up. What timing.

What timing, indeed. The general election is one month away, and it’s not like that good-for-nothing Freedy Ferrer can afford to cut a check that fat for every voter. However, unlike last year’s property tax rebate, this check wasn’t signed by the Mayor. City ethics rules prevent a candidate’s name from appearing in a high profile city-funded mailing such as this within 90 days of the election.

It’s a nice nod to ethics, but how are the last 90 days supposed to counter-balance an entire term spent plastering the incumbent’s name and face all over government funded mailings, tv ads and billboards? All politicians do this. George Pataki can be heard extolling the beauty of New York in tourism ads, and crowing about health care for tots in PSA’s. In the town of Hempstead (where, yes, I have been spending an awful lot of time), the blasted name Kate Murray is ubiquitous. Her ads are everywhere. Her name appears on every town building, van, pamphlet – you name it. Seniors, got a problem? Call Kate Murray’s senior hotline.

The spoils of office have been exploited since the earliest days of cities and party politics. Tammany Hall hacks famously gave out free turkeys at Thanksgiving to maintain the loyal votes of the poor. So why mask it with this veneer of fairness in the very late days of the election campaign? Just put the mayor’s name and face at the top of the ballot, along with a special message from him saying “these elections are the city’s way of thanking you for keeping New York City strong during difficult times.”

Alternatively, we can ban elected officials from appearing in taxpayer financed advertisements and mailings. In fact, let’s ban anyone with a remote chance of running for office from appearing in these materials. I nominate convicted felons and undocumented immigrants to be the city’s new spokespeople. If this is too controversial, perhaps we could arrange for an anthropomorphic cartoon puppy, or perhaps a reanimated dead celebrity?

Happy New Year

I was standing outside a “seaside resort” in Long Beach this morning. I don’t believe that it’s actually a resort anymore; just a home for seniors. And so I stood outside in the early morning hours, doing what I do.

A nice old lady came out and proceeded to the red bus stop bench in front, but stopped when she large puddles of heavy morning condensation all over the bench. “I have a rag in my car,” I offered. “I can wipe it down.” She let out this strange, excited yelp. “Ooh. You would do that for me? That’s so nice. Only in Long Beach!” I’d like to think that this sort of thing happens in Queens and Brooklyn, too. I wiped down the bench and we both took a seat.

“My daughter is coming to pick me up,” she explained, excitedly. “It’s a very special Jewish holiday. Rosh Hashanah. Tonight and tomorrow night.” She paused, then continued to explain, “It’s the New Year.”

“Oh, right,” I replied, and smiled. It did seem awfully quiet in Long Beach. Lots of folks must have been visiting family.

As if on cue, a gold minivan pulled up, and its automatic door slid open. The old woman beamed a bright smile, jumped up and rushed to the car, which had stopped in a large puddle. “Bobbie,” she cried out to her daughter, “you’re right in the dirty water. Could you back up?” Silently, the door slid closed, the car backed up five feet and the door opened again.

The woman began to climb into the back seat, and let out that same strange yelp when she saw her grandkids. “You don’t have to yell,” lectured her daughter in very cold, clipped speech. “We can hear you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still happy and loud. “It’s just seeing them…They’re so much bigger than the pictures!” The grandkids, at least, seemed to share her excitement, and breathlessly told their grandma all about school and friends and games and such.

The daughter, behind the wheel, wouldn’t allow her classic snit to be interrupted by the happy family reunion. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pick you up at this hour? I’ve started a new job. I have responsibilities. I have to be on time.” Her speech thunders like a mother and pouts like a child. I was embarrassed to overhear it.

“You have a job?,” her mother mousily responded. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you know,” the daughter spat back, icily.

Happy New Year.