#and it’s the hottest fucking day(s) on record and it’s fucking climate change

[weaponizelesbians]

Just heard the worst thunder & lightning I've ever heard during the worst rainstorm I've ever experienced living my whole life here. The rain and wind was so bad I felt genuinely unsafe being near a window. NorCal is NOT supposed to rain like this. It's been going almost every day since the beginning of December. Literal record levels of rainfall. My power was out for 20 hours straight, the longest my mom could remember and shes lived here since the 70's. The Bay area is so flooded right now it looks like Venice. November 2022 was one of the coldest novembers ive seen, our temps dont usually drop like that until january. And this is all coming after one of the hottest summers we've ever had. Death valley had the hottest temperature ever recorded on earth less than 6 months ago. The implications this has on climate change is fucking terrifying.

[levifold]

There are fires in every state in Australia atm. Both NSW and VIC have declared a state of emergency for the next week, and are telling everyone in the SE NSW coast, the Snowy Mountains, and East Gippsland VIC regions to leave and tourists to stay away. Conditions on Saturday 4th January 2020 are expected to be extremely bad.

The first pics are photos that I’ve taken from my bedroom of orange and red sunrises and sunsets due to all the smoke in the atmosphere. All different days here, spread out over 3-4 months now. Smoke from the many bushfires that have been affecting Northern NSW and South East QLD have meant shitty air quality and apocalyptic looking scenes. Brisbane has been lucky, in that despite sometimes dangerous levels of air pollution, many of the fires have not impacted the city directly. The same cannot be said for the surrounds, with many communities in the Sunshine and Gold Coasts and around Ipswich/Toowoomba being affected. Unfortunately smoke spreading far and wide is not unique to Brisbane. I dare say most of Australia and now New Zealand too, have experienced smoke exposure from these bushfires.

According to the Bureau of Meteorology, 2019 was Australia’s hottest and driest on record since records began in 1900.

The drought has affected a lot of Brisbane’s surrounds too. The Mt Tambourine area is running low on water. The primary school there actually ran out in the last couple weeks of term before Christmas and had to tell parents to keep their kids home. They’ve had to ship water in. And yet big commercial water companies are still allowed to be bottling what’s left of the water as if there’s no drought.

We’ve also been having successive dangerous heatwave conditions with temps well into the 40°C’s (almost the 50’s in places) with strong winds fueling the fires, and said fires then generating their own weather, including Pyrocumulonimbus clouds which produce dry lightning that start more fires.

And yet we have climate change denying fuckwits in parliament and a Prime Minister who thought going on holidays to Hawaii during what has been an unprecedented national disaster was a good idea, and then tried to blame his wife and kids for wanting the holiday, instead of owning up to the fact that he fucked up and should’ve stayed behind.

People here are livid at the lack of action, support for affected communities, and lack of support for the Rural Fire Brigades, who (along with state fire services) have been on the front lines for months fighting these fires, and whose members are made up entirely of volunteers, 3 of which have died. It’s also made worse by the fact that funding these services had been cut in several states last year before the fires started.

Honestly the last few months have been a bit of a shitshow, and with 2 more months of summer, there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.

#personal #bushfires #australia #australian politics #auspol #climate change #social justice #new zealand

[leam1983]

Cyberpunk 2077 Thoughts

Having perused Dark Horse Books’ The World of Cyberpunk 2077 over the past few days, I’ve gotten a better feel for the various basic hooks that structure V’s inception as a protagonist. The short of it is the Polish wizards are on the right path to nailing Pondsmith’s treatment the same way they nailed Sapkowski’s works.

Consider the following as half a brain dump, half a series of prospective spoilers, and also half projection, so either skip this, find some other entry to read, or come back to this come late November.

I know I mentioned three halves, but it’s late and I don’t give a shit.

I’m serious - DO NOT PRESS ON IF YOU’RE THE TYPE TO BLOW A GASKET IF YOU’RE INADVERTANTLY SPOILED. 

The latest Night City Wire as of August exposed three incipient “life paths”, or starting branches of V’s path. I’ll tackle my personal narrative approaches to them in the order of my choosing.

Nomads: CP2077 is set in a world where much of what we understand to define a family has been blown up, tossed around by climate change and nuclear fire and then stitched back together using grit, resourcefulness and the last dying embers of human decency. Nomads are less a group of people defined by blood relations and more a cadre of individuals that share something more significant than mere genes. It might be a common history, a set of shared hardships, a yen for similar automotive and engineering-related projects - whatever it is, that something pulls people together in ways Corpo rats and street kids will never experience.

