Saturday March 31, 2007  by Naoki Inoue, Music Reviewer

“Love is an empty mantra, best spoken in dispassionate deadpan.”

-Electroclash

     Electroclash is a thronging dyscotopia, where our most prized social conceptions are recast as vapid nonsense. Power and reality come not from the gooey morality within, but from without: granting he or she who is least tethered to general thinking the greatest advantage. The populace scrambles for the largest piece of the nihilistic pie, only to realize they’ve lost their sense of taste. It’s a brutal, unceasing system of whatever.

     With a very Po-Mo scan of Chelsea Girls for a cover, and a title that might easily be replaced with the word “chorus,” Love Love Love Yeah is Rework’s most substantive contribution to a genre of vacancy.

     Using an inane drunk-girl sample about love and “cute boys” as a topical jump off, “Love Love Love Yeah” is seven plus minutes of a two note bass line and algorithmic patterning of the words: Love, Fuck, Moog, Cheap, Life, and Mute. Propped up by dedicated house beats and the occasional laser peal, the track creatively goes absolutely nowhere. Relying on neither the brash, or trashy tendencies generally associated with the “Clash” part of the genre, “Love Love Love Yeah” more closely resembles the hypnotic micro-tech of their Playhouse label mates.

     Not to be totally atypical, “Bus Driver” provides a head bouncing, anti-hero tale about a “beast” of an Arizona bus driver. With a swaggering synth-bass riff and sporadic, Casio chorus flourishes, “Bus Driver” demonstrates the Electroclash’s ability to meld acid-house dissonance with a recognizably song-like progression. Holding no small share in this achievement is Sascha Hedgehog’s brilliant vocal cadence. Flowing thoughtlessly between verse and chorus, (which at some moments seem indistinguishable) Sascha keeps the track from becoming mired in the repetition of its other elements.

     After the 24 second “Christiane,” “So Cold” steadily marches in and out, giving a shoulder worthy of its title. Unapologetic, Hedgehog declares herself “not so suitable, say,” and explains that  “you are here love is gone/ but I don’t care for another one.”  Perhaps the line most indicative EP’s mood, Love Love Love Yeah does just enough to develop your interest, and then revels in its ability to remain coyly detached.

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Friday March 30, 2007  by Allen Keene, Co-editor

     Two twelve-year-old girls attending Sakai Intermediate School on Bainbridge Island poisoned their teacher yesterday.  Kasey Jeffers, the previously mentioned teacher whose age is represented as x if y = the age of the assailants and x = 5y-2, had an allergic reaction when she drank from either a coffee mug or water glass, both of which had been slathered with strawberry lip gloss.  Apparently, Jeffers has such a severe allergy to strawberries that her classroom is an established “strawberry free zone.” 

     The two 6^th graders, who remain unnamed by Bainbridge police, carried out their dastardly plot in an alleged attempt to evade repercussions for failing to have their parents sign a progress report before being snitched on by their fellow, presumably well-adjusted, twelve-year-old classmates.  To their credit, the preteen conspirators did not intend to kill their teacher, only make her ill enough to forget about the said progress reports, since getting sick is a surefire way to escape all work-related responsibilities forever and ever. 

     In addition to appearing before a Kitsap County Juvenile Court today, the girls will be assigned an essay on the topic of how one deception begets another, a source close to the Kite has revealed.  Finally, if anyone out there knows what the girls’ progress reports had to say, please e-mail theseattlekite@gmail.com, because we’d really like to know.

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Tuesday March 27, 2007 by Layla Cioffi, cultural critic.

     Realism is real. It’s everywhere - and we love it. But why do we love realism? A couple of films in recent memory have provoked my consideration of this question: Borat and Children of Men. Both utilize conventions of realism in a way integral to their individual expressions, but in so doing they reveal two very different intents for those conventions demonstrating to us possible attitudes we can take in pursuing our desire for the “real.”

     Children of Men tells a very fantastic and epic story in the tradition of the retro science-fiction writers of the 70s and 80s, and in this regard is quite willing to be “unreal.” But the frequent emphasis on realistic elements seems to complement this imaginary project nicely. This is science-fiction in the extrapolated-historical sense and, in keeping with countless examples of the same sort, takes advantage of this context to make a statement about today. Tying the fantastic back to the real-ness of the now is crucial to giving this statement power.

Read on »

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Saturday March 24, 2007 by "Slap" Jackson, street contributor.

     As the quantity of Japanese anime in this country continues to spread faster than syphilis on Aurora Avenue, I submit for your approval the leader of the next big American teenage boy wack-off parade: Paprika.

