Post-Empire For Your Ipod: A Summer Mix Tape in the Spirit of Terror

It's Your Mixtape Baby!

      

     As some of you might have noted, pomo enfant terrible, Bret Easton Ellis, recently wrote a piece for The Daily Beast on Charlie Sheen's hypervisible meltdown in which the novelist coins the term post-empire to describe a glamorous nihilism emerging in contemporary popular culture.  Post-empire is a concept worth holding onto and exploring in more detail, and what better way to explore this Post-Imperial structure of feeling than by giving my fellow spuds an illustrative mixtape? 

     Now, before we launch into the tunes, some explanations are in order.  First, the songs that follow don't really exemplify Post-Empire as Ellis defines it.  If you want a mixtape exemplifying Post-Empire, merely sit down with your TV and flip back and forth between whatever music channels you have.  Properly Post-Imperial music would include the likes of Ke$ha, Wiz Khalifa, Katy Perry and Lady Gaga, and providing you with a mixtape of such sonic residue would be, at the very least, a second order redundancy.  So, this mixtape features songs about rather than of Post-Empire.

     This, however, leads to a second caveat:  the very concept of Post-Empire tends to efface any distinction between about and of.  With Post-Empire, Ellis names the aesthetic of profound nihilism at work in his own fiction.  The conundrum of nihilism is that, by affirming nothing, you risk affirming everything, albeit with a cynical smirk.  Indeed, one might ask whether Ellis himself critiques or contributes to the bourgeois culture depicted in his novels.  For example, is American Psycho "about" or "part of" the Bruegelian landscape of bloodshed and conspicuous (cannibalistic) consumption that drools forth on its pages?  In a sort of negative realism, Post Imperial representation tend to give way to affirmation.  Of course, "postmodern" would do just fine as a term for this crisis of critical distance, but Ellis's notion of post-empire, like his fiction, emphasizes the latent brutality of this aesthetic blankness.  Postmodern is Andy Warhol's factory churning out silk-screens; Post-Empire, on the other hand, is Warhol and Co. merrily dining on the mutilated corpses of pre-pubescent undocumented day laborers brought into the factory make said silkscreens.  Perhaps merely a difference of degree, but a difference nonetheless.  Thus, the songs that follow are meant to capture a sort of blank violence that is more Post-Imperial than postmodern, the difference being the violence.

     Thirdly, like postmodern, Post-Imperial doesn't necessarily denote periodic difference.  We were not once imperial and now post-imperial.  The difference is one of aesthetics rather than time period.  This blank, smiley-face nihilism of Post-Empire has been around at least since Reagan's morning in America.  Indeed, the entire career of Stanley Kubrick, excepting perhaps 2001:  A Space Odyssey but especially A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket, can be seen as it least teetering on the aesthetic precipice separating Empire from Post-Empire.  So this is certainly not a new structure of feeling.  Thus, not all of the songs on this mixtape are completely new.

    Finally, however, the "war on terror" and our concurrent sentiment of "tolerance-chic" have brought Post-Imperial nihilism into sharp relief.  Indeed, what could be more Post-Imperial than our joyful celebration of bin Laden's death?  Vacuous, excessive, implicitly (or sometimes downright explicitly) brutal -our celebration captures the extent to which the war on terror is Post-Imperial.  Maureen Dowd's recent op-ed in The New York Times, "Killing Evil Doesn't Make Us Evil," reflects vividly the gleeful arrogance of Post-Empire.  Claiming "I want memory, and justice, and revenge" and concluding that "morally and operationally, this was counterterrorism at its finest," Dowd sounds exactly like one of the melancholic supermodel/terrorists of Ellis's Glamorama.  Like the main character of the novel, Dowd flaunts her vapid and callous tautologies, quipping, "I leave it to subtler minds to parse the distinction between what is just and what is justified."  And her conclusion, "We have nothing to apologize for" is practically the thesis statement of Ellis's fiction, the only difference being that Ellis and his fictional characters appear a bit more disturbed by this surrender to passive nihilism then does Dowd.  The point being, the war on terror is sooooo Post-Empire dude.  It's rock and roll baby.  Lock and load.  Fuck those subtler minds.  Git 'er done.  Spare me.

     So, without further ado, plug up your skull with your earpegs and prepare for Bad Penny's summer tour of sonic malaise.  As you listen, perhaps envision roadside bombs exploding, U.S. military police forcing "enemy combatants" to masturbate, shiny happy people congregating in Time Square to celebrate the splattering of Osama's brains, Mickey Mouse patting a toe-headed child on the ass, Katy Perry stuffing kittens down the throat of a boy with cerebral palsy, Bono and the Edge performing "enhanced interrogation techniques" on sex-trafficked Cambodian girls, and. . . lulz cats.     

