Rule Britannia
So: we just got back from the Coldplay concert, which has inspired me to log on and write before bed.
I know, two posts in one month: a sure sign of the apocalypse! But really--Ike, the NHL and I have all turned over a new leaf. We've changed, baby!
We'll keep this essay of respectable length. (Now there's your herald of the end-times!) My eyes are blurry and my bones are weary, which is no time for an epic ramble-thon.
This is my thinking:
The British are just better. We should surrender now. Silly colonists, stirring themselves up into a revolutionary frenzy and ruining my chance to be truly and undeniably cool!
Common Sense, my foot! Sure, good ol' fashioned American practicality had you thinking we were big and prosperous enough to rule ourselves, but if you had a shred of creativity in your soul, Tommy Paine, you would have realized we were forfeiting the right to be true paragons of culture.
No, not in the museum-ballet French way. In the only way that truly counts: pop culture.
Oh, please, you say. Elvis! Hollywood! Andy Warhol! The Brady Bunch! Packaging pop culture for international consumption is the American way! If anyone's standing atop the cultural ladder, it's US!
...or so the man would have you believe. Truth is, those aren't exactly current references. We're not so relevant anymore.
And while I could get into international relations, the resentment and hegemony and Team America: World Police of it all, let's set that aside and focus on the facts. Right now, there's no worldwide street cred in being American.
On the other hand: like Kate Winslet's frostbitten heart in Titanic, BritCool will go on and on. It's the genuine article, tried-and-true, built to stand the test of time, and all manner of other ad slogans I've semi-stolen to prove my point.
It's such a cliche, really. The Anglophile English teacher.
I've always run on the assumption that I was just romanticizing the notion of all things Great Britain. So, if I were to actually go there and hang out for a bit, maybe take a job for a year or so, the spell would be broken. Then, I would realize London is just another place that happens to have poorly planned streets and irritable drivers, (hello, San Francisco) lukewarm soda and sickeningly sweet catsup (hello, Capetown) no space to yourself and a general dearth of Mexican food (hello, D.C.) or miserable weather and a shockingly plain-to-ugly general populace (sorry, Boston).
You know, face what you've been dreaming about and you'll inevitably be disappointed by the reality? Like in Senior year, when I was told that I was romanticizing the idea of Calculus Camp, and if I went, I'd be over it in 2 seconds. (Come on! A whole camp devoted to studying for AP Calc? Where's the unsexy in that, I ask you? NO romantic overstatement there!)
But I can buy the possibility...maybe there's some junk mixed in with the jewels in Britain, and maybe I had been "romanticizing."
Fine.
Which brings us back to this evening. Coldplay. Proof conclusive that it's not in my imagination.
Check and Mate, Brits...you're better! Why?
Let's talk about general admission lawn seats. Let's talk about how useless they are once everyone stands up. Let's talk about not even being able to see the lighting rig on top of the stage! Let's talk about sound quality rivaling a CD played at moderate volume.
Let's talk about the grim realization that you've spent Ticketmaster bucks to huddle together with a bunch of strangers on a muddy slope straining to catch occasional glimpses of deflected stage light and leaning in close to catch snippets of song between anti-scalping rants of passing drunks (Thank-oo, eBay! These're grrreat seats!)
True: seats (or lack thereof) blew. Still? One of the best shows I've been to--and trust me when I say I have a solid base for comparison. Okay, we wiggled into a better standing position and improved our view, but (to risk sounding like a dirty hippie) it was all about the music, man!
And (let's face it) I'm not just talking about myself, and I'm not just talking about the giggly teenybopers who dissolve to goo when an accent hits their ears. I'm talking guys. Rocking out to piano-driven, lilting melodies best suited for bedtime.
Okay, maybe not Lushy McWineBag and his monologue of rage. But everyone else in posession of his or her faculties by the time Coldplay hit the stage was entranced. Chris Martin's lyrics, Gwyneth-inspired and otherwise, are amazing. Only three albums in, you're hard-pressed to find any American band that has constructed as many instantly recognizable guitar riffs and intros.
And, yes, by the encore, I was a) singing inappropriately loudly (Sorry, Irvine-Dwellers!) b) Jumping up and down to make sure my far-distant cheers registered in the ears of the band, much to the peril of my now mud-slicked shoes and already tenuous balance, and c) making that Coffee Talk With Linda Richman "I promised myself I wouldn't cry!" face, totally overcome with emotion--all the while trying to keep belting along and dancing in full-on spaz mode without slip-sliding away down the hill.
