Cover art for “Anaconda” single.

2014 has been proclaimed the year of the booty. This is, in part, due to the onslaught of butt songs, like “Booty” by J. Lo and Iggy Azalea, “Wiggle” by Jason Derulo and Snoop Dogg, and “All About that Bass” by Meghan Trainor. Even “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift seems to be about shaking your rump, as a cast of multicultural characters join Swift in shaking it through the video.

One of the most popular songs is “Anaconda,” by Nicki Minaj. As you can see in the cover art for the single, she is squatting down in a thong, bra and some blue Air Jordan’s, looking over her shoulder and inviting the male gaze in a textbook example of to-be-looked-at-ness. The “Parental Advisory” label on her rump centers our focus on her derriere, a visual symbol of this song’s central motif: Minaj’s butt. “Anaconda” is an homage to Sir Mix-A-Lot’s 1992 song “Baby Got Back,” and samples Mix-A-Lot’s lyric, “My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun” as part of her chorus. Let’s forget that the music video presents a visual montage of Minaj’s butt from many angles to demonstrate that indeed, she does have “buns.” Minaj tells us through this song that the men she encounters and pleases with her sexual prowess can tell “I ain’t missing no meals,” that they “love this fat ass,” and dedicates this song to “my bitches with a fat ass in the fucking club.” She then dismisses slim ladies with the anthem “Fuck the skinny bitches! Fuck the skinny bitches in the club!” Beyond these lyrics, the synthesized bass line, also sampled from “Baby Got Back” works as an aural keynote that connotes the booty throughout this song.

“Anaconda” and “Baby Got Back” are two examples of the plethora of songs about ladies’ behinds. Popular music has been explicitly telling “Fat Bottomed Girls” to “Shake Shake Shake” Their Booties since at least the 1970s. Looking at lists like VH1’s Booty Booty Booty: 15 Greatest Songs About Butts, Buzzfeeds’ 10 Of The Best Songs About Butts or Shape Magazine’s list of Booty Tunes: 10 Tracks to Get Your Rear in Gear, there is a lot of butt music out there. Trace Adkins country song “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk” reminds us that white people like booties too. For the most part, however, booty songs are hip-hop songs performed by male artists. Which brings me to the racialized and gendered nature of booty music.

Sarah Baartman on display in London.

Singing about butts is culturally significant, and exoticizing the bodies of women of color dates back centuries. African woman Sarah “Saartjie” Baartman was exhibited in London and France as the “Hottentot Venus” in the early 1800s. She was dressed in minimal tribal garb that emphasized her “primitive” background and distinct physical features, but most specifically on display was her bottom. Baartman’s exhibition functioned to reinforce cultural ideas of racial difference between Caucasians and Africans, as well as a gendered-racial hierarchy in which blackness became articulated with the body, primitivism, and hypersexuality.

The exoticization and fetishization of non-white female bottoms is thus nothing new. However, songs like LL Cool J’s 1989 “Big Ole Butt,” or Mos Def’s 1999 “Ms. Fat Booty” are not cut-and-dry misogynistic objectification. In many ways, these songs reject hegemonic white beauty standards and celebrate the beauty of African American women. Take, for instance, the way Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” begins with the irritating  white valley girls criticizing a black women. The song uses this as as spring board to lampoon and dismiss white beauty ideals, mocking Cosmo and pop stars like Madonna.  Mix-A-Lot tells us “You can have them bimbos, I’ll keep my women like Flo Jo. A word to the thick soul sisters, I wanna get with ya.” However, inherent in many booty songs is also an unequal power dynamic between the men performing and the women on display. In most booty songs by male artists, they describe what they want in a woman – a fat ass, bubble butt, bedonkadonk, dumps like a truck– and what they want women do with their body. This results in commands like “wiggle wiggle,” “shake ya ass,” “get that thing jiggling,” and more. Here then, male booty songs dismember and define women through their butts, and they become erotic objects that are exulted, while also being evaluated, judged, and subjugated.

Is it then empowering when female artists like Trainor and Minaj sing about their own butts? When Destiny’s Child tells an assumed male spectator that he is “not ready for this jelly” in the song “Bootylicious,” are they exerting female strength? Is it a feminist act for Fergie to sing about her “humps?” Maybe. I cannot watch Minaj’s “Anaconda” and not be overcome by both the strength of her aggression and confidence, along with her sexual objectification. Trainor sings of her body and her “base” as a non-conformist symbol of defiance against the hyper-thin photoshopped beauty ideals we see in fashion magazines, and in this sense her song pushes back against mainstream beauty ideals. However, overall, these songs still define women by their beauty and ability to attract a man within the boundaries of a heterosexual relationship. I am also conflicted whether or not Meghan Trainor’s song “I’m All About That Bass” culturally appropriates the butt from women of color, especially given the way she uses colloquial terms like boom-boom, and junk. I think her vocal performance also conjures blackness through the timbre and pitch of her voice. Is it cultural appropriation for white women to sing about their booties when this association between non-whiteness, butts, and hypersexuality is itself rooted in racist, colonial practices and discourses of racial difference? What do you think, dear reader? Post below. Whatever your thoughts, I hope this post reminds us that, while it may be “the year of the booty,” booty music is a site of complex and ambivalent discourses about social power.

A young Patrick McDreamy Dempsey as JFK in Reckless Youth.

In the history of broadcast television in the United States, there have been no less than eight fictional historical mini-series and made-for-TV movies about the Kennedy family.Those that have focused on JFK specifically include ABC’s 1974 made-for-TV movie Missiles of October, which told the story of the Kennedy Administration’s actions during the Cuban Missile Crisis and based. There is also NBC’s 1983 Kennedy, which is a five-part mini-series depicting JFK’s presidency, and notably starred Martin Sheen as the ill-fated president. ABC showed the three-part miniseries The Kennedys of Massachusetts in 1990, which primarily focuses on the early history of the family, beginning with Joseph Kennedy’s courtship of Rose Fitzgerald and ending with JFK’s inauguration speech. One of my personal favorites is ABC’s 1993 miniseries JFK: Reckless Youth, which starred Patrick Dempsey as John F. Kennedy, and chronicled JFK’s youth through to his first congressional election. These representations, for the most part, reinforce JFK’s public persona as a cold war warrior, and are emblematic of a 1960s brand of New Frontiersman masculinity, typified by his reputation as a brilliant scholar and athlete at an Ivy League university, and membership within groups mainly exclusive to men, including boarding schools, fraternities, the military, clubs, and government. And yet, also personalized by his unique Boston accent, and Irish Catholic ethnicity.

