2B I don't know why what happened to Ralph Sampson bothers me, but it does. I fully understand that the way people remember Sampson doesn't have any real impact on what he did (or did not) accomplish. He probably does not consider himself a bust, so why does it matter that other people do? I don't know why what happened to Ralph Sampson bothers me, but it does. I fully understand that the way people remember Sampson doesn't have any real impact on what he did (or did not) accomplish. He probably does not consider himself a bust, so why does it matter that other people do?

I don't know.

But it does.

It does, because I want to think about Ralph Sampson the way I thought about him thirty years ago, and I cannot. It does not matter how hard I try or by what means I rationalize the specific details of his career. He's busted to me. I am psychologically on his side, but I can't deny that he busted. His inability to become the greatest player of his generation has been so relentlessly recognized by the media that it's impossible for me to think about him in any context outside of that paradigm; this larger failure is now the only only thing I think about when I think about Ralph Sampson. In 1986, he eliminated the L.A. Lakers from the playoffs by catching an inbounds pa.s.s and uncoiling a turnaround fourteen-footer in one motion, all within the span of a single second. This shot, technically, is the pinnacle of his basketball life. I am intellectually aware of this, as are most people who remember basketball from the eighties. But whenever that shot comes up in any conversation, it's now a depressing addendum that immediately returns to the larger, sadder narrative-it only serves to remind everyone that Sampson was thing I think about when I think about Ralph Sampson. In 1986, he eliminated the L.A. Lakers from the playoffs by catching an inbounds pa.s.s and uncoiling a turnaround fourteen-footer in one motion, all within the span of a single second. This shot, technically, is the pinnacle of his basketball life. I am intellectually aware of this, as are most people who remember basketball from the eighties. But whenever that shot comes up in any conversation, it's now a depressing addendum that immediately returns to the larger, sadder narrative-it only serves to remind everyone that Sampson was momentarily momentarily great. And that's actually worse. Had he thrown his career away like Benny Anders, this entire essay would have been about how his failure was beautiful and interesting; as it is, it's about how being the MVP of the '85 all-star game is like being a brilliant pool player-sarcastic proof of a wasted life. great. And that's actually worse. Had he thrown his career away like Benny Anders, this entire essay would have been about how his failure was beautiful and interesting; as it is, it's about how being the MVP of the '85 all-star game is like being a brilliant pool player-sarcastic proof of a wasted life.

We used Ralph Sampson. I am using him right now, almost in the exact same manner I'm bemoaning. He is the post-playing pinata it's acceptable to smash. It's acceptable to fixate upon the things he did not do well enough, simply because all those personal catastrophes still leave him in a position of power. This is not an example of the media building someone up in order to knock him back down; this takedown was far less satisfying. Sampson busted big by succeeding mildly. That was the only role he ever played for anyone. There is no alternative universe where Ralph Sampson is a beloved symbol of excellence. There's no Philip K. d.i.c.k novel where he averages a career double-double and gets four rings. He could never be that guy. He was needed elsewhere, for other reasons. He was needed to remind people that their own self-imposed mediocrity is better than choking on transcendence.

My affinity for Ralph Sampson was a product of my age, but not in the usual way. It was not that I was too young to remember the outstanding players before him, and it was not because I was too young to see his flaws. It was that I was too young to envy a stranger for a life that wasn't mine. I did not subconsciously resent the fact that Sampson was born bigger and smoother than the rest of society. I had no idea that being six foot four is something a seven-foot-four man should not want. A ten-year-old boy doesn't want a hyper-dexterous giant to choke, just as a ten-year-old girl doesn't feel good when Britney Spears has a nervous breakdown on live TV. Only an adult can feel good about someone else's failure. I was not in a position to enslave Ralph Sampson, but other people were. And now, today, I can't erase those chains from my brain. I agree with the haters, against my will. They've enslaved me, too.

Q: Did you ever read that book of Sting's lyrics? I think it's just called Lyrics Lyrics or something. Lou Reed published his lyrics as poetry, too. What do you think of that idea? Is that something you would consider? or something. Lou Reed published his lyrics as poetry, too. What do you think of that idea? Is that something you would consider?

A: Those books are b.a.l.l.s. I hate them. I never give a s.h.i.t about what a song is supposed to be about. I'm never amused by misheard lyrics, either. I tend to be more interested in people who hear lyrics correctly and still get them wrong. Like, are you familiar with the first song on Teenage Fanclub's Those books are b.a.l.l.s. I hate them. I never give a s.h.i.t about what a song is supposed to be about. I'm never amused by misheard lyrics, either. I tend to be more interested in people who hear lyrics correctly and still get them wrong. Like, are you familiar with the first song on Teenage Fanclub's Bandwagonesque Bandwagonesque? They open that record with this great song called "The Concept," and its first two lines are "She wears denim wherever she goes / Says she's gonna get some records by the Status Quo." When I initially heard that song, it never occurred to me that they were talking about the band Status Quo. 'Cause who the f.u.c.k listens to Status Quo? I always a.s.sumed that line meant this girl was buying records by "the status quo," which implied that she was buying all the records that scenesters felt an obligation to own. I thought she was buying records by Captain Beefheart and Gang of Four and Slick Rick. That's what I thought the term bandwagonesque bandwagonesque referred to-jumping on the bandwagon of something that isn't even popular. Every time I learn the truth about something, I'm disappointed. referred to-jumping on the bandwagon of something that isn't even popular. Every time I learn the truth about something, I'm disappointed.

