Administrators at an elementary school in Georgia are making changes to yoga practices for students, after parents complained such practices encouraged non-Christian beliefs.
Bullard elementary, in Cobb County, is one of a number of schools across the US and in Georgia to offer yoga and other mindfulness practices rooted in Hinduism and Buddhism as stress management methods for students.
Some parents at Bullard, however, felt the introduction of yoga was akin to pushing Hinduism on their children, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported.
“No prayer in schools. Some don’t even say the pledge [of allegiance], yet they’re pushing ideology on our students,” one mother, Susan Jaramillo, told 11Alive, an NBC affiliate. “Some of those things are religious practices that we don’t want our children doing in our schools.”
Really, Georgia? Seriously? Wait…it gets even more absurd:
Bullard is now making changes to how students go about the practice. When they go through the yoga moves, they will not say “namaste” or put their hands by their hearts, because the term and gesture are derived from Hindu custom.
Students will also no longer be allowed to color mandalas, spiritual symbols in Hinduism and Buddhism.
Oy. OK. First off, let’s examine the etymology of the word namaste:
…an ancient Sanskrit greeting still in everyday use in India and especially on the trail in the Nepal Himalaya. Translated roughly, it means “I bow to the God within you”, or “The Spirit within me salutes the Spirit in you” – a knowing that we are all made from the same One Divine Consciousness.
That seems fairly benign. Like “hello”, or “good morning”. No…wait:
There is agreement among etymologists that Goodbye, Good morning, Good afternoon, etc. all derive from the word ‘God’; (Goodbye specifically from ‘God be with you’.) and times of the day inserted accordingly; All these greeting and parting expressions are found in earliest literature; recorded as early as 1200 in Layamon’s ‘Chronicle of Britain).
OK, that tears it. I demand that homeroom teachers immediately stop greeting their students with “good morning, class”. Because this is obviously pushing some kind of Christian agenda. I’m offended.
Wasn’t that a silly stretch on my part? I agree. Namaste. Peace out.
UPDATE: Oh, Georgia…just when I thought you were incorrigible:
Georgia Gov. Nathan Deal (R) on Monday vetoed a controversial religious liberties bill that had provoked outrage from Hollywood, sports leagues and corporations for what critics said was its discrimination against gay and transgender people.
“I do not think we have to discriminate against anyone to protect the faith-based community in Georgia, which I and my family have been a part of for generations,” Deal said at a news conference announcing his decision.
Deal’s decision comes two weeks after the state legislature passed a bill aimed at shoring up the rights of religious organizations to refuse services that clash with their faith, particularly with regard to same-sex marriage. Deal, who had already expressed discomfort with the measure, came under enormous pressure to veto the bill after the National Football League suggested it might pass over Atlanta for future Super Bowls, and leading Hollywood figures threatened to pull production from the state.
The decision drew immediate praise from gay rights groups.
[…]
Social conservatives, however, accused Deal of flinching in the face of liberal opposition. Among those who immediately expressed disappointment via Twitter was Russell Moore, president of the Ethics & Religious Liberty Commission at the Southern Baptist Convention.
GA Gov. @NathanDeal veto of religious liberty protection is shameful.
Just because Blockbuster and Hollywood Video are kaput, don’t think that you are off the hook. You scofflaws know who you are:
A North Carolina man faces a court date after a bizarre arrest for not returning a 15-year-old VHS rental, but he may receive a little help from the movie’s star.
James Meyers said he was pulled over on Tuesday morning for a broken taillight, but later learned that there was a warrant out for his arrest because he had not returned a copy of “Freddy Got Fingered” he rented in late 2001.
The 37-year-old single dad told the Daily News that cops allowed him to continue driving his daughter to school, but was later handcuffed and taken into custody when he met up with police that afternoon.
Luckily for him, this lawless ne’er-do-well has a guardian angel:
[Tom] Green, who is currently on a stand-up comedy tour in Australia, told the Daily News that he is happy to support fans of his film, which was the subject of terrible reviews and currently has an 11% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.
