The Drudge Report remains one of the most accurate barometers of what’s happening right now.
But can we augur near-future trends by sifting through that site’s headlines?
Lately, Drudge has posted lots of news stories about “the devil” and “exorcism”:
Camera captures exorcism performed on shrieking woman “possessed by devil:
Church Turns to Exorcism to Combat Suicide Increase… Archbishop: “Satanism has spread among young people”
BILLY GRAHAM: In Our “Lawless and Wicked Age We’ve Taught Philosophy of Devil”
Aside from the uptick in stories like these, I’m not sensing a resurgence in interest in all things diabolical, a new version of the “occult” fad that helped make the 1970s so miserable, and led to the “satanic panic” of the 1980s that was almost as bad.
Peter Bebergal doesn’t agree.
According to him, “we’re currently experiencing ‘an Occult Revival in rock music and popular culture.’”
He’s penned one of the year’s most talked-about books, Season of the Witch: How the Occult Saved Rock and Roll.
“My argument is that the spirit of rock and roll — the essential rebellious instinct of rock and roll — is certainly social and sexual and political, but it’s also a spiritual rebellion,” Bebergal explained. “And the way in which it expressed that spiritual rebellion was through the occult imagination.”
That “occult imagination” conjures everything from Ouiji boards to Christian and Jewish symbolism to LSD trips to “alternative spiritual practices.” Bebergal says it ultimately helped rock bands like Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath save rock from sounding too poppy, sappy and mainstream.
In the past few days, liberal extremists have launched a full-scale attack on the Duggars, demanding that The Learning Channel cancel the Duggars’ popular reality TV show.
Their reason? Michelle Duggar openly opposed an extreme ‘transgender’ bill in Fayetteville. The bill would have given biological males who say they are women the right to use women’s bathrooms, locker rooms, showers, and other female-only facilities!
As of this writing, that petition has over 80,000 signatures, and is growing fast, with media like the Huffington Post leading the charge! We need to launch a counter-attack, letting TLC know that the American people stand by the Duggars and their defense of traditional family values.
Rather than being extreme, the Duggars represent the majority of people in state after state who have stood up for the traditional family.
The real extremists are those who are demanding that a TV network penalize America’s beloved family because they support the truth about family, which they have always expressed in a loving, compassionate fashion.
I haven’t watched 19 Kids and Counting in years. It just fell out of my usual television viewing rotation. That doesn’t mean I want to see it become the next victim of toxic progressive pitchforking.
The next target may be your favorite show.
LifeSiteNews’ counter-petition has just under 20,000 signatures as I write this.
You can read it here and sign it if you agree.
See Part 1 in Kathy Shaidle’s series exploring punk rock here: How the Sex Pistols Made History by Lying About It
Let’s get this out of the way:
Randal Doane is an assistant dean at Oberlin.
Politics aside (and he doesn’t shove it up your nose), this means you’ll trip over academic, culture-critic jargon — “codes” and “gestures” abound; “Eros” crashes the party — while otherwise enjoying his new book, Stealing All Transmissions: A Secret History of The Clash.
And there’s a lot to enjoy.
Stealing distills one fan’s decades of wide reading, deep listening, and just plain thinking into a multi-faceted gem.
In the hands of a less skillful writer, this book would feel like an out-of-your-league sexual pass, an awkward attempt to squeeze too many topics — the evolution of punk music (along with the etymology of the word); the rise and fall of AM and FM radio; the underground scenes in New York and California, to name but three — between only two (virtual) covers.
Somehow, though, Stealing works, distinguishing itself from similar titles by piling on plenty of original insights; for one thing (a bit like the recent How the Beatles Destroyed Rock ‘n’ Roll), this book explores how the medium changes the message — that is, how the technology we employ to consume music alters music itself, along with the culture at large.
(To cite a particularly cliched example: The LP made it easier to have sex to music, as one didn’t have to leap up to change the record, or worry that a radio DJ might ruin the mood with the wrong selection. How many children were conceived as Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Swingin’ Lovers spun away on the other side of the room– besides me, that is — I couldn’t begin to guess.)
Doane also demonstrates, in pointillistic detail, how a tiny band of now-forgotten local DJs championed (today we’d say “curated”) punk, and “broke” The Clash and other English bands in America.
In doing so, he reveals what we lost when that free-form radio format was killed off.
(P.S. — A note about audio that follows throughout: These interviews with Joe Strummer were recently uploaded to YouTube by HazyRock.com. While the date is unknown, they seem to correspond roughly to the “early days” period Doane focuses on in his book.)
