Monday, 18 April 2011
9 Things The Rich Don't Want You To Know About Taxes
For three decades we have conducted a massive economic experiment, testing a theory known as supply-side economics. The theory goes like this: Lower tax rates will encourage more investment, which in turn will mean more jobs and greater prosperity—so much so that tax revenues will go up, despite lower rates. The late Milton Friedman, the libertarian economist who wanted to shut down public parks because he considered them socialism, promoted this strategy. Ronald Reagan embraced Friedman’s ideas and made them into policy when he was elected president in 1980.
For the past decade, we have doubled down on this theory of supply-side economics with the tax cuts sponsored by President George W. Bush in 2001 and 2003, which President Obama has agreed to continue for two years.
You would think that whether this grand experiment worked would be settled after three decades. You would think the practitioners of the dismal science of economics would look at their demand curves and the data on incomes and taxes and pronounce a verdict, the way Galileo and Copernicus did when they showed that geocentrism was a fantasy because Earth revolves around the sun (known as heliocentrism). But economics is not like that. It is not like physics with its laws and arithmetic with its absolute values...
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David Cay Johnston @'Willamette Week'
HA! (for trnsnd)
50 reasons not to date a graphic designer
(Thanx Stan - who also pointed out 'what only 50!!!')
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Fleet Foxes' Robin Pecknold: 'Music has no inherent value'
The singer told the Sunday Times that file-sharing was crucial to the success of his band's 2008 self-titled debut album - and he continues to support such activity as the band prepare to release follow-up 'Helplessness Blues' later this year.
"How much money does one person need before it's just a number and I can buy whatever I want - and just be like a big baby?" he commented.
Pecknold has previously told BBC News that illegal downloading allows today's musicians to hear a wider range of music than previous generations.
"That will only make music richer as a platform," he said. "That [downloading] was how I discovered almost everything when I was a teenager - my dad brought home a modem."
Meanwhile, Pecknold has told NME that 'Helplessness Blues' was inspired by the nicotine patches he wore during recording sessions.
@'NME'
Ivan Illich: Tools for Conviviality (1973/1975)
In Tools for Conviviality he carries further his profound questioning of modern industrial society by showing how mass-production technologies are turning people into the accessories of bureaucracies and machines.
Tools for Conviviality was published only two years after Deschooling Society. In this new work Illich generalized the themes that he had previously applied to the field of education: the institutionalization of specialized knowledge, the dominant role of technocratic elites in industrial society, and the need to develop new instruments for the reconquest of practical knowledge by the average citizen. Illich proposed that we should “invert the present deep structure of tools” in order to “give people tools that guarantee their right to work with independent efficiency.”
First published in the U.S.A. by Harper & Row in their World Perspective Series, edited by Ruth Nanda Anshen, 1973
Published in Great Britain by Calder & Boyars, 1973
First issued in Fontana/Collins, 1975
125 pages
google books
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View online (HTML)
@'Monoskop/Log'
theQuietus theQuietus
Morning fun to be had running Gristleism box and birds of Britain app through girlfriend's megaphone app, not sure flatmates will agree
Never mind the Balearics: the Ibiza-ification of pop
The other day we were driving in the car, listening to one of Los Angeles's top 40 stations, and I turned to my wife and asked: "How come everything on the radio sounds like a peak-hour tune from Ibiza?"
All these smash hits have the Auto-Tuned big-chorus bolted on top. But underneath, there are riffs and vamps, pulses and pounding beats, glistening synthetic textures and an overall banging boshing feel; it's like these tracks have been beamed straight from Gatecrasher or Love Parade circa 1999.
This week the Quietus ran a piece on a particularly bludgeoning and tyrannical aspect of the now-pop, what writer Daniel Barrow calls "the soar": the wooshing, ascending, hands-in-the-air chorus, which has been divorced from its original context (90s underground dance and drug culture) and repurposed as the trigger for a kind of release-without-release.
Barrow's references to steroids ("the steroided architecture of these tracks") capture the unsettling "stacked" quality of these recordings. Like the images you find in bodybuilding magazines, the now-pop can be at once grotesque and mesmerising.
Strangely, Barrow makes no mention of the tune that seems like the now-pop's defining anthem and blueprint, a song still omnipresent almost a year after it first hit big: Dynamite by Taio Cruz. His name, with its odd unplaceable quality (it sounds like some kind of Asian-Hispanic hybrid) suits the Esperanto-like qualities of the now-pop. Though often described by hostile critics as Euro house, it is simply international, post-geographical, pan-global.
(How apt that the video for Dynamite is preceded here by a commercial for Las Vegas tourism, since that city is both Mecca and model for a certain idea of "a really good time" celebrated by so many in-the-club anthems).
I started out loathing Dynamite. The "ay-o" bit in particular always made me think of "day-o" as in Harry Belafonte's The Banana Boat Song. Gradually I succumbed – or perhaps I should say, "submitted" – and started to think of Dynamite as possessing a dumb genius. Especially the line, "I'm wearing all my favourite brands brands brands brands".
But looking from the vantage point of my forthcoming book Retromania: Pop Culture's Addiction to Its Own Past, what's most striking and unsettling about the now-pop is its not-so-now-ness: the fact that in the year 2011, mainstream pop sounds like the late-90s.
The Black Eyed Peas pioneered all this of course, creating a sort of 21st-century update of European "hip-house" from even earlier in the 90s (Snap, Technotronic) and working in some 80s-retro flavours. The Time (Dirty Bit) also qualifies, abundantly, for the category of "dumb genius". And as with Dynamite, there's a forced insistence that everyone is "having the time of their lives". So much of the now-pop has this vaguely coercive undercurrent. As Barrow notes, producers know how to work your reflexes, they've got pop pleasure down to a science, they target those euphoria-centres of the brain as ruthlessly as soft drinks full of high-fructose corn syrup.
Kids love this, of course. At the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice awards in Los Angeles a few weeks ago, the Black Eyed Peas performed The Time: what with the dazzling lights and deafening volume, it really was like a rave for children. We were there with our kids: five-year-old Tasmin is totally into the now-pop. Recently, driving in the car and flicking back and forth between pop stations and classic-rock stations, she opined that Katy Perry was "rock'n'roll" but was quite adamant that the Stones' It's Only Rock'n'Roll was "not rock'n'roll". She wouldn't be budged.
Perhaps Tasmin is correct, in spirit. The substance of the now-pop has absolutely nothing in common with rock'n'roll or indeed any form of live-band music. But perhaps its blaring bombast is the true modern sound of teenage (and pre-teenage) rampage. Maybe all this steroid-maxed über-pop is just as artfully mindless and cunningly vacant as records made by the Sweet with Chinn & Chapman, the production team who were the 70s equivalents to Dr Luke and Will.i.am: expert programmers of artificial excitement, architects of crescendo and explosion. Tasmin's a big Sweet fan too.
@'The Guardian'
All these smash hits have the Auto-Tuned big-chorus bolted on top. But underneath, there are riffs and vamps, pulses and pounding beats, glistening synthetic textures and an overall banging boshing feel; it's like these tracks have been beamed straight from Gatecrasher or Love Parade circa 1999.
This week the Quietus ran a piece on a particularly bludgeoning and tyrannical aspect of the now-pop, what writer Daniel Barrow calls "the soar": the wooshing, ascending, hands-in-the-air chorus, which has been divorced from its original context (90s underground dance and drug culture) and repurposed as the trigger for a kind of release-without-release.
Barrow's references to steroids ("the steroided architecture of these tracks") capture the unsettling "stacked" quality of these recordings. Like the images you find in bodybuilding magazines, the now-pop can be at once grotesque and mesmerising.
Strangely, Barrow makes no mention of the tune that seems like the now-pop's defining anthem and blueprint, a song still omnipresent almost a year after it first hit big: Dynamite by Taio Cruz. His name, with its odd unplaceable quality (it sounds like some kind of Asian-Hispanic hybrid) suits the Esperanto-like qualities of the now-pop. Though often described by hostile critics as Euro house, it is simply international, post-geographical, pan-global.
(How apt that the video for Dynamite is preceded here by a commercial for Las Vegas tourism, since that city is both Mecca and model for a certain idea of "a really good time" celebrated by so many in-the-club anthems).
I started out loathing Dynamite. The "ay-o" bit in particular always made me think of "day-o" as in Harry Belafonte's The Banana Boat Song. Gradually I succumbed – or perhaps I should say, "submitted" – and started to think of Dynamite as possessing a dumb genius. Especially the line, "I'm wearing all my favourite brands brands brands brands".
But looking from the vantage point of my forthcoming book Retromania: Pop Culture's Addiction to Its Own Past, what's most striking and unsettling about the now-pop is its not-so-now-ness: the fact that in the year 2011, mainstream pop sounds like the late-90s.
The Black Eyed Peas pioneered all this of course, creating a sort of 21st-century update of European "hip-house" from even earlier in the 90s (Snap, Technotronic) and working in some 80s-retro flavours. The Time (Dirty Bit) also qualifies, abundantly, for the category of "dumb genius". And as with Dynamite, there's a forced insistence that everyone is "having the time of their lives". So much of the now-pop has this vaguely coercive undercurrent. As Barrow notes, producers know how to work your reflexes, they've got pop pleasure down to a science, they target those euphoria-centres of the brain as ruthlessly as soft drinks full of high-fructose corn syrup.
Kids love this, of course. At the Nickelodeon Kids' Choice awards in Los Angeles a few weeks ago, the Black Eyed Peas performed The Time: what with the dazzling lights and deafening volume, it really was like a rave for children. We were there with our kids: five-year-old Tasmin is totally into the now-pop. Recently, driving in the car and flicking back and forth between pop stations and classic-rock stations, she opined that Katy Perry was "rock'n'roll" but was quite adamant that the Stones' It's Only Rock'n'Roll was "not rock'n'roll". She wouldn't be budged.
Perhaps Tasmin is correct, in spirit. The substance of the now-pop has absolutely nothing in common with rock'n'roll or indeed any form of live-band music. But perhaps its blaring bombast is the true modern sound of teenage (and pre-teenage) rampage. Maybe all this steroid-maxed über-pop is just as artfully mindless and cunningly vacant as records made by the Sweet with Chinn & Chapman, the production team who were the 70s equivalents to Dr Luke and Will.i.am: expert programmers of artificial excitement, architects of crescendo and explosion. Tasmin's a big Sweet fan too.
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