Near Perfect Albums: Aja - The Dan

The Dan. That's what the cool kids call Steely Dan. The other thing about the cool kids? They think Steely Dan sucks, and it's critical to do so. Steely Dan makes music you should totally despise at one point in your life, and irrationally love at another.

I can't retrace the exact steps, but I recall the specific moment. It was a warm morning, heavy with spring blossoms. Toward the middle of the week. Aja hummed on my laptop. I set down my mint-avocado-kale-cucumber smoothie to better read my bank statement, and the revelation opened in my brain like an 18 track harmony: Steely Dan is one of the great American bands. Now, the important left-handedness implied is 'American' as there are only like nine "great" American bands. If we factor in England alone, Steely Dan drops out of the top twenty before you can say, "You know, besides the Beach Boys, the Stooges, and Talking Heads, who do we really have?"

The Doors? (A stranger holds me back as I take aggressive swings at you.)

Steely Dan was initially Trojan Horsed into my life. De La Soul's 3 Feet High and Rising was one of those tapes I wore out. Years later when a friend played me Aja, I recognized the hook from "Peg," sampled in De La's "Eye Know". Entry point enough, and the next few months Aja constricted around me. Then you find out you already know half the songs on Can't Buy a Thrill, and "Kid Charlemagne's" guitar solo makes you long for when "guitar solo" wasn't such a dirty word, and I was a Dan Man.

Ready to soften what I demanded of music philosophically, I embraced music as something beautiful for my ears. And what beautiful things the Steely Dan speaks. Donald Fagen even cops to it in this relic of an article by none other than Rolling Stone's Cameron Crowe:

“We’re proud that we don’t have any cuts or at least ones that we think are inferior. These days most pop critics, you know, are mainly interested in the amount of energy that is…obvious on the record. This is primitive rock&roll energy. People who are mainly Rolling Stones fans and people who like punk rock, stuff like that… a lot of them aren’t interested at all in what we have to do.” 

Cuts? Inferior? Pop critics? Punk rock? So, this is just sellout music?

Well, yeah. I'm sure plenty of the Italian loafer--moist with Aramis cologne--set have pulled up from a coke strewn mirror during "I Got the News," and snort-shouted, "Woo! Those licks are fuckin' tasty, brother!" But it's not The Dans fault they're so brilliant.

Catchy by meticulous design, Steely Dan sells. Is their music the byproduct of a studio vacuum where spontaneity is traded for soulless technique? Well no one ever said they weren't dicks. Steely Dan isn't even really a band. It's just two dudes--songwriters Donald Fagen and Walter Becker--and a cavalcade of elite session musicians. As obnoxious as this is, the aspiration for musical perfection is held above the individual. Keith is in the Stones because he was always just...there. Wayne Shorter plays the soul excoriating solo on "Aja," because he was the best man for the job. It reminds me of the way another Walter makes his product. There is a right way, and a formula, but within these rigid walls an artistry so cunning, it seems as simple as following a recipe.

Anyone can make a pop record, Dan erects pop architecture. And Aja is their Versailles.  

Every note on Aja sounds like it was laid with a jewelers loupe. Layer after pristine layer of hand poured analog, clean as angel feathers. Fused into a tight latticework of jazz theory and funk rhythms, Aja represents a moment of evolutionary excellence. The Dan, fully upright, with sensibility, studio, and session guys obsessively balanced. A production marvel, every quiver of sound is managed; never asphyxiated, but manicured down to each fine hair.

Despite the architectural feat Aja represents, there is a swampy groove furrowed in this record's guts. The long list of bass players, clavinets, electric pianos, extraneous percussion--up to and including "police whistle"--form the hearty earth where Aja launches her crystalline spires. There is so much technical work, the most overlooked facet of Aja, she's all bottom. Like, my mama's gully-low.  Even "Deacon Blues," the album's emotional centerpiece, swings a thick back end.

Of course, this is still a The Dan album. Melodies shimmer like sun beams, and every genre gets its wink, but there is a tight vision at the core. Aja unfolds with a storytellers resolve. Each track--with its unique mood and cast of rogues--keeps one foot planted in a central idea. Not a narrative, but an identity. Aja's stylistic shifts are personality traits, instead of genre send-ups. The most decadent restraint in pop music history. Even the record itself is lean. Only seven tracks: no fat, no filler, just calculated momentum.