BritPop blows away the rest of the music world: at least, that's what my CD collection thinks. They have paragons of rock and dreamy up-and-comers, while we have great piles of hip hop and American Idol-inspired yodeling.
They have Travis and Franz Ferdiand (Scotland) Radiohead, Oasis, Athlete and Keane (England). Kathleen tells me that, strictly speaking, I can't include U2 (Ireland) 'cuz they're a completely different country, but whatever, think region. Think "it's all British Isles..."
They even had Spice Girls to encourage Girl Power and saucy-cute flash while we still had Fiona Apple encouraging self loathing and oversized clothing to mask anorexia.
BritLit is the high watermark for the rest of the world--meaning can BritCinema be far behind?
They have William Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde--which means they have us beaten on the sexy literary films, too. Mmmm...English teacher porn.
Want something more current? They have J.K. Rowling, Douglas Adams, Helen Fielding, and Nick Hornby. They have us beaten on contemporary movie fodder!
BritFolk are lovely and elegant and hardcore and intriguing.
They can pull off fey and womanizing with manly panache (see: Hugh Grant). Our gents trip all over ourselves to appear as much like a side of beef as possible (see: Vin Diesel, et. al.)
They have sports fans who have angry riots and hooliganism on a regular basis, not just when victorious Laker fans want them a teevee.
They have Tony Blair and insult-laden shouting matches in parliament. We have "What is the White House like?" GW: "It is white." Thank you, 365 Stupidest Things Ever Said calendar!
What are the most fun swears? Bugger. Wanker. Arse. Bloody! Seriously, you have to admit, even their potty mouths are classier than ours.
You call that romanticizing? I call that well-deserved respect for a cultural victory hard fought and won.
Touche, Great Britain. Touche.
I know, two posts in one month: a sure sign of the apocalypse! But really--Ike, the NHL and I have all turned over a new leaf. We've changed, baby!
We'll keep this essay of respectable length. (Now there's your herald of the end-times!) My eyes are blurry and my bones are weary, which is no time for an epic ramble-thon.
This is my thinking:
The British are just better. We should surrender now. Silly colonists, stirring themselves up into a revolutionary frenzy and ruining my chance to be truly and undeniably cool!
Common Sense, my foot! Sure, good ol' fashioned American practicality had you thinking we were big and prosperous enough to rule ourselves, but if you had a shred of creativity in your soul, Tommy Paine, you would have realized we were forfeiting the right to be true paragons of culture.
No, not in the museum-ballet French way. In the only way that truly counts: pop culture.
Oh, please, you say. Elvis! Hollywood! Andy Warhol! The Brady Bunch! Packaging pop culture for international consumption is the American way! If anyone's standing atop the cultural ladder, it's US!
...or so the man would have you believe. Truth is, those aren't exactly current references. We're not so relevant anymore.
And while I could get into international relations, the resentment and hegemony and Team America: World Police of it all, let's set that aside and focus on the facts. Right now, there's no worldwide street cred in being American.
On the other hand: like Kate Winslet's frostbitten heart in Titanic, BritCool will go on and on. It's the genuine article, tried-and-true, built to stand the test of time, and all manner of other ad slogans I've semi-stolen to prove my point.
It's such a cliche, really. The Anglophile English teacher.
I've always run on the assumption that I was just romanticizing the notion of all things Great Britain. So, if I were to actually go there and hang out for a bit, maybe take a job for a year or so, the spell would be broken. Then, I would realize London is just another place that happens to have poorly planned streets and irritable drivers, (hello, San Francisco) lukewarm soda and sickeningly sweet catsup (hello, Capetown) no space to yourself and a general dearth of Mexican food (hello, D.C.) or miserable weather and a shockingly plain-to-ugly general populace (sorry, Boston).
You know, face what you've been dreaming about and you'll inevitably be disappointed by the reality? Like in Senior year, when I was told that I was romanticizing the idea of Calculus Camp, and if I went, I'd be over it in 2 seconds. (Come on! A whole camp devoted to studying for AP Calc? Where's the unsexy in that, I ask you? NO romantic overstatement there!)
But I can buy the possibility...maybe there's some junk mixed in with the jewels in Britain, and maybe I had been "romanticizing."
Fine.
Which brings us back to this evening. Coldplay. Proof conclusive that it's not in my imagination.
Check and Mate, Brits...you're better! Why?