1)  Nine Inch Nails:  "Capital G"

     On Year Zero, Trent Reznor's brand of industrial cynicism found a new political edge.  "Capital G" encapsulates what might be called a crisis of irony indicative of post-empire.  When Reznor snarls "I'm sick of hearing about the haves and the have nots.  Have some personal responsibility" is he parodying or affirming American arrogance and selfishness?  One could imagine some jocko-homo meathead fratfuck pumping his fist and singing these lyrics as the beat thumps from his daddy's hummer just as easily as one can imagine some liberal, vegan hipster (like me) chanting along with an ironic sneer.  As Year Zero announces, it doesn't fucking matter how you "take it" as long as you take it.  Hell, Reznor already anticipated post-empire back in 94, on The Downward Spiral when he sang a brutally honest and heartfelt love song to the pigs.  

2) Suicide:  "Station Station"

     Of course, long before Reznor churned out his first slice of post-imperial wax, Alan Vega and Martin Rev - under the moniker Suicide - were fusing industrial noise with an uncompromisingly bleak picture.  While Suicide dropped most of their horror in the early seventies and late eighties, 9/11 resurrected the duo for 2002's American Supreme, a sonic landscape of New York after the "terrorist" attacks.  Since then, frontman Vega has become something of a rock poet of the terror apocalypse.  Completely post-empire, Vega rarely judges the voices of fascism, greed and hatred that chatter on the streets of empire's metropolises.  Rather, he embodies these voices in his characteristic schizoid yelps, howls and growls.  Admittedly, there is something very empire about his lament that "there was a time when you could dream," but even these lines sound like some lost recording unearthed from the rubble.  That is, even the nostalgia here seems housed in an archive and almost droned out by distorted synths and electronic drums.  But, then again, post-empire is not un-nostalgic to begin with.

3)  Pig Destroyer:  "Deathtripper"

       Grindcore has an intimate relationship with post-empire.  With roots in hardcore punk and crust-punk, grind has always referenced globalization.  Arguably the first grindcore album, Napalm Death's Scum (1987), opens with the the chant "Multinational corporations/ genocide of the starving nations" and featured an album cover depicting CEOs on top of a mountain of skulls along with logos from major corporations.  The preachy tone of Napalm, however, still suggests an empire morality especially when compared to more contemporary grindcore such as Agoraphobic Nosebleed, Cephalic Carnage and Pig Destroyer.  Indeed, if there were a sonic equivalent to Ellis's American Psycho and Glamorama, it would be contemporary grindcore.  Like these novels, grind is meticulously composed, brutally repetitious and senselessly violent.  The aesthetic works to achieve a pure affective impact, stripped of all content.  Indeed, the lyrics to the above track - "I hold your hands in mine/ the rest of you is scattered all over/ your rib cage is open like a great white's jaws/ your legs look so sexy out of context" - are both brutally violent yet abstract.  The legs aren't amputated; they are "out of context."  Violence bleeds into pure abstraction especially when considering that these lyrics are themselves basically unintelligible on the track.  Grindcore then, and especially Pig Destroyer, are the sound of a generation whose minds have been numbed by interweb war porn.

4)  Dead Kennedys:  "Kill the Poor"

     Arguably, Jello Biafra is still very empire insofar as his political satire reflects someone who still cares very much about humanity.  On songs like "Kill the Poor," "Soup is Good Food" and "Holiday in Cambodia," however, Jello's satire reaches a level of ghoulishness and glee that tips into post-empire.  Indeed, one live performance of "Holiday in Cambodia" ends with Jello leaping into the crowd as he screams "Pol Pot."  It is difficult to tell, at this point, whether or not jouissance has taken over satirical critique, and this not-so-delicate slamdance between socially-conscious satire and anti-social revery is what makes The Dead Kennedys timeless masters of the post-empire aesthetic.  Nowhere is this master craftsmanship more vivid than on "Kill the Poor."


 5)  Godflesh:  Slavestate

     In many ways, Justin Broadrick's departure from Napalm Death and founding of Godflesh amounts to a shift from empire to post-empire.  While the grind aesthetic of Napalm is certainly louder, faster and less danceable than Godflesh, the industrial noise of Godflesh bespeaks a much more bleak and apathetic worldview than anything found on Napalm albums or really on many grindcore albums period.  While globalization is still a political issue for Napalm, it becomes a metaphysical condition for Godflesh.  In a much more troubling way then Reznor could ever imagine, Broadrick seems to get off on absolute subjugation.  Songs such as "Like Rats," "Head Dirt," and "Anything is Mine" blend eroticism, brutality and a bizarre spirituality with hammering drum machines and spastic baselines.  Not unlike Cormac McCarthy, Broadrick gives us a strangely beautiful, apocalyptic, post-imperial vision.