The first three tracks--"Black Cow," "Aja," and "Deacon Blues"--represent the height of Aja's potential. The B-side is efficient, and has more straightforward chart appeal. "Peg" is like disco-funk honey, and has a Micheal McDonald cameo. What's there to dislike about that? But the first three tracks are a 20 minute jazz-blues odyssey worthy of a concept so self-indulgent.

"Black Cow," jumps to life like the clink of your parent's keys in a key party fishbowl. An off center groove saunters through warm brass lines. Back-up singers punctuate the story with their soulful glow. A piano solo explores a little creative space. All muddy boots and cymbal hits, "Black Cow," lays the easy listening-psych foundation.

"Aja," follows as the strap-on-your-moon-boots ignition point. What begins as a plodding ramble lousy with absurd lyrics (Zappa refers to Dan's songwriting as "Downer Surrealism"), ascends into the fusion jazz stratosphere. A satin glider aloft on gratuitous key changes, "Aja" soars across vast soundscapes. Notes taken to the edge of unsatisfying melodic resolution collapse into sonic wormholes. A compact region of jazz spacetime where only precision solos survive. Just as the song appears to settle home, the false bottom gives. What remains falls into a chaotic synth vortex. So intricate, yet so far out, only "Aja" could dare to be the titular track.

Then, there is "Deacon Blues." The magnum opus made to be missed. At first blush, it's the lazy track. Some throw-away sandwiched between "Aja's" exploratory commission and "Peg's" radio perfection. But still waters run deep, and you have to dive to the bottom of this track. It should reveal itself in due time. And where this song emerges as the finest on the album, it may be the finest in Steely Dan's catalog. What's it like to finally hear "Deacon Blues?"

You're gonna have to get a real estate license or Series 7 or something. Whatever job of this ilk it is you choose, ensure your performance is mediocre. Through this end, build an unsustainable lifestyle. Leverage your pittance into condos, clothes (at least one pair of high-waisted white slacks--with pleats), and a 1977 Corvette. Not a Monte Carlo, not a Camaro, not a Trans Am, a 1977 Corvette. If the '77 Mustang even crossed your mind, stop. You don't get it.

Drink too much. Feel alone sometimes. Go to expensive bars and mingle with expensive people. Step out of yourself. Watch these lurid images throw shadows on the wall. Succor them with drinks you can't afford. Grasp at what you want. Let it slip through your fingers. When your blood goes bad on whiskey, leave. Say you know of a party "...in Laurel Canyon. With porno girls." Did I mention you live in L.A.? Move to L.A.

Get in your car. Put on "Deacon Blues." Race through the hills. Contemplate the far off city lights. Imagine each one is some tiny possibility--one good thing--flickering in the distance. Remind yourself they're interchangeable lamps on factory made poles. "Deacon Blues," should be on repeat. Chew up another Quaalude. Suck the whiskey spit and pill granules off your teeth. Hock the toxic mix out Shyla's window. Your car's name is "Shyla," and the windows have been down the whole time. A futile attempt, saliva coats your face. "Deacon Blues" is inside you. You're afraid to turn the song off. Anguish plunges in you like sickness.

Pull into a little alcove off the highway's crooked back. When the song starts over, raise the volume as far as it will go. Wail. Moan. Scorn your hollow tears. Take a pull from the flask in your dashboard. Try to sing along. As that one part of the song nears--you know which part--drive your foot into the gas pedal. Lurch toward the black, infinite expanse. Before your car goes over the cliff, throw yourself out. Stand up, toes on the edge. The saxophone's croon disappears into the belly of the canyon. You wait, arms open, for the hot breath of an explosion that never comes.

Curse the Hollywood illusion makers one more time. From the bottom of the ravine, "They got a name for the winners in the world, I want a name when I lose," lilts up the craggy walls. Walk home. Watch the sun come up.

After that...you'll know "Deacon Blues." [My attorney says I have to say, "Don't do ANY--repeat ANY--of that stuff." Personally, unless you do every step, I'm hard-pressed to believe I'm liable. Besides, stock trading and real estate are trash right now. Oh, and drugs are bad.]