First off: I’m a longtime fan of Crowder, for what it’s worth.
But sometimes we conservatives are a little too eager to be “Not Progressives™,” and his new “catcalling” video — made in response to the real one everyone’s talking about — is an example of this phenomenon.
Second, just to preempt any, well, shouting by strange men in the comments:
I am 50 years old and have probably been genuinely catcalled about six times in my life.
I’ve been more apt to be called ugly and/or a lesbian, or — because I have “bitchy resting face” — ordered to “Smile!!!”
The last time a strange man shouted something complimentary to me was about 18 months ago, when a construction worker (no less!) said, “I like your shirt.”
I was wearing my red “It’s Not Racist If It’s True” tee — on the streets of downtown Toronto in broad daylight, I’ll have you know.
He made my week.
But that wasn’t catcalling.
And neither are the actions Crowder portrayed in his video:
“…the stage where Johnny Rotten unveiled his baleful stare has given way to a Harry Potter section.”
The venerable St. Martins School of Art having moved to a new campus, another esteemed institution took over its old building this year:
Traditionalists grumbled that this new Foyles was altogether too slick, nowhere near as dusty and quaint as the original store.
But when discussing this doubly-historic move, the one talking point almost everyone settled on was revealing.
St. Martins School has, over the course of 150 years, produced a number of distinguished graduates.
Its sculpture department was once called “the most famous in the world.”
Yet headlines trumpeting the famous building’s transformation from respected art school to glossy media megashop were almost all variations on a single theme:
“Foyles to open new flagship bookstore on site of Sex Pistols’ first gig”
Telling us that his thinking had “evolved” on the issue, President Obama finally admitted last year what most of us — left and right — knew all along.
He was in favor of “gay marriage.”
The very idea that progressive icon and idol Barack Obama could be a “homophobe” seems almost laughable, but the folks at OPECHatesGays.com aren’t smiling.
If you wouldn’t shop at a store with a “No Gays Allowed” sign in its window, why would you buy your oil from OPEC?
After all, Iran, Saudi Arabia and Nigeria have atrocious gay and human rights records.
Meanwhile, Canada is widely recognized as a gay rights haven.
Check out OPECHatesGays.com and tell Obama to “stop propping up OPEC regimes of hatred.”
Debbie Harry’s ex-boyfriend and Blondie co-founder Chris Stein has just released a photography collection, featuring his lifelong muse.
And why not? No less an authority than rock photography guru Bob Gruen famously said, “You can’t take a bad picture of Debbie Harry.”
Unfortunately, Stein marrs the collection with a stunningly multi-level-stupid comment, regarding his famous picture, above.
UK tabloids don’t push the limits of credibility any more than their American counterparts, but in a way they got there first. Here, Debbie is reading about sexism under the ayatollah.
Get it? Decades of well-documented, sharia-inspired violence against women in Iran was probably exaggerated, according to Stein, because it was reported by a lower class “red top” English tabloid back in the 1970s.
Stein further ingratiates himself with his British host by slagging stupid, hysterical American “yellow journalists,” too, for no apparent reason.
Factor in the word “sexism” as his mealy-mouthed synonym for “rape, torture and murder,” and it’s quite breathtaking how much smug “enlightened” ignorance Stein managed to squeeze into two just sentences.
Especially the same week that Iranian authorities executed a woman for killing her rapist.
All this from a man I feel safe in presuming voted for Obama twice, and whose views on every subject are reliably, predictably “progressive.”
But of course!
In his 1970s prime, Cat Stevens looked like Russell Brand just thinks he does.
Neither fellow is quite forlorn or angular enough to be my type, but I can certainly understand the appeal of the former, if definitely not the latter. (Ugh.)
As Dennis Miller still likes to muse sometimes on his radio show:
Can you imagine how many women were throwing themselves at Stevens back in the day?
(Except not in those words.)
Stevens has been Miller’s bete noir for a while now.
And former folk singer Cat Stevens, now known as Yusuf Islam, came out this week and said he advocated the assassination of Salman Rushdie. So much for that “Peace Train” crap, huh, Cat? … Yeah, I could see this comin’ years ago on his old album, Tea for the Killerman. You, uh, you remember the big hit:
I’m being followed by a big Muslim
Big Muslim, big Muslim
Big Muslim, big Muslim
Big Muslim, big Muslim
How can I try to explain
When he do I turn away again
But it’s harder to ignore it
If they were right, I’d agree
But it’s them they know, not me now
There’s a way and I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go
Oh, baby, baby, it’s a wild world!
