RSS Feed

Just some guys talking about Bruce

albumbox

Below is a promo video for the forthcoming boxed set of Bruce Springsteen’s first seven albums, which have been remastered on vinyl from the original analog tapes. In the video, a select group of Springsteen’s “most loyal” fans (that’s the wording the official Springsteen website used to introduce the video today) get a sneak preview of the remastered albums and share their thoughts.  Let’s watch, shall we?

Notice something missing?  To recap, the participants who are filmed discussing the new boxed set are, with one exception, middle-aged white guys. There is one younger African American guy and one young white guy who proclaims himself a “vinyl snob”. There is a blonde woman who is quickly seen in one of the first pan shots, but we never see her again and her opinion is not included. There is an older blonde woman in the background when some of the guys are talking, but she never speaks. Oh, and there’s a reflection of a woman passerby in the window of the record shop in the first shot of the storefront where the listening session takes place. Probably on her way to the nail salon down the street.

Look, I don’t know what happened when this focus group was created. Maybe the women spoke, but were edited out for one reason or another. Maybe an attempt was made to invite more women, but everyone had other commitments. Maybe the guys never got the memo that they were each supposed to bring a female Bruce friend. Maybe it’s a truth universally acknowledged that only guys can hear the subtleties of remastered sound quality.

All I know is, if you told me that this was an SNL Video Short spoofing Springsteen’s perceived fan base, I’d believe you. Actually, I’m still hoping it is. Just drop Bobby Moynihan as Chris Christie in there, maybe Taran Killam in a “Born in the U.S.A.” bandanna — boom, instant classic.

I have spent 36 years trying to explain to non-fans how wrong their stereotypical view of Springsteen’s music and his fan base is — the Boss isn’t just for (now, old) white guys, honest!  But, hey, if official marketing material is going to reinforce that stereotype, why should I bother?

The irony is, Springsteen himself has long ago put the image of the E Street Band as a boys’ club to rest. The band has women in it, and their voices were an integral element of the 2012-14 tour. The audience has women in it, now more than ever. And think about these classic lyrics: “So Mary climb in, it’s a town full of losers, we’re pulling out of here to win”; “Come on Wendy, tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.” The Boss never excluded women from the journey, the rock and roll adventure. Which makes our exclusion from this promo all the more glaring. We are in this conversation, whether we’re invited or not.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

 

 

 

From the vault: Twin Peaks, in its time

TwinPeaks_openingshotcredits

To be honest, I’m a little surprised David Lynch and Mark Frost are going there again. And a little worried. Twin Peaks was so far ahead of its time in its time, will it meet itself coming backwards when it returns as a Showtime series? Because of Twin Peaks, viewers weren’t put off by the mind-bending metaphysical and supernatural touches of shows like The X-Files and Lost. Because of Twin Peaks, we now watch dramas — whether The Sopranos, Mad Men, Breaking Bad — with a scavenger-hunt eye out for portents and clues.  What more can Twin Peaks offer to the medium it helped to change?

I wrote about Twin Peaks extensively when I was the TV critic for the old San Francisco Examiner. From the show’s premiere on April 8, 1990, to its cancellation after only 30 episodes (but a lot of doughnuts), I was under the show’s spell as both a critic and a fan.  I wanted to link to some of those articles here, because they capture the sense of what it was like to watch Twin Peaks at the moment it became a cultural phenomenon. But, sadly, the Examiner is not digitally archived.

I do have hard copies, though, and if I can find a way to scan the oversized daily-paper clippings, I will. I did find one immediately scannable piece that I wrote for Image, the Sunday magazine published by the Examiner and San Francisco Chronicle (the two rival papers put out a joint Sunday edition, thanks to an operating agreement too complicated to get into here). I’m proud of this piece, and I don’t think I can write anything better about Twin Peaks right now, not having seen the show in 23 years. So here’s a scanned copy of that essay;  if you’re reading on anything larger than a tablet, you’ll have to click and use your zoom in/out tool to adjust the image. It’s a little clunky, but it works.

I apologize for the use of “Chinese puzzle” in the subhead (which I didn’t write) and the use of “midget” instead of “dwarf” (my usage) to describe the Little Man;  this was written in a less enlightened time. There are also some weird typographical errors in the original, with words randomly hyphenated where there should have been line breaks. Please ignore.

Now, please join me in the Wayback Machine. The dial is set for full immersion, as we travel back to Twin Peaks mania, 1990.

 

TP1

 

 

 

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

“As the Parallel World Turns” ©The San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle, 1990

 

 

The Outlander post, continued: Like a virgin

And so, to bed. (Starz)

And so, to bed. (Starz)

(SPOILERS AHEAD)

Seven episodes into the first half of its first season, the Starz series Outlander finally got down to serious business and wedded and bedded its protagonists, Claire Randall (Caitriona Balfe), a time traveling British Army nurse from 1945 mystically cast back to 1743 Scotland, and Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan), a Highlander outlaw.

