quoted 1 line While we're here, does someone want to dig up the URL of that Dave Eggers
> While we're here, does someone want to dig up the URL of that Dave Eggers
rant about selling out (and how its not necessarily always such a terrible
thing)? While you're doing that, I'm going to go read some of McSweeney's
8, a wonderful product of selling out.
quoted 1 line
>
Here ya go:
First, a primer: When I got your questions, I was provoked. You expressed
many of the feelings I used to have, when I was in high school and college,
about some of the people I admired at the time, people who at some point
disappointed me in some way, or made moves I could not understand. So I
took a few passages from your questions--those pertaining to or hinting at
"selling out"--and I used them as a launching pad for a rant I've wanted to
write for a while now, and more so than ever since my own book has become
successful. And the rant was timely, because shortly after getting your
questions, I was scheduled to speak at Yale, and so, assuming that their
minds might be in a similar spot as yours, I read this, the below, to them,
in slightly less polished form. The rant is directed to myself, age 20, as
much as it is to you, so remember that if you ever want to take much
offense.
You actually asked me the question: "Are you taking any steps to keep shit
real?" I want you always to look back on this time as being a time when
those words came out of your mouth.
Now, there was a time when such a question--albeit probably without the
colloquial spin--would have originated from my own brain. Since I was
thirteen, sitting in my orange-carpeted bedroom in ostensibly cutting-edge
Lake Forest, Illinois, subscribing to the Village Voice and reading the
earliest issues of Spin, I thought I had my ear to the railroad tracks of
avant garde America. (Laurie Anderson, for example, had grown up only miles
apparatus, the degree of selloutitude exemplified by any given
artist--musical, visual, theatrical, whatever. I was vigilant and merciless
and knew it was my job to be so.
I bought R.E.M.'s first EP, Chronic Town, when it came out and thought I
had found God. I loved Murmur, Reckoning, but then watched, with greater
and greater dismay, as this obscure little band's audience grew, grew
beyond obsessed people like myself, grew to encompass casual fans, people
who had heard a song on the radio and picked up Green and listened for the
hits. Old people liked them, and stupid people, and my moron neighbor who
had sex with truck drivers. I wanted these phony R.E.M.-lovers dead.
But it was the band's fault, too. They played on Letterman. They switched
record labels. Even their album covers seemed progressively more
commercial. And when everyone I knew began liking them, I stopped. Had they
changed, had their commitment to making art with integrity changed? I
didn't care, because for me, any sort of popularity had an inverse
relationship with what you term the keeping "real" of "shit." When the
Smiths became slightly popular they were sellouts. Bob Dylan appeared on
MTV and of course was a sellout. Recently, just at dinner tonight, after a
huge, sold-out reading by David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell (both sellouts), I
was sitting next to an acquaintance, a very smart acquaintance married to
the singer-songwriter of a very well-known band. I mentioned that I had
seen the Flaming Lips the night before. She rolled her eyes. "Oh I really
liked them on 90210," she sneered, assuming that this would put me and the
band in our respective places.
However.
Was she aware that The Flaming Lips had composed an album requiring the
simultaneous playing of four separate discs, on four separate CD players?
Was she aware that the band had once, for a show at Lincoln Center, handed
out to audience members something like 100 portable tape players, with 100
different tapes, and had them all played at the same time, creating a
symphonic sort of effect, one which completely devastated everyone in
attendance? I went on and on to her about the band's accomplishments, their
experiments. Was she convinced that they were more than their one
appearance with Jason Priestly? She was.
Now, at that concert the night before, Wayne Coyne, the lead singer, had
himself addressed this issue, and to great effect. After playing much of
their new album, the band paused and he spoke to the audience. I will
paraphrase what he said:
"Hi. Well, some people get all bitter when some song of theirs gets
popular, and they refuse to play it. But we're not like that. We're happy
that people like this song. So here it goes."
Then they played the song. (You know the song.) "She Don't Use Jelly" is
the song, and it is a silly song, and it was their most popular song. But
to highlight their enthusiasm for playing the song, the band released, from
the stage and from the balconies, about 200 balloons. (Some of the
balloons, it should be noted, were released by two grown men in bunny
suits.) Then while playing the song, Wayne sang with a puppet on his hand,
who also sang into the microphone. It was fun. It was good.
But was it a sellout? Probably. By some standards, yes. Can a good band
play their hit song? Should we hate them for this? Probably, probably.