This seems to define even the average Nomad’s degree of education. Surprisingly, Nomads are the most well-read group in Coronado Bay’s greater area, some caravans reportedly including entire RVs packed with books. Nomads generationally elect teachers and record-keepers and seem to care for those cultural remnants of the old world, before Pondsmith’s paranoid alternate sixties kicked off more than a century’s worth of technological progression and rampant dehumanization. To a Night City native, a Nomad’s speech patterns appear precious and uselessly florid, while they might appear almost normal to us - maybe slightly touched by the fact that Grandpa Joe or whatever really wanted you to have your Greek classics down before you were old enough to repair your first CH00H2 carburetor on your own.

That new, mega-clustered version of family matters immensely to the Nomads. You identify to yours the same way Orcs in Shadow of War might refer to their clan, or the same way a Scottish clan might design specific visual cues identifying its members. In normal circumstances, Nomads live, thrive and die in service to the clan - and the opening segment for V’s Nomad origins suggests that something happened to his clan. They’re gone, or so the narration says, without going into further detail. Is V responsible? We don’t currently know. As it stands, however, he is a lone Nomad in a clan of one, and soon finds himself pushed out of the Californian wastes and into Night City’s neon-drenched streets.

Seeing this, I considered the narration as an admission of guilt on V’s part. He feels responsible, and hopes that grinding his way to success will in some way atone for what he’s done. Consequently, my Nomad V would be as gruff as could be, but as moral and upstanding as the setting allows. He considers himself as having been invested with an example to set, and would intend to set his sights on more than just filthy lucre. Honest filthy lucre is what matters to him, if that concept even is possible: he might deal in unsavory types and illicit activities, but he always does so with a certain moral rectitude - as a tough and gruff, lean and stringy type you can occasionally catch in his battered Thornton pick-up truck with his feet up on the dashboard and a dog-eared copy of Plato’s Republic in hand. Jackie honestly wonders how he can put up with that Greek pendejo’s endless words and the lack of scrolling animations, while V keeps his Kiroshi optics’ News ticker locked onto grassroots Leftist RSS feeds that stoke a bit of an ignored Rockerboy ethos in him. Quoting Marx in Night City might feel like trying to teach lab rats in the finer points of string theory, but it at least feels genuine to him, compared to the predigested sociopolitical pap Militech, Arasaka and their ilk are more than happy to spew on the airwaves. 

There’s a lot to be pissed off about in Richard Night’s failed utopia, a lot of fat cats to gut and buildings to burn. Still, he leaves the glowering act and the churning rage to Johnny Silverhand’s imprinted ghost. Being more of a down-low, gun-toting choomba than a classic Street Samurai, Vincent “V” Carson thinks first and strikes second.

Vinnie isn’t much for electric guitars and anarchy in the UK, much less in the Free State of Southern California; but he does love the occasional Leonard Cohen ballad or the occasional shot of Johnny Cash’s melancholy. Having picked up something of a Northern Texas drawl while cruising, he might feel like Harry Dresden’s Good Ol’ Boy cousin, magic tricks here pushed aside in favor of a measure of dermal plating and a good ol’ fashioned twelve-gauge and revolver combo. Not being much of a techno-fetishist, he considers his optics and his skull jack as being begrudging concessions to an era that looks down on fully “ganic” types. Having grown up with TV serials and the occasional visor-based Braindance all depicting cyberpsychosis as something vile that utterly dehumanizes its sufferers, he’s naturally wary around anyone who seems a little too giddy with the prospect of taking a few scalpels to perfectly decent muscles and bones.

His Thornton is where most of his Eddies go, and yes, he’s named his truck Suzie. Suzie’s done right by him, and he’ll do right by her - unless someone else with a pretty smile and a working moral compass makes him swoon.

Street Kids: if you weren’t taught on the highways or in corporate arcologies, odds are you became a positive blip in an otherwise grim statistic, one of the myriad fucked-up kids raised by other fucked-up kids with more seniority than you. With no roads and paid-for nannies, you survived off of grifts, grit, violence, deceit, smarts and gumption - and that, in its own screwball way, creates its own blood ties. You’re wise by Heywood’s standards - streetwise, that is - and you speak the back-alleys’ lingua franca of threats, insinuation and casual intimidation like no other.

