remnants of an alterna-waif
my rock idol as a teenager was juliana hatfield. i identified with her and felt like she stayed consistent with herself throughout the years. year by year her peers have slowly either dropped out of music completely, completely changed their tune (alanis morresette) or sold out in the most vile way possible (liz phair), juliana has maintained a semblance of the edge she always had. unfortunately in years past i've felt like she turned into "juliana lite," and i haven't bought her last few albums because whatever i listen to, i need to feel passion.
well, juliana produced her latest album in record time herself, on her own record label, and to be quite honest it's the best album i've heard from her since the 90s.
with the album, she wrote this letter on her website:
Everything else is made in China so why not me?
I did make this record very fast and very cheaply. My music is for sale and I am my music and therefore I am for sale. What does it mean to a person whose identity is very wrapped up in the music she makes, if her worth is measured by how many records she sells? I sold most of my records more than ten years ago and since then everything I do is measured against that. “Standing in the cement/Buried in that moment” (from “What Do I Care” ) refers to that era. I hate to even direct your thoughts to that place. They would have gone there anyway for an easy reference point - they always do. ( “former alterna-waif” or whatever ). Verses and choruses fight with each other: gratitude and hope versus bitterness and despondency. Fed up, discouraged, sick-of-it-all (“I don't want to stay awake” [“Stay Awake”]), I struggle to hold on to dignity (”you're over me but I'm alive”) and humility (“It's a miracle I'm even here” [“What Do I Care”] ). And my music isn't getting any worse. How do I wipe the slate clean? I don't want to wipe the slate clean. I'm proud of what I've done. How do I get your attention? Implants? Do I have to take my clothes off to be heard? Well, I put a chunk of my naked flesh on the cover of my album. It's the viscera where my art comes from. But you don't know that. You'll just see a sexy chopped-off torso. (“I'm just an object to you, like books and shoes.”[“Stay Awake”]). No pesky head, or legs to run away on. Can I be popular now, again? What if I don't want to be popular? What if I didn't like it? Being popular has never been cool.
I was in love when I wrote and recorded this album. Can you tell? Can you tell I have no faith in love, no hope in it, no belief? The only song you could classify as anything remotely resembling a love song is “Digital Penetration”, a song more about lust than love, really... winterlust.
I played all the instruments on “Oh”. My first drumming ever on an album. The Unbusted, a young band (average age: 22) from Martha's Vineyard, backed me up on a lot of the other songs. Plus, Pete Caldes (drums) and Ed Valuaskas (bass) from Boston bands the Gentlemen and the Gravel Pit played on “Digital Penetration”, ”My Pet Lion”, and “On Video”.
I produced the album. Brian Brown engineered most of it. Paul Kolderie (Hole, Radiohead, Dinosaur Jr., my own “Only Everything” album, etc., etc., etc.) engineered some of it. It was done in Vermont and Cambridge, Massachusetts. There was no vocal comping - no pulling phrases and words from different takes here and there to form an acceptable whole master lead vocal... All the vocal takes were whole, unchopped, unedited takes. (Not that there's anything wrong with comping - I did it on most of my other albums).
People can buy this record or not. I don't care. Or at least I can pretend not to care. But I do care. (”You can break me.” [“What Do I Care”]). My official position is: I don't care. I can't care and have the total freedom that I have, to do whatever I want. There's a price to pay for personal and artistic freedom. Anyway, whether people buy me or not, it won't change the way I feel about things. It didn't then and it won't now. I'm a born loner, skeptical of everything. Of success. Of anyone who ever claimed to love me. I should have called this album “Doubt”. I almost called it “The Island”, in honor of not belonging. Not wanting to belong. How can anyone with a conscience feel at home in this world? The world has been taken over by greed. Money and corruption, hand in hand, everywhere. People pollute my water and poison my air and my home, even, (“Hole in the Sky”, ”Rats in the Attic”), with commerce and industry. Even in the arts, the motivating force in today's culture is money. I don't care about money and so I am on my own. I am my own industry. A small, self-sufficient one. I don't need a million dollars. There is such a thing as too much money. Too much - too much of anything - is ugly. Integrity? What's that? Who cares anymore? Integrity is so old-fashioned, like flower power. And the ones who proclaim most loudly and vehemently that they have it are the ones who are the most corrupt. Like those child-molesting Catholic priests. ( “Just 'cause you say you're a good man doesn't make it true” [ “On Video”] ). It's impossible to sellout these days. “Selling out” is an antiquated concept. Everyone is licensing their songs to car commercials. That didn't used to be okay. Bob Dylan is in a Victoria's Secret ad. The most talented girl singers have turned themselves into strippers. A notch above porn stars. 'Cause sex sells. The next step would be for them to actually have sex in their videos. Mariah Carey has implants. Christina Aguilera has implants. Gwen Stefani has implants. Even her. She finally gave in. And Beyoncé is on her hands and knees evoking doggy-style sex in one of her videos. And she has so much (singing) talent! Why, Beyoncé, why? Why, world, why? Why do you demand this of her?
“In Exile Deo”, my last album, was a fairly clean, tailored, buttoned-up, adult affair, influenced somewhat by the record company who wanted a product they could sell. But I could have told them I am not very marketable. I don't fit in anywhere. I am a sensitive singer-songwriter, a hard rocker, a pop diva, and a dadaist. I am none of these things. “Made in China” fell together faster and looser and louder than “Exile”. Some of the words came streaming out in only partially-conscious automatic writings. Some were more composed, deliberate, and message-y. I have my own label now so I can do whatever I want and no one can make me....
I am a confused, sloppy, childish, conflicted mess.
I give up. I'll never give up.
well, juliana produced her latest album in record time herself, on her own record label, and to be quite honest it's the best album i've heard from her since the 90s.
with the album, she wrote this letter on her website:
Everything else is made in China so why not me?
I did make this record very fast and very cheaply. My music is for sale and I am my music and therefore I am for sale. What does it mean to a person whose identity is very wrapped up in the music she makes, if her worth is measured by how many records she sells? I sold most of my records more than ten years ago and since then everything I do is measured against that. “Standing in the cement/Buried in that moment” (from “What Do I Care” ) refers to that era. I hate to even direct your thoughts to that place. They would have gone there anyway for an easy reference point - they always do. ( “former alterna-waif” or whatever ). Verses and choruses fight with each other: gratitude and hope versus bitterness and despondency. Fed up, discouraged, sick-of-it-all (“I don't want to stay awake” [“Stay Awake”]), I struggle to hold on to dignity (”you're over me but I'm alive”) and humility (“It's a miracle I'm even here” [“What Do I Care”] ). And my music isn't getting any worse. How do I wipe the slate clean? I don't want to wipe the slate clean. I'm proud of what I've done. How do I get your attention? Implants? Do I have to take my clothes off to be heard? Well, I put a chunk of my naked flesh on the cover of my album. It's the viscera where my art comes from. But you don't know that. You'll just see a sexy chopped-off torso. (“I'm just an object to you, like books and shoes.”[“Stay Awake”]). No pesky head, or legs to run away on. Can I be popular now, again? What if I don't want to be popular? What if I didn't like it? Being popular has never been cool.
I was in love when I wrote and recorded this album. Can you tell? Can you tell I have no faith in love, no hope in it, no belief? The only song you could classify as anything remotely resembling a love song is “Digital Penetration”, a song more about lust than love, really... winterlust.
I played all the instruments on “Oh”. My first drumming ever on an album. The Unbusted, a young band (average age: 22) from Martha's Vineyard, backed me up on a lot of the other songs. Plus, Pete Caldes (drums) and Ed Valuaskas (bass) from Boston bands the Gentlemen and the Gravel Pit played on “Digital Penetration”, ”My Pet Lion”, and “On Video”.
I produced the album. Brian Brown engineered most of it. Paul Kolderie (Hole, Radiohead, Dinosaur Jr., my own “Only Everything” album, etc., etc., etc.) engineered some of it. It was done in Vermont and Cambridge, Massachusetts. There was no vocal comping - no pulling phrases and words from different takes here and there to form an acceptable whole master lead vocal... All the vocal takes were whole, unchopped, unedited takes. (Not that there's anything wrong with comping - I did it on most of my other albums).
People can buy this record or not. I don't care. Or at least I can pretend not to care. But I do care. (”You can break me.” [“What Do I Care”]). My official position is: I don't care. I can't care and have the total freedom that I have, to do whatever I want. There's a price to pay for personal and artistic freedom. Anyway, whether people buy me or not, it won't change the way I feel about things. It didn't then and it won't now. I'm a born loner, skeptical of everything. Of success. Of anyone who ever claimed to love me. I should have called this album “Doubt”. I almost called it “The Island”, in honor of not belonging. Not wanting to belong. How can anyone with a conscience feel at home in this world? The world has been taken over by greed. Money and corruption, hand in hand, everywhere. People pollute my water and poison my air and my home, even, (“Hole in the Sky”, ”Rats in the Attic”), with commerce and industry. Even in the arts, the motivating force in today's culture is money. I don't care about money and so I am on my own. I am my own industry. A small, self-sufficient one. I don't need a million dollars. There is such a thing as too much money. Too much - too much of anything - is ugly. Integrity? What's that? Who cares anymore? Integrity is so old-fashioned, like flower power. And the ones who proclaim most loudly and vehemently that they have it are the ones who are the most corrupt. Like those child-molesting Catholic priests. ( “Just 'cause you say you're a good man doesn't make it true” [ “On Video”] ). It's impossible to sellout these days. “Selling out” is an antiquated concept. Everyone is licensing their songs to car commercials. That didn't used to be okay. Bob Dylan is in a Victoria's Secret ad. The most talented girl singers have turned themselves into strippers. A notch above porn stars. 'Cause sex sells. The next step would be for them to actually have sex in their videos. Mariah Carey has implants. Christina Aguilera has implants. Gwen Stefani has implants. Even her. She finally gave in. And Beyoncé is on her hands and knees evoking doggy-style sex in one of her videos. And she has so much (singing) talent! Why, Beyoncé, why? Why, world, why? Why do you demand this of her?
“In Exile Deo”, my last album, was a fairly clean, tailored, buttoned-up, adult affair, influenced somewhat by the record company who wanted a product they could sell. But I could have told them I am not very marketable. I don't fit in anywhere. I am a sensitive singer-songwriter, a hard rocker, a pop diva, and a dadaist. I am none of these things. “Made in China” fell together faster and looser and louder than “Exile”. Some of the words came streaming out in only partially-conscious automatic writings. Some were more composed, deliberate, and message-y. I have my own label now so I can do whatever I want and no one can make me....
I am a confused, sloppy, childish, conflicted mess.
I give up. I'll never give up.