The hastily arranged marriage was engineered by Jamie’s uncle Dougal MacKenzie of Clan MacKenzie, of whom Claire is a guest/hostage, in order to save Claire from the sinister Redcoat captain Jonathan “Black Jack” Randall. An ancestor of Claire’s left-behind husband, Frank, Black Jack Randall is a sadist tasked with smoking out Scottish traitors plotting rebellion against British rule. He has a special interest in Claire, who he suspects of being an English prostitute spying for the French, and a very special (read: homoerotic) interest in Jamie, who he flogged to within an inch of his life when Jamie was his prisoner.  If Claire is married to a Scot, she becomes a Scot, and can no longer be compelled to obey Randall’s order to present herself for further questioning. Which is imperative, since Randall tried to rape her on their first meeting, and brutally punched her in the gut on their second.

But enough about that. Let’s get to the sex. Because the wedding episode of Outlander did some very interesting things, sexually speaking. Claire is a strong, adventurous heroine who, at 27, is four years years older than her bridegroom. She’s a married woman in her 1945 existence, and flashbacks have shown her to be a passionate lover, comfortable in her own skin, with a wry self-awareness. Jamie, on the other hand, is a devoutly Catholic virgin at 23. So, added to Claire’s anxiety at becoming a bigamist (of sorts) in the episode was the fact that she had to initiate Jamie into his first sexual experience. It’s not often that series TV presents an older woman/younger man love story, let alone one with the heroine taking the lead in deflowering her mate, in which the relationship is not played for laughs and the woman is not portrayed as a rapacious cougar.

But Outlander, like the book series on which the show is based, leaves such cliches behind and unfolds with a proudly estrogenic storytelling swagger. The wedding episode hewed closely to how author Diana Gabaldon portrayed the scene in book one of her series. Written by Anne Kenney and directed by Anna Foerster, it was a marvel of candlelit sensuality and revolved around a ratcheting eroticism that reminded me at times of Jane Campion’s masterpiece of female-centric erotica, The Piano.

Claire and Jamie began by drinking glass after glass of wine and simply talking to break the ice, like any couple getting to know one another. Claire finally worked up enough liquid courage to guide the gentlemanly but eager Jamie into an awkward coupling — he couldn’t even wait for them to get fully undressed before plowing into her. The result is brief and, as the polite but distracted half smile on Claire’s face lets us (and Jamie) know, unsatisfying .

And that happened just within the first 20 minutes. The rest of the episode moved back and forth in time, from Claire and Jamie in their bedroom, to the preparations for the wedding, to the dramatic ceremony (blood was drawn from a knife slash to each one’s wrist, and mingled in a hand-clasp tied in a white ribbon as they took their vows in Gaelic). We saw Claire remove her husband Frank’s ring and shakily begin to accept her alternate reality, to transfer her affections and loyalties to Jamie.

Jamie is an idealization of the perfect man. He’s brave and strong, but also sensitive and sweet. And kilted. And he has this wild mane of ginger hair and that charming Scots burr and the bluest eyes … Sorry, where was I?  Idealized man. Well, of course he is; Outlander is fantasy-sci-fi-historical-fiction-erotica for women, and more power to it.  There is manly man stuff in the saga, like soldiering and boar hunting and fighting and being brutish 18th century sexist dirtbags. But the story’s tension comes from how pointless and idiotic this all looks through Claire’s WWII-weary modern eyes, compared to the near-invisible daily strengths and struggles of the women she meets.

In one episode, a father dragged a teenage girl before the MacKenzie clan chieftain asking that she be corporally punished for her waywardness. In another episode, Claire watched village women setting dye in wool by dipping it into their own urine. She used her nursing skill to diagnose a case of poisoning in a child who was being treated with exorcism, in defiance of the priest who accused her of being a witch. This is the overtly sexist and misogynistic world into which Claire has been hurtled, and to which she must adjust her modern sensibilities if she is to survive. The delicious subtext of Outlander (and the novels) is that as Claire is pulled into Jamie’s physical world, she pulls Jamie into her inner world, and molds him into a prototype of a modern, considerate, but still strong, male partner.

The molding started in the wedding episode. After that first meh coupling, Claire and Jamie fell into more drinking and talking and a mutual opening of hearts, and as they relaxed and became more comfortable with one another, Claire realized that she was well and truly screwed, in the best way possible. She was falling in love. In an electrically fizzing scene, she told Jamie to stand up and take off his clothes, because she wanted to look at him. The camera looked at him too, as Claire walked around his well-muscled body like a museumgoer inspecting the statue of David. We saw plenty of Jamie’s rear and as much front as possible without being full frontal. There hasn’t been this much female gazing at a TV hero since that one season of Buffy where Spike was naked all the time.

Then Jamie gave Claire a crooked grin and told her it was her turn, and she obligingly dropped her nightshift. With the couple getting more turned on as they admired each other’s bodies, they finally toppled into bed and made some of the most joyously un-self-conscious love ever seen on series TV. The scene played as it had in the book — with intense tenderness and intimacy. And hotness. Like pancake batter on a griddle. (Much admiration to Balfe and Heughan for deftly navigating all of the emotional shadings in this episode and giving us a believable portrayal of awakening trust and love.)

