KOI ANUNTA/YH

Snap, crackle, and pop culture is getting soggy

A&E Ahabs lash themselves securely to the bloated leviathan of pop culture-- and grab the harpoons

Tickle-me-Jar Jar

The demographic that receives cosmic powers in movies is skewing younger all the time. Twenty-two years ago, a towheaded desert-bound boy had to wait until his late teens to swing lightsabers and blast hard-working fighter pilots to kingdom come. In 1999, a child half that age can easily outclass two Jedi, men who have been walking around space in bathrobes for most of their adult lives. Children, it seems, no longer wish to grow up in their power fantasies. Instead, they want their lightsabers while still prepubescent.

Advertisers have always promised children power in the form of product; Planet Lunch promises a food-based overthrow of the educational system, and Nintendo has touted Game Boy as an escape route to a psychedelic netherworld. The Star Wars movie, with its promise to regress America to a more gullible age, seemed to be a perfect opportunity for advertisers.What a shame that they blew it. The marketers in charge of exploiting Star Wars spawned the most irritating series of product tie-ins in recent memory, an even greater calamity when one considers that the movie was promoted almost exclusively by them.

The problem was that advertisers couldn't decide if their audience was going to fully infantilize themselves, or if some small segment was going to remain of age, in the back of their brains, smirking and making wise-ass remarks. So the spots tried to hedge their bets and became an insufferable hash.

The Pizza Hut/KFC/Taco Bell triumvirate, for example, attempted to plug their respective mascots into the Star Wars mythos, but wound up with something that was neither ironic wink nor power fantasy, no matter how many real-life pizza delivery girls dream of owning a laser.

Most other spots also featured an uneasy mix of power fantasy and irony regarding the Star Wars "phenomenon." A little girl dreams of being Queen Amidala, then finds out that her mother is actually Queen Amidala. Some guy grows a Jar Jar Binks-ian tongue in a multiplex.

Worst of all were the Pepsi commercials. The spots star a purple fanboy-like alien who loves Star Wars, which is a dim but serviceable joke. In one ad, he conducts a 20-second synopsis of the film using soda cans as puppets. Then, the entire routine is undercut by a jaded teenage girl who, we discover, has been sharing our viewpoint. She declares the display "the weirdest date" she's ever had and slacks offscreen.

Although it's not pretty, it is somewhat enjoyable to see advertisers fall victim to the monster they create. They make inordinate promises to children until those children start to figure the ads out. Then, for the early teens, they switch over to irreverent ads that congratulate their audience on being smart enough to "figure them out." Once advertisers encourage a rejection of that juvenile belief, they can't go back safely, even if an opportunity as golden as Star Wars comes along. Consumers may still be stupid, but they've become teen-stupid: image conscious, ironic and empty. —Matt Wiegle

Out of sync

It's a good thing that the Backstreet Boys are so interested in the Millennium, because when 1999 turns into 2000 and the earth splinters to reveal the fiery depths of hell, I hope that Satan claims their pathetic souls first. And then 'N Sync. And then 98[[ordmasculine]]. Hopefully Britney Spears' implants will be just buoyant enough to keep her afloat when the planet is soon thereafter flooded with the tears of thousands of screaming teenage girls. Tell me if you've figured out what I want? Just ask the Backstreet Boys—I want it that way.

It ain't nothing but a heartache. It ain't nothing but a mistake. I'm currently taking anti-depressants because I just can't figure out why any of these musical "sensations" have yet to (a) lose all of their money, (b) die, or (c) follow in the footsteps of those other "cool" boy bands, like New Kids on the Block and NKOTB. But now a new wave of homogenized boy bands has crashed on our heads, and it only proves one thing: pop culture is dead. And teenage girls are to blame.