If only Jackie hadn’t fingered that Rayfield, huh? This beaut could’ve been paydirt! Well, at least for a week or so, judging by the fact that hundreds of car thefts are reported across Night City on a daily basis. At least, Dean - who also goes as “V” - got to make a new friend while out in the pokey, and managed to shake a few proverbial trees... They’ve got a short-lease in with Trauma Team’s frequency and could maybe hook themselves up with a sweet finder’s fee for anyone who’s on the verge of death at the hands of the city’s Scavengers...

Little does V know, that’s selling Trauma Team as well as their clients painfully short. Shows of gratitude don’t mean anything if you’re not packing the right social status. He barely remembers his birth parents as it is, and grew up the fifth grubby prospect of one of the Valentinos’ “school clubs” (hence the nickname) - where the points of study refer to the proper observances to be held in Jesus Malaverde’s presence, intensive Chicano and Spanish immersion, as well as the handling of common types of weaponry.

Vincent and Dean would be likely to shoot one another, if placed in the same room. One clings onto nearly-lost value systems, while the other commodifies what can be discarded like so much flesh - only inasmuch as his efforts to pacify his unofficial five or six abuelas force him to forego extensive modifications. His knives and wrist-mounted data port are his main tools of the trade, although Dean keeps his hacking creds along the bare minimum. Why bother, when melting an ATM’s ICE wall and whacking the cops with a baseball bat is all you need? There’s a type of gun for nearly anything else, if someone knows where to look...

Dean has no last name, and is consequently registered as “Dean Smith” in the city’s Census records. That doesn’t suggest, however, that he wouldn’t want to make one for himself. As he’s less focused on the city’s legends than on its kingmakers and pawn-movers, Dexter DeShawn strikes him as someone to emulate, watch and learn from - all with a decent degree of caution.

Being on top matters a little less to him than eventually pulling Heywood’s stings. With a little fear and a lot of persistence, Dean “V.” Smith knows that one day, he won’t go hungry on a weeknight. To that end, he’s certainly a hearty eater, here paired with extensive free-weight training regimens and the use of anabolic stimulants. Oh, sure, he’ll speak of family and blood like the best soldier festooned in Santa Muerte visual codices, but his friend Jackie’s got a mind like a slow and steady steel trap.

Either Dean blows his new fellow Street Samurai out of the pond, or he does. Unlike Jackie, however, Dean isn’t realistic about it. Friendships are a rare gift in Heywood, if not the rest of Night City, and Dean’s convinced that Jackie could conceivably look past his final betrayal.

Corpo: nowadays, we’re mostly familiar with the idea of one-percenters creating a bubble of affluence for themselves. Boarding schools, private villas, prebooked vacations across the globe’s priciest spots, access to the hottest trends on the minute of their inception - what this tends to forego is the level of social disconnect that’s required in order to stay relevant. We’re only just waking up to the consequences of letting an aging, crusty first-generation Yuppie be crowned the ruler of the free world, and even someone who’s behind on their Bret Easton Ellis could tell you that Donald J. Trump is a sociopath and a narcissist.

Take that mindset, and cultivate it into an ethos that’s taught to children from a very early age - children who live, eat, shit and breathe in accordance with their parent corporation’s tenets. The more placid, mid-tier lifers in the genre are called sararimen, in reference to William Gibson’s use of the term to designate low-level company workers in Chiba City. A bit like Shenzhen’s factory workers and execs, everything in a corpo’s life is in service to the corporation.

In Night City, as of 2077, two major players have installed this culture of total obedience in their roster. Their names are Militech and Arasaka. One is a juggernaut in the field of military-grade personal defence, the other has a wider grasp and reach, but is more fragile. Arasaka owes that fragility to the last fifty years having involved its re-establishment and reconstruction. Fifty years ago, Night City’s Corpo Plaza was blasted open by a thermonuclear discharge that sent the Japanese giant packing. The charges had been set by three Edgerunners: Rogue, Morgan Blackhand and Johnny Silverhand - accessorily a well-respected Rockerboy and front-line member of the band SAMURAI. Only Rogue survived that fateful night, or so the street lingo goes, having gone on to start a legitimate consultation business as well as a fruitful career in the hospitality business. Her bar, the Afterlife, is Night City’s hotspot for every techie, script kiddie and accomplished cyber-spelunker.

Our gal Vivian knows this. She knows this, because Vivian “V.” Banks lives two lives.