Later, Claire took sexual charge again and introduced Jamie to fellatio. And in a reversal of the oft-repeated movie and TV scene where the camera fixes on the face of a young woman experiencing her first orgasm, here it was Jamie’s face registering surprise, arousal and ecstasy. The framing of the shot pulled us, the viewers, into Claire’s perspective; Jamie’s reactions clearly conveyed the power she held over him as lover and sexual instructor. And in giving Claire the power usually reserved for men in scenes like this, Outlander also acknowledged the sexual power of its female viewers. The moment was made all the more stunning and convention-busting by Claire’s obvious enjoyment of going down on her man, an act that has been used on testosterone-infused shows like Game of Thrones and Deadwood, to name two, as a signifier of male dominance and female whorishness. Instead, Outlander gave us a bedroom scene for the ages;  it never lost sight of the “love” in love-making and celebrated female sexuality, instead of denigrating it. I wish that didn’t seem like such a strange thing to see on TV, but it was.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

Earlier in the Outlander thread:

 The Story of ‘O': Outlander comes to TV (published 8/8/14)

The Scottish CosPlay: What they'll be wearing next year at Comic Con (Courtesy of Starz)

The Scottish CosPlay: What they’ll be wearing next year at Comic Con (Courtesy of Starz)

HERE BE SPOILERS! PROCEED WITH CAUTION! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!

You never forget your first spanking — of the literary kind. For me, it was Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, Chapter 22, which will heretofore be known as That Scene.

I had innocently picked up Gabaldon’s sci-fi-fantasy-historical romance page-turner at my local library’s sale of used paperbacks. Eight hundred pages for $2 — what a deal! I knew nothing about Outlander except that it was some kind of best-selling genre series. Harry Potter had ended and all I wanted was another thick, juicy, reasonably well-written escapist read to take my head-space somewhere else. So I gave it a shot.

I settled into the tale of Claire Randall, a British Army nurse during World War II, who comes home from the war to a society, and a husband, with whom she has fallen out of sync. Independent, resourceful, passionate and stubborn, Claire has been useful during the war, patching up casualties under the constant adrenaline-rush of danger. Now, she’s back in post-war England struggling to find a sense of purpose within the shrunken parameters of life as a respectable homemaker. Her husband Frank, a courtly Oxford professor who was a spy-runner for MI-6 during the war, wants to start a family, but Claire hasn’t been able to get pregnant.

The novel opens with Claire and Frank trying to get to know one another again on a post-war second honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands. The atmosphere is foggy and pagan; they witness a Druid sun-worshiping ritual, the locals speak of ghosts. Then, Claire wanders off to pick wildflowers (she’s studying their medicinal properties), gets too close to some Druid standing stones and — whoosh! She wakes up in the same woods, except it’s 1743, and there’s a Redcoat who looks just like Frank trying to rape her, but she’s saved/taken prisoner by a clan of Scottish rebels, one of whom is a big, ginger hunk named Jamie Fraser, and, merrily a-bodice-ripping we will go.

I don’t want to completely ruin the new Starz TV adaptation of Outlander (the first episode has been running on the Starz website and on various cable platforms for a while, but the series officially starts on August 9) for potential viewers, so let me say this one more time: SPOILERS A-COMING!

Claire and Jamie strike sparks, even if he can’t understand half the things this uppity “Sassanach”(outlander) is saying. Jamie is, in his own way, a lost soul as out of sync with his times as Claire is with hers. He’s a deeper, more curious, thinker than his rough-hewn cohort, with a dry sense of humor. He’s also an outlaw, but it was all a misunderstanding, really. They spar; they bond; they make wild, passionate, dirty (as in, it’s 18th century Scotland and everything is filthy) love while the clan plays cat and mouse with Frank’s sadistic ancestor, British Army captain “Black Jack” Randall. Yes, Outlander (which is the first in an eight-book series) had me from page one. I was enthralled by the boldly insane plot, I adored thoroughly modern Claire and her sometimes ill-advised attempts to bring feminism to the kilted savages. Eventually, I got to Chapter 22 (“Reckonings”), nearly 400 pages into the book, where Claire attempts to find the time portal to get back home, and ends up endangering the safety of the clan and Jamie has to discipline her with a belt and HELLO, WHAT THE HELL AM I READING?

Surprised as I was by Chapter 22, I had an, um, intensely favorable response to That Scene’s extreme hotness. As a feminist, this sent me into a crisis of conscience. I put the book down, unfinished, for a few weeks. I searched my soul. I started the book over from the beginning. I liked it just as much the second time through. I finally said, Screw you, conscience, if this is my kink, so be it.

For years, there has been plenty of discussion in reader forums about That Scene, and there will be plenty of discussion when it finally airs somewhere down the line (executive producer Ronald D. Moore is on record promising that the series will be faithful to the book). Is That Scene violence against women, domestic abuse? Or is it a sexy development that arises naturally out of the story, given the personalities of the protagonists? My feeling about the way it plays out in the book is that it’s more the latter than former. Gabaldon sets her story in an overtly brutal and sexist era; a belt-wielding hero feels right at home in this milieu.

If your mind is going to the icky — and totally invented for TV — scene in Game of Thrones where a crossbow-wielding Joffrey orders prostitute Ros to spank, then gruesomely beat, another whore, stop. That scene was the reason I gave up watching Game of Thrones, although I have devoured all the books. It was gratuitous, demeaning and brutalizing to the female characters, and, at that point in the story, unnecessary — we already knew Joffrey was a sadistic monster.