The 44-year-old comedian, who said that Rotten Tomatoes is “in the business of hating on art,” said that he could put in a good word with the court or even help out financially as long as the outcome doesn’t involve an outrageous sum.
Goddam movie critics. Always hating on art. Insufferable snobs.
Apparently, this has happened before, back in 2014:
Kayla Finley, 27, had visited a police station to report a crime, only to find a warrant for her arrest had been issued in 2005, when she was 18.
Ms Finley had rented a VHS copy of romantic comedy Monster In Law, starring Jennifer Lopez and Jane Fonda.
According to local television station Fox Carolina, Ms Finley was “shocked and disgusted” at the arrest.
Police said several warning letters about the overdue video were sent to Ms Finley, but she had since changed address.
[…]
Monster In Law, released in 2005 and directed by Robert Luketic, was mostly panned by critics.
So there are 3 lessons we have learned today:
If the technology is obsolete, it’s probably overdue.
Critics are always hating on art.
Freddy Got Fingered and Monster In Law are obviously art.
It doesn’t take much more than an internet connection and an idea to start a movement these days, and for our latest example, look no further than the recently launched petition urging Speaker of the House Paul Ryan to change the national anthem of the United States to Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs”.
“The current national anthem has served America proudly for many a year now. However … it’s time that we retire that old standard and choose a song that better reflects America and its policies and practices,” writes organizer Shannon Madden. “I nominate ‘War Pigs’ by Black Sabbath. I’m open to suggestions, but I’m hard pressed to think of a more honest assessment of where we are in 2016 America.”
I’m with Shannon in spirit, but my marketing instincts would have had me caution her to go with a more nuanced choice of artist and song; a “wolf in sheep’s clothing”, if you will…something Mr. Ryan and his fine Republican colleagues would be less likely to dismiss out of hand (y’know, like a politically nebulous Supreme Court nominee).
How about an American band, with a patriotic name, with a rousing, historically accurate song about how “we” got to where we are now?
(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on March 12, 2016)
I once unintentionally attended a Residents gig, at a club in San Francisco, circa 1980. Technically, they weren’t really there. They were “appearing” via (mesmerizingly weird) videos. The videos were being looped, concurrently on several monitors, in a small room isolated from the main stage. This presentation functioned as a sort of passive “supporting band” for the act I was there to see, Snakefinger.
Then again, as defined in a documentary called The Theory of Obscurity: a film about The Residents (and by the artists themselves) they’re not a “band”…so much as they are an ongoing art installation. So in that context, I’ll state unequivocally that I saw The Residents (you had to be there, man!).
“The Residents Ultimate Box Set” (Museum of Modern Art)
Director Don Hardy Jr. has taken on the unenviable task of profiling a band who have not only refused to reveal their faces in any billed public appearances over a 40-year career, but continue to this day to willfully obfuscate their backstory (and the fact that publicity is handled through their self-managed “Cryptic Corporation” puts the kibosh on any hopes of discovery).
As I inferred earlier, can you even call them a “band” with a straight face? Or are they more of an “art collective”? Or are they just elaborate pranksters? One thing that does become clear as you watch the film, is they are all of the above, and more.
Attempting to describe their music almost begs its own thesis-length dissertation; it’s best understood by simply sampling it yourself. Just don’t expect anything conventional. Or consistent; they are experimental in every sense of the word.
Considering that they have over sixty albums to their credit, Hardy obviously can’t annotate their full discography in a 90-minute film, but he does spotlight some of their more seminal efforts, like The Third Reich’n’Roll (best album title ever) and the ironically entitled Commercial Album (40 delightfully dada 1-minute songs, which the band actually rotated as a 60 second spot flight on San Francisco Top 40 station KFRC in 1980…talk about a meta ad campaign!).