Let's talk about general admission lawn seats. Let's talk about how useless they are once everyone stands up. Let's talk about not even being able to see the lighting rig on top of the stage! Let's talk about sound quality rivaling a CD played at moderate volume.
Let's talk about the grim realization that you've spent Ticketmaster bucks to huddle together with a bunch of strangers on a muddy slope straining to catch occasional glimpses of deflected stage light and leaning in close to catch snippets of song between anti-scalping rants of passing drunks (Thank-oo, eBay! These're grrreat seats!)
True: seats (or lack thereof) blew. Still? One of the best shows I've been to--and trust me when I say I have a solid base for comparison. Okay, we wiggled into a better standing position and improved our view, but (to risk sounding like a dirty hippie) it was all about the music, man!
And (let's face it) I'm not just talking about myself, and I'm not just talking about the giggly teenybopers who dissolve to goo when an accent hits their ears. I'm talking guys. Rocking out to piano-driven, lilting melodies best suited for bedtime.
Okay, maybe not Lushy McWineBag and his monologue of rage. But everyone else in posession of his or her faculties by the time Coldplay hit the stage was entranced. Chris Martin's lyrics, Gwyneth-inspired and otherwise, are amazing. Only three albums in, you're hard-pressed to find any American band that has constructed as many instantly recognizable guitar riffs and intros.
And, yes, by the encore, I was a) singing inappropriately loudly (Sorry, Irvine-Dwellers!) b) Jumping up and down to make sure my far-distant cheers registered in the ears of the band, much to the peril of my now mud-slicked shoes and already tenuous balance, and c) making that Coffee Talk With Linda Richman "I promised myself I wouldn't cry!" face, totally overcome with emotion--all the while trying to keep belting along and dancing in full-on spaz mode without slip-sliding away down the hill.
BritPop blows away the rest of the music world: at least, that's what my CD collection thinks. They have paragons of rock and dreamy up-and-comers, while we have great piles of hip hop and American Idol-inspired yodeling.
They have Travis and Franz Ferdiand (Scotland) Radiohead, Oasis, Athlete and Keane (England). Kathleen tells me that, strictly speaking, I can't include U2 (Ireland) 'cuz they're a completely different country, but whatever, think region. Think "it's all British Isles..."
They even had Spice Girls to encourage Girl Power and saucy-cute flash while we still had Fiona Apple encouraging self loathing and oversized clothing to mask anorexia.
BritLit is the high watermark for the rest of the world--meaning can BritCinema be far behind?
They have William Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde--which means they have us beaten on the sexy literary films, too. Mmmm...English teacher porn.
Want something more current? They have J.K. Rowling, Douglas Adams, Helen Fielding, and Nick Hornby. They have us beaten on contemporary movie fodder!
BritFolk are lovely and elegant and hardcore and intriguing.
They can pull off fey and womanizing with manly panache (see: Hugh Grant). Our gents trip all over ourselves to appear as much like a side of beef as possible (see: Vin Diesel, et. al.)
They have sports fans who have angry riots and hooliganism on a regular basis, not just when victorious Laker fans want them a teevee.
They have Tony Blair and insult-laden shouting matches in parliament. We have "What is the White House like?" GW: "It is white." Thank you, 365 Stupidest Things Ever Said calendar!
What are the most fun swears? Bugger. Wanker. Arse. Bloody! Seriously, you have to admit, even their potty mouths are classier than ours.
You call that romanticizing? I call that well-deserved respect for a cultural victory hard fought and won.
Touche, Great Britain. Touche.
posted by Tangentially Yours at
1:55 AM
3 Comments:
Indeed! And by the way, so jealous of the Coldplay concert! Plus, you were really close to my new home (apartment in Aliso Viejo) seriously 5 minutes away from where Tim works and where I work. How often does that happen, especially when you work different places. Anyway, maybe I can get folks to come down to south county and see it sometime. Otherwise, I still come up to see mom on a semiregular basis. Really the drive isn't bad. We should plan some time to get together. I can drive now, so I could come up and hang out.
Bright Blessings,
Sarah
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Anonymous, at 11:12 PM
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Tangentially Yours, at 12:04 AM
Here and here, tinged with a little bitterness over your having said it with such style, versus my not having said it at all.
I especially loved that you don't dumb-down your references, and best of all: YOU CAN SPELL!
(Tipping my hat)
-Cheyenne
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Anonymous, at 7:00 PM
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