Through A Gla.s.s, Blindly 1 Standing at the window, I am inside my home. But windows are made of gla.s.s, so I see through other windows and I see into other homes. I see other people. They are baking bread and watching Standing at the window, I am inside my home. But windows are made of gla.s.s, so I see through other windows and I see into other homes. I see other people. They are baking bread and watching Deadwood Deadwood and using a broom to get their cat off the air conditioner. They're doing nothing of interest, but it's interesting to me. It's interesting because they a.s.sume they are living unwatched. They would not want me (or anyone else) to watch them, despite the fact that they're doing nothing of consequence. Yet if these windows were TV screens-if these people had placed cameras in their apartments and broadcast their mundane lives on purpose-I would immediately lose interest. It would become dull and repet.i.tive. So: These people don't want me watching them because they aren't aware that I'm there, and I wouldn't want to watch them if my watching was something they were aware of. and using a broom to get their cat off the air conditioner. They're doing nothing of interest, but it's interesting to me. It's interesting because they a.s.sume they are living unwatched. They would not want me (or anyone else) to watch them, despite the fact that they're doing nothing of consequence. Yet if these windows were TV screens-if these people had placed cameras in their apartments and broadcast their mundane lives on purpose-I would immediately lose interest. It would become dull and repet.i.tive. So: These people don't want me watching them because they aren't aware that I'm there, and I wouldn't want to watch them if my watching was something they were aware of.

Everyone knows this, and everyone feels the same way. But does anyone understand why?

2 One of the minor tragedies of human memory is our inability to unwatch movies we'd love to see (again) for the first time. Even cla.s.sic films that hold up over multiple viewings-and even those films that One of the minor tragedies of human memory is our inability to unwatch movies we'd love to see (again) for the first time. Even cla.s.sic films that hold up over multiple viewings-and even those films that require require multiple viewings-can never deliver the knockout strangeness of that first time you see them, particularly if parts of the story are willfully designed to momentarily confuse the audience. When a film becomes famous and its theme becomes familiar, that pleasantly awkward feeling is lost even more. Sometimes I want to unknow things. An easy example is Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's multiple viewings-can never deliver the knockout strangeness of that first time you see them, particularly if parts of the story are willfully designed to momentarily confuse the audience. When a film becomes famous and its theme becomes familiar, that pleasantly awkward feeling is lost even more. Sometimes I want to unknow things. An easy example is Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Vertigo Vertigo. By now, the theme of Vertigo Vertigo is understood by all people interested in watching it, often before they see it for the first time: It's about every man's inherent obsession with attractive, psychologically damaged women. But for its first twenty minutes, is understood by all people interested in watching it, often before they see it for the first time: It's about every man's inherent obsession with attractive, psychologically damaged women. But for its first twenty minutes, Vertigo Vertigo is about something else-it's about surveillance, and about how not knowing what's happening increases the phenomenon of attraction. is about something else-it's about surveillance, and about how not knowing what's happening increases the phenomenon of attraction.

In Vertigo Vertigo, Jimmy Stewart plays an ex-cop who's hired to follow a man's wife. As he watches her, the woman (Kim Novak) does a variety of strange, ostensibly meaningless things-she buys some flowers, stares at the portrait of a dead woman, and drives to a distant hotel for no clear reason. As the story unspools, we learn that she's possibly possessed by the spirit of a dead woman; later, we come to realize this is all a psychological con job (with Stewart as the mark). Because the plot is so complicated (and because the imagery is so beautiful), most people's memory of Vertigo Vertigo focuses on the middle third of the movie-the psychology of the murder. But the reason focuses on the middle third of the movie-the psychology of the murder. But the reason Vertigo Vertigo is effective is due to those opening twenty minutes. We watch Novak's mysterious behavior through Stewart's eyes, so we see her in the same way as he does. She makes all these (seemingly) bizarre decisions that are devoid of perspective, and it becomes far more compelling than logic would dictate. By surrept.i.tiously watching the actions of a beautiful woman without the clarity of knowing her intentions, we stop caring about what those intentions are. Some might argue that Novak becomes interesting because the watcher can project whatever he desires onto her form, but that's not really what happens; what happens is that she becomes interesting simply because is effective is due to those opening twenty minutes. We watch Novak's mysterious behavior through Stewart's eyes, so we see her in the same way as he does. She makes all these (seemingly) bizarre decisions that are devoid of perspective, and it becomes far more compelling than logic would dictate. By surrept.i.tiously watching the actions of a beautiful woman without the clarity of knowing her intentions, we stop caring about what those intentions are. Some might argue that Novak becomes interesting because the watcher can project whatever he desires onto her form, but that's not really what happens; what happens is that she becomes interesting simply because it's interesting not to know things it's interesting not to know things. It's the unconscious, emotional manifestation of anti-intellectualism. We end up having the same response as Stewart's character: We fall in love with Kim Novak. That's why the absurdity of Vertigo Vertigo's premise1 never becomes a problem-it doesn't feel unreasonable, because a person in love cannot be reasoned with. And we are that person. We are in love. Hitchc.o.c.k's portrayal of surveillance is so effective that the audience never really recovers from the sensation; it carries the rest of the film. never becomes a problem-it doesn't feel unreasonable, because a person in love cannot be reasoned with. And we are that person. We are in love. Hitchc.o.c.k's portrayal of surveillance is so effective that the audience never really recovers from the sensation; it carries the rest of the film.

So this, I suppose, is the first thing we can quantify: Observing someone without context amplifies the experience. The more we know, the less we are able to feel.