On a purely conceptual level (as pointed out in the film) The Residents could be seen as the antithesis of the Kardashians; whereas the latter are the poster children for those who are “famous for being famous”, the former are “famous” for shunning (and mocking) the Cult of Celebrity at every turn. Yet (paradoxically) they are lauded as innovative multimedia artists (Hardy shows how serendipity led these “failed filmmakers” into becoming a band, who then by necessity stumbled into becoming music video pioneers).
The Residents have also been more musically influential than one may assume; members of Devo, Primus, Ween and the Talking Heads are on hand to testify as such. I was a little surprised that Daft Punk isn’t mentioned, especially since they literally wear their influences on their sleeves (well, in this case, their heads). While The Residents are not for all tastes, Hardy has fashioned an ingratiating, maybe even definitive, portrait of them.
A wizard, a true star: R.I.P. Keith Emerson 1944-2016
Goddammit. What is the deal with 2016? We’re just over two months in, and I’m feeling like Dave Lister coming out of stasis in Episode 1:
I know its (still) reflexive in some snooty muso quarters to use Emerson, Lake, & Palmer as the whipping boys for 70s excess, but I don’t care…I was an ELP fan then, I am an ELP fan now, and I will be an ELP fan forever. There, I said it. Out, loud and proud. Prog rock rules!
With that said, a shout out now to the memory of one of the gods of the Moog. Keith, wherever you are, know this: Still…you turn me on.
UPDATE: I’m sad to learn that Keith apparently battled depression for several decades, according to friend and band mate Greg Lake:
“I have to be honest and say that his [apparent suicide] didn’t come as a shock to me,” [Lake] said.
“The situation with Keith didn’t happen suddenly, it had been developing from as far back as the Works Vol 1 album (1977).
At that point, I began to see things happening with Keith which didn’t look or feel right.”
Lake did his best to help his friend – “when you’re close you always hope tomorrow will be better” – but eventually he became “impossible” to work with.
“I think its a very difficult thing to actually describe what depression is,” [Lake] said.
[…]
“Part of Keith’s problem was that, especially in later years, he’d begun to develop a degenerative disease that affected his hands.
He lost control of some of his fingers.” Lake is reluctant to link this illness too firmly to his death.
[…]
“All I would say is that if anyone does have feelings like that, of being so desperate that they think it’s better off not to wake up tomorrow, then please, go and talk to somebody – the doctor, your friend, anybody.”
Wise counsel. Chronic depression is nothing to be taken lightly; whether it’s yourself or a loved one. Here are some resources:
Hours after gun-rights advocate [my emphasis] Jamie Gilt bragged on Facebook that her 4-year-old son “gets jacked up to target shoot,” the same child accidentally turned his mother into a target, shooting her in the back.
The 31-year-old Jacksonville woman was driving down a road in Putnam County, Fla., on Tuesday when her son managed to get hold of a gun while he was sitting in the back seat of the vehicle, according to a statement released by the Putnam County Sheriff’s Department.
Officials told the Florida Times-Union that the child fired a .45-caliber handgun that he found on the truck’s floor into the driver’s seat.
“She was shot through the seat and the round went through her back,” Sheriff’s Capt. Joseph Wells told the Times-Union. “There was a booster seat in the back of the vehicle, but, however, the boy was not strapped in when the deputy got to them.”
[…from the Washington Post]
She’s lucky to be alive. (NRA) card-carrying dumb, but lucky. But now’s not the appropriate time to talk about gun control..right?
All the children sing:
Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
He went out tiger hunting with his elephant and gun In case of accidents he always took his mom He’s the all-American bullet-headed Saxon mother’s son
All the children sing Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
Deep in the jungle where the mighty tiger lies Bill and his elephants were taken by surprise So Captain Marvel zapped him right between the eyes
All the children sing Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
The children asked him if to kill was not a sin “Not when he looked so fierce”, his mommy butted in “If looks could kill, it would have been us instead of him”.
All the children sing Hey, Bungalow Bill What did you kill Bungalow Bill?
— “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill” (Lennon/McCartney)
Well, the Heavenly Choir just got themselves one hell of an arranger.
