newyorker--2020-05-11--“Capone,” Reviewed: A Hallucinatory Vision of Gangland’s Fallen Monster

Other than “ Trolls World Tour , ” with its somewhat specialized audience , the first high-profile film to be released digitally since movie theatres closed is the grand and strange historical drama “ Capone , ” arriving on Tuesday ( reviews were embargoed until Monday ) .
Starring Tom Hardy as the gangland kingpin in his final decline , it ’ s written and directed by Josh Trank .
This is his third feature ; his first , “ Chronicle , ” from 2012 , was a gleefully inventive fusion of science fiction and teen drama that , in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , made a virtue of its own hectic callowness .
His second , “ Fantastic Four ” ( 2015 ) , was a similarly frenzied tale of overreaching ambition .
( After he completed a cut , reshoots and a recut were done without him ; I liked the hodgepodge results , but the studio should release the director ’ s cut . )
“ Capone ” is very much in the same vein as Trank ’ s prior work , for better and worse .
The conceit itself is enticingly clever : @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , from his prison sentence for tax-evasion charges , Al Capone—who is suffering from advanced syphilis and related dementia—has been living in his lavish Miami Beach compound .
The action is set in the last year of his life ( he died in 1947 ) , when he ’ s living there with his nuclear family—his wife , Mae ( Linda Cardellini ) and his son ( Noel Fisher ) —as well as other relatives and confidants ( including an elusive one , played by Matt Dillon ) , in a gaudy , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He soon becomes incontinent and must wear diapers ; he ’ s increasingly delusional and has terrifying visions , reproducing the horrific violence that he took part in during his decades of crime .
Already suspicious and wary , he now becomes paranoid , believing that betrayers live in his household and threatening them chillingly .
( There ’ s also a subplot shoehorned in , involving a son whom he has never met . )
The crux of the drama arises from Capone ’ s mental decline : before his imprisonment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ buried a stash of ten million dollars in cash—and now can ’ t remember where it is .
Cut off from his former sources of ill-gotten gains , he ’ s running out of money with which to maintain his palatial home .
( It ’ s a major deficiency of the movie that the financing of that cushy lifestyle remains unexplained . )
With his madness mounting , he wants to get hold of the loot before his Mob frenemies do .
Their efforts to grab it while Capone is too debilitated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dies and takes the secret with him , gives the story an element of ticking-clock suspense that ’ s ramped up and comedically tweaked when Capone suffers a stroke and becomes aphasic .
Meanwhile , the F.B.I .
has agents parked on his grounds , watching Capone ’ s every move and listening to his phone calls .
An agent named Crawford ( Jack Lowden ) , motivated by moral fervor ( he likens Capone to Hitler ) , gets permission to head to Florida and question the befogged mobster about the stash @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and chimerical plot is its greatest strength .
Trank ( who also wrote the script ) has made the gangster-movie equivalent of “ Something Happened , ” Joseph Heller ’ s greatly underrated novel of extraordinary ordinariness .
Though not as completely subjective as that book , “ Capone ” gets so deep into its protagonist ’ s hallucinations as to render some key moments dubious and major twists quizzical .
The depictions of Capone ’ s visions render his gory past with authentic detail but in distorted form , and make for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ potentate ’ s heyday and his now stunted powers , medical dependency , and emotional bewilderment .
The pathos of his character comes not from pity or even empathy but from the mere fascination at seeing the faint flares of his one-time ruthless calculation .
Though Capone ’ s mental abilities are reduced to those of a child , his aberrant actions and deranged conversations nonetheless reflect his horrifying yet dramatic sociopathology—his life of violence and his megalomaniacal celebrity .
There are some fine moments where Trank catches the warped poignancy of Capone @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bespectacled doctor ( Kyle MacLachlan ) paying a house call , tests Capone by asking , “ Do you know who I am ?
” and the patient responds , “ J .
Edgar Hoover ?
” Later , Capone , alone at home , calls the police in the belief that he has been kidnapped and , when asked his name , says “ I don ’ t know , ” and adds , “ I live on a farm.
” There ’ s a good use of a Marx Brothers riff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an even better one of “ The Wizard of Oz ” when Capone and his family watch it in his home theatre , and a sharp moment of drama when Capone is cruel to Mae and she responds in kind .
Yet it ’ s here that Trank hits the limits of the artistry that he displayed in his first two films .
He cuts quickly away from such telling moments , leaving many of the film ’ s best scenes hanging as inconsequential anecdotes .
Instead of opening up his story beyond @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the leap into fantasy , a much more severe test of artistry , and , in doing so , sacrifices the movie ’ s specificity in favor of spectacle .
Both “ Chronicle ” and “ Fantastic Four ” also leap into visionary artifice and subjective fury , but with Capone the moral and historical stakes are higher .
Capone ’ s hallucinations are populated by children and decorated with silver balloons , and one precious and elusive golden one ; Trank fuses these sentimental visions with monstrous ones , a forced contrast @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t with the reliance on fantasy but with Trank ’ s narrow conception of it ; Capone ’ s tangled and twisted reminiscences merge all too conveniently , and literally , with the events unfolding in his tropical palace .
The images convey less a mind falling apart than a screenplay coming together .
The casting of Hardy as Capone—or , rather , the direction of Hardy in the role—is unfortunately consistent with this overdetermined approach .
Hardy frequently acts all too mad , a tendency that the thrashing and writhing and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ renders all too automatic .
In depicting an overweening usurper whose mind is going , Trank yields to the theatrical temptation of an overheated performance , whereas Hardy ’ s great moments here convey a chill , presenting Capone ’ s mind as a gong that sounds cracked , as a light that flickers and dims and luridly flares .
The ghastly contrasts are built into the well-conceived story , but Trank neither trusts it nor rises to the demands of his phantasmagorical ambitions .
The showiness of much of Hardy ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s psychological pomp—completes “ Capone ” ’ s shift away from its sharp perceptions and toward a garish carnival that mostly replicates the stereotypes of movie gangsters rather than surpassing them .

Other than “Trolls World Tour,” with its somewhat specialized audience, the first high-profile film to be released digitally since movie theatres closed is the grand and strange historical drama “Capone,” arriving on Tuesday (reviews were embargoed until Monday). Starring Tom Hardy as the gangland kingpin in his final decline, it’s written and directed by Josh Trank. This is his third feature; his first, “Chronicle,” from 2012, was a gleefully inventive fusion of science fiction and teen drama that, in its vision of obnoxiously overweening adolescent energy, made a virtue of its own hectic callowness. His second, “Fantastic Four” (2015), was a similarly frenzied tale of overreaching ambition. (After he completed a cut, reshoots and a recut were done without him; I liked the hodgepodge results, but the studio should release the director’s cut.)
“Capone” is very much in the same vein as Trank’s prior work, for better and worse. The conceit itself is enticingly clever: after his supervised release, around 1940, from his prison sentence for tax-evasion charges, Al Capone—who is suffering from advanced syphilis and related dementia—has been living in his lavish Miami Beach compound. The action is set in the last year of his life (he died in 1947), when he’s living there with his nuclear family—his wife, Mae (Linda Cardellini) and his son (Noel Fisher)—as well as other relatives and confidants (including an elusive one, played by Matt Dillon), in a gaudy, gilded passivity of physical and mental torment. He soon becomes incontinent and must wear diapers; he’s increasingly delusional and has terrifying visions, reproducing the horrific violence that he took part in during his decades of crime. Already suspicious and wary, he now becomes paranoid, believing that betrayers live in his household and threatening them chillingly. (There’s also a subplot shoehorned in, involving a son whom he has never met.)
The crux of the drama arises from Capone’s mental decline: before his imprisonment, he tells an associate, he buried a stash of ten million dollars in cash—and now can’t remember where it is. Cut off from his former sources of ill-gotten gains, he’s running out of money with which to maintain his palatial home. (It’s a major deficiency of the movie that the financing of that cushy lifestyle remains unexplained.) With his madness mounting, he wants to get hold of the loot before his Mob frenemies do. Their efforts to grab it while Capone is too debilitated to stop them, yet before he dies and takes the secret with him, gives the story an element of ticking-clock suspense that’s ramped up and comedically tweaked when Capone suffers a stroke and becomes aphasic. Meanwhile, the F.B.I. has agents parked on his grounds, watching Capone’s every move and listening to his phone calls. An agent named Crawford (Jack Lowden), motivated by moral fervor (he likens Capone to Hitler), gets permission to head to Florida and question the befogged mobster about the stash.
The movie’s audaciously loose and chimerical plot is its greatest strength. Trank (who also wrote the script) has made the gangster-movie equivalent of “Something Happened,” Joseph Heller’s greatly underrated novel of extraordinary ordinariness. Though not as completely subjective as that book, “Capone” gets so deep into its protagonist’s hallucinations as to render some key moments dubious and major twists quizzical. The depictions of Capone’s visions render his gory past with authentic detail but in distorted form, and make for a wryly sordid contrast between the once-feared potentate’s heyday and his now stunted powers, medical dependency, and emotional bewilderment. The pathos of his character comes not from pity or even empathy but from the mere fascination at seeing the faint flares of his one-time ruthless calculation.
Though Capone’s mental abilities are reduced to those of a child, his aberrant actions and deranged conversations nonetheless reflect his horrifying yet dramatic sociopathology—his life of violence and his megalomaniacal celebrity. There are some fine moments where Trank catches the warped poignancy of Capone’s situation, as when a bespectacled doctor (Kyle MacLachlan) paying a house call, tests Capone by asking, “Do you know who I am?” and the patient responds, “J. Edgar Hoover?” Later, Capone, alone at home, calls the police in the belief that he has been kidnapped and, when asked his name, says “I don’t know,” and adds, “I live on a farm.” There’s a good use of a Marx Brothers riff as a gangsters’ in-joke, and an even better one of “The Wizard of Oz” when Capone and his family watch it in his home theatre, and a sharp moment of drama when Capone is cruel to Mae and she responds in kind.
Yet it’s here that Trank hits the limits of the artistry that he displayed in his first two films. He cuts quickly away from such telling moments, leaving many of the film’s best scenes hanging as inconsequential anecdotes. Instead of opening up his story beyond its cleverly conceived events, he takes the leap into fantasy, a much more severe test of artistry, and, in doing so, sacrifices the movie’s specificity in favor of spectacle. Both “Chronicle” and “Fantastic Four” also leap into visionary artifice and subjective fury, but with Capone the moral and historical stakes are higher. Capone’s hallucinations are populated by children and decorated with silver balloons, and one precious and elusive golden one; Trank fuses these sentimental visions with monstrous ones, a forced contrast of facile ironies. The trouble isn’t with the reliance on fantasy but with Trank’s narrow conception of it; Capone’s tangled and twisted reminiscences merge all too conveniently, and literally, with the events unfolding in his tropical palace. The images convey less a mind falling apart than a screenplay coming together.
The casting of Hardy as Capone—or, rather, the direction of Hardy in the role—is unfortunately consistent with this overdetermined approach. Hardy frequently acts all too mad, a tendency that the thrashing and writhing and torturous events of Capone’s imaginings renders all too automatic. In depicting an overweening usurper whose mind is going, Trank yields to the theatrical temptation of an overheated performance, whereas Hardy’s great moments here convey a chill, presenting Capone’s mind as a gong that sounds cracked, as a light that flickers and dims and luridly flares. The ghastly contrasts are built into the well-conceived story, but Trank neither trusts it nor rises to the demands of his phantasmagorical ambitions. The showiness of much of Hardy’s performance—which matches all too closely the film’s psychological pomp—completes “Capone” ’s shift away from its sharp perceptions and toward a garish carnival that mostly replicates the stereotypes of movie gangsters rather than surpassing them.