6)  Death Grips: "Blood Creepin"
   

      Who the fuck knows what Death Grips is?  A project began by mathcore drummer Zach Hill and some of his friends, the avant-noise rap aggression of the debut album, "Exmilitary" (!) sounds like sonic sheet-metal scavenged from the scrapyard of hip hop and punk long after pop culture has descended into a Thunderdome future.   The barked lyrics recall everything from MOP thug-style to Black Flag-esque alienation and hostility.  In a sense, Death Grips returns us to the digital noise and lyrical sniper-fire of Suicide but now with a post-Wu Tang funk.  It's too soon to pigeonhole Death Grips or to decide what the world-view of the band might be, but it certainly seems adequately Post-Imperial. 

7)  Kanye West:  "Monster"

I've already blogged extensively on this track and it's significance to our current cultural moment.  Suffice to say, with "Monster" Kanye, Jay, and Minaj have perfected post-imperial hip hop.  

8)  Ministry:  "The Land of Rape and Honey"

So you might notice that this mixtape consists of large amount of 80s-90s industrial music.  I haven't really worked out precisely why that is.  Perhaps, more than any other subgenre of pop music, Wax Trax era industrial music captured the amalgam of cynicism, hedonism and brutality that is the post-empire pose.  Without a doubt, the jackhammer sounds of Al Jorgensen and Ministry resonate with the main tenants of post-empire, especially on the earlier albums.  Al's lyrics and videos during this period depict a vile and venomous world of Bush I, soaked in greed, hypocrisy and heroin, and with respect to this world, Uncle Al casts no moralistic judgements; he merely reads the news.  Much like the Dead Kennedys, Ministry does an exhilarating tight rope act, balancing between the satirical stance of empire and the orgiastic wallowing of post-empire.  In fact, what makes the last few Ministry albums fail is that Al gets a bit too preachy.  He starts to sound a bit too much like a moralizing liberal in his satirical critique of Bush II.  Or maybe the problem was something much more simple.  Al just stopped doing Horse.  Give me the old Ministry;  the Ministry who got busted in K-Mart at two o'clock in the morning for heroin possession.

9)  Swans: "Power for Power"

As a young lad, standing upon the stage with his pale body clad only in a make-shift loin cloth, like a cross between Jesus Christ and Jeffery Dahmer, chanting "stick a knife in me" over and over again for twelve minutes backed by a slamming and trudging industrial soundtrack, M. Gira understood more than a little about post-empire.  He understood that all Americans, whether secretly or openly, whether guiltily or proudly, are in love with the nightmare of torture and domination they have unleashed upon the planet.  I remember being mortified when I first heard Swans, and it was the kind of mortification that can only be evoked by a confrontation with a truth.  This is why the songs of early Swans consist only of perhaps ten words and four notes repeated over and over again for well over ten minutes.  Post-empire is tautological and perpetual.  It doesn't make sense but instead imposes its nonsense directly onto the body.  It's like fucking.  It's stupid and repetitious and undeniable and defiant of any moral code.   

10)  Tyler the Creator "Bastard/Seven"

Okay, the first mistake was giving a wildly talented, overly ambitious, incredibly arrogant and utterly bleak seventeen-year-old a microphone.  Odd Future is the anti-It-Gets-Better.  What currently irritates folks about this group isn't the use of homophobic slurs but instead the self-conscious embodiment of everything American culture secretly hates about young people (and is secretly afraid of about black people).  Glee be damned, high school is ground zero for post empire, and Odd Future constantly remind us of this unpleasant fact.  Thus, their presence in our current tolerance-chic climate is Nietzschean in its untimeliness, and the current backlash against the group reveals a deep-seated ressentiment at the heart of our feel-good multiculturalism.  In a sense, "growing up" has always meant learning to engage in bullshit fantasies about how "people are really good inside" and how "if you believe in yourself, you can be anything" and how "a big hug can make all the difference."  We grow up and learn how to be moralizing, Imperial liberals.  But don't worry, Odd Future is only to eager to remind us that, to quote Whitney Houston, the children are the future, and the future is post-imperial.

Swag to that, spuds!

Osama's Dead, Come On Get Happy: The War on Terror is All About the Ya Yas!

      Outside of whatever media circus tent where the juggalos congregate, performing idiotic proxysms of heroism and victimization, there you shall find Bad Penny.  And oh my spuds, what a carnival of patriotic chest-beating and gleeful amnesia has been unleashed by recent news of Osama bin Laden's utterly timely demise:

Of course, you've all seen this footage.  Even if you haven't seen it, you've seen it.  Were we to have speculated, three weeks ago, about what the streets of the U.S. might look like upon news of bin Laden's death, we probably would have imagined scenes such as these or maybe this:

As a friend of mine suggested, this latter video is, perhaps, a parody.  However, the question of this video's sincerity takes us right to heart of the cave in which bin Laden will always hide regardless of how many times we kill him.  The reason that we all secretly knew exactly what would happen when bin Laden was killed, the reason that satire falters upon the news of his death is because bin Laden is spectacle through and through.  So, in a sense, the cave in which bin Laden will forever hide belongs to Plato.  As spectacle, everything about bin Laden's trajectory through history is utterly predictable, and as spectacle, he is, for better or worse, timeless.  We all knew that this whole Bugs Bunny chase scenario was a sham, just as we all knew that our exhibitionist-nationalist responses to its culmination would be a sham, and it's quite difficult to parody something that is already ridiculous.