In my 2012 review of the film Produced by George Martin, I wrote:
While no one can deny the inherent musical genius of the Beatles, it’s worth speculating whether it would have reached the same dizzying heights of creativity and artistic growth (and over the same 7-year period) had the lads never crossed paths with Sir George Martin. It’s a testament to the unique symbiosis between the Fabs and their gifted producer that one can’t think of one without also thinking of the other. Yet there is still much more to Martin than his celebrated association with John, Paul, George and Ringo.
Much more. Now, he’s gone. Not such a shock at 90, but still I’m sad.
From his early days working for EMI, where he earned his bones producing and arranging everything from comedy records to symphonic sessions, through his legendary partnership with the Beatles, to composing movie soundtracks, and as recently as the 2006 Beatles remixes for the Cirque du Soleil show Love, Martin remained the embodiment of creativity, craftsmanship and class.
The anointment of “Fifth Beatle” has been liberally bestowed over the decades (Klaus Voorman, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, etc.) but no one deserves it more than Sir George. He not only contributed defining orchestral touches to cuts like “Yesterday”, “Eleanor Rigby”, “All You Need Is Love”, “I Am The Walrus”, and “A Day in the Life”, but occasionally sat in, playing subtle flourishes like the harmonium solo on “The Word”, the lovely baroque piano on “In My Life” (both from Rubber Soul), and the harpsichord on “Fixing a Hole” (Sgt. Pepper).
Here are my picks for some of Sir George’s best post-Beatles work:
(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on March 5, 2016)
First off, there ain’t no such thing as an Easter Bunny, OK? And as much as we’d all like to believe in this new millennium of instant, “one-mouse-click-away” validation, there is no such thing as “overnight success” – especially in the music business. You may have heard of writer Malcolm Gladwell’s “10,000 hours of practice” rule, which is equated as the minimum investment of time and effort required to master a field? Well…it’s true.
Consider pseudo-glam shock rockers Twisted Sister (I know…it’s been a while since you have). They may have appeared to come from nowhere with their breakout hit (and MTV staple) “We’re Not Gonna Take It” in 1984, but by that time the band had already labored in the trenches (i.e., the Jersey/Connecticut/L.I./Westchester County circuit) for 12 years.
Those first 10,000 hours of dive bar stage time are chronicled in an entertaining (if slightly overlong at 135 minutes) documentary from Andrew Horn called We Are Twisted Fucking Sister! (just out on DVD and Blu-ray). Horn begins in 1972, which is when longest-running member, NYC-based guitarist Jay-Jay French, joins a glitter band from New Jersey who called themselves Silver Star.
They become Twisted Sister the following year (French’s idea), and then go through a number of personnel changes before the key addition of lead singer Dee Snider in 1976, infusing stylistic changes that kick-start the gradual evolution into the version of T.S. we all know and love (or hate). Horn may be teasing for a sequel; he ducks out just as they are poised for their big break.
While I’ve never been a huge follower, I came away from the film with admiration for their hard work and the stalwart dedication of their rabid fans. It’s especially impressive considering that they built a coterie of self-proclaimed “SMF”s (acronym for Sick Mother Fuckers) the old-fashioned way-one gig at a time…sans radio play or record company support (they didn’t snag a major label deal until 1983).
And as footage from their club days reveals, they were one tight live act, from their Bowie medleys to their meta stage shtick (recalling The Tubes). In the age of America’s Got Talent and YouTube, it’s a reminder that paying your dues (putting in those 10,000 hours) still counts for something.
Don’t scrape the glitter off just yet! Here are my picks for the Top 10 glam rock movies:
The Ballad of Mott the Hoople – Mott the Hoople never consciously set out to be a glam band, yet they remain synonymous with the era due to their brief association with David Bowie, who produced their 1972 album All the Young Dudes (and penned the eponymous hit single). But leading up to that period, the band had flirted with a number of genres, from country rock to proto-metal. And they already had a great in-house songwriter on board in pianist/lead vocalist Ian Hunter, whose influences were more Dylan than Bowie. Chris Hall and Mike Kerry’s documentary is a fairly comprehensive retrospective on the band, with great anecdotes from band members and tons of rare footage. Fans will love it.