2A Ignorance is not bliss. That plat.i.tude is totally wrong. You will not be intellectually happier if you know fewer things. Learning should be a primary goal of living. But what if ignorance Ignorance is not bliss. That plat.i.tude is totally wrong. You will not be intellectually happier if you know fewer things. Learning should be a primary goal of living. But what if ignorance feels feels better-not psychologically, but physically? That would explain a lot of human incongruities. better-not psychologically, but physically? That would explain a lot of human incongruities.

There's a visceral, physiological charge that only comes from unknown pleasures. Think back to ordinary life situations where the outcome was unclear, and try to remember how you felt during those moments: You're introduced to someone you're immediately attracted to, but you don't know why. You attend a party where various guests dislike each other and everyone is drinking heavily. You're playing blackjack and the entire game rests on whatever card is drawn next. You wake up, but you don't recognize where you are. Mentally, these situations are extremely stressful. But-almost inevitably-the physical sensation that accompanies that stress is positive and electrifying. You are more alert and more attuned to your surroundings. Endorphins are firing like revolutionary guerrillas. Adrenaline is being delivered by FedEx. Unknowing feels good to your body, even when it feels bad to your brain-and that dissonance brings you closer to the original state of being. It's how an animal feels. Take the wolf, for example: I suspect it's unbelievably stressful to be a wolf. The world would be an endlessly confusing place, because a wolf has limited cognitive potential and understands nothing beyond its instinct and its own experience. Yet the wolf is more engaged with the experience of being alive experience of being alive. A wolf isn't as "happy" as you, but a wolf feels better. His normal state of being is the way you feel during dynamic moments of bewilderment.

When you secretly watch the actions of a stranger, you're living like the wolf. You have no idea what could happen or what will happen. And while it's possible you enjoy that experience simply because you're nosy, it might also be because this makes you feel good for reasons unconnected to your curiosity. In reality, you probably don't want to know what's happening in someone else's life. You merely want to continue not not knowing. And most of the time, that's exactly what happens. knowing. And most of the time, that's exactly what happens.

2B When I lived in Fargo, I had a boring, curious apartment. It was a four-hundred-square-foot efficiency on the third floor of a three-story building. The only two windows were on the north wall, and they were both ma.s.sive. By chance, the cable TV hookup was directly between these two windows. What this meant was that it was impossible to watch my thirteen-inch television without seeing directly into the opposing third-story efficiency apartment that was fifty feet to the north and identically designed. Everyone who visited my residence commented on this. Unless you had retinitis pigmentation (the source of nonmetaphorical tunnel vision), you could not avoid seeing what was happening in another apartment exactly like mine. This wasn't creepy, or at least it didn't feel like it at the time; it just felt like being unrich. When I lived in Fargo, I had a boring, curious apartment. It was a four-hundred-square-foot efficiency on the third floor of a three-story building. The only two windows were on the north wall, and they were both ma.s.sive. By chance, the cable TV hookup was directly between these two windows. What this meant was that it was impossible to watch my thirteen-inch television without seeing directly into the opposing third-story efficiency apartment that was fifty feet to the north and identically designed. Everyone who visited my residence commented on this. Unless you had retinitis pigmentation (the source of nonmetaphorical tunnel vision), you could not avoid seeing what was happening in another apartment exactly like mine. This wasn't creepy, or at least it didn't feel like it at the time; it just felt like being unrich.

Because of this architectural circ.u.mstance, I had a nonverbal relationship with the twentysomething woman who lived in the apartment across the way. I never met her, but it was kind of like having an extremely mysterious roommate. For a while I thought she was schizophrenic, because it often looked like she was dancing with a houseplant; I later realized she owned a NordicTrack. I never witnessed anything s.e.xual or scandalous. The lone intense moment happened while I was watching an episode of My So-Called Life My So-Called Life: My neighbor was wearing a c.o.c.ktail dress and cooking a (seemingly complex) meal. When her date finally arrived-a man whom I'd seen over there on multiple occasions in the past- they immediately had an argument, punctuated by her heaving a book at him from across the room. He left and she ate alone. Whenever she watched her own TV, I could see her peering into my apartment as well. I think she saw me throwing up one night, but that might have been a dream.

Now, as a writer, popular mythology would suggest that I should have taken these glimpses of my neighbor and created a fantasy world about what her life was like. I should have been stealing details from these fleeting voyeuristic moments and extrapolating them to their most absurd extreme. And I think that might have happened, had I seen her only once or twice or thrice. But this happened all the time. I accidentally saw her every day I watched television, which was every day I lived there. And the reason she never stopped being accidentally fascinating is because I never never knew what was going on over there. I was clueless. The most commonly asked question within my internal monologue was always, " knew what was going on over there. I was clueless. The most commonly asked question within my internal monologue was always, "Now what is she doing?" To this day, I have no theory about what she did for a living or even what her regular hours were; I only know that she must have had the kind of job that required her to live in a place where the rent was $160 a month, because that's what I was paying, too. There is nothing she could have done that would have surprised me because I had no expectation as to how she was supposed to act. This is how it was, all the time. For two years, I watched a revolving door of nonevents that never stopped intriguing me. What's ironic is that this voyeurism coincided with the period of my life when I was most interested in MTV's what is she doing?" To this day, I have no theory about what she did for a living or even what her regular hours were; I only know that she must have had the kind of job that required her to live in a place where the rent was $160 a month, because that's what I was paying, too. There is nothing she could have done that would have surprised me because I had no expectation as to how she was supposed to act. This is how it was, all the time. For two years, I watched a revolving door of nonevents that never stopped intriguing me. What's ironic is that this voyeurism coincided with the period of my life when I was most interested in MTV's The Real World The Real World. In fact, I can recall a handful of situations where I could glance into my neighbor's daily life while actively watching a show designed for that very purpose. As a critic, I have more things to say about the depiction of reality on MTV than about the depiction of reality in reality. But as a human, my boring neighbor felt infinitely more watchable, regardless of how little she did. So why was that? I think it was because I knew less. Even though MTV was actively trying to keep me interested, there were certain things I knew I would always always see, because reality programming is constructed around predictable plot devices. There were also certain things I knew I'd see, because reality programming is constructed around predictable plot devices. There were also certain things I knew I'd never never see, because certain types of footage would either be impossible to broadcast or broken as gossip before making it to the air (for example, we might eventually see a suicide on see, because certain types of footage would either be impossible to broadcast or broken as gossip before making it to the air (for example, we might eventually see a suicide on The Real World The Real World, but never a suicide we won't expect). The upside to knowledge is that it enriches every experience, but the downside is that it limits every experience. This is why I preferred watching the stranger across the way, even though she never did anything: There was always the possibility she might do everything everything.

