Photo by: FPVmat A / Unsplash

The song opens with a hyperactive-sounding synth.

Then a man's voice kicks in. "Sometimes I had too many beers," says supreme court justice Brett Kavanaugh. "Which I gladly do. And I fully embrace."

The day that Brett Kavanaugh said those lines will go down in our collective memory as a day of unusual absurdity, which is saying a lot. As we all know, on September 27, 2018, Christine Blasey Ford told senators she was "100 percent certain Brett Kavanaugh sexually assaulted her," according to CNN. As Time Magazine wrote, her testimony changed America, both opening up a flood of sexual assault accusations that had previously remained in the dark and proving just how far our government and power structures will go to ensure that the accused remain in power.

If Blasey Ford changed America, Brett Kavanuagh showed its true colors. He sobbed and shouted his way through his testimony, painting a portrait of upper-class, private-school boyhood that inevitably led to a reckoning and sparked a firestorm of criticism and parody. If Blasey Ford's testimony was a story of girlhood wrapped in silence and memory obscured by trauma, Kavanaugh's was a tale of American masculinity refracted through a funhouse mirror.

The Myth of the American Hero: Kavanaugh, Beer, and Other False Gods

Perhaps that's why "Brett Kavanaugh Automatic x Levels" slaps so hard. Brett Kavanaugh's testimony was impossible to take seriously, but contained within a capsule of 2011 EDM gold, its absurdity and banality somehow bend into a thing of strange beauty. "Maybe it was because I was an only child and had no sisters," he says. "Many of us became friends and remain friends to this day with students at local Catholic all-girl schools." His voice is slow, almost slurred; it sounds like a poor imitation of a middle school bully, or a drugged-out Pete Davidson.

But beneath the gleeful, celebratory atmosphere of "Brett Kavanaugh Automatic x Levels," something haunting—if not monstrous—lurks. That ghostly thing is, most transparently, the knowledge that Kavanaugh is quite literally one of the most powerful people in our nation. As a supreme court justice, he is appointed for life. For our entire foreseeable future—which may or may not include a revolution and a full-on climate crisis—will make decisions that affect millions of people, instantly.

There is something implicitly and horribly entertaining about hearing Kavanaugh's testimony mixed with "Levels." The remix makes it easier and more acceptable to laugh at Kavanaugh, and at the whole absurd situation; but when you contrast Kavanaugh's speech with Ford's, the whole thing starts to glitch.

While Kavanaugh lives under an umbrella of humor and simulacra-esque surrealism, the defenders of Christine Blasey Ford tend to utilize a kind of righteous and dead-serious moral supremacy, which doesn't sit well with anyone not entirely convinced by her testimony. "It was her civic duty," they say ad infinitum, "and that has to mean something." Meanwhile, Kavanaugh rambles on about his calendar and working out. The dance music grows louder until it sounds like a scream. We know what the right thing to do is, but we are tired. We are used to hearing these stories. We witness worse struggles on the streets daily; we hear them, live them.

And we've seen Kavanaugh before. It's an age-old image, that of the cowboy or the colonizer, the Hollywood bad-boy, the hero who always comes out on top, albeit with blood on his hands, the righteous redpilled alt-righter. Brett Kavanaugh's testimony highlighted the cracks in this archetype, but it also showed how firmly that archetype is ingrained into our minds and culture.

Today, while Kavanaugh sits on the supreme court, Blasey Ford has been forced to leave her home thanks to death threats—and she's a blonde white woman with a PhD. What happens to people who try to make accusations who are further out into the margins of society, who are less palatable to the masses? We already know the answer.

Parody, Remix, and Tik Tok Protest: Political Activism or Complacency?

In a way, the art of the politically charged parodical remix has become ubiqutious thanks to mediums like Tik Tok, which often paste lighthearted memes and jokes over serious messages (sometimes so serious that they get users banned from the platform). If something is so garishly absurd that it's hard to look at straight-on, humor and remixes are easy methods of deflecting, of seeing something without really seeing. So much of the Internet is like this—essentially one massive and bipolar defense mechanism, one pastiche of ironic humor and total existential panic, dissociation and brutal headlines.

Whether this omnipresent deflection will actually motivate political action or encourage apathy and complacency remains to be seen. Most likely the result will be a pastiche of both—kind of like "Brett Kavanaugh Automatic x Levels."

Let's not forget that "Levels"—the song that underlies the Kavanaugh testimony excerpts—was composed by the late Avicii, a Swedish producer who committed suicide in 2018. The song contains the refrain, "Oh, sometimes, I get a good feeling," made artificially high-pitched. It's exuberant, almost radiantly ecstatic, an ode to impulsivity, ketamine, and rave culture at its peak.