Aja is the zenith. Aja is the aberration. Aja is the complete vision of Dan-dom in every aspect of the record. You can't get with Dan-dom? Understandable, but the total achievement, regardless of author, is a marvel to behold. The band crowned as the anti-heroes of the 70's, in the twilight of their decade, during their finest hour.

London Olympics 2012

State Run Television
There has been a lot of talk about NBC's coverage of the London Olympics. It's mostly negative--as this is mankind's neutral position in the Internet age--but this idle American has been like a pig snout deep in a star spangled trough. Every four years NBC no longer has to stare wistfully across the aisle at China Central Television, All Russia State Television, and Islamic Republic of Iran Broadcasting. They get to make some propaganda of their very own. Only the Olympics could grant NBC enough license to mangle the narrative into this perfect vision of the motherland, and I'm blissfully bound in red, white, and blue.

Of course NBC's cameras will be trained on American athletes, and the puff pieces will be marshmallow stuffed, but it's not just the overtones telling me America is the best, it's the undertones telling me other countries are the worst.

Being an 80's baby, I'm genuinely moved by the Cold War hostility NBC's sportscasters worked into their color commentary. Quick reminder, the Cold War was awesome. We had spies and double spies and nukes and government run witch hunts and the USSR and just...everything was perfect. We knew our enemy and we had a brick and mortar wall to act as the perfect symbol of the most pissing-contesty conflict in our history. A dog was launched into space! What a glorious, ridiculous time to be an American. Ugh, the War on Terror sucks so hard. But I digress...

You know what I've learned from NBC's reeducation? Russia's lady gymnasts are divas. Like total bitches. That one Chinese swimmer is probably doping. Then there is the Chinese diver who's parents kept the death of her grandparents--and her own mother's battle with cancer--from her until moments after she won gold medal because she, "belonged to the program." Then there is the Chinese gymnast who has only been home 17 times since 1996. And my personal favorite, when Grenada's statesman and national hero Kirani James won his country's first ever gold medal--as he walked off the track with his nation's flag draped around him--the commentator reminded us Grenada was liberated by the US of A "in the 80's...under Reagan." Under Reagan! When America was GREAT!

It's all said with the same rosy enthusiasm and casual air as talk of Jordyn Wieber's indomitable spirit. NBC always manages to find shots of our rivals failing and coverage of American's medaling. Our allies achievements carry some weight, our antagonists victories come with a measure of cynicism, and an American's fourth place finish is more coverage worthy than an Iranian's gold medal.

As it should be.

(But seriously, Iran won three gold medals?)

Oh, and massive shout out to my corporate overlords for teaching me to feel again. The "Find Your Greatness" campaign from Nike and the P&G "Moms" commercials get me every time. Holy Capitalism, I love this country. 

The Grand Quality of Life-A-Thon

Isn't the Olympics really just the nations of the world trotting out their general quality of life? Don't gold medals scream things like: "We're fucking America. Our basic needs are so covered and our population so large, our citizens have enough free time to become the best in the world at shooting pink discs out of the air."

Or: "Hey, we're China, and we have all your money. Did we also mention the state has complete control? That's how we can pass laws like 'every town has to have a basketball court.' And take children from their parents to develop them into precision athletes. Sleep tight."

The Olympiad represents a country's ability to facilitate a "system". Even Gabby Douglas moved to Iowa at 14 to live with a host family while she trained under coach Liang Chow. (Can we sub in Gabby for one of the Obama girls? Not Malia, the other one...) But this is all representative of our extremely high quality of life. We live in a society where there is enough money and individual interest to go around where one can not only thrive as an elite gymnastics coach, but girls can leave their families for stranger families--Who pay for them to eat? And buy their clothes? And don't charge rent?--and train under this coach in hopes for Olympic gold. This is the byproduct of a network of individuals and money and a very efficient system.

There are plenty of Olympic sports with minimal requirements. Track--distance running or sprints--you just need feet (sorry Pistorious, you count too, I'm just saying). Soccer? You need a round hunk of garbage to kick around by yourself. Wrestling, humans have been doing that as long as we've had competitive instincts. The hope is a quality system can identify these athletes and provide an environment to hone their skills. But the further you go into the catalog of obscure Olympic events, it seems like the systems get smaller and the number of weird pieces of specialized equipment goes up exponentially. And stuff costs money.

