Do the Forced Labor Bop: a previously published underground film review

This article was originally published in the apparently defunct, waywordwell website. Some correspondence between myself and Sara Weis and Arturo Cubacub the filmmaker artists behind the film seemed to have been in the works to be published at the also now defunct GetUnderground webzine. I will be republishing the waywordwell article today. I also just today learn that Arturo died December of 2018. He was an amazing artist and innovator who took the time to correspond me in great deal. As I said, I had planned to publish some quotes and snippets from correspondence and an editor was on track to do so but said magazine no longer exists so I will be reprinting here at some time once I’ve had time to process Arturo’s death. A man who I spent maybe an hour with on the phone and just a couple dozen or more pages of correspondence but just his taking his time and taking me seriously made quite a difference at that time. He will be missed and the art world suffers with his loss.

Do the forced labor bop

Philip Fairbanks

It started as a harmless Youtube search. Because I can’t get enough of my fix of Japanese bossa nova, I decided to do a search for Shibuya-kei, a Japanese musical movement epitomized by bands like Flipper’s Guitar, Pizzicato 5 and Fantastic Plastic Machine. I see this clip for a “mini-epic,” entitled B-17. It’s a trailer for a short film inspired by Shibuya-kei and manga. This, I thought, has got to be dreadfully awesome, or painfully terrible.

Turns out it was dreadful, painful and terrible. Most of all, though, it was awesome. It’s the story of Silly White Girl AKA Sarah Weis, who spends her days making pro-war polo shirts and being a sex slave locked in a sub-sub-sub-basement of the White House. Major Orwellian overtones and black comedy in the vein of Brautigan and Vonnegut combine with disturbing scenes of the life of a girl who wakes up to find herself trapped and under constant surveillance in a dungeon/pleasure den.

It’s kind of a musical, in that there are two scenes that are as much music video montage and story and the soundtrack, performed on moog and theremin, was written and performed by Sarah Weis and Arturo Cubacub.

Arturo films and directs the piece based on a performance piece by Sarah. Arturo, internationally acclaimed for his award winning films, directs the piece which is based on 19 year old Sarah’s performance piece.

I would give a synopsis, but according to Sarah and Arturo, the air of mystery is too important. Suffice it to say, in all but the last scene, Sarah is the only human actor. Other parts are played by, according to the credits the Man(nequin). The film is disturbing, disorienting and makes me want to join Amnesty International. It’s humorous in a very dark way, but after reading news about detainees being stripped of dignity and tortured, I can’t laugh too hard. The film conceptualizes the madness of post-9/11 America. It envisions a world where no one is safe from our protectors who already have the right to surveillance, phone taps and other civil rights breaches.

The entire film is available on Youtube.com and can be found at http://www.youtube.com/bseventeen. Check out the trailers and start at episode one if you want it to make any sense. Don’t miss chapters like “The brand of the free,” or “I heart the war on terrorism.” I contacted the creators and gave them my impression. I said they made John Waters and David Lynch look like Walt Disney and Norman Rockwell. Arturo jokingly replied that their aim was to “make Walt Disney and Norman Rockwell look like Joseph Thorak and Leni Riefenstahl.” Copies of the dvd are for sale at http://b-seventeen.com.

Ghettoblaster, 2007: Special Report: Bewilderoo, TN

Still awaiting surgery, so since I can’t sit up and type out long form pieces for the moment, here’s a little blast from the past. I was lucky enough to get press passes to cover Bonnaroo every year between 2003 and 2009 on behalf of Get Underground, Ghettoblaster, AMP magazine and Spacelab. This is the first section of my attempt at gonzo music journalism, Summer of 2007 in Manchester, Tennessee. You can find the link to the full piece from Ghettoblaster at the bottom of the page. But without further ado, welcome to Bewilderoo…

SPECIAL REPORT: BEWILDEROO, TN

AUGUST 1, 2007

A not so common look at the not so common festival.

by Phillip Fairbanks

Though the festivities didn’t begin until June, my Bonnaroo story begins in March, when I got my confirmation that I would indeed be receiving press credentials and tickets for the big show. In a way, here in early July, I’m coming full circle as I put pen to paper in attempts to capture some literary tincture of that magic something, that “temporary autonomous zone” that for four days in Manchester, Tennessee is known as Bonnaroo.

The first elements are preparation and anticipation. March through June were a whirlwind of consciousness expansion including, but not limited to, ingestion of obscure, legal herbs from the Oaxacan, Mayan and Aztec canon, shadowboxing, glossolalia, yoga and failed attempts at emulating the painfully intricate moving meditation of Master Li Hongzhi’s Falun Dafa. At about the same time, I was working on a sort of counterculture Tony Robbins, a la Tim Leary and Robert Anton Wilson that resulted in pages of maps, models, schemas, tips, tricks, mantras and insufferably incoherent psychobabble based on anchoring intense states for ready retrieval. Here I was treading on dangerous waters. My roommates at the time, who had dealt with this quasi-psychotic behavior since March had had enough by the time May rolled around.

Armed with new and activated knowledge, or as Bob Wilson deems it “neuro-somatic knowhow,” I didn’t let this snag steal the momentum of the movement, but consciously down-shifted at this point. Besides, after a frightening Salvia Divinorum experiment gone awry, it seemed high time to arc down my emotional parabola.

Being a small town boy from a rural area, having something as big as Bonnaroo breeze through once a year next door, so to speak, is a dreamlike experience. Being at times, a pretentious performance artist for an audience of one, constantly crafting an opus I like to call, my life, the annual festival down on the farm down the road is always an ordeal, a crucible and a rite, not merely a convergence of people, art, music and drugs (though these are typical cornerstones of many ancient ritual festivals as well). Needless to say I got no sleep Wednesday night and word comes that they’re letting folks in to set up camp so we head to Manchester.

I get dropped off Thursday morning around 3:30 in the A.M. By the time sun comes up my tent is still unpacked. It’s hot and there are thousands of people surrounding me in every direction. I’m closed in. Bonnaroo has become overnight. A rush of adrenaline tinged terror wraps icy tendrils about me. I know that my notorious lack of direction will ensure that I will lose my site if I leave. After meeting Will and his group, I decide it might be safe to leave as long as I don’t get separated from them and lose all chance of ever rediscovering my campsite. Already I’m feeling that soft sadness that accompanies this small town boy’s Bonnaroo experience. It’s beautiful, like life, but like life its over before its begun, and I make sure to soak up every ounce of that weird tincture of emotions that infectiously spreads. Like Norman from New Jersey had corroborated earlier. The world is a strange and weird place.

I get dropped off Thursday morning around 3:30 in the A.M. By the time sun comes up my tent is still unpacked. It’s hot and there are thousands of people surrounding me in every direction. I’m closed in. Bonnaroo has become overnight. A rush of adrenaline tinged terror wraps icy tendrils about me. I know that my notorious lack of direction will ensure that I will lose my site if I leave. After meeting Will and his group, I decide it might be safe to leave as long as I don’t get separated from them and lose all chance of ever rediscovering my campsite. Already I’m feeling that soft sadness that accompanies this small town boy’s Bonnaroo experience. It’s beautiful, like life, but like life its over before its begun, and I make sure to soak up every ounce of that weird tincture of emotions that infectiously spreads. Like Norman from New Jersey had corroborated earlier. The world is a strange and weird place.

Read more at Ghettoblaster.