On the pages of Outlander, by contrast, the punishment to which Claire finally acquiesces in much the same way a mutinous soldier accepts military discipline, is a complex act, more than just a one-sided male-titillation or hack “taming of the shrew” theatrics. It’s a face-saving necessity to keep the clan from turning on Jamie and meting their own much more brutal “justice” upon Claire for her recklessness. In That Scene, Gabaldon makes it clear that Jamie and Claire are in this together, the good and the bad, as a team.

For Chapter 22 alone, Outlander is often compared to Fifty Shades of Grey. But there is nothing sexy in the latter’s tedious BDSM-ish romance, mainly because Christian and Ana are not truly partners in their dom-sub contract; she enters into it only because she wants to Reform Him With Her Love, and he is a raving, damaged stalker who often crosses the line from S&M play to outright abuse. But it’s also difficult to give a crap about two characters as ineptly drawn as Christian and Ana, particularly when you can feel E.L. James blushing and saying “Ewwwww” behind every sex scene.

Diana Gabaldon is no blusher, which is part of what makes Claire such a robust heroine. Outlander is written from Claire’s intelligent, confident and adaptive perspective, and that perspective is deeper and more reflective than Ana prattling on about her inner goddess. Claire likes sex. She would prefer not to be stuck in a time warp while having it, but there you go.

It’s a relief to see how well cast the show is. Sam Heughan is suitably beefy as Jamie, but with a pleasing vulnerable cast to his good looks. He doesn’t appear until the first episode is more than half over, and the pace quickens considerably when he does. Heughan has a demanding role ahead of him, embodying a literary character who ranks up there with Mr. Darcy and Heathcliff in the eyes of some women readers. I wish him godspeed.

Irish actress Caitriona Balfe is Claire in soul and fiery, sensual spirit. There’s a scene in the first episode where Claire and genealogy buff Frank are exploring the ruins of a castle and she perches on a dusty table, opening her legs to reveal that, underneath her crisp traveling suit, she has gone commando. Balfe’s sexual confidence in this scene is breathtaking. But Balfe makes just as forceful an impression in the prologue of the first episode. Elbow deep in the gore of a wounded soldier in a battlefield medical tent, Claire barks orders to the men around her, and is obeyed. A beat later, peace is declared and she doesn’t know what to do with herself . As nurses, medics and soldiers celebrate, she stands apart, dazed and covered in blood, and hoists a bottle of Champagne to her lips.

The scene is a foreshadowing of the dirk-wielding, herbal healing “medicine woman” Claire is to become when she falls through the wrinkle in time: Fierce, courageous, unflinching Claire is a warrior at heart, which is what draws her to Jamie. In post-war England, her wildness has to be tamped down, her promise stunted, but in her alternate universe with Jamie, it’s allowed to fly free. In turn, Jamie — who’s more civilized and thirsty for knowledge than he can let the clan know — recognizes Claire as a strong, enlightened mate, much more interesting than the local lassies.

Episode One gave me faith that producer Moore (of the Battlestar: Galactica reboot) would at least give Outlander a fighting chance to transfer to screen with its spirit undiminished. Moore is no stranger to sci-fi with rich layers of subtext, and Outlander is bursting with possibilities. Is the Highland fling with Jamie a manifestation of Claire’s restless, war-excited and war-traumatized inner life made flesh? Is this her conflicted psyche working out her fear of/longing for motherhood? Her anxiety over subsuming her identity and independence to make a proper marriage with Frank? (Adding fuel to that psychological fire, the same actor, Tobias Menzies, plays both Frank and Black Jack.)

Outlander has already been called the feminist answer to Game of Thrones. But I think the more apt comparison is the feminist, gender reverse of Doctor Who. Claire is a time traveler who can’t go home, but minds her exile less and less; she roams through time and space, healing, enlightening and fighting the patriarchy with as much female love, hope and ass-kicking energy as she can get away with. Instead of The Doctor’s (almost unanimously) young, attractive female companions, though, Claire has a strapping lad in a kilt. And on this wild ride, knickers are optional.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

Can we talk?

 

Before Amy Schumer …

Before Sarah Silverman …

Before Bridesmaids …

Before Chelsea Handler …

Before Kathy Griffin …

Before Sex and the City …

Before Roseanne …

Before Gilda, Jane and Laraine and all their Saturday Night Live daughters …

Before The Golden Girls …

Before Rhoda Morgenstern …

Before Bette Midler …

There was Joan Rivers.

And when she walked out on a stage and said, “Can we talk?,” she wasn’t really asking for anyone’s permission to be loud. To be raunchy. To be abrasive, sexually forthright, honest, ambitious, Jewish, herself.

Most of all, she wasn’t asking for anyone’s permission to be funny, or to be a woman. And in telling, not asking, she became a being so powerful that some men in her field still deny that such a creature exists:  A funny woman.

Because of her, we’ll never stop talking.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robin Williams, 1951-2014

Courtesy HBO

Courtesy HBO

I always thought Robin Williams bore an uncanny facial resemblance to the double masks of comedy and tragedy.  With his prominent nose skewing toward his prominent chin, he could go either way, and he took you along with him, whether into the blazing, manic hilarity of his stand-up, or the unforgettable cry of grief that ends the 1986 PBS “Great Performances” film of Saul Bellow’s “Seize the Day.”