Can you imagine the cost of a skeet shooting set-up? Dressage? Velodrome cycling? Gymnastics? Shhhheeeeeit, I can't even name 75% of the gadgets inside a gymnasium, much less comprehend how their cost fits into a business model where you're viable once every four years.

Huffington Post does this very cool, yet HuffPosty, interactive graph. It shows three medal counts; one simply the number of medals won, another adjusted by population, and the other adjusted by GDP. It's kind of a cluster, but it's interesting to ponder. By my totally flaky math, America has one gold medal per 6,773,737 citizens whereas Jamaica has one gold medal per 677,325 citizens. Not to mention the two countries GDP's have a gulf of trillions between them. What's the deal USA?

It adds some perspective to Olympic dominance as a numbers game, and how money, culture, and resources factor into building Olympic athletes, but it raises even more questions. How many elite athletes around the world fall through the cracks? What would happen if nations who can only facilitate one or two elite systems could establish a network to develop all kinds of athletes? Are Americans underachieving given our largess? (Nah. Our ultra-elite athletes have little incentive to compete in Olympic sports, but still...)

Look, I'm still gonna use the raw medal count as the reflection of our status in the world (the best). And the symbolism of the wealthiest nations walking away with the most precious medals around their neck is the kind of conscienceless irony that makes the well fed so charming in the first place. 

America at its Best or: USA! USA! USA!

America kicks ass.

Trust me--I know it first hand--Americans can be a pretty despicable lot. We have not suffered our crisis with much rationality. The volume is so loud on this nation's discontent it seems like our tremendous personal liberties and luxuriant lifestyle are somehow both a burden and under threat all at the same time.

But every now and again when we can shut up for two seconds, and it's not about politics and money and guns and chicken sandwiches, we're still the greatest most best awesome country on the planet.

This is an intended byproduct of the Olympic Games. I don't know why our Citius, Altius, Fortius earning more medals than other countries is some signifier of greatness, but it is. These athletes do all of the work themselves, but because they compete under the banner of the United States--and seem genuinely proud to do so--we get to win with them. Athletes around the world are built on similar qualities of hard work and dedication and discipline, but when Americans win we get to idealize these qualities as American qualities.

I was even surprised how much importance I put on representing our country as these games progressed. "Woah. You're reppin' the stars and stripes." is a phrase I barked at the TV screen more times than I expected. Especially during diving. What the hell guys and gals? This is America. I expected America to win gold in every event. I've been writing love sonnets to Destinee Hooker in awe of her superhuman touch with the volleyball, and I was devastated--I mean devastated--when they lost to Brazil. Which is crazy. I've never watched women's volleyball in my life, but they were Americans and I was behind them all the way.

By the way, American ladies completely decimated these Olympics games winning 56 percent of our overall medals and 66 percent of our golds. That's right world. American women are still better, stronger, faster, and hotter than yours.

All of our athletes are Americans, and these games have been a welcome reminder of the character of our very best. An emblem of those things we hold dear. People of every race, color, and creed coming together to achieve a common goal. It's a naive vision, but the sight of a 15 year girl on the gold medal stand, tears in her eyes, singing along with the Star Spangled Banner makes this hope seem a little less far off.  

In case my cockeyed patriotism is too much for you to stomach, I do have one lingering fear for this great nation. This Olympics was about England, and one thing is clear, the Brits have embraced not being number one with some real grace. Stiff upper lip and all that. And I'm not talking about sports, I'm talking empire wise. But I think if America's ever not number one, it's over. Total societal collapse because our collective ego can't take the blow. I love this country. USA! USA! USA!

Lochte vs Phelps
I'm not sure if "versus" is the right word, but no one likes Ryan Lochte. After the first night when he won gold and Phelps didn't even medal, I already knew I didn't like this guy. As soon as he opened his mouth, he might as well have said "You know who's really misunderstood? Hitler. Hitler and child murderers," because every word out of his mouth came off as equally despicable. It was hate at first sight.

He was cocky and here to dethrone our beloved Phelps. He makes the dumbest word talk you have ever heard. (How has some Team USA Swim Team PR person not preened you?) And the Ryan Gosling comparison? Puh-lease. When I finished watching Drive I wanted to make that movie go home and watch me have sex. When Lochte got finished doing anything, I just had questions like, "Is English his first language?" and "Those are your abs and you don't immediately evaporate when mentioned in the same breath as Baby Goose?"