Born to Boogie – Ringo Starr directed and produced this “lost” 1973 cult film (restored and reissued direct-to-DVD in 2005), which captures late great T. Rex front man/glam icon Marc Bolan at the peak of his strutting, charismatic, androgynous rock god glory. Don’t expect an insightful portrait of the artist; it’s more of a “lightning in a bottle” capture of the era, highlighted by footage culled from two 1972 concerts.
The original theatrical version released in the U.K. ran just over an hour, but the DVD is lengthened by inclusion of both full performance sets. Film directing is not one of Ringo’s strongest suits; be prepared for some amateurish vignettes between the song sets. Still, it’s a fascinating historical document.
Hedwig and the Angry Inch – It’s your typical love story. A German teen named Hansel (John Cameron Mitchell) falls head over heels for an American G.I., undergoes a (less than perfect) sex change operation so they can marry, and ends up seduced and abandoned in a trailer park. Now completely adrift (geographically as well as sexually) the desperate Hansel opts for the only logical way out of this mess…by creating an alter-ego named Hedwig, putting a band together, and setting out to conquer the world. How many times have we heard that tired old tale?
But seriously, this is an amazing tour de force on the part of Mitchell, who not only acts and sings his way through this wildly entertaining musical like nobody’s business, but directed and co-wrote (with composer Steven Trask, with whom Mitchell also co-created the original stage version).
Jobriath A.D. – There have been a good number of “rags-to-riches-to-rags” show biz tales that played out to their inevitably sad denouement within the walls of New York City’s Chelsea Hotel…this may be the saddest one yet (and that’s saying a lot). That’s where one Bruce Wayne Campbell (aka Jobriath) checked out permanently in 1983, dead from AIDS at 36. As you learn in Kieran Turner’s documentary, it all began promisingly enough.
Proclaimed a child prodigy due to his proficiency on piano, he made his show biz entrée in the late 60s, when he landed a plum role in the original west coast production of Hair, which he soon left to begin finding his own way as a singer-songwriter. In 1972, he was “discovered” by Carly Simon’s original manager, Jerry Brandt (either the savior or the villain of the piece, depending on who you believe). Before Bruce knew it, his newly forged persona of “Jobriath” had a two-record deal with Elektra, and was hyped as the “American David Bowie” and “True Fairy of Rock and Roll” before the public heard a note (no pressure). See it to discover how it all played out.
The Mayor of the Sunset Strip – George Hickenlooper’s fascinating portrait of Sunset Strip fixture Rodney Bingenheimer (whose English Disco club served as the west coast HQ for the U.S. glam scene from 1972-1975) doubles as a whirlwind time trip through rock music’s evolution, filtered through a coked-out L.A. haze.
The diminutive, skittish and soft-spoken Bingenheimer comes off like Andy Warhol’s west coast doppelganger. The ongoing photo montages of Rodney posing with an A-Z roster of (seemingly) every seminal figure in rock ’n’ roll recalls Woody Allen’s fictional Alfred Zelig, a nondescript milquetoast who morphs with whomever he is with at the time.
he film is peppered with appearances and comments from the likes of music producer Kim Fowley (whose whacked-out rock ’n’ roll career warrants his own documentary), Pamela des Barres (legendary super-groupie and former member of Frank Zappa protégés The GTO’s) and her husband, actor-musician Michael des Barres (who steals the show with priceless backstage tales). Brilliantly made, and essential viewing!
The Phantom of the Paradise – To describe writer-director Brian DePalma’s 1974 horror schlock-rock musical take-off on The Phantom of the Opera as “over the top” would be understatement.