     But calling bin Laden a spectacle is about as predictable as the most recent Lady Gaga video.  Thus, why say another word about the killing of Osama bin Laden?  Why contribute to this nauseating hide-and-seek game that is the "war on terror."  Where is he hiding?  Will Obama hide the photographs?  Why couldn't we see the body?  Why couldn't Pakistan see bin Laden?  All this chatter about visibility.  Fuck that.

     We need to discuss the death of bin Laden, not on these terms, but precisely because his death signaled an alarming absence of discussion on the part of both liberals and conservatives.  And in this void of thoughtful discussion democrats and republicans have come together in a big old greasy gang bang of hardcore patriotic punish fucking to the pelvic thrusting chants of "USA  USA USA."  Hark, the sound of hegemony quakes upon the horizon.  While conservative juggalos jumped at the opportunity to do their Larry the Cable Guy routine,

the popular liberal response went something like this:  "I know his death changes nothing, but I'm still happy he's dead."  What these responses share is happiness.  There seems to be a mandate right now to confess one's joy at the death of bin Laden.  Whether we dance about in the streets, proudly, with cowboy hats and American flags or murmur our enthusiasm with a healthy bit of guilty apprehension, we must, it seems, make visible our pleasure.  Even if we preface this admission of exuberance with a well-reasoned account of precisely how this one death means absolutely nothing with respect to ending the war on terror, we must still make it clear that we are glad bin Laden is dead.
 
     Because, honestly, the war on terror has always been a feel-good war.  The primary concern has always been the emotional state of the Americans.  Hence, not the conservative populism of new country music, but instead, the vacuous emotional excess of emo-core provides the perfect soundtrack to the occupations of Afghanistan and Iraq:

 We're told that the death of bin Laden is good because it "gives the victims of 9/11 closure" as though this entire war were a big exercise in group therapy!  Scream therapy to be more precise.  To sample some Zizek here, the liberal emo response -"but still I'm glad he's dead" - reiterates the "I know very well that this is the case, but nevertheless" structure of ideology, and the subject reflected by this formation is precisely the American subject who is at once melancholic and ecstatic, who is both a tragic victim and a heroic patriot, both the wounded sensitive croon and the aggro scream.  In this respect, our liberal response smacks of a particular insincerity since much of our enjoyment is projected onto conservative juggalos who are only too eager to act out our pleasures like so many court jesters.  The overarching subject, however, must enjoy this death one way or another.

     So, once again, through the presto-chango magic show of the war on terror, the story of a dead Arab transforms into the story of a victimized America overcoming its adversities.  In order to adequately address this reversal, we must talk about a concept that has been almost entirely erased from discourses about the war generally and bin Laden's death specifically -race.  Always at the forefront of American political discourse, South Park new immediately that the war on terror would be about race.  By being honestly racist and by referencing the history of racist caricatures in American cartoons, South Park captured the centrality of race to American ideas about bin Laden, and, now, we are only too happy to actualize the jouissance depicted in "Osama bin Laden has Farty Pants."  We are only too happy to embody Cartman.  Long before the war on terror, the "Arab" of racist fantasy always reflected perverse sexuality, surplus enjoyment and, conversely, the worries that Western subjects aren't enjoying, that we might be emotionally deadened by our consummerist culture, that we just aren't feelin it.  Should it be surprising, then, that this collective swelling of American enthusiasm results from the killing of a figure who has, for a long while, embodied all these racist ideas about Arabness?  Should it come as a shock that even those who admit that his death changes little in terms of geopolitics still express relief at his death?  Should it be at all astonishing that the death of bin Laden is "worth it" merely because it "makes us glad"?

     Make no mistake, there are no exceptions to this pronoun "we" that I'm bandying about.  Even in theorizing this American emoting subject, I am not excepting myself from it.  We are all in the same public pool, drinking the same piss, and there is no life guard to blow the whistle.  Indeed, bin Laden and countless other Arabs, whose deaths and humiliations at the hands of Western imperialism are either hypervisible or visible in their horrific censorship, amount to a bare life.  Their deaths mean nothing; they are not sacrificed.  But their killing is mandated in order to support a multicultural collective "we" of Empire.  The mourning that must take place for there to ever be an end to this war, and, unfortunately, the mourning that will probably never take place, is the mourning for these bodies.  Hence, the anxieties about disposing of bin Laden's remains in a way that wouldn't allow for memorials.  The Arab "terrorist" body signifies nothing; it will not be buried properly. 