And all was right with the Olympic games. We had our homegrown villain and before long it was proven Lochte was a pretender left to dwindle in the shadow of the Phelps era. Then one Saturday night, during the Lochte human interest piece I'm sure NBC aired at least five times, we--Me and Ryan--had a pivotal moment. Ryan Lochte owns grills. Not just a grill, but multiple bejeweled, obnoxious, frivolous pieces of mouth decoration. And in turn, the IOC has banned him from wearing his grillz on the medal stand.

Then it hit me, this poor guy is just a douche.

As I've come to know more people, especially dudes, bros, and the sundry of other subsets, I've come to believe there is a Secret Order of the Douche. A douche brotherhood dating back as far as recorded history. They are a group of men tasked with keeping the lowest common denominators low and self-awareness away from the self. I really don't think it's an easy calling and it's still hard for me to discern if you are born into it, chosen, or aspire to be a part of the S.O.D., but there is some critical self-sacrifice involved.

Does anyone really want to suck so bad? Does anyone really want to spend their life inked with weird tribal crucifix tattoos and wearing flat brimmed baseball caps? Of course not, but the Secret Order of the Douche are like Free Masons. Except their volunteer work is crash courses for women in who you need to date once, and never again...or only date. You know why they are called douches? Because, despite all of the evidence to the contrary, they mysteriously end up in all sorts of vaginas.

After this truth revealed itself, me and Lochte came to understand one another. And in stark contrast, Michael Phelps kind of sucks. Phelps isn't even a douche, he's just this weirdo, ogre mouthed, swimmer guy with humanoid like Merman features. There was even one semifinal where he let Lochte finish in front of him even though he clearly had the race won. It smacked with this sinister big brother, little brother, "I'll let you win, but you'll never beat me," ego trip.

Phelps comes off as this disingenuous boy-king who has been housed inside of his false empire for too long. You know how Phelps strikes me? As the kind of guy who laughs way too long at your jokes. The guy who does all those weird back pats and nut-checks like it's his 100M act-like-a-normal-person stroke. I really admire Phelps as an athlete and as an Olympian, but who do you want to hit the Olympic Village with? The legend who has to go on living, or the dude whose glands secrete such pungent whiffs of douche, it's like gravity for women desperate to make some bad choices.

By all accounts, swimming is the new douchey white guy sport. Across the board. Our lady swimmers are tops, but our boys are...yeesh. I say they take this thing to its logical conclusion and see if they can get the entire US Men's Swim Team on a box of Massengill a'la Wheaties. Sorry Lacrosse, your time is over. 

Samuel L Jackson's Olympic Coverage
One alarmingly under reported subplot of the last 17 days has been Samuel L Jackson's Twitter coverage of the XXX Olympiad. Pro-American, often insightful, regularly funny, and always bizarre, Sam Jackson's Olympic tweets have teetered somewhere between American sports jingoism and surrealist performance art. 

When SJax emerged late the first Friday night of the Olympiad, I was certain it was a hack. It wasn't just his diligent, almost obsessive coverage of the games, it was his willingness to take swipes at even the most innocuous Twitter responder. Part of what made this exercise in online fan interaction so strange is the way these threads would play out. Usually when a celeb is engaging their Twitter detractors it's an RT with the follower's vitriol in quotes and the celeb's pithy rejoinder on the backside. Instead, Samuel L just replies, but in his replies he moves the commenter's @handle around in the body of the tweet, so it shows up in his feed totally context free.

Uhhhhhhh....

Huh?

Is that...wait, are we talking about grammar?

And then, just when it seemed like this was the longest, most protracted hack of a verified account in Twitter history, this gem emerged.

So what do you do when you're worth millions on a Saturday night? Sit at home alone, unshaven, with no art on the walls, live tweeting the Olympics. Samuel L Jackson lives up to the billing, he is one Bad Muther Fucker.

Speaking of the "f-word" and her many splendors, SJax has this preternatural ability to piece together the most radical derivations of the word possible. He's the Ornette Coleman of "f". Before the Olympics, he had a reported 57 versions of Sir Effington out there, and now, the total must have tripled...

