"The Smoker"

Tribute to Ol Dirty Bastard

 I have wanted to write something in tribute to Ol Dirty for a while now. There is much that can be said, but my typical scholarly essay seems like an ill fitting tribute to such a man; it would probably be much better to get as drunk as possible and try to live more fearlessly for a night in his honour. But in my usual fashion, I will multiply absurdity by trying to capture some of the qualities of this great man in cumbersome, orderly prose, and through this strange dialectic of the free and the constrained hopefully arrive at something not quite worthless. I must write mostly about the art that Ol Dirty gave to us, and the Ol Dirty who we came to know through this art, which cannot possibly express the whole truth about such a complex man. Though he seemed to share so much of himself with the public, we can be sure that behind such a great comic force there was also great tragedy and depth, which we will never fully appreciate or understand. We must also talk about his drug use and troubles with the law, for his madness and excesses became a part of his music, his persona, and the lessons he taught us. Everything is written in the spirit of tribute, to honour someone full of life and laughter who shared a lot with us, but a man's dark side must also be considered and honoured in its turn, so we will not shy away from the destructive or nihilistic aspects of his music and life.

We first hear Ol Dirty on the Wu Tang Clan's first album, Enter the Wu: 36 Chambers. He only appears on 4 songs, but immediately stands out for his unorthodox delivery, occasional singing or screaming, and strange lyrics. Anyone who has listened to the album will remember “First things first man your fucking with the worst I be sticking pins in your head like a fucking nurse”, “ do you wanna get your teeth knocked the fuck out??” and of course his verse on “Da mystery of Chessboxin” where he adds sound effects and introduces Ghostface Killah with a lengthy, melodic scream. Where other members were aggressive and lyrical, Ol Dirty was half comic half insane, with “no father to his style”. It was obvious that he could rap as skillfully as any of the other members, but chose to joke, to play around, to sing if he felt like it. From the beginning he personified a sort of reckless freedom, a rare ability to “be himself” when he rapped and not attempt to impress or imitate anyone. While many of the other Wu members' rap styles evolved over the years as they became more comfortable as poets, Ol Dirty never did and never needed to. His style was already fully formed, he naturally embodied the trickster, ready to unleash the unpredictable, the bizarre, the comic. When he was given the chance to record his own album, it must have been obvious that the product would be one of the funniest ever recorded.

Return to the 36 Chambers: the Dirty version, has a cover featuring a bewildered looking ODB staring out from the ID photo on an “Identification card for food coupons and/or public assistance”. No angry pose, no pen and pixel cars and money, just a welfare ID card with his picture. The album begins with Russel Jones introducing Ol Dirty Bastard, who proceeds to tearfully recount being burnt by gonorrhoea twice, breaks into singsong poetry, and then says he was “just kidding y'all, listen to the album cause its bangin!”. The next track is the classic “Shimmy Shimmy Ya”, where Ol Dirty states “Give me the mic so I can take it away, off on a natural charge, bon voyage”, and he does take us on a journey, to unknown territory left uncovered by any rapper or musician before him. His “chamber” of music is a kind of experimental vocal jazz, where what seem like crude or inappropriate forms of expression are used to share real feelings and explore new realms. Naturally RZA provides the perfect musical backdrop for Ol Dirty's inspired flow, which ranges from deranged battle rap to all out screaming and singing. The combination of his voice, flow and lyrics adds up to a strong creativity, a crazy drunken style that allows for the same honest and comedic expression that anyone who drinks knows well. Easily excited, unpredictable, quick to tell a dirty story or rap to the ladies, the Ol Dirty Bastard of this first album really does seem drunk. Highlights include his experiments with breath control at the beginning of “Goin' Down”, when he goes from croaking to full powerful song in the span of one breath, his unique take on a classic soul song “Sweet Sugar Pie”, and his verse on “Snakes”, where after several inspired verses by others, Dirty opens with “Bad bad Leroy Brown, baddest man in the whole damn town” and still somehow steals the show. By the albums end we are laughing at Ol Dirty's lyrical games, but also come away with the feeling that we ourselves are living in a limited, fearful way, unable to really express ourselves in the way that ODB does effortlessly. The album inspires a certain restless feeling, a wish to let go of fears and start living spontaneously whatever the cost. It has a certain manic, dark quality, but I always feel like in the end it is an uplifting album, for it inspires laughter and transmits a feeling of freedom.