First 90210, now they go playing the song every stupid night. Everyone
knows that 90210 is not cutting edge, and that a cutting edge alternarock
band should not appear on such a show. That rule is clearly stated in the
obligatory engrained computer-chip sellout manual that we were all given
when we hit adolescence.
But this sellout manual serves only the lazy and small. Those who bestow
sellouthood upon their former heroes are driven to do so by, first and
foremost, the unshakable need to reduce. The average one of us--a taker-in
of various and constant media, is absolutely overwhelmed--as he or she
should be--with the sheer volume of artistic output in every conceivable
medium given to the world every day--it is simply too much to begin to
process or comprehend--and so we are forced to try to sort, to reduce. We
designate, we label, we diminish, we create hierarchies and categories.
Through largely received wisdom, we rule out Tom Waits's new album because
it's the same old same old, and we save $15. U2 has lost it, Radiohead is
too popular. Country music is bad, Puff Daddy is bad, the last Wallace book
was bad because that one reviewer said so. We decide that TV is bad unless
it's the Sopranos. We liked Rick Moody and Jonathan Lethem and Jeffrey
Eugenides until they allowed their books to become movies. And on and on.
The point is that we do this and to a certain extent we must do this. We
must create categories, and to an extent, hierarchies.
But you know what is easiest of all? When we dismiss.
Oh how gloriously comforting, to be able to write someone off. Thus, in the
overcrowded pantheon of alternarock bands, at a certain juncture, it became
necessary for a certain brand of person to write off The Flaming Lips,
despite the fact that everyone knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that their
music was superb and groundbreaking and real. We could write them off
because they shared a few minutes with Jason Priestley and that terrifying
Tori Spelling person. Or we could write them off because too many magazines
have talked about them. Or because it looked like the bassist was wearing
too much gel in his hair. One less thing to think about. Now, how to kill
off the rest of our heroes, to better make room for new ones?
We liked Guided by Voices until they let Ric Ocasek produce their latest
album, and everyone knows Ocasek is a sellout, having written those mushy
Cars songs in the late 80s, and then--gasp!--produced Weezer's album, and
of course Weezer's no good, because that Sweater song was on the radio,
right, and dorky teenage girls were singing it and we cannot have that and
so Weezer is bad and Ocasek is bad and Guided by Voices are bad, even if
Spike Jonze did direct that one Weezer video, and we like Spike Jonze,
don't we?
Ooh. No. We don't. We don't him anymore because he's married to Sofia
Coppola, and she is not cool. Not cool. So bad in Godfather 3, such
nepotism. So let's check off Spike Jonze -- leaving room in our brains
for--who?
It's exhausting.
The only thing worse than this sort of activity is when people, students
and teachers alike, run around college campuses calling each other racists
and anti-Semites. It's born of boredom, lassitude. Too cowardly to address
problems of substance where such problems actually are, we claw at those
close to us. We point to our neighbor, in the khakis and sweater, and cry
foul. It's ridiculous. We find enemies among our peers because we know them
better, and their proximity and familiarity means we don't have to get off
the couch to dismantle them.
And now, I am also a sellout. Here are my sins, many of which you may know
about already:
First, I was a sellout because Might magazine took ads Then I was a sellout
because our pages were color, and not stapled together at the Kinko's Then
I was a sellout because I went to work for Esquire Now I'm a sellout
because my book has sold many copies And because I have done many
interviews And because I have let people take my picture And because my
goddamn picture has been in just about every fucking magazine and newspaper
printed in America
And now, as far as McSweeney's is concerned, the Advocate interviewer wants
to know if we're losing also our edge, if the magazine is selling out,
hitting the mainstream, if we're still committed to publishing unknowns,
and pieces killed by other magazines.
And the fact is, I don't give a fuck. When we did the last issue, this was
my thought process: I saw a box. So I decided we'd do a box. We were given
stories by some of our favorite writers--George Saunders, Rick Moody (who
is uncool, uncool!), Haruki Murakami, Lydia Davis, others--and so we
published them. Did I wonder if people would think we were selling out,
that we were not fulfilling the mission they had assumed we had committed
ourselves to?
No. I did not. Nor will I ever. We just don't care. We care about doing
what we want to do creatively. We want to be interested in it. We want it
to challenge us. We want it to be difficult. We want to reinvent the stupid
thing every time. Would I ever think, before I did something, of how those
with sellout monitors would respond to this or that move? I would not. The
second I sense a thought like that trickling into my brain, I will put my
head under the tires of a bus.