And I could literally go on for days. His coverage of the games itself is the sort of homer delight you would expect from such a proud Muffuqqan'Merican, and the fine folks at Gawker have already collected the facts. I know it's lazy of me, but his coverage is the least intriguing piece of what he accomplished. His praise for Americans is unwavering in victory or defeat, and he finds some magnanimity for other nation's athletes as well. But this run was--as with all things Twitter--such a beautiful and ludicrous thing, it could only shine like the Olympic games, and recede just as quickly.

The Agony and The Ecstasy -- A Love of Sport.

As I get older and my sociopathic tendencies learn new and exciting ways to articulate themselves, it's nice every four years to mimic human emotions during the Olympics. The consumable nuggets of adversity, human achievement, and nationalism are like some medical grade emotion ether. I don't cry per se, but I have been choked up so much these last two weeks--I'm actually choked up this very moment as they're recapping the Women's Gymnastics team final--it's like my emotions have entered this dicey auto-erotic asphyxiation phase.

These Olympics games--the human element in particular--have resonated with me more than other Olympiad I've lived through. Olympic magnitude occurred to me for the first time. You're watching Super Bowl after Super Bowl after Super Bowl. Four years of supreme dedication played out in centimeters and hundredths of a second. So many athletes will only get this one opportunity. Can you name an elite female gymnast you've seen two Olympics in a row? With the exception of the Romanian gymnast who is 24 years old--and the announcers talk about her like she is 1000 years old--it's unheard of.

Even if a competitor represents the small number of athletes who can compete in multiple Olympics, what about the fourth place finish? The breath separating an athlete and the lifetime achievement of an Olympic medal must weigh a ton. The weight of four more years of training and qualifiers and finding sponsors and the body's natural break down decided by the numbers behind a decimal point.

The agony is profound. The Korean fencer who's hopes for gold were stolen by a clock malfunction. John Orozco's collapse on the pommel horse as his Olympic hopes unraveled. The Canadian Women's soccer team in an epic, total heart crushing loss (...to America. USA! USA! USA!).

Yet the ecstasy is ebullient. The look of tears on Aly Raisman's face as she landed her last tumbling pass to secure team gold. Usain Bolt just...doing "WOW!!" over and over again. Any time any member of team Great Britain won any medal. Watching the flags of so many nations raised in victory and seeing how much it can still mean to represent country above self.

These feelings aren't limited to wins and losses alone. Ariel Hsing--my new role model and 16 year old American table tennis phenom--took the number two seeded player in Olympic table tennis the distance. Every point Ariel scored I yelped and felt my eyes suck into my skull wet around the edges. Ariel lost, but Li Xiaoxia new she'd been in a battle. And it was awesome. Players who just cross the finish line or win their country's only silver medal or set a personal best all comprise the noble spirit of the Olympic games. And as the Springfield town motto reminds us, "A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man."

It's just sports, but that's what makes the Olympics such an affirmation of the magnificent human being. It's struggle. It's triumph. It's the human endeavor to be great. It's sports.

Ahem...it's the Olympics.

The Importance of Being Punk Rock

Punk is one of those beautiful, lofty ideals. It was the sledgehammer taken to the bloated corpse of self-indulgent guitar rock. A brutal response wrapped in anarchy and youth rebellion and so many other ambitious notions just out of our grasp. But punk is best as an aspiration. The detonation point where art as revolt and revolt as art collide, exploding inside a moment. Perhaps imperfect and largely unsustainable, but as the pointed end of your message--for the right time and place--it is an arsenal powerful enough to pit the most powerful man in Russia against a group of women in colored balaclavas.

On February 21st, the punk band Pussy Riot (why yes, that is the greatest band name ever) went into Moscow's Cathedral of Christ the Savior and performed about a minute of sacrilegious anti-Putin protest. A few supporters and journalists were there to capture the event. A couple of police showed up. No charges were filed, and one of many anti-Putin protests came to an end. Soon after, this video made the internet:

A defiant act just rambunctious, bold, and outright provocative enough to be unadulterated punk rock. It was a punk prayer, a call to the Mother Mary to oust Putin. And from this stone thrown into Russia's murky sociopolitical pond, a sea change may be afoot.