From the success of his first album, and of course the success of Wu Tang as a whole, came fame and fortune for Dirty. He appeared sparingly on other Wu Tang solo projects and on the groups second album “Wu Tang Forever”, often absent from recording sessions because of an increasingly hectic life. If we really know anything about the man through his music, it can be assumed that he ventured unafraid into the land of excess, chasing drugs and women and following his every whim. The most telling incident from this time period was when Ol Dirty jumped on stage at the Grammy's, snatched the mic, and made a speech.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENQ9qbUVdg4

It is this sort of unscripted comedy that made Ol Dirty somewhat of a genius. Reckless but still somehow charming, his declaration that "Wu Tang is for the children" still rings true. His second studio album was recorded in a more haphazard fashion than his first, and expresses a more mature debauchery, a chaotic and spirited attempt to express the highs and lows of life as Ol Dirty Bastard. There is an interesting religious theme to the album, indeed Ol Dirty claimed he was changing his name to “Big Baby Jesus” shortly before it was released. The album cover shows a ridiculously dressed, bearded Dirty looking skyward with a wistful expression.

The chorus of the second track goes

“Big Baby Jesus

I Cant Wait

Nigga Fuck That

I Cant Wait”

repeated in frantic fashion, and the effect is jarring. Is ODB unable to wait for the salvation of the return or resurrection, extorting us to live for the moment instead? Is he labelling himself a Jesus like figure, ecstatic to take in the sins of the world and express the result artistically? Or is he laughing at us? Even by the end of the song, when ODB issues some strange shoutouts, we can't be sure.

“I want to give a shoutout to um,um, what's them niggas, Outkast
I want to give a shoutout to them crazy niggas in parts of the world that I never been to. I want to give a shoutout to the Eskimos. I want to give a shoutout to the submarines, I want to give a shoutout to the army, navy, air force marines, know what I'm saying? Y'all playing my music in the submarines, in the boats. Play that shit know what I'm saying? It's called travelling music, busting ya ass style”

The album has a more upbeat, poppy sound than his first, probably due to the influence of the Neptunes, who provide much of the production. Dirty is still as entertaining as ever, screaming out his lyrics, filling his verses with ridiculous statements that encompass the insane, the hilarious, and the ingenious. While his first album seemed inspired by drunkenness, this album feels like the peak of a powerful drug high; bursting with irrational confidence, exuberant, and utterly out of control. As ODB screams on the track "Nigga Please"

"I'm Immune to all viruses

I get the cocaine, it cleans out my sinuses!"

and later states

"I kill all the government microchips in my body

I'm the paranoid nigga

At your party"

