Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti
Manning Bar, Sydney
Wednesday 9th February 2011
Hey indie rock.
What did you get up to tonight? Oh what, Foals were playing somewhere in Sydney? Well that's a shame. I should have been there waving the torch, but in my absence I'm sure it was still meaningful. I don't mean to sound like a bummer, but I do wonder how you managed on a weekday to make fun. It must have been a struggle, especially considering the iron grasp festivals have on your ilk and how, when you really want to express yourself outside the 30 minutes otherwise allotted to you at Laneway, between Yeasayer and Les Savy Fav (darlings!), you're arbitrarily relegated to an antipodean weeknight for the diehards at some provincial Deco parlour in Newtown. On the same night as all your brother buzzes. People just stand there (nothing wrong with that), but can you really blame them? At least they had the opportunity. They should be grateful. You're abuzz.
We're still buddies on some level, indie rock, but I have to say: your jackpot is depleting and your appeal is dissipating. You're the music I listened to at University, you're the music I recruited my girlfriend with, you're the music that I thought I'd die with. You made me who I am, and for that I'm grateful. There was a stage when I hoped that my devastated loved ones would play you on my deathbed. I hoped that my future erudite colleagues would weep to you, for me; as if my life were some kind of perpetual coming-of-age film, illuminating otherwise invisible nuances in my noble daily grind. But I have to be honest, indie rock, you're not all that and a bucket of chips. Cards on the table. I have a day job now, my life isn't a bunch of potential anymore: it just is.
Ariel Pink isn't indie rock. Until someone got him into a studio, eight years and hundreds of songs later, general consensus seems to tend towards him being kind of inferior anyway. An allegedly rich LA kid with a four-track and too many stupid ideas, inspired by the the 60s/70s/80s (retro). What a chump, hey? Besides, LA isn't very indie rock. It's the land of everything anathema to indie rock. Truth of the matter is though, that anything that's not scantily clad or emphatically syncopated up the fundament is considered indie rock. Providing it isn't the likes of Third Eye Blind (Spoon?) or Jack Johnson (Fleet Foxes?). Indie rock is confusing!
Ariel Pink isn't confusing. Ariel Pink speaks blatantly of gender identity ('Menopause Man'), of unwieldy, suffocating and ghostly nostalgia ('Fright Night'), of glorious mornings ('Bright Lit Blue Skys') and even why pop music is so goddamned special ('Round and Round'). Experiencing Ariel Pink tonight, in his ugly sparkling get-up, the way he'd pull his ponytailed hair like he's three heartbeats from a conniption fit, the way he'd emphasise phrases from lyrics you initially thought were throwaway in a way that made them seem suddenly profound: that's why I've suddenly got an issue with you, indie rock.
You claim Ariel by virtue of his difference, but he's an exception to your every rule. His dogged and unattractive flamboyance made me feel like everything in my petulant little life wasn't a mission, but mere ignorable circumstance. He made me feel sexy and alive. And he wasn't a mere depiction, and nor was he some fanciful escape. He was exactly himself, and you couldn't ever aspire to be him (neither you or me). You couldn't evaluate his posture or clothing or demeanour and take it onboard. You couldn't feel like you're on the same level. Next time I hear 'Golden Years' at Purple Sneakers, I'm gonna think of Ariel Pink. But it will be a mere reminder, because Ariel Pink steals some ideas - unknowingly undertakes some others - and makes pop music sonically aspirational and inspirational and strange, in a way that makes hair-splitting genre spotting absolutely fucking meaningless.
I do think that, after taking an exception to a rule within you for so long, indie rock, that you are such a tiring rule. You stricken me. You make me someone common. But I don't know anyone like Ariel Pink, I don't know exactly what he's about (though I've read a lot of conjecture). He makes me wonder and speculate. He doesn't make me aspire at all. He has no theme that defines him. I don't glean any urgent message. He writes pop songs and sometimes they're painfully profound in ways that appeal directly to the body and to the heart. Sometimes they emphatically don't. Sometimes they're ugly and malignant. But this sparkle-hued guy, flailing in front of a non-descript four-piece with nary a concern for heritage, canon, import or place, made me feel fucking alive, and I've felt dead for so, so long.
So fuck you indie rock, I hope Foals was meaningful for you. Ariel Pink is real pop music and that's how I'll take my herbal tea from now on, loser, especially when the beer at Manning Bar is so extortionate.
Shaun Prescott
(Pic of Ariel Pink at Sydney Laneway Festival 2011 by Simon Atkinson)