Avicii - Levelswww.youtube.com

Avicii's passing was read by many as a result of pressure from the music industry, which forced the producer onto a relentless tour schedule. After his death, "Levels" became obsessively remixed, its ecstasy transmuted across medias so much that it all but became part of the Internet's sonic DNA. But it's still haunted by the sadness of the loss of Avicii, and the loss of all the futures that could've been—had the rave lasted forever, had the escape it promised remained permanent.

EDM and rave culture, like the "Brett Kavanaugh Automatic x Levels" remix and, more recently, memes themselves, are all distractions—and also ways of getting intimate with some of the primal forces that lurk deep in our minds. Beneath the dancing and the laughter, there's an intense, almost religious emotion that comes from tripping out and dancing under flashing lights, and beneath the chuckles, there's an abject horror at Kavanaugh and other forms of leadership we see playing out today.

On an emotional level, this might be the defining contrast of our post-postmodern condition—that oscillation between feeling everything and feeling nothing at all. On a capitalist level, that contrast exists, too, between the have-everythings and the have-nots, and within the have-everythings who have nothing inside.

What Happens After

It's not as if this is a new story, what happened to Christine Blasey Ford. Things happen in the dark wilderness of youth and behind closed doors at the offices. It's written in our American lineage, like apple pie and racism. Boys will be boys, and men defend each other, and will continue to defend each other, especially as the myth of the white male leader becomes more worn down by other storms like the one Ford started.

As people begin to understand that the forces that got Brett Kavanaugh appointed are the same forces that, relatively speaking, are trapping people in cycles of poverty, and are the same forces that obscured the truth about climate change in endless mantras about recycling, then maybe these patterns will slowly change.

But for now, maybe all we can or will do is dance.

MUSIC

New Mac Miller Album Sparks Old Questions About the Ethics of Posthumous Releases

Mac Miller's estate just announced the release of another album.

Photo by Manu Ros on Unsplash

Mac Miller's family just released his posthumous album Circles, which Miller was "well into completing" before his death in 2018.

It seems that most fans are in agreement that Circles is a positive release, because it's been approved by his family and Miller was already working on it before his death. Many are celebrating and reminiscing about Miller, who was a beloved figure and an incredible musician.

However, posthumous releases sometimes raise thorny questions, especially when it's not as clear that the artist actually wanted the material in question to be distributed. This summer, a relevant debate ensued when Prince's estate announced that it would be releasing an album of never-before-heard recordings of songs that the late legend wrote and sold to other artists.

Called "Originals," the album was a collection of demos and bootlegs. The songs were selected by none other than JAY-Z and Troy Carter, who sifted through Prince's extensive "Vault" recording collection of demos and B-sides to curate this new album. The LP, which was released on July 19, included many tracks that became hits for the artists who recorded them—like "Manic Monday," recorded by the Bangles, and of course, "Nothing Compares 2 U," which became Sinead O'Connor's signature song.

Still, despite its curators' influence and Prince's incomparable songwriting talent, this announcement raised some questions about whether Prince really would've wanted these songs out in the ether. Each track was recorded as a demo, and it's impossible to know whether their maker was satisfied with any of them.

Prince was a masterful producer, one who insisted on complete control of the record-making process from beginning to end. One of his recording engineers, Susan Rogers, said that "he needed to be the alpha male to get done what he needed to get done; he couldn't spend any mental energy battling with people for dominance or position. If you wanted your own way of doing things, you shouldn't be working for Prince."

"Originals" was not the first album released by Prince's estate after his death—it was preceded by Piano & a Microphone, Purple Rain Deluxe, and Prince 4Ever. These releases were mostly lauded by even the most discerning critics, albeit with some caveats. NPR Music's Ann Powers wrote that she believes if Prince were alive he would "most certainly not" have wanted Piano & a Microphone to be released—but oddly, she followed this claim by arguing that the album's release is not exploitative, because "we understand Prince's creativity in a different way because of it and for that reason, it doesn't feel like a violation, it feels like a gift."

Prince - Purple Rain (Official Video)www.youtube.com

Still, others raised the alarm, citing the clearly unfinished, unpolished nature of some of the demos—something that a perfectionist like Prince never would have tolerated. "Will his 'true' fans really care if the finely wrought production that is the hallmark of the best of Prince isn't present here? Is this album selling both artist and audience short?" asks Adrian Yorke, going on to argue that posthumous releases can do a disservice to both fans and artists by providing them with products that do a disservice to their creator's dedication to the quality of their craft.

Continuing to capitalize on the late star's legacy as they have since his death, Prince's estate has also announced that they will be releasing his unpublished memoir, The Beautiful Ones, this fall; the book will combine Prince's unfinished manuscript with photos, lyrics, and other ephemera.

