Nowhere Man

There’s a scene in the original cut of Pulp Fiction in which Mia Wallace interviews Vincent Vega from behind a video camera before the two embark on their dinner date. Mia asks Vincent a number of important questions, but it’s her example, comparing “Beatles people” and “Elvis people,” that has stuck with me ever since I read the original screenplay almost twenty years ago.

My theory is that when it comes to important subjects, there are only two ways a person can answer. Which way they choose tells you who that person is. For instance, there are only two kinds of people in the world: Beatles people and Elvis people. Now Beatles people can like Elvis, and Elvis people can like the Beatles, but nobody likes them both equally. Somewhere you have to make a choice, and that choice tells you who you are.

Like Vincent Vega. I’m definitely an Elvis man. But can I also like the Beatles? Until recently I was pretty confident the answer was “no.”

After a screening of the Beatles documentary Let It Be in a college course on “rock films” (yes, I took a course in college called “Rock Film,” and yes, it was about as great as you would imagine it to be), instructor and raconteurThomas Crone asked everyone to jot down their top-five favorite Beatles songs and the name of the first Beatles album they owned.

I had nothing to write. As I relayed when called upon in class, and as I’ve tried to explain to countless incredulous friends and acquaintances, I’ve never liked the Beatles. I don’t have any favorite songs, and I’ve never owned a Beatles record. My reaction to hearing their music has always been largely ambivalent, and the widespread reverence for the band only distanced me further (surely something this popular can’t be good…).

The more I was exposed to that reverence over the years, the more my distaste grew. Whenever I heard Joe Strummer rasp, “Phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust!” I would pump my fist a little harder.

But something changed late last year. Through another of my head-shaking diatribes about the band, it occurred to me that I’ve never really known the foursome as just “the Beatles” — it’s always been THE BEATLES. But what if it had been the other way? What if I’d experienced the band through the music first rather than the phenomenon? Would my opinion differ?

That’s how I got to what I’m calling Project Liverpool. Never being one to shy away from questionable recreational activities, throughout 2013 I’m making my way through the Beatles’ existence chronologically, album by album, supplemented by whatever contextual cues or historical information I happen across.*

I won’t say I want a revolution — I don’t expect to ever to be a “Beatles man” — but maybe the next time someone brings up the Beatles around me we can all finally come together.

*If you happen to be a Beatles man or woman and know of valuable sources for such material, please do shoot them my way.

The Freedom in Being Ignored

By chance I ran across another eulogistic take on Brooklyn’s evolution today, this one from veteran residentDavid Wondrich, whose essay for Esquire’s March issue (not currently available online) charts the unexpected rise of the borough’s cultural influence and cites an important condition that made it possible.

There’s a freedom in being ignored. Away from the spotlight, Brooklyn developed something people want, and now they’re coming to take it away.

The freedom in being ignored — the idea that one can create something great by being allowed to experiment and fail and learn without the kind of scrutiny or expectations that surround places like Manhattan or London or Los Angeles — is a concept I’ve heard repeatedly over the last few months, but not in regard to Brooklyn.

We have this great opportunity; yeah, we’re in “flyover country,” but we’re this urban island and we’re so unadulturated and so wide-open that you can really be a part of something great here. It’s big enough that it matters nationally but also intimate enough that you can make a difference and be noticed for your contributions.

That’s Randy Vines discussing civic pride and economic opportunity in St. Louis on the January 17, 2013 episode of Stay Tuned STL.

I’m often frustrated by the inclination some have to judge St. Louis (or any metropolitan area) by comparing it to other cities. In doing so it’s too easy to miss the facets that ultimately give a place like Brooklyn its notoriety. But as St. Louis struggles to reassert itself both to its own citizens and to an increasingly indifferent world at large, there is value in being overlooked. With the freedom afforded by being ignored, the right mix of authenticity and aspiration can make “Brooklyn” happen anywhere. Maybe even here.

Collaborate and Listen

I still don’t know exactly what Editorially is (judging by some of the responses to their inaugural blog post, few beyond Editorially’s principle players do), which may be why I’m so excited about it. Today it sits probably as high as it ever will, atop a tower of intrigue; lauded by test-drivers, its factory sticker not yet peeled back.

Like those confused voices in the comments, I have questions, but mine have less to do with what Editorially is or how it works than what the service may or may not herald. It’s too early to tell if collaborative writing is just a new trend; Storify and Cowbird still feel like the Diasporas of online publishing, and Medium, the communal blogging platform launched by Twitter’s co-founders, still hasn’t really “launched” yet. But if it is just a trend, I have to wonder how long it can last given the speed with which new platforms are now proliferating despite a lack of demonstrated demand.

If it’s more than a trend — if it’s a genuine reinvention of the writing process — then what took so long?