On seeing the video the head of the Russian Orthodox Church was so reviled, he called for action from President Vladimir Putin. To put their relationship in context, Patriarch Kirill describes Putin's term as a 'godly miracle' to which Putin replied, "We must move away from the primitive notion of separation between church and state. On the contrary, we must devote ourselves to the totally different idea of cooperation."

The ensuing wake has been a primer in all things Putin era Russia. Three women--one who admits she is in Pussy Riot--have been arrested and accused of "hooliganism motivated by religious hatred," a felony offense which carries up to seven years in prison. These women have been imprisoned without trial, refused bail, and given little time to prepare for the prosecutions 2800 page case. In the interim, the state media organs have launched a full character assault.

As the trial now begins, all political motives have been barred from discussion. Their protest is being sold as a hate crime against the Russian Orthodox Church and witnesses get to attest to things like the spiritual damage caused from seeing the video online. All of this for young women with no priors who particiapted in a non-violent demonstration against the state. The whole affair is sodden with implications of Putin's expanding tyranny and an ongoing solidification of a church-state hegemony, but the dark cloud Putin uses to smother his opponents can't seem to completely envelop Pussy Riot.

Russia is polarized. The mood and details are beautifully chronicled here in an article every literate human being should read. If you can't read, I'll come over and read it to you. In fact, stop reading this and go read the other article. Come back if you want, it may not be necessary, but the feeling gleaned from almost every article is this is a watershed moment. Certainly in Putin's presidency, and possibly the future of Russia. All it took was five women, pastel tights, homemade ski masks, and punk rock.

There is some potent symbolism behind Pussy Riot being punks. Pussy Riot had to cram feminism, insurrection, and satire into a projectile that can travel light and hit hard. A simple protest song on an acoustic guitar wouldn't suffice. Punk is rock's dirty bomb. The term itself is rank with suggestion. It carries with it a storm of anger and idealism and irreverence, all the things Pussy Riot tries to live up to with their so-called "actions." Punk, in its perfect form, is relentless and above ownership and serves as an extension of the band's anonymity. Pussy Riot can be any Russian woman with the will to make her voice heard.

Punk rock music isn't the issue central to why this trial is so significant, but it was the weapon used to commit the crime. Punk rock gave Pussy Riot their voice, and this voice took them inside the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. As Pussy Riot's voice resonated and the numbers grew, Putin's hand was forced. The only question remains; how far will he go? Mikhail Khodorkovsky, a man with enough wealth and ambition to threaten the Putin regime, was relieved of his billions and still languishes in prison after what the US State Department deemed an "...arbitrary use of the justice system." The Russian State Investigative Committee charged anti-Putin protest leader and blogger Alexei Navalny with embezzlement. The evidence so vague the case has already been dropped twice, yet the figures in the newest accusations balloon from $40,000 to $500,000. If convicted, Navalny faces up to ten years in prison. But three young women? For seven years? Over a punk prayer?

The verdict handed down will be as much about Pussy Riot as it is the future of a free Russia. A recent poll shows 43% of the Russian people think the 2-7 year sentence is too extreme (29% still think they should be punished with forced labor, but it's Russia. Baby Steps.) The point is the Russian people are watching and the unknowns surrounding their reaction could be a dangerous fate to tempt. Putin and his machine have finally squeezed just hard enough to allow punk rock to work.

Punk rock is not peace time music. Punk rock is not the sound of the quietly content. Punk is a sublime idea of dissent ground out in three chord fury. My overuse of the term has me feeling like a dilettante and a heartless manipulator, but when self-appointed punks like Pussy Riot capture an idea drawn in exact opposition to the severity of their circumstances, the term is one of awe and profound respect. Real punks. Real Punks locked in an ideological struggle with a fascist state. There is nothing to romanticize as these women could pay a serious price, another casualty of Putin's tightening control, but the outcome won't go unnoticed. Even Putin has back pedaled in a recent call for leniency. At best it's a signal to the court, at worst (see: likely) a politically savvy move to feign some semblance of due process for the West. But the gesture alone is a tiny concession. A quick glance over his shoulder at the growing shadow cast by Pussy Riot. A slight fissure, the tiniest hairline fracture on Putin's iron clad grip, and that is pretty fucking punk rock.