2C Vertigo Vertigo might be the best Hitchc.o.c.k movie (or so Hitchc.o.c.k himself sometimes implied), but might be the best Hitchc.o.c.k movie (or so Hitchc.o.c.k himself sometimes implied), but Rear Window Rear Window is my favorite (and for all the reasons one might expect). With the possible exception of is my favorite (and for all the reasons one might expect). With the possible exception of Goodfellas Goodfellas, I can't think of another movie that's harder to stop watching whenever I stumble across it on broadcast television. There are a number of incredible things about this film, most notably the preposterous (yet still plausible) scenario of Grace Kelly needing a copy of He's Just Not That Into You He's Just Not That Into You until she becomes obsessed with a neighbor's murder, thereby prompting Jimmy Stewart to think, "Wow. Maybe I should consider marrying this smart, beautiful, ultra-nurturing woman-I had no idea she was into true crime!" The pacing, set design, and atmosphere could not be better. You can easily watch it twenty times. But the one thing until she becomes obsessed with a neighbor's murder, thereby prompting Jimmy Stewart to think, "Wow. Maybe I should consider marrying this smart, beautiful, ultra-nurturing woman-I had no idea she was into true crime!" The pacing, set design, and atmosphere could not be better. You can easily watch it twenty times. But the one thing Rear Window Rear Window gets wrong is the quality most people remember most: the sensation of surveillance. The fact that wheelchair-bound Stewart becomes fixated on his neighbors makes sense; what doesn't compute is the way he engages with the content of his voyeurism. gets wrong is the quality most people remember most: the sensation of surveillance. The fact that wheelchair-bound Stewart becomes fixated on his neighbors makes sense; what doesn't compute is the way he engages with the content of his voyeurism.

The problem with Rear Window Rear Window is that the things Stewart sees are too lucid. It does not feel like he's watching strangers; it feels like he is watching a collection of one-act plays. Miss Lonely-hearts (the pill-eating spinster) stages imaginary dinner dates in her kitchen and cries constantly. Miss Torso (the bombsh.e.l.l ballerina) has c.o.c.ktail parties and invites only men. A struggling musician sits at his piano and writes silly love songs, thinking out loud as he plinks out melodies. There is never anything confusing or non sequitur about how Stewart's neighbors behave. When he starts to suspect Raymond Burr has murdered his nagging wife, his logic is linear. "There is that the things Stewart sees are too lucid. It does not feel like he's watching strangers; it feels like he is watching a collection of one-act plays. Miss Lonely-hearts (the pill-eating spinster) stages imaginary dinner dates in her kitchen and cries constantly. Miss Torso (the bombsh.e.l.l ballerina) has c.o.c.ktail parties and invites only men. A struggling musician sits at his piano and writes silly love songs, thinking out loud as he plinks out melodies. There is never anything confusing or non sequitur about how Stewart's neighbors behave. When he starts to suspect Raymond Burr has murdered his nagging wife, his logic is linear. "There is is something to see over there," he tells Kelly. "I've seen it through that window. I've seen bickering and family quarrels and mysterious trips at night. Knives and saws and ropes. And now, since last evening, not a sign of the wife." A compet.i.tive game of something to see over there," he tells Kelly. "I've seen it through that window. I've seen bickering and family quarrels and mysterious trips at night. Knives and saws and ropes. And now, since last evening, not a sign of the wife." A compet.i.tive game of Clue Clue is less transparent than this story line. When Burr peers out of his window into the courtyard, it instantly triggers Stewart's suspicions. "That's no ordinary look," he tells his nurse. "That's the kind of look a man gives when he's afraid someone might be watching." That's a nice piece of dialogue, but not very convincing-what Stewart actually notices is "the kind of look" that only exists in Hitchc.o.c.k movies. is less transparent than this story line. When Burr peers out of his window into the courtyard, it instantly triggers Stewart's suspicions. "That's no ordinary look," he tells his nurse. "That's the kind of look a man gives when he's afraid someone might be watching." That's a nice piece of dialogue, but not very convincing-what Stewart actually notices is "the kind of look" that only exists in Hitchc.o.c.k movies.

