As I was surveying the news in the wake of Katrina, a story about Wal-Mart's supposed "generosity and quick response" set off my skeptic-ometer. So in the interest of ongoing Wal-Mart reality checks, I felt I should tackle it. I found today, though, that someone had beaten me to it. Read this take by Stephen Elliott.

What it comes down to for me is that, when looked at objectively, the reposnse by Wal-Mart is precisely the minimum of what could be expected of them. With their extensive presence in the storm-impacted areas and the already-lousy state of their public image, they could really do no less than give money and supplies very quickly. Anything less would have been a PR disaster for them, and make no mistake, that is their primary concern here.

Why do I say that? Why, the common corporation-supporting partisan Republican might ask, do I have to badmouth good deeds? Because my definition of good has a higher bar than what Wal-Mart's doing. Would we give unquestioning praise to a bank robber who gave a small percentage of his take to charity? Of course not. It's really no different with Wal-Mart. They've long been active participants in perpetuating the cycle of poverty which has crippled many communities and residents of the storm-affected areas and all around the country. They've forced tax exemptions on small communities and added thousands to state-supported health care through poor wages and benefits, weakening local economies. The result is communities whose people are less able to take care of themselves and whose local governments have fewer funds available for things that would reduce the effect of natural disasters.

So I don't give Wal-Mart one iota of respect or admiration for donating less to this relief effort than what they pay their CEO. The roughly $20 million dollars that Wal-Mart has given in money and products is .008% of their sales in 2003. Hell, I'm just one average guy and I've given more than ten times that percentage of my gross income to the Humane Society and ASPCA alone.

For more information on the reality behind Wal-Mart's fraudulent PR, see these stories:

The Wal-Mart you don't know
Jim Hightower on why you should boycott Wal-Mart
Labor's analysis of Wal-Mart
Quick facts about Wal-Mart's discrimination against women

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've been listening to essentially nothing but King Crimson for weeks now, progressing slowly through their 1973-74 lineup and skipping randomly to earlier and later works (well, I've mixed in a few other things--a pinch of Curtis Mayfield, a little Sigur Ros, a bit of Stars). As I've been enjoying it I've also been picking through it intellectually, pondering its complexity and the way it strains against formula, and also thinking about why it's appealing so much to me now.

The other day I made a connection that helped shed some light on that. I remembered a gig with local flamenco band Los Desterrados I sat in on a couple months ago, a loose session which contained one of my favorite musical-performance moments in ages. In thinking on it, I realized that this performance held a sort of key that has been subtly unlocking me ever since.

What happened at this particular show was an unplanned and serendipitous combination of musicians, a non-group which immediately transcended any genre. In addition to the core guitar and percussion flamenco-based elements of Los Desterrados, there was a cellist and a young woman playing the Cuban tres, an instrument that hovers between a guitar and mandolin. After a few somewhat discombobulated flamenco-esque numbers, the cellist took charge (bless her heart) and launched into something that was utterly un-flamenco, something that was vaguely neo-classical but with a modern rhythmic pulse. This immediately set all the flamenco players on their ears; there was a general sense of having nowhere to hang their hats, musically speaking. Their rules no longer applied, their comfort zones were gone.

By force of numbers alone, they might have overruled her. But, ditching them like a musical double agent, I leapt into the fray with the enthusiasm of a freed prisoner and drove things in her direction, using the weight of the bass to set the tone and to fend off any attempts at conventionalizing the sounds that were, at that moment, swirling out unrestrained by routine, pattern, or unconscious habit. Safely cut off from safe harbour, the musicians were forced to sink or swim, to be fully conscious and present in the moment, and the result produced an energy among us that was entirely unlike what is generated in a typical by-the-numbers genre-specific performance.

As the improvised piece rolled on and billowed, the energy grew; I found myself grinning like a fool as I acknowledged its presence, opened myself to it, and felt it connect me to everyone else there. In that moment we were conduits; we were playing things we never played, working together in ways we never worked together, becoming enveloped in a flow and electricity which came from no plan or intention. I wasn't trying, I wasn't working; I was just keeping up with this essential sound coming from within and without me, through my hands. It was a form of ecstacy. A few times I looked up into the faces in the audience, and saw glimpses of hushed wonder there; they too were feeling it and in their quieted near-reverence were participating in it. I could tell that while some were distracted, others were truly "getting" it.

The same held true for the musicians. As the energy of the piece gradually trailed off and evaporated into a gentle, equally unplanned finale, there were looks on our faces ranging from flushed to intense to bemused bewilderment. A few seemed to realize what had happened; others were confused; some were simply pleased and surprised. But I knew what I'd felt, what I'd experienced--an extended moment of freedom, of artistic levitation, of no rules, no borders. At that moment I wanted more of that. I didn't want to play anything rote, anything easy and familiar. I wanted to go chasing off after that energy, that muse that exists wholly above the level of a predictable band having a good or even great night.

With that in my blood, it's little wonder that I've since found my way to immersing myself in music that pushes barriers right down and walks in places alternately shadowy and brilliant; places whose darkness is the kind of deep, damp dark that only comes from digging very hard and deeply; whose light is the crisp sun that warms a peak found by struggling up a twisting, rocky path. Like anything else, music is full of routine and drudgery and frustration; but in my experience of it, it's the one thing that holds the potential for the type of transcendence that can make months of slogging, and an entire confused and yearning life, seem worth it to me, many times over.