In one of them, she’s a lean and hungry Junior Executive in Arasaka’s Counter-Intel division. In that line of work, you either fuck someone’s prospects or protect your own, or ensure that no up-and-comer just out of the company’s Law School program manages to push you off the board. She knows full well that in centuries past, corpo-speak was made up of mild euphemisms that at best referred to destroying a rival’s prospects or lifelihood. Taking a life was something that required careful deliberation, especially when tossing a fat severance bonus into an aging CFO’s three-piece pockets and letting your erstwhile rival snort cocaine off of the rolling hips of Tahitian dancers was so much cheaper...

Nowadays, zeroing someone is commonplace.

You’re born for Arasaka, and chances are you’ll die for Arasaka just the same. Viv’s killed, lied, cheated and even stole her way to her position, remorse being this vaguely churning sense of coldness in her gut that keeps one-night stands coming in and out of her bedroom. She only remembers her parents as being credit-chip enablers and personal enhancement drug addicts, cutting ties with them so completely on the day of her official hiring that it felt more like a tacit understanding.

On most days, sex and booze keep the cold at bay. On most days, Vivian Banks is a class-act of a sociopath. The stronger she gets, however, and the more paranoid her targets become - which reinforces her own paranoia. Before long, playing the part of one of Arasaka’s several poisonous flowers won’t work anymore.

Unfortunately, she trusts no-one. No Fixer could put her in contact with any hacker she’d trust, no rando fresh off the street with a retro-tinted National Arms plinker would satisfy her. To climb up the ranks and maybe share tea with Old Man Saburo himself, she needs a spotless performance record. She needs skills.

More importantly, she needs a reputation. That means leaving Arasaka Tower and mingling with the experts in their own field - and it means filling out her back book of successful hits. The drinks at the Afterlife are decent enough, but what she’s after is an official in.

If she can get to Rogue, or maybe even hook up with a ripperdoc not bought and paid for by the company, she might be able to score both new skills and increased performance...

If it were as simple as slitting Janet’s throat in HR and diving her way to an orgiastic performance review quite innocently left on the department’s server, she would’ve done that already. Viv is my obvious Pure Stealth build candidate, my main-line hacker and would-be engineer with a thing for black power skirts and designer offensive augments.

With that said, we’re months ahead of schedule, all the good shit’s already come out, so we’re stuck playing the waiting game...

What are your own character or build ideas for Cyberpunk 2077?

#cyberpunk 2077 #spoilers #build ideas #characters #roleplaying

[lolacoker]

‘Notes on a Conditional Form’ is Like A Box of Chocolates, You Never Know What You’re Going to Get

‘Needless to say, stakes were high for The 1975′s latest cut. Notes on a Conditional Form was originally slated for release in May 2019, just six months succeeding the release of their phenomenally successful last album, A Brief Inquiry into Online Relationships. After winning the Brit Award for Best British Album, topping year-end lists as well as the Billboard 200, and being compared to music legends such as the likes of Radiohead, critics and an audiences alike were itching to see what The 1975 could do next.

The 1975′s most recent release, Notes on a Conditional Form, has been called many things: pretentious, muddled, self-indulgent. But it has yet to be called boring, because it is anything but.

The 1975 have never been ones gift any of their agendas in a pretty bow, anthemic takes like ‘Love It If We Made It’ and ‘Loving Someone’ tell us that. On this record, The 1975 swaps out their usual intro; one that has featured on every album, to make way for 17-year-old Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg and a 5-minute monologue accompanied only by 1975-esque ambient music. Production is undeniably the loudest voice on the record, despite the swift transition into guitar-heavy, vocal-heavy, punky-rocky ‘People’. ‘People’ likely makes for one of the most interesting cuts of Notes, abandoning sugary notes laden with autotune and sax for a vocal performance more likeable to screamo. In simple words, Healy’s call for us to ‘Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!’ is perfect sonic embodiment of what Thunberg meant when she told us our house was on fire. It maybe doesn’t sound like The 1975, but it feels like The 1975 and ensures their everyday audience aren’t left bewildered.

‘The End (Music for Cars)’ is an oddly placed curtain call, but a pretty one nonetheless. Strings are definitely not something unheard of from The 1975, (and this interlude definitely does feel reminiscent of other interlude tracks you’ll hear on their previous albums, but this isn’t the last you’ll hear of it on this album. 

Notes on a Conditional Form later proves itself to be a maze of sound, and often times, you don’t know where you’re headed with the next track, but ‘The Birthday Party’ is there to mellow you out before you dive in head-first to the experiment lab that is Notes. And while ‘The Birthday Party’ isn’t the most riveting, provocative track on the record by any means, led by an acoustic guitar with a country air to it, its lyrical content and glaring stream of consciousness makes it a site to revisit, much like its easy listening, Phoebe Bridgers’ featuring, cousin: ‘Jesus Christ 2005 God Bless America’ featured later on the record.