Now, part of this can be explained by the way Hitchc.o.c.k designed the people in his films (he was never as interested in characters as he was in character types, and all the people we see fit that description). But the fact that Stewart is ultimately correct about his murder theory is a problem; it makes for a much better plot, but it heightens the aesthetic distance. The only reason it's possible to piece this puzzle together is because the only only things we see are inevitably connected, and that's not how window watching works things we see are inevitably connected, and that's not how window watching works. Rear Window implies that voyeurism is enticing because we get to see the secret story of who people are-we peep at a handful of interwoven brushstrokes that add up to a portrait. The reality is that voyeurism's t.i.tillation comes from the utter chaos of noncontextual information. It's closer to a narrative that ignores all the conventional rules of storytelling; it's more Lynchian than Hitchc.o.c.kian. If we could fully comprehend what was happening through a stranger's living room window, it would not be thrilling in the same way-it would feel more like reality TV. You'd think we'd care more, but we'd probably care less. implies that voyeurism is enticing because we get to see the secret story of who people are-we peep at a handful of interwoven brushstrokes that add up to a portrait. The reality is that voyeurism's t.i.tillation comes from the utter chaos of noncontextual information. It's closer to a narrative that ignores all the conventional rules of storytelling; it's more Lynchian than Hitchc.o.c.kian. If we could fully comprehend what was happening through a stranger's living room window, it would not be thrilling in the same way-it would feel more like reality TV. You'd think we'd care more, but we'd probably care less.

Surprisingly, a better depiction of window watching comes from Brian De Palma's 1984 effort Body Double Body Double, an attempt to rip off/pay homage to all the qualities. .h.i.tchc.o.c.k perfected. Body Double Body Double is not half as good as is not half as good as Rear Window Rear Window, but it's crazy perverse2 and incredibly fun to watch. It stars a guy strongly resembling Bill Maher (Craig Wa.s.son) who gets tricked into living in the coolest apartment in Los Angeles. One of the apartment's advantages is a telescope that allows Wa.s.son to watch his s.e.xy next-door neighbor (Melanie Griffith), a woman who seductively dances and m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es at the same time every night. Not surprisingly, this situation devolves into a grisly, complex fiasco. But what and incredibly fun to watch. It stars a guy strongly resembling Bill Maher (Craig Wa.s.son) who gets tricked into living in the coolest apartment in Los Angeles. One of the apartment's advantages is a telescope that allows Wa.s.son to watch his s.e.xy next-door neighbor (Melanie Griffith), a woman who seductively dances and m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es at the same time every night. Not surprisingly, this situation devolves into a grisly, complex fiasco. But what Body Double Body Double gets right is Wa.s.son's reaction to the woman's nightly routine-he doesn't question it at all. It makes no sense, and-somehow-that seems more real. What makes her dancing so exciting is that there's no elucidation whatsoever. Wa.s.son knows nothing, so everything feels good. gets right is Wa.s.son's reaction to the woman's nightly routine-he doesn't question it at all. It makes no sense, and-somehow-that seems more real. What makes her dancing so exciting is that there's no elucidation whatsoever. Wa.s.son knows nothing, so everything feels good.

2D This is an idiotic situation to describe, but I will try nonetheless: During the same period I was living in my $160 Fargo apartment and watching my neighbor by accident, I spent a lot of my free time sitting in parked cars and being weird. My best friend had a vehicle we used for this specific purpose; we would park her car in a dark place and be weird together. One night we were doing this in the parking lot outside of the newspaper where we both worked. It was a little past eleven o'clock. We were listening to ELO. During the chorus of "Don't Bring Me Down," we noticed a bachelor friend of ours exiting the newspaper building; he had been working late on a concert review and was going home. He did not see us, so we decided to follow him. This is an idiotic situation to describe, but I will try nonetheless: During the same period I was living in my $160 Fargo apartment and watching my neighbor by accident, I spent a lot of my free time sitting in parked cars and being weird. My best friend had a vehicle we used for this specific purpose; we would park her car in a dark place and be weird together. One night we were doing this in the parking lot outside of the newspaper where we both worked. It was a little past eleven o'clock. We were listening to ELO. During the chorus of "Don't Bring Me Down," we noticed a bachelor friend of ours exiting the newspaper building; he had been working late on a concert review and was going home. He did not see us, so we decided to follow him.

Our friend got into his car and drove the ten minutes to his apartment. Our vehicle crept behind him, two lengths back. This was black ops. We were speaking in code. He arrived at his building. We parked across the street. Sitting in the car amidst the voice of Jeff Lynne, we continued to watch him through tinted windows. It took him twenty-five seconds to climb his stairwell (we couldn't see that part). The door of his second-floor flat finally opened and the overhead light came on. Our friend walked through his living room, shuffled through his mail, and then disappeared into the bathroom.

It was at this point that I came to a semi-sobering realization: We really had no f.u.c.king idea what we were going to see next. Both of us knew this man extremely well... but did we really really know him? What if we didn't? I was already aware of his strangest interests (Nancy Drew novels, nonmelodic krautrock, department store mannequins, Tippi Hedren, etc.), but what if his private pursuits were even stranger than I imagined? What if we were about to see something we could not unsee? For the rest of our relationship, I would know secrets about this man that no one was supposed to know but him. know him? What if we didn't? I was already aware of his strangest interests (Nancy Drew novels, nonmelodic krautrock, department store mannequins, Tippi Hedren, etc.), but what if his private pursuits were even stranger than I imagined? What if we were about to see something we could not unsee? For the rest of our relationship, I would know secrets about this man that no one was supposed to know but him.

I mentioned this to my friend as she sat behind the wheel. She said she was having the same thought. "Maybe we should go," I said. "We probably should," she replied. But then our prey returned from the bathroom; instantaneously, the stakeout resumed. My coconspirator began taking notes on an envelope. We really knew how to be weird.