     The animation sure looks stunning. But will it have compelling storytelling or just a pseudo mind-bending plotline taking us through a "metaphor-rich" rabbit hole that leads right back out onto the street where we find eleven less dollars in our pocket and a shit-eating grin on our face? In other words, will Paprika be Awesome...or Blossom?

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Tuesday March 20, 2007  by Allen Keene, Co-editor

     The National Academy of Sciences reported today that researchers funded by the National Institute of Health have genetically engineered malaria resistant mosquitoes.  The researchers, led by Jason Rasgon (of Johns Hopkins University department of molecular microbiology and immunology fame) found that while feeding on malaria stricken mice alongside their disease carrying cousins, the resistant strain of mosquitoes had a significantly higher survival rate.  By unleashing the two mosquito breeds in equal parts on a cadre of what would later be very itchy and delirious mice, Rasgon and his cohorts found that over nine generations of mosquitoes, the malaria resistant strain made up 70 percent of the population. 

     Such dominance is interesting considering that no strain of mosquito suffers any ill effects from malaria.  Under this consideration, we may be able to assume that in addition to immunizing the new breed of insect to malaria, Rasgon and company were able to transform the garden variety mosquito into a virtual juggernaut of the entomological world, with a will power of steel, wings of adamantium, and a nose sharper than mighty Poseidon’s trident. 

     How did Rasgon accomplish such a feat, and if he is so capable, why not create a super strain of humans, who could stave off malaria as easily as they would win a decathlon?  The answer, of course, lies in the murky cesspool of scientific ethics, and to be frank, I don't quite feel like reaching my hand in right now.  On the other hand, it could have something to do with the fact that Rasgon's mighty mosquitoes are only immune to the mouse form of malaria, not the human version, which, by the way, claims anywhere from 700,000 to 2.7 million lives annually, according to the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, GA. 

     Even after a strain of human-malaria resistant mosquitoes have been engineered, we'll have to wait for them to out-wit and out-survive all the other quadrillion mosquitoes in the world, including the mouse-malaria resistant ones, and I very much doubt that they'll go down without a fight.  In the meantime, those of us unfortunate enough to be stricken by the deadly disease will have to hope that by being bitten by an uber-mosquito, we will somehow absorb their super immunity and live to breathe another day.  Either that or I don't know a thing about science and all it entails, which, as it turns out, is a lot.

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Sunday March 18, 2007  by Allen Keene, Co-editor

     This morning I woke up, took a shower, brewed a pot of coffee and sat down in front of my computer, intent on writing a few hundred words on the Viaduct issue, which of late seems curiously stuck in Seattle’s craw like a blackberry seed in an old woman’s teeth.  Steaming mug of coffee in hand, a morning mix lined up on my I-tunes and a slue of viaduct information littering my desk, I suddenly reached an impasse.

     Am I going to write a news piece?  It doesn’t seem that way.  I don’t have any new or relevant information to offer.  I guess I’m not writing a news piece, then. 

     Does that mean I’m writing an opinions piece?  To do so would presuppose I have an opinion, and my thoughts on the matter could only loosely be associated with such a term.  Besides which, anyone who cares has already entrenched themselves on one side or the other, having long sifted through quotes from city councilmen, fluctuating financial figures, and time schedules so vague they seem down-right mythological. 

     So here’s the only new news worth relating: only 100,000 Seattle voters turned out to take sides on the tunnel/rebuild advisory ballot.  Of those 100,000, 55% rejected the option of an elevated rebuild, which at present Mayor Nichol’s office claims will (hypothetically) cost an estimated 2.8 billion dollars.  Furthermore, 70% of voters also rejected the 3.4 billion dollar tunnel option.  Of course these votes are purely advisory, and with both measures voted down, will likely not be considered by the Nichol’s camp.  Given that only a fraction of Seattle voters turned out, city legislators have even less impetus to believe that the majority of Seattleites give a damn what happens with the viaduct.

     And so I put it to you, Seattle: rather than ask which option you prefer—tunnel or rebuild—I merely ask, “who the f~*k cares about the viaduct?”

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Art for Sale: Is the Current Art Industry Sustaining or Destroying the Value of Art in American Culture?

Monday March 12, 2007 by Jamie Pater, Arts Columnist

     There are many realms where one can find a work of art.  Museums, public instillations, and some advertisements may be the first few that come to mind.  But what about private collections and corporate galleries?  As far as private collections go, you might not even think to add it to the list unless you have one yourself, and as for corporate galleries… well.