Williams was a genius of comedy, agile, fearless and riffing at warp speed;  his 1980’s stand-up appearances on The Tonight Show, hosting Saturday Night Live and HBO specials were watershed moments in the era when comedians became rock stars. But his funny movies never quite did his rapid-fire, inventive, anarchic comic spirit justice, maybe because the camera always caught the hint of the tragic mask peering through. On film, he was better suited to serio-comedy, like Moscow on the Hudson and Good Morning Vietnam, or drama leavened by a flash of gentle humor (his Oscar winning role in Good Will Hunting). Ironically, the movie that really “got” Williams, that knew what to do with him, was one in which his own face didn’t appear — Disney’s animated Aladdin. Watching the blue genie is like mainlining the purest distillation of  Williams’ sly, exuberant mischief.

Robin Williams’ death has sent the Bay Area (where I live) into deep mourning. He was a long-time resident of Marin County, he worked the San Francisco comedy clubs (often unannounced), he was a regular out and about, at Giants’ games and rock concerts (I lost count of how many times I saw him at Springsteen shows) and lending his talent to just about every worthy cause in town. Right now, I can’t imagine San Francisco without him.

That such a large-hearted life-force was struggling with private despair and demons is almost too tragic to bear. So let’s end this on a laugh, and let the comic mask be the one we remember best.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

 

The story of “O”: Outlander comes to TV

The Scottish CosPlay: What they'll be wearing next year at Comic Con (Courtesy of Starz)

The Scottish CosPlay: What they’ll be wearing at next year’s Comic Con (Courtesy of Starz)

HERE BE SPOILERS!  PROCEED WITH CAUTION! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!

You never forget your first spanking — of the literary kind. For me, it was Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, Chapter 22, which will heretofore be known as That Scene.

I had innocently picked up Gabaldon’s sci-fi-fantasy-historical romance page-turner at my local library’s sale of used paperbacks. Eight hundred pages for $2 — what a deal! I knew nothing about Outlander except that it was some kind of best-selling genre series. Harry Potter had ended and all I wanted was another thick, juicy, reasonably well-written escapist read to take my head-space somewhere else. So I gave it a shot.

I settled into the tale of Claire Randall, a British Army nurse during World War II, who comes home from the war to a society, and a husband, with whom she has fallen out of sync. Independent, resourceful, passionate and stubborn,  Claire has been useful during the war, patching up casualties under the constant adrenaline-rush of danger. Now, she’s back in post-war England struggling to find a sense of purpose within the shrunken parameters of life as a respectable homemaker. Her husband Frank, a courtly Oxford professor who was a spy-runner for MI-6 during the war, wants to start a family, but Claire hasn’t been able to get pregnant.

The novel opens with Claire and Frank trying to get to know one another again on a post-war second honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands. The atmosphere is foggy and pagan; they witness a Druid sun-worshiping ritual, the locals speak of ghosts. Then, Claire wanders off to pick wildflowers (she’s studying their medicinal properties), gets too close to some Druid standing stones and — whoosh!  She wakes up in the same woods, except it’s 1743, and there’s a Redcoat who looks just like Frank trying to rape her, but she’s saved/taken prisoner by a clan of Scottish rebels, one of whom is a big, ginger hunk named Jamie Fraser, and, merrily a-bodice-ripping we will go.

I don’t want to completely ruin the new Starz TV adaptation of Outlander (the first episode has been running on the Starz website and on various cable platforms for a while, but the series officially starts on August 9) for potential viewers, so let me say this one more time: SPOILERS A-COMING!

Claire and Jamie strike sparks, even if he can’t understand half the things this uppity “Sassanach”(outlander) is saying. Jamie is, in his own way, a lost soul as out of sync with his times as Claire is with hers. He’s a deeper, more curious, thinker than his rough-hewn cohort, with a dry sense of humor. He’s also an outlaw, but it was all a misunderstanding, really. They spar; they bond; they make wild, passionate, dirty (as in, it’s 18th century Scotland and everything is filthy) love while the clan plays cat and mouse with Frank’s sadistic ancestor, British Army captain “Black Jack” Randall. Yes, Outlander (which is the first in an eight-book series) had me from page one. I was enthralled by the boldly insane plot, I adored thoroughly modern Claire and her sometimes ill-advised attempts to bring feminism to the kilted savages. Eventually, I got to Chapter 22 (“Reckonings”), nearly 400 pages into the book, where Claire attempts to find the time portal to get back home, and ends up endangering the safety of the clan and Jamie has to discipline her with a belt and HELLO, WHAT THE HELL AM I READING?

Surprised as I was by Chapter 22, I had an, um, intensely favorable response to That Scene’s extreme hotness. As a feminist, this sent me into a crisis of conscience. I put the book down, unfinished, for a few weeks. I searched my soul. I started the book over from the beginning. I liked it just as much the second time through. I finally said, Screw you, conscience, if this is my kink, so be it.

For years, there has been plenty of discussion in reader forums about That Scene, and there will be plenty of discussion when it finally airs somewhere down the line (executive producer Ronald D. Moore is on record promising that the series will be faithful to the book). Is That Scene violence against women, domestic abuse?  Or is it a sexy development that arises naturally out of the story, given the personalities of the protagonists?  My feeling about the way it plays out in the book is that it’s more the latter than former. Gabaldon sets her story in an overtly brutal and sexist era; a belt-wielding hero feels right at home in this milieu.