“Live on Mars/Fuck it up”. While ‘Yeah, I Know’ is not a lyrical heavyweight, its house-redolent production renders it a fun, glitchy little track to listen to. ‘Frail State of Mind’s’ quieter, but more excitable little sister?

‘Then Because She Goes’ is the track that makes you realise that Notes needs to be listened to a few times to understand it. While the guitar can, in the beginning, seem abrasive; its partnership with auto-tuned sweet nothings on a piece about a bitter-sweet departure: ‘I wake up, love you, so love you, love’, gives it new life as an endearing, sonic representation of simultaneous pain, necessity and love we all feel in some break-ups. ‘Then Because She Goes’ almost suddenly, as some of our relationships do - but one thing to note [no pun intended] is that while Notes has its abrupt ends, but never dead ends. 

On ‘Roadkill’, The 1975 sees your ‘self-indulgence’ and raises you ‘self-reference’. Lyrics here make allusions to ‘Robbers’ in the vain of previous releases such as ‘A Change Of Heart’, and succeeding track ‘Me & You Together Song’ which does a 180 on the instrumentals of this song. ‘Roadkill’ is simple, slightly facetious, has its political references [it is The 1975], but is outstanding on this record; especially with its soft, creamy runs by Healy: ‘I’ve been waiting for you/My whole life waiting for you’. 

Premiered on BBC Radio 1′s ‘Hottest Record’, ‘Me & You Together Song’ is straight sugar pop, 80′s inspired, perhaps enough to rot your teeth off. Audiences familiar with The 1975 maybe had to carry a dictionary around with them to understand what Healy was saying on previous records, but the ever-morphing production on Notes is intrinsically its own language. The 1975 doesn’t overcomplicate thing this time round, and Healy doesn’t actively avoid cliches. Lyrics like ‘I had a dream that we had kids’, reassure that the record wasn’t made to feel like a particular idea, but it was made to feel authentic. Despite the 80′s touch, ‘Me & You Together Song’ and Notes lives in the present day.

Finding themselves accompanied by a choir once again, ‘Nothing Revealed/Everything Denied’ feels like ‘If I Believe You’ reimagined for 2020 and the current social landscape. This album can at times feel repetitive, sometimes, not of itself; but previous album cycles. However, one thing that The 1975 is without a doubt good at, is production that is faithfully, brutally The 1975 - that feels, all at the same time, feels like something completely brand new. 

‘Tonight (I Wish I Was A Boy)’ is a funky, mellow R&B-inspired track that is an absolute essential to exploring the world of Notes.

‘Shiny Collarbone’ is an ineffable interlude track, all I can say is, you wouldn’t be daft if you’d thought Jamie xx had a production credit. Cutty Ranks feature you completely forget you are listening to are listening to The 1975 album, as tospy-turvy as it is.

There isn’t much to say about ‘If You’re Too Shy (Let Me Know) that hasn’t already been said. The 1975 borrow singer FKA Twigs’ vocals for this track, which with its glamorous saxophone, and modernist lyrics about FaceTime sex, almost feels like the pinnacle of pop music in the current era. Notes has definitely been the most polarising record that The 1975 have released to date, but there is nothing mistakable about the pop perfection that is this track.

[lifeonashelf]

CLAPTON, ERIC

Before we get started, I should probably mention that it might be helpful to regard this piece as sort of a “to be continued…” affair. A handful of entries from now, the subject on my docket will be Cream, whose work is such a vital part of Eric Clapton’s canon than any appraisal of them will unavoidably qualify as a supplemental appraisal of him. I’m sure I will have some nice things to say about Cream since I think they were a pretty excellent band (although time will tell… as you’ve surely gleaned by now, these essays often encompass topics that have absolutely nothing to do with the artists I profess to be evaluating; I can’t predict where my mind will be when I get around to writing about Cream, so it’s entirely possible I’ll end up writing about Mork & Mindy or something instead). However, for our purposes here, I think it will serve us better if I focus exclusively on Clapton’s work as a solo artist. Which is likely to engender a far different climate than the forthcoming Cream-slash-Mork-slash-Mindy piece since I think 85% of the music Eric Clapton made after Cream disbanded is dreadfully fucking lackluster.