newyorker--2020-05-11--Governor Gretchen Whitmer on the Coronavirus, Trump, and the Accusations Against Joe Biden

Michigan is the tenth-largest state by population , but it has the third-largest number of deaths resulting from COVID-19 .
The state ’ s governor , Gretchen Whitmer , enacted some of the country ’ s most stringent stay-at-home orders , even forbidding landscaping and fishing .
Furious , and sometimes armed , protesters in Michigan made national news .
Meanwhile , Whitmer ’ s outspoken criticism of the Trump Administration ’ s efforts on behalf of the states made her a frequent target of the President .
“ I didn ’ t ask to be thrown into the national @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Glasser .
“ I ’ m just trying to do my job , and I ’ m never going to apologize for that .
Because lives are at stake here.
” Whitmer ’ s national visibility has brought forward rumors that she is on the short list for Joe Biden ’ s Vice-Presidential pick .
Whitmer is a sexual-assault survivor , and she explains why she stands by Biden despite an accusation made by his former aide Tara Reade .
Glasser also speaks with David Remnick about the tensions that have emerged between @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Although mostly he has targeted Democratic governors , Trump has also criticized some in his own party .

Photograph by Al Goldis / AP / Shutterstock
Michigan is the tenth-largest state by population, but it has the third-largest number of deaths resulting from COVID-19. The state’s governor, Gretchen Whitmer, enacted some of the country’s most stringent stay-at-home orders, even forbidding landscaping and fishing. Furious, and sometimes armed, protesters in Michigan made national news. Meanwhile, Whitmer’s outspoken criticism of the Trump Administration’s efforts on behalf of the states made her a frequent target of the President. “I didn’t ask to be thrown into the national spotlight,” Whitmer tells Susan B. Glasser. “I’m just trying to do my job, and I’m never going to apologize for that. Because lives are at stake here.” Whitmer’s national visibility has brought forward rumors that she is on the short list for Joe Biden’s Vice-Presidential pick. Whitmer is a sexual-assault survivor, and she explains why she stands by Biden despite an accusation made by his former aide Tara Reade.
Glasser also speaks with David Remnick about the tensions that have emerged between the federal government and the states. Although mostly he has targeted Democratic governors, Trump has also criticized some in his own party.


newyorker--2020-05-11--A Forgotten Twentieth-Century Photographer’s Wild Portraits of Women in Nature

Where male frontier photographers of the time tended to convey an omniscient , assessing view of the American landscape , Brigman was interested in the sensual , the gestural , the interanimation of human beings and the natural world .
In her photograph “ Dawn , ” for instance , Brigman places her nude body in the foreground of the iconic vista of Donner Lake .
Her body overwhelms the sublime vastness of the scenery beyond her , even as her curves visually echo the mountains that surround the lake .
In 1910 , feeling artistically isolated in the Bay @ @ @ @ @ @ @ City , with a plan to learn platinum printing and to visit with Alfred Stieglitz .
For years , he had been planning and postponing a solo exhibition of Brigman ’ s work .
( Stieglitz praised her for being “ one of the very few photographers who have done any individual work , ” but complained that she lacked technique . )
Once in New York , Brigman quickly became turned off by the harshness of the city and the atmosphere surrounding Stieglitz and his circle of male artists .
Nearly all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ famous 291 Gallery at the time centered on the female nude .
But , Brigman found , the men in Stieglitz ’ s scene often belittled the subject , ogling and making ribald jokes .
This , she would later write to Stieglitz , “ staggered her.
” She left New York City and never returned ; her solo exhibition never happened .
Brigman ’ s commitment to the nude was both aesthetic and philosophical ; she believed it to be the greatest form for expressing , as she put it ( echoing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ the clean , strong freedom of body and soul.
” In an essay published in 1926 , Brigman wrote of feeling overcome , the previous summer , by a “ hunger for the clean , high , silent places , up near the sun and the stars.
” To be able to go where you want to go , to enjoy the corners of the world you most enjoy—it ’ s not an ideologically neutral credo .
One could argue that Brigman ’ s photos participate in a settler fantasy of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ much as those of any male photographer of her era .
But it ’ s a credo that few women of Brigman ’ s time would have dared to live by .
And it ’ s one that , from our vantage now , indoors , cramped and unfree , we might realize we ’ ve taken for granted .

Where male frontier photographers of the time tended to convey an omniscient, assessing view of the American landscape, Brigman was interested in the sensual, the gestural, the interanimation of human beings and the natural world. In her photograph “Dawn,” for instance, Brigman places her nude body in the foreground of the iconic vista of Donner Lake. Her body overwhelms the sublime vastness of the scenery beyond her, even as her curves visually echo the mountains that surround the lake.
“The Bubble,” 1906. Photograph Courtesy Wilson Centre for Photography
In 1910, feeling artistically isolated in the Bay Area, Brigman travelled to New York City, with a plan to learn platinum printing and to visit with Alfred Stieglitz. For years, he had been planning and postponing a solo exhibition of Brigman’s work. (Stieglitz praised her for being “one of the very few photographers who have done any individual work,” but complained that she lacked technique.) Once in New York, Brigman quickly became turned off by the harshness of the city and the atmosphere surrounding Stieglitz and his circle of male artists. Nearly all the photographs Stieglitz was exhibiting at his famous 291 Gallery at the time centered on the female nude. But, Brigman found, the men in Stieglitz’s scene often belittled the subject, ogling and making ribald jokes. This, she would later write to Stieglitz, “staggered her.” She left New York City and never returned; her solo exhibition never happened.
Brigman’s commitment to the nude was both aesthetic and philosophical; she believed it to be the greatest form for expressing, as she put it (echoing Whitman, her favorite writer), “the clean, strong freedom of body and soul.” In an essay published in 1926, Brigman wrote of feeling overcome, the previous summer, by a “hunger for the clean, high, silent places, up near the sun and the stars.” To be able to go where you want to go, to enjoy the corners of the world you most enjoy—it’s not an ideologically neutral credo. One could argue that Brigman’s photos participate in a settler fantasy of the “untamed” landscape, perhaps as much as those of any male photographer of her era. But it’s a credo that few women of Brigman’s time would have dared to live by. And it’s one that, from our vantage now, indoors, cramped and unfree, we might realize we’ve taken for granted.


