i left my heart in powell’s coffee rm

Grazie Fluxblog for the heads-up on Loretta Lynn vs. Jack White vs. “Portland, Oregon” sloe gin fizz/heartbreak epic waltzage. ‘Tis beautiful, captures the old-timey booziness that kept PDX in biz til the straightedge takeover of ’97. Can’t listen to it the same, tho, after hearing Amy Phillips’ EMP paper “White Blood Sells,” on the White Stripes’ subtextual racism. I know the ILM massive has spewed hate-goop in Amy’s path, partially based on her unpopular yet brave opinions (OR does she say what ya think but too chickenshit to speak?) and also partially based on envy—that envy shit’ll undo you like Oprah’s Book Club. ANYWAY, Amy’s paper took ish with White Stripes’ freakishly antebellum lifestyle choices, including an unsettling moment on Conan where Meg was escorted to and from her drumset by a large, butler-esque black man, a la protector and bodyguard, and also a la dainty pale belle, shoeless, emaciated, a vision of beauty on some real 1833 shit.
It was interesting and Amy made the case pretty well; my main complaint was that it too reliant on quotes from texts, rather than personal conclusions based on said quotes (I thought she should have argued it more, STATED rather than questioned). But if it was her effing dissertation, then I’m sure academia wasn’t hating on her use of like, Lacan (not a real cited source; I just cannot remember who she quoted). Her quotes culled from Jack White interviews, especially his much-deconstructed Bill O’Reillian stance on hip-hop—plus his very conservative call for a return to values, old-style values, where a man was a man and a woman was his dawg, or whateves—paved a clear road up to her thesis. She then took to task the CRITICS who want a return to values, or rather a return to rock; the critics who see in the White Stripes so much hope for the perpetuation of guitars; the critics who still love to love the stuff on the Victrola at their teenage dance parties*; the critics who, despite comparatively not-mindblowing alb sales, wheatpaste the Stripes’ pasty mugs ‘cross every mag cover in Anglo-Saxia, up to and including the New Musical Express. AKA the ILM poison apple “rockism.”
I agree with about 14% of what Amy Phillips says, but I am stoked on her tuff chutzpah and think the line “this is the kind of music indie boys put on when they want to have sex” is amazing. Her points are sharp and she speaks for culture, not just list-cataloguing. She forgoes the dewey decimal in favor of the real. Diggable.