Wednesday, August 2, 2017

New Clear Daze




The spirit of "Turning Japanese" has had particular meaning for western culture ever since the 1940s Allied invasion. The other dreck pumped loose by The Vapors was similarly boppy, arrogant, and simplistic in its composition, revealing an expressive, creative dearth which often lengthily extends, or better yet concludes, the careers of English musical sensations. Bright circular noises were often popular variations of the time on the theme of not noticing, but without the cultural context that made "Turning Japanese" sadly ironic enough to be significant, The Vapors never really managed anything else. Even so, their one mélange of rejected brainwashing loops made its own significant mark on history. What, after all, could better express the Great War than "Turning Japanese"? The commodification of nightmare dreamslivers of expensive, mutually destructive bank colonialism; the particularly snotty, queer, and larpish way in which the proudly subservient rape-islanders pretended their masters' triumphs were their own; the noxious essence of actual pejorative racism, wherein the prickishly-othering, self-abnegating overlording for salacious purposes destroys the superior along with the inferior.



Obviously Dresden, or Merkel, represent vital aspects of "World War" "II," but from the perspective of the would-be conquerors, watching a bunch of incompletely homosexual clowns ape their hyperidealized version of the bodies in their fathers' basements reveals much more about the madness which lay behind the methodology. This is an enthusiasm that goes beyond being tricked by dumb stories about being threatened. The sickness lying there could be manipulated, but not created from scratch.

Consider the Nu Euro ("British") work alongside an African ("American") one as to their comparative levels of intrinsic consistency, honesty with self and others, and honesty as to morality. Here's a representative African sample:
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)
I got a white bitch, I got a white bitch
I got a white bitch, I got a white (I got a white)

White bitch, white brick
White wrist, black Benz
Black friends, but a nigga white rich
Every bill that my thumb peel got a white face
White Wraith, tip tag, yup white plates
Saw that straight white
The look on me was stage fright (Oh God!)
But the crook in me just took it, straight swipe
Just a dirty dog, forty in my dirty drawers
Beat the state of Florida
Gave 'em back my dirty charge
You got it right, padded white
White bitch come with that
All she say is: "Daddy chill like this and sit back"
Like I should, like a big dog poster
She get the picture like a jigsaw puzzle
Hey, bitch, wassup?!
-"White Bitch" from Gunplay's Living Legend.


At first blush, Gunplay's work seems uncivilized, as indeed it is when we view "civilization" as best accomplished through a fearful pretense selectively acted upon to deny one's "animal roots" while denying engaging in decidedly more harmful behavior. It is, though, honest, not sickeningly passive-aggressive, or in the case of the upcoming Nu Euro comparison from decades earlier, evocative of a horrible lack of mental coherency disguised by a veneer of randomly dispellable madness.
I've got your picture of me and you
You wrote "I love you" I love you too
I sit there staring and there's nothing else to do
Oh it's in color Your hair is brown
Your eyes are hazel And soft as clouds
I often kiss you when there's no one else around
I've got your picture, I've got your picture
I'd like a million of them all round my cell
I asked the doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You've got me turning up and turning down
And turning in and turning 'round
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I've got your picture, I've got your picture
I'd like a million of them all round my cell
I want the doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
No sex, no drugs, no wine, no women
No fun, no sin, no you, no wonder it's dark
Everyone around me is a total stranger
Everyone avoids me like a psyched lone-ranger Everyone
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so
(think so think so think so)
Turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so



Neither diarrheic screed is particularly developed nor pleasant, but the former is, at least, honest. Gunplay graces us with a fair and forthright self-assessment of his worldview, while The Vapors display a sniveling parody of romanticism that is chillingly dishonest and, on the surface, highly incomplete in the most critical of areas. One of them is more likely to lure you into having dinner in his cabin by the shadowed moors, while the other makes obvious displays that require much less intelligence to recognize their potential danger. More frightening about the lyrics of "Turning Japanese" is that perennially Nu Euro notion that The Vapors aren't aware of the effects of their behavior on their victims. On can imagine Gunplay raising his chin and blurting, "Yeah, she prolly did'n really like it dat much," but even after the queen's finest psychiatrists have completed several sessions with The Vapors, the band members still believe that the stuffed and stitched women's remains, removed from the house at the end of the lane by a team of morticians, loved the sewing-up process and loved them.

Please sink my container ships. Please save my daughters from the blindness of paganism; from the ignorance of Negro enlisted wearing your colors. In this mindset, the song could be a love letter from the Irish, Japanese, or many dozens of other phantomized, pantomimized peoples. Fenton (the credited lyricist behind "Turning Japanese") reportedly enjoyed but denied the rumor that the song was a reference to masturbation ("I've got your picture, I've got your picture"), but it's doubtful that he, or any other happy participant in these extended affairs with illusory piñata memories, really understood what they had written or danced to, or why its jabbery blur resonated so deeply.
I'd like a million of you all round my cell
I want a wise man to copy your essence
So I can look at your insides
You've got me turning up and turning down and turning in and turning 'round
The verbal smear of the words was rarely noticed in acknowledged specificity; most people, even when they knew it, remembered it as "the one where the dude repeats 'I'm turning Japanese' a lot." Which indeed it was, and in truth, that line in historical context is all that is really needed to illuminate the rest of the song. The autoerotic viscera- and doll-references, and the confessions of unstable personal identity and spiraling insanity, only make it more explicit. Something of the associated colonial arrogance, dehumanizing objectification, and embarrassingy needful imperialism, today's westerners should be already conditioned to understand and accept; the deracinating shamefulness and suicidal cuckoldry of the same lines, though, should now be similarly easy for the modern "nationalist" to contemplate. We shall find a more just, comprehensive understanding of the phenomenon if we can understand both truths. In particular, the insane taxidermy of preserving necrotic biodiversity and cultural diversity via nature preserves and masochistic immigration, and its effects on the presumed victors, can be seen here, with both victim and aggressor entombed.



It has long been tradition in Japan for underage prostitutes ("maiko") to have their faces whitened in imitation of the fetching predecessor peoples made to quit the islands, and then, to a lesser degree, of the Indo-Aryans who spread into eastern Asia before gradually perishing in the process of producing what are now the Japanese. How sad, yet how deservedly so, that The Vapors could not ever turn into the imitations of the imitations.


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