Labels: Music

While visiting my folks this evening, I saw the start of a NASCAR race, including the pre-race invocation (i.e., Christian prayer). Generally speaking, I find this pretty strange; this is my own opinion, but I don't see that God has anything to do with sports, which is inherently motivated by selfishness. Not to insult athletes (which I guess doesn't really apply to NASCAR drivers)--I admire and enjoy athletic achievement in many ways. But any athlete worth their salt would admit that it's basically selfish in nature. Especially when you throw in marketing, advertising, sponsorships, and all the other profit-making add-ons of professional sports.

But what struck me as odd was that the invocation invoked the victims of Hurricane Katrina, and ended by saying that the drivers were inspired by them and implied that the race was in some part a tribute to them. I couldn't help but immediately think of the energy crisis that the hurricane-affected area of the country is facing--many areas without power, most without access to gasoline. Granted, the gas used in NASCAR is not the type used for general consumer consumption, so they're not taking gas directly from any hurricane victim, but the principle of the thing left a bad taste in my mouth.

If you want to race cars around in circles, burning through thousands of gallons of gas and other materials (tires, metal parts, etc.), that's fine, go do that. But don't try to turn it into some noble venture, a tribute to those who are suffering for the lack of the very things you're wasting on pure spectacle.

Another note on this strange event. There was also a segment paying tribute to our military serving in Iraq. This is something else that makes me uncomfortable. Professional sports in this country is about the least necessary, most wasteful activity there is. Its sole purpose is entertainment, yet it consumes monstrous amounts of resources and people's time. Again, I don't want to overly dismiss it--I enjoy my NFL and pro soccer and tennis--but I think it's wrong to link such frivolity to something as serious as war. Particularly when that war is almost certainly focused so much on oil.

A NASCAR race, or any other sporting event, is no tribute to the suffering caused by poverty, natural disasters, or war. Rather it's a reminder that while some have to struggle for their very lives, the rest of us can afford to waste time, money and resources on pointless, mindless entertainment. We can sit in the stands or in our living rooms and swell up with some kind of detached-from-reality pride when the solemn announcer invokes something that actually means something, then diminishes that very meaning to transfer a false importance to the meaningless sport. Most people don't deal well with contradictions, even less so with accepting it in their own behavior, and so don't realize how absurd this juxtaposition is. Let us not run from that dichotomy, but rather learn from it and use it to help us grow out of such childish complacency.

Labels: Culture

As I was driving away from work today, after putting in some extra time doing hurricane-related work, I was passed on the expressway by some older, obviously well-off guy driving one of those awful newer Cadillacs that look like a cross between the bottom part of a vacuum cleaner and a brick. I had my windows down and was concentrating on the challenging and brilliant King Crimson live album I was playing on the stereo, so I just happened to glance over and see the guy, as he was passing me, roll down his window and say to me, "your bumper sticker sucks!"

The first thing that hit me was just how strange this was. This was some late-50s/early 60s guy who had a complete look of tanned affluence about him--as though he'd come from the golf course or more likely, his enormous house overlooking a golf course. A guy with enough privilege to not deserve to get angry about many things. And he takes the time to roll down his window and yell over at some random person in a Subaru. I currently have four stickers on the back of my Subaru (I know, I know; it didn't start that way, but somehow I found myself falling into that cliché):

"Question Consumption"
"Treehugger"
"Bush inherited his safety net--now he wants to bankrupt yours"
"War is NOT pro-life"

Now, since he didn't specify which sticker he meant, I was left to wonder which one would make this rich person angry. "Question Consumption"--I bet that some people snickered at that when I first got it early this year. Now, with gas over $3/gallon, it's just good sense. That might come off as twisting the knife to this guy driving a gas-guzzler, but that would just produce resentment, not a critique. "Treehugger", again, might produce an ideological defensiveness, but it doesn't really say anything--it's more just a reclaiming of the word.

So I'm thinking it's one of the last two, which in my mind means the guy was either motivated by greed or guilt, or both. To get offended at #3 means that he must either have some personal psychological attachment to George W. Bush (which I would consider a neurosis) or else he's simply greedy and wants even more money. And to get offended at #4, I can only think that his reaction means that he's having some kind of guilt complex over holding contradictory views. So many American Christians (not all, mind you) consider themselves "pro-life", yet, again neurotically in my opinion, have an almost reflexive support for any position that supports the president--a man who has made the cheapening of lives here and abroad a centerpiece of his terms in office.

After he spoke, this fellow rolled the window back up and sped off ahead of me--just the mix of cowardice and denial I'd expect from someone who'd do that in the first place. As I drove along, I considered what, if anything, I'd do if I came to catch up with him as I drove along (which I did not attempt). I felt strangely unmotivated to do anything. I found his behavior to be embarrassing and childish, and understood that any type of response to it would validate it. By doing nothing, I leave him as the only one with an action to regret.

Some days I almost feel guilty about the crudeness and slight unfairness of having bumper stickers--they're necessarily overly simplistic and sort of lecture the people behind you without giving them a chance to respond. Today, I was glad I had them.

Labels: Culture, Politics