The two of us watched our friend walk over to his stereo. He thoughtlessly looked at the back of a few CD cases and then pushed the machine's play play b.u.t.ton, evidently content with whatever was in the disc tray. He sighed. He picked up a back issue of the b.u.t.ton, evidently content with whatever was in the disc tray. He sighed. He picked up a back issue of the New Musical Express New Musical Express and plopped into a chair that faced away from the window. It looked like he was reading about the band Ash, but I could not be positive. Maybe it was an article about Blur. I did not have binoculars or Jimmy Stewart's camera. and plopped into a chair that faced away from the window. It looked like he was reading about the band Ash, but I could not be positive. Maybe it was an article about Blur. I did not have binoculars or Jimmy Stewart's camera.

We continued to watch him read NME NME for twenty minutes, and then we drove home. It was a wonderful, memorable night. I still don't know why. What did I expect to learn? What was I afraid I might observe? There are no answers to these questions. for twenty minutes, and then we drove home. It was a wonderful, memorable night. I still don't know why. What did I expect to learn? What was I afraid I might observe? There are no answers to these questions.

1A The theory I am proposing, I suppose, is this: The reason voyeurism feels pleasurable is more physical than psychological. And this, I realize, is an easy hypothesis to torpedo; it takes a bad human trait and makes it seem both natural and amoral. It seems like an excuse for deviant behavior, which is the same reason people hate theories that suggest male infidelity is a product of sociobiology or that alcoholism is a congenital disease. But there The theory I am proposing, I suppose, is this: The reason voyeurism feels pleasurable is more physical than psychological. And this, I realize, is an easy hypothesis to torpedo; it takes a bad human trait and makes it seem both natural and amoral. It seems like an excuse for deviant behavior, which is the same reason people hate theories that suggest male infidelity is a product of sociobiology or that alcoholism is a congenital disease. But there is is something unexplainable about spying on strangers that doesn't seem connected to what we actually see. On the surface, it seems like this should be similar to the human affinity for gossip, but it's not; we're never interested in gossip about people we've never heard of, and we're rarely interested in average gossip about average people. It's not interesting to hear that an old man was building a bookshelf at three am last night, especially if I've never met the old man in question. But if I were to see this act through a neighbor's window, it would be different. I would watch him, and I would be transfixed. And I wouldn't imagine what books he was putting away, and I wouldn't speculate about why he was doing this construction so late in the evening, and I would not think I suddenly understood something about this person that's intimate or telling or complex. I would simply be seeing something I could not control and would never understand, and I'd be cognizant of a reality we all consciously realize but rarely accept-that almost all of the world happens without us. To look through the window of a meaningless stranger proves that we are likewise meaningless; the roles could just as easily be reversed with the same net effect. And that should disturb us, but it doesn't. something unexplainable about spying on strangers that doesn't seem connected to what we actually see. On the surface, it seems like this should be similar to the human affinity for gossip, but it's not; we're never interested in gossip about people we've never heard of, and we're rarely interested in average gossip about average people. It's not interesting to hear that an old man was building a bookshelf at three am last night, especially if I've never met the old man in question. But if I were to see this act through a neighbor's window, it would be different. I would watch him, and I would be transfixed. And I wouldn't imagine what books he was putting away, and I wouldn't speculate about why he was doing this construction so late in the evening, and I would not think I suddenly understood something about this person that's intimate or telling or complex. I would simply be seeing something I could not control and would never understand, and I'd be cognizant of a reality we all consciously realize but rarely accept-that almost all of the world happens without us. To look through the window of a meaningless stranger proves that we are likewise meaningless; the roles could just as easily be reversed with the same net effect. And that should disturb us, but it doesn't.

What are the things that make adults depressed? The master list is too comprehensive to quantify (plane crashes, unemployment, killer bees, impotence, Stringer Bell's murder, gambling addictions, crib death, the music of Bon Iver, et al.). But whenever people talk about their personal bouts of depression in the abstract, there are two obstructions I hear more than any other: The possibility that one's life is not important, and the mundane predictability of day-to-day existence. Talk to a depressed person (particularly one who's nearing midlife), and one (or both) of these problems will inevitably be described. Since the end of World War II, every generation of American children has been endlessly conditioned to believe that their lives are supposed to be great great-a meaningful life is not just possible, but required. Part of the reason forward-thinking media networks like Twitter succeed is because people3 want to believe that every immaterial thing they do is pertinent by default; it's interesting because it happened to want to believe that every immaterial thing they do is pertinent by default; it's interesting because it happened to them them, which translates as interesting to all all. At the same time, we concede that a compelling life is supposed to be spontaneous and unpredictable-any artistic depiction of someone who does the same thing every day portrays that character as tragically imprisoned (January Jones on Mad Men Mad Men, Ron Livingston in Office s.p.a.ce Office s.p.a.ce, the lyrics to "Eleanor Rigby," all novels set in affluent suburbs, pretty much every project Sam Mendes has ever conceived, etc.). If you know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, the voltage of that experience is immediately mitigated. Yet most lives are are the same, 95 percent of the time. And most lives the same, 95 percent of the time. And most lives aren't aren't extrinsically meaningful, unless you're delusionally self-absorbed or authentically Born Again. So here's where we find the creeping melancholy of modernity: The one thing all people are supposed to inherently deserve-a daily subsistence that's both meaningful and unpredictable-tends to be an incredibly rare commodity. If it's not already there, we cannot manufacture it. But looking through another man's window helps. It diminishes our feeling of insignificance, because spying ill.u.s.trates how all lives are equal ("We are the same"). It also feeds the hunger for spontaneity, because there is no sense of control or consistency ("This stranger's reality is beyond me"). No one thinks these thoughts consciously, but we feel them when we snoop. Seeing the secret lives of others removes the pressure of our own relative failure while reversing the predictability of our own static existence. It is more and less interesting at the same time. And our body understands this, even if we do not. extrinsically meaningful, unless you're delusionally self-absorbed or authentically Born Again. So here's where we find the creeping melancholy of modernity: The one thing all people are supposed to inherently deserve-a daily subsistence that's both meaningful and unpredictable-tends to be an incredibly rare commodity. If it's not already there, we cannot manufacture it. But looking through another man's window helps. It diminishes our feeling of insignificance, because spying ill.u.s.trates how all lives are equal ("We are the same"). It also feeds the hunger for spontaneity, because there is no sense of control or consistency ("This stranger's reality is beyond me"). No one thinks these thoughts consciously, but we feel them when we snoop. Seeing the secret lives of others removes the pressure of our own relative failure while reversing the predictability of our own static existence. It is more and less interesting at the same time. And our body understands this, even if we do not.

