The 2015 Netflix trailer for the Get Down gave us glimpse of 1970’s New York and the birth of hip hop with the fire and drama you would expect from a Baz Luhrmann production. When the show launched August 12, they managed to deliver on lush cinematography, stunning style and familiar hip hop samples, but well after an hour into the premier the plot failed to take off until the pilot’s final minutes.
There were many starts and stops that plagued the show’s production leaving many wondering if the Get Down would ever see the light of day. According to Variety, budgets were largely unchecked and multiple showrunners were replaced which slowed production and resulted in an absence of a cohesive narrative voice. In an age of endless viewing options competing for viewers’ attention, Netflix must succeed in capturing fans from the beginning. Sadly, the pilot failed to hook me.
The photographic backgrounds introduced in the early scenes of The Get Down set the table for a visual feast featuring historically accurate accounts of New York that include the arsons, political corruption, dismal public schools, deplorable housing and crime in the city. This rang true, but by the end of the show, the Get Down delivered a shallow, messy meal that somehow left me with heartburn.
The character development asked too much of viewers, expecting them to emotionally invest in the cast too early. I really wished their storylines unfolded organically. Every time a main character was introduced, they explained their backstory within their first 5 lines. The love story between the show’s budding rapper protagonist Zeke and aspiring disco singer Mylene was classic Luhrmann; overly emotional and cloying bordering on desperate. Zeke’s impassioned pleas to get a bouncer to let him into the Studio 54-esque “Les Inferno” was as forced and unbelievable as his tears when Mylene rejected his romantic overtures.
Creatively I also found a few distracting cliches in the otherwise authentically styled wardrobe and makeup. While I thought the signature Warriors-style gang gear worn by Warlords was perfectly on point, their sloppily soot strewn makeup made the Warlords look like they were moonlighting as a backup fire brigade. From a casting perspective I appreciated the diversity of the cast that paired fresh talent with veteran actors; sadly they didn’t get the script writing respect they deserve: Jimmy Smits character is a cross between a Puerto Rican Robin Hood and Tony Montana, and Giancarlo Esposito’s character was overblown. There was a disturbing silence among the older women in the cast-the exception being the lady boss who runs nighclubs, prostitutes, numbers, the local drug cartel and a daycare (blink.blink).
I liked the numerous references to 1970’s Kung Fu flicks and blaxploitation films, but every time there was a mention of the red Puma wearing Shaolin Famous I was waiting for Sho Nuff from the Last Dragon to make a suprise cameo. The show’s over-reliance on caricatures diminished the story’s value.
The show felt most at home in the grey space between history and historical fiction, particularly during their use of music and graffiti to move the plot along. Ultimately, the subtle references felt dishonest. In the Get Down, the hunt for the coveted single vinyl copy of a remix by “The Pakoosa” binds the show’s main characters together. The remix is of a song by fictional disco diva Misty Holloway could only be found at a lone Jamaican corner store; historically this is a nod to the 1972 crossover hit “Soul Makossa”. As Will Hermes recounts in his book “Love Goes to Buidings of Fire”, Soul Makossa was an unknown import by Manu Dibango from Cameroon. When David Mancuso found it in a West Indian record shop in Brooklyn in 1972 and played it at the Loft, its scarcity and popularity quickly made it one of the most sought after albums by New York DJs. Once radio stations got a hold of the track Soul Makossa was one of the many songs that laid the foundation of disco. Soul Makossa is also one of the most sampled breaks in hip hop history. Old school hip hop heads and audiophiles likely know all this,
but this history is lost on the poor Get Down fans who were dismayed to find out that Misty Holloway doesn’t actually exist… In this instance poetic license was used to hide some scriptwriting shortcuts.
Putting questions of historical fiction aside, I was willing to sit back and enjoy the ride, especially when I finally got to the infamous party the show was named after (after an hour into the episode). In fact, all of my observations could have been overlooked if the balance of the show was as captivating as the energetic and authentic final two scenes. After the long trudge through the 90 minute premier, I questioned whether I still wanted to take the musical journey into the birth of hip hop with the Fantastic Four + 1.
Camilo Jose Vergara’s work takes a historical photographic look at the dramatic evolution and dissolution of New York’s neighborhoods over decades.
I really love his early early 1970’s work. For me, the most captivating series is “Old New York”, a body of photos that exposed the neglected, desolated, apocalyptic cultural landscape existing in the South Bronx.
In these pictures you can clearly see destructive legacy left behind by the development of the Cross Bronx Expressway in the 1950’s. The construction of the Cross Bronx essentially bifurcated the city in two. As white, middle class residents migrated north, thousands of poor black, brown and immigrant residents were displaced in the South Bronx. By the 1970’s after decades of abandonment and blight, the area was further destroyed by slumlords in search of insurance money who burned buildings they owned. The flames were systematically and symbolically fanned by a city government that depleted the area of critically essential fire fighting resources. At one point the city “averaged 12,000 fires a year-more than 30 a day.” (Source, Will Hermes, Love Goes to Buildings on Fire)
When I think about disco in New York in the 1970’s I think of the lotus flower.
