About vibey

I grow old, I grow old and language is dribbling away from my control. Case in point: this article, which describes a mid-70s Joni Mitchell album as “vibey” without explaining what that might mean. To confuse matters, it does feature contributions from the vibraphone player Victor Feldman, but I don’t think that’s what seals it. A social media callout prompted some interesting possibilities, including “more atmospheric than formally tight” which fits but could also fit supermarket muzak. And then we find that Hoxton Square is similarly vibey and it looks as if it’s a word, like “cool” and “hip”, that served a very precise purpose until the estate agents got hold of it.

About Brigitte Bardot and Nigel Farage

Brigitte Bardot exits and the splendid Justin Lewis ponders aloud on the vexed question of whether we can/should celebrate the art while castigating the artist.

For the record, I don’t think Bardot was a terribly good actor or singer, nor did she make very many good movies, but that’s not the point. Her arrival in the 1950s signalled a new perspective on female sexuality that resonated well after she ceased to be a major draw in the cinema. She was John Lennon’s first celebrity crush and her look influenced any number of 60s dollybirds (Christie, Faithfull, Rice-Davies, et al) as well as cementing in the mainstream media the association of Frenchness with sensual misbehaviour. She was important, and that’s what qualifies her for obituaries. Her later descent into far-right wingnuttery is neither here nor there. Incidentally, I’d disagree with Justin and also stake a claim for Norman Tebbit. He wasn’t the first senior Tory politician from a humble background – Heath, Powell and Thatcher came before him – but he was the first to eschew elocution lessons and as such must be a role model for the current crop of right-wing populists.

Talking of which, the question of how colossal a shitbag the teenage Nigel Farage might have been rumbles on. I don’t know, as I wasn’t there. But I do come from a roughly similar vintage, being four years younger than him, and am an alumnus of a similar school (selective, single-sex, sporty, cadet corps, faded grandeur, a strange blend of academic rigour and macho philistinism). And racism was bloody everywhere and as the only Jew among the student body, I was on the receiving end and I’m pretty sure that the handful of non-white kids got it even worse. The low point came in 1983 when we staged a mock election and the National Front came a strong second and I wouldn’t be surprised if even that result was massaged downwards to avoid some unpleasant headlines. I remember the names and I remember the faces. I’ll be charitable and assume it was all youthful bravado and they’re now respectable, productive members of society. I’m sure I said some pretty toe-curling things myself at that age. But if I see any of those names and faces appear over the parapets, perhaps by getting involved in politics, perhaps as cheerleaders for a certain former student of Dulwich College, maybe I won’t be so discreet.

PS: More about the good art/bad artist conundrum here.

About online wrongness

The Oxford Word of the Year is “rage bait”, defined as: 

online content deliberately designed to elicit anger or outrage by being frustrating, provocative, or offensive, typically posted in order to increase traffic to or engagement with a particular web page or social media content.

But I’m trying to be less consumed with rage these days, even if recent events feel designed to provoke it: analogue rage bait, if you like. What I do notice instead, among all the AI capybaras is stuff that appears engineered to induce a bit of mild eye-rolling, a sigh, an outburst of pedantry; that time when an exasperated parent loses patience and says, “never mind, let me do it.” It’s a variant of Cunningham’s Law, which holds that “the best way to get the right answer is not to ask a question; it’s to post the wrong answer”. Except that nobody cares about getting the right answer as long as they get those eyeballs.

The whole issue is confused by the lurking presence of AI; are these cynical attempts to engage with wrongness, or just bots swallowing up online dumbness and spitting it out again? For example, this list of the best ever Test batters, which starts OK, then descends into increasingly hearty portions of word soup. It looks like AI slop, put out there to provoke – but then we recall the Japanese Nintendo game that was peopled with bizarrely-named baseball players, all without the assistance of AI. Might Gariel Btogby not be a distant cousin to Bobson Dugnutt?