When I was learning to play guitar as a teenager, there were several monthly magazines devoted to that pursuit, all of which I perused religiously. (For the benefit of any millennials reading this: “magazines” were similar to books, except they were shorter and usually had more pictures in them—and “books” were similar to the missives your hyper-dramatic friends constantly post on Facebook, except they took a little bit longer to read, were written with proper grammar, and the stories in them weren’t all a bunch of histrionic bullshit—also, “grammar” refers to the coherent presentation of words that aren’t abbreviated or misspelled).

Much like any periodical dedicated to a singular subject, magazines like Guitar World regularly featured articles which graded the luminaries in their particular field—in GW’s case, these usually took the form of arbitrary ranking reports on “The 100 Greatest Guitarists Of All Time!”. I assume modern publications still rely on similarly banal and undemanding space-fillers: “The 10 Most Lethal Armor-Piercing Shells!” in Guns & Ammo, perhaps, or “The 4 Hottest Members Of  5 Seconds Of Summer!” in NAMBLA Monthly (for the benefit of any tweens reading this: if you ever encounter anyone who subscribes to this magazine, get out of their van immediately).

Of course, discerning readers must surely recognize the flaws inherent in any classification system which surveys qualifications that are subject to myriad personal tastes and biases—in other words, lists like those are completely goddamn meaningless (after all, designating any member of 5SOS as the hottest is utter lunacy; who could possibly make a firm decision between such dreamy candidates with any degree of certainty?). In the post-internet world, such items would qualify as your basic gratuitous clickbait. Yet at the time, I scrutinized those rankings with great interest, and I even took an undue amount of pride in finding some of my favorite guitarists logged at prominent positions on the docket—whenever Soundgarden’s Kim Thayil cracked the Top-20, I figured maybe the editors who put that particular list together actually knew their shit.

The cast of musicians who regularly occupied the apex slots in these polls never changed all that much—it seems to be universally agreed among everyone who reads magazines like Guitar World that the greatest player of all time is either Eddie Van Halen or Jimi Hendrix, which is a verdict I don’t have a strong argument against. Jimmy Page was usually ranked around #3 or so, and I never had any problem with that either because he’s Jimmy fucking Page. The rest of the Top-10 was a bit more fluid, with different architects wandering in and out of contention based on what was happening in their contemporary careers when the list was published. A few guitarists were ubiquitous placeholders who merely shifted numbers from year to year, like Steve Vai and Joe Satriani, who seemed to always be classed in the Top-10 despite neither of them ever recording a single piece of music I would listen to on purpose.

Another omnipresent figure on these rosters was Eric Clapton, who was perpetually enumerated in the uppermost echelons of the guitar-god hierarchy, sometimes even slotted way up in the Top-5. A recent poll on ranker.com with 500-thousand tallied voters escalated the matter by rating Clapton as the THIRD greatest axe-wielder of all time, just below Jimi and Jimmy. And despite my cognizance that these standings are fundamentally inconsequential, the net result of Slowhand’s recurrent designation as one the most prodigious craftsmen in the history of his art-form is that for my entire life I have been systematically instructed to distinguish Eric Clapton as one of the greatest musicians of all time. Which is an assertion that rings as patently incorrect when you actually listen to his music.

There’s nothing incendiary about Clapton’s guitar playing, nothing particularly inimitable about his style. He didn’t develop a new musical language for his instrument to sing with—Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen, and Jimmy Page all did that, but not Slowhand. The two main things Eric Clapton did exceptionally well were splicing a strain of safe white-boy blues into a strain of nonthreatening AOR rock and building the bulk of his career on serviceable renditions of songs written by other people. Whether this particular musical aesthetic appeals to you is irrelevant; no matter how much you like his version of “I Shot the Sheriff”, a modest benchmark like that is not indicative of genius, it is merely indicative of a seasoned session musician plying his trade. Make no mistake, Clapton is a very good guitar player, and I get the sense he’s a nice enough dude. Nevertheless, while the ability to knock out solid cover tunes might curry plenty of favor on Tequila Tuesday at the local dive bar, that skillset alone does not signify any form of virtuosity.

Timepieces—the 7x Platinum-selling 1982 greatest hits album most likely to represent Eric Clapton in the collections of casual fans—features ten songs culled from his 1970’s harvest, the most acclaimed era of his solo career. Of those ten tracks, Clapton is only credited as a songwriter on three cuts, and only one amidst that trio names him as the sole songwriter. This seems to reveal that out of all the most enduring tunes he released during his most enduring era, this musician alleged to be among the greatest of all time was only able to piece together one outstanding song when left to his own devices. Sure, “Cocaine” and “Layla” are fairly strong by any standards (although, Clapton didn’t write the former and merely co-wrote the latter), but the rest of Timepieces is notably unremarkable as far as best-of showcases go—unless the one major thing your life has been missing is the opportunity to hear Eric Clapton tackle the novelty number “Willie and the Hand Jive” like he was submitting it for the opening credits of a sitcom.

