Week 14: Starr&Waterman, Ch. 14

Though in Chapter 14, Starr and Waterman focus primarily on a discussion of hip-hop, gangsta rap, and “alternative” music, one small portion of text that stood out to me was actually that which dealt with techno. Maybe this could be attributed to the fact that I’ve just never been a big follower of gangsta rap and therefore read Starr and Waterman’s words with, sadly, a slight sense of confusion, recognizing only their references to hits like “Rapper’s Delight” or “Walk This Way.” Or maybe just chalk it up to the fact that my techno-worshipping roommate has gotten me interested in the genre in the last three years. Either way, the discussion resonated with me and I found myself realizing and actively thinking about the truths of techno culture, what it entails. For instance, Starr and Waterman write that “techno is the musical dimension of a whole youth culture…focused on DJ/producers…operating their equipment in the dark behind a web of wiring” (428). Immediately, one can see both the similarities and differences between techno and hip-hop:

Hip-hop and techno both provide a means of escape for their listeners, whether it is by participating in counterculture activities like b-boying and tagging, or taking illegal drugs like Ecstasy at underground raves, respectively. Through these two musical (and lifestyle) forms, people can simultaneously express themselves and seek out refuge. Whether it is a teenager from an urban community creating an identity for him/herself through hip-hop or a USC undergrad simply getting high at a DANCEiSM highlighter party, the similarity lies in both individuals’ need to break free, to find a niche where they possess the freedom to do what they want and how they want it, finding out more about themselves through the process.

Like hip-hop, techno is also unique in the way that it utilizes new digital technologies. Starr and Waterman note that, “Rather than creating a cold, disembodied form of self-expression—as many critics of the new technologies had feared—digital technology in pop music has often been used to create communal experiences on the dance floor” (419). Through techniques like digital sampling and tape recording, techno and hip-hop artists were able to share their work with others, creating a space for themselves and their peers to express themselves, connect with others in the community, and mix various genres and influences into one entity.

On the other hand, one difference between hip-hop and techno concerns the issue of artist anonymity. Though both hip-hop and techno place a focus on DJs/producers/emcees, the dissimilarity lies in the fact that “unlike disco and hip-hop DJs, [techno DJs/producers] often attempt to remain anonymous, operating their equipment in the dark behind a web of wiring” (428). In hip-hop as well as in gangsta rap, the public image and expression of the DJ/rapper is paramount. By creating a public image and expressing themselves in front of the masses, hip-hop and gangsta rap artists are able to do what is so important: get their voices, and that of their communities, heard. Techno culture, meanwhile, relies on the ability of its DJs/producers to stay hidden, their identities most often unknown to their audiences. Instead, the focus shifts from individual identity to the music, the dance, the culture, and the emotions. Individual identity is sacrificed (or perhaps preserved?) so that a sense of community, equality and togetherness can result.

Finally, as two forms of dance music, techno and hip-hop are also both difficult to define, seeing as how they are not only genres of music but cultures. When I think of techno, I think of random DJs that have created a couple mixes here or there that have become popular, Gigi D’Agostino, Basshunter, and mainly, Daft Punk. Though their Wikipedia entry simply defines them as “an electronic music duo,” Daft Punk seems to fit perfectly the definition of techno groups that disguise themselves under “operate their equipment in the dark behind a web of wiring” (428). Known not as individual personalities with actual faces and features, Daft Punk is comprised of two members that are recognizable only when they don their usual futuristic, reflective helmets and jumpsuits. This sense of mystery and detachment on the part of the artists allows their fans to revel in the sounds, to own the music and feel like it is a part of themselves instead of something simply presented to them, as demonstrated in their performance of their hit, “Harder Better Faster Stronger” from their Alive 2007 album.

Week 11: Remembering Selena, Re-Membering Latinidad

I remember watching Selena on VHS in my childhood. I remember watching it again numerous times in various classes in school and on VH1 on the weekends. I remember asking my mom to buy a cassette tape of the film’s soundtrack and thinking Jennifer Lopez looked so pretty on the cover art. I also remember going home that day and immediately playing the music for hours on end, repeating favorite songs like “Dreaming of You” and “I Could Fall In Love” over and over until I knew the lyrics by heart.

Back then, I didn’t really have any notions or opinions about Selena other than that she was just a pretty singer with a Mexican background who happened to have some insanely catchy songs in English that I could sing along to. And even though growing up meant re-watching Selena with a keener eye and greater comprehension, I still didn’t really gain a full grasp of just how important she was, how much her music and identity made an impact on culture and its framework. So in reading Paredez’s article, I found myself developing a much better understanding of Selena’s life and legacy, especially in regards to Mexican-American identity. For instance, Paredez brings up the idea that Gregory Nava’s “evocation of Selena emerges as a way to (re)position discursively Latina/os within the borders of the nation” and “to re-configure traditional notions of American identity” (p. 73). In the span of a few years, Selena managed not only to make a name for herself in the male-dominated realm of Tejano music, but she also provided a safe space for Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, especially those who were young and female, to create an identity and place for themselves in American culture. Selena was a pioneer, merging two cultures and traditions to help herself and others like her gain a better sense of self and belonging.

Reading and thinking about Selena, I also couldn’t help but draw comparisons in my mind between her and another popular female artist who died too young: Aaliyah. Deemed the “Queen of Tejano music,” Selena accomplished more in her 23 years than most have in their lifetimes. The same can be said for Aaliyah, hailed as the “Princess of R&B”  despite her death at 22. Both women were on unstoppable rises to fame and attention as young musical powerhouses, yet their untimely deaths cemented their star status in a much different way. Had their lives not been so tragically cut short, I wonder if they would still have experienced the same kind of attention, scrutiny or glorification. Regardless, though, their memories live on, inspiring generations to—as cliche as it sounds—to follow their dreams, persevere, and be true to themselves.

Week 8: BeneathTheUnderdog

Reading Mingus’ autobiography was, right off the bat, essentially confusing for me. Though he immediately states on the first page of the very first chapter that he is made up of three “real” selves, “the man who watches and waits, the man who attacks because he’s afraid, and the man who wants to trust and love but retreats each time he finds himself betrayed,” it still frustrated me that I did not sense a real grasp of what this meant or what was going on right away as I normally do with novels (p. 3). It was not until after reading a few more subsequent chapters that I began to see that Mingus’ stream-of-consciousness style of writing was not only rather appropriate for his discussions of his past, but that it was also a way for him to figure out his present identity. After all, he says, “What do I care what the world sees, I’m only trying to find out how I should feel about myself” (p. 3).

While I certainly cannot imagine what life must have been like for Mingus as a multiracial individual during the racially tense atmosphere of the mid-twentieth century, where there seemed to be no other person with “skin color exactly like his” and where “nobody accepted him, [hair] kinks or no,” I am in awe of his struggle for identity in the face of such adversity and isolation (p. 65), especially through his music. Mingus’s autobiography—albeit graphic, raw, and disturbing at times—is a prime example of the strength of the individual, his art, and his art’s ability to transcend the times in which he lives. Mingus paints this picture best in one of his closing statements: “My music is evidence of my soul’s will to live beyond my sperm’s grave, my metathesis or eternal soul’s new encasement” (p. 343).

excuse the poor grammar but…

don’t you just hate it when an awesome, lesser-known song you’ve been listening to for months suddenly becomes mainstream and overplayed and people keep asking you if you’ve heard it yet?