"We've become a race of Peeping Toms," Stewart's nurse remarks in Rear Window Rear Window after rubbing him down with liniment. "What people oughta do is get outside their own house and look in for a change." Good advice, I suppose. But that won't make us feel any better, and it might make us feel worse. after rubbing him down with liniment. "What people oughta do is get outside their own house and look in for a change." Good advice, I suppose. But that won't make us feel any better, and it might make us feel worse.

Q: How did you deal with the response? Did it bother you, or was it kind of exciting?

A: At the time, we wanted to consciously antic.i.p.ate the backlash and use it to our advantage. It seemed like the only way to stay viable. We were constantly trying to come up with an idea that would fail so horribly that everyone would decide it was too obvious to criticize or attack. For a while, we were going to make a live-action, shot-for-shot remake of the animated film At the time, we wanted to consciously antic.i.p.ate the backlash and use it to our advantage. It seemed like the only way to stay viable. We were constantly trying to come up with an idea that would fail so horribly that everyone would decide it was too obvious to criticize or attack. For a while, we were going to make a live-action, shot-for-shot remake of the animated film Heavy Metal Heavy Metal, but without using any CGI whatsoever. Matthew McConaughey was supposed to be the star. We were even going to use all the same songs off the soundtrack, except now they would be covered by Christian rock artists. We had convinced Jars of Clay to record "The Mob Rules," and I think dc Talk had been suggested for "Veteran of the Psychic Wars." Everyone sincerely believed that this was the one movie absolutely no one wanted. However, we couldn't agree on who the audience wasn't, so it became a marketing problem.

The Pa.s.sion of the Garth 1 Half the energy I've spent writing (and reading) about music over the past fifteen years has been preoccupied with the same problem: "Is this thing I'm writing about Half the energy I've spent writing (and reading) about music over the past fifteen years has been preoccupied with the same problem: "Is this thing I'm writing about real real?" It wasn't something that always needed to be addressed directly, but it was always there. Is this artist genuine? Do his songs speak to an actual experience? Is the persona of this music's creator the same as who the creator is? What is the fidelity of these recorded sounds? Were the guitars actually synthesizers? Were the synthesizers actually guitars? What is the ultimate motive of the musician, and does that motive match the aspirations of his audience? These issues have formed the spinal cord of what music journalism inevitably is-the search for authenticity and the debate over how much authenticity matters. And certain conclusions finally seem apparent: 1. Nothing is completely authentic. Even the guys who kill themselves are partially acting.2. Music that skews inauthentic is almost always more popular in the present tense. Music that skews toward authenticity has more potential to be popular over time, but also has a greater likelihood of being unheard completely.3. In general, the best balance seems to come from artists who are (kind of) fake as people, but who make music that's (mostly) real. This would be people like Bob Dylan. The worst music comes from the opposite situation, such as songs by TV on the Radio that aren't about wolves. If the singer is fake and and the music is fake (Scott Weiland, Madonna, Bing Crosby), everything works out okay. the music is fake (Scott Weiland, Madonna, Bing Crosby), everything works out okay.4. Normal people don't see any of this as a particularly pressing problem. They do not care. A few critics do, but that's about it.5. The most telling moment for any celebrity is when he or she attempts to be inauthentic on purpose on purpose, and particularly when that attempt fails.

Like most Americans, I've lost interest in the first three conclusions. The fourth conclusion isn't interesting either, although the overwhelming truth of that sentiment makes it worth remembering. But the fifth point remains compelling. It speaks to the core confusion most humans have about who they truly are, and it ill.u.s.trates why fame does not seem to make most famous people happy. When an artist successfully becomes somebody else, the result is defining and eternal: It's David Bowie morphing into Ziggy Stardust and becoming greater than either himself or the character. But when such a transformation fails, the original artist disappears into something else. He disappears into himself, and everybody gets sad and uncomfortable and inexplicably obsessed with all those authenticity issues they never cared about before.

This is what happened with Chris Gaines.