     What would have happened had we done the unthinkable and mourned the passing of bin Laden or the countless other Arab bodies that have been disappeared by the C.I.A. in a torture program that has now found renewed enthusiastic support?  Of course this is a silly question to ask in the current climate of Bind, Torture, Kill and Celebrate.  What's clear now is that all the policies of the Bush and Obama administrations leading up to bin Laden's death can find a bizarre sort of justification in our collective melancholic festivities.                                       

Duty now for the future, spuds.

The Bride of Frankenstein Goes to Cairo: A Final Note on the Egyptian Revolution

     Some final comments on the Egyptian revolution, and then I'll get back to blogging about what really matters:

First, much has been made of Egypt's plugging up of the intertubes, especially considering certain WikiLeaked cables that turned up on the brink of the uprising which documented the U.S.'s seemingly contradictory investments in the region.  It would appear that blacking out the net is a fool's errand as it only made the revolt more visible on the global stage.  The hundreds of thousands of protesters on the streets of Cairo hardly needed a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing, and the seeming impossibility of shutting down the single site, WikiLeaks, casts serious doubt upon the capacity to enact any substantial web-based censorship on a global scale.

      Now, about those contradictory investments of the U.S.  WikiLeaks released two sets of cables which depict the U.S. in a somewhat non-monogamous relationship with the Mubarak regime.  The first cables seemed to indicate that Mubarak and Obama were bffs, but a subsequent document suggested that the U.S. actually provided assistance to rebel forces.  So what's the deal, Obama.  As Randall once advised Dante, "Don't pine for one and fuck the other."  Actually, I'm guessing the U.S. was probably playing the old game of "subversion and containment," attempting to "destabilize and reform" the Egyptian government in the grand tradition of shock doctrine capitalism.  But the stammering and stuttering of Gibbs and Clinton suggest that the U.S. is feeling every bit the melancholic and anxious Dr. Frankenstein, regarding with great apprehension the "monster" he had deluded himself into thinking he's created and can now control.

     Or perhaps a better analogy is Wale's The Bride of Frankenstein since, in allegedly backing certain rebel forces, the U.S. seems to have wanted to create a softer, kinder monster, to befriend the lumbering oaf of a dictator that was Mubarak.  And we all know how that plan played out:

Indeed, given the important role that women appear to have played in the Egyptian revolution, the comparison with The Bride seems fitting:

Monstrous Refusals

A successful revolution in Egypt will be properly monstrous, and it will reject its marriage, arranged by the West, with that other 30-year-old monster that is neoliberal Egypt.  This new monstrous bride upon the streets of Cairo -her fidelity will lie elsewhere, in an out-place that has yet to be named.  It will exist as long as it issues its impossible demand and as long as it refuses any pre-engineered fate in the shape of "reform."

       Secretary of State, Clinton has said, "We want to see an orderly transition so that no one fills a void, that there not be a void, that there be a well-thought-out plan that will bring about a democratic participatory government."  It is precisely the void that terrifies the West, the void, perhaps, of an open mouth emitting a scream of protest.

Cairo, Cairo, Mi Amour: Notes on the Probable Failure of the Egyptian Revolution

     Like many of you, I've been watching the events in Cairo unfold with great enthusiasm, and given the usual negative tone to these blog posts, I thought the uprising in Egypt would provide an excellent opportunity to affirm something for a change.  So, in an attempt at optimism, let's admit to ourselves the high probability that what's happening in Egypt will fail!

     Let's admit that the remarkable courage of the Egyptian people, many of whom have staked their bodies and their lives upon reclaiming the Commons, will most likely not shatter the order of global capitalism.  But, let us also, and in the same breath, celebrate this glorious failure.  Let us recognize that each failure - the UC protests, the London protests, the Egyptian uprising, the Tunisian revolt and so on and so forth - contains a kernel of the possible.  In each of these instances, we glimpse a possible body which is almost visible amidst the dazzling spectacle of the hypervisible.

     The greatest mistake with respect to this almost inevitable failure is to fall into a Thermidorean pattern of thought.  That is to say, the greatest error, and the error which neoliberalism demands that we make, is to equate the final result of Egypt (which could very well be disappointing for any communist aspirations) with the spirit of the revolt as such.  Perhaps the most crucial aspect of this spirit, which has been noted numerous times, is that it wasn't fueled by any single group.  This movement of the youth seems to have erupted spontaneously.  And, in this sense, this movement lacks a telos; in fact, this lack of a telos seems to propel this movement to generate their extraordinary demands and refusals in the face of hegemony machine consisting of the Mubarak regime, the Western media, the Obama administration and Israel -i.e. the usual suspects.