In January, 2011, The History Channel announced that it would not be airing its mini-series The Kennedys for U.S. audiences. THC picked up The Kennedys project in December, 2009, and it starred Greg Kinnear as JFK, Katie Holmes as Jacqueline Kennedy, and was produced by 24 creator Joel Surnow. It was part of the network’s greater push from Executive Vice President and General Manager Nancy Dubuc to expand into glossy, cinematic fare, and The Kennedys was slated to be THC’s first scripted original docudrama program. As you may know, THC decided to drop The Kennedys after a series of protests online at Stop Kennedy Smears, although it still aired on THC’s global network in the UK, Canada, Australia and elsewhere. Looking at the objections protestors had about The Kennedys, which were based on leaked copies of the miniseries script, it is clear the JFK’s masculinity is at the forefront of concerns. Protestors comments that this miniseries demeans JFK’s legacy by making him out to be emotionally and physically weak, portraying him as a man with a crippling back injury, as well as a sex addict and a drug addict. This public outcry illuminates how The Kennedys was interpreted as a challenge to JFK’s mythic New Frontiersman masculinity.

The infamous 2011 The Kennedys mini-series is a bit heavy handed in its re-telling of John F. Kennedy’s story. The Kennedys begins its program with an emphasis on JFK’s back pain, and throughout the series is aggressive in its characterization of Jack Kennedy as an incapacitated leader during his presidency. This is compounded as he is treated in secret for his back pain with shots of methamphetamine, and when he isn’t grimacing in pain, or getting doped up on meth, he is usually overshadowed by a father he cannot stand up to or lying to Jackie about his infidelities. And while some of these aspects may be backed up by historical evidence, it is a portrayal US audiences are not accustomed to seeing, and which did not resonant with some viewers’ conception of who JFK was. What this does demonstrate is the role of audiences in historical meaning making through television, as well as the contested nature of historical television and collective memory.

National Geographic’s Killing Kennedy is the most recent JFK historical docudrama to air on television in the United States. In the As you know, it is not the first televisual account of JFK’s life, however it is the first to be based on a book written by Bill O’Reilly, directed by Ridley Scott, and starring Rob Lowe in the titular role as Kennedy. His Kennedy accent alone is worth the watch. This miniseries is perhaps different from its predecessors in the way it parallels the story of JFK and Jackie along side Lee Harvey Oswald and his Russian wife Marina. In this sense, it is an attempt to reassert the official narrative about JFK’s assassination by a lone gunman on the grassy knoll, and attempts to explain Oswald’s motivations for killing the president. O’Reilly’s book is reportedly full of factual inaccuracies, and this straightforward story about the assassination challenges the conspiracy theories still circulating about JFK’s death. Nevertheless, Killing Kennedy drew 3.4 M viewers to National Geographic when it aired on Sunday, November 10th, which is a viewership record for National Geographic. More importantly, both the production investments in big name producers, stars, and a Hollywood director, as well as the popularity of Killing Kennedy, demonstrate the continued fascination with retelling JFK’s story through televisual docudrama.

As many scholars have noted, including Michele Hilmes in the recently published Radio’s New Wave (2013), radio has traditionally been considered an ephemeral medium defined by the simultaneity and liveness of broadcasting. Yet, I argue that part of the reason the WOTW broadcast has come to be so famous and notorious is that it has continued to circulate in our culture through discourse, as well as through material artifacts. This repetition shapes the cultural meanings associated with the 1938 production in ways that are different from the immediate cultural impact it had at the time of its original broadcast.

TMTOTA‘s performance of WOTW seems engineered for immediate impact as a sensational Halloween prank intended to shock, and impress critics, listeners, and other radio practitioners as a live program. This intention is implicit in the realism of TMTOTA‘s update of  WOTW’s setting from H.G. Wells’ original Victorian England location to then-present day New Jersey, along with the use of a news bulletin format for the first two-thirds of  WOTW. The infamous panic caused by the broadcast was probably also encouraged by TMTOTA‘s distinction (at the time) as a commercial-free sustaining program; listeners tuning in mid-broadcast might have believed they were listening to news of an actual alien invasion because they did not hear the product placement or reference to sponsors present in most of the other entertainment radio of that era.

The WOTW live broadcast was immediately significant in 1938 in several ways. It made Orson Welles and TMTOTA famous, which enticed Campbell’s Soup into sponsoring TMTOTA (the program became The Campbell Playhouse in December 1938). “War of the Worlds” also became a lightning rod for radio’s supposedly dangerous potential in the public sphere, and it was subsequently studied by the famous Radio Research Project. It also functioned as a way for listeners to make sense of World War II and the fear of invasion by foreign, aka “alien,” enemies.  These meanings are there for us to consider, but as contemporary audiences listen to the original broadcast through multimedia platforms like YouTube, listeners are positioned as temporal tourists of a sort. As the recording plays, audiences are treated to period photographs of Welles performing, as well as the hum and hiss of an older, analog recording, which adds a patina of age that invites listeners to revel in its pastness.

Orson Welles’ assures audiences at the end of WOTW there is no alien invasion, saying this performance  has “no further significance.” This is certainly not the case, as it was absolutely intended to have be immediately culturally significance. Yet, neither CBS, Welles, nor other members of the TMTOTA could have anticipated its longevity within our media culture. Indeed, beyond the film Radio Days, WOTW has become an intertextual marker throughout our media culture to signify moral panic and the duplicity of media audiences, and it has been referenced with pastiche in television shows like Futurama. Indeed, 75 years later, the radio broadcast of “War of the Worlds” has come to be a significant artifact of residual radio, a term which I use rather than the fan term “old time radio” (OTR), although sometimes this term can be useful to define this community of enthusiasts. The term “old time radio” connotes the pastness of these radio recordings, however, building on Raymond Williams’ discussion of dominant, emerging, and residual media, I use the term residual radio to express how radio artifacts transform and change over time.