newyorker--2020-05-11--Come On and Zoom-Zoom

Come On and Zoom-Zoom

The transition from in-office meetings to at-home video conferencing has occasioned lots of memes and social-media posts about “ my idea of a Zoom meeting , ” usually accompanied by a grainy video or photo of haphazardly barbered nineteen-seventies children romping around in striped rugby shirts .
Among older members of Generation X , it ’ s hard to hear the word “ zoom ” without associating it with “ Zoom , ” one of the most memorable and radically experimental television programs of its era .
Like the teleconferencing service , the original “ Zoom ” was screen-based and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a national obsession .
But , unlike Zoom the online platform , “ Zoom ” was mostly the province of kids , primarily those in the tween cohort .
The program was created by a young producer at WGBH , Boston ’ s public-television station , named Christopher Sarson .
He and his wife , Evelyn , were English immigrants to the U.S. and something of a glamour couple : he had been a rising star at Granada Television , and she had been a reporter for the Guardian and Reuters .
( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a mutual friend , the actress Eleanor Bron , to whom the Beatles sang “ You ’ ve Got to Hide Your Love Away , ” on “ Help !
” ) By 1971 , the Sarsons , living in the Boston area , were the parents of an eight-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy , and Christopher , who was then working for WGBH , was increasingly concerned about his children ’ s social awkwardness around other kids as they approached their preteen years .
“ They were cautious , ” he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We would like to be your friend , but we don ’ t want you to laugh at us.
’ ” Keen to foster more easygoing relationships between kids , Sarson came up with a general outline for a program in which a cast of children of preteen age would perform songs , sketches , and craft projects based on scripts and premises sent in by home viewers in the same age group .
Onscreen and off , kids would learn from each other rather than from an adult authority figure .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ than teaching , you achieve a lot , ” Sarson said .
“ If the kids are learning rather than being taught , they ’ ll be more sure of themselves and enjoy life more .
So , it was this feeling of getting kids in a position where they could be thinking for themselves.
” Sarson had already set a precedent for making waves at WGBH .
A year earlier , recognizing that his native Britain excelled in a television format in which the U.S. was lacking—the limited-edition serialized drama—he suggested to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they should secure the American broadcasting rights to such series .
The result , premièring in January , 1971 , was “ Masterpiece Theater , ” which is now , under its abbreviated title , “ Masterpiece , ” the longest-running prime-time drama series on TV .
The more Sarson thought about his new idea , the more its specifics came into focus : there would be a diverse cast of seven children , local Boston-area kids , none of them trained performers .
There would be no adults .
Sarson decided to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Zoom Out , ” he said , “ because it was , ‘ We ’ re gon na zoom in on the kids ’ lives , and we ’ re going to zoom out on how that affects you in the world.
’ ” The program , renamed “ Zoom , ” was made on the cheap , starting with a thirty-thousand-dollar surplus left over from another WGBH program ’ s budget .
Sarson ’ s cast of seven kids , ranging in age from nine to thirteen , needed a unisex uniform @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The thriftiest option was found at Sears , where children ’ s rugby-striped jerseys were selling in multiple sizes for five dollars apiece .
The stripes would become the visual motif of “ Zoom , ” adorning not only the children but also the big “ Z-O-O-M ” letters that stood , Stonehenge-like , at the rear of the set .
“ The idea of the stripes came from the shirts—the only way we could afford to make a set was to cut out big pieces of cardboard in the shape of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ them , ” Sarson said .
For music , Sarson reached out to a classically trained musician named Newton Wayland , who at the time was a pianist and harpsichordist for the Boston Symphony Orchestra .
A burly , thickly bearded man who was evangelical about getting kids interested in music , Wayland served as the show ’ s music director and composer .
His theme song , “ Come On and Zoom , ” began with an unrefusable invitation : “ We ’ re gon na zoom , zoom , zoom-a , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ zoom-a , zoom-a zoom , ” and ended with a sweetly encouraging plea : The children performed this song to boisterous choreography by Billy Wilson , a director and choreographer who also taught dance at Brandeis University .
Their execution was raggedy , and all the more exciting for it : hanging off of the giant letters , arraying themselves into a shimmying group , and then splitting off from each other , running barefoot ( with the blessing of an on-set physician ) into the far reaches of WGBH ’ s cavernous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ corner out of view of the camera , Julia Child ’ s “ French Chef ” kitchen set stood dormant .
The beguiling optics of this opening sequence alone—preteens leaping and gallivanting freely , alike but different , white boys with great , thick mops of unregulated hair , black boys with tight Afros , girls with all manner of center partings—presented a picture of children ’ s liberation that , while bursting with youthful energy , was orderly and coöperative rather than a “ Lord of the Flies ” -like , Hobbesian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also , way before the term became fashionable , a showcase for user-generated content .
Its stars encouraged kids at home to send in their ideas , with Wayland ingeniously turning the show ’ s mailing address into a patter song , part rapped and part sung— “ Box Three-Five-Oh , Boston , Mass.
, Oh-Two-One-Three-Four !
Send it to ‘ Zoom ’ !
” —which seventies children committed to memory as if it were the Pledge of Allegiance .
The resulting content was resolutely low-tech .
The Zoomers , as the child @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recommendations for how to tie-dye a T-shirt , and how to play a homemade game called “ cotton race , ” in which two players , using flexible plastic straws , blew a cotton ball back and forth .
On the more sophisticated end of the spectrum , the Zoomers obliged a girl ’ s request to perform “ some of the old-time oldies , ” via a medley of the Tin Pan Alley songs “ Mairzy Doats , ” “ Flat Foot Floogie , ” and “ Pennsylvania 6-5000 , ” with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Wilson , respectively .
Joan Ganz Cooney , the co-creator of “ Sesame Street , ” was enchanted by “ Zoom ” ’ s pilot episode and quickly got behind the program , playing a significant role in insuring that it was , from the off , widely distributed via the PBS network .
The half-hour show launched in 1972 , airing once a week in most markets , usually in the early evening .
The early nineteen-seventies were still an era of limited viewing options for children , particularly in the tween @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to national prominence : a euphoric watch for preteens and an aspirational one for their little siblings .
Life magazine , during the show ’ s first year on the air , described the program as “ graduate school after Mister Rogers ’ Neighborhood .
”

Some original cast members of “Zoom,” including Bernadette Yao, emerged as national celebrities during their abbreviated tenure on TV. Photograph Courtesy WGBH
The transition from in-office meetings to at-home video conferencing has occasioned lots of memes and social-media posts about “my idea of a Zoom meeting,” usually accompanied by a grainy video or photo of haphazardly barbered nineteen-seventies children romping around in striped rugby shirts. Among older members of Generation X, it’s hard to hear the word “zoom” without associating it with “Zoom,” one of the most memorable and radically experimental television programs of its era. Like the teleconferencing service, the original “Zoom” was screen-based and interactive, and it quickly evolved into a national obsession. But, unlike Zoom the online platform, “Zoom” was mostly the province of kids, primarily those in the tween cohort.
The program was created by a young producer at WGBH, Boston’s public-television station, named Christopher Sarson. He and his wife, Evelyn, were English immigrants to the U.S. and something of a glamour couple: he had been a rising star at Granada Television, and she had been a reporter for the Guardian and Reuters. (They were introduced to each other by a mutual friend, the actress Eleanor Bron, to whom the Beatles sang “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” on “Help!”) By 1971, the Sarsons, living in the Boston area, were the parents of an eight-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy, and Christopher, who was then working for WGBH, was increasingly concerned about his children’s social awkwardness around other kids as they approached their preteen years. “They were cautious,” he said. “It was, ‘We would like to be your friend, but we don’t want you to laugh at us.’ ”
Keen to foster more easygoing relationships between kids, Sarson came up with a general outline for a program in which a cast of children of preteen age would perform songs, sketches, and craft projects based on scripts and premises sent in by home viewers in the same age group. Onscreen and off, kids would learn from each other rather than from an adult authority figure. “If the emphasis is on learning rather than teaching, you achieve a lot,” Sarson said. “If the kids are learning rather than being taught, they’ll be more sure of themselves and enjoy life more. So, it was this feeling of getting kids in a position where they could be thinking for themselves.”
Sarson had already set a precedent for making waves at WGBH. A year earlier, recognizing that his native Britain excelled in a television format in which the U.S. was lacking—the limited-edition serialized drama—he suggested to the station’s top brass that they should secure the American broadcasting rights to such series. The result, premièring in January, 1971, was “Masterpiece Theater,” which is now, under its abbreviated title, “Masterpiece,” the longest-running prime-time drama series on TV. The more Sarson thought about his new idea, the more its specifics came into focus: there would be a diverse cast of seven children, local Boston-area kids, none of them trained performers. There would be no adults. Sarson decided to call the program “Zoom In, Zoom Out,” he said, “because it was, ‘We’re gonna zoom in on the kids’ lives, and we’re going to zoom out on how that affects you in the world.’ ”
The program, renamed “Zoom,” was made on the cheap, starting with a thirty-thousand-dollar surplus left over from another WGBH program’s budget. Sarson’s cast of seven kids, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, needed a unisex uniform: bluejeans and some sort of top. The thriftiest option was found at Sears, where children’s rugby-striped jerseys were selling in multiple sizes for five dollars apiece. The stripes would become the visual motif of “Zoom,” adorning not only the children but also the big “Z-O-O-M” letters that stood, Stonehenge-like, at the rear of the set. “The idea of the stripes came from the shirts—the only way we could afford to make a set was to cut out big pieces of cardboard in the shape of the letters and stick the stripes on them,” Sarson said.
For music, Sarson reached out to a classically trained musician named Newton Wayland, who at the time was a pianist and harpsichordist for the Boston Symphony Orchestra. A burly, thickly bearded man who was evangelical about getting kids interested in music, Wayland served as the show’s music director and composer. His theme song, “Come On and Zoom,” began with an unrefusable invitation: “We’re gonna zoom, zoom, zoom-a, zoom / Come on and zoom-a, zoom-a, zoom-a zoom,” and ended with a sweetly encouraging plea:
Come on, give it a try
We’re gonna show you just why
We’re gonna teach you to fly high!
Come on and zoo-oom! Come on and zoom-zoom!
The children performed this song to boisterous choreography by Billy Wilson, a director and choreographer who also taught dance at Brandeis University. Their execution was raggedy, and all the more exciting for it: hanging off of the giant letters, arraying themselves into a shimmying group, and then splitting off from each other, running barefoot (with the blessing of an on-set physician) into the far reaches of WGBH’s cavernous Studio A, where, in a corner out of view of the camera, Julia Child’s “French Chef” kitchen set stood dormant.
The beguiling optics of this opening sequence alone—preteens leaping and gallivanting freely, alike but different, white boys with great, thick mops of unregulated hair, black boys with tight Afros, girls with all manner of center partings—presented a picture of children’s liberation that, while bursting with youthful energy, was orderly and coöperative rather than a “Lord of the Flies”-like, Hobbesian state of nature.
The program was also, way before the term became fashionable, a showcase for user-generated content. Its stars encouraged kids at home to send in their ideas, with Wayland ingeniously turning the show’s mailing address into a patter song, part rapped and part sung—“Box Three-Five-Oh, Boston, Mass., Oh-Two-One-Three-Four! Send it to ‘Zoom’!”—which seventies children committed to memory as if it were the Pledge of Allegiance.
The resulting content was resolutely low-tech. The Zoomers, as the child performers were known, demonstrated viewers’ recommendations for how to tie-dye a T-shirt, and how to play a homemade game called “cotton race,” in which two players, using flexible plastic straws, blew a cotton ball back and forth. On the more sophisticated end of the spectrum, the Zoomers obliged a girl’s request to perform “some of the old-time oldies,” via a medley of the Tin Pan Alley songs “Mairzy Doats,” “Flat Foot Floogie,” and “Pennsylvania 6-5000,” with musical and choreographic assistance from Wayland and Wilson, respectively.
Joan Ganz Cooney, the co-creator of “Sesame Street,” was enchanted by “Zoom” ’s pilot episode and quickly got behind the program, playing a significant role in insuring that it was, from the off, widely distributed via the PBS network. The half-hour show launched in 1972, airing once a week in most markets, usually in the early evening. The early nineteen-seventies were still an era of limited viewing options for children, particularly in the tween demographic, and “Zoom” zoomed to national prominence: a euphoric watch for preteens and an aspirational one for their little siblings. Life magazine, during the show’s first year on the air, described the program as “graduate school after Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”
The striped shirts, born of budgetary necessity, became iconic, as did Ubbi Dubbi, the “Zoom”-popularized pig-Latin variant in which “ub” was inserted before the vowel sound in each syllable of a word, so that “Hello” came out as “Hub-ell-ub-o.” At its mid-seventies peak, the program was receiving twenty thousand letters a week from children at home, some suggesting ideas, others requesting a coveted Zoom Card, a postcard that, featured a color photograph of a cast member on one side and, on the other, step-by-step instructions for a crafts project or a game featured on the show. (This writer’s older sister nearly levitated with excitement when she received a Zoom Card offering guidance on D.I.Y. loom-weaving.)