     
     A couple of notes on these suspects.  1) Note how often even the otherwise commendable Aljazeera was asking "who will replace Mubarak?"  2)  Note the insistence of Press Secretary Gibbs and Secretary of State Clinton that Egypt "not slide into chaos" and 3) that the Mubarak regime should "address the legitimate grievances" of the people.  4)  Note the preoccupation with whether or not the freedom fighters of Egypt are "looting."  This is all precisely the Thermindorean discourse of neoliberalism.

1)  The demand to know "who will replace Mubarak" attempts to contain the movement in the streets by quite literally capping this rupture with another figurehead, and almost certainly one supported by U.S. led Empire.

2)  The "concern" that the country will "slide into chaos" implies that "order" should be restored, and the only order that now exists and can thus be restored is that of neoliberalism.  (But of course, the people of Egypt have announced a new order.  This order has formed upon the street; this body-of-truth appears in its disappearance as fragments of the army coalesce with fragments of protesters, as the Muslim Brotherhood is enveloped in the movement, as the poor and the students stand together. . . this body-of-truth only appears to be a slide toward chaos when viewed through the lens of the restorative or rather reactionary order of neoliberalism.)

3)  The grievances that we see issued from the people of Egypt are precisely illegitimate; they cannot be legitimated by the current Mubarak government because they are first and foremost based upon the dissolution of this government.

4)  Finally, in Egypt, something like 50% of the population lives below the poverty line and wealth is anything but evenly distributed.  In the context of global capitalist domination, can anyone imagine a revolution that would not feature some attack upon private property and commodities.  I would say no, and when this economic offensive happens, it will almost surely be called "looting" by the mainstream media again as a way to demonize revolutionary forces and champion liberal values.

     One final point.  As has been noted on Aljazeera, prior to this almost certainly unsuccessful revolution, the subjective orientation of the Egyptian people was apparently quite apathetic.  That a seemingly spontaneous revolt sprang from an otherwise quite apathetic population is remarkable.  We might say that, in this respect, Egypt provides the most hopeful evidence for what Badiou calls an "active nihilism."  Unlike the steadfastly Thermidorean "passive nihilists" who "wish to convey to the young the idea that the essence of discordance consists in the defeat of beliefs, the crisis of ideologies, the crash of Marxism" the "active nihilist" "has never believed" but is nevertheless "in search of a form of confidence."  For the active nihilist, the "only future is courage, and it is toward this courage that his anxiety guides him by the sureness of the real" (Theory of the Subject 329).  If it is indeed possible for the great nihilism of postmodernity to be swept up in confidence and courage, then it must look something like the streets of Egypt do at this hour.  And if it is possible in Egypt, then it is possible in all the other outposts of nihilism around the globe.  In the end, what Egypt will have not failed to do is give us a glimpse of this Subject of courage and confidence, and it is our duty to not fail in our recognition of this Subject, this incredible body-of-truth.  

This is indeed our duty now for the future spuds. 




     

The Terrible Tragedy of Mark Twain and Gabrielle Giffords

                Mark said there wasn't any other kind of war cause war breeds war like lovebirds.
                                                                                           
                                                                 -Kathy Acker, Empire of the Senseless     


     Could there be a better definition of a non-coincidence than the recent convergence of NewSouths Books's plan to release a "non-offensive" edition of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the media self-flagellation resulting from the Arizona shooting spree?

     As we all know, not unlike Tom Sawyer's Aunt Polly, NewSouth Books plans to sanitize Huck, removing all usage of the n-word from the text.  Because, you know, that makes the text totally tolerant of racial difference.  Like Tom, you can let black dudes linger in jail cells and otherwise use them for your own entertainment as long as you don't call them the n-word.  Hey, come to think of it, isn't that precisely what we do now in our post-racial America?

Jim pleads with Huck to not use the n-word

     On the heels of this soaping of Twain's mouth, Jared Lee Loughner went on a shooting spree in a supermarket parking lot in Tuscan where U.S. Representative, Gabrielle Giffords was meeting with her constituency.  Loughner wounded fourteen people, killed six and became something of a political hot potato being thrown back and fourth between liberal and conservative pundits.  As liberals would have it, Loughner was a product of the "violent" political rhetoric being propagated by right wing windbags such as Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh and the Tea Party.  Always the voice of self-righteous indignation, that shameless simulacra of Edward R. Murrow, Keith Olbermann led the offensive against being offensive:

The right wingers promptly responded by accusing liberals of "politicizing" the shooting, and in the midst of the ensuing dogfight - you know, the usual one that passes for "political" debate - Giffords became one of those blonde, white, female martyrs, beloved by American popular culture.

     So what do these two (non)events have in common?  In both cases, a story of structural and bodily violence enacted upon people of color is overshadowed by a story about mostly-white people saying and doing violent things to each other.  In the case of Huck, the extensive and often quite casual violence enacted upon the character of Jim, not to mention his stereotypical characterization as such, is completely overshadowed by a single word and by concerns over offending readers.  NewSouth censored the book not because of a concern over racism but because they wanted the precious canonical text to be read in schools.  So the real victim in need of saving isn't Jim or any other black subject, fictional or otherwise.  To the contrary, the real victim in need of saving is apparently Twain!  Our precious white male canonical author, god save him from himself!

