I find myself oddly cheered these days by the “Pants on the Ground” story. Who could resist applauding this moment of glory for 62-year-old Civil Rights movement veteran and hero “General” Larry Platt, who broke through on the January 14, 2010 installment of American Idol? The Atlanta, Georgia singer-songwriter’s remarkable performance of his hip-hop admonition, complete with breakdance, instantly went viral via YouTube, making Platt an overnight star. (Note: This is of course a rap version of Barack Obama’s recommendation, “Brothers need to pull up their pants,” as issued a year earlier at his first presidential press conference on February 11, 2009.)
As a bonus, Platt’s surprise hit has brought renewed attention to another senior-citizen hip-hop act: Highland Park, Michigan’s Green Brothers, Gerald and Herman. Their 1996 recording and video “Back Pockets on the Floor” certainly preceded Platt’s more recent commentary on this topic, and has a charm all its own — not to mention superior production values.
The debate over whether Platt “plagiarized” the Green Brothers strikes me as foolish. The lyrics contain no duplication. The two songs have no noticeable melodies; both are delivered in standard hip-hop/rap sprechstimme mode, and their rhythms are distinctly different. You can’t copyright or own subject matter. ‘Nuff said.
More to the point, I’m delighted that this ridiculous aspect of street style finally gets held up to public scorn. I’ve found it laughable since it started some twenty years ago. The sight of men from teenage to middle age in “saggins,” the male equivalent of hobble skirts, underwear out, was comical and pathetic all along, an act of visual self-emasculation. Who would take such clowns seriously? About time someone made this an issue and pointed a derisive finger.
But all this likely wouldn’t give Platt’s song any durability. Neither his version of “Pants on the Ground” nor the Green Brothers’ more complex “Back Pockets on the Floor” have any resonance or staying power. For that we have to turn to Jimmy Fallon, inhabiting the persona of Neil Young to deliver what he imagines as Shakey’s version of “Pants on the Ground.” This is definitely the icing on the cake.
Fallon’s imitation of Young — spot-on in terms of outfit, body language, guitar and harmonica style, and most impressively voice and delivery — makes it clear that, however idiosyncratic Young may be as a performer, he’s not inimitable. So just watching Fallon at it, as I’ve now done a dozen or more times, provides durable enjoyment of brilliant mimicry and unobtrusive but substantial musicianship. It’s especially notable because Fallon realized and premiered this performance on January 15, just a day after Platt made his “Idol” debut.
But the real act of creative genius here resides in Fallon’s recognition that somewhere inside Platt’s unimaginative, one-dimensional, condemnatory lyric there lurked the potential of a classic Neil Young lament for one’s own youthful lack of self-awareness: introspective, elegiac, self-mocking. If you hadn’t heard Platt’s version, or learned of the hoopla surrounding it, and this came over the radio without you knowing it was Fallon’s, you’d think it was middle-period Neil Young himself.
Were I Young (as distinct from merely youth-like), I’d relish this co-option and elect to co-opt it back, to own it — by recording my own version of “Pants on the Ground” and/or performing it live henceforth, Neil imitating Jimmy imitating Neil, an infinity of mirrors. Indeed, I’d have my people negotiating with Fallon’s people right now for an appearance on his show, for that very purpose.
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I have no objection to a milk company using the side of its carton for some public-service announcement — missing-children notices, health advisories, recycling suggestions.
But my current brand of half & half offers this:
Celebrate Life.
Whatever Your Style.
It’s the little things that make life special. A good cup of coffee. A quiet morning. Friends around the table. You savor the good stuff, wherever you find it, however you choose. At Crowley, that’s the way we look at it. Generations have trusted us for wholesome dairy products that make life a little tastier, a little more satisfying, a little more delicious. So, enjoy.
Celebrate life, with Crowley.
Now, I have nothing against Crowley Foods, a reputable brand. And I’m willing to tolerate their pretentious motto: “Life. Style.” But it doesn’t start my morning right to confront such smarmy, cozening prose over my first cup of joe. I definitely have a life, though perhaps not anything anyone would define as a “lifestyle.” But I choose my half & half based strictly on price and expiration date. My use of it has nothing to do with “celebrating life”; the suggestion that it does trivializes both. And the mock-intimate, faux-familial tone of this hype irks me enough that, if the opportunity presents itself at the supermarket, I’ll actually switch brands to avoid its presence in my kitchen.
Furthermore, I’ve grown sick and tired of getting instructed — by waitpersons, advertising copywriters, and others — to “Enjoy.” Enjoyment is an internal experience, a critical response, and, to a considerable extent, a choice; it’s perfectly possible to sit down to a well-prepared meal or other potentially pleasant opportunity and, for some reason, not to enjoy it. I’ll decide whether or not to enjoy something, and decide whether or not I’ve enjoyed it when I’m finished. I don’t need a restaurant staffer or dairy-product purveyor to anticipate and predetermine my reaction. The presumption that I will, and the insistence that I do so couched in the imperative “Enjoy!”, is arrogant; it actually detracts from my enjoyment (if any), rather than enhancing it.
Definitely turning into a cranky geezer here, eh?
