June Mailbag!

Hello and good morning, Blogworld and Diddyites!

And thanks for your Mailbag emails this month--they were many, varied, and even crazier than usual.  I got emails about everything from the World Cup to Jimmy McNulty, from Bush (the band) to bush (the burning, Biblical one), from mis-timed album releases to my own private songwriting Idaho, and everything in between.

I salute you and your work by jumping right into it.

(And if you'd like to be in a future Mailbag, just drop me a line at chris@chrismilam.com.  I promise every email is read and much appreciated.)

Hey Chris Milam, you handsome devil.  I heard you'll be blogging regularly from the road during the big summer tour in July.  Tell me it's true!  
--Chris Milam, Out In America
Apologies for the planted question and the lame plug, but I needed to do some quick housekeeping.

I'm touring this summer, starting in Little Rock this Saturday.  From July 3-July 28, I'll be updating the blog regularly with pictures/videos/news/notes/musings/myths from the road.  The good news is that there will be even more blog-posts than usual; the bad news is that the Song of the Week will be suspended until August.

Of course, you can expect the regular Mailbag and Fan of the Month posts.  Plus, "On the Road" entries are always my favorite to write, so check back early and often.  Better yet, subscribe to the feed to get all the updates from the road.

And if I'm coming to a city near you, come out and say hello!  I'd love to meet you and yours.

Now, on to your regularly scheduled programming...

Is it just me, or did Band of Horses just release a late fall/winter album in the middle of the summer?  
--Michael in Buffalo

(Then, five minutes later...)

SERIOUSLY:
"I used to see the night so anxious, but now I know
The only thing it ever taught me was a grand illusion
That comes and goes, the city blanketed of snow."
I don't think I can like this album until November or maybe December.
--Michael, still in Buffalo
First, I like this album (Infinite Arms, released May 14) now.  I'm a Band of Horses fan, because I thought their second album improved on the first in the ways I expected (haunting, anthemic, reverb-soaked guitar rock), and ways I didn't (the Americana-infused "General Specific" and "Marry Song").  They sounded like a good band getting better with every outing.  So, I was excited for Infinite Arms' release.

Infinite Arms is filled to the brim with gorgeous melodies, heartening lyrical vignettes, and the thoughtful musicianship we expect from BOH.  I liked the album immediately, and like it even more after several listens.  But something feels off about it.  I've had trouble placing it, but thanks to some friends and blog-readers' suggestions, I think I know what feels off-kilter.  Two explanations:

1) It's a weird-sounding album, especially for Band of Horses, who definitely had "a sound" on their first two records: heavily-arranged, loud, pristine, arena-rock production with a keen ear for the way a soaring, reverb-ed vocal can fit in that mix.  For an example, click here. 

For Infinite Arms, they tried a different sound: the band's bottom (drums and bass) are more roomy, more reverbed, and less prominent in the mix, and the vocals became drier and more dominant (for an example, click here).  For anyone used to hearing BOH, the kickstart of "Factory" is jarring: the band doesn't have the same heavy-hitting percussive punch they used to.  Also, the harmonies (mostly sung by the lead singer) are usually given the same treatment as the lead vocal.  The result sounds occasionally like auto-tune.  Against a washed-out background, it's hard to find your footing in the first few listens.

This isn't to say you can't get used to its sound, or that I haven't.  When the production works, it's stunning: take the infectious, melody-drenched "Older," or the quiet, inspired performance of "Evening Kitchen."  The production serves these songs and enhances their strengths.

2) "Michael, still in Buffalo" is absolutely right: it's a November album with a May release.  The record's visual and aural imagery typify late autumn: homecomings, cold landscapes, hushed conversations, familiar scenes revisited, etc.  Between its golden up-tempo songs and its slower, chilly, haunting tunes, Infinite Arms sounds like the transition of late fall into early winter, that last contented sun setting in the twilight of the year.

I like Infinite Arms now, but I'll love it in November.

Would Razorblade Suitcase have been a better band name than album title? Why or why not?
--RJ in Nashville
Razorblade Suitcase, of course, was the title to Bush's 1996 follow-up to megahit Sixteen Stone.  I remember being in middle school, loving Bush, loving every hit and filler track from Sixteen Stone, and still thinking to myself, "what the heck is Gavin Rossdale singing about?"

Turns out I wasn't alone: Bush's, um, opaque lyrics became a running joke to me, my friends, and evidently Rolling Stone.  Keep in mind: we were in middle school--and ardent Bush fans--and still made fun of Rossdale's fridge-magnet poetry.  For one stretch in 1996, "Machinehead" was my favorite song, but if you asked me what a "Machinehead" was, or why it was "better than the rest," I would've laughed in your face.

When Bush released their follow-up, Razorblade Suitcase, it was as if my friends and I had won a contest to "Name the Next Bush Record."  The title was perfect: it was Rossdale to the highest power.  What did it mean?  Nothing?  Or...everything?  Rossdale!  You and your machinehead have done it again!

We laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed all the way to Cat's Music, where we bought our copies and rocked hard on the bikeride home, Discmen spinning "Greedy Fly" on infinite repeat.

For this reason, I can only conceive of Razorblade Suitcase as an album title.  Specifically, the title to a Bush album.  Specifically, the perfect title for any Bush album.

Still, if a band in 2010 were named Razorblade Suitcase, I would go see them immediately.

I just started The Wire and I know you are a fan. I've noticed that Detective McNulty is a scoundrel and a mess. I also know your love of Mad Men. Bigger scoundrel, McNulty or Don Draper? Bigger mess: McNulty or Don Draper?
--Becky in NYC
First, I'd like to say that I envy you, Becky in NYC.  Whenever someone tells me they've just started The Wire, I think, "oh, the joys that lie ahead..."

As you watch, you'll follow McNulty through many trials, tribulations, twists, turns, ups, and downs--his character goes through a lot.  But, even a few episodes in, your basic assessment is right: McNulty is a scoundrel and a mess.

He's the black sheep of the Baltimore PD.  He's an incredibly talented detective (called "natural PO-lice" by his peers) and actually cares about his work.  He's also a self-destructive narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  He connects as easily with the corner kids he's chasing as the cops he helps chase them.  He's an unfaithful husband and boyfriend, and a largely absent father.  Police work is perhaps his only source of joy, but also his greatest source of frustration, anger, and despair.  He drinks oceans of Jameson, reads crime scenes like the rest of us read Sunday cartoons, philanders, speaks four-lettered truth to power, and practically begs his bosses to fire him for daily scoundrel behavior, which they can't, because he's also great police.  Naturally, I love him. 

Don Draper--Mad Men's protagonist--is a philandering, superstar ad exec with a mysterious past.  His natural expression lies somewhere between "kind of angry" and "bored with you."  He's the smartest guy in the room, and knows it.  He's unspeakably great at his job--so great that he comes and goes when he wants, works without a contract, and blows off assignments/clients/meetings/co-workers regularly.  To call him self-destructive is to call Yao Ming "tall."  He reinvents himself constantly, depending on present company, the situation, and what's at stake.  No matter the situation, he's an outsider looking in.  He seems to like strangers more than his friends.  He reduces complex people to a simplistic tag line, and smirks when they prove him right.  He has everything but happiness.  He distrusts his past, runs from his future, and never seems content in the present.  Like Shaft, he's a complicated man; unlike Shaft, his women do not understand him.  Naturally, I love him.

McNulty is certainly the bigger mess, because part of what makes Don Draper "Don Draper" is that he isn't messy at all.  Even as it unravels, Don's life maintains the veneer or perfection--everything, on the surface, looks okay.  Don is a scoundrel, and problematic, and his life is full of crises and complications, but it's not messy, because Don's not messy.  He's a full-time liar, and he's great at it.  McNulty, however, relishes the title of "ne'er do well."  He is a mess, makes messes, appears messy, and hides nothing (or hides nothing successfully). 

"Bigger scoundrel" is a much tougher call.  Both men are unfaithful husbands and largely absent fathers.  Both are terminally self-destructive.  Both lie constantly, and seemingly without shame.  Both are manipulative, self-obsessed narcissists.  I think the question is whether Don Draper is a potentially dangerous sociopath, because McNulty definitely is.

Just last night, I argued with my friend Jay about Don Draper's psychological profile.  Jay described Don's behavior towards women as "sociopathic" because he doesn't believe Don cares about them; his dalliances are just an outlet for his own impulses and narcissistic desires.  I disagreed.  I think there's a fine line between the women Don cares about (his wife Betty, a few long-term mistresses) and the women Don's slept with (a stewardess in Baltimore we never see again, etc.).

Ultimately, I think McNulty's the bigger scoundrel, because I think McNulty is actually a criminal-in-waiting.  Don Draper harms others, but he usually intends to just harm himself.  McNulty seems to harm everyone in his life indiscriminately, and with lessening remorse.  Now, why?  What accounts for the difference?

I'd be interested to hear your opinions.  For one, Don wants to win.  He's seen upward mobility in his life; he's reinvented himself, climbed the ladder, sought competition, fought competition, won, reaped his rewards, and is hungry for more.  Don's world is one of pratfalls and crises, but it's also one of hope.  Jimmy McNulty occupies a world where nobody wins or loses.  Over the course of The Wire, he internalizes this, and it fills him with despair.  He stops tempering his behavior because real-life accountability and consequences either 1) don't exist in his world or 2) don't matter to him in a tangible way.  Don Draper always has the next thing to conquer, some un-achieved goal pushing him forward; on the contrary, Jimmy McNulty without a quality case doesn't have much to live for. 

Of course, we had six seasons of McNulty, and we've only seen three of Draper.  Ask me again in 2012: there's plenty more room for Don to fall.

What do you think?  Who's the bigger scoundrel?  Am I wrong?  Is Don Draper a sociopath?  Am I being too hard on Jimmy McNulty?  

You tweeted a pic of your "favorite songwriting HQ."  Where is that, and why's it your favorite?
--Lisa in Ardmore
That picture was taken in Conway, Arkansas.  Conway's a college town just north of Little Rock.  My parents moved here in 2002, and it's a place I've come to know and appreciate.  It's a cool, quirky little town.

For some reason, I do all my best writing here.  Maybe it's the quiet, the lack of distraction.  Maybe it's the distance it gives me from the people/places I'm writing about (both figurative and literal).  Maybe the Muses have camped out in in this specific room since antiquity, waiting for a lone singer/songwriter to come along, drink too much coffee, and strum the guitar.

It's a mystery of the creative process, but some places just get those juices flowing better than others.  This particular room in this particular town has always been my favorite place to write.  It's where I wrote about 40 songs in the winter of 2009; eight of them became Up.  It's where I'm camped out today, getting ready for the Summer Tour.

And, late at night and early in the morning, it's where I find myself popping up out of bed and writing something new.  I've got this ever-growing stack of new songs I'm really excited about; I hope to play some of them on the road this summer.  I also hope to get back here and keep writing.  Before you know it, I'll have enough for another album.

Maybe even two. 

Just can't wait to get on the road again,
CM

A Million Miles from Scranton

Subtitle: The Wisdom of Martin Crane

...In Which I Try Life Without Television, and Subsequently Miss Myself

I've gotten a lot of email in the two weeks since I moved.

Most have been typical: thoughtful people writing to check in, asking how everything's going, asking if I miss them yet (um...), what's different about the city, how's the weather, etc. Some have been unusual ("Should I buy a pig, and if so, how much should I be willing to pay?"). A few have been regarding a Nigerian prince and an enormous sum of money, but I can't reveal specifics.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

But the question I've received the most is some variation of "how is your life different on a day-to-day basis?"

To be honest, it's not too different, at least not yet. I'm still getting settled in, so my day's a combination of normal work routine and errand running, which isn't dissimilar from life in Nashville. Of course, I walk more than I used to. I'm generally more conscious of weather. I'm in awe of the myriad scarves I've seen, and have begrudgingly developed scarf-envy. I eat better (fruits and vegetables abound) but worse (relative to "outside" options). And sure, I could ramble forever about how much fun it's been so far, and probably will soon, but that doesn't answer the initial question: "what's the biggest difference in your daily life?"

The single biggest change in my daily routine is Life Without Television, and I'm here to tell you something:

Life Without Television sucks. It sucks out loud, but quietly, since the TV's not on.*

Let me explain...

People discuss pop culture, and some people use those conversations as a measuring stick for their own intellectual efficacy. Some people talk about it as high art; others as mere entertainment. But most still engage pop culture as something generally worth talking about, even if we don't agree on what's "good," "bad," or "meaningful."