     Surely you know the ones I’m talking about.  You find them in malls and urban shopping centers.  They’re the ones that carry all the artists you see in the waiting room at your dentist’s office or the living room at you grandmother’s house.  The galleries who’s sales force is quick to tell you that every artist they sell is just their absolute favorite, and wouldn’t that look great over your mantle?  In the dining room?  The kitchen?  I’m sure it would be fabulous above your toilet!

     Try this: type the name Jurgen Gorg into a search engine and you’ll find two or three dozen sites for galleries of this breed, all with the same reworded biographical information.  I’m serious.  Try it.  You’ll wonder why no one bothered simply stating their own ideas about the artist.  In fact, I’ll save you the trouble: it’s because Jurgen Gorg’s publisher already said all there is to say.  Jurgen Gorg will never be in a text book, will never hang in the Tate or the Met.  The galleries who sell Jurgen Gorg are doing just that: selling him.  No one cares about his influences, the effect he’s had on the art world, or his position in the vast and all encompassing realm of art history.  They only care about how well he’ll sell.  He’s the Thomas Kinkade of Germany, and everyone knows it.  You and I may laugh, but don’t be too quick to judge.  Arrogance and taste in art can be a potent concoction.  But I digress.

     The real question is this: how is the industry of art affecting, and what does it have to say about, the state of art in America at large?

While the Thomas Kinkade tidal wave is thankfully receding, new corporate artists are quick to take its place.  From rising MTV generation stars like Michael Godard and Victoria Fuller to mainstays such as Howard Behrens and Leroy Niemann, the corporate art market is never short of new or old talent. 

     Perhaps the most damaging effect of the art industry is the ultimately narrow scope which it allows the lay art collector.  When a well-to-do buyer who doesn’t know his Bollo from his Bala enters a corporate art gallery, the range of material he may observe can be deceptive.  Seeing the topical extremes of Michael Parkes and Markus Pierson on one wall and the more traditional subject matter of Pino D’Angelico and Michel Delacroix on the other, the pitfall is to believe that every piece of work which could possibly bridge this apparent gap is available here.  In reality, though, the vast majority of corporate galleries only represent a fraction of artists with corporate representation, which in turn constitute an ever smaller percentage of artists who are trying to pay the bills with their work.  And even then, we are dismissing the artists who refuse the path of the limited edition lithograph and corporate endorsement to pursue a museum track or some other ‘high art’ avenue, abstracted from practicality in its goal of ‘successful art’ regardless of monetary reward. 

     Frankly speaking, to the majority of amateur collectors, ground breaking artists like Christian Marclay and Damien Hirst are completely unknown.  While these artists could draw millions at Sotheby’s and the attention of ArtNews’ top 200 collectors or be destined for academic immortalization, their names are completely lost on 95% of the art purchasing public.  The amateur collector will only commit to memory the artists whose names he can afford to hang on his wall, not the inside of his skull.

     Even for collectors who refuse the superficial allure of corporate art, there is a burgeoning sector of the art industry comprised primarily of self-represented subculture artists, many of whom are grouped under the ‘Pop Surrealism’ umbrella.  The name itself should indicate to even the most neophyte art critic a simple rehashing of theoretical ideas, now complete with a twenty-first century slant.  People like Mark Ryden and Marion Peck—while lacking the notoriety of a Thomas Kinkade—are quick to reproduce their own limited editions for public consumption through countless internet sites and trendier generation X galleries, such as L.A.’s snobbish Kantor Gallery. 

     Should we feel bad about buying art?  Certainly not.  Are we arrogant to do so?  Not at all.  It is my sincere belief that the true aim of art, at least from a cultural perspective, is to enlighten ignorant minds, broaden the narrow ones, and simply push the public to examine itself on every level.  Art for private purchase is merely a reminder of this aim, not to mention the personal enjoyment which it brings.  Art should be as readily available as a cup of coffee; that it is to say, on every street corner.  Certainly, what kind of culture would we have if all art was imprisoned in sterile, climate controlled museums, or put purely on public pedestals for the enjoyment of the proletariat throng, but not the individual?  (By the same token, what kind of culture do we have when the art we buy reflects not only or taste, but our lifestyle?  Can we display art in our home simply because we like it?  This idea itself is worthy of deep consideration.)

     With such varying tastes, however, we are left with a fractured industry, divided into a few distinct realms within which a collector can identify his or herself—to a degree of the collector’s choice—through the cluster of artists which any given realm of the industry represents.  While students and academic types relegate themselves to historic or outsider art, the every day citizen with a few thousand dollars to spend seemingly has any number of mass marketed options from which to choose.  Realistically speaking, in such an over extended culture only those artists with the ability to sell themselves, as well as the good fortune to be one of the chosen, will ever achieve any national notoriety.