My PJ Media colleague Allston has just launched his call for your “greatest rock drummers.”
(Be sure to add your nominations in his comments.)
Allston will annoy a lot of people by saying that Keith Moon wasn’t a good drummer.
I’ll leave it to actual drummers and other musicians to fight that out.
Even Moon himself acknowledged his technical limitations by joking that he was “the best Keith Moon type drummer in the world.”
But I wanted to get in on Allston’s round up early, by nominating someone who other drummers say was highly skilled technically.
Surely being called “underrated” for 20+ adds up to The Clash’s Nicky Headon — “the human drum machine” — qualifying as one of the best?
Why, yes, Mark Steyn does mention me in his new book, thanks.
But leaving aside pages 228 and 409 for a moment:
Why (else) should you read The (Un)documented Mark Steyn?
Because a “greatest hits” collection — and that’s what Steyn’s new book is — is an ideal way to either introduce yourself to an artist’s work, or have all the “good ones” in one convenient package.
So no more having to google “Martha + Stewart + coxcomb + topiary” when Christmas rolls around.
If you’re looking for that pithy Mark Steyn quote that you just know will be perfect for your next best man speech or poli-sci 101 term paper, you’ll probably find it in here.
The hippies started small:
That guy who invented Earth Day killing his girlfriend, hiding her body in a wall and taking off for France.
(Remember: More people died in Ira Einhorn’s apartment than at Three Mile Island.)
The stupid Weathermen succeeded mostly in blowing themselves up.
Then it eventually dawned on hippies (probably during some pot-fueled rap session):
They needed to think big, like their totalitarian heroes — Mao, Che, Castro.
Forget this penny-ante nihilism and creative destruction.
Sure, the Bible might be mostly b.s., but that stuff about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse was trippy:
Pestilence, War, Famine and Death.
Making fun of Al Gore, Michael Moore and Tom Friedman is getting stale.
Those liberal hypocrites are all so… ten years ago.
Luckily, veteran English fashion designer Vivienne Westwood has stepped into the breach, providing us with a brand new clueless, tone-deaf progressive do-gooder millionaire to make fun of.
Westwood first rose to fame in the 1970s, when she and then-husband Malcolm McLaren opened the King’s Road boutique Let It Rock.
Under various names — Sex, Seditionaries — the shop became one of two where British punk germinated, the other being Don Letts’ Acme Attractions.
Westwood created the rude, ripped, rubbery clothing forever associated with the movement, while McLaren tended the musical side, cobbling together a house band to publicize the store. (Hence the name Sex Pistols.)
As the group’s lead singer, Johnny Rotten (ne Lydon) recalled:
Malcolm and Vivienne were really a pair of shysters: they would sell anything to any trend that they could grab onto.
Fast forward to 2014, and imagine, say, Jimmy Swaggart getting the Presidential Medal of Freedom. That’s how weird it should be that Vivienne Westwood was named a Dame of the British Empire by the queen in 2006.
But no one seems to think it odd at all that “shyster” Westwood remains a powerful cultural force, having switched sides from pseudo-rebel to Establishment figure.
Or, to put it more accurately, for being both things at the same time.
I tried — and failed — to prevent Cat Stevens from getting in.
I cheered when KISS (finally) made the ballot, and won.
And here we are again:
Time to scream at each other about the latest nominees for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Once again, you can vote on a pre-selected short list of nominees over at the Hall’s site — in between yelling “What???” “Who???” and “Wait: Isn’t he in there already?”
That short list is — brace yourself:
- Green Day
- Nine Inch Nails
- The Smiths
- Lou Reed
- Paul Butterfield Blues Band
- Joan Jett & the Blackhearts
- The Marvelettes
- The Spinners
- Stevie Ray Vaughan
- Bill Withers
Oscar Wilde’s 1882 journey to America continues to fascinate, and why not?
Everyone loves a fish out of water story, so the true saga of a Victorian dandy roughing it on the wild American frontier, hanging out with (and winning over) rugged coal miners and cowboys is pretty irresistible.
(That Wilde’s garish velvet get-ups clothed a beefy 6’3″ Irishman perfectly capable of beating up bullies no doubt surprised and delighted his new admirers.)
Now a new book revisits Wilde’s visit to the New World, but with a twist.
David M. Friedman’s Wilde in America presents his subject as the proto-Kardashian:
If that seems unfair to the acclaimed playwright, essayist, poet, children’s author (and gay movement mascot), Friedman reminds readers that when Oscar Wilde stepped off the ship onto America’s shores, he was, in fact, none of those things.
