April 1997 ear candy by Leslie Harpold |
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Space Age Bachelor Pad Music
As a movement it's about over now, the lounge lizards will soon have to
turn in their cocktail shakers and cigarette holders and try to find their
way in a workaday world. To be sure, the jet setters they are emulating
will be able to carry the aesthetic on, but the crucial difference between
the hipsters and the real beautiful people is that the jet set - (and they
still
exist in places like Monte Carlo, Ibiza and Andorra, anywhere darling is
pronounced dahhhhling without irony) - are that the people who are the
genuine article aren't just executing some trend achieved step by step with
an Optima Card and a couple of issues of Details, they have the
cash to carry the look well into their futures, at least until their third
time
in rehab when "maman" cuts them off for good.
The music the lounge scene embraces and celebrates is not new, for the
most part. Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass have been kicking out jazzy
jams for well over 30 years. Sure, there's Esquivel, and he is very good at
what he does, but I feel compelled to remind you that what he doesn't do
is innovate. There's nothing new about this genre of music, except a few
new records and a couple new names on the swingers roster. But the
phenomenon has spread like wildfire in these post grunge times.
Grunge was a product of some smart people being underemployed, and a
generation who waited until after college to rebel against their parents.
These people made sure that their bills were paid, or that they at least had
enough of higher learning before they got disenchanted and self
absorbed, and the "slacker" was born. I know very few members of this
elusive "generation x" who used that term self-referentially, it seems that
handle was more a tag from the media for the underemployed, over
educated, seemingly unmotivated post college kids who smoked pot and
made it a point to listen to rock and roll while dressed in a very
comfortable combo of lumberjack and fetish wear.
The media (predominantly boomer driven at the time) labeled this ilk of people -
myself included - slackers. On closer examination though, it appeared that
people were actually working, and quite hard, often pursuing more
entrepreneurial endeavors, it was just that the forms of work that were
chosen in no way resembled the middle management mill that was more
familiar to generations previous. It didn't look productive, and granted,
much of it wasn't.
Lately, though, things started to work out for this misunderstood
generation, and when the money started flowing, one of the first things to
go was the flannel. After listening to our parents urge us to be more like
them, and us crying out that they were exactly what we didn't want to
become, we finally had a couple of nickels to rub together and guess what
we created? The Lounge Scene was born. Rebels? I think not. We
became our parents.
Now before you write and tell me how much you love your "Velvet
Lounge," "Velvet Room," and Velvet whatever your local lizard den is called,
and how you groove on that slinky sophisticate persona you've carefully
crafted, let me tell you this:
I remember my mom in a gold lamé pantsuit with the blue Tuesday Weld
eye makeup and whitish pink lipstick floating through the house with a
martini shaker in one hand and an Eve cigarette in the other checking to
see if people's gimlets needed freshening. She had it way over the
loungey hepcats of today in spades, simply because she was the real deal.
Where it was at - when that place was a destination and not a memory. I
have conscientiously avoided co-opting lounge like social mannerisms
mostly because I have seen these things executed by a master, and don't
want to fuck with perfection. I concede that I did buy a leopard print
velvet smoking jacket for a friend, but that was merely me trying to
recreate a little fantasy I will not recount for you here.
As for the music - some of it is good. The repackaging is graphically
more appealing than the contents - and the great artistic tribute to the
innovative graphic designers of the sixties is about the most interesting
thing about this movement. The music that was good then and has been
re-released is still good - but it is not new, and it was never really ours.
Enoch Light and His Orchestra can still set a groovy mood worthy of
a hundred lava lamps and Chinese lanterns, but acouterments do not a
culture make.
The cocktail music reflects not the real
emotional trappings of modern culture for the Xers, but a really nice
fantasy, the conservative dress put on to visit mom and dad at the
holidays. The root of all humor is truth, but some things are just too true
to be funny. I think of lounge music as less a hallmark in a generation's
development, and more akin to the "girlfriend" a gay guy, or "boy friend"
a lesbian afraid to come out to their parents drags home for Thanksgiving
dinner. It's about image and illusion, and like all things rooted in fantasy,
reality is bound to take over quickly.
Sell your CDs while they still have
resale value, and if you have a yard sale to dump the clothes and
furniture, there's still time to be thought of as supercool to be getting rid
of all your swinging stuff before the glow fades and everyone looks at
your kidney shaped coffee table and says "that's so five minutes ago."
back to the junk drawer
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·feature·
·net worth·
·bumping uglies·
·smoking jacket·
·ear candy·
·feed hollywood·
·target audience·
·three dollar bill·
·compulsion·
·posedown·
·the biswick files·
·mystery date·
·and such and such·
·blab·
·kissing booth·
·contents·
·freakshow·
·fan club·
·junk drawer·
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