Like other recordings of radio from the first half of the 20th Century, WOTW was produced at a time when radio was considered the dominant form of domestic entertainment. The WOTW broadcast and subsequent overwhelming reaction emphasize the dominance of radio entertainment in the 1930s, a presence intended within WOTW’s original commercial network radio production culture. I argue that its lingering presence in our media culture is, conversely, residual: it continues to be present within media culture despite the indifference or neglect of the dominant media industry that originally produced it. Contemporary interest in WOTW is perpetuated by radio enthusiasts, historians, and others long after any profit imperative exists for CBS. This is made possible by several factors, the least of which is the preservation and availability of WOTW’s live broadcast on lacquer transcription discs, which have been used to distribute it as a material artifact for listeners, scholars, and radio producers to rebroadcast it.

 The 1938 WOTW radio broadcast was first commercially released in 1968 by the Longines Symphonette Society (LSS) as a vinyl LP. It had been electronically rechanneled to simulate stereo from the original transcription discs. This was part of LSS’s larger project of selling compilations of radio drama, along with other labels which were also selling OTR compilations in the late 1960s, such as Nostalgia Lane or Golden Age Records. As Derek Kompare has argued about TV DVDs, selling radio programs as discrete objects changes our interactions with them; they become something collectible, and for radio drama, they become a marker of their residuality in our culture through the nostalgic paratexts (such as packaging) that often accompany them. This 1968 release occurs during what I would call the first wave of nostalgia following the end of radio drama’s institutional presence on network radio in 1962.  WOTW was released as a cassette tape by Metacom as part of their Radio Reruns cassette series in 1977, which I think marks another moment when we see a cultural revival of radio drama occuring shortly after CBS’ began producing CBS Mystery Theater in 1974, which was a radio anthology series that showcased science fiction and horror radio drama similar to that of The Whistler or Inner Sanctum Mysteries, and the syndication of classic radio productions from the commercial network radio by local radio broadcasters, such as KNX 1070 in Los Angeles. The continued presence of radio drama, either from the classic network era or in the style of old radio drama, demonstrates the continued interest and engagement with radio drama by audiences.

WOTW’s notoriety is obviously explicitly a result of the attention the mainstream media gave it at the time, as well as the fame and success that followed Orson Welles ascendance in film, and subsequently, his position in the critical and academic canon of auteurs.  However, WOTW’s circulation through LP, cassette, rebroadcast, and mp3 also implicitly shapes how people look back at this time in entertainment history, while also allowing this recording to become an object of fetishism and desire.

Today, WOTW is available to purchase as an mp3 on iTunes, Amazon, and other sites that offer radio files from a bygone time. This technology allows us to pause, rewind, and play WOTW while surrounded by its paratexts, whether it be the album cover showcasing newspaper headlines from the time, or links in the side bar to YouTube videos of Orson Welles apologizing to the press for scaring listeners at home. The circulation of the WOTW radio broadcast encourages a contemporary spectatorship in which WOTW is not only a sensational or thrilling drama, but also a nostalgic and familiar object whose different material incarnations are sold to collectors on Ebay, and whose minor details are debated by fans online. This forum, for instance, is composed of fans that were born long after the original broadcast and yet still debate why people tuned into the WOTW original broadcasts late and missed the disclaimer that it was a fictional program. These debates, and others, point to WOTW’s function in the everyday life of listeners who engage with residual radio.  As Cornel Sandvoss has argued about other fan behavior, this artifact and its cultural meanings become a mirror for fans.  It can be a symbol of their superior knowledge of history, of their taste in quality programming, or their engagement with Orson Welles’ celebrity across media platforms. And in this way, it gives us a case study to consider how broadcast media continues to circulate in our culture long after its initial distribution over the airwaves, and how it comes to have different meanings for listeners across time and space.

Talk of the Nation, National Public Radio’s (NPR) daily call-in program, broadcast its final show on Thursday, June 27th. Talk of the Nation (TOTN) has been a part of NPR’s programming bundle since 1992, and has been anchored by current host Neal Conan since 2002. NPR is replacing TOTN with an expanded two-hour version of the previously one-hour afternoon news magazine program Here and Now. Here and Now is produced by Boston public radio station WBUR and previously distributed by rival network Public Radio International (PRI). Apparently the TOTN Friday program, Science Fridays with Ira Flatow will be produced as a stand alone program and still distributed every Friday (flew!).

The Talk of the Nation studio last Thursday, June 27th. Photo by Kainaz Amaria, NPR multimedia staff.

This change in programming at NPR is significant for several reasons. First, while NPR executives deny that cancelling TOTN is related to last year’s $7M budget deficit, replacing it by distributing a program made by a large local member station like WBUR relieves them of both the costs and risks associated with in-house production. Second, in collaborating with Boston’s local public radio station WBUR to expand and distribute Here and Now, NPR seems to be taking a page out of the PRI playbook–which reminds us that public radio’s institutional structures in the US are more complex than many realize. I wonder how many people understand the decentralized structure of public radio, wherein the very term NPR has become generic for all public radio, while in fact there are two competing public radio networks, NPR and PRI. These networks operate similarly to national commercial TV networks in that programming is sent to a network of local member stations (public radio lingo for affiliates).  However, other than the obvious difference of a non-profit production culture, public radio operates differently from national networks in that all programming decisions happen on the local level, and NPR member stations can also buy programming a la carte from PRI.  And unless you are streaming content directly from NPR or downloading a PRI podcast (like This American Life, Markeplace, or Prairie Home Companion) you are probably listening to NPR and PRI content via your local public radio station, where it is scheduled alongside local programming as well. This is Wisconsin Public Radio (WPR) where I live in Madison, however, I was just talking with other parents at my daughter’s school PTA meeting who continue to call WPR “NPR” even after I correct them. FYI, this type of behavior will not endear you to other people on the PTA, although if it were me, I would want to know I was wrong.