And then we see posts like this, claiming to be a video of “Jingle Bells in Indian” which is nonsensical because there’s no such language as Indian, and in any case the song being massacred is ‘Sleigh Ride’. Pedant bait? Well, not really, because someone who points out the solecism is slagged off for being a killjoy Karen. This was a post born of slack-jawed ignorance, pure and simple, and it’s bad manners to mention it. To be honest, why do we need digitally-generated stupidity when we have the real thing?

About James

From James, by Percival Everett, which is a reworking of Huckleberry Finn, which I haven’t read, so I don’t know if something similar occurs in the original book, which is rather appropriate:

...I don’t think he ever read no books, but he acted like the sort of man what reads books. You know what I mean?

And later, when the central (black) character blacks up to join a minstrel show:

What would they have done to you if they had figured out that you were exactly what you were pretending to be?

About Frank Gehry

Frank Gehry has died. You may not be able to place the name, let alone fit a face to it, but you know the buildings, the ones that look like a stack of imploding loo rolls, the Guggenheim in Bilbao, the Dancing House in Prague, the residential add-ons at our very own Battersea Power Station, beggin’ yer pardon, guvnor.

Not in the mind of a Daily Mail sub, though. In that strange, empty space, Gehry’s not an architect. He’s “Brad Pitt’s architect friend”.  And, look, a rock star employed him, and another actor wrote something. So he must be important. And moreover, the two actors and the musician require no clarification, but we need to have it explained to us that Gehry was an architect. Although if you need that level of explanation, why would you even care that he died?

About television

I was recently getting a bit self-indulgent about how blogging used to be a community but now feels like howling into the wind. Which I guess says something about its place in the continuum of massive leaps in communication technology that were identified as a big threat to existing formats, only to die in their own right (see faxes, BlackBerry, MiniDiscs, VHS, smoke signals and more). One of the victims of the social media onrush, or so we are told, was the notion of TV as a collective experience, the whole Morecambe-and-Wise-Christmas-Show meme, watercooler moments even before offices has watercoolers. It was best expressed during my brief, inglorious stint teaching secondary school English, when I asked a bunch of 13-year-olds what TV or movie they liked and one girl declared flatly that the only thing she liked was “stuff on my phone”.

But maybe announcements about the death of TV are premature. After all the basic grammar of the stuff on her phone (TikTok, YouTube, Instagram etc) is as much TV as anything else, albeit truncated and bastardised. As Derek Thompson recently observed: 

Social media has evolved from text to photo to video to streams of text, photo, and video, and finally, it seems to have reached a kind of settled end state, in which TikTok and Meta are trying to become the same thing: a screen showing hours and hours of video made by people we don’t know. Social media has turned into television.

I guess the only real change we have to countenance is that McLuhan’s characterisation of TV as cool media, in that it required the audience’s active participation to fill in the informational gaps, is now pretty passé. Nowadays it feels as if active participation, beyond an occasional tired swipe, is the last thing anyone – by which I mean the people who put the stuff out there – wants. Howling into the wind again.

About Stoppard

Reaching through the cigarette fug to rescue the best zingers among the tributes to Tom Stoppard, I find this, from a touching piece by Patrick Marber:

I like cliches! I use them often. With my work it helps for the audience to know where they are now and then.

PS: An earlier ponder from the great man on the accessibility or otherwise of his works; and less than a year ago, the critic who described one of his plays as intellectual masturbation, to which the only feasible response is, “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

PPS: And just before I publish, I hear Marber describe Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead as “showy-offy”, which misses the point even harder.

PPPS: And of course this letter, which has gone viral, or metastatic, or chaotic, or something:

About cheating

A pretty dispiriting article by a history professor who dared to challenge his students who submitted AI-generated work: 

I have no doubt that many students are actively making the decision to cheat. But I also do not doubt that, because of inconsistent policies and AI euphoria, some were telling the truth when they told me they didn’t realise they were cheating. Regardless of their awareness or lack thereof, each one of my students made the decision to skip one of the many challenges of earning a degree – assuming they are only here to buy it (a very different cultural conversation we need to have). They also chose to actively avoid learning because it’s boring and hard.