Peeping Tom airs on TCM this Saturday (October 4), as one of this month’s “Cult Films.”
I imagine this will provide many viewers with their first opportunity to view this infamous 1960 Michael Powell movie.
Interestingly, TCM is broadcasting Peeping Tom at 3 pm ET. This British picture’s contemporaneous, and condemnatory, critics might never have believed that, over half a century later, this movie would be beamed, unedited, into homes on a weekend afternoon.
At the Daily Express, Len Mosley wrote, “Neither the hopeless leper colonies of East Pakistan, the back streets of Bombay nor the gutters of Calcutta — has left me with such a feeling of nausea and depression.”
The most famous pan was penned by Derek Hill at the Tribune, who declared:
The only really satisfactory way to dispose of Peeping Tom would be to shovel it up and flush it swiftly down the nearest sewer.
However, viewers hoping for (or dreading) an exercise in raw cinematic gore based on those old reviews will be surprised.
I’ve written before about that phenomenon — does it have a name? — whereby a particular song takes on an added layer of poignancy after a performer dies.
For me, those songs include Boston’s “More than a Feeling” (after vocalist Brad Delp committed suicide in 2007) and any number of Joe Strummer’s solo tunes, particularly his version of “Redemption Song.”
I hope you know what I mean.
(And will add your own lists of such songs in the comments.)
While I’ve never been a big Fleetwood Mac fan, if I ever do hear their tune “Sara” again, I suspect it will have a similar effect on me:
Stevie Nicks is no stranger to rumors. She finally confirmed longstanding conjecture that she wrote one of her best-known songs partly about the child she conceived with Eagles frontman Don Henley, then aborted.
Henley said more than 20 years ago that the Fleetwood Mac song “Sara,” which hit number 7 on the Billboard charts in 1979, was about the baby they never saw. (…)
In a special interview with Billboard magazine on Friday, Nicks said their baby inspired many of the song’s lyrics.
“Had I married Don and had that baby, and had she been a girl, I would have named her Sara,” she said.
I put off writing this for as long as I could.
I told myself I still had the same headache I had yesterday.
And hey, there’s an Auction Hunter marathon on, and…
Then the irony hit me:
This had been my idea, to write a response to Hand to Mouth, author Linda Tirado’s viral internet “Why I’m poor” post-turned-book.
And that one of the reasons I’m not poor anymore is because I work even when I don’t feel like it, and it feels like a summer day even though it’s the end of September, and…
So here goes:
Last week, I told you about Tar Sands Messiah, a forthcoming satirical documentary about a real-life Canadian oil sands resident who plans to travel to Hollywood (possibly by dog sled) and “raise awareness” about the stupidity and hypocrisy of environmentalists and their celebrity mouthpieces.
Director Tim Moen is crowdfunding the movie, and he’s already closing in on the 30% mark in less than one week.
That’s why a member of the Tar Sands Messiah team called me yesterday to pass along a message, and say thank you:
You see, PJ Media readers account for the second highest number of clicks and donations; only the mighty climate-change skeptic site WattsUpWithThat beat us to the number one spot.
Based on the trailer alone, this movie is going to be pretty sweet.
To learn more, and maybe even donate, visit the Tar Sands Messiah Indigogo site.
Since it first aired in 1961, one particular episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents has lingered in the minds of millions of Americans:
The episode “Bang! You’re Dead,” which originally aired in 1961 and can be viewed in full online, tracks an afternoon of agonizing roulette. A young boy replaces the toy gun in his holster with the real revolver he finds in his uncle’s suitcase, which he partially loads with live rounds. For a pulse-pounding afternoon, the boy waltzes around town, slipping through each townsperson’s grip as he plays cowboy. “Stick ’em up!” he orders. Friends and neighbors all bashfully obey, teasing out the boy’s joke—and the audience’s horror.
Hitchock directed this episode himself, and it shows.
Not only because it’s a primer in the use of story-boarding and editing to induce tension in viewers, but because, as an Englishman, Hitchcock no doubt looked down on America’s gun culture as crude, juvenile and deeply dangerous.
Another educated guess:
“Bang!” is Hitchcock’s self-imposed penance for widely criticized scenes in two of his films.
Others condemned the climactic scene in the original The Man Who Knew Too Much, in which a phalanx of unarmed English “bobbies” is unsentimentally shot down in one pitiless sweep.
(Note: Hitchcock’s contempt for the police would make a rapper blush; I’ve always wondered if his justification for that disdain was just a self-serving, apocryphal alibi.)
(And this isn’t the place to do much more than note in passing that the villains in both films were anarchists — the “Muslim terrorists” of Hitchcock’s childhood, but largely anachronistic by the 1930s.)
In any event, it speaks volumes about the power of “Bang! You’re Dead” that that particular 50+ year old, 30-minute long TV episode was chosen as the key component of a potentially game-changing medical experiment.
No wonder people are talking about one particular article at something called EliteDaily.com, a site that bills itself as “The Voice of Generation Y.”
(As long as you’re good looking, that is.)
(Poking a little deeper into the site, I’m forced to presume that EliteDaily has a “no ugly chicks” hiring policy.)
(Although I guess the site’s name should’ve been a clue. Dummy me!)
The article’s title — “50 Things About Millennials That Make Corporate America Sh*t Its Pants” — promises a heaping serving of perennially provocative “generation gap” polemics, in easily digestible list form.
Forget click bait:
This is click chum.
Does the article deliver on the promise of its title?
Most don’t these days, do they?
“50 Things…” is crisp and coherent, but (not surprisingly) the “Port Huron Statement” it ain’t.
Canadian filmmaker and Fort McMurray resident Tim Moen has come up with one of the best documentary ideas I’ve heard of in some time:
In the spirit of Michael Moore’s Roger & Me — but without the multiple lies – Moen plans to turn the tables on the showbiz leftists who love coming to his hometown to lecture the locals about the “evils” of the oil sands industry:
Moen’s pitch-perfect trailer for his movie Tar Sands Messiah offers a tantalizing taste of the entire film, one he’s hoping to get crowd-funded to the tune of $63,000.
Over the past decade, I’ve filmed around the world in places such as Africa and Japan and worked locally with environmentalists and celebrities such as Neil Young.
I’ve been deeply troubled by the biased narrative that many of my clients have when they come here to film. Because of that, I have defended my community and the oil sands industry in the media…
This film will be part light-hearted satire and part inspirational documentary.
It will document my mission, as an environmentalist from the heart of the oil sands, to turn Los Angeles from its evil polluting ways and bring them the clean technologies of my people.
I have a sinking feeling that Tar Sands Messiah won’t be picked for the Sundance Festival once it gets made…
If you want to learn more, and see how you can help fund this hilarious-sounding movie, check out Tim’s Tar Sands Messiah Indigogo site.
Watch the trailer on the next page.
There’s more fallout from the Ray Rice domestic violence incident and the turmoil it has caused for the NFL – CBS and Rihanna are splitting up.
The network said Tuesday it was permanently editing a song featuring Rihanna’s voice out of its Thursday night NFL telecasts – after the singer issued a profane Tweet about it.
CBS issued a statement saying that it was “moving in a different direction” with different theme music.
The song was one of a handful of elements CBS cut out of its inaugural Thursday night football telecast. At the time, CBS Sports president Sean McManus said Rihanna’s own history as a victim of domestic violence was one part of the decision but not the overriding one.
Had the NFL kept the song in rotation, they’d have been torn apart on Twitter and elsewhere for “bad optics.”
(There’s a “broken occipital bone” joke in there somewhere…)
The league is currently in full hair-shirting mode, pantomiming “outrage” and “concern.”
But of course, some will now scream that the NFL is “punishing the victim” by “silencing a battered woman’s voice” or something. (See below.)
So the Jews did it after all.
OK, scratch out that pluralizing “s.”
Not that it will make any difference to diehard antisemitic conspiracy nuts – “the men who taste Jews in their sandwiches.”
Those types must have squirmed with glee when the Daily Mail reported that Jack the Ripper’s identity had finally been revealed thanks to DNA testing.
The mentally deranged Kosminski was 25 years old, an immigrant (likely from Russia’s Pale of Settlement), a sometime-hairdresser – and a Jew.
The adjective “iconic” is criminally overused, particularly by enthusiastic but historically illiterate youngsters.
However, for many old fogeys, the photograph above actually deserves that designation.
Just check out that badass Rasta, striding fearlessly, even casually, toward a line of (probably) white London cops.
He’s alone, but this is his neighborhood, not theirs, so why should he cower, despite the menace hovering in the air?
Surely something has exploded, gone horribly, fatally wrong — or is just about to — beyond the frozen boundaries of this picture, which seems to be holding its breath, like an enjambed line of poetry.
Although this photo was taken in 1976, it seems weirdly timeless, yet timely, especially in the wake of Ferguson.
And it is, except not for the reason one might expect.