The teenybopperification of modern music can be traced way, way back to bands like the Beatles and the Beach Boys, who launched the at-least-four-guys-singing-about-girls fad that has yet to die the horrible death it so appropriately deserves. However, it wasn't until the '90s that unoriginal one-hit-wonder bands, like the Goo Goo Dolls, quickly became unoriginal two-hit-wonder bands (again, the Goo Goo Dolls), keeping them high on the charts far longer than any rational human being would have expected.

The on-and-off taste of American youth is still very much in effect (I'm talking to you, Cher). But while most of us quickly grow tired of Limp Bizkit or Sugar Ray, there is a perennial teenage-girl fan base for inept boy bands who wear matching wife-beaters to the airport baggage claim. Should nine million screaming 12-year-olds suddenly turn 13 and together realize that 'N Sync is both ugly and untalented, nine million screaming 11-year-olds will age one year, and at once refill the gap.

Since when should the vocal chords of pre-algebra students dictate who succeeds and who fails in the music business? Why should an overlooked, great band struggle for years while Kevin, Howie, Nick, Brian, and A.J. set billboard records singing a crappy song they didn't even write? How is it possible that I even know their names in the first place? If these boy bands truly epitomize popular music in the 21st century, then perhaps when Satan comes to torture their pitiful souls, I'll kindly ask that he please take mine first. —Aaron Zamost

Riot now, atrophy later

It's entirely fitting that a copy of Rolling Stone was sprawled on the floor of the bathroom in the Morse library as I sat down for a little relief. Not because the cover blaring "LIVE! LIVE! LIVE!" above "Woodstock '99 Special Report" or any of "All the news that fits" provided welcome distraction in a graffiti-free privy. Nor because the ossified Rolling Stone of the '90s is basically glorified toilet paper. No, it was more the image that came to mind: pop culture's floating in the crapper, and Woodstock just pulled the chain. Now, America's teenage ass cheeks have to face off against the sewer gators of suburban yuppiedom. However our national septic system turns out, it sure is gonna stink.

Woodstock, and the music that made it infamous, is little more than the attack of today's hormonally-challenged, pissed-off males, desperate to fulfill their riot jones. If '80s cock-rock made it okay for Big Rock Stars to yell crudities at women from on high, gangsta rap made suburban boyz want to Big Rap Star their way to hos and low-riders, and '90s grunge turned oh-so-pissed moshing into Nightline special report fodder, then pre-millennial rap metal must be some big ol' cultural convergence—violence, sexism, and misplaced minstrel shows, all in one ungainly package. And kids buy pricey grande tour packages, neato t-shirts, and $4 bottles of water between acts of rebellion. Let's hear it for progress!

But it can't last. Just like George Bush Jr. ducking the [[Delta]]KE-coke connection questions, all the monied rowdies will want their respectability back soon enough. And pop culture is waiting in the wings once again—having provided one simulacrum of revolution, they'll provide yet another whitewash without complaint. In fact, the future is now. Just below RS' Woodstock headline was another, smaller warning: "The Rockin'est Show on Earth: Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band." Inside, the salient detail glistened: "Bruce: 3 1/4 Hours." Since when is art's merit defined by how long the featured act can go without dying on you? And if that's the new criterion, then I'm sorely disappointed—couldn't Springsteen have made it though 24, 48 hours, a week maybe before shedding his final drop of sweat on the hallowed stage of New Jersey's Continental Airlines Arena? At least that would be a little punk-fucking-rock. But no, Bruce and his younger, equally solid, stolid ilk (read: Dave Matthews) give their people what they want for $50 bucks a pop. Work up a hoot and a holler, get paid, move on out, while the soulless picket fencers drive home happy. And this is pop culture?

No, this is sewage culture, sold at exorbitant rates. You crazy kids and your crazy music ain't so crazy, and before you know it you'll have been eaten by the reptiles of dronedom that reside in your tasteful copper pipes. Take your Rolling Stone, wipe a few times, and go get yourself a bidet. Until then, better watch out for missing chunks of butt and parasitic infections.

—Sam Frank

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