The energy and irrepressible spirit of his first album is only magnified on his second, but there are hints of trouble to come. The album is far more uneven that his first, with a few lacklustre tracks. There are many references to cocaine and paranoia, mostly in jest, but still suggestive. It appears that Russell Jones had become Ol Dirty Bastard, joining his life and his music into a lived art. He simply expresses himself to the beat and a song is formed, raw and unpolished but perfect in its own way. One gets a sense of effortlessness from many of the tracks, as if they were recorded in very few takes. There is a brutal honesty in Ol Dirty's lyrics and flow. On "I Want Pussy" he repeats "I want pussy, for free", yelling it louder and louder before he begins rhyming. He appears to have no shame, no fear of sanction or judgement, and seems to completely embrace his way of living. There is no sense of an attempt to be something or to create something. Ol Dirty is Ol Dirty and this is what he does. In an existential sense, he chose his path and never looked backwards in regret or to the side in imitation of others. We listen to this album and laugh at its recklessness and disregard for convention, but it can be an uncomfortable sort of laughter. Are we taking pleasure in another man's madness? Are we chuckling at a tragic clown, doomed to express the sins of the world to the sound of our dignified applause? Ol Dirty laughs back at us, living our lives in fear of judgement, unable to express our true feelings, too scared to take the risks that bring freedom. We play this album through our headphones as we walk the streets, trying not to bump into our fellow men, laughing quietly as we try to understand exactly what Ol Dirty is trying to tell us. Is it mere entertainment? Obscure scriptures of the modern age? A tragic tale of excess and the confusion of a noble spirit lost in a stupid world? We may become lost in questioning if we do not listen to what Dirty tells us. "If I got a problem, a problem got a problem till its gone, I'm the only Unique Ason". (Rollin' wit You). There can be no questioning and no answers, only moving forward, only expression, at all costs, regardless of judgement and consequences. Like all the best kinds of comedy, the album multiplies mirth in all directions, taking on problems of confusion, misunderstanding, and our compulsion towards self destruction and giving these problems their own problem, namely spitting in their face, embracing them with a laugh and a performance that will reverberate in the hearts of others. In the tumultuous period after the release of Nigga Please, Dirty was somehow able to record an interpretation of "Sussudio" that appeared on a Phil Collins tribute album. It is a strange song, featuring use of auto-tune before the auto-tune era, but I have come to consider it one of Ol Dirty's finest works. His rhymes on this track seem carefree, almost lazy, but become uplifting in their union with the synth violins and piano. If you have never heard it before, give it a listen!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3BHZkgck2s

The next few years were cruel to Ol Dirty Bastard. He began to have more and more trouble with the law, spending time in jail for everything from drug offences to wearing a bulletproof vest (apparently illegal for felons). He was unable to contribute more than a single track to Wu Tang's next album "the W". His solo career was put on hold because of his legal troubles. Although at first he seemed undaunted by the courts and jail, even escaping one rehab facility and joining Wu Tang on stage at a concert while on the run, longer and longer prison sentences eventually took their toll. When he was released from jail for the last time he seemed changed. He still received a million dollar deal from Rocafella records and began to work on a new album. Before it could be finished Ol Dirty died of a drug overdose. Most of the tracks he recorded for the album have come to light over the years, and although they never quite capture the energy of his first albums, some of them are quite compelling. I stumbled upon the track "Wasting Time" only recently, and was amazed. Over a haunting sample of Billy Joel's "The Stranger", Dirty raps in an unfamiliar melancholy, reflective way. The chorus is particularly telling

"No more will you spit in my drink

No more will you poison me

Imma climb real high

Feel free with the thug inside

No more will I run and hide

Wasting time

No more will I chase the drugs

No more will I dodge the slugs

Imma Climb real high

feel free with the thug inside

No more will I run and hide

Wasting time"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ0HiZ5LEQw

The gentle piano and mournful whistling of the beat only make Dirty's words more powerful. This was perhaps a rare admission of weakness, an assessing of the costs of freedom. All our greatest moments of drug induced recklessness, all the laughter and jokes that come when we ignore the past and future and live fearlessly, all of this slips into nothingness as time passes. Such moments can be the greatest and rarest treasures, but they can never become the equivalent of time spent industriously working to build something lasting. There will always be a cost for every pleasure, the highest price being wasted time. Ol Dirty never seemed like he could live in moderation, neatly sampling all pleasures while also hoarding carefully for the future. He gave himself up fully to passion and expression, and was thus doomed to experience the harshest pains to balance out what must have been incredible joys. It is a testament to his artistry that he was able to express this musically, and leave us with a warning to go along with all of his encouragement to live in a fearlessly absurd manner in this absurd world. Can we even strive to emulate his way of life, a cheerful acceptance of the old, the dirty, the unwanted and the impure, a transfiguring energy that transformed ugly into beautiful and carelessness into effortless creation? Or are we already irredeemably lost here, in the midst of carefully crafted paragraphs that are too timid to express real currents of impulsive thought? Ol Dirty would not try to imitate anyone. So we should not try to imitate Ol Dirty. In Egyptian mythology Osirus was the god of the afterlife and underworld but was also a symbol of rebirth and fertility. It was from underground that new life energed, like crops bursting out of the black soil. Osirus presides over the cycle of existence, and though he was murdered and can never return to the land of the living he has eternal life. Ol Dirty was never afraid to preside over the underground of the psyche, indeed within dead darkness he found life affirming sparks of joy, laughter and freedom. He lived his life as a dead man, reckless and unafraid, and so was able to truly live, and find his measure of eternal life as a symbol of hope for all of us in the land of the living who are really dead under the weight of our fears and logical obligations. 