     In the case of the Arizona shooting and the media (non)event that it has become, the structural and bodily violence enacted upon undocumented workers daily in Arizona becomes overshadowed by the melodramatic narrative of Giffords, the white woman in peril.  The fact is, each month hundreds of undocumented workers are murdered, either directly or indirectly, while attempting to cross the US/Mexico border, and groups like No More Deaths have been told that is illegal to leave water in the desert for these workers due to littering laws!  But, it would seem that some bodies (i.e. the white blonde ones) are visible while others (un-papered brown ones) are not.  The media's self-condemnation regarding an isolated killing spree continues to efface a perpetual, State-sanctioned killing spree.  In related news, playing Call of Duty 4 has been proven to turn kids into terrorists:

     That liberals would lead this movement for censorship is nothing new.  Throughout the 80s, Tipper Gore waged war against heavy metal and any manner of popular music that supposedly turned teens into satanic perverts.  What strikes me as particularly ironic in the present case is that some of the same liberals who are now ever-so-gleeful to deride Sarah Palin's use of crosshairs are the same liberals who jumped for joy when Robert Rodriguez used his trailer for Machete to comment on Arizona's SB1017:

I think it's fairly obvious that this brilliant movie trailer uses violence in order to make a political statement.  Indeed, the entirety of the film, which I'd suggest is Rodrigeuz's masterpiece, deploys hyper-violent imagery to comment upon the subjugation of undocumented workers. 

     This hysteria over "media violence" and the "n-word" is a sort of PTA brand of pseudo-politics which amounts to nothing more than bourgeois navel gazing.  Political discourse has always been, is, and will always be violent, and bully for it.  We should not cede violent rhetoric to liberal narcissists who would censor it anymore than we should cede violent rhetoric to right wing juggalos like Limbaugh and Palin because no substantial political change has ever been properly non-violent.  And, Gandhi and King are not exceptions to this rule.  As Zizek suggests, sometimes the most violent thing one can do is to do nothing apparently violent.  In this sense, the "non-violence" practiced by King and Gandhi was indeed quite violent insofar as it struck at the heart of the State.

     We should read Huckleberry Finn and watch Machete in their original racist and gut-splattered forms because these texts develop complicated arguments about the intersection of race, racism, nation and violence, and if that means letting Palin have her crosshairs, so be it.  The real insidious motherfuckers here, aside from the obvious right wing Juggalos, are the Olbermanns of the mainstream media who reduce the political to some wishy-washy brand of rhetorical etiquette.  Beware of any instance where the media decides that what they have to say about the world is more important than the world itself.  You can be sure that this is also an instance of the West insinuating its own cultural supremacy.     
          

Hip Hop Will Eat Itself: Why Kanye West's "Monster" is The Only New Rap Video Worth Watching or Why Nicki Minaj Matters

     Let's face it, hip hop is undead.  Long ago, in that multicultural utopia of Native Tongue, The Beastie Boys and nostalgic backpacks rattling with spraypaint canisters (i.e. the 90s), Method Man warned us, "cash moves everything thing around me," and he meant it.  Hip hop has always known precisely what sarcophagus it was sleeping in.  From RUN DMC's odes to Adidas to Erik B and Rakim getting "paid in full" to EPMD's endless discussion of their "business," rap has always purported to be about the real which, in this galaxy, means the reality of capitalism, or what blogger K-Punk (aka Mark Fisher) has called capitalist realism.

     Sure, we liberals love to clamor about "real" hip hop.  We love to roll down the windows of our Subarus and blast The Roots, Mos Def or Common.  We can wax academic about the "underground" aesthetic of MF Doom or the lyrical wizardry of Aesop Rock or Sage Francis.  We can play the most obscure dubstep at our next wine and cheese party.   But, really, to paraphrase Das Racist, this is all a little like going to see DJ Spooky mix beats on his Ipad at the MoMA:

     But fuck all that clever shit.  If you want to get the vitals on hip hop and on America in general, take a real close look at the most important rap video in years, Kanye's "Monster":

     
 The rapper as aristocratic vampire/serial killer, secluded away in a narcissistic bubble of luxury and "conspicuous consumption," being cannibalized by the very fans he's cannibalizing; the rapper as both hyper-consumer and racialized commodity.  We gaze into Jay-Z's shades and see only ourselves gazing back.

     Both the song and the video "Monster" are an apocalypse.  They should shatter any liberal delusions about the "soul" of hip hop saving us from the woes of late capitalism.  They should expose the not-so-hidden truth of the pervasive bling aesthetic:  the "tip drill" is a driller killer.