Many fans have celebrated these announcements. Of course, we all want more content from our most beloved artists, and Prince and Mac Miller's legacies deserve to live on into eternity—but a problem arises when it becomes unclear whether material is being released because it honors its creator's vision or because some industry executives smell a profit. How much should estates really be allowed to capitalize on the legacies of the dead, especially when it's likely that the late artist in question would not have wanted their unfinished work to be released?

Similar questions have been raised about Avicii's posthumous album, which has skyrocketed to the top of the charts since its April 10 release. Named SOS—a somewhat unfortunate title for an album by a man who, before his death, outright told interviewers that he was experiencing a mental health crisis due to excessive touring—the album was conceived by the Swedish producer's A&R team merely three days after his passing. Its release came after repeated revelations that suggest Avicii's mental health issues were exacerbated by relentless pressure from his management to capitalize on his money-making potential. On the other hand, the album is a collection of songs that Avicii allegedly "nearly finished," according to The New York Times, and it was released with his father's blessing. SOS will be followed by another album, Tim, to be released in June.

Avicii - Wake Me Up (Official Video)www.youtube.com

No matter how many people supported it, this rapid-fire dissemination and hardcore marketing of music that the original creator didn't have the final say over raises questions first provoked by the 2017 documentary, Avicii: True Stories, which features grim clips of the late star lamenting his brutally packed tour schedule. It's disturbing to watch, and disconcertingly intimate—this generates its own ethical grey area—but ultimately, it's more disturbing to consider that the management company that pressured Avicii towards his death is still profiting from their own refurbishments of his unfinished music.

Of course, not every industry executive thinks that demos and unfinished musical relics should be fodder for the public ear. Avicii's collaborator Nick Romero, who has refused to release the demos in his possession, stated that "I don't know if it morally feels right to me to work on songs that the original composer has not approved. I know that Avicii was really a perfectionist, and I kind of feel bad if I put something out not knowing if he wants to put it out."

Similarly, Universal CEO David Joseph famously destroyed all the demos Amy Winehouse had created for her third album—though this didn't stop her estate from releasing the poorly received posthumous collage of deep cuts, "Lioness: Hidden Treasures." The same fate befell Tupac and Biggie Smalls, whose posthumous work garnered better critical reception than Winehouse's, but regardless was still released without their creators' stamp of approval.

Lil Peep's posthumous release Come Over When You're Sober, Part II prompts similar questions. His close collaborator, Smokeasac, crafted that album, and a team of people, including his mother, believed they knew him well enough to create something that would do justice to his legacy—after all, Peep was on a stratospheric ascent before his untimely passing from a drug overdose. Still, when you listen to the album, although it's a masterful work in its own right, you can almost feel the inevitable lack of Peep's definitive touch, an emptiness that feels almost ghostly. Every truly great artist possesses some sort of x-factor, some ability to tap into a force outside of themselves that is at once completely unique to them; and so posthumous releases, especially when pieced together out of incomplete excerpts and spare vocal lines can feel more like Frankensteins than finished products. Even when loving hands craft them, often there's something missing.

Broken Smile (My All)www.youtube.com

On the other hand, Lil Peep was already planning on finishing Come Over When You're Sober, Part II before he died—whereas Prince and Avicii had exactly zero say in their newest releases.

We'll have to see if Circles sounds like it's missing some finishing touches from Mac Miller when it comes out. Inevitably, it will—because Miller is gone, and has left a sense of emptiness behind—but in a world where music is saved and sold with increasing rapidity, even when it's unfinished, we need to question who is creating and selling every posthumous product.

Ultimately, it seems that posthumous releases become major issues when they're motivated by big money and greed. When estates and management companies pump out half-baked products simply to cash in, you can often feel it in the quality of the songs—and if ghosts exist, then some industry executives might be in for a serious haunting.

On the other hand, capitalism already has its teeth in so much of the recording industry, endlessly distorting and altering artists' visions in order to sell more records or garner more streams. Still, for people like Prince, whose undeniable vision and power defined and shaped everything he ever released, perhaps fans shouldn't be so quick to celebrate something that maybe should've been left to rest. In terms of Avicii's output, fans should definitely be more discerning before supporting a management company whose obsession with profit effectively caused his death, and who continue to profit off his legacy even after his tragic passing.

Perhaps a better use of someone's posthumous influence is an organization like the Tim Bergling Foundation, started by Avicii's family soon after their 28-year-old son's death. The foundation will "initially focus on supporting people and organizations in the field of mental illness and suicide prevention," and "also will be active in climate change, nature conservation, and endangered species."

In a press release, his family wrote, "Starting a foundation in his name is our way to honour his memory and continue to act in his spirit." Of course, no one knows how Avicii would feel about any of this—but it's likely that the philanthropist would prefer his legacy to generate a foundation that looks to the future instead of releases that remain determined to drain every penny they can from the past.