Then there’s the knotty matter of “Wonderful Tonight”, the only song on Timepieces credited singularly to Clapton—and, arguably, the only one of his solo period creations that has prevailed in a comprehensive cultural sense. You won’t meet too many wedding DJ’s who don’t have “Wonderful Tonight” in their arsenal, and I’m positive plenty of couples have selected the track to accompany their first dance at the reception. The tune has been widely appropriated as a naked avowal of love and devotion—and, hey, why not? Is there any woman in the world who doesn’t appreciate being told she’s wonderful?

However, sometimes songs get borrowed for things that don’t necessarily match up with their essence. Consider Green Day’s “Time of Your Life”, which will probably be played over every high school graduation slideshow in the civilized world for the next several decades because of its lyrics about turning points and forks stuck in the road—this, despite the fact that the proper title of the song is “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” and the refrain “I hope you had the time of your life” was actually penned as a derisive fuck-you aimed at an ex-girlfriend who jilted Billie Joe Armstrong. In some cases, the intended meaning of a tune doesn’t really matter; once it becomes transcendently popular, it means whatever the people who made it transcendently popular want it to mean. And before you know it, teenagers are dancing to a song about a bitter break-up at their senior proms without any apperception of irony.

This is why I’ve always been fascinated by the quixotic ideals that have been ascribed to “Wonderful Tonight”. Though the swooning masses have evidently chosen to accept that song as a chronicle of the profound romance nurtured by two lovers throughout a night on the town, to me the lyrics tell a far different story.

My sad tale is about a woman fretting woefully as she dolls herself up to attend a party with her carping husband, nervously asking him, “do I look alright?” She’s well aware that to this imperious man, her physical attractiveness is her primary asset; he regards her as a prop, an arm-candy accessory that buttresses his inflated sense of prestige. When the couple arrives at the gala, the caddish groom basks in the attention of the numerous leering men who crane their necks to look at his trophy (“everyone turns to see this beautiful lady that’s walking around with me”). Each swiveling head substantiates his ego, confirms that he is a superior alpha-male because he has managed to ensnare such a stunning female specimen—“I feel wonderful tonight,” he tells her, and this declaration might as well be a cackle of triumph.

His supremacy established, he then proceeds to get absolutely shit-faced. The song doesn’t specify whether his recreation of choice is alcoholic or narcotic or both, only that by the time he’s finished indulging in his spree of hedonistic rapture he’s “got an aching head.” The brevity of the account doesn’t allow a verse which elaborates on his conduct at the festivity, but we can reasonably assume this sort of character becomes a boorish lout when he’s intoxicated—just imagine the undignified behaviors a man like that adopts under the influence while his unfortunate wife helplessly watches on, mortified; perhaps Clapton is being kind by sparing us that part of the saga.

When the bender is over, he is too wasted to drive, so the onus of shuttling him home falls upon his submissive mate. And she is further demeaned when she has to then assist him as he staggers to bed. There, just before slipping into black-out unconsciousness, he slurs to her, “you were wonderful tonight.” A backhanded compliment, surely, reminding her of her place, letting her know that shutting up and looking pretty while he has all the fun is precisely what’s expected of her. “You were wonderful tonight,” he gabbles again, twisting the knife, reiterating that the evening is now over and she will once again curl up on her side of the mattress neglected and unsatisfied and cry herself to sleep while his insensate carcass snores and farts beside her.

[Okay, I made all that shit up. But now that I read the lyrics again, they don’t necessarily contradict my facetious analysis, so the above interpretation might actually be right on the money. Besides, if twelfth graders can slow-dance with their sweethearts to the soundtrack of a disintegrated relationship, then I can make “Wonderful Tonight” be about a doomed and loveless marriage if I want to.]