With "Monster," Amercian rap emerges from the tomb of the last decade - from 9/11, the "war on terror," Gitmo, Abu Ghraib, Katrina, the Haitian earthquake and the resounding non-event of the Obama presidency - and now recognizes itself as an agent of oppression rather than a voice of the oppressed.  Kanye and Jay-Z are slick American Psychos -à la Patrick Bateman:  suit by Logsdail, sunglasses by Luis Vuitton, shoes by Dolce.  The rapper has reached the pinnacle of elitist Western postmodernity where, as Fukuyama has argued, history is finished or as Kanya raps, "I'm living the future so my present is the past/ My presence is the present.  Kiss my ass."  The rapper as sovereign power, he "does whatever he wants" and "whatever he wants" is a "cool" a priori.

     Of course, this position of supreme and absolute power is a curious one for black musicians.  When Kanye or Jay-Z play at the Patrick Bateman bloodsport of killing white women they simultaneously embody that age old stereotype of the black male rapist, an image conjured up most acutely when Kanye toys with Kate Moss-looking corpses like so many marionettes.  But, at the very outset, the video seems to flip the script on this stereotype, giving us an image of a "lynched" Vogue model, swinging from a chain.  Like so much gonzo pornography, then, "Monster" resurrects racist sexual stereotypes but only to suggest the ultimate interchangeability of roles within these scenarios. 

     With this superficiality in mind, we can safely say that the "monster" being reanimated here is precisely that of multiculturalism. "Monster" is Mr. Hyde to the Dr. Jekyll of diversity.  What we see here is the other face of that Janus head that is tolerance chic.  This is the negative print of that happy "post-racial" circle jerk we all had a couple of years ago when for a brief moment we allowed ourselves to forget (and what a privilege it is to be forgetful) that we ARE global fascism.  You see, for this video, race indeed doesn't matter, but then again, nothing matters except for the "profits."  Indeed, Kanye's first verse here intentionally teeters on complete incoherence precisely because he needn't be bothered to make sense.  Whatever he does is cool regardless of content.  And what's cooler than ice cold?  Undead.  He has become production/consumption machine, which, as Rob Latham suggests, is quite often both cyborg and vampire, and thus as Kayne tells us "I'm a motherfucking monster" his voice goes robotic.   

     For that very reason, however, the real star of this video is neither Kanye nor Jay-Z, but Nicki Minaj who, much like this video, is a high water mark for contemporary, late capitalist hip hop.  It's no mistake that the "bad bitch from Sri Lanka" sitting in the "Tonka" with Minaj is probably M.I.A.  If M.I.A. rejects the hypersexualized image of the female hip hop artist, if she "don't want to be that fake, but you can do it" then Minaj has indeed gone ahead done it:

 

Global Hip Hop BFFs

Let's strike right at that romantic liberal love affair with M.I.A and just fucking say it:  while M.I.A. turns revolution into fashion, perhaps Minaj turns fashion into revolution.  More troubling than M.I.A.'s sexy, but at times quite vacuous, appropriation of the Tamil Tigers is Minaj's full-on embrace of Barbie-Land objectification.  To hijack some critical race theory from Fred Moten, Minaj is precisely the commodity that speaks.  Like that doll of E.T.A. Hoffman's "The Sandman," Minaj's delivery both here and in her other performances evokes the unsettling uncanniness of an inanimate object come to life (skip to 2:40 to save yourself the true horrors of the rest of the track):

                                                         
Her delivery is schizoid, a sort of controlled and cacophonous madness, a disciplined artificiality completely captured in the "Monster" video by the S/M scenario in which she disciplines her "self."

     So, like Jay-Z and Kanye, Minaj is selling herself.  She "starves her Barbie" to "feed her pockets cheesecake."  However, Minaj surpasses Jay-Z and Kanye in this respect because there is no Dr. Jekyll to her Ms. Hyde.  That is to say, there is no "human being" who transforms into the "monster" who is Minaj.  The Minaj here who tortures "Barbie" is herself a monster.  Note that Minaj raps in two different voices - her signature Barbie squeak and a sort of ODB-meets-Lon Chaney growl - both of which evoke an artifice.  And I'll let you, dear reader, make the connections here regarding race and gender.  The point is that Minaj isn't merely fake.  She is fakeness personified.  Which is something very different something perhaps slightly more subversive.  She is to hip hop misogyny what Liabach was to liberal fascism:

 

     Like so much else, it all comes down to the political potentials of nihilism.  Personally, I'm skeptical of the realism at work in "Monster," and for all its creepy crawlies, this video is still, ultimately, capitalist realism.  If the penultimate nihilist, Minaj, and the penultimate optimist, M.I.A., are riding in the same fantastical Willy Wonka Tonka truck, where exactly is said truck heading?  Is it just circling the same block located in some metropolitan global north, bumping the same Diplo beat until the gas runs out and maybe dropping just enough references to "third world issues" to satisfy our liberal appetite and distract us from the monotony of bloodshed?