You want to know how big a sellout I am?
A few months ago I wrote an article for Time magazine and was paid $12,000
for it I am about to write something, 1,000 words, 3 pages or so, for
something called Forbes ASAP, and for that I will be paid $6,000 For two
years, until five months ago, I was on the payroll of ESPN magazine, as a
consultant and sometime contributor. I was paid handsomely for doing very
little. Same with my stint at Esquire. One year I spent there, with little
to no duties. I wore khakis every day. Another Might editor and I, for
almost a year, contributed to Details magazine, under pseudonyms, and were
paid $2000 each for what never amounted to more than 10 minutes
work--honestly never more than that People from Hollywood want to make my
book into a movie, and I am probably going to let them do so, and they will
likely pay me a great deal of money for the privilege.
Do I care about this money? I do. Will I keep this money? Very little of
it. Within the year I will have given away almost a million dollars to
about 100 charities and individuals, benefiting everything from hospice
care to an artist who makes sculptures from Burger King bags. And the rest
will be going into publishing books through McSweeney's. Would I have been
able to publish McSweeney's if I had not worked at Esquire? Probably not.
Where is the $6000 from Forbes going? To a guy named Joe Polevy, who wants
to write a book about the effects of radiator noise on children in New
England.
Now, what if I were keeping all the money? What if I were buying property
in St. Kitt's or blew it all on live-in prostitutes? What if, for example,
I was, a few nights ago, sitting at a table in SoHo with a bunch of
Hollywood slash celebrity acquaintances, one of whom I went to high school
with, and one of whom was Puff Daddy? Would that make me a sellout? Would
that mean I was a force of evil?
What if a few nights before that I was at the home of Julian Schnabel, at a
party featuring Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro, and at which Schnabel said we
should get together to talk about him possibly directing my movie? And what
if I said sure, let's?
Would all that make me a sellout? Would I be uncool? Would it have been
more cool to not go to this party, or to not have written that book, or
done that interview, or to have refused millions from Hollywood?
The thing is, I really like saying yes. I like new things, projects, plans,
getting people together and doing something, trying something, even when
it's corny or stupid. I am not good at saying no. And I do not get along
with people who say no. When you die, and it really could be this
afternoon, under the same bus wheels I'll stick my head if need be, you
will not be happy about having said no. You will be kicking your ass about
all the no's you've said. No to that opportunity, or no to that trip to
Nova Scotia or no to that night out, or no to that project or no to that
person who wants to be naked with you but you worry about what your friends
will say.
No is for wimps. No is for pussies. No is to live small and embittered,
cherishing the opportunities you missed because they might have sent the
wrong message.
There is a point in one's life when one cares about selling out and not
selling out. One worries whether or not wearing a certain shirt means that
they are behind the curve or ahead of it, or that having certain music in
one's collection means that they are impressive, or unimpressive.
Thankfully, for some, this all passes. I am here to tell you that I have, a
few years ago, found my way out of that thicket of comparison and
relentless suspicion and judgment. And it is a nice feeling. Because, in
the end, no one will ever give a shit who has kept shit "real" except the
two or three people, sitting in their apartments, bitter and
self-devouring, who take it upon themselves to wonder about such things.
The keeping real of shit matters to some people, but it does not matter to
me. It's fashion, and I don't like fashion, because fashion does not matter.
What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce
things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming
Lips's new album is ravishing and I've listened to it a thousand times
already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to
save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any
narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn
90210. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up
and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What
matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you
want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be
critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it
all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke
with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you
have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and
do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a fuckload of work
to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and
accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes.
I say yes, and Wayne Coyne says yes, and if that makes us the enemy, then
good, good, good. We are evil people because we want to live and do things.
We are on the wrong side because we should be home, calculating which move
would be the least damaging to our downtown reputations. But I say yes
because I am curious. I want to see things. I say yes when my high school
friend tells me to come out because he's hanging with Puffy. A real story,
that. I say yes when Hollywood says they'll give me enough money to publish
a hundred different books, or send twenty kids through college. Saying no is
so fucking boring.
And if anyone wants to hurt me for that, or dismiss me for that, for saying
yes, I say Oh do it, do it you motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally.
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