Page Two: The Glory of It All
Celebrating the insane energy and rippling barrage of popular culture
By Louis Black, Fri., March 16, 2007
The debate is tiresome, and there is no hope of trumping the certainty, superiority, and smug condemnations of the Chronicle, South by Southwest, and me. Not only is there no hope; there is also precious little desire.
God is alive. Magic is afoot. God is alive. Magic is afoot. God is afoot. Magic is alive. Alive is afoot. Magic never died. God never sickened.
– Beautiful Losers, a novel by Leonard Cohen
I believe.
I believe in redemption. In particular, I believe in the redemptive powers of music and film. I celebrate the beauty and the power of culture, all culture – even, if not especially, popular culture. The critics and historians who believe that our culture has become hopelessly corrupted – that it is meaningless and without resonance, completely dwarfed by the shadow of the towering great works of the past – are not just lazy but scared. They hold on to great works – those of art, music, dance, theatre, film, fiction, and so on – as though they are umbrellas against a terrible storm. They revere and pray to them, witnessing them as truly, profoundly spiritual monuments that have survived the most horrible of floods.
Culture is a way society talks to and makes sense of itself. Arguing that what once was vital is now enshrined, what was current is now timeless, what was of its day is now the be-all and end-all of great art is to trivialize culture and deprive it of its humanist power. It is an argument used primarily to define class in the most base of ways: "High culture" is the textured front lawns of the upper classes, providing evidence that they are deserving; "popular culture" is necessarily deemed polluted, as its vitality challenges, ignores, and contradicts their superiority.
This is not about wealth; it's about attitude. Loving great classical music and the outstanding novels of the past is often a deep and honest emotional reaction. I am not dismissing the beauty of past cultures. But too often, the allure is that these are known, mapped, and assessed intellectual and aesthetic territories. In considering the catalog of the past, one can know what is great and worthy: There is no need to plunge into modern culture, grappling with it hand to hand, often uncertain of either quality or meaning.
The solid certainty of the past is much safer than dealing with the fluid and constant flow of popular culture. In taking our culture seriously, rather than dismissing it out of hand, one is swamped by wave after wave of often-tortured analyses, definitive comments, poetic observations, and immediate reactions. There is no map that lays this out, no clear passage – or perhaps no passage at all – through this maze. Rock, rap, blues, comic books, jazz, slam poetry, fanzines, surrealistic depictions, distracted films that dance around any kind of linear meanings, graffiti – all are so much of the moment. The atmosphere is ever-evolving; it is often difficult to make sense of it or to quantify its social significance and cultural achievements.
Not to argue, by any means, that every work in contemporary categories is inherently great or even good. It's just that the calm of culture past makes for easy cataloging, though the process often neuters the danger, meaning, and power of it. In contrast, the torrential currents of modern popular culture seem rude, crass, lost, and of the street, allowing no certainty as to quality.
My life has been saved and my journey served by rock & roll. Not just once but again and again and again and again. The same has been true with comic books, movies, TV shows, and pulp fiction.
I offer the above not as any position in a debate, nor in any way as a justification, but as simple, declarative statements.
Magic is afoot. God rules. Alive is afoot. Alive is in command.
– Beautiful Losers, a novel by Leonard Cohen
Everything (everything!) Nick Barbaro, our extended community, and I tried to do just to make money failed – usually not only failed but did so spectacularly. The schemes were miserable to conceive, horrible to execute, and severely crippled when birthed. Not only did none of these projects make money, but almost all of them actually lost money – often substantial amounts – instead.
I believe in capitalism but am personally one of the most inept, incompetent salesmen imaginable, boasting a series of pathetic and failed negotiations going back deep into my childhood.
Surprisingly, on the other hand, most of what we did for love ended up making money. Probably not an example you would want to teach in a business class, but for us it worked.
If I don't believe in something, then I have no skill sets that allow me to do it. I realize this is not far from the core philosophy of most fascists, for whom personal conviction is the only navigational tool. But I work in the context of a collaborative effort, with a staff that does not hesitate to offer its thoughts, criticize mine, or even ignore them. Constantly, I question where we are going and what we are doing.
The bottom line is that, every day, I approach work with excitement, I love what I do and the people with whom I work. Don't worry or gloat over my mental health, nor worry about my well-being. I believe in what I do, and that liberates the soul. SXSW is my favorite time of the year because of the insane energy and the rippling barrage of films, music, media, and ideas. There is a holiness to vision and a sanctity about discussion. I have nothing against money, but that neither solely drives nor motivates me. It's the power and the glory, the creativity and the energy that comes from so many talents together. I believe in the glory of our real culture: That is what SXSW and the Chronicle celebrate, and that is why I love this week so much. 