newyorker--2020-05-11--Susan Collins to Self-Quarantine to Avoid Possible Contact with Decisions

WASHINGTON , D.C. ( The Borowitz Report ) —One week after the United States Senate returned to session , Senator @ @ @ @ @ , said that she would self-quarantine to avoid possible contact with decisions .
Collins said @ @ @ @ @ safely distance herself from any decisions while at the Senate but feared that the risk @ @ @ @ @ decision was too great .
“ I was troubled and concerned by how many decisions @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ It did not feel safe to me.
” Collins said that she @ @ @ @ @ confident that the danger of being in the vicinity of a decision had clearly passed @ @ @ @ @ I hated making this decision , if it leads to me not making more decisions @ @ @ @ @ worth making , ” she said on a Zoom call with reporters , before muting @ @

WASHINGTON, D.C. (The Borowitz Report)—One week after the United States Senate returned to session, Senator Susan Collins, of Maine, said that she would self-quarantine to avoid possible contact with decisions.
Collins said that she had hoped to safely distance herself from any decisions while at the Senate but feared that the risk of accidental exposure to a decision was too great.
“I was troubled and concerned by how many decisions there were,” she said. “It did not feel safe to me.”
Collins said that she would self-quarantine until she is confident that the danger of being in the vicinity of a decision had clearly passed.
“As much as I hated making this decision, if it leads to me not making more decisions, it was a decision worth making,” she said on a Zoom call with reporters, before muting herself.


newyorker--2020-05-12--Updated Possibilities for This Year’s October Surprise, Given 2020 So Far

“ Sharknado , ” minus the sharks , but plus murder hornets .
“ Sharknado , ” plus murder hornets and still with all the sharks .
Despite its evaporation , Former Georgia passes a voter law allowing only those citizens who can present an AmEx Platinum card to participate in elections .
A late-entry , third-party , pro-coronavirus candidate is projected to gain more traction than previously expected in several key states , including Former Georgia .
The nine-year-old recipient of a surprise party dismisses a caravan of well-wishers in cars who lined up along her block to honk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ instead opting to attend her online Social Studies class , surprising and depressing millions of viewers and , ultimately , leading to the eradication of schools—remote and otherwise—in America .
This leads to the rise of online governesses , which reminds people of “ Jane Eyre ” and books , but then they forget , because of Twitter .
Russian leadership announces that they have annexed Former Georgia by concealing it inside the country of Georgia ( formerly the Republic of Georgia ) , and also that they have annexed the country of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ places across the country spontaneously begin to emit the saddest part of the soundtrack to “ The Leftovers.
” Video footage surfaces showing a group of C.E.O.s endorsing the pro-coronavirus candidate via Zoom .
This clears the field for a user-friendly meeting-app competitor called NoMute to gain in popularity , especially among older citizens , and inadvertently allows for the spread of a misinformation campaign claiming that voting by mail causes sharks .
The month of October goes by very quickly .

“Sharknado,” minus the sharks, but plus murder hornets.
“Sharknado,” plus murder hornets and still with all the sharks.
The state of Georgia disappears.
Despite its evaporation, Former Georgia passes a voter law allowing only those citizens who can present an AmEx Platinum card to participate in elections.
A late-entry, third-party, pro-coronavirus candidate is projected to gain more traction than previously expected in several key states, including Former Georgia.
The nine-year-old recipient of a surprise party dismisses a caravan of well-wishers in cars who lined up along her block to honk and sing “Happy Birthday,” instead opting to attend her online Social Studies class, surprising and depressing millions of viewers and, ultimately, leading to the eradication of schools—remote and otherwise—in America. This leads to the rise of online governesses, which reminds people of “Jane Eyre” and books, but then they forget, because of Twitter.
Russian leadership announces that they have annexed Former Georgia by concealing it inside the country of Georgia (formerly the Republic of Georgia), and also that they have annexed the country of Georgia.
Hidden speakers near all polling places across the country spontaneously begin to emit the saddest part of the soundtrack to “The Leftovers.”
Video footage surfaces showing a group of C.E.O.s endorsing the pro-coronavirus candidate via Zoom.
This clears the field for a user-friendly meeting-app competitor called NoMute to gain in popularity, especially among older citizens, and inadvertently allows for the spread of a misinformation campaign claiming that voting by mail causes sharks.
The month of October goes by very quickly.


newyorker--2020-05-12--Perfume Genius Wants to Make You Feel Less Lonely

You ’ ve talked before about being shown , as a teen-ager , a very fixed idea of who you were—an idea that , for a while , prevented you from seeing how you ’ d changed , and how the world was changing .
You ’ ve also said that your music is becoming less about the past and more about the present .
Is that old idea of yourself still hanging around ?
How continuous do you feel now with who you were at thirteen , or twenty-one ?
I think I feel all those phases less now @ @ @ @ @ @ @ so .
I think I felt , for a long time , like I had to keep them all heavy on my mind to try to warm them up and soften them and make them feel better .
And I don ’ t really need to feel like I need to do that anymore .
But it ’ s still a new and strange idea for me : trying to let my present self be the thing that I warm and soften , the thing that feels good .
I feel—or , at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this started—like I ’ m in the middle of one of the shifts that will come in my life , where I just suddenly feel like a different person .
I started making music because of one of these shifts , which came with the process of getting sober and just being , like , “ Oh , I ’ m an asshole !
” Really accepting that idea , really coming to terms with the fact that I couldn ’ t just make it go away .
Does the practice of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Probably more than I would be aware of .
I think the core thing that got me healthy was a spiritual allowance to be uncomfortable—to just sit in it , and not scramble to soothe myself , or escape in a dangerous way , or in an easy way .
Music gave me a way to make that scramble more purposeful or helpful .
When I ’ m writing , I feel kinder , and wiser .
I feel that all the things that I thought made me a bad person can @ @ @ @ @ @ @ But , then , I ’ ve been wondering : Why is writing the only time I feel that ?
Maybe I shifted too much toward work being the singular thing .
It ’ s kind of not working for me anymore .
It makes me feel less sober , realizing how enmeshed I am with my work as a driving force .
I reserve all my goodness , all my patience , for the things that I make .
And then , if I ’ m not working , then I ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ irritable and sitting down .
It was dance that blew up this separation between my work and the world , between my work and other people .
It blew up this idea that I had to be detached , internal , solitary , to make things .
It changed my writing .
I started thinking in terms of stories , of physical settings , of real people , not just of ideas .
You ’ re talking about “ The Sun Still Burns Here , ” the collaboration you did with the choreographer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in touch with you after seeing a photo of you arching your back , on Instagram .
It was so collaborative—everyone was in the room before we had made even a little bit of music .
I was worried that I wouldn ’ t be able to create anything with all these other people around , but then I was .
I thought , Well , maybe my life can be more like this .
Maybe I can let some more people into this whole thing , and maybe it can be enjoyable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that working could feel good .
Not that I don ’ t like what I do , but it always feels hard , or anxiety-producing .
Dance was different .
You ’ ve always written about the body , about expressing things through the body .
Did dance change your relationship with embodiment ?
What I used to do onstage , before I worked with Kate , was just throwing myself around a lot .
It felt very rebellious against my body .
Rebellious against your sense of comfort ?
I used to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , like , a big tent , with just my little face at the top .
But , then , onstage , I would not be wearing a shirt .
For an hour , it was , like , Well , fuck you , whatever makes me think that I need to wear the tent .
I ’ m going to take my shirt off .
I was still anxious about performing , still shy , but I wanted to be ferocious .
But there was nothing very patient or warm about that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I was doing really slow extensions of my arms , really considered movements .
I was really hyper-present with myself , not just fully out and slamming around .
The music on the new album is like that , too—there ’ s a sense of things being controlled as much as they ’ re being unleashed .
But you also return to transcendence and self-erasure—there are lines on this album about letting your life drift and wash away , about running toward the light .
I ’ m curious what the idea of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quietness .
A wash of “ I ’ m where I ’ m supposed to be.
” A sense of everything , of a soup where everything can shift and exist and move , and the whole thing is warm and quiet .
I think that ’ s why I freaked out with the dance .
I was feeling like that in my body , but with people .
I thought that warmth and quietness meant I would be a brain in a tank , and I would just upload whatever I was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just be completely— Disembodied .
I think about that all the time .
But it turns out I can get that feeling by being super bodied .
Very weird to me .
Your drive toward transcendence , toward that warm void—how much of that is a desire for oblivion ?
Is it possible to be attracted to the void without the death drive entering the picture ?
I ’ ll say that this question is coming from a personal place .
I guess I ’ m starting to realize that I can be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ feel everything , not just the oblivion .
That ’ s what I thought that freedom was , and I actively pursued that when I was younger , whether I knew it or not .
And maybe I ’ m becoming O.K .
with just being at the edge , feeling the reach for it .
I ’ m starting to realize that the reach is really what I want .
Your Twitter presence , which is funny and absurd , is usually talked about as separate from your music , which is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , they are often expressing the same thing—the fact that we ’ re stuck in these individual bodies , with our accumulating baggage , when actual existence often seems to be on a totally different plane .
There ’ s this disconnect that is maybe best expressed either with extreme sincerity or with nonsense .
I was recently obsessed with this video of an orangutan using a saw—I found it on one of those nights when Alan was asleep and I was on YouTube , restless , looking for something , with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the orangutan and sending it to people and saying , “ Look , it ’ s me , ” and they would laugh , and I would let them laugh and feel jokey , but I was tearing up .