Paul Williams (who composed the memorable soundtrack) chews all the available scenery as ruthless music mogul “Swan”, a man with a curious predilection for insisting his artists sign their (somewhat long-term) contracts in blood. One who becomes so beholden is Winslow (William Finely) a talented composer hideously disfigured in a freak accident (and that’s only the least of his problems). Jessica Harper plays the object of poor Winslow’s unrequited desire, who is slowly falling under Swan’s evil spell.
Musical highlights include the haunting ballad “Old Souls” (performed by Harper, who has a lovely voice) and “Life at Last”, a glam rock number performed by “The Undead”, led by a scene-stealing, campy Gerrit Graham as the band’s lead singer “Beef”.
The Rocky Horror Picture Show– 40-odd years have not diminished the cult status of Jim Sharman’s film adaptation of Richard O’Brien’s original stage musical about a hapless young couple (Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon) who stumble into the lair of one Dr. Frank-N-Furter (Tim Curry) one dark and stormy night.
O’Brien co-stars as the mad doctor’s hunchbacked assistant, Riff-Raff. Much singing, dancing, cross-dressing, axe-murdering, cannibalism and hot sex ensues-with broad theatrical nods to everything from Metropolis, King Kong and Frankenstein to cheesy 1950s sci-fi, Bob Fosse musicals, 70s glam-rock and everything in between. Runs out of steam a bit in the third act, but with such spirited performances (and musical numbers) you won’t notice.
Slade in Flame – Akin to Mott the Hoople, it may be arguable among music geeks as to whether Slade was truly “glam” (they were a bit on the “blokey” side- as the Brits would say), but they are nonetheless considered so in some circles, and this 1974 film was released during the heyday of space boots and glitter, so there you go.
The directorial debut for Richard Loncraine (Brimstone and Treacle, The Missionary, Richard III) the film is a gritty, semi-biographical “behind the music” drama about a working-class band called Flame (suspiciously resembling the four members of Slade, wink-wink) who get chewed up and spit out of the star-making machine (this just in: managers and A & R people are back-stabbing weasels). Far from a masterpiece, but better than you’d expect, considering its non-professional cast (with the exception of Tom Conti, in his first film!).
Velvet Goldmine – You could call this the Citizen Kane of glam rock movies. While Todd Hayne’s 1998 love letter to the 70s glitter scene has its flaws (let’s just say that there are a few glaring anachronisms) he gets credit for being one of the few latter-day filmmakers who has revisited the era with any palpable sense of earnestness.
Set in the mid-1980s, the story concerns a British journalist (Christian Bale) assigned to uncover “whatever happened to” a glam-rock star (Jonathan Rhys Meyers, in flashback) who may not be “dead” after all (long story). Ewan McGregor’s Iggy-ish character might hold the key. Also with Toni Collette.
The story is obviously inspired by (as opposed to “based on”, which is an important distinction to make here) the professional and (and purely speculative) personal relationship between David Bowie and Iggy Pop; also reminiscent of The Hours and Times (a speculation on John Lennon and Brian Epstein’s relationship).
Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture – It’s fun to speculate if director D.A. Pennebaker (Don’t Look Back, Monterey Pop) had been given a clandestine “heads up” that he was about to capture Ziggy Stardust’s “retirement party” for posterity as he was setting up to film a 1973 David Bowie concert at London’s Hammersmith venue.
It was news to Bowie’s backup band, The Spiders From Mars who (as the story goes) didn’t have a clue that their boss was about to undergo one in a series of alter-ego ch-ch-ch-changes until he made his mid-set announcement to the audience that this was to be the Spiders’ “last show…ever.” The moment is captured on camera (in Pennebaker’s signature cinema verite style) along with a dynamic set by Bowie, Ronno & co., who are on fire. A must-see for fans.
Does anyone know the way? There’s got to be a way! Here’s a couple of my favorite glam bands to play us out, beginning with The Sweet:
Glam did have its artier side, as demonstrated in this Old Grey Whistle Test performance by the Sensational Alex Harvey Band:
