Rage against the machine means so much more than a rap metal band

Rage against the machine means so much more than a rap metal band
                        
There was a band called Rage Against the Machine back in the ‘90s and, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t tell you a single song they recorded. But I love the name. For all I know, they’re still making music that matters to lots of people. If so, that’s very cool. As you know, I’m old school and have pretty much turned a deaf ear to anything recorded after I turned 40. And, considering the fact that I’ll be (gulp) two decades beyond that milestone when my wife treats to me a birthday weekend on Ocracoke early next year, that means that my opinion on current music is a voided check. Which isn’t to say, necessarily, that I’m totally out of touch, since I have an XM radio, but that’s the point. The machine hardly ever works. And I rage against it. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t climbed the ladder to the roof of the house and just drop-kicked the thing into the woods; believe me, I’ve been THAT aggravated with it. But based on way the things have been going since my wife and I got back from our October vacation, I’d have a dozen machines that have let me down. A quick Top 5 countdown might include: 5. The turntable 4. The computer 3. The TV/VCR/DVD 2. The Kindle 1. Everything else is dead or dying, including the microwave, the printer, the scanner, the automated picture frame, the dryer, the digital camera, the cable, the wireless connection, the cell phone and the refrigerator, not to mention my 1991 Honda Civic, which has been in an auto-induced coma since August 2012. Nothing, in summation, works, except me and I can’t even enjoy a rare day off without having to drag yet another non-working item to the roof and kicking it into oblivion. Well … it’s not that bad, actually. I mean, I still have a transistor radio and a cooler, a charcoal grill and my 1976 Schwinn Varsity 10-speed. It’s lime green and it’s still rolling up the miles. Those are the core four luxuries of my existence and I’m grateful for them. Still, I rage … against … the machines. Have you seen “I, Robot,” the movie starring Will Smith, based on Isaac Asimov’s story? Or was it Ray Bradbury? Always get ‘em mixed up. Its basic premise is that, in the future, machines will revolt and take over the world. To my way of thinking, we’re almost already there. Some of the film is very good and I happen to think that Will Smith is an accomplished actor, despite some serious missteps. I mean, “Men in Black” is a classic, and I have a soft spot for “Wild, Wild West” and “Ali” is among the best sports biopics. He doesn’t trust robots. The corporate world embraces them. That’s your classic underdog story and, though I won’t spoil the ending, there’s hope after the corporate world is proven wrong. But when I watched it on the computer, the picture was shaky, the soundtrack skipped and the quality of the production was compromised. What to do in that situation except to acknowledge the tasty irony, shut down the dangerous machine and take a long walk down by water? That was my solution. Afterwards, I built a fine fire in something my wife calls a “chimnea,” which occupies a place of prominence on our patio. It was a cozy time, just me and the flames and a nearly full moon shining through the whispering pines. Real wood. Real crackling. Real quiet. Real comforting. But you can’t live that way for long, can you? Of course not. Raging against the machines is like trying hold back the ocean with a tennis racket. But there’s hope. In “I, Robot,” Will Smith has a sweet stereo system that isn’t controlled by artificial intelligence and when his colleague, some pretty scientist, tries to get it work with voice commands, he laughs. It’s not THAT kind of machine, he explains … humans have control of the music. In that spirit, I played the Raspberries greatest hits the other afternoon after another midnight shift and I came to the conclusion that Eric Carmen fronted Ohio’s best-ever band. Sure, I was way tired. And I was looking for something fine in a world that seemed shut down and hostile. But I love those tunes: “Go All the Way” and “Tonight” and “Ecstasy” and “Overnight Sensation,” which is nearly a perfect single, in the same rarified air as “Lodi,” “Reelin’ in the Years,” “The Rain, the Park and Other Things” and – dare I say it? – “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Not a false note. Not a misstep. Not a second that can’t be savored. Hey. Wait. Got some insight. It was only because a lot of machines working together that I was able to dance around to those tunes. Ooops. All is forgiven, machines. Just, please, stop being such harbingers of bad luck. If my car can’t run, can I have a way to watch “Buffy” reruns? Maybe Notre Dame football, too? Thanks, oh mighty machines. Mike Dewey can be reached at CarolinamikeD@aol.com.


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