Mike Hadreas, who records music as Perfume Genius, grew up in the Seattle suburbs in the nineteen-eighties and early nineties, as a hammy kid who loved to dance and never wanted to talk about anything serious. Then, in his early adolescence, the world closed in around him. He was the only openly gay student at his high school, and he was feminine; football players spat on him and beat him up. He spent a lot of time “standing outside smoking and weeping,” he told the Times, in 2014. In his senior year, he dropped out of high school. He briefly attended Seattle’s Cornish College of the Arts, where, for one project, he took apart VCRs and hung the parts from the ceiling, and, for another, made paintings with his own blood and pubic hair. When he was twenty-one, he was attacked, while walking down the street, by a group of young men who had jumped out of a car. The assault sent him to the hospital. After convalescing, he moved to New York City, and found an idiosyncratic queer community; he began to relax into himself again. He worked the door at the Alphabet Lounge, in the East Village, and his euphoric, young-in-New York partying escalated into a dependency on drugs and alcohol. At twenty-five, he moved back to the Pacific Northwest, went to rehab, and began writing songs, which he posted on MySpace, where they attracted a following. By the time his début album, “Learning,” was released, in 2010, he had started partying again. A friend introduced him to a scruffy, handsome pianist named Alan Wyffels, who brought him to A.A. meetings and began accompanying him at his shows. Sober and unguarded, the two fell in love.
Hadreas is now thirty-eight, and his fifth album, “Set My Heart on Fire Immediately,” comes out on Friday. Its cover bears a black-and-white photograph of Hadreas, shirtless, in utility pants, his skin streaked with dirt—the ultra-masculinity of the image revised by the tenderness and vulnerability that radiates from Hadreas’s uncertain eyes and wiry form. He has built a universe with his music: a witchy, baroque fantasy landscape where a stranger might appear out of nowhere, wreathed in flowers or sunlight or iron chains. Hadreas’s voice quavers, sliding from a falsetto to a low, fifties croon. The first two Perfume Genius albums were sparse and studied, with most songs built from just Hadreas’s voice and a piano. On his third and fourth albums, Hadreas muscled into more ambitious territory: his sound was layered, lush, shimmery and shuddering, with moments of aural sublimity underlined by allusions to decay and death. His lyrics sometimes include autobiographical snapshots: “Mr. Peterson,” a track from “Learning,” depicts a doomed relationship with a teacher; “Alan,” the final song on his last album, captures a moment of tenuous domestic bliss. Hadreas naturally works in contrasting registers: he delivers sounds that are rooted in sadness and reaching toward joy. (If you skip the lyrics, you might even miss the sadness: “Dark Parts,” a song about his mother’s experiences of sexual abuse, was once licensed for commercials by Toyota and ESPN.)
He’s also popular on Twitter, where he displays a ready, cheeky sense of humor that doesn’t frequently show through his music’s velvet curtains. Lately, in between memes about his new album and links to the National Domestic Workers Alliance COVID-19 caregiver-relief fund, Hadreas has been posting dramatic footage of Japanese macaques soaking in a hot spring and photos of rats tenderly sniffing wildflowers. (His Twitter feed, too, finds fuel in contrasts.) We spoke in early April, over Zoom. In a different timeline, Hadreas would have been gearing up for a nationwide tour with Tame Impala. Instead, he was doing press interviews from his bedroom, where a tiny staircase leads up to the bed, for the convenience of his chihuahua, Wanda. He and Wyffels moved, in 2018, from suburban Washington to a two-bedroom house in the Eagle Rock neighborhood of Los Angeles; their second bedroom serves as a combination studio, gym, and office, and their living room is cozy—full of flea-market paintings, plants, pillows, and rugs. When we talked, Hadreas was sitting in his apartment, wearing a faded T-shirt printed with a photo of Keanu Reeves and River Phoenix from a scene in “My Own Private Idaho.” Lately, Hadreas had been leaving the house only to take Wanda on walks in the ninety-degree spring heat. We spoke again, on the phone, later in the month. The conversations have been combined, condensed, and edited.
What is it like to release an album during quarantine?
Oh, it’s so weird. Promoting a record requires a performance, in some way—it requires this outward-facing version of me. But quarantine makes me very deep in the inward version. Like, right now, I’m in my bed, where normally we would be doing this in person. I would have put something nice on. I would wash, you know what I mean? I’m supposed to feel out, and I feel very in. And everyone’s just going nuts. My friends are FaceTiming me, and they basically look feral, and I kind of feel that I’m feral, too, but then I’ll get an e-mail where a magazine needs me to take a full-body selfie against a blank wall or something, and it’s just me with my tripod, trying to figure out how to have some energy in my bedroom.
What are you hearing from friends in the music industry about how they’re handling this?
Everyone’s kind of hiding and waiting. Everyone seems to be saying, “Well, I guess things are postponed for a while,” knowing full well that maybe these tours are never going to happen—or, at the very least, it’ll be a long time—and touring is the way you make a significant amount of your money. I don’t have a handle on it, and I don’t think anyone else does, either.
Are you having any specific quarantine fantasies?
I get on the Internet and look at houses with back yards, houses in the desert, places where I could run back and forth, where other people could be there with me. I want space, and I want people. I think I’m missing being silly and stupid and outside.
I’m fantasizing about shows I wanted to go to, and opening a menu at a restaurant during the dinner rush, and dive-bar karaoke. Do you have a karaoke song?
I’m really bad at karaoke, but “Toxicity,” by System of a Down, I think is the most successful I’ve ever been. I tried to do the Macklemore song about gay marriage once. I don’t know if I executed it, but the concept was good.
What about touring do you miss?
Getting out of myself. To be vibing off actual vibes, not just ones that I’ve pulled from the air. It takes a lot for me to really pay attention to what’s around me. My old pattern is to be kind of detached, to be avoidant of the present. I’ll stay in the same place internally, even though the circumstances around me will change.
You’ve talked before about being shown, as a teen-ager, a very fixed idea of who you were—an idea that, for a while, prevented you from seeing how you’d changed, and how the world was changing. You’ve also said that your music is becoming less about the past and more about the present. Is that old idea of yourself still hanging around? How continuous do you feel now with who you were at thirteen, or twenty-one?
I think I feel all those phases less now than I used to, and consciously so. I think I felt, for a long time, like I had to keep them all heavy on my mind to try to warm them up and soften them and make them feel better. And I don’t really need to feel like I need to do that anymore.
But it’s still a new and strange idea for me: trying to let my present self be the thing that I warm and soften, the thing that feels good. I feel—or, at least, I felt, before all of this started—like I’m in the middle of one of the shifts that will come in my life, where I just suddenly feel like a different person. I started making music because of one of these shifts, which came with the process of getting sober and just being, like, “Oh, I’m an asshole!” Really accepting that idea, really coming to terms with the fact that I couldn’t just make it go away.
Does the practice of sobriety overlap much with your artistic practice?
Probably more than I would be aware of. I think the core thing that got me healthy was a spiritual allowance to be uncomfortable—to just sit in it, and not scramble to soothe myself, or escape in a dangerous way, or in an easy way. Music gave me a way to make that scramble more purposeful or helpful. When I’m writing, I feel kinder, and wiser. I feel that all the things that I thought made me a bad person can help me be compassionate and observant.
But, then, I’ve been wondering: Why is writing the only time I feel that? Maybe I shifted too much toward work being the singular thing. It’s kind of not working for me anymore. It makes me feel less sober, realizing how enmeshed I am with my work as a driving force. I reserve all my goodness, all my patience, for the things that I make. And then, if I’m not working, then I’m just, like, kind of irritable and sitting down.
It was dance that blew up this separation between my work and the world, between my work and other people. It blew up this idea that I had to be detached, internal, solitary, to make things. It changed my writing. I started thinking in terms of stories, of physical settings, of real people, not just of ideas.
You’re talking about “The Sun Still Burns Here,” the collaboration you did with the choreographer Kate Wallich. I understand she got in touch with you after seeing a photo of you arching your back, on Instagram.
It was so collaborative—everyone was in the room before we had made even a little bit of music. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to create anything with all these other people around, but then I was. I thought, Well, maybe my life can be more like this. Maybe I can let some more people into this whole thing, and maybe it can be enjoyable. That was another new thing—this idea that working could feel good. Not that I don’t like what I do, but it always feels hard, or anxiety-producing. Dance was different.


newyorker--2020-05-12--Missing Small, Sweaty Music Venues During the Coronavirus Crisis