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Finally, happy Groundhog Day to you all. As a Staten Islander — our motto is “Only the Strong Survive” — I have to go with the prophecy of our own local rodent weatherperson, Staten Island Chuck, who today predicted only two more weeks of winter. This despite the fact that, as I write this, we have fresh snow on the ground. Chuck’s not known for optimism, or going out of his way to make friends; last year on this day he bit NYC Mayor Michael Bloomberg for trying to steal his ear of corn. With today’s forecast Chuck, long-time resident of the Staten Island Zoo, contradicts not only his better-known rival, Punxsutawney Phil, but a whole host of meteorologists, glirine and humanoid. We’ll see.
SPJ Research Award 2014
Random Bits #1
As a bonus, Platt’s surprise hit has brought renewed attention to another senior-citizen hip-hop act: Highland Park, Michigan’s Green Brothers, Gerald and Herman. Their 1996 recording and video “Back Pockets on the Floor” certainly preceded Platt’s more recent commentary on this topic, and has a charm all its own — not to mention superior production values.
The debate over whether Platt “plagiarized” the Green Brothers strikes me as foolish. The lyrics contain no duplication. The two songs have no noticeable melodies; both are delivered in standard hip-hop/rap sprechstimme mode, and their rhythms are distinctly different. You can’t copyright or own subject matter. ‘Nuff said.
More to the point, I’m delighted that this ridiculous aspect of street style finally gets held up to public scorn. I’ve found it laughable since it started some twenty years ago. The sight of men from teenage to middle age in “saggins,” the male equivalent of hobble skirts, underwear out, was comical and pathetic all along, an act of visual self-emasculation. Who would take such clowns seriously? About time someone made this an issue and pointed a derisive finger.
But all this likely wouldn’t give Platt’s song any durability. Neither his version of “Pants on the Ground” nor the Green Brothers’ more complex “Back Pockets on the Floor” have any resonance or staying power. For that we have to turn to Jimmy Fallon, inhabiting the persona of Neil Young to deliver what he imagines as Shakey’s version of “Pants on the Ground.” This is definitely the icing on the cake.
Fallon’s imitation of Young — spot-on in terms of outfit, body language, guitar and harmonica style, and most impressively voice and delivery — makes it clear that, however idiosyncratic Young may be as a performer, he’s not inimitable. So just watching Fallon at it, as I’ve now done a dozen or more times, provides durable enjoyment of brilliant mimicry and unobtrusive but substantial musicianship. It’s especially notable because Fallon realized and premiered this performance on January 15, just a day after Platt made his “Idol” debut.
But the real act of creative genius here resides in Fallon’s recognition that somewhere inside Platt’s unimaginative, one-dimensional, condemnatory lyric there lurked the potential of a classic Neil Young lament for one’s own youthful lack of self-awareness: introspective, elegiac, self-mocking. If you hadn’t heard Platt’s version, or learned of the hoopla surrounding it, and this came over the radio without you knowing it was Fallon’s, you’d think it was middle-period Neil Young himself.
Were I Young (as distinct from merely youth-like), I’d relish this co-option and elect to co-opt it back, to own it — by recording my own version of “Pants on the Ground” and/or performing it live henceforth, Neil imitating Jimmy imitating Neil, an infinity of mirrors. Indeed, I’d have my people negotiating with Fallon’s people right now for an appearance on his show, for that very purpose.
·
I have no objection to a milk company using the side of its carton for some public-service announcement — missing-children notices, health advisories, recycling suggestions.
Celebrate Life.
Whatever Your Style.
It’s the little things that make life special. A good cup of coffee. A quiet morning. Friends around the table. You savor the good stuff, wherever you find it, however you choose. At Crowley, that’s the way we look at it. Generations have trusted us for wholesome dairy products that make life a little tastier, a little more satisfying, a little more delicious. So, enjoy.
Celebrate life, with Crowley.
Now, I have nothing against Crowley Foods, a reputable brand. And I’m willing to tolerate their pretentious motto: “Life. Style.” But it doesn’t start my morning right to confront such smarmy, cozening prose over my first cup of joe. I definitely have a life, though perhaps not anything anyone would define as a “lifestyle.” But I choose my half & half based strictly on price and expiration date. My use of it has nothing to do with “celebrating life”; the suggestion that it does trivializes both. And the mock-intimate, faux-familial tone of this hype irks me enough that, if the opportunity presents itself at the supermarket, I’ll actually switch brands to avoid its presence in my kitchen.
Furthermore, I’ve grown sick and tired of getting instructed — by waitpersons, advertising copywriters, and others — to “Enjoy.” Enjoyment is an internal experience, a critical response, and, to a considerable extent, a choice; it’s perfectly possible to sit down to a well-prepared meal or other potentially pleasant opportunity and, for some reason, not to enjoy it. I’ll decide whether or not to enjoy something, and decide whether or not I’ve enjoyed it when I’m finished. I don’t need a restaurant staffer or dairy-product purveyor to anticipate and predetermine my reaction. The presumption that I will, and the insistence that I do so couched in the imperative “Enjoy!”, is arrogant; it actually detracts from my enjoyment (if any), rather than enhancing it.
Definitely turning into a cranky geezer here, eh?
·