The other most obvious benchmark in Clapton’s solo catalog is his MTV Unplugged release, which shifted over 26-million copies and still holds the distinction of being the best-selling live album of all time. (For the benefit of any millennials reading this: “Unplugged” was a program that MTV produced during the prehistoric age of their existence, back when they had to lower themselves to airing rubbish like music videos and concerts because there weren’t enough quality reality shows being made about teenagers who have babies and get plastic surgery to fill their broadcast schedule). The network’s marketing strategy for the Unplugged series was actually quite ingenious: in addition to airing hour-long presentations of sets like Clapton’s in prime time, select songs from these shows were earmarked as “singles” and those individual performances were slotted into heavy rotation among the other hit videos of the era, a model which allowed MTV to essentially promote their own albums as frequently as they wanted. Since the channel’s driving ethos at the time was to pummel their audience with constant spins of even the most mediocre clips until viewers decided those songs must be cool because MTV played them all the time, plenty of latently unexceptional offerings like Clapton’s Unplugged were given a ready platform to become smash hits (lest we forget: this approach was so insidiously effective that even Mr. Big and Wilson Phillips achieved Platinum sales figures in 1992).

Hell, even I bought the fucking CD (I never bought those Mr. Big or Wilson Phillips records, though). I’ve listened to Unplugged a couple times while shaping this write-up, and I still have yet to locate a shred (pun possibly intended) of persuasive evidence that Eric Clapton is one of the greatest guitar players of all time anywhere on this disc. The revue has a couple of high-points—the version of “Tears in Heaven” here is indubitably definitive and “Layla” fares surprisingly well in a slower, stripped down form—but as a whole the album is an unadulterated slog, laden with an abundance of instantly-forgettable renditions of unessential blues tunes that are reduced to benign dentist-office white noise by the neutered arrangements which were integral to the Unplugged format. What these moments actually demonstrate—rather than Clapton’s mastery—is that a style of song-craft which was initially channeled straight from wounded souls into ragtag instruments doesn’t translate very convincingly to a fleet of $5,000 guitars; in a fundamental sense, Unplugged’s glossy and pristine studio-audience presentation, every chord perfectly EQ’d and in-tune, strips away whatever raw immediacy cuts like Son House’s “Walkin’ Blues” may have possessed in their primal form. I’m not earnestly criticizing Eric Clapton for his professionalism, but since the thrilling quintessence of live music is the anything-can-happen spontaneity of the stage, it’s difficult to get overly invested in the meticulously premediated and pokerfaced routine captured for this specific document.

The album does indeed embody Clapton’s mien—capable musicianship and a batch of songs unlikely to offend anyone’s sensibilities—but the guitarists who truly belong in the realm of the immortals are those whose work sounds like an existential search for deeper sonic truths. The notes they strike broadcast more than chords, they transmit fever and fire, each one eddying uncontainable passion from their hearts to their fingertips. This is why procedural players like Joe Satriani and Steve Vai have never been engaging: their main artistic drive has always seemed to be showcasing how many arpeggios they can execute, and the soulless military precision of that execution doesn’t convey any sincere affection for their craft—listening to Satch and Vai et al do their thing is kind of like watching a squad of soldiers marching in lock-step; you get the sense the last thing on those lads’ minds is how pleasant it is to be getting some fresh air. And my reaction to Unplugged is similar: Slowhand’s rigid delivery of tried-and-true fret phrases he can undoubtedly strum in his sleep by now doesn’t rouse much in the way of excitement; since Clapton doesn’t sound like he’s overly interested in challenging himself, he doesn’t challenge me either.    

Ironically, at this very moment, my heart is seized by the precise melancholy sensations that are metaphorically denoted as “the blues.” I won’t go into a whole thing about it, but I assure you I am sad as fuck right now. Yet, even though I always seek out music I can relate to in times of pathos, somehow hearing Eric Clapton chirrup about drinking “Malted Milk” isn’t doing a whole lot to make me feel better—hearing Greg Puciato shriek his way through The Dillinger Escape Plan’s tempestuous masterpiece “Farewell, Mona Lisa” might do the trick, but not this shiny and innocuous enactment that would sound equally at home on a Jack Johnson record as it does on Unplugged. And this is usefully underscoring why Clapton’s work is so profoundly dull to me: despite being an artist who has devoted most of his catalog to the blues, a genre whose lyrical dominion deals exclusively in heart-borne emotions, his music doesn’t make me feel a goddamn thing. When I get low like this, I know from experience that I can release some of those negative energies by weeping, or wailing, or screaming my fucking head off. But try as I might, I can’t think of a single occasion when the balm my soul cried out for was twelve tasteful bars in the key of E with some gentle, susurrated crooning on top.

So you 26-million consumers can keep your guitar-hero, and his bubbly acoustic blues, and his songs about rakish men who disgrace their wives at parties. I don’t give a shit if Slowhand is ranked 16 spots higher in Guitar World—fucking give me Kim Thayil any day.

 August 4, 2018