You can get so lost in the complexitiy of its beauty that it’s easy to overlook the murky waters the flower emerged from. We are entranced by a mythoized notion of disco marked by flashing neon lights and ribald excess, but beneath the surface loomed a gritty New York which was an isolated, abandoned wasteland in the early 1970’s.
By 1975 (NYT Drop Dead headline, Ford) the city was nearly bankrupt when the New York Post ran a headline that read: “President Ford Tells NY to Drop Dead.” It was a punch in the gut of an already battered and beaten city. Crime was rampant, schools were underfunded, and middle class flight led to the destruction of abandoned buildings destroyed by arson and crooked landlords looking to collect insurance money.
In a post Civil Rights New York, the era produced lingering discontent among residents of color who were still marginalized. Police brutality was rampant and fueled by officers intimidating tourists into preparing for doomsday scenarios by handing out Fear City survival guides. It was also during this time the LGBT community came to fruition post-Stonewall.
Under these conditions disco and hip hop originated and fluorished in clubs and parties that served as the primary vessel for amplifying both genres of music. With roots in soul and gospel, disco music became the aural glue that brought communities together. Parties became social constructs that served as shelters for free thinking, fellowship and survival (ie paying the rent). An earlier iteration of disco music created in the early 70’s is now called Proto Disco.
I have a slight obsession with disco. I honestly don’t know where it began but I’ve loved it since I was a little girl. Because of my love for disco, I get verydefensive when it is routinely dragged as a vapid musical art form.
WHY DO PEOPLE HATE DISCO?
My quest to answer this question led me to a number of books, interviews, documentaries and movies that shed some light on the history of disco. Guess what? Its history doesn’t have anything to do with glitter, gloss or white polyester suits and it doesn’t have much to do with Saturday Night Fever or Studio 54 either. Yeah, I said it. Those are the very things that define and malign disco to this day.
So over on TONDI for the rest of the month I’m taking a deep dive into the world of disco.
Here on Culture Shock Art I’ll post links to music and photography that speak to the heart of disco and for those of you who want to learn more I’ll provide links on TONDI to some B-side content that highlight the social and political context that shaped the genre.
Since the Netflix series “The Get Down” debuts this week on Netflix, my goal is to give readers some historical context to the show and to show some love for music that we have forgotten.
After Rio’s shiny, spectacular Opening Ceremony on Friday I came across this sobering picture that quickly brought me back to reality and filtered my view of the Olympic games. Brazil’s honest portrayal of the slave trade and the upbeat, energetic favela portion of the ceremony obscured some of the horrific present day realities behind the historical and social constructs that created the favelas in Brazil. Behind the graffiti tagged privacy walls that NBC aggressively tries to obscure during their broadcasts, lies some of the most economically disadvantaged areas of the country. This image serves as stark reminder of the societal costs of the Olympic games.
When artists choose to use their work as a platform for social commentary they open our eyes, hearts and minds to worlds that are unlike our own. I started thinking about the Brazilian artists responsible for putting Rio’s street art scene on the map. Celebrated artists like Os Gemeos have been conspicuously absent from the 2016 games, despite their mural contributions to Athens in 2004. On the other side of the coin the Rio Olympics have done an impressive job of showcasing local art when they chose 13 Latin American artists to design the official posters for the 2016 Olympic Games.
Other artists like Paul Ito touched on the complicated political, social and economic challenges Brazil faced in the months leading to the 2014 World Cup, however that level of artistic public discourse has been absent in the street art in Rio thus far, however if anyone has seen work to the contrary, please let me know.
French artist JR was commissioned for some imposing public installation projects in addition to his work that decorates the Olympic stadium in wheat paste portraits. He is currently using his social media presence to provide his followers with behind the scenes look at Olympic competitions and he is also partnering with popular YouTube celebrities to showcase his work.
Despite all of this, there is one little known aspect of JR that is not getting much attention, and that is his work in the favelas. Long before his documentaries, museum shows, books and TED talks, JR opened Casa Amarela, a community art center perched high atop a hill in Morro de Providencia, Rio’s first favela. Up until 2014, the favela was only accessible by imposingly long stairways; now it boasts an elaborate $35M cable car system. The fact that the government prioritized a gondola system over basic infrastructure necessities like a municipal water supply or an interconnected sewage system is a mind-boggling conundrum that speaks to the complicated dichotomy that exists in the favelas. They are simultaneously romanticized and demonized as areas of stunted development that are riddled with crime that co-exist with trendy cafes and favela tours which hint to a looming threat of gentrification.