Every Saturday for the past two decades , I ’ ve gathered with two or three friends in a twelve-by-fifteen-foot room that we rent by the month—one of a hundred similar spaces in a former furniture warehouse that stretches for a city block in Chicago ’ s Ukrainian Village .
For several hours , in between breaks to talk and drink beer from a mini-fridge , my friends and I work on new material for our punk band , devising set lists and running through songs that we ’ ve recorded for a half-dozen independent releases .
It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Walking through the halls of the Superior Street Center for the Arts , as the warehouse was grandly rechristened , in the early two-thousands , you ’ ll hear death metal , hip-hop , funk , E.D.M.
, alt-country , space rock , reggae , cumbia , jazz , and almost any other genre that you could name , all from a thriving musical underground .
I ’ ve had similar experiences in converted industrial buildings in Hoboken , New York City , and Minneapolis .
A select few bands emerge from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ international impact , but , for most , performing every six or eight weeks , on a bill with other local groups , in a club filled with friends and fellow-musicians , qualifies as success .
The mere act of coming together to make a glorious noise is what really matters .
All of the rehearsal rooms at Superior Street are silent now .
The state of Illinois imposed its stay-at-home order on Saturday , March 21st .
Officials are planning a “ phased reopening , ” beginning in June , though the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ able to gather in groups—and of what size , and under what restrictions—remain uncertain .
Even when bands can come together again , no one knows what they will emerge to find .
Chicago ’ s small independent music clubs have united for years to face a number of challenges beyond the usual difficulties of operating a small business with thin margins .
They ’ ve held fast in the face of gentrification , battled onerous city ordinances , and fought competition from giant corporate concert promoters and massive festivals .
The coronavirus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ According to the Chicago Independent Venue League ( CIVL ) , a coalition of more than twenty local music clubs , during the first six weeks of the shutdown , more than twelve hundred gigs were cancelled , and nearly two thousand bartenders , sound engineers , bouncers , bookers , and other staffers found themselves out of work .
I spoke with Katie Tuten , a co-owner of a beloved dive called the Hideout ( which has a capacity of a hundred and fifty ) and a co-founder of CIVL .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ differently because our ecosystem is so different from everyone else ’ s , ” she said .
“ You don ’ t just open the club and turn the lights on and there ’ s shows .
It takes three to six months booking bands.
” When Tuten and other club owners are able to reopen , they ’ re unsure about what they ’ ll need to do , from insisting on their customers wearing masks and conducting temperature checks to trying to enforce social distancing in close quarters and dramatically cutting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We ’ re living in the present .
We ’ re listening to the scientists .
A lot of these questions can ’ t be answered , ” Tuten said .
“ We just know that , as of today , this is dire , because the odds of us opening to full capacity are slim to none for a very long time.
” Tuten and her husband , Tim , are veteran community organizers , and they reached out to other small clubs across the country , relying on a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Viecelli , a booking agent who works with touring indie-rock bands .
Doing so , the Tutens helped to form a new organization , the National Independent Venue Association , based on the Chicago model , that includes fourteen hundred venues across all fifty states .
The club owners have been comparing notes on navigating the Payroll Protection Program for their employees , and on appealing for additional resources from Capitol Hill .
The NIVA spokeswoman Audrey Fix Schaefer also works as the communications director for the independent concert promoter I.M.P.
, which @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , D.C. “ Everybody has their hand out right now because everybody is hurting in every industry , and we get that , ” she said .
“ I think that we have a good story to tell , on both sides of the aisle .
.
.
how we ’ re different from other industries , and not just because of our needs but our ability to bring back economic renewal when that time comes , if we are able to make sure that venues can stay alive.
” Schaefer cites a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for every dollar spent on a ticket in a small music venue , twelve additional dollars are spent nearby for dining , shopping , or parking .
NIVA is working on a broader study to show the economic impact of independent venues nationally , but even that study won ’ t take into account the effect in recent months on the many bands that take their stages .
One such band , Melkbelly , accurately describes itself as a “ noisy , subversively catchy , and rhythmically sophisticated quartet [ that ] @ @ @ @ @ @ @ spaces with its experimental instincts intact.
” The band ’ s members have spent five years building a following at clubs such as the Hideout and the Empty Bottle , and they were on the cusp of reaching their largest audience yet .
Their second album , “ Pith , ” released on April 3rd , garnered glowing reviews , and the band was set to embark on a now-cancelled tour of almost thirty clubs across the United States and Europe .
The band ’ s drummer , James Wetzel , told me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ inferior substitute for playing together in person .
And , for me , as a listener , none of the models for streaming concerts from social isolation have come close to capturing the visceral power of a band like Melkbelly blasting full bore in a small , sweaty club packed shoulder to shoulder .
“ As a band , you rely heavily on those moments to not just grow as a group but to feel connected to that sense of community , ” Wetzel said .
“ I think it ’ s crucial @ @ @ @ @ @ @ band but for getting connected with other groups , learning about what they ’ re doing , and finding inspiration and motivation from them.
” He worries about how long it will be before his band can have that experience again , and if it will ever be the same .
My bandmates worry , too .
We ’ ve only had one gig cancelled since the shutdown—at the Liar ’ s Club , a place even smaller than the Hideout .
But we ’ ve never had a calendar devoid of upcoming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ long—eight weeks and counting—without convening in our cramped rehearsal room .
I ’ m sure I speak for many at the Superior Street Center for the Arts , and at all the places like it , when I say that I ’ ve never needed the sense of community at small shows more , and I ’ ve never missed the feeling of catharsis from those rehearsals as much .
• Twenty-four hours at the epicenter of the pandemic : nearly fifty New Yorker writers and photographers fanned out to document life in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ • Seattle leaders let scientists take the lead in responding to the coronavirus .
New York leaders did not .
• Can survivors help cure the disease and rescue the economy ?
• What the coronavirus has revealed about American medicine .
• Can we trace the spread of COVID-19 and protect privacy at the same time ?
• The coronavirus is likely to spread for more than a year before a vaccine is widely available .
• How to practice social distancing , from responding to a sick housemate to the pros @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The long crusade of Dr. Anthony Fauci , the infectious-disease expert pinned between Donald Trump and the American people .
• What to read , watch , cook , and listen to under quarantine .

Every Saturday for the past two decades, I’ve gathered with two or three friends in a twelve-by-fifteen-foot room that we rent by the month—one of a hundred similar spaces in a former furniture warehouse that stretches for a city block in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village. For several hours, in between breaks to talk and drink beer from a mini-fridge, my friends and I work on new material for our punk band, devising set lists and running through songs that we’ve recorded for a half-dozen independent releases. It’s often the best part of the week.
Walking through the halls of the Superior Street Center for the Arts, as the warehouse was grandly rechristened, in the early two-thousands, you’ll hear death metal, hip-hop, funk, E.D.M., alt-country, space rock, reggae, cumbia, jazz, and almost any other genre that you could name, all from a thriving musical underground. I’ve had similar experiences in converted industrial buildings in Hoboken, New York City, and Minneapolis. A select few bands emerge from these places to make national or even international impact, but, for most, performing every six or eight weeks, on a bill with other local groups, in a club filled with friends and fellow-musicians, qualifies as success. The mere act of coming together to make a glorious noise is what really matters.
All of the rehearsal rooms at Superior Street are silent now. The state of Illinois imposed its stay-at-home order on Saturday, March 21st. Officials are planning a “phased reopening,” beginning in June, though the specifics of exactly when people will be able to gather in groups—and of what size, and under what restrictions—remain uncertain. Even when bands can come together again, no one knows what they will emerge to find. Chicago’s small independent music clubs have united for years to face a number of challenges beyond the usual difficulties of operating a small business with thin margins. They’ve held fast in the face of gentrification, battled onerous city ordinances, and fought competition from giant corporate concert promoters and massive festivals. The coronavirus crisis presents their toughest struggle yet. According to the Chicago Independent Venue League (CIVL), a coalition of more than twenty local music clubs, during the first six weeks of the shutdown, more than twelve hundred gigs were cancelled, and nearly two thousand bartenders, sound engineers, bouncers, bookers, and other staffers found themselves out of work.
I spoke with Katie Tuten, a co-owner of a beloved dive called the Hideout (which has a capacity of a hundred and fifty) and a co-founder of CIVL. “Our industry needs to be looked at differently because our ecosystem is so different from everyone else’s,” she said. “You don’t just open the club and turn the lights on and there’s shows. It takes three to six months booking bands.” When Tuten and other club owners are able to reopen, they’re unsure about what they’ll need to do, from insisting on their customers wearing masks and conducting temperature checks to trying to enforce social distancing in close quarters and dramatically cutting capacity, possibly necessitating higher ticket prices. “We’re living in the present. We’re listening to the scientists. A lot of these questions can’t be answered,” Tuten said. “We just know that, as of today, this is dire, because the odds of us opening to full capacity are slim to none for a very long time.”
Tuten and her husband, Tim, are veteran community organizers, and they reached out to other small clubs across the country, relying on a list provided by David (Boche) Viecelli, a booking agent who works with touring indie-rock bands. Doing so, the Tutens helped to form a new organization, the National Independent Venue Association, based on the Chicago model, that includes fourteen hundred venues across all fifty states. The club owners have been comparing notes on navigating the Payroll Protection Program for their employees, and on appealing for additional resources from Capitol Hill. The NIVA spokeswoman Audrey Fix Schaefer also works as the communications director for the independent concert promoter I.M.P., which operates the storied 9:30 Club in Washington, D.C. “Everybody has their hand out right now because everybody is hurting in every industry, and we get that,” she said. “I think that we have a good story to tell, on both sides of the aisle . . . how we’re different from other industries, and not just because of our needs but our ability to bring back economic renewal when that time comes, if we are able to make sure that venues can stay alive.”
Schaefer cites a study from Chicago, which shows that, for every dollar spent on a ticket in a small music venue, twelve additional dollars are spent nearby for dining, shopping, or parking. NIVA is working on a broader study to show the economic impact of independent venues nationally, but even that study won’t take into account the effect in recent months on the many bands that take their stages. One such band, Melkbelly, accurately describes itself as a “noisy, subversively catchy, and rhythmically sophisticated quartet [that] emerged from Chicago’s D.I.Y. spaces with its experimental instincts intact.” The band’s members have spent five years building a following at clubs such as the Hideout and the Empty Bottle, and they were on the cusp of reaching their largest audience yet. Their second album, “Pith,” released on April 3rd, garnered glowing reviews, and the band was set to embark on a now-cancelled tour of almost thirty clubs across the United States and Europe.
The band’s drummer, James Wetzel, told me that virtual rehearsals online have been an inferior substitute for playing together in person. And, for me, as a listener, none of the models for streaming concerts from social isolation have come close to capturing the visceral power of a band like Melkbelly blasting full bore in a small, sweaty club packed shoulder to shoulder. “As a band, you rely heavily on those moments to not just grow as a group but to feel connected to that sense of community,” Wetzel said. “I think it’s crucial not just for the growth of our band but for getting connected with other groups, learning about what they’re doing, and finding inspiration and motivation from them.” He worries about how long it will be before his band can have that experience again, and if it will ever be the same.
My bandmates worry, too. We’ve only had one gig cancelled since the shutdown—at the Liar’s Club, a place even smaller than the Hideout. But we’ve never had a calendar devoid of upcoming shows, nor have we gone this long—eight weeks and counting—without convening in our cramped rehearsal room. I’m sure I speak for many at the Superior Street Center for the Arts, and at all the places like it, when I say that I’ve never needed the sense of community at small shows more, and I’ve never missed the feeling of catharsis from those rehearsals as much.
A Guide to the Coronavirus


newyorker--2020-05-12--Jonathan Lethem Reads “The Afterlife”

Jonathan Lethem Reads “The Afterlife”

Jonathan Lethem reads his story from the May 18 , 2020 , issue of the magazine .
Lethem is the @ @ @ @ @ books of fiction , including “ Motherless Brooklyn , ” “ A Gambler ’ s @ @ @ @ @ The Feral Detective.
” A new novel , “ The Arrest , ” will be @ @ @ @ @

Photograph by Leonardo Cendamo / Getty
Jonathan Lethem reads his story from the May 18, 2020, issue of the magazine. Lethem is the author of more than fifteen books of fiction, including “Motherless Brooklyn,” “A Gambler’s Anatomy,” and “The Feral Detective.” A new novel, “The Arrest,” will be published later this year.


newyorker--2020-05-12--Can Trump Lose the Cases Against Him in the Supreme Court and Still Win?