If your mind is going to the icky — and totally invented for TV — scene in Game of Thrones where a crossbow-wielding Joffrey orders prostitute Ros to spank, then gruesomely beat, another whore, stop. That scene was the reason I gave up watching Game of Thrones, although I have devoured all the books. It was gratuitous, demeaning and brutalizing to the female characters, and, at that point in the story, unnecessary — we already knew Joffrey was a sadistic monster.

On the pages of Outlander, by contrast, the punishment to which Claire finally acquiesces in much the same way a mutinous soldier accepts military discipline, is a complex act, more than just a one-sided male-titillation or hack “taming of the shrew” theatrics. It’s a face-saving necessity to keep the clan from turning on Jamie and meting their own much more brutal “justice” upon Claire for her recklessness. In That Scene, Gabaldon makes it clear that Jamie and Claire are in this together, the good and the bad, as a team.

For Chapter 22 alone, Outlander is often compared to Fifty Shades of Grey. But there is nothing sexy in the latter’s tedious BDSM-ish romance, mainly because Christian and Ana are not truly partners in their dom-sub contract; she enters into it only because she wants to Reform Him With Her Love, and he is a raving, damaged stalker who often crosses the line from S&M play to outright abuse. But it’s also difficult to give a crap about two characters as ineptly drawn as Christian and Ana, particularly when you can feel E.L. James blushing and saying “Ewwwww” behind every sex scene.

Diana Gabaldon is no blusher, which is part of what makes Claire such a robust heroine. Outlander is written from Claire’s intelligent, confident and adaptive perspective, and that perspective is deeper and more reflective than Ana prattling on about her inner goddess. Claire likes sex. She would prefer not to be stuck in a time warp while having it, but there you go.

It’s a relief to see how well cast the show is. Sam Heughan is suitably beefy as Jamie, but with a pleasing vulnerable cast to his good looks. He doesn’t appear until the first episode is more than half over, and the pace quickens considerably when he does. Heughan has a demanding role ahead of him, embodying a literary character who ranks up there with Mr. Darcy and Heathcliff in the eyes of some women readers. I wish him godspeed.

Irish actress Caitriona Balfe is Claire in soul and fiery, sensual spirit. There’s a scene in the first episode where Claire and genealogy buff Frank are exploring the ruins of a castle and she perches on a dusty table, opening her legs to reveal that, underneath her crisp traveling suit, she has gone commando. Balfe’s sexual confidence in this scene is breathtaking. But Balfe makes just as forceful an impression in the prologue of the first episode. Elbow deep in the gore of a wounded soldier in a battlefield medical tent, Claire barks orders to the men around her, and is obeyed. A beat later, peace is declared and she doesn’t know what to do with herself . As nurses, medics and soldiers celebrate, she stands apart, dazed and covered in blood, and hoists a bottle of Champagne to her lips.

The scene is a foreshadowing of the dirk-wielding, herbal healing “medicine woman” Claire is to become when she falls through the wrinkle in time:  Fierce, courageous, unflinching Claire is a warrior at heart, which is what draws her to Jamie. In post-war England, her wildness has to be tamped down, her promise stunted, but in her alternate universe with Jamie, it’s allowed to fly free. In turn, Jamie — who’s more civilized and thirsty for knowledge than he can let the clan know — recognizes Claire as a strong, enlightened mate, much more interesting than the local lassies.

Episode One gave me faith that producer Moore (of the Battlestar: Galactica reboot) would at least give Outlander a fighting chance to transfer to screen with its spirit undiminished. Moore is no stranger to sci-fi with rich layers of subtext, and Outlander is bursting with possibilities. Is the Highland fling with Jamie a manifestation of Claire’s restless, war-excited and war-traumatized inner life made flesh? Is this her conflicted psyche working out her fear of/longing for motherhood? Her anxiety over subsuming her identity and independence to make a proper marriage with Frank? (Adding fuel to that psychological fire, the same actor, Tobias Menzies, plays both Frank and Black Jack.)

Outlander has already been called the feminist answer to Game of Thrones. But I think the more apt comparison is the feminist, gender reverse of Doctor Who. Claire is a time traveler who can’t go home, but minds her exile less and less; she roams through time and space, healing, enlightening and fighting the patriarchy with as much female love, hope and ass-kicking energy as she can get away with. Instead of The Doctor’s (almost unanimously) young, attractive female companions, though, Claire has a strapping lad in a kilt. And on this wild ride, knickers are optional.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

 

 

In the grooves, part three

20140609_163216

In parts one and two, inspired by the exhibit “Vinyl: The Sound and Culture of Records” at the Oakland Museum of California History, I began revisiting the role that albums played in my life from my childhood in the ’60s until I stopped listening to the bulk of my music on vinyl in the early ’90’s. In the conclusion: Earthquakes, personal and geological.

College: 1975-79

I’d heard tracks from Bruce Springsteen’s first two records played on Boston’s FM station, WBCN, and I liked them. But, for some reason, I didn’t buy a Springsteen album until Born to Run, and even then, not until a year or so after it was released in 1975. But then something clicked and down I went into the rabbit hole of Springsteen fandom; I belatedly bought his earlier albums, and became enchanted by the cinematic story-songs and beatniks-on-the-beach vibe of The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle. I wore out “Rosalita” and “New York City Serenade” as I made up for lost time. So when “Prove It All Night” was released in the spring of 1978 as a teaser single for his fourth album, Darkness on the Edge of Town, I was like a stick of dynamite ready to explode.