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Thoughts on "Against Nature" or "A rebours"

I am back again. I wish to write about Against Nature, which stands in interesting contrast to Hunger. This book deals not with the suffering of poverty, of many unfulfilled wishes, but its opposite, the pain of satiety, of a man sick of all the possible pleasures the world can offer. While Hunger is a semi autobiographical work, Against Nature, which describes in detail the strange solitary pursuits of the reclusive French nobleman Des Esseintes, was written by Joris-Karl Huysmans, a humble civil servant, in 1874. In Hunger dreams and creative thinking are born out of physical suffering and serve as a distraction and tool for survival. In Against Nature they arise out of a desperate wish for escape from the mundane realities of life and ordinary pleasures. Both books demonstrate for us the cycle of attempted escape from the world through new schemes and fantasies, and the cruel fall back down to the confusion and baseness of reality.

The plot of Against Nature is extremely straightforward. The young Des Esseintes, a sickly, dreamy boy educated at a Jesuit school, marked by their religion but too much of an independent spirit to accept it, inherits his parents fortune and attempts to squander it in the usual manner among his contemporaries. He can find nothing in common with anyone around him, finds their pleasures dull and pale. The old nobility, “endlessly repeating insipid monologues and immemorial phrases. The fleur de lis, which you find if you cut the stalk of a fern, was apparently also the only thing that remained impressed on the softening pulp inside these ancient skulls”. Other students of religious schools "docile, good-looking ninnies, congenital dunces who had worn their masters patience thin, but had none the less satisfied their desire to send pious, obedient creatures out into the world”. Students of pubic schools, “less hypocritical and more adventurous, but no more interesting....their debauchery struck him as being base and facile, entered into without discrimination or desire, indeed without any real stirring of the blood or stimulation of the nerves” He comes to realize that there is no hope “of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude”. I guess this “studious decrepitude” is one of the guiding themes of the book, for after giving up on the society around him, Des Esseintes sells his ancestral home, buys a small manor on the outskirts of Paris, and begins to furnish it in such a way that he can retreat from the world to pursue his strange passions.

From here the book becomes a sort of guidebook for the perverse, misanthropic intellectual. Some of Des Esseintes' pleasures are eccentricities reserved for the wealthy, such as a short lived diamond encrusted tortoise, collections of exotic perfumes and liqueurs that he uses to compose symphonies of smell and taste, and a collection of tropical plants. But he takes most of his enjoyment from novels, poems, and paintings, which inspire strange fancies in his sickly mind and send him off on secret reveries. The novel describes these works in great detail and it becomes a sort of hymn to the dreamy, sinister, obscure masterpieces through the ages. Though we are the very bourgeoisie boors that he detests, we can, as is our class custom, steal his cultured selections for our own muted enjoyment. Anyone who reads this far might be assumed to harbour some of Des Esseintes' secret diseases in their heart, and will find some escape and new realms of dream and nightmare in these works

Petronious' Satryricon: The antidote to all the high flown philosophy and epic poems we usually read from the ancients. “This realistic novel, this slice cut from Roman life in the raw, with no thought, whatever people may say, of reforming or satirizing society, and no need to fake a conclusion or point a moral; this story with no plot or action in it, simply relating the erotic adventures of certain sons of Sodom....without any comment whatever, without a word of approval or condemnation of his characters' thoughts and actions, the vices of a decrepit civilization, a crumbling empire” In this novel “the society of the day has its fling- depraved ruffians, out for what they can get, unnatural old men with their gowns tucked up and their cheeks plastered with rouge, catamites of sixteen, plump and curly headed, women having hysterics, legacy hunters offering their boys and girls to gratify the lust of the rich testators, all of these and more scurry across the pages of the Satyricon, squabbling in the streets, fingering one another in the baths, beating one another up like characters in a pantomime”

I have read this on Des Esseintes' recommendation and can assure you that it deserves his high praise.