     Simply put, the industry of art in present day America is merely reflective of our second stage capitalist society.  Volume in the art market has been expanding exponentially over the last half century so that now, even in a time of economic recession, the market must expand to include art with an appeal broader than has ever been known.  With so much disposable income in the hands of American citizens, why shouldn’t we perpetuate a competitive, sales-based industry around something as culturally significant as art?  There is nothing else we humans do that is as reflective of our nature as creating art, except perhaps profiting from it.

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Friday March 9, 2007  by Allen Keene, Co-editor

     G.I. Joe originated as a name for U.S. Infantrymen in WWII with the movie, The Story of G.I. Joe, (1945).  The first G.I. Joe action figure was an 11 ½” doll with 21 moving parts released in 1964.  Hasbro touts this figure as the first boys’ action figure in the world.  Although most of us know G.I. Joe as the real American hero, the line first expanded to Canada in 1967 to include a line of Mounties.  In 1969, well within the wake of the Vietnam War, Hasbro extended the G.I. Joe line to include all branches of the United States Military and to represent not only the action figures themselves, but what Hasbro.com calls an “entire product line.”  A year later, the G.I. Joe team enlarged to include four individualized characters dubbed “the Adventure Team.”  This team was not initially the center of the line; they were meant to “assist” the more generic figures of U.S. Servicemen.

     For the next four years Hasbro rode out the patriotic over-wash before capitalizing on the Kung Fu craze.  In 1974, some Joes acquired the legendary Kung Fu grip.  A year later, Hasbro had an even smarter idea and created the bionic warrior Atomic Man, the first Joe to sell over one million units in one year.  Hasbro took this success as a sign, and a year later released Eagle Eye (complete with movable eyes!) Bulletman (the first superhuman Joe) and a nemesis for the Adventure Team, the Space Race inspired “Intruders,” aliens from the nether reaches of the universe seeking Earth’s precious resources.  Ironically, G.I. Joe marketing took a three year hiatus in 1978 when high petroleum prices halted the production of the plastic needed to produce the action figures.  Before this disaster, though, Hasbro anticipated Reagan’s Star Wars programs in 1977 with Super Joe, who according to Hasbro was to be “sent into the world of space adventure to defend the universe in a new 8-inch size.”

     The 80s ushered in the era of G.I. Joe’s dominance over the boys’ toy market with many of the characters we all know and love, like Destro (1983) and Sgt. Slaughter, (1986) also the first real person to become a Joe.  (William “The Fridge” Perry of the Chicago Bears was the second in 1987, a year after the team won its one and only Super Bowl.)  The ‘80s also saw the beginnings of G.I. Joe’s licensing with Marvel Comics (1982) and the “Search for the Real American Heroes,” which toured across the country to reward and promote active and patriotic youngsters.  In 1991, the same year as the EPA’s massive Protection of the Environment Administration Act, G.I. Joe released the EcoWarriors to combat the spoilage of the natural world.  G.I. Joe continued its wholesome and propagandistic sales tactics in 1992 when it released a line of figures called the D.E.F., or Drug Elimination Force.  By 1993, 250 characters and 115 vehicles had been designed, licensed, and marketed.  The Mid-90s witnessed a massive expansion of all G.I. Joe lines, which went to ridiculous lengths with the Joe-ification of the French Foreign Legion, the British SAS, the Australian ODF, George Washington, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Colin Powell, and even Bob Hope, perhaps the most prolific USO showman ever.

     That said, it is interesting to note that Hasbro has prospered by aligning its flagship toy line with predominantly conservative and militaristic mandates, from the time of G.I. Joes conception, through the Vietnam War, Reagan’s Star Wars, and on up to Bush senior’s War of Drugs.  It’s quite easy, then, to be outraged at Hasbro and G.I. Joe.  I, for one, am conflicted.  Yes, G.I. Joe originated as the pro-war mouth piece of Hasbro Toys, and yes, G.I. Joe perpetuates the cultural paradigm of war as play among young males, but G.I. Joe is so cool!  Do you remember that episode of G.I. Joe The Series when Cobra challenges the Joes to a football game, and then brings in the “heavy artillery?”  Do you remember playing up the animosity between Snake Eyes, Stormshadow, Jinx, and Zartan?  Despite all the reactionary sales tactics and let’s-perpetuate-the-idea-of-the-other conformist propaganda….my God, what amazing fun.

As you may have well assumed, Allen Keene does have King Fu grip.

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