I remember my junior and senior year of college as a blur of Bruce. I saw my first E Street Band show in May 1978, then spent the rest of the summer counting the days until he came back to Boston in September. Darkness was the first record that I instantly, viscerally, understood — the narrator’s despair at living a small life, his desperation to be his true self somewhere else, spoke to me in my circumstances as a girl from a blue-collar family, filled with ambition but not much faith in myself. I parsed every word of Darkness reviews by Dave Marsh (Rolling Stone) and Kit Rachlis (the Boston Phoenix), pieces that approached the album the way we approached classic novels in my English Lit. classes, and I knew that I wanted to write about music this way. You know how people say, “Omigod, this album changed my life”? OMIGOD, THIS ALBUM CHANGED MY LIFE.

So Much Music: 1979-81

In senior year of college, I started writing record reviews for the free music papers that showed up in record stores around town. I met a kindred soul named Holly Cara Price, a Bruce fan, poet, photographer and aspiring rock writer. She persuaded me to start writing music reviews for an unlikely publication, a feminist weekly called Sojourner. Somehow, Holly convinced the editors that their definition of “women’s music” should expand beyond Teresa Trull and Sweet Honey in the Rock (no offense to those pioneering artists), to include all strong female rock and punk voices. So we wrote about Patti Smith, Rickie Lee Jones, Bonnie Raitt,  Joan Jett, even — I swear — Donna Summer’s Bad Girls album, all for a Cambridge radical/feminist/lesbian audience. They drew the line, however, at our attempts to educate our readers about Bruce. But I did learn about some amazing traditional women’s music artists, including the charismatic Ferron, who was pretty much the Springsteen of lesbian folk music. So, all in all, I think it was a mutual broadening of horizons.

When we weren’t fighting the patriarchy one Blondie review at a time, Holly and I were obsessing over Bruce together. It’s because of Holly, and Bruce, that I made my first trip to New York City for the 1979 No Nukes Concert at Madison Square Garden. That’s when I first laid eyes on Bleecker Bob’s, the legendary Greenwich Village record store, where I bought this Springsteen bootleg. Geek details: It’s pressed on red vinyl, has no credits and lists then-unreleased songs we’d later come to know as “Thundercrack” and “Bishop Danced” under the titles “Angel from the Inner Lake” and “Mama Knows Rithmatic, Knows How to Take a Fall”.

firefingertips

After I graduated college, I kept my job in the campus library (the journalism offers weren’t exactly pouring in), but I continued writing for the free music papers. I was paid in promo albums, which is how I accumulated a Who’s Who of “Who’s that?” Do you remember Moon Martin? How about Horslips?  Yep, if there was a record that nobody else wanted to review, give it to the new kid. I didn’t care. I was getting a byline and trading in the crap promo records for albums that I really wanted.

And there was so much music to want in 1979 and 1980. This was as formative a period as 1970-1971. One part of me was all about Bruce. The other part was in an Anglophilic swoon over British new wave. Elvis Costello’s Armed Forces and Get Happy!!!, with their dazzling wordplay, sealed the deal on a deep admiration that has lasted through Costello’s many changes of persona and genre. The Clash’s London Calling launched a passion equal to that of my Bruce fandom; I remember buying their Sandinista! on my way to a December 1980 Springsteen show at the Boston Garden, stashing it underneath my seat and feeling like my musical worlds were colliding.

Ah, Sandinista!. This is what albums could do that CD’s and MP3’s can’t. The Clash packed an entire world, a movement, a community inside that album sleeve. Not only did the package contain three records for the price of two (including one side of dub reggae and electronica that sounds startlingly contemporary now), there was a tri-fold, punk ‘zine insert with lyrics, credits, notes and hand-drawn cartoons crammed onto every inch of its six pages. Sandinista! was a manifesto and a world-music party that you could hold in your hands.

sandinista2

 

And then there was Chrissie Hynde . . . When I first heard the Pretenders’ debut album,  it was Tapestry all over again;  I felt like Hynde was speaking to women who loved rock and roll in our own language. Although she fronted a male band, she wrote from an aggressively female perspective, about sex, love, pregnancy, birth control, rape. The melodies were swervy and the rhythms jagged and hard, but Chrissie’s achingly beautiful voice, her singular phrasing and cooing vibrato, put her femaleness front and center. She didn’t wear dresses, though, and she didn’t flirt; she played a rhythm guitar as sharp as her cheekbones and bristled at being included in the condescending “women in rock” stories that filled the media in ’79 and ’80. Chrissie was everything I wanted and needed her to be. And the album cover shot of her in a bright red leather jacket, her kohl-rimmed eyes staring defiantly out from under Carnaby Street bangs, was, to me, the epitome of cool.

 

Rock Critic: 1981-1987

In 1981, I landed my dream gig — I was on the roster of regular music writers at the alternative weekly the Boston Phoenix. And one of the first lessons I learned there about writing rock criticism was this: Do your research. Don’t worry about looking stupid in front of a colleague for asking a question about a band or record. It’s better than looking stupid in front of your readers.