Find it here:

http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/gutbook/lookup?num=5611

Gustave Moreau: “This mystical pagan, this illuminee who could shut out the modern world so completely as to behold, in the heart of present day Paris, the awful visions and magical apotheoses of other ages....downcast and sorrowful, haunted by the symbols of superhuman passions and superhuman perversities, of divine debauches perpetrated without enthusiasm and without hope...his sad and scholarly works breathed a strange magic”

Salome: 

The Apparition: 

Bresdin: Comedy of Death

Jean Luyken: 

Goya: 

Odilon Redon: 

Mallarme “A wonderfully condensed style, an essence of literature, a sublimate of art”

Verlaine “his originality lay above all in his ability to communicate deliciously vague confidences in a whisper in the twilight. He alone had posessed the secret of hinting at certain strange spiritual aspirations, of whispering certain thoughts...so softly, so quietly, so haltingly that the ear that caught them was left hesitating, and passed on to the soul a languor made more pronounced by the vagueness of these words that were guessed at rather than heard.”

Edmond de Goncourt “dream inducing suggestiveness...beneath the printed line lurked another line visible only to the soul, indicated by an epithet that opened up vast vistas of passion, by a reticence that hinted at spiritual infinities no other idiom could compass”

Baudelaire,”He had descended to the bottom of the inexhaustible mine, had picked his way along abandoned or unexplored galleries, and had finally reached those districts of the soul where the monstrous vegetation of the sick mind flourish.”

Poe “with awful fascination he dwelt on the effects of terror, on the failures of will power, and discussed them with clinical objectivity, making the readers flesh creep...at the recital of these mechanically devised nightmares of a fevered brain”

He sleeps all day, rises at dusk, and spends his waking hours in art induced dreams, re reading his favourite works, studying his paintings, spraying perfumes or sipping drinks that also serve to draw him into strange worlds of fantasy. The art and literature that Huysmans' exhaustively catalogues is all worth investigating. We can make ourselves subtle and misunderstood with the help of a few handy paintings and books. All seem to contain “feverish desire for the unknown, the unsatisfied longing for an ideal, the craving to escape from the horrible realities of life, to cross the frontiers of thought, to grope after a certainty, albeit without finding one, in the misty upper regions of art”. All of them allow some escape from the banalities of life, find some black humour in pointing out its absurdities, and all of them ultimately reflect the brooding, melancholy character of anyone who tries to think too deeply about existence. Yet all these works of art are spoken about with a reverence that is not often found, and this reverence elevates the novel from a character portrait into something more. Of course our hero is also in turmoil, trying to find peace in solitude but only becoming entangled in his own riddles. Des Esseintes turns away from the world with an almost religious resignation, collects religious writing and artifacts, but is far too jaded to simply allow grace to shine into his heart. He interprets and twists everything according to his sick disposition.

“The belief that man is an irresolute creature pulled this way and that by two forces of equal strength, alternately winning and losing the battle for his soul, the conviction that human life is nothing more than an uncertain struggle between heaven and hell; the faith in two opposed entities, Satan and Christ- all this was bound to engender those internal discords in which the soul, excited by the incessant fighting, stimulated as it were by the constant promises and threats, ends up by giving in and prostitutes itself to whichever of the two combatants has been the more obstinate in its pursuit” (161)

As the novel goes on, Des Esseintes becomes physically ill, quickly weakens, and is told by his doctor that the only cure is to give up his solitary life and pleasures for a return to the city. Near death, he gives in to the doctors wishes, and begins to rage against the society that he must return to.

