John Frum Syndrome

This article was originally posted on rAVE July 9th, 2012

I am a simple man, really; I like my coffee sans sugar and my whiskey straight up. As a general rule I avoid writing on -very- recent current events or product reviews simply because this is generally well covered by the real journos who get paid to perform autopsies. I also get my opportunity to comment on this sort of thing often enough on the AV Week Podcasts.

Even so there are a few subjects for which I am passionate enough about to come out of my shell and shout out about from the rooftops. One of these subjects is the litigious enforcement of an outdated business model or technology. From integrators who still decry the the loss of a single profit source model (flat panel installations anyone? Really?) to box electronics stores and the deplorable act of physical media companies desperately forcing the use of outdated and unwanted formats.

Let us face the facts folks, the days of physical media are over - and unlike the Mark Twain remark - the rumors of its death are not exaggerated, not even slightly. I am of the age demographic that is, according to the research organizations, supposed to be vehemently resistant to digital music formats. While I do still have a rather large collection of vinyl and CDs, (over 1,800 according to my spreadsheet log), I cannot honestly say I have played any in over five years, let alone purchased one. Have you?

I began to think about this around ‘National Record Store Day’ in April. I must admit that I do have a soft spot in my heart for the feel of a record in my hands and the warm hiss of needle in groove. The coverage of the day in magazines like the Big TakeOver, Pitchfork and Alternative Press did indeed make me wistful for the days when I had the time to spend several hours a week in a such stores. The experience, of being on the floor of a record shop with the smell of unfinished wood bins and slightly musty cardboard while enveloped in the sound of the store clerk’s selection, is akin to the romance of used book stores or the stacks at New York Library. - it is impossible to replicate in the digital music arena (not even in Second Life). Despite the many attempts to socialize the process online, the physical act of purchasing music in a communal space and the emotional attachment it conveys cannot be matched.

The success and joy that National Record Store Day generates does so despite the mad dog foaming at the mouth antics of the RIAA and labels. Perhaps this is because we often take musicians as our personal thematic avatars whose songs take on more personal meaning - the soundtrack of our lives. Yet, most of us desire, nay DEMAND, that the content be available in the digital dominion, free of physical restrictions. We all know the major labels have continued to spin themselves into a tizzy about the lack of distribution control and fought hard alongside the RIAA and ASCAP to prevent the inevitable from happening. What I discovered during the recording of AV NationTV’s ‘The DIY show Episode 8 is that the indie, self publishing and alternative music community is divided on the issue as well. The main argument against is that the sound of MP3 sucks and will always suck, but more importantly that digital brings the profit margin to one-tenth of what it used to be - even for the regional labels.

I see the validity of the argument, but even more clearly see that at this point, the fight is merely a philosophical one where windmills are fought and honor is established. Victory will not come for those who would decry or disavow the on demand revolution - but acceptance will not come easy.

It is the John Frum Syndrome which is, as I define it, a near ritualistic desire to bring back the near effortless rolls of profit by simply willing it.

The religion of John Frum is defined as a ‘Cargo Cult’ in anthropological circles - it has many similarities to the modern mystic making of the Rastafarians (who believe that the late Haile Selassie I, Emperor of Ethiopia was God incarnate). The main preoccupation of the cargo cult devotees is in preparing for the arrival of material goods as gifts from the gods via cargo planes. The religious sect builds elaborate mock airports by clearing swaths of jungle for runways complete with mock air traffic towers and deplaning terminals out of wood and thatch. It is thought that the cult originated late in World War II when Allied forces, specifically American, swarmed into pacific island chains while pushing toward Japan. These forces stepped onto islands where the native inhabitants had never seen another type of person let alone the great cornucopia of material goods the Cargo planes brought in. To these isolated folks the goods appeared to just come out of the aether. John Frum is thought to be a derivation of ‘John From America...’ such as a pilot introducing himself to a local chieftain while his plane is unloaded.

The religion still exists with the congregations acting out ritualistic military parades and maintaining the landing sites in hopes of having the gods grace upon them the riches their devotion and keeping of the tenets has earned.

In both cases, the cults of John Frum and the physical medium could have been excused in the past when the ability to know better was more difficult. This cannot be said today.

A Truly Useful Engine

Originally posted to Rave Pubs on  August 18, 2011 

Now you're back in line

Going not quite quite as far

But in half the time

 

- Jumping Someone Else's Train, The Cure

 

Perspective can change everything; running straight line the countryside is truly bucolic, but when the train jerks ‘round a turn you find that the rolling hills hide a shanty town.  Which side of thetracks your business is living on can be a fluid line. One month you are in the middle of richly appointed houses with green lawns and blooming gardens, the next morning it is in a freight yard of dinged cars and grimy out buildings.   

 

How could this happen?  Perhaps you rode the line too far without checking; all lines end somewhere and these places look nothing like they do on Sodor.  Anyone who has ‘ridden the rails’ will tell you that the first rules -(after keep away from the bulls)- are to keep an eye on where the train is heading and to be wary of junctions.  

 

Are you still riding the same tracks only because you are unsure of what  throwing the switch yourself will mean? The economy is volatile as all get out and experts predict years more of slow climbs up and lurching dips and stops; it is pretty scary and it is tempting to simply put one’s head down and keep on the current line. 

 

Fear is the initial response of first time riders of the NYC subway system, a peculiar reputation which has persisted.  Contrary to popular belief, the subways are not a caravan of absolute acerbic strangers and look nothing like (well, not since the early 90s) the way they are depicted in the Kurt Russel vehicle ‘Escape From New York’.  If you ride the subway with anything resembling a regular schedule you start to notice familiar faces, a recurring cast.  In many ways these folks come to feel a bit like family, only ten times removed.  Riding on a daily basis begins to become like a micro reality show, one witnesses the rise and fall and rise of peoples lives and situation.  The cycles play out as a change in style, the new loves pressed tight taking the morning train together for the first time or the late night tear smeared mascara. It is a daily one-act play drawn out over the station stops. 

 

Shakespeare à la the third rail.

 

I have recently had the opportunity to ride the subway again after over ten years of commuting with a car over a bridge and through the woods. 

 

I lived and worked in NYC for just under 20 years mostly traveling  the east-side lines of the 4, 5, 6 and for a short stint, the F outta of Park Slope. Even so, as with all things in the city, a week's ride can involve some time on nearly any line.  

 

Muscle memory is a funny thing, while it had been too many years since I last rode, without really thinking about it I made my way to the 42nd street shuttle and across town to catch the Q to Long Island City. What awoke me from the autopilot path I was on was the fact that when I rode the trains (all those years ago), the Q did not exist.  I was lost momentarily and had to check the station map, twice, before I was confident that this was where I got on again.  My body took me there but my brain was still on the old tracks.

 

I found myself looking for a familiar face, a strong desire to bump into an old acquaintance who had been too long living on the Island of Lost Friends. I wanted stability and a known frame of reference. It just felt weird and I had that panic of the unknown and my shoes felt glued to the floor. (I actually let a Q train come and go before finally screwing up my courage). Traveling the first few stops was, admittedly, a bit disquieting - but once we hit 57th and Lex, I found the train’s  rhythm and made its frequency a harmonic of my own. 

 

Sometimes you just gotta throw the switch, move to the new tracks. You never know, you might just find that this is the train you were looking for all along.