I hate to be all “Back in my day …” about it, but, do you know how hard it was to do your homework on an unfamiliar artist or genre before the Internet, before Wikipedia, You Tube, iTunes, Amazon and Spotify?  Your fellow critics were your Wikipedia and record stores were your iTunes. If the LP gods were kind, you could find the pertinent albums of any artist’s back catalog in one of the many used record stores in Boston and Cambridge. The juicier my assignments got, the bigger my record collection grew.

I loved research (still do). Artists and records that had been just names in Rolling Stone became indispensable favorites the deeper I dug. If there was a buzz around the office, I wanted in. That’s how I got turned on to Richard and Linda Thompson. I bought a last minute ticket to their show in 1982 at the tiny Paradise in Boston, knowing almost nothing about them except that they had a new album called Shoot Out the Lights and my editor was high on it. (It turned out to be their last tour — their marriage was pretty much dead at that point.) I came out of that show ravenous to hear more of their dark, droll British folk, which led me to their back catalogue, which led me to Thompson’s previous group, Fairport Convention, which led me to Sandy Denny, which led me to British folk nerd heaven. A depressing ballad elates me. A hurdy-gurdy throws me into a frenzy. I once counted up my souvenir ticket stubs and, to my surprise,  it turns out that I’ve seen Richard Thompson in concert more than any other band, more than Bruce, more than Elvis Costello. And it all started with this record.

A pile o' British folk.

A pile o’ British folk.

At the Phoenix, I became friends with a twinkly-eyed elf named Mark Moses, who was a computer programmer by day and one of the finest rock critics of his generation by night. (He eventually wrote the pop music column for the New Yorker.) Mark and I both loved bad puns, wicked gossip, lost 45’s from our childhoods and the songs of Burt Bacharach and Hal David. We never thought of ourselves as collectors. We combed through used album stores because we were completists, hungry to hear more. We couldn’t leave a copy of a record we loved to sit unappreciated in some suburban discount department store bargain bin, even if we already owned it. It’s because of Mark that I started to appreciate Gram Parsons, Luther Vandross, Gladys Knight, the Mekons. He also introduced me to the enriching, sustaining beauty of Aretha’s gospel records and Al Green. He came up with the single funniest rock and roll pun I’ve ever heard: “Little Richard Thompson, the manic-depressive R&B-folk singer”. He died of AIDS, 25 years ago this month. I wish I had a photo of him, but who went around taking pictures of their friends before cell phones? I have the music he gave me, though. And it makes me laugh every time I look at that copy of Dusty Springfield’s A Brand New Me and see the price sticker  — he liberated it from a going-out-of-business sale at a New Bedford Zayre’s.

 

dustyal

 

1987-now: California Soul

In 1987, I was offered a job as the daily TV critic for the San Francisco Examiner. My husband and I figured that we’d move out to the Bay Area for a few years, make some real money, then move back to Boston and have a kid, settle down. We pruned the record collection, sold some, gave away some, but still loaded more than 1,000 records onto the moving van for the trek west. I was uncertain, having never lived anywhere but Greater Boston. The records (and my washing machine — don’t ask) were like a security blanket. I really believed that we could just pick up our lives in one place, set them down intact in another and carry on, just as if we were still living in Boston, but, you know, further west.

For the first couple of years, we lived in a kind of limbo, rooting for the Celtics from afar, hanging out with people we knew from Boston, making frequent trips back. But as much as I resisted, California got under my skin. I loved looking into the horizon and seeing mountains, not gray flatness. I loved the dreamy quality of the sunlight on the green Pacific. I loved the unfamiliar flowers and the trees that never went depressing and bare. I was weirded out at first by the friendliness of the people, who actually said hello on the street, but that, too, grew on me. As did National League baseball, the lack of weather extremes, real Mexican food and (gasp) the Grateful Dead. Gradually, the East Coast ties loosened.

One October day, I got home from the office in the late afternoon, looking forward to watching the Giants and A’s World Series game. I puttered around with Kate Bush’s The Sensual World on the stereo. And then the earth began to shake. I ran under the doorway between the living room and kitchen and hung on, while the rented, wood-framed ranch house shook around me like a chew toy in a dog’s mouth. I closed my eyes and listened to dishes rattling in the kitchen, the top-heavy album shelving thudding against the walls of the living room, and the needle bouncing on the record. When I opened them, the first thing I saw was a pile of albums, hundreds of them, all over the living room floor. I keep the ruined Kate Bush record as a souvenir of the day I really became a Californian.

Because I wrote occasional music reviews for the Examiner, I was on record company mailing lists for a long time, but by the early ’90s, they had nearly all switched over to sending CD’s. Which was fine with me, because, by then, I’d had my son and portability of music was crucial if I was going to ever have time to listen at all. We bought a house (never moved back East after all), pruned the record collection again, stored the rest in boxes in the closets. I framed some of the artier album covers — Layla is now hanging in my bathroom. (What? I never claimed to be a decorator.)  A few times a year, I would get an urge to hear something that I only owned on vinyl, but I had long since stopped buying albums.

I never considered selling my remaining records, though — too many memories. And I’m glad that I didn’t. My son has claimed a good chunk of them for his own. His generation is buying vinyl again, making their own memories to the warm sound of (to quote Elvis Costello) “every scratch, every click, every heartbeat.” The circle is unbroken, the turntable spins.

©Joyce Millman, The Mix Tape, 2014

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 416 other followers

%d bloggers like this: