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What do we mean when we call music pretentious?By Jason Heller.
In 2009, Brooklyn-based musician Hunter Hunt-Hendrix—leader of the band Liturgy (and now also Survival, whose debut album was released last week)—participated in a symposium called Hideous Gnosis. The topic was black metal, the shadow-shrouded subgenre of extreme metal that’s slowly seeped into mainstream consciousness over the past decade. The popular caricature of black metal is a vivid one: demonic-looking dudes in black-and-white face paint who burn down churches and play cruelly crude music that makes Slayer sound like Van Halen.
Hunt-Hendrix doesn’t resemble that caricature, and Liturgy’s music is a far cry from the traditional black metal of Venom and Mayhem. The band’s name alone conjures images of ritual devotion—just not to Satan. Blond-haired and baby-faced, Hunt-Hendrix looks downright angelic. Accordingly, the manifesto he delivered at Hideous Gnosis—titled “Transcendental Black Metal”—is filled with uplifting notions, up to and including “a new relationship between art, politics, ethics, and religion.” He even goes so far as to propose replacing extreme metal’s machine-gun-like blast beat with what he calls the “burst beat”—similar in sound, only ecstatic instead of destructive.
It isn’t just Hunt-Hendrix’s rejection of black-metal purity that has angered some. (After all, black metal has been successfully cross-pollinated, with everything from folk to classical, for years.) It’s the fact that Hunt-Hendrix has dared to challenge the genre’s fundamental ethic—in a word, negativity—in order to shoot for something, well, transcendental. Rather than worshipping annihilation, Hunt-Hendrix promotes “renihilation,” which “Transcendental Black Metal” defines as “the betrayal of Hyperborean Black Metal and an affirmation of Transcendental Black Metal. And it is at the same time the constitution of an apocalyptic humanism to be termed Aesthetics.”
This heresy is the main concern of those who are immersed in the world of black metal. Others have leveled a less esoteric complaint at Hunt-Hendrix, one that the lofty language and academic posturing of “Transcendental Black Metal” seems to justify: the crime of pretension. 
“Pretentious” gets thrown around a lot when discussing music. It’s a word that comes with connotations of stuffiness, condescension, willful obscurity, and needless intellectual complexity. It’s a quality that makes some people want to kick the perpetrator in the teeth, and Hunt-Hendrix seems to be a today’s public enemy number one.
Or is he? Pretentious means “Attempting to impress by affecting greater importance, talent, culture, etc., than is actually possessed.” (Or so says the O.E.D.) But what if Hunt-Hendrix isn’t affecting anything? What if he actually does possess the importance, talent, culture, etc., that he seems to be laying claim to? And if he doesn’t—if he truly is trying to impress people with ideas he can’t actually back up, regardless of the fact that his music does indeed embody those ideas—is that necessarily bad?
Last week, Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield posted a video of his performance of David Bowie’s 1969 classic “Space Oddity”—which Hadfield filmed while aboard the International Space Station. It’s an amazing and even stirring homage to the song, but also to the way popular culture can inspire science. What’s interesting, though, is that by the dictionary definition of the word, you could argue that Hadfield’s version of “Space Oddity” is not pretentious—after all, like the song’s protagonist, Major Tom, Hadfield is an astronaut singing from space—but Bowie’s original is. At that early point in his career Bowie wasn’t even a star, let alone a starman. He was pretending—the very root of pretension. And it was only the first of many times he would do so. But in this case, Bowie is innocent. In “Space Oddity,” he’s not seriously trying to convince people that he’s an astronaut or anything else. He is, for all intents and purposes, an actor playing a role.
Here’s where things get tricky: Theatricality is often conflated with pretension, but the two words aren’t universally interchangeable. Bowie has been, and always will be, called pretentious by some. It isn’t his thespian tendencies, though, that make him so—it’s his cultivation of high-concept rock and an otherworldly aura. But in his case, his pretension was a self-fulfilling prophecy. He actually has become the mythic, iconic star he once only pretended to be. He may have once been just another extravagant songwriter with lordly gestures in the art-rock heyday of the ’70s, but it’s hard to justify that kind of criticism now that he has four decades of consistently mysterious music and bold, visionary statements under his belt.
And then there are those who slip through the cracks between theatricality and pretension. Janelle Monáe’s new single, “Q.U.E.E.N.,” references Philip K. Dick and sustains the sci-fi trappings that have united all her work since her 2007 EP, Metropolis: Suite I (The Chase). Actually, it’s not fair to call them trappings. Monáe is one of the most exciting singer-songwriters working in any genre today, one who proudly combines the tradition of Afrofuturism with 21st-century geek culture—not to mention a stunning mutation of pop, funk, and dance music. Her sci-fi concepts aren’t sprinkled on top of her music—they’re baked into the middle. For the past six years, Monáe’s songs have connected into a vast narrative that involves time travel, androids, clones, and a 28th-century dystopia that her character Cindi Mayweather is destined to shake to its core.
She doesn’t just sing about it, though: Monáe is a character in her own story. During a performance for the public-radio show Studio 360 in 2009, she was interviewed by host Kurt Anderson. Halfway through the chat, Monáe summarizes the mind-boggling plotline behind Metropolis: Suite I (The Chase). Anderson then comments, “You say this with conviction, as through you’re telling me facts from the future.” Her answer: “Oh, yeah. Janelle Monáe actually, in 2719, worked in a superhero surplus store, and she was thrown back into 2007. But before they threw her back, the snatchers cloned her body, and Cindi Mayweather has her DNA.” Her response is the epitome of pretension, right down to the way she talks about herself in the third person. Rather than detracting from her art, though, it enhances it. Anyone can write a catchy song; here’s someone who wants to elevate pop to rarified heights, and who isn’t afraid to go far, far deeper than, say, Lady Gaga ever could.
Pretension is in the eye of the beholder—and it often has more to do with how an audience sees itself than how an artist sees her audience. Pop music has no problem deifying its makers, but it still expects them to behave like ordinary people. It’s a paradox that the giants of jazz or classical music were never expected to live up—or rather, down—to. In those genres, big ideas and their grandiose execution are virtues. Pop music arose, in part, as a reaction to that. But the illusions of egalitarianism went out the window right around the time Bowie released “Space Oddity,” when pop music was just starting to make room for artistic progressivism.
Progressive rock was called pretentious back then, and it’s called pretentious now. Even Rush, one of the greatest rock bands of all time, prog or otherwise, is all but ignored by the critical establishment today, in spite of a sold-out stadium tour, relative accessibility, and the recent release of one of their strongest albums, 2012’s Clockwork Angels. More than 40 years into its career, Rush remains cerebral, challenging, and complex. To some, that’s a negative thing.
Pretension will always be a dirty word, even if it isn’t always clear what exactly makes something pretentious—or if the accused is really guilty of that charge. To truly know if a singer is being pretentious, a listener has to get into their heads. All we have access to, though, is the music (or the manifestos) they choose to show us, and their interviews. A 2011 Q&A with Hunt-Hendrix in Time Out New York is as illuminating as Monáe’s Studio 360 interview. In it, he talks about his Ivy League past: 
‘I remember initially being uncomfortable about revealing certain facts about my life. As though there’s something scandalous that makes the music invalid. But at this point I’m so accustomed to negative reactions to what are simply my honest ideas and opinions that I don’t feel like there’s much “damage” to be done. I went to Columbia and was a philosophy major. I also studied avant-garde composition there with Tristan Murail, one of the inventors of spectralism. For a while my plan was to either be a professional philosopher or a “serious music” composer. Even worse, I was there at the same time as and hung around with the members of Vampire Weekend. All that feels controversial somehow, though it’s hard to put my finger on what makes it feel that way. But, I mean, that’s what’s up and now I’m doing this black-metal band, so there it is.’
This probably hurts Hunt-Hendrix’s case more than helps it. Then again, what is the guy supposed to do? Throw out all his knowledge of theory, roll up his sleeves, and act like Bruce Springsteen? That would be the pretentious thing to do. By all accounts, the brainy, overblown music made by Hunt-Hendrix is an expression of who he truly is—conservatory background and all. Call it calculating or precious or just plain lousy. But pretentious? It might be the polar opposite. In any case, a world where musicians were afraid to take huge, hubristic risks—including the risk of being called pretentious—would be a dull one indeed.
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Boob Job: Ricky Gervais’s GQ Interview
‘Take his three years hosting the Golden Globes. Gervais clearly reveled in a self-appointed role as provocateur of, and truth teller to, the wealthy and overcoddled. “I’m the jester in the court of the kings there,” he explains to me. “Who am I meant to have a go at? The homeless? This wasn’t a roomful of wounded soldiers, this was a roomful of the most privileged people in the world who are about to win an award.”’
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Drive
The True Origin Stories Behind Six Classic Arrested Development JokesBillions of jokes large and small pack the original run of Arrested Development, many of which you can imagine being birthed in a late-night writers-room spitballing session. But some of these gags and story lines seem so random and specific that we sensed there was a fascinatingly weird origin story to them beyond “It was 2 a.m. and we were picking at a pizza …” Indeed, when we called Arrested Development creator Mitch Hurwitz to ask about the gestation of some of our favorite jokes, the stories behind them made them all funnier. So read on for his tales of the inspiration behind the Cornballer, Tobias’s dalliance with the Blue Man Group, Carl Weathers’s cheapness, and more.
—The Cornballer
Invented by George Sr. in the mid-seventies, it is an appliance used to make cornballs. It was made illegal after it was found to cause serious burns.
“I knew this one episode, ‘Bringing Up Buster,’ was going to end with a father-son rapprochement, if you will, so I was looking for some way to comment on that. Now it’s called ‘meta’ I guess, but it wasn’t called ‘meta’ then. The phrase I wanted to play with is, ‘That’s a little cornball.’ I don’t really know if people know that phrase. It’s kind of an old Broadway phrase, like, ‘a big cornball ending.’ I just sort of had that pun, and at that time, almost to a fault, I had gotten into all these literal evocations of clichés. When I was doing The John Laroquette Show it’s almost all I did. It really got obnoxious, like ‘the other shoe falls’ and then this fake shoe would fall and it coincided with some other information that would come out, you know? This was like one of those. ‘Let’s articulate this cliché! That’s a little cornball!’ Let’s have them make cornballs! And then I always like that George Sr. was like a self-styled Ron Popeil, and he would just engage in all these crazy businesses. What if there’s a fry-at-home thing to make these cornballs with that you would get horribly burnt on? Growing up with my father, we were always trying to invent things. We invented water weights once. Now you can probably get them in Front Gate or Sky Mall, but I remember my father thinking of these inflatable bladders you could take on trips, people could exercise on planes with them. It actually goes back to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
—The chicken dance
To taunt someone, often Michael, the members of the Bluth family would do a chicken dance, each with their own spin, none of which resembled a chicken.
“I think this was executive producer Jim Vallely. Sometimes he gives me credit. Will Arnett, who physicalized it, sometimes gives us both credit for being on set and working out the moves with him. But I’m almost certain Jim pitched it and put it in the script as Gob starts acting like a chicken. And claps. As inspired as the idea was, a lot of the credit goes to Will. I remember watching him do it and thinking, This guy comes from drama? I’ve never seen anyone commit to a joke like this. To this day that’s true! Maybe Phil Silvers’s Sergeant Bilko. But to [shouts] stiffen your [shouts] back and think about it … even if you tried to do it yourself, it’d be like, Oh, so I’m really going to go for this, huh? I’m going to have a solid back and I’m going to kick my feet! So angry! Anger is just at the heart of so much comedy. I’m. So. Angry! Then we quickly turned his dance into an ancient insult in Mexico.”
—Carl Weathers as cheapskate
Tobias hires Rocky star Carl Weathers to teach him how to act, but all Carl wants to do is mooch.
“We’d previously talked about how Tobias spent money on Carl Weathers’s stage fighting class, so it seemed like we should get Carl Weathers on the show. I always liked adding stuff that made it look like this is a whole world, and there’s a history between these two guys. Then we had this great idea to do a parody of this very homoerotic scene in Rocky 3 of Carl and Sly Stallone running on the beach. There were shots of their crotches and this big finish to some imaginary race and they were jumping up and down in the water in slow motion. We gotta do this with Carl and Tobias! Then I needed to call Carl Weathers. There’s always [that thing when you’re making] fun of something until you realize, oh, right, it’s a human being.
“So I called Carl, and said, ‘Hey, I don’t know if you’ve seen the show but we wanna use you for it, and you’d be working with David Cross.’ And he goes, ‘Great, but let me ask you something. It’s not going to be just a bunch of Rocky jokes is it?’ I laughed, ‘No! No! Give me a little credit, Carl. Of course not! It’s a multidimensional character.’ And he was like, ‘Because I direct and I’m a funny guy and I don’t wanna just do a bunch of Rocky jokes. Nobody wants that. Maybe I could be really cheap or something?’ And I said, ‘Whaaaat?’ ‘Maybe I could be really cheap?’ ‘Really? You’d like to do that?’ ‘Oh, absolutely, that’s what I’m saying. I want to play someone funny, not just be a sight gag.’ It was so much better. I went back to the writers room and said, ‘You’re not going to believe this. Carl Weathers wants to be incredibly cheap.’ All credit to Carl on that.”
—The mayonegg
George Michael tells his dad that his girlfriend Ann loves to eat an egg and then squeeze some mayo in her mouth at the same time. ‘It’s so cute.’
“I was just always grossed out by eggs. And mayo. The whole thing together. Egg-salad sandwiches always bothered me. I often think of myself as George Michael, and sometimes I think of myself as Michael. In that instance I was Michael and I thought, What would be really awful for me to see my son do?”
—Franklin Delano Bluth
During Gob’s bout with ventriloquism, he brought in his foul-mouthed puppet Franklin.
“I had always wanted to do a ventriloquist. There were all these kind of plagiarisms or homages to Soap in the show. I worked for the producers of that show Witt/Thomas/Harris, for many years, so I knew it very well, and I just always loved the idea of all the accoutrements of [the ventriloquist character, Chuck] including the puppet. So we gave Gob a black puppet he would offend people with. Franklin was basically Franklin from Peanuts. We’d had a story on the board for a long time, something that happened to Brad Copeland; someone had given him a CD and he’d never thanked them enough. I remember the idea of doing a show that had these big, broad elements but also these really human brother elements, so we had this idea for a while that a CD had been given to Michael that he didn’t properly thank Gob for, and Gob was bent out of shape about it. That morphed into Michael should have paid for the CD to be made and it cost him $5,000. He spent $5,000 on Franklin’s CD because he thought it was an investment, a mutual fund CD, when really it was just an album by a black puppet.”
—Blue Man Group
In his quest to become a legitimate actor, Tobias attempts to join the musical troupe of mysterious blue men.
“It was on the very last sound mix of the last episode of the first season and our composer, who is such a funny, great guy, David Schwartz, comes in and says, ‘I just saw a Blue Man Group ad and they’re auditioning. They’re looking for more Blue Men. Like, they’re having an open call for Blue Men.’ He was just making conversation, and I said, ‘That would be a funny way for George Sr. to escape something.’ Because he kind of looks like a Blue Man, if you made him blue. That got a big laugh in the room. By the time we came back from hiatus I transformed it into Tobias’s pathetic effort at becoming a known actor. Probably not the best road to recognition, painting yourself blue.
“We worked with the guys in Blue Men Group, too, and they were great. They did say to us, ‘The only thing is, we don’t really want people to know that Blue Men are people.’ And they said it with a laugh, but they also added, ‘We don’t want people to just think we’re actors.’ I mean, it’s really everything that made it a misguided choice for Tobias: They want it to be anonymous, you don’t know who they are or where they came from, you don’t want to know that they put on makeup … They just are. To their credit, they asked, ‘What if Tobias just wants to be one? What if he just auditions?’ And I thought that was even funnier. He’s not a Blue Man, he just wants to be one. That worked for them and it was actually better for us. He just blue himself.
“One of the jokes I loved the most was just having blue everywhere in the model home, on every knob… But for awhile the crew kept painting over it. And I’d visit the set and be like, ‘Stop! Can we possibly do it one more time, and this time can we get more blue on the wall?’ This happened probably eight times before I had to have a big staff meeting to say, ‘We want there to be continuity to this world.’ Everyone had come from the style of resetting to zero every time. So we ended up just painting it on the walls. We painted the blue marks on the walls and no one could erase them.”
The GQ+A: Nile Rodgers on Playing with Daft Punk
A Quietus Interview
‘Everything Is Choreography’: The Knife Interviewed

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