Mi smo Smetnjak in odločamo, kaj je 'čis' hudo', 'boln'ca' in 'kul'. Narekovaji so tam, ker sami teh besed ne bi uporabili. Nismo se gnali za takimi pristojnostmi, vaša hierarhija nas ne zanima. Izbrali ste nas sami. Izbrali ste naš okus. Častite ga, mi ga presegamo. Nimamo obrazov, a nas vaše punce, sestre in sosede prepoznajo. Vaši prijatelji nas želijo trepljati po ramah. Ne razglašamo, da nam ni mar za vaše občudovanje. Mlade porednice, ki ne potrebujejo prepričevanja, nas ne dolgočasijo. Dolgočasi nas hedonizem. In zdolgočasenost. Cinizem nas ne zanima. Včasih se sprehajamo v vetru. Preletavajoča vrečka nam je še vedno lahko izredna. Če se potrudimo, nam je zanimiv tudi Omar Naber. Ali Boys Noize. Črno za našimi nohti je menda šarmantno. Naša očarljivost ni namen, je pritiklina. Vedno ne gledamo, a pogosto vidimo. Skozi. Začutimo razliko med nič ne reči in modro molčati. Trudimo se, da bi vas imeli radi. Imamo vas radi. Vidite, kako preprosto nas je sovražiti. firstname.lastname@example.org
“Art has replaced the police in the universal dispositif of mind control /…/”
Franco “Bifo” Berardi, Precarious Rhapsody
Even if art replaces police, it still has to be guarded by the latter. What is guarded? Like the girl says in the video: “You make yourself art! That’s amazing!” So this body becomes art, but not any art. Body as corpus, corpus as corporation. An asset gliding towards pricelessness.
Probably Jay-Z’s lyrics should be – for any redeeming value – read as an instance of overidentification (with the so-called 1 percent or as Berardi succinctly puts it “the criminal class”). It’s also a sign of how exhausted, standardized this strategy has turned out to be. Nevertheless, Jay-Z recurrently lapses in the ludicrous; in Picasso Baby it is stated: “My Mirandas don’t stand a chance with cops.” What could be worth more, more imperatively protected, than a piece of the American dream, of business expansion from a crack dealer to a CEO?
Outside of such a frame of sharing & caring, of love, of community (Brooklyn!!!, gentrified), there can only be a threat, danger coming from the envy, the ressentiment, the hate of the non-included. Emancipation (of women, Afro-Americans etc.) is thus understood as a victorious “subjection to the circuit of capitalist production”. This is the ugliness, the paranoia, the cynicism of every “let’s-be-positive” ultimatum.
The withdrawal, the non-participation, is something to be nurtured and cherished.1
John Maus: We Must Become The Pitiless Censors of Ourselves
This sound is really not necessarily about the eighties: the employment of the old church modes recalls Walter Benjamin’s wager on the small and ugly puppet of theology in the name of historical materialism. The art of purification that is closest to a formula, a materialist incantation in the world of slogans, the renewal of Pascalian gestus: Kneel down, move your lips in prayer, and you will believe.
Kanye West and Jay-Z: Watch the Throne
Afro-Americans living the dream – Obama being JFK, the now being the reenactment of Space Age -, willingly becoming the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world, the space monkeys, the money monkeys (it would be absurd, even racist, if one could call a monkey only a Caucasian). That does not preclude the brilliance of the sound as Photoshop canvas, the pixelization of the sound. It’s the seduction of the so-called 1 percent.
PJ Harvey: Let England Shake
All great art on war is never (merely) against it. War is a classic text that keeps on updating itself by fresh blood (or – rather – fresh red on the screen), a history, a narration, an account, a fable, a lullaby. The grace of “Cruel nature has won again” that closes On Battleship Hill puts one to sleep in every sense of the word. All this is done by a voice, a female voice that is not lamenting, crying or far from just that. A female voice that sees. Endures the gaze into the abyss of war.