Revolution Fulfilled? The Reuinification of Rage (I)

I am finally getting around to writing about the defining event of my summer. It would have made sense to have written this out as soon as I witnessed the concert (and "witness" seems to be the appropriate term), but I am not one for following "sense". So what we have here is a haphazard attempt to collect some thoughts and impressions of probably one of the landmarks of my music career.

Part 1 of 2: Why I Give A Crap

Rage Against the Machine is a difficult band to fully capture and efficiently summarize. They are defined by their contradictions--from their political stances that they take while being supported by a major label that's a small division of an enormous corporation, to their music that turns the conventions of genres on their head but can also be reduced to a simplistic formula (pentatonic riff + rapped lyrics + toss in some weird guitar noise = Rage hit). But only the most jaded hipster (or perhaps cynical critic) would call them boring.


They were also a dominant influence on my adolescence, putting me firmly in the "rock" camp while my friends would move into the "rap" camp. Rage was the first band I would become a superfan of, and would mark my foray into harder music. I was enthralled by Tom's guitar chicanery and intrigued by Zack's rantings, and would listen obsessively for hours. Over the years I would find subtleties within the Rage dynamic, from Tim's jazz influence to Brad's rhythmic counterpoint that ran the gamut from hip-hop beats to hardcore. I appreciated the nuances found in the different eras of Rage--each album had its own distinctive style, meaning that it was easy to identify from what album a particular sound came. Evil Empire was always the favorite, not only because of its place as my first Rage album, but because of the maturity of Zack's flow and the creativity in the different musical styles by the rest of the band.


So of course when I learned of the breakup of Rage that one morning in 2000, I was practically heartbroken. I would never be able to hear new music from my favorite band, nor see my favorite band in person. The second part was especially hard on me. Rage was well-known for their incendiary live show, and I would never get the chance to see for myself.

But I moved on. My musical tastes further developed. I would later move on to other devotions, first with Radiohead, then later (and to a much greater extent) with Pearl Jam. Actually, anyone who would meet me these days would notice my fandom of Pearl Jam more than anything else. These days, Rage barely even registers, relegated to a backburner in my mind, brought out every so often as almost a nostalgia trip. The fervor fades.

Spring of 2007 changed things however. There were rumors of a Rage reunion, which were quickly confirmed. I think my heart literally stopped for a full two seconds once I read the news. In fact, it may have saved my life. It then became my mission to figure out a way to fulfill my childhood goal of seeing my musical heroes in person. And in an epic struggle that lasted around two weeks, we found out that they would play a handful of dates on the West Coast; and after sitting at my computer for a couple of minutes, I was able to procure tickets for myself and the rest of the WDR crew (who coincidentally happen to be my best friends--sounds pretty conspiratorial to me). And thus began our journey into the shithole that is the SoCal desert.



Enough with the foreplay. Tomorrow is the actual fucking review.

Don't Ever Put Down Mr. Rogers!

Like it was for many children, Mr. Rogers was a staple of my childhood. He was the perfect substitute parent when Mom and Dad were busy, teaching us manners and how to share, along with other interesting topics like basketball and chocolate cake and who knows what else. All good stuff. I even went to the guy's alma mater (at least we claim him as an alumnus, though he didn't graduate (like all our cool alums, he didn't stick around for the entire 4-year sentence)). The man is a saint.


Of course, imagine my horror upon reading this editorial in the Wall Street Journal. I know, my mistake for reading the Op-Ed page of the Journal (though it is not nearly as disheartening as that of the Washington Times, and I read both as part of my work). Apparently I was being indoctrinated by one of Satan's Helpers, and that's the reason I'm a jerkass who's full of himself and spits on the elderly (note: I am in reality only a jerkass; I don't encounter the elderly enough to have vindictive feelings towards them).

The problem with this guy's claim is that it takes platitudes that Mr. Rogers often employed and warps them beyond recognition. For example, "you're special" doesn't give one carte blanche to do whatever one pleases; it instead reassures those who are cast aside by others that there's nothing to worry about.


Thank God some of the readers of the Journal have a heart--the letters received were overwhelmingly in favor of Mr. Rogers, minus one Grinch who is too worried about the damn kids on her lawn. This almost makes up for the letters they had shaming Bill Gates for thinking that he needed to give some of his money back--he had made the world immeasurably richer because of his contributions with Microsoft, like a good capitalist!



Then again, no it doesn't.