And then of course there’s the art created by the center that beautifies the area. According to Phaidon, Casa Amarela “offers stage design, photography, and reading classes to local young people, as well as a children’s library, and open-air cinema screenings”; most importantly, the space is a cultural and educational hub for the community and a source of pride. Community centers like Casa Amarela provide the local children with an artistic refuge in an area that remains vulnerable to redevelopment. Luckily for now, the center has staved off those threats and was recently remodeled so that Casa Amarela can continue to provide local children with artistic and educational services and according to JR, up to 100 children from the area will have an opportunity to experience the Olympic games in person.
At the end of the day isn’t that really what we want the Olympics to be? A much needed, albeit temporary escape from our realities? For two weeks we get to celebrate athleticism, strength, work ethic and national pride. We can enjoy respite from politics, Brexit, elections, crime, the economy, healthcare, Black Lives Matter vs Blue Lives Matter and most importantly we get a break from a traumatizing media cycle. For a few days we can bask in the glory of gold. Admittedly, 100 favela children experiencing the Olympics is a drop in the bucket that won’t rid Brazil of its many ills, but for a few brief moments, these children will get to bask in gold without having to pine for it from afar.
Legendary producer/ DJ Larry Levan’s birthday is today, so I thought I would pay tribute to the musical master by giving you a sneak peek of a project I’m launching on TONDI soon. This piece is best read by listening to Levan’s music and this 1979 live recorded set at the Paradise Garage is about as good as it gets. Happy Birthday Larry!
To get inside you first had to either be a member or know one. It sounds exclusive but it is anything but that. This kind of membership didn’t depend on how you looked, what you wore or which celebrities you knew, it was different here. Members could bring in 6 people at a time and bouncers were far more relaxed about letting you inside if you had a good story to tell and a great vibe. This was no Studio 54. Here it wasn’t about tastemakers, influencers or followers; this was an oasis that provided guests with an escape from the world beyond its doors. Inside these walls lived a pulsing organism whose energy was fueled by music that took control of everyone who entered. You felt it moments before you step inside–walking up the infamous ramp, the rhythms of deep bass settling deep into your chest and the flutter of excitement growing stronger as the music becomes louder with each step. Finally a shining neon light beckons you inside, while the music levitates you onto the dance floor where euphoric Garage dancers welcome you with smiles and sweat.
The music, the people and the sound of the Paradise Garage created a perfect storm on New York’s King Street lasting a decade; while many clubs have since tried to imitate the vibe or duplicate the success, few have succeeded. An architect can build a building, but a designer gives it its soul, and Larry Levan was the soul of Paradise Garage. As the preeminent DJ reigning supreme over the turntables and the masses at the Garage, Levan’s devotion to creating a sonic experience became the soundtrack for unforgettable evenings. Just as Levan was the soul, Garage members were the spirit that kept this venue going strong between 1977 and 1987.
Many paths crossed at the Garage, gay/straight, black/latino/white, people finding themselves or losing someone else, it was a collective of open-minded indivuduals.
Some infamous artists called the Garage home and they all shared the same memory of it being safe and spiritually fulfilling yet equally outrageous and uproarious.
“You’d go to bed around ten at night, get up at four in the morning, go to the Garage, and leave at noon, refreshed to the soul…They called it the Church because a great Saturday night would end up on Sunday.” ~Grace Jones
“I don’t know if you know how important the “Paradise Garage” is, at least for me and the tribe of people who have shared many a collective spiritual experience there. I discovered the Garage by divine ‘accident'” ~ Keith Haring
“The Garage was my church; it was where I healed my hurt” ~ Danny Tenaglia
“It didn’t necessarily have to reference outside beacons or whatever outside tastemakers might deem to be important. The Garage crowd was into what was going on at the Garage.” ~ Francois Kevorkian
As disco faded along with the 70’s, the Garage ushered in a new era of house music loyal to disco’s roots by using music to create togetherness from otherness. Good DJs use their music to tell a story that connects them to their audience. What separates a good DJ from an exceptional one is their genuine appreciation and respect for the music and an ability to create aural alchemy that fills tracks with new meaning and energy. The 1979 recording of one of Levan’s Garage sets includes a section of “Dreaming a Dream” by Crown Heights Affair (about 22 minutes in) that is acoustically pitched and imbued with such force that by the time the horns kick in you have completely lost yourself in the track.
The beauty of the Paradise Garage was that the music and innovative sound system were merely the vessels to create unforgettable experiences-Larry Levan was the guide, transforming music into a euphoric high for listeners. The crowd, eager to leave the realities of life behind them, briefly found paradise at the Garage. Sadly, reality has a way of catching up with everyone, even in paradise. The closure of the Garage in 1987 and Levan’s death in 1992 left musical and communal holes in people’s souls. While underground clubs in the 70’s and 80’s were a dime a dozen, the Paradise Garage created a winning formula that many continue to chase to this day. Today, aging socialites name drop Studio 54 in a desperate attempt for attention and exclusivity, but when people talk about the Garage, they make you feel like you were actually there. That is inclusion.