Here ’ s a tipoff for when a lawyer knows he has a weak argument : he resorts to the slippery slope .
Based on Tuesday ’ s arguments before the Supreme Court in a pair of cases about efforts to obtain President Trump ’ s tax returns and other financial documents , his lawyers know that they are in trouble .
Trump has lost at every level of the judicial system in both cases—and he may well lose again in the Supreme Court .
The first case concerns efforts by three congressional committees to subpoena long-sought documents regarding his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one involves a subpoena from Cyrus Vance , the Manhattan District Attorney , who is seeking Trump ’ s business records and tax returns .
In each case , the gist of the argument from Trump ’ s lawyers was the same .
If the Court grants access to the documents , all future Presidents will be plagued with unreasonable demands for documents and testimony for all eternity .
Patrick Strawbridge , who represented Trump in the congressional case , said , “ The rule that the Court applies here will affect not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The Court should deny the committees the blank check they seek and reverse the decisions below.
” Jay Sekulow , who spoke for Trump against the Manhattan D.A.
, took an even more theatrical tack .
“ If not reversed , the decision weaponizes twenty-three hundred local D.A.s .
It would allow any D.A .
to harass and distract any President.
” The reason that Trump ’ s lawyers resorted to playing Chicken Little about the future implications of the cases is that the current facts of them—the issue before the Justices–are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , several Justices pointed out that Congress has , on many occasions , investigated the personal financial dealings of the President .
This happened most recently in the examination of President Bill Clinton ’ s involvement in the Whitewater land deal , in Arkansas .
True , the Supreme Court never evaluated the propriety of that investigation , because Clinton ultimately turned over his business records .
But no one suggested that Congress lacked the authority to look into the issue .
Strawbridge , along with a representative of Trump ’ s Justice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no legislative purpose—that they were designed purely to obtain dirt on the Democratic House of Representatives bête noire .
“ These subpoenas fail every hallmark of legitimate legislative investigation , ” Strawbridge said .
But Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg , and even some conservative Justices , said that it wasn ’ t up to the courts to cross-examine members of Congress about what their ultimate purposes are .
If they said that they were considering legislation—here , regarding conflicts of interest in the executive branch and Trump ’ s dealings with Russia—that ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Why should we not defer to the House about its own legislative purposes ?
” she asked .
Sekulow had a harder time with the Court , because he was making an even more expansive claim : that the District Attorney had no right even to investigate Trump while he was President .
“ The President is not to be treated as an ordinary citizen , and it ’ s a temporary immunity while in office , ” he said .
But Justice Stephen Breyer responded that the Court had ordered @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Paula Jones sexual-harassment case against him .
That was a great deal more burdensome than turning over existing documents , which are in the hands of Trump ’ s accountants , anyway .
( Since the subpoena is actually directed to Trump ’ s accounting firm , Trump himself is not required to do anything at all in response to it . )
Sekulow ’ s response—that Trump would have the burden of reviewing the documents with his counsel—seems weak .
It ’ s entirely possible , though , that Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The Court could reject Sekulow ’ s broad claim of immunity , but send the case back to the lower courts to evaluate the subpoena under a new standard .
That would certainly delay the resolution of the case—and the production of Trump ’ s tax returns—until after the election , in November .
And that is certainly what Trump wants most of all .

Here’s a tipoff for when a lawyer knows he has a weak argument: he resorts to the slippery slope. Based on Tuesday’s arguments before the Supreme Court in a pair of cases about efforts to obtain President Trump’s tax returns and other financial documents, his lawyers know that they are in trouble. Trump has lost at every level of the judicial system in both cases—and he may well lose again in the Supreme Court.
The first case concerns efforts by three congressional committees to subpoena long-sought documents regarding his finances and businesses, and the second one involves a subpoena from Cyrus Vance, the Manhattan District Attorney, who is seeking Trump’s business records and tax returns. In each case, the gist of the argument from Trump’s lawyers was the same. If the Court grants access to the documents, all future Presidents will be plagued with unreasonable demands for documents and testimony for all eternity. Patrick Strawbridge, who represented Trump in the congressional case, said, “The rule that the Court applies here will affect not only this President but the Presidency itself. The Court should deny the committees the blank check they seek and reverse the decisions below.” Jay Sekulow, who spoke for Trump against the Manhattan D.A., took an even more theatrical tack. “If not reversed, the decision weaponizes twenty-three hundred local D.A.s. It would allow any D.A. to harass and distract any President.”
The reason that Trump’s lawyers resorted to playing Chicken Little about the future implications of the cases is that the current facts of them—the issue before the Justices–are so straightforward. In the congressional case, several Justices pointed out that Congress has, on many occasions, investigated the personal financial dealings of the President. This happened most recently in the examination of President Bill Clinton’s involvement in the Whitewater land deal, in Arkansas. True, the Supreme Court never evaluated the propriety of that investigation, because Clinton ultimately turned over his business records. But no one suggested that Congress lacked the authority to look into the issue. Strawbridge, along with a representative of Trump’s Justice Department, said that the subpoenas served no legislative purpose—that they were designed purely to obtain dirt on the Democratic House of Representatives’ bête noire. “These subpoenas fail every hallmark of legitimate legislative investigation,” Strawbridge said. But Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and even some conservative Justices, said that it wasn’t up to the courts to cross-examine members of Congress about what their ultimate purposes are. If they said that they were considering legislation—here, regarding conflicts of interest in the executive branch and Trump’s dealings with Russia—that’s usually good enough for the Justices. “Why should we not defer to the House about its own legislative purposes?” she asked.
Sekulow had a harder time with the Court, because he was making an even more expansive claim: that the District Attorney had no right even to investigate Trump while he was President. “The President is not to be treated as an ordinary citizen, and it’s a temporary immunity while in office,” he said. But Justice Stephen Breyer responded that the Court had ordered Bill Clinton to give a civil deposition in the Paula Jones sexual-harassment case against him. That was a great deal more burdensome than turning over existing documents, which are in the hands of Trump’s accountants, anyway. (Since the subpoena is actually directed to Trump’s accounting firm, Trump himself is not required to do anything at all in response to it.) Sekulow’s response—that Trump would have the burden of reviewing the documents with his counsel—seems weak.
It’s entirely possible, though, that Trump can win these cases by losing. The Court could reject Sekulow’s broad claim of immunity, but send the case back to the lower courts to evaluate the subpoena under a new standard. That would certainly delay the resolution of the case—and the production of Trump’s tax returns—until after the election, in November. And that is certainly what Trump wants most of all.


newyorker--2020-05-12--Glenn Danzig Sings Elvis

Glenn Danzig Sings Elvis

The strangeness of self-quarantine has encouraged a certain amount of controlled indulgence : when merely getting through the day feels like an accomplishment , it ’ s easier to forgive oneself for odd cravings and minor social crimes .
For me , this has mostly meant listening to “ Danzig Sings Elvis , ” a new collection of standards made famous by Elvis Presley and reinterpreted by the sixty-four-year-old heavy-metal singer Glenn Danzig .
Six months ago , I ’ m not sure I could have anticipated the perverse pleasure of listening to Danzig murmur “ Everybody ’ s got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a global pandemic .
Life , of course , is full of unforeseen twists .
By now , Danzig ’ s musical kinship to Presley—they both sing in a rich , mellifluous baritone—has been well established .
While many punk and metal singers were torching tradition by employing a high-pitched shriek or a low , gravelly chant , Danzig leaned into his croon , taking an obvious pleasure in singing—elegantly and with a kind of measured grandeur—lyrics like “ By the time I was twelve / I was killing / Killing for Satan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Satan , ” a song from his 2015 album “ Skeletons.
” ( “ Satan ” was originally recorded by Paul Wibier as the theme for the 1969 biker film “ Satan ’ s Sadists ” —I ’ d recommend the “ quiet version , ” in which Danzig is accompanied only by an organ . )
Since the late nineteen-seventies , Danzig has often sung beautifully about murderous rage .
“ Mommy , can I go out and kill tonight ?
/ Rip the veins from human flesh / Until they ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wondered on “ Mommy , Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight ?
, ” a song from “ Walk Among Us , ” the début album from the Misfits , a punk-rock band that Danzig fronted until 1983 .
For a while , he was known colloquially as Evil Elvis .
Although it seems unlikely that Danzig is actually a satanist—in 2005 , he told a reporter , “ I don ’ t worship Satan .
You know who I worship ?
Me ” —he does have an appetite for conspiracy theories @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pioneer a micro-genre now known as horror-punk , in which spooky , B-movie aesthetics are paired with frenzied but melodious instrumentation .
Born in 1955 , Danzig came of age in the thrall of artists ( Black Sabbath , the Doors ) who indulged the grotesque and weren ’ t particularly shy about suggesting that demonic imagery might be a more apt mirror for American culture than the Disney princess .
He has cited Edgar Allan Poe and Baudelaire as early influences .
In the nineteen-eighties , when Danzig ’ s career was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country was briefly gripped by the Satanic Panic , a widespread moral frenzy in which musicians who played around with satanic allusions were blamed for inspiring the murder and ritual abuse of children .
( Very few crimes were ultimately ever linked with satanic cults , which , by and large , did not really exist . )
If a listener removes any real paranoia about infernal debasement , something about the juxtaposition of Danzig ’ s voice and the deranged impulses that he sings about sort of works : like a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ music can be very funny but also genuinely terrifying .
In 1990 , Danzig gathered some music videos and released them on a self-titled VHS ; as a bit of bonus content , he filmed a three-minute tour of his home library .
Years ago , someone uploaded the clip to YouTube .
Danzig is shirtless , muscled , tattooed , and crouched in front of a short bookshelf .
He wears a choker and a wristband .
“ Welcome to my book collection , ” he says quietly and in the creepiest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ part of my book collection .
I ’ ve got all kinds of stuff here.
” He explains that his library contains “ various books on death , the anthropology of evil , society ’ s views of evil .
.
.
.
” There are also books on Nazism and several about the Bible .
The first one he pulls down is “ The Werewolf in Lore and Legend , ” by Montague Summers , which he describes as “ all true.
” The book contains one story in particular that Danzig @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for this guy who is accused of being a werewolf , and he comes out of a clearing shaking a baby in his mouth , ” Danzig recalls .
“ It ’ s pretty cool.
” ( According to a Rolling Stone interview from 1994 , Danzig ’ s library also contains “ Beauty and the Beast ” figurines , an unopened box of Count Chocula cereal , and a pair of wooden sticks that Danzig said are used for “ killing people.
” ) More recently , photographs of a middle-aged Danzig @ @ @ @ @ @ @ In one , he is lugging a large carton of Fresh Step cat litter across a parking lot .
In another , captured via Google ’ s Street View , he stands in his driveway in Los Angeles , washing his car with a garden hose .
His yard contains a large pile of loose bricks .
This , too , is somehow funny .
I suppose it is hard to position oneself as an agent of otherworldly evil and then get busted doing chores .
When I was a teen-ager , I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on dark nights when I wanted a cheap thrill ; it remains difficult to reconcile the genuine danger that music conveyed with the deep banality of rinsing a sedan .
“ Danzig Sings Elvis ” feels like an extension of that tension—the same man who once yelled “ Gather round the place of the demon whore !
” now dutifully tidies the litter box and sings along to Elvis songs—and also an earnest homage .
Danzig has covered some of Presley ’ s hits in the past , including “ Trouble , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ m evil , so don ’ t you mess around with me.
” It ’ s possible to find audio , from as far back as 1978 , of the Misfits playing a bit of “ Blue Christmas ” live at Max ’ s Kansas City .
It makes sense that Danzig might have come to see Presley as a kind of kindred lunatic .
Though Presley ’ s music sounds relatively benign now , it was also once considered a threat to polite society .
Unlike Presley , Danzig has never @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Danzig ( his eponymous band ) did have a single reach No .
43 on the Billboard Hot 100 .
A video of him performing a remixed version of his song “ Mother ” was featured on an episode of “ Beavis and Butt-Head , ” and , shortly thereafter , it was added to MTV ’ s “ Buzz Bin , ” a curated batch of videos that received heavy rotation on the network .
There is no denying that the video for “ Mother ’ 93 ” is awesome .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ Danzig show on Halloween , in 1992 , at the Irvine Meadows Amphitheater in California .
Danzig is shirtless , his chest bulges , and his long black hair is wet and sticks to the sides of his face .
He charges about the stage like a spooked bull .
His voice sounds heavy and full .
There is some of Presley ’ s magnetism in this era of Danzig—both men performed in a way that felt primal , alluring .
On “ Danzig Sings Elvis , ” most of the arrangements are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t transform any of these tracks into speed-metal songs or fiddle around with the melodies .
His vocals are pleasantly imperfect—still thick and round , but a little bit frayed at the edges , and not in an especially deliberate way .
My favorite track is “ Always on My Mind , ” which was written by Wayne Carson , Johnny Christopher , and Mark James , in 1970 , and first recorded by B. J. Thomas that same year .
( Presley recorded it in 1972 , though most people probably @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from 1982 , which won the Grammy for Song of the Year and spent twenty-one weeks on the country charts . )
Danzig ’ s take contains a vaguely anemic guitar solo toward the end ; ignore that part .
The lyrics are suffused with longing and regret : The track is spare and echoing .
Sometimes Danzig ’ s voice gets a little wobbly , as if it were late at night , and maybe he has been drinking , reliving some old sorrows , and he knows he should probably go @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t .
It has the sonic scrappiness of a home recording , and all the pathos of one , too ; everything about it is lonesome and unsteady .
But “ Always on My Mind ” is not a song that should be sung with any grace or dignity—it ’ s about admitting to your own carelessness and praying for forgiveness .
Though it has been recorded dozens of times in the past fifty years , Danzig ’ s is easily the most broken-sounding version I ’ ve ever heard , which , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .

The strangeness of self-quarantine has encouraged a certain amount of controlled indulgence: when merely getting through the day feels like an accomplishment, it’s easier to forgive oneself for odd cravings and minor social crimes. For me, this has mostly meant listening to “Danzig Sings Elvis,” a new collection of standards made famous by Elvis Presley and reinterpreted by the sixty-four-year-old heavy-metal singer Glenn Danzig. Six months ago, I’m not sure I could have anticipated the perverse pleasure of listening to Danzig murmur “Everybody’s got the fever” in the midst of a global pandemic. Life, of course, is full of unforeseen twists.
By now, Danzig’s musical kinship to Presley—they both sing in a rich, mellifluous baritone—has been well established. While many punk and metal singers were torching tradition by employing a high-pitched shriek or a low, gravelly chant, Danzig leaned into his croon, taking an obvious pleasure in singing—elegantly and with a kind of measured grandeur—lyrics like “By the time I was twelve / I was killing / Killing for Satan,” as he does on “Satan,” a song from his 2015 album “Skeletons.” (“Satan” was originally recorded by Paul Wibier as the theme for the 1969 biker film “Satan’s Sadists”—I’d recommend the “quiet version,” in which Danzig is accompanied only by an organ.) Since the late nineteen-seventies, Danzig has often sung beautifully about murderous rage. “Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight? / Rip the veins from human flesh / Until they’re wet with life?” he wondered on “Mommy, Can I Go Out and Kill Tonight?,” a song from “Walk Among Us,” the début album from the Misfits, a punk-rock band that Danzig fronted until 1983. For a while, he was known colloquially as Evil Elvis.
Although it seems unlikely that Danzig is actually a satanist—in 2005, he told a reporter, “I don’t worship Satan. You know who I worship? Me”—he does have an appetite for conspiracy theories and the dark arts. He helped pioneer a micro-genre now known as horror-punk, in which spooky, B-movie aesthetics are paired with frenzied but melodious instrumentation. Born in 1955, Danzig came of age in the thrall of artists (Black Sabbath, the Doors) who indulged the grotesque and weren’t particularly shy about suggesting that demonic imagery might be a more apt mirror for American culture than the Disney princess. He has cited Edgar Allan Poe and Baudelaire as early influences. In the nineteen-eighties, when Danzig’s career was reaching a kind of underground apex, the country was briefly gripped by the Satanic Panic, a widespread moral frenzy in which musicians who played around with satanic allusions were blamed for inspiring the murder and ritual abuse of children. (Very few crimes were ultimately ever linked with satanic cults, which, by and large, did not really exist.) If a listener removes any real paranoia about infernal debasement, something about the juxtaposition of Danzig’s voice and the deranged impulses that he sings about sort of works: like a good horror film, Danzig’s music can be very funny but also genuinely terrifying.
In 1990, Danzig gathered some music videos and released them on a self-titled VHS; as a bit of bonus content, he filmed a three-minute tour of his home library. Years ago, someone uploaded the clip to YouTube. Danzig is shirtless, muscled, tattooed, and crouched in front of a short bookshelf. He wears a choker and a wristband. “Welcome to my book collection,” he says quietly and in the creepiest voice possible. “This is just part of my book collection. I’ve got all kinds of stuff here.” He explains that his library contains “various books on death, the anthropology of evil, society’s views of evil. . . .” There are also books on Nazism and several about the Bible. The first one he pulls down is “The Werewolf in Lore and Legend,” by Montague Summers, which he describes as “all true.” The book contains one story in particular that Danzig likes: “They’re looking for this guy who is accused of being a werewolf, and he comes out of a clearing shaking a baby in his mouth,” Danzig recalls. “It’s pretty cool.” (According to a Rolling Stone interview from 1994, Danzig’s library also contains “Beauty and the Beast” figurines, an unopened box of Count Chocula cereal, and a pair of wooden sticks that Danzig said are used for “killing people.”)
More recently, photographs of a middle-aged Danzig doing normal stuff have circulated online. In one, he is lugging a large carton of Fresh Step cat litter across a parking lot. In another, captured via Google’s Street View, he stands in his driveway in Los Angeles, washing his car with a garden hose. His yard contains a large pile of loose bricks. This, too, is somehow funny. I suppose it is hard to position oneself as an agent of otherworldly evil and then get busted doing chores. When I was a teen-ager, I saved my Misfits seven-inches to listen to on dark nights when I wanted a cheap thrill; it remains difficult to reconcile the genuine danger that music conveyed with the deep banality of rinsing a sedan.
“Danzig Sings Elvis” feels like an extension of that tension—the same man who once yelled “Gather round the place of the demon whore!” now dutifully tidies the litter box and sings along to Elvis songs—and also an earnest homage. Danzig has covered some of Presley’s hits in the past, including “Trouble,” which contains the Danzig-ready lyric “I’m evil, so don’t you mess around with me.” It’s possible to find audio, from as far back as 1978, of the Misfits playing a bit of “Blue Christmas” live at Max’s Kansas City. It makes sense that Danzig might have come to see Presley as a kind of kindred lunatic. Though Presley’s music sounds relatively benign now, it was also once considered a threat to polite society.
Unlike Presley, Danzig has never had much mainstream success—although, in 1994, Danzig (his eponymous band) did have a single reach No. 43 on the Billboard Hot 100. A video of him performing a remixed version of his song “Mother” was featured on an episode of “Beavis and Butt-Head,” and, shortly thereafter, it was added to MTV’s “Buzz Bin,” a curated batch of videos that received heavy rotation on the network. There is no denying that the video for “Mother ’93” is awesome. It features footage culled primarily from a Danzig show on Halloween, in 1992, at the Irvine Meadows Amphitheater in California. Danzig is shirtless, his chest bulges, and his long black hair is wet and sticks to the sides of his face. He charges about the stage like a spooked bull. His voice sounds heavy and full. There is some of Presley’s magnetism in this era of Danzig—both men performed in a way that felt primal, alluring.
On “Danzig Sings Elvis,” most of the arrangements are faithful to the originals. Danzig doesn’t transform any of these tracks into speed-metal songs or fiddle around with the melodies. His vocals are pleasantly imperfect—still thick and round, but a little bit frayed at the edges, and not in an especially deliberate way. My favorite track is “Always on My Mind,” which was written by Wayne Carson, Johnny Christopher, and Mark James, in 1970, and first recorded by B. J. Thomas that same year. (Presley recorded it in 1972, though most people probably know Willie Nelson’s version, from 1982, which won the Grammy for Song of the Year and spent twenty-one weeks on the country charts.) Danzig’s take contains a vaguely anemic guitar solo toward the end; ignore that part. The lyrics are suffused with longing and regret:
And maybe I didn’t treat you
Quite as good as I should have
If I made you feel second best
Girl, I’m sorry I was blind
The track is spare and echoing. Sometimes Danzig’s voice gets a little wobbly, as if it were late at night, and maybe he has been drinking, reliving some old sorrows, and he knows he should probably go to bed, but he won’t. It has the sonic scrappiness of a home recording, and all the pathos of one, too; everything about it is lonesome and unsteady. But “Always on My Mind” is not a song that should be sung with any grace or dignity—it’s about admitting to your own carelessness and praying for forgiveness. Though it has been recorded dozens of times in the past fifty years, Danzig’s is easily the most broken-sounding version I’ve ever heard, which, somehow, also makes it the best.