However, I know a few people who reject that entire premise. They avoid all conversations about pop culture, and treat these discussion with some combination of "snide indifference" and "active condescension." "Kill your TV," they say. The room stops. Everyone suddenly feels sheepish for debating the cultural legacy of Stephen from Laguna Beach. They end the discussion by negating it from a perceived intellectual high ground.

Here's the common assumption: the less you like about pop culture, the smarter you are. More specifically, the less your tastes align with those of the average person, the smarter you must be. If Joe Average likes CSI, and you don't consider yourself average, you mustn't like CSI. It's okay to like the Ramones, but it's better to like Fugazi. It's acceptable to like Weeds, but it's best to exclusively watch PBS. By this logic, the surest intellectual trump card is claiming to hate all pop culture.

So, "kill your TV" is best translated as: "I know something none of you know. I'm so much smarter than the average person I can't relate--and have no desire to relate--to any mass media at all."

Of course, these people always seemed pretentious and self-isolating and palpably sad to me. But until now, I didn't know if they were actually wrong or right because, until now, I had never killed my TV. When I moved to New York, I packed what I could carry, shipped a few boxes of clothes, got some furniture, and that was it. I made the decision--borne out of necessity--not to bring my TV. A new LCD and a fat cable package could wait. Maybe.

I hoped that I would adapt to Life Without Television. I wouldn't even miss it. I would never buy that new LCD. I would never even dream of 300 channels. I would live an incredibly fulfilling life and pursue higher intellectual endeavors like, I guess, French satire, archeological digs, and pipe-smoking. I would classify myself as a "pre-modern nihilist." I would own multiple snifters.

Then it was Sunday, and I hummed the Mad Men theme to myself. I avoided spoiler-alert phone calls and sent out notice: do not tell me. I am Living Without Television.**

Then it was Wednesday, and I wondered if Kevin (the gnomish Top Chef) made the cut. Visions of Padma Lakshmi danced in my head. I ignored the avalanche of texts about whether bacon, in fact, makes everything better. I stared at my cold sandwich and turned off my phone because I was now Living Without Television.

Then it was Thursday, and I paced my apartment at 9PM. I wondered what Michael Scott was doing. What month is it in Scranton? Has 30 Rock returned? I muttered to hyper-dramatic statements to myself like Caruso in CSI. I shook like Bubbles in Season 1 of The Wire.

For the first time in my life, I thought at length about Martin Crane. Martin Crane is the fictitious father of Frasier Crane, the fictitious radio shrink and protagonist of Frasier, the spin-off to Cheers, the sitcom about a fictitious group of regulars at a fictitious Boston bar. I remembered him permanently affixed to his favorite chair, remote in one hand, cold beer in the other, his dopey face lit by the television's blue glow, an island of pop cultural inanity in the ocean of Frasier's opera-quoting, cherry-swilling life.

And I'll tell you this right now without fear or shame:

I envied Martin Crane. In that moment, I aspired to be Martin Crane. I even hated him a little.

This isn't a natural symptom of withdrawal, it isn't a "healthy stage in the transition," and it isn't a response to the horrific question, "God, what happens on Gameday?" I've quit things before, I typically enjoy change, and I've found viable sports bars. This is me, realizing that my life is quantitatively better with television in it.

Here's one reason television makes my life better (resisting the urge to just type "Padma" and sign off):

Talking about television = Talking about yourself.

Sure, I love watching TV, the daily habits I've built around watching it, and the sheer visceral reward of laughing, scowling, or even crying along with it (Note: I would never cry because of a TV show, especially not Season 4 of The Wire, especially not to the point where I wanted to call everyone in my phonebook and tell them I love them). Let's set aside the visceral joy less-advanced folks like me feel when we see something funny/dramatic/endearing/true onscreen.

The crucial thing about watching television isn't watching television; it's talking about what you've just seen. Maybe you do this in a roomful of people at a weekly "Grey's Party." Maybe you do this on the phone with your best friend after a Mad Men episode. Maybe you do it at a party weeks later, when you find yourself in a conversation with a stranger who also likes Curb Your Enthusiasm. It's not just about the shared experience of watching the show (valuable, too), it's about the self-defining experience of discussing that show.

For example, last season of The Office worried me. The first few episodes spotlit Jim and Pam's new relationship with a will-they-won't-they angle. This made me mad, but I didn't know why. I talked circles around it, unsuccessfully, til my brother said, "you're worried they're going to Ross-and-Rachel The Office."

He was exactly right. Suddenly, I understood my discontent. I balked at this plotline because: 1) these characters wouldn't actually be conflicted about their relationship, 2) this device was already used with Ross and Rachael to ill effect, and 3) it's spiteful of the audience/really freaking annoying.

I realized that to want less Jim and Pam is to actually want more Michael. I realized The Office is best when it's his show. The residual plotlines--like Jim and Pam's relationship--actually have more subtlety, nuance, and payoff if they're kept in lower relief to his amplified zaniness. I then kept watching to see which direction it would go. The Office decided not to jerk the audience around, focus on Dwight and Michael, and plot Jim and Pam as two sane and likable people in a healthy relationship. The challenge was to make that still interesting, and they were largely successful.

So, in that conversation, I revealed that I'm:
1) The type of person who wants pop culture to challenge itself to try something new
2) The type of person who wants pop audiences to embrace that new thing if it's done well
3) The type of person who wants to believe comedy and drama can come from normal people, too
4) Invested in the artistic successes of individual performers I believe in
5) A firm proponent of "giving the ball to your best player."
6) Not particularly patient.
7) Disinclined to be interested in sitcom romances.
8) Disinclined to be interested in romance as the primary plot of any show.
9) Not on Team Jennifer.

In that conversation, my brother revealed that he's:
1) Still way smarter than me.

The point is that I never would've understood my frustration, had a gauge for the success or failure of the rest of the season, or realized my artistic priorities and preferences if I hadn't TiVo'ed the episode, rejected the Entirety of Roy, and complained to my brother. Some of that list is stuff I wouldn't say out loud ("I have a weird distaste for romantic plotlines"), but I'm comfortable expressing when talking about television.

In this way, I've learned that my politics can best be described as "Bunny Colvinesque," and that a past relationship of failed because I sympathize too much with Roger Sterling. In other words:

Talking about television > Talking about yourself.

Of course, the person who kills their TV would scoff at this, claiming it's shallow to self-identify through such a (potentially) inauthentic medium. To that person I would say, "well, you're just being Justin from the Real World: Hawaii."

Chuck Klosterman once argued--brilliantly--that everyone he knew approximated some character from the Real World. If you're a longtime fan, you'll remember Justin, the smart, semi-evil Harvard law student who tried to destroy his season (pictured right with bleached hair). He spent most days needling his roommates, stealthily creating conflict, instigating fights, and breaking the show's sacred fourth wall by admitting to all this in confessional. He basically signed up to perform his own nihilist social experiment, proving how stupid, easily-manipulated, and unreal this "television reality" was. Of course, his cast-mates turned on him (the producers likely did, too), and he soon left the house by mid-season.

The point is this: Justin from Hawaii clearly hated television, or at least the television show he starred in. He went into his TV to kill it. And what the "kill your TV" folks on the outside don't understand is what the rest of us inherently know, accept, and embrace:

Even if you kill your TV, you're still a character in it. You're Justin from Real World: Hawaii. You're even more of an archetype. You're not above the conversation.

You can kill your TV, but it just looks like suicide.

So I'll be here every night with my new LCD on layaway. I'll wonder what happened on Mad Men, who got tossed on Top Chef, and what Padma wore. I'll hum the Curb theme to myself and avoid spoiler alerts about the Seinfeld reunion. I'll wonder what everyone's seen that I haven't, and what my friends now know that I don't. I'll try to remember where I left off, and how far behind I am. I'll sit in my comfortable chair like Martin Crane with no remote and no grin. Then I'll wonder what my line is.

-----------------------------------------------------------

*I don't mean that life, as a whole, sucks because of the absence of one part (TV). I mean that the absence of television, period, is a difficult, undesirable, and relentlessly lame thing.

**I know, much of this is available online. Two things: 1) My internet's not set up yet. At home, I'm really blacked-out. 2) It's less about a TV's physical availability and more about the lifestyle decision to not watch any television programs.