But back to Talk of the Nation. While denying that this change is a result of budget cuts, programming executives attempt to explain that member stations were hungry “for a stronger news presence in the middle of the day,” something almost exactly like Morning Edition  and All Things Considered  to bridge the gap between our morning and evening straight forward news magazines.  In a way, this brings NPR’s bundle more in line with their no-nonsense (aka no fun) brand of “hard” news. If you listen to TOTN, you know that Neal Conan covers breaking news by selecting callers who are speaking on emergent issues. However, using a terms like  “strong” or “hard” news to explain programming shifts works to masculinizes the objective, straightforward reporting style of shows like Morning Edition that seem to just let us hear world events by playing back actuality recordings coupled with terse journalistic verbal accounts. And feminize TOTN implicitly through contrast. Indeed, you might consider Neal Conan’s daily call-in program more feminine in its format that gives voice to the unwashed masses, what Stuart Hall called the true “other.” TOTN gave a voice to the average listener, not only reporting on current events, but through caller participation, engaging in contemporary issues in a more personal, intimate, and individualistic manner. And if you listen to TOTN, which is mainly formatted as long form interviews with political and cultural figure or journalists with calls and emails from listeners, callers are often emotive when they call in to discuss political issues, definitely more so than NPR’s trained emotionless robot lackeys, ahem, I mean reporters. Certainly, we must also admit that Talk of the Nation is at least somewhat responsible for the prominence of NPR distributed programs like On Point , Tom Ashbrook’s live roundtable discussion program, and the Diane Rehm Show, another  call-in show whose slogan is “One of her guests is always you.” This is in addition to the countless call-in programs your local public radio probably produces. And listeners responded to hearing untrained voices call-in to debate contemporary politics.

Indeed, TOTN ends in the midst of huge popularity, as it was broadcast by 407 stations and reached 3.53 M listeners every day. To put this in perspective, this is more than the 2.7 M viewers who tuned into Mad Men‘s season six finale last week.  There are 907 comments on the NPR page that posted their announcement cancelling TOTN, they range from outcry in support of a favorite program, to conspiracy theories about why NPR canceled the show, to fannish interpretations of Neal Conan as some sort of super human journalist, and more. I won’t get into the trollish badinage. Suffice it to say, TOTN is a cultural landmark that many listeners engaged with.

And they participated quite literally when they called or emailed in with questions or thoughts about the issues of the day that Neal was discussing with his guest(s). I feel that the call-in aspect of TOTN is the most significant loss from this show. And in removing TOTN, NPR removes a venue that allowed the “voiceless” that public radio is meant to serve and give access (albeit highly filtered access) to a public forum on the air. I, for one, am not sure I agree with Neal Conan, when he recently told listeners on the NPR program Tell Me More “Don’t Panic. Radio is gonna be fine” in reference to the demise of his own show. As NPR culls programs like Car Talk and Talk of the Nation from its line-up in order to distribute more news magazine programs to compliment its “hard hitting” brand, it begs the question of where the line between brand and public service exists.

30 Rock and Feminism

Sure, 30 Rock has feminist implications, especially for the essentialist who looks at Tina Fey’s role as creator, writer, producer and star, as progress for (white/straight) women in the male-dominated field of comedy TV. However, I think we must probe deeper to consider how 30 Rock represented gender and race, and moreover, how it participated in the legacy of TV shows centered on strong female characters. Furthermore, 30 Rock is NOT a depiction of today’s modern women. Liz Lemon’s life is hardly typical of the female experience, as she is very white, very hetero, middle class, and works in an industry known for being a boys club: television sketch comedy. Yet, 30 Rock certainly engages with feminist discourse. Fey’s position as a feminist is also pretty well known, and the show plays with this, from the moment Baldwin’s character Jack Donaghy meets Fey’s character Liz Lemon in the pilot, and calls her a third-wave feminist. My own feminist reading of 30 Rock is one of my primary sources of pleasure in the show, however, if we allow for polysemy, this reading is not guaranteed. Indeed, it may not even be the dominant one. I was visiting family members once, observed their love of Jack Donaghy’s character, and realized how comforting and familiar the extremity of Donaghy’s hegemonic yet also ironic sexism, racism, and classism might be for viewers to embrace. I am, thus, critical of 30 Rock‘s feminist implications, and argue that 30 Rock‘s legacy has been to discipline the female-centered work place comedy in two ways. First, by downplaying the fact that it is a female-centered program, and also by consistently disciplining feminist characters in the show.

30 Rock obscures the prominence of its female-lead by the very choice of its title, 30 Rock, which is of course shorthand for NBC’s home in New York City. In the past, TV shows built around a single, independent working woman highlighted the female character in the title: The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Murphy Brown, Ally McBeal.  It also downplays its position as a female-centered workplace comedy by not really being a female-centered show. 30 Rock is often discussed as Tina Fey’s TV show, or characterized through descriptions of Liz Lemon as its lead character. Do not be deceived. In many ways, this is really Alec Baldwin’s TV show.

Sure, Mary Richards centrality was perhaps tempered by her close relationship with Lou Grant, but that does not compare to the way Baldwin consistently steals the show, both discursively with critics and literally in the narrative arcs of most episodes. Baldwin’s character most often works to disciplines feminist characters, as we consistently see him mock Lemon, and others, for their character’s feminist inclinations. The show also mocks Lemon and feminism most overtly in its use of the postfeminist consequence trope, where we see Liz Lemon constructed throughout the series as unhappy and unfulfilled, while her drive to succeed has delimited her ability to be satisfied in personal relationships or have children.

Perhaps this is why Tina Fey’s celebrity text can function as cultural shorthand for unhappy singletons, as we see in this video. The fact that Lemon is married with two kids by the end of the series also shifts the work-centered premise of the show in many ways, and points perhaps to the ultimate disciplining of the single, independent woman. 30 Rock is satire, and her marriage/children are nontraditional in many ways (Princess Leia wedding dress!), yet I think this part of 30 Rock‘s conclusion works, overall, to reinforce hegemonic hetero gender roles.

This is not to say that 30 Rock does not also engage with feminist topics in other ways. For instance, a recent episode had a scene at a Lifetime Women’s Award Show where an all-female setting opened up a discussion on whether (straight) women should define themselves through their relationships with men. However, given 30 Rock‘s position, as a satire that is so playful, this scene is opened to ridicule by the tenor of 30 Rock‘s style. This scene at a (fake) Lifetime Award show also points to how 30 Rock‘s show-within-a-show format encourages a great deal of self reflexivity and satire of the television industry.

30 Rock and self-reflexivity

One of the rare TGS skits we get to see, bears attacking a robot!

