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‘Time Would Change Me’: Weekend Pop

In 1992 Scottish group Nightcrawlers released ‘Push the Feeling On’, an acid jazz track which one member, John Reid, commented was dated even for the time. DJ Marc Kinchen remixed the track and almost totally transformed the song. The only surface level recognisability of the original track is the repeating line ‘their lives again […] their li […] to pull us’ and the occasional and eponymous ‘push the feeling.’ The remix became very popular and dwarfed the original track, eventually ending up as the official version on the Nightcrawlers’ album; it soon became a staple of 90s house and dance music.

            In 2009 American rapper Pitbull sampled Kinchen’s remix in his song ‘Hotel Room Service.’ What started as acid jazz then house became a sort of hip-hop-oriented pop with repetitive and catchy lyrics:

Forget about your boyfriend

And meet me at the hotel room

You can bring your girlfriends

And meet me at the hotel room

Forget about your boyfriend

And meet me at the hotel room

You can bring your girlfriends

And meet me at the hotel room.

One could imagine this section repeating infinitely.

            In 2021 ‘Friday’ was released by English DJ Riton and Nightcrawlers. This track sampled Kinchen’s remix once again, seemingly evoking dreams of the ability to party after the coronavirus pandemic has subsided. The song begins by sampling internet personalities Mufasa and Hypeman whose line ‘It’s Friday then…There’s Saturday, Sunday what?’ becomes the central repetition. As the song goes on the sensation of trying to conjure the weekend, of being able to go out and safely party feels…mismatched. The song feels backward-looking despite trying to create hope for the future. Where is the sense of newness in this track that relies heavily on the musical pull of a nearly thirty-year old track? Perhaps the almost ‘stuck’ sense of the track is best exemplified in the lyric ‘Every Friday, Saturday, Sunday / Endless Weekend on a Wave.’ This desire of infinity or infinite desire feels impotent, as if it nearly reaches some form of conclusion around the drudgery of the week that makes the weekend so significant socially. The roster of drugs might have changed a little since the 90s but the music here feels stuck in a loop, wishing only to revert to the sedate period before the pandemic where social relations felt less vulgarly exposed.

            Another line that unconsciously compounds the sense of stagnation is:

I thought the hands of time would change me

And I’d be over this by now, yeah

It’s been too long since we got crazy

I’m lowkey spinnin’ out.

In a sense, the experience of static existence here correlates with the general thesis of hauntology, that although technological and material relations may develop and change over time, our psycho-social and cultural experiences have slowed if not ground to a halt. Whilst the world is trying to bounce back economically from the pandemic, and certain modes of labour relations like working from home might become further engrained, collapsing previous boundaries of place, pop culture has yet to fully realise or reckon with this.

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Culture

Gogglebox and Desire

Whilst catching up on the seventeenth season of Gogglebox the other evening I began to feel more and more like what I was viewing was a form of manufactured consent. Every episode opens with the narrator’s placid ‘in the week [of headline news] we enjoyed lots of great telly.’ Although at times the various households disagree with or mock what they are watching, overall, they enjoy on our (the audience’s) behalf the viewing. The show is perfect for the emotionally-drained, those who have worked all day at one form of job only to come home to other forms of labour. The toll of work, of household upkeep, emails, and direct messages, leads one to watch Gogglebox not with the expectation of enjoyment exactly, but the ability to sit passively and allow others on your behalf to enjoy for you. Whether or not you enjoy the programming highlighted is inconsequential. You watch for the reactions. I’d wager about once per episode there is usually one program that would be worth watching outside of this show. For the most part it highlights television’s depressed landscape of insincere reality shows, the plastered-on Saturday night grins of Ant and Dec, and endless news cycles. Even in the case of Ant and Dec, which in at least one episode solicited jibing comments, constitutes ‘great telly’, whether or not it is actually ‘good.’ It still evokes reaction. The desert of television on display, where rare oases can be found, is always saved by the enjoyment and judgement of the viewers being viewed. There is a winning formula to the show (its seventeenth iteration speaks volumes) but it also feels like a call for something new. The market of reaction that produces and trades in Gogglebox is even more so visible on YouTube where react videos for a period of several years reigned supreme in accruing numbers. Reactions, although perhaps at times veering close to critique, always remain safely in the box of pre-existing consumer comfort. Gogglebox feels like a network effectively summarising its content as ‘this is what we’ve got. You’re welcome, we’re not doing more’, but at least they offer to relieve you of the need to desire direct consumption of its media.

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Culture

What does the Ghostface mask ‘mean’?