“After the aristocracy of birth, it was now the turn of the aristocracy of wealth, the caliphate of the counting house...the tyranny of commerce with its narrow minded, venal ideas, its selfish, rascally instincts.

More cunning and contemptible than the impoverished aristocracy and the discredited clergy, the bourgeoisie borrowed their frivolous love of show and their old world arrogance, which it cheapened through its own lack of taste, and stole their natural defects, which it turned into hypocritical vices. Overbearing and underhand in behaviour, base and cowardly in character, it ruthlessly shot down its perennial dupe, the mob, which it had previously unmuzzled and sent flying at the throats of the old castes.

Now it was all over. Once it had done its job, the plebs had been bled white in the interests of public hygiene, while the jovial bourgeois lorded it over the country, putting his trust in the power of his money and the contagiousness of his stupidity. The result of his rise to power had been the supression of all intelligence, the negation of all honesty, the destruction of all art; in fact, artists and writers in all their degradation had fallen on their knees and were covering with ardent kisses the stinking feet of the high placed jobbers and low bred satraps on whose charity they depended for a living. ....The bourgeois were guzzling like picnickers from paper bags among the imposing ruins of the Church- ruins which had become a place of assignation, a pile of debris defiled by unspeakable jokes and scandalous jests...could it be that this slime would go on spreading until it covered with its pestilential filth this old world where now only seeds of iniquity sprang up and only harvests of shame were gathered?”

This sort of writing is the chief attraction of the book. There are few tirades in all literature equal in eloquence and venom. Now, I, this middle class lout of the future, find myself in yet another peculiar comedic situation. Undoubtedly some of Huysmans' writing here is ironic, for Des Esseintes is a sort of over the top Type, decadent to the point of absurdity. At times the author is having a laugh at his expense, such as when his tortoise with the gold and diamond shell almost immediately drops dead, or when he decides after reading Dickens to travel to London only to visit the local English pub and quickly return home. But there is undoubtedly some honest venom against the ignorant of the day, and the novels and paintings are described with an honest love that cannot be mere satire. Huysmans is perhaps escaping his own mundanities by writing about this ridiculous, exaggerated escape artist of the soul, and we as readers are seeking perhaps to escape as well or perhaps only to paint ourselves with a thin veneer of put-on melancholy and false intellectual depth. Des Esseintes is a challenge to us aspiring appreciators of fine literature and art, for can we really feel as deeply as he does the sensations the artist tries to evoke in us, can we really immerse ourselves as deeply in the false world that art attempts to create? It is strange in a way that Des Esseintes is not a writer himself, does not attempt to emulate any of those he admires. Perhaps the greatest artist does not share his work, perhaps through the inspiration of others he sends his soul into solitary worlds of dual origin where only he is worthy of perceiving the unspeakable beauty of what lies within. This is truly an act of love, to take what another has created and to join with it in spirit to enter into a new realm never seen again before or after. But of course the old joke is always lurking. We cannot escape. The quest ends in failure, in a forced return to the dreaded society. And what exactly were we thinking when we tried to escape? My own dreams proved oh so pale compared to the crude jokes and strivings of those around me, who were only trying to show me the true path. Even such a great dreamer as Des Esseintes finds his fantasies shattered in the end. Us, who dream in black and white and barely feel or remember the meaning, must depend on others to provide us with true emotions, true thoughts, the highest of art in my experience. The simplest night of joking with friends can sometimes stand above the subtlest tome. Or perhaps I have gone horribly wrong. Why am I writing here alone to no one? About this book? Trying to read again all these authors that themselves do not know the end of the lonely path we seekers stumble down, drunk on the dead dreams of other deviants. I will keep rambling until I realize that I have fulfilled my random requirement, to find in this book the absurd life I preach, the love for art and strangeness that allows us to escape for a while, and of course the laughter echoing from all sides, the spittle coming out of the gullets of the healthy and raining down upon us.