TV comedy can be a difficult thing to make sense of, because satire is open to interpretation beyond producerly intent. One of 30 Rock‘s contributions to TV is its modification of the show-within-a-show format that we have seen before in The Jack Benny Show, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and Seinfeld, among others. In 30 Rock, as in other shows, the show-within-a-show format encourages parody of the entertainment industry, whilst being complicit in the entertainment industry it satirizes, which we see in 30 Rock’s self-effacing portrayal of  its successive parent companies. The self-reflexivity in 30 Rock specifically reflects on sketch comedy programs.  It features a quick-editing, over-the-top acting, absurd plotlines, frequent flashbacks, and narrative tangents that seemingly mimic the truncated structure and hyperbolic style of sketch-comedy shows.  Yet, 30 Rock’s sketch comedy show is merely the MacGuffin that drives the program’s plot.  We rarely see TGS sketch comedy skits, and when they appear we usually see only parts of the sketches, often in the background of other scenes. It is irrelevant whether we actually see the skits, though, as they are never funny.  The vapid and superficial humor on TGS represents popular criticisms of television: its stupidity, mindlessness, and narcissism. Here, 30 Rock positions itself next to TGS as an example of bad television to assert 30 Rock’s quality as good television. 30 Rock’s show-within-a-show format also allows a level of identity performativity, which at times plays with racial, gender, class and other representations. Thus, we can see, at least partially, how 30 Rock‘s legacy to comedy television is also a reconfiguration of the show-within-a-show model.

Certainly, there is more to 30 Rock, more that it contributes to feminist discourse, satire TV, experimental TV (remember its two live shows?) and beyond. This post could be part of a series on the cultural legacy of 30 Rock, which may satisfy those 30 Rock fans still craving more Liz Lemon. In lieu of such a column, we can but wait for a 30 Rock reunion show.

Many of the popular contemporary radio shows that boast a live studio audience—such as American Public Media’s Prairie Home Companion or NPR’s Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me—are prerecorded with a live studio audience and distributed through syndication, and therefore the actual broadcast schedule is very much detached from the live performance. Nevertheless, listeners get what I would consider to be constructed sense of liveness in hearing the clapping, laughing, breathing, and gaffes that are sonic markers of liveness, and contrast with the edited recordings we hear on shows like Radiolab or even Nights with Alice Cooper—to use a commercial example—that have clear traces of post-production in their polished sound.

Additionally, all of our recordings of old radio drama performances exist because they were transcribed on phonographs, the new media of the time. The laughter we hear from the audience on an episode of The Jack Benny Show is very much imbued with liveness, though we listen to it now eighty or so years after its production. These old radio recordings remind us of radio’s most unique trait as a medium: its ability for simultaneity, which is often held up as its most useful attribute. Whether or not this is true is debatable, but culturally the immediacy radio affords is reinforced by its direct address to the listener and its continuous flow, and our expectations for the medium are shaped by our experience with this liveness.

I return now to live radio performances, which I want to consider in this post along textual, industrial, and cultural lines. Let us go back to Nashville and the Grand Ole Opry. This radio show broadcasts two and a half hours of country music every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Tuesday (with two performances on Saturday night). The presence of a live audience functions in several ways to shape the meaning of the performance. For performers, the audience acts as a surrogate for the listeners at home, a group they can play to and address. The audience also models the ideal listener to those tuning in at home (or in the car, or through the Opry app, which you can download through iTunes), whose engagement and enthusiasm is signaled through clapping and other audible elements (whooping, cheering, etc.). Yet these live performances are also the product of the Grand Ole Opry‘s profit imperatives, as ticket prices bring in an additional revenue stream (the hall seats 4,400), selling for between $24 – $55. And the live audience aspect of the program also physically brings in a captive audience to sell back stage tours to, as well as items in its expansive gift shop, which offer the trademarked Grand Ole Opry line of clothing, the Grand Ole Opry line of perfume, packaged recordings of classic Grand Ole Opry shows, and much more.

Country western garb for baby in the Opry Shop!

On another level, these performances become a physical site of country music heritage and pilgrimage. It is one of Music City’s top tourist attractions, and these profit imperatives would mean nothing if this live radio show did not offer its audience something worth paying for, worth commemorating with a tee-shirt or bottle of perfume. Additionally, the show offers an immediate connection with the legacy of the Grand Ole Opry. The foyer of the Grand Ole Opry building is lined with history, including photos and information from its 87 years of broadcasting. This colludes with its old-timey name, the cozy and informal style performers use to address the audience, and, of course, the live music variety show format, which in itself connotes an old-fashioned style. This format showcases a live, aural history of country music, playing everything from fiddle and blue grass music to contemporary hat rock country and gospel.

The Grand Ole Opry’s mythic position in country music is epitomized in the pilot of ABC’s new television show Nashville, and the show begins with a performance at the Opry by Rayna James, the fictional central character in this drama about the country music industry. The Opry is a recognizable character throughout the episode, and it should be no surprise that Nashville is produced, in part, by Steve Buchanan, President of the Grand Ole Opry Group. Both programs are similar in their strategic promotion of country music. Like Glee and other television musicals, Nashville‘s music is available for purchase on iTunes. And the Grand Ole Opry similarly acts as a launching pad for country music artists currently on tour who often come on stage to perform their new single. We cannot divorce live radio from the production culture that shapes it, and here we see how the Grand Ole Opry acts as part of a larger brand that offers radio producers several opportunities for additional revenue streams, cultural engagement and a brand whose unique edge or difference is, in the case of the Grand Ole Opry,  built around its primary cultural position as a live radio performance.

The Radiolab episode “Crossroads” aired on April 16, 2012 and exemplified how this public radio program uses sound to explore the past for listeners. Radiolab has won numerous awards, has a significant audience, and is on tour this fall around the country. It is thus an important site where listeners interact with narratives about our history, one of the many subjects Radiolab engages with. Radiolab is a program structured around curiosity, and explores familiar issues from a new perspective. We hear this in “Crossroads,” as Radiolab explores the cultural myths that surround the successful and mysterious blues musician Robert Johnson going down to the crossroads in the 1920s and selling his soul to the devil for the talent to play the guitar.

Oh Brother Where Art Thou's Tommy Johnson sold his soul to the devil for guitar talents--a story reminiscent of Robert Johnson's legend.

This is not a current event story, not breaking news, but an issue that digs at the myths and material traces related to Johnson, myths that have pervaded our culture for the last century. It can be heard on Cream’s “Crossroads” or seen in the Coen Brothers’ Oh Brother Where Art Thou. Radiolab mixes actuality sound (sound recorded outside of the studio on location) with new interviews, archived interviews, and music, around the voices of co-hosts Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich. All of these components overlap and function together as Radiolab becomes an academic investigation, an artful montage of sounds, and an informal fireside chat. Thus, Radiolab blurs the line between reality and art to tell a story that will pique listeners’ interest in cultural history, a topic with the potential to get boring.

One of the key elements of the show is the dialogue between co-hosts Abumrad and Krulwich. They intentionally use an informal, conversational style to get listeners interested and engaged. Scripted and edited before the show airs, their “natural” discussions invite the listener to feel at ease. Their dialogue also functions in another way, as Abumrad usually tells a story or explains some phenomenon and Krulwich–a stand-in for the audience–asks questions and tries to make sense of what Abumrad is saying. Krulwich’s questions are absolutely scripted, but sound as if they come up spontaneously in conversation.

The infamous crossroads in Clarksdale, MI, which Abumrad tells us is now a tourist attraction.

We hear this at the beginning of “Crossroads” as Abumrad begins to tell Krulwich about his recent trip to the crossroads at midnight and meet the devil. Before he does, we hear actuality noise of the car and the wind as Abumrad talks with someone named Pat and admits that he “is starting to regret doing this.” He then tells us Pat turned off the headlights to scare him. At this point, we have no idea where Abumrad is. This actuality noise builds mystery and engages the listener’s curiosity. Abumrad’s voice begins to narrate over this recording, overlapping with the sounds of him and Pat in the car. Krulwich jumps in, asking, “well, where are you?” Abumrad explains he was in the Mississippi Delta. By listening to this exchange, we can see how dialogue works to tell a story in a more engaging way than if Abumrad just reported where he was and what he was doing. We also see how Krulwich becomes an audience surrogate, acting as if he too is in the dark and does not know Abumrad’s whereabouts, which is doubtful.

Radiolab co-hosts Krulwich and Abumrad.

This segment also points to the show’s overlapping sound tracks, a technique used to help listeners inhabit Johnson’s story. Abumrad continues to tell Krulwich about his trip to Mississippi. The actuality noise fades out as he segues into discussing Johnson, the myths that surround him, and then blues music. Music, interviews, and archived sounds are woven through Abumrad and Krulwich’s discussion as Abumrad takes us through the history of this myth about Johnson and the devil. In “Crossroads,” their conversation moved listeners from one piece of sonic evidence to another as Abumrad essentially builds an almost academic study of Johnson. We hear interviews with historians and music critics; we hear details read from historical records and artifacts; we hear Johnson’s music. These components are pieced together to convey both an exploration and an argument about Johnson.

At the end, the very work of historiography and compiling past narratives is troubled and complicated. In an interview, a historian recants something he wrote about Johnson. As he studied the famous blues artist through oral histories and official records, he came to find out that there were many guitar players in the South at that time named Robert Johnson. We end the program on this note of uncertainty, but Abumrad tells us that we still have recordings of Johnson and perhaps that’s enough. Johnson’s music plays underneath Abumrad’s words. Then Krulwich directs us to further reading on the topic. Here is where we can see Radiolab‘s goal–not to provide listeners with a clear finite answer to a question about the history of Johnson, but rather to arouse our curiosity on the subject and perhaps encourage us to question dominant narratives of the past.

Glass’ celebrity is further influenced by fan engagement and productions such as Adam WarRock’s “Ira Glass” rap. Throughout all of this, we see Ira Glass very much constructed as a figure who has brought pleasure and entertaining aesthetics to broadcast journalism. Though the paratexts mentioned above arguably create as much meaning about Glass’ star text, his celebrity is always constructed in reference to TAL, and the program’s unique exploitation of the radio feature format. For this reason, we can see how TAL shapes our understanding of Glass’ radio pioneer public persona.

TAL‘s aesthetics make it markedly different from other television and radio journalism. TAL invites listeners to revel in a sort of postmodern opposition to mainstream journalism. The program weaves together informal conversation, first-person monologues, actuality field recordings, sound bites, music, and more into a hip, irreverent weekly radio show. Its self-reflexive style is one aspect that differentiates it from traditional hard news. The show’s commentary and reflection in its own production, usually heard via Glass’ conversation with a producer or participant, works in conjunction with its commentary on traditional journalism to sonically construct the show as self-aware. We see this in the first 10 minutes of Episode 455, “Continental Breakup,” which first aired on January 22, 2012.  This episode is about the European debt crisis, and is guest hosted by Alex Blumberg. Here we see TAL taking up a traditional “hard” journalism topic. Yet, the topic is presented in an informal and playful manor. Glass’ nebbish, high, nasally voice begins the program as if in the middle of a private conversation with the listener. He begins quickly by saying, “I think at this point even the most casual news consumer has run across a lot of stories like this….” Next, TAL edits in sound bites from recent news stories and we, the listeners, hear a serious sounding male news reporter saying “The focus of the European debt crisis move today…,” and other successive sound bites related to the economic situation in Europe. This informal, stream of consciousness opening is typical of TAL, as all TAL episodes begin without an introductory frame. This might give listeners the feeling that we enter the show already in the middle of a conversation with Glass and company.

Next in this episode, Glass does introduce the program, and turns it over to Blumberg. A conversation between Blumberg and Glass ensues, and includes several informal moments that convey naturalness and liveness. Before Blumberg takes over as host, Glass announces, “From WBEZ Chicago, it’s This American Life, distributed by Public Radio International. Alex, I’m just going to hand they show over to you.” This is followed by an unpolished moment of confusion:

Alex Blumberg: All right and I say, like, “from WBEZ Chicago,” that thing?
Ira Glass: No, I just said that. So you don’t have to say that.
Blumberg: So I don’t have to say that?
Glass: So you can just proceed. Have you heard this show before?
Blumberg: No, you didn’t say “today’s program.”
Glass: All right, I’ll say – you can say “today’s program.”

Blumberg and Glass speak over each other, laughing in a light, friendly way. This unpolished exchange could have easily been edited out in post-production, especially since the trained ear will notice that besides laughter, all signifiers of the body (breathing, et al) have been smoothed out through dialogue editing. This apparently unscripted moment is, however, kept intact, and accomplishes the task of conveying an artificial spontaneous liveness to listeners.

Overall, Ira Glass is repeatedly constructed in TAL and other media as a charismatic, jovial, informal, self-reflexive, and playful radio journalist. This difference from traditional broadcast journalists who you might find on CNN or even NPR’s All Things Considered has contributed to Glass’ personality as a pioneer of the new age of radio journalism. This is further shaped by TAL’s experimental distribution via events like This American Life LIVE!, where the radio program is performed live onstage with dance numbers, animation, other video, and more. The performance is beamed to movie theatres across the country live. First done in 2009, a new This American Life LIVE! is being broadcast around the country on Thursday, May 10^th, and I know I for one will be attending it at a local theatre here in Madison, Wisconsin.

This blurring between storytelling, journalism, and media formats troubles traditional notions of ethical reporting and conceptions of truth. Glass goes to great lengths to distinguish himself as an untraditional journalist, and despite (or perhaps because of this) he has received countless major broadcasting awards for journalism.  The most recent coverage of the kerfuffle and drama surrounding the veracity of an episode aired earlier this year, “Mr. Daisey and the Apple Factory,” and TAL’s subsequent retraction of the episode in the March 16^th in the TAL episode “Retraction,” points to mainstream journalism’s inability to reconcile TAL’s postmodern style of journalism. Having heard the original “Mr. Daisey” episode, I question TAL’s retraction, as the program was very clear that it was featuring portions of Mike Daisey’s one-man play “The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs,” and even included a disclaimer at the end noting what Glass and his team were able to fact check and what they could not.

However, this controversy is significant, not because it questions or clarifies the “truth” of This American Life’s episode featuring Daisey, but rather it points to the significance of TAL within the American mediascape. Moreover, at the end of the day, it recuperates Glass’ integrity. In “Retraction,” Glass doesn’t just retract TAL’s previous episode, he interrogates the show’s fact checking process and interviews Daisey again, during which he is self-reflexively critical and idealistic about the boundaries of radio features. Thus, in his humility and self-awareness, Ira Glass is ultimately able to retain his persona as an unconventional, pioneering radio journalist.

From the Tumblr "Downton Abbey Confessions."

Downton Abbey has attained a significant cultural position. Indeed, this British miniseries (or is it a miniseries?) about the aristocratic Crawley family during the Edwardian era in England has captivated critics and viewers. Originally broadcast in the UK on ITV in 2009, Downton Abbey‘s first season aired on PBS in January 2010. It went on to win 6 Emmys, including the award for “Outstanding Miniseries or Movie,” a triumph it repeated this week at the Golden Globes. The January 8th PBS premiere of Downton‘s second season garnered 4.2 million viewers, which is 18% higher than season one’s ratings, and exceeds Mad Men‘s viewers. Needless to say, Downton Abbey has proved to be a hit for PBS, who co-produces Downton with British production house Carnival. This production context extends Masterpiece Theatre’s history of financing and distributing British period pieces. Moreover, Downton Abbey‘s cultural significance is evident in the various ways fans (known as Abbeyites) engage with the show and with the past it mediates for us.

For instance, Downton Abbey viewing parties have become trendy among affluent Abbeyites. Some of these viewing parties are quite extravagant, and offer guests an Edwardian feast and encourage period costumes. Some simpler parties offer cucumber sandwiches and drinking games, where you might take a shot every time Maggie Smith’s dowager makes a cutting remark.  Want to throw a fete for your friends? Check out this DIY Downton Abbey party slideshow. These parties highlight how viewers attempt to recreate a time period they have never experienced, and know primarily through TV like Downton Abbey. Thus, as they imbue their 21st Century lives with Edwardian fashions and culinary dishes, Abbeyites become temporal tourists of a sort. And yet this nostaglic tourism, is, of course for a time period wholly constructed for them by Downton Abbey, and this is problematic in many ways, the least of which are the historical inaccuracies of the show. But I will address this later, first a few more examples of Abbeyite fandom.

From the Tumblr "Telegraphs from Downton Abbey."

A slew of Downton Abbey themed Tumblrs have sprung up ranging from the tame to the obscene. There is the The Lamps of Downton Abbey, which*gasp* allow fans to repurpose scenes from the show that include lamps. There is also Quite So, Downton Abbey, which seems to focus on straightforward fandom of specific dialogue/scenes, particularly those that relate to the conflicted romance between characters Mary and Matthew.  A variety of Downton Abbey Tumblrs exist, but I would certainly be remiss if I did not mention one of the smutty ones, like Telegrams From Downton which, as the picture to your right might suggest, imposes more adult themes, like sex or getting trashed, onto images from the series. These memes point to the mutability of television storylines and the transmedia nature of Downton Abbey fandom. Furthermore, the irony of the memes is derived, in great part (lamps memes withstanding) from the juxtaposition of Downton’s visual simulacrum of Edwardian England with more modern slang or themes (again, see the vagina-themed meme above).

Fans  also carve out their own narratives within the Downton Abbey in fan vids. The vid above, “Charlie & Sybil,” edits footage of Sybil from Downton and the character Charlie from recent film Brideshead Revisted  to construct a love story between the two characters from different texts. This crossover vid points to the depth of fan engagement, as well as the intertextuality of Downton Abbey, as the vid’s author makes sense of the show through understanding another period piece, Brideshead.  A range of Downton Abbey vids exist, and “Mary & Matthew” is a more straightforward mash-up of intimate moments between the show’s conflict-ridden lovers. Do not watch this vid if you hate U2 or children’s choirs, as it features a cover of “With or Without You” sung by kids, and has been altered to possess a more contrasted, sepia tone. Here again, fans make sense of the sentimental moments intertextually through popular music which the vid creator may associate with intense romantic entanglements. These vids subvert the original show by creating montages out of context and eking out new meanings for fans. Yet in many ways they work as promotional paratexts which work to heighten audiences engagement with Downton Abbey.

As fans engage with Downton Abbey, the show mediates the past for viewers. As I briefly mentioned above, several historians have publicly to denounced the program’s accuracy. These accusations of historical inaccuracies belie the constructed nature of histories. Historians and some critics also seem to react to the soapy, melodramatic treatment of Edwardian Britain, for this second season surpasses the drama of season one’s Pumakian interludes with sex, pregnancy, inter class romance, scandal, dramatic injury and murder trials.  I am more apprehensive by what I see as an unabashed and unquestioning love of monarchy and an affirmation of aristocratic power and benevolence. Yes, there is a (superficial) Upstairs Downstairs – style engagement with servant life. Yet the show does not interrogate the power differential between lord and butler, and in fact constructs a sort of idolatrous paternalism wherein the aristocracy is shown to be stewards of the populace. No where is this more evident than when Downton  becomes a military hospital. Iris Carmon unpacks this in her article “Why Liberals Love Downton Abbey,” critiquing Downton‘s superficial treatment of class and political power. Downton Abbey‘s popularity increases with each weekly PBS installment, the third season begins shooting in February (hence my hesitation to call this a miniseries), and there is even talk of a Downton film.

In many ways, I see  Downton Abbey in itself a work of fandom. Creator/writer Julian Fellowes is admittedly a fan (and member, through marriage) of British aristocracy, and his novels Snobs and Past Imperfect, as well as his film Gosford Park,  all pay homage at the alter of Britain’s elites. Downton could thus be seen as the fantastical product of an aristocracy fanboy. But the show’s prominence and wide distribution also point to its cultural power.  As I have outlined, Downton Abbey‘s fans participate in an assortment of social activities that, I would argue, play with, critique, but, I argue, ultimately celebrate the program. What does it mean, then, for viewers to make sense of history through a show which constructs an imaginary account that privileges the ruling class so unequivocally? I do not know the answer, however this particular lens on history will certainly continue with Downton’s third season, and Fellowes upcoming miniseries Titatic, which will air on ITV in Britian and ABC in the US this April.

In many ways, graduate school and being a young parent are very similar. As Springer, Parker & Reid, (2009) note, both positions place extreme physical and intellectual demands on mothers like me (that I happily signed up for, FYI). In fact, the similarities between becoming a parent and becoming a grad make the two positions seem mutually exclusive. Unlike faculty, who have already completed their training while obtaining their Ph.D., I’m still adjusting to the (relatively) new demands of academic research and instruction while similarly coming to terms with all that parenthood entails in a sort of on-the-job fashion. However, as the average age for women to complete their doctoral degree is 33.6, it is likely that female grads will be in school during their most fertile years (Springer, Parker & Reid, 2009). I am certainly not suggesting that all women want children, or that later pregnancies are not successful. But if you are thinking about having children and are weighing the costs and benefits, biological concerns are something to consider.

I also believe that the general discourse that encourages women who want children to wait until they’ve completed their Ph.D. is part of a greater patriarchal discourse that disciplines our bodies. I  think it is similar in many ways to the advice female faculty often receive to have their children over the summer. As if taming our biological reproduction to match the academic school calendar would make academia more amenable to parenting or mothering. One need only look around institutions of higher learning to see that these physical spaces were shaped by ideologies that were not child friendly. Whether it be finding a way to pump breast milk in a shared grad office, walking around campus with a stroller, or the atmosphere in the classroom, universities do not lend themselves to grad parent success. Flexibility on behalf of faculty and departments can create support, but also allows for inconsistency. I won’t say that universities aren’t child friendly, but there are constant reminders that parenting in this setting is not normative. Beyond this atmosphere, there is also the consideration that graduate mothers are less likely to be enrolled in higher ranking departments, and whether you had children as a grad or not, women with children are less likely to be faculty at a research institute. (Springer, Parker & Reid, 2009).

Some other general things you may want to consider. At my current home, UW – Madison, graduate health insurance for TAs is great. Although our governor is doing what he can to change that, I consider myself lucky, because not all institutions provide low-cost family coverage, and if you are considering parenthood as a grad, you cannot overlook the insurance issue. There is also the matter of department service and participating in the graduate student community. I feel like I try really hard to make sure that I get face time with my peers and my department faculty. I suppose on some level I do not want people to think I use my child as an excuse to evade responsibilities. But I also enjoy talking shop with my colleagues. Participating in the intellectual life on campus, such as attending department parties, colloquiums, guest lectures, etc., is crucial for any grad to stay plugged into department news and culture, opportunities and more. Plus, it is an expectation that continues into faculty-hood. I do usually skip the post-event pub crawl or drinks, and I don’t apologize. I just make my good byes.

The last, and perhaps most vital thing I’ll touch on is doing the actual work. I want this to be a post full of hope, but I will not lie to you. Completing research and assignments while teaching and grading is difficult with a kid. To get things turned in on time, I have to plan my weeks out in advance, and no longer have the luxury of waiting for my muse to hit before I begin writing. I regularly have to write during my “free” time between class/teaching to get stuff finished. I would like to boast that perhaps being a mom makes me a more organized and goal-oriented grad. But I am not sure. Several circumstances have led to pulling all-nighters when my daughter Madeleine will only be soothed by me, and I am furiously working. The solution, thus far, is let her sleep on my lap as I type. I like these moments, but it makes the typing slower and can lead to typos. Trust me on that, I know it from experience (and so do my professors).

There are many other things I could write about, but I am going to end it here. I’m going to skip retelling sexist encounters I’ve faced as a grad mom, but trust me, they have occurred. And I kind of go out of my way to make my motherhood pretty visible. I do this because, as a feminist, I feel very passionately that greater visibility is part of the solution to making academia a more family-friendly culture. If possible, I encourage you to advocate for childcare for work meetings. I haven’t done this, but will when I become a great and powerful professor (you guys make enough money for a full-time nanny, right?). If you are inspired, lobby for the availability of lactation rooms and changing tables. Bring your child to class rather than skip seminar. I have had to do this a few times, and my profs have always been pleasant and accommodating. Of course, that might be because I study media and cultural studies, and take classes with instructors like Julie D’Acci, who tried to enroll Madeleine in the Gender & Women’s Studies program when I brought her to class. There are penalties and benefits to being a graduate student mother, but given the decision again, I could not choose between these parts of my life. I love doing research, I love teaching, and I love my kid. My greatest fear, which haunts the dark places of my mind when I go to sleep late at night, is that I will not finish my dissertation, or get enough pubs to find a rewarding faculty position. This is the folly of late night thinking, though, especially considering the immense support I get at Madison from faculty and peers.