Everybody knows Edvard Munch’s famous painting ‘The Scream’, and if you’re reading this you probably know the Ghostface mask from Wes Craven’s classic Scream. What is their relation? I think there is more to it than the Ghostface mask simply being a hurried selection from a costume store before filming began. Munch’s painting and the Ghostface mask are not coincidentally related, it’s not just that the latter was inspired by the former. Critic Frederic Jameson saw the painting as being a portrait of pure anxiety in the context of modernity, arguing ‘its gestural content already underscores its own failure, since […] the cry, the raw vibrations of the human throat, are incompatible with its medium (something underscored within the work by the homunculus’ lack of ears).’ The weird figure in ‘The Scream’ is ineffective in its self-expression, of its attempt to scream out and proclaim its own individuality. The disturbed individual and its specificity within the painting both contrasts and corresponds to the Ghostface mask. The killer and its identity become one of a lifted aesthetic, a notion of some previous period re-emerging, in Roger L. Jackson’s words: ‘retaining a mournful sadness that’s almost dreamlike.’ The subject of the painting which screams transformed becomes within the film the contemptuous and sardonic subject which inspires screams. No longer is the screaming subject silent but neither is it entirely as personable as the painting. Ghostface is anonymised, as Wes Craven says ‘that horrible ghost face killer is us and […] to me the most important thing that we all have to do as human beings is stop externalizing evil and look inside of ourselves.’ As critic Walter Benjamin argued, film transcends paintings for its ability to traverse space in completely new ways, but I would also argue in addition that the innovation of sound in film lends another dimension to its revolutionary potential. The subject of the painting, once trapped within its soundless scream, is transformed by Ghostface, whose voice grants themselves at once a cruel and detached personality and power. If one looks at the original concept art for Ghostface we understand in its cartoonish forms and its pointed eyes that it bears almost too much personality as it were, rendering them too close in a sense, to the original painting. The final design of Ghostface is the postmodern answer to Munch’s work, sanitised of fleshy blemishes and the human character, liberated by its ability to speak and in turn inspire screams.

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Culture

Choices: The Death of Video Rental

As a kid my weekends were best defined by Choices. It’s very weird to me that I am possibly part of the last generation to benefit from DVD rental stores, like these days it’s a total thing of the past…everything is online. You don’t go into a store anymore and browse films or video games, you hear about them online, you watch trailers or game footage on Youtube, you stream stuff on Netflix or download games on Steam or pre-order them on Amazon. I don’t think I can argue we can go back to this old model; we’re maybe too far gone from that period where we needed physical stores manned by people in their late twenties. For half of my life span at this moment of writing, Choices has been absent from my life, and I want to talk about that.

            I used to go in with my mum and my brother on a Friday after school and we’d pick out video games to rent for the weekend. The few that stick out in my memory include The Simpsons Skateboarding, The Simpsons Wrestling, and Scooby Doo! Night of 100 Frights. The last one particularly has meant a lot to me, but we’ll get to that. It felt nice that for a small fee we had something to pass the weekend with and that there was a certain responsibility (at least for our parents) to return the game by Monday.

            There was also a flipside to the more fun, cartoony options at Choices, namely horror and pornography, categories I would not properly be acquainted with for some time. I remember there being displays of films like Saw and The Nightmare Before Christmas, two films that in my mind at the time were equally disconcerting. I never really knew, or at least I don’t remember there being porn at Choices, but my brother affirms that in their dying days they shifted their business model a tad. This clearly didn’t save them in the end, but I have got to hand it to them for trying. In any case, walking around a store with as diverse options as gory horror movies and random Simpsons sporting games felt wondrous to me, it was a place that at once balanced familiarity and safety with concepts that teased at stuff beyond me, that I would only appreciate in the future. Of course…the future came.

            I think it’s fair to say as a kid you don’t really appreciate all the weird, complex factors that make up the economy or what that means for you or your life or anyone else’s. Suffice to say, the internet threatened physical rental stores like Choices and soon it went into administration, with what assets it had being sold off to Blockbuster. Choices didn’t adapt in the same way Blockbuster had tried to with online streaming and unfortunately it paid the price. If memory serves me correctly, Choices in my town closed in 2007, and the stout, redbrick building it once occupied remained a husk for some time. I grew up. A bit. I would walk by after secondary school sometimes as a teenager and see an empty store and feel sad. Eventually my school had secured space in the empty store to display students’ art which was at least a nice use of the defunct store. Then it got divided, with one small portion of the building being converted into a Chinese takeaway, and the surplus space eventually becoming a charity shop. I think I have stepped into the charity shop only once so far since it opened. It’s strange, the building I am so familiar with in my memories being so alien now in the present. Perhaps that’s okay, things change, and the economic factors which fuel competition and innovation which put video rental stores out of business are far out of my control. The internet offers a level of productivity and stream-lined supply which meets the demands of the 21st century in a way that video stores just can’t anymore.

            My last vivid memory of the store was late night shopping, the annual Christmas consumer spectacle for our small town. I used to love it as a kid. The music in the square was always blaring, you had live bands on sometimes, and a firework display, though sometimes we were the wrong end of town to properly see it. What could be more fun than staying out late? Eating bad food like cotton candy and chips and walking around shops late at night…who decided shopping late at night was somehow culturally alluring? Even as an adult I don’t understand it, but I concede there is something attractive about the notion, it makes even the most innocent purchase of something like a tub of ice cream seem seedy. I digress, my family went into Choices during late night shopping and it couldn’t have been long before they closed. It might have been their last Christmas.

            My happiest memory of the store was the day I bought Scooby Doo! Night of 100 Frights from Choices. I still have the copy. Choices the store might be gone and for all intents and purposes fading from both public and consumer memory, but their blue £9.99 sticker still occupies the upper right corner of my copy of Scooby Doo! Night of 100 Frights. I am fond of Choices for its part in my childhood and I am neither naïve nor cynical in my fondness. I have a complex relationship with the capitalist culture that bred video rentals and subsequently buried them. Here I put forward a dialectics of naivety and cynicism, a sense of sincerity, where the building that still stands in my town square has some profound place in my heart but the very material and spiritual circumstances that once joined us has become wholly disparate.