It seems fitting to begin the hipster section of my album reviews with The Gorillaz. There is no logic behind it; some things just make sense because they make sense.
Classification: Hipster
Release: Plastic Beach, 2010
*
I have an annoying habit of responding to the word, 'question' with a glib and quick retort of, 'answer'. I don't know where I picked up the habit, but I can't shake it. It's overload.
They say: I've got a question for you.
I say: I've got an answer for you.
They say: Question.
I say: Answer
I don't mean it, of course. It's an automatic response, a shabby defensive maneuver. The word comes out (they say). The impromptu wall goes up (I say). I'm not trying to necessarily block the question and questioner. No, I just want them to think really hard whether the question is worthy of the questioned. It's presumptuous and smacks of elitism - I can't seem to shake those qualities either.
I'm sitting here at work thinking about this smidge of a short story idea banging around inside my noggin. It's early in the process, stewing down in the dungeons of mind. Still, for being so young it's causing quite the racket. I have to do something; anything to let off a little of its steam to stave off the comin' overload. All I know about the story so far are the main characters and the setting: James Lipton and I are sitting inside the actors studio. Presumptuous? Check. Smacking elitism? Double check.
There's a reason why this bastard of a story's still down in the dungeon. If it cannot achieve true humility to blunt its elitist smack, then it must at least learn how to approximate the quality. We must learn to crawl before we walk, no?
James and I are on the familiar stage. PBS lighting and cinematography are in full effect. He is seated on an expensive looking chair in a classic navy suit, striped shirt. The sharp polkadotted tie completes the ensemble. For some inexplicable reason I'm dressed like Crispin Glover in his appearance on the David Letterman show back in 1987. Overload. Comin on.
This bastard! This insignificant kernel of a story is trying to rob me blind! Listen up, that's not your idea! That outfit and concept belongs to another story. (I'll eventually get a wardrobe change, but for now I'm sitting, in striped bellbottoms, an odd fitting polo and a long black wig, opposite James.) The dark oak table between us has cast-iron hairpin legs like the chairs we are sitting on. The look is very Restoration Hardware, aka Hipster Suburbia. I'm hesitant to put my cup of coffee down on the table without a coaster. I can't afford this thing, I think to myself.
"Question," fires James.
"Answer," fires me.
(I grimace at this automatic
response, but hold it together).
"Can you concisely describe what you're trying to achieve with your stories", probes James.
"No".
(I grimace at this automatic
response, but hold it together).
"What seems to be the problem?" I can't tell if James is angry, annoyed, but he looks a bit befuddled.
"Concision".
"Why don't you give it a try?" James leans behind me and whispers into my ear, "We can always cut out some in post-production." Leaning even closer to my ear he drops his voice to a sinister whisper. "In about five seconds I'm going to lean back and start to laugh. You are going to copy that laughter and then tell us all what we want to hear, capeesh?" We do that.
In fear of James Lipton I find the strength to apply pressure to this unruly bastard causing me all these problems. "Consider this, James", I begin rather absentmindedly. "I want the stories to have the feel of something, the aura of something tangible but elusive."
"Je ne sais quoi", he offers. But, I don't hear it. I'm not inside the actors studio anymore. I'm not sitting across from James Lipton. I'm in the dungeons of my mind having it out with this bastard. Ken Burns moves the camera in close to my face because its making interesting motions in my absence. I rub my chin in deep thought.
As Ken Burns pans out the camera notices I've changed into a tweed jacket, dropped the wig and I think there is an untied bowtie around my neck. The bellbottoms are still there. Damn it all, so are the platform shoes. Let it go, you bastard. "I think that what I"m trying to achieve at the moment is the vibe The Gorillaz song we're listening to sets".
"I see," says James. Mirroring me as a good interviewer does, he scratches his chin, "Please expound on that. It seems terribly interesting."
"No".
"Pourquoi?," he pouts.
His word selection rattles me a bit. I am eleven [onze] days into Beginner French on Rosetta Stone. This story is such a thief. I'm a little taken aback at this one's peculiar brazenness, but that is the way these stories find themselves sometimes. Wait a second, I think. Does James know French? Of course, I quickly conclude - He knows as much French as I do. Un peu.
"Concision," I finally reply.
"I see".
The curtain drops; James and the whole set disappear into the ether. Satiated for the moment the story returns to his cell in order to ponder its many sins. I go back to work.
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