Sound Affects

by Ken Allard

re-posted from the San Antonio Express-News

There he was, this generation’s equivalent of George Marshall, the brilliant proconsul testifying before Congress to underline the improbable but now indisputable victory over al Qaida.

In military history, the turn-around David Petraeus has commanded in Iraq rivals MacArthur’s surprise landing at Inchon. For awhile, that master-stroke reversed the rising Chinese tide in the Korean conflict, although eventually it could only underline certain eternal questions in war. How do you deal with an enemy who can learn lessons? And how do you judge when the next objective might be a bridge too far?

An earlier and more attentive generation might have idolized Petraeus. This one barely grasps his victory and has no idea who he is. The Pew Research Center reports that 55 percent of the public cannot even recognize his name — roughly the same percentage as those who wish the war would just fade away.

For most Americans, Iraq is distant thunder, an unpleasant interruption troubling the nightly news. Even if war coverage finishes above the producer’s cut-line, the dots are rarely well connected for an audience in which military illiteracy is always a working assumption.

An example over the last fortnight has been the Shiite revolt in Basra and other parts of Iraq. Ever since Saddam’s overthrow, well armed sectarian militias have been a basic fact of Iraqi life — so much so that it once seemed as though the country might be partitioned along ethnic and religious lines: Kurd, Sunni and Shiite. The surge changed all that, particularly when reinforced by the recreated and resurgent Iraqi military — the key to any American exit strategy worthy of the name. The new correlation of forces created the stable platform on which both military and political progress might be made.

Those developments could first be seen in the astonishing Sunni uprising against al Qaida, although the logic was pure Machiavelli: Where tribalism reigns, simply become the strongest, meanest tribe in the neighborhood.

Similarly, the authors of the new counterinsurgency strategy also seemed to have learned something from the Untouchables: When the enemy sends three of yours to the hospital, send five of his to the morgue. But al-Qaida clearly understood what the media and their notoriously fickle audiences did not: Americans had finally become serious about winning.

Victory has its own logic, eventually prompting the long overdue fight against the Shiite militias. However clumsy and ill-timed by the Maliki government, however uneven the skills of the adolescent Iraqi military, the assault against Shiite strongholds was exactly what was so loudly demanded on Capitol Hill this week: An unmistakable harbinger of Iraqi political progress. But not surprisingly, the language and logic were quintessentially Middle Eastern: Win the street-fight first and political reconciliation follows.

Petraeus may eventually take his place in history as neither a Marshall nor a MacArthur but instead as an Eisenhower. However that may turn out, it was embarrassing this week to see just how profoundly the military institution outclasses and outperforms its political masters. Hillary Clinton whined endlessly about an “orderly withdrawal,” Barack Obama opined about “endpoints,” while John McCain repeated the obvious about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Sen. Richard Lugar, always a source of wisdom, put things in the proper historical context by quoting from the recent testimony of retired Maj. Gen. Robert Scales, former commandant of the Army War College: “In a strange twist of irony for the first time since the summer of 1863, the number of American ground soldiers available is determining policy rather than policy determining how many troops we need. The only point of contention is how precipitous will be the withdrawal.”

Think about that. Attacked at home on 9-11 by the deadliest enemy since the Civil War, we were called not to national sacrifice but to return to the shopping malls. An uncommitted nation drafted dollars rather than its sons and daughters.

Too intimidated even to raise the issue of national service, we now engage in the bovine contemplation of retreat as “change.” While hoping our enemies won’t notice that self-deception, rather than baseball, has become the national pastime.

It is almost impossible to estimate the number of drug addicts in Australia. Far from being limited to illicit drugs such as heroin and methamphetamines, there must be uncounted thousands, even hundreds of thousands, suffering from addiction to alcohol, cigarettes and gambling.

And not content with running one life, addiction destroys the lives of those who know the addict – it steals away a friend, a relative, a loved one.

I know far too much about this side of addiction. This past summer should have been a carefree, joyous time with my girlfriend, but instead it has been arduous and taxing. Instead of planning for the future, it seems as though we are just trying to stagger through to the end of the day. There have been some distractions, thankfully, and her habit hasn’t been fed every day. I can’t begin to comprehend how helpful this has been in curbing her excesses.

Even so, we have been living in solitude, due simply to the solo nature of her drug of choice – Guitar Hero.

It is not uncommon for me to fall asleep, only to be woken at 3 or 4 in the morning by the mashing of coloured buttons and the clunk of the strum bar.

Our sex life, spectacular before, is now limited to Poison’s Talk Dirty To Me.

Our love of discovering new music and our passionate arguments about the merits of various releases, has now been stripped down to a single consideration – whether or not it would be fun to play on GH.

Our social life, once vibrant and exhaustive, is now only slightly busier than John Howard’s secretary. We haven’t done anything in weeks. We don’t paint the town red anymore. We just stay home and Paint It, Black.

Still, there is always hope. Hope that she will become so involved in uni that she forgets her addiction. Hope that, one day, she will once again see me as more than just a backup player when her hand gets tired. Hope that one day, soon, the madness will end.

Hmm?

What’s that?

…

What’s Rock Band?

One of the strangest experiences of my life was sitting in the ACER while all around me lawyers and big-businessmen watched Blue King Brown and their brand of post-Inconvenient Truth roots music in this gigantic, soulless cavern. Stranger still was that they all seemed to be enjoying it

Quite a lot.
And, although I think BKB are more concerned with appearing socially aware than anything else, I must admit they put in a good show.
Including audience participation.
Quite generous audience participation.
Which, again, was weird.
Although, really, if you can’t get your message across in a 45-minute set, I don’t think you deserve a 5 minute monologue at the end of it to make it obvious what you’re all about.

But as I saw countless Santana t-shirts with “love”, “peace” and “freedom” writ large, and watched an intro video in which these words were flashed on the big screens superimposed on an image of a flying dove, it all made sense – I had somehow gotten mixed up with a slew of middle-aged ex-hippies who hadn’t been able to take time out of their Commerce/Law degree to actually go to Sunbury in the first place.
Never was this more apparent that during Carlos Santana’s sickening monologues, like when he brought Natalie Pa’apa’a from BKB out on stage and began to exalt the “sister side of us all”, concluding with the stunning revelation that, without women, none of us would be here.

Now kids, I want you to say hell to Mr Carlos Santana, your new Year 3 Science teacher.

But no science teacher in the world can play guitar like that.
It was absolutely gorgeous.
I’ve seen Tom Morrello, John Frusciante, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood, The Edge and Eric Clapton in the last couple of years, but Santana matched it with all of them.
His playing soared, swayed, soothed and screamed, and left no one in any doubt as to his mastery of his chosen weapon.

But what I couldn’t stop thinking was that Santana was in desperate need of a frontman – his own Jagger, Iggy, Bono or Zack de la Rocha . For while Santana played beautifully, he was just chilling out in a dirty red beanie, an old t-shirt and some track pants, while two guys who sounded like rejects from Boys II Men sang all the songs. I couldn’t wait for them to shut the hell up so I could get back to enjoying my evening.
Don’t get me wrong, the band was brilliant. The drumming, courtesy of ex-Parliament/Funkadelic Dennis Chambers, was the best live drumming I’ve ever heard. He unleashed a solo that began well, seemed to peter out, and then exploded in this cavalcade of rolling, clashing drums and cymbals that had everyone in the audience rise as one in a standing ovation. What’s more, the two bongo players, brass section, Hammond organ, bass and second guitar filled the air better than I had ever imagined.
What it missed, though, was a focal point – someone to command the audience’s attention so that Santana could just chill out.
The man has all the natural stage presence of a mollusc, which is a great shame when the music is as good as anything going around.

So, what kind of audience is it that turns up to see Guy Sebastian play with some of the most respected soul musicians in the world?

Well, it’s an odd one.

There are the obligatory tweeny-boppers, invariably accompanied by their over-eager parents.
Then there are the old guys who have been hoarding Stax and Decca records since their 15th birthday in 1963, and have finally got the chance to see some of their heroes play live. They don’t really know who Guy Sebastian is, other than through a general, vague awareness, but as far as they are concerned this band could be fronted by the reanimated corpse of Mussolini, just as long as they get to see Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn and Steve ‘The Colonel’ Cropper.
Then there are the large gaggles of middle-aged women – those who don’t listen to much music, but like non-threatening singers like Guy Sebastian. These women have music libraries filled with Cliff Richard, Il Divo and various Idol winners from around the world. Their interest in these men is never purely musical, of course. Indeed, they wistfully dream of these clean-cut Casanovas coming to their house, singing to them while they complete their tedious housework, and then making love to them in a way that their husbands (“One-Minute Mike” and “Two-Inch Tom”, as they joke to their friends) haven’t done since the dying days of the Reagan administration.

Aside from the old soul fans, those present went all gushy for the support act. I don’t remember his name, but that isn’t a great loss – he was Guy Sebastian, but less in every aspect. His voice isn’t nearly as good, his songs are about as interesting as 3a.m. T.V, and instead of sounding like a nice, intelligent, humble person when he spoke, instead he managed both to forget the phrase “crowning glory” and sound like a complete gronk in the process. This man will never trouble the ARIA judges.

As for Guy Sebastian himself?

It’s like…

Well…

Ok.

So before Guy came out, they played us this video about the history of Stax Records. And as story after story about Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Al Green and Booker T & The MGs, you began to think about these titans of music: about how this music was born in the cotton fields of the South, how white men and black played this music together at a time when they couldn’t sit in the same area of a McDonalds, and how these immortal voices carried the urgency and the rage of an entire race trying to break through the hate and rage of centuries.
And then Guy Sebastian comes on stage, and his voice is flawless, and his energy is relentless, and the love from the audience is tangible – but something is missing. It lacks, dare I say it, any soul.
When Wilson Pickett sings “I’m going to wait ‘til the midnight hour”, you know EXACTLY what is going to go down in the midnight hour. When Guy Sebastian sings it, you just aren’t sure. Is he going help your kids with their homework? Is he going to sit on your couch and watch Scream with you and hold you close when you get frightened?
In fact, the show only kicked up out of karaoke mode three times:
1 – Guy sung a new song of his called Fire, and you could absolutely feel the passion, the urgency and the sheer need in his voice. It didn’t sound like mimicry, and it didn’t sound hollow – it was pure energy and total desire.
2 – When the rest of the band left the stage, and the MGs played their classic instrumental Green Onions. Everyone was out of their seat, dancing like mad as this most brilliant of bands played this most brilliant of tracks.
3 – Just as the set was getting warmed up, Jimmy Barnes came on stage for a special surprise appearance. He sang two songs, Sam & Dave’s classic Hold On, I’m Coming and When Something Is Wrong With My Baby, and really showed everyone what a frontman should be about. It really seemed like something was wrong with his baby, and that it really hurt him to the depths of his being. Guy, on the other hand, made it seem slightly hypothetical, as though if something ever happened to his baby, it probably would, you know, be kinda crap.

It was a really fun gig, and it was something of a dream realised to see the MGs. But it never really kicked out of 2nd gear. What it was missing was real soul.

yes, I have finally succumbed to the inevitable.

as someone who thinks of themselves as a writer, to write things and not see them published anywhere but your own notebook is a somewhat depressing sight.

also, there is something to be said for having an audience. even if that audience is my mother and my girlfriend, it’s still an audience. and if I have an audience, I will endeavor to write for them.

and so I will be writing about a whole lot of things: music, politics, film, ideas.
I’ll probably repost a good amount of stuff from newspapers, other blogs and whatnot.

the world is too big, too complex, for one person to claim a monopoly on knowledge. so I’ll be sharing it around a bit.

enjoy

H.