2 Rock writer Rob Sheffield once drunkenly argued that the supernatural success of nondescript country artist Garth Brooks was a social reaction to the temporary absence of Bruce Springsteen. This is the type of argument so simultaneously obvious and unseen that only someone as supernaturally brilliant as Rob Sheffield could possibly make it. There's a lot of evidence to support his theory: Springsteen essentially disappeared from America from 1988 to 1999. He even moved from New Jersey to L.A., casually claiming that building a new house in Jersey would be like Santa Claus building a new home at the North Pole. For roughly a decade, Springsteen stopped being Springsteen; he released a couple introspective alb.u.ms, but he was not the man Americans knew. Garth filled that void by selling over a hundred million records. He created the Era of Garth. Brooks didn't always write his own material, but he made songs that satisfied all the same needs that Bruce's did, except with a little less sincerity and a better understanding of who his audience was. "Friends in Low Places" was as effective as pop music ever gets: It's a depressing song that makes you feel better. Singing along with that song was like drunkenly laughing at a rich person and knowing you were right. "Friends in Low Places" addressed cla.s.s in the style of Pulp's "Common People," was as emotionally obtuse as Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog" and as pragmatic and mystical as BoC's "(Don't Fear) The Reaper." Rock writer Rob Sheffield once drunkenly argued that the supernatural success of nondescript country artist Garth Brooks was a social reaction to the temporary absence of Bruce Springsteen. This is the type of argument so simultaneously obvious and unseen that only someone as supernaturally brilliant as Rob Sheffield could possibly make it. There's a lot of evidence to support his theory: Springsteen essentially disappeared from America from 1988 to 1999. He even moved from New Jersey to L.A., casually claiming that building a new house in Jersey would be like Santa Claus building a new home at the North Pole. For roughly a decade, Springsteen stopped being Springsteen; he released a couple introspective alb.u.ms, but he was not the man Americans knew. Garth filled that void by selling over a hundred million records. He created the Era of Garth. Brooks didn't always write his own material, but he made songs that satisfied all the same needs that Bruce's did, except with a little less sincerity and a better understanding of who his audience was. "Friends in Low Places" was as effective as pop music ever gets: It's a depressing song that makes you feel better. Singing along with that song was like drunkenly laughing at a rich person and knowing you were right. "Friends in Low Places" addressed cla.s.s in the style of Pulp's "Common People," was as emotionally obtuse as Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog" and as pragmatic and mystical as BoC's "(Don't Fear) The Reaper."1 It's a song that makes me want to get drunk out of It's a song that makes me want to get drunk out of spite spite. Garth told stories about blue-collar people who felt good about what their bad life symbolized, which is the same reason Born to Run Born to Run will never seem unimportant. Now, are the songs on will never seem unimportant. Now, are the songs on No Fences No Fences as good as the material on as good as the material on Nebraska Nebraska? No. But Garth understood an entire population of Americans he would never meet. I don't know if Garth Brooks could necessarily relate to the ma.s.ses who loved his music, but they could relate to him. They f.u.c.king knew who he f.u.c.king was, because he made them feel like themselves.

And I think he felt weird about being able to do this.

And that's not unusual. And that's why certain things happened.

2A I don't have a lucid memory of what the world was like in 1999; it seems more distant to me than 1989, for whatever reason. I do know music was still selling like crazy, though: Total alb.u.m sales in '99 were 940 million. What was playing on the radio still mattered, and most of it was mainstream alternative rock or Santana's I don't have a lucid memory of what the world was like in 1999; it seems more distant to me than 1989, for whatever reason. I do know music was still selling like crazy, though: Total alb.u.m sales in '99 were 940 million. What was playing on the radio still mattered, and most of it was mainstream alternative rock or Santana's Supernatural Supernatural. There was a certain kind of semi-heavy, quasi-spiritual, midtempo track that could be three years old but still get endless airplay- Creed's "My Own Prison" was omnipresent at the bars and malls and Applebee's I was frequenting at the time. The most popular single in the world was "Livin' la Vida Loca," a song about how Pro Tools made Puerto Ricans gay. There were a lot of bands who selected random numerical names on purpose (Matchbox 20, Third Eye Blind, Seven Mary Three), and there were a lot of people trying to convince themselves that a double alb.u.m by Nine Inch Nails wasn't ridiculous. Two disposable teens killed a bunch of beautiful people in suburban Colorado for reasons completely unrelated to Marilyn Manson, but traffic at Hot Topic improved nonetheless. Meanwhile, I was storing potable water and Oreo cookies in my hall closet; I was obsessed with Y2K, which negatively impacted my interest in things like TLC. At the time, TLC was advising me not to hang around with scrubs. This was kind of like their advice from 1994 about not chasing waterfalls. I never got that. Why not chase waterfalls? They're so easy to chase. It would have been far more sensible if deceased arsonist Lisa Left Eye had told me not to chase something dangerous, like wildebeests. "Don't go chasing wildebeests." It was that kind of millennium. People cared about s.h.i.t, but not really.

It was into this hazy malaise that Chris Gaines emerged, widely noticed but generally unattacked (this being the pre-blog age). The big reveal/marketing initiative happened on Sat.u.r.day Night Sat.u.r.day Night Live Live, a program that's always fun to read about but almost never fun to watch: Brooks hosted the November 13 show with alterego Gaines as the musical guest, as if they were two different, unrelated people. The fact that I was even watching this program clearly suggests (a) the SEC football game on ESPN must have been a blowout and (b) I had a drug problem. There was also a fake VH1 Behind the Music Behind the Music about Chris Gaines, although I never caught that; I think it might have aired during the Iron Bowl. But about Chris Gaines, although I never caught that; I think it might have aired during the Iron Bowl. But anyway anyway, all initial logic suggested that this was just an unorthodox way to promote The Lamb The Lamb, the fictionalized biopic of Gaines's "life" that was supposed to hit theaters in early 2000 but never actually came into existence. At the time, most people made the same a.s.sumption as me. But Garth had his own unique perspective: His concern over the transformation dwelled almost exclusively on its consumer viability.

"So the big question is this," Brooks said at the time. "If we don't have the traditional first week, that 'Garth Brooks week' that we've been so fortunate to have [in the past]-is [the new alb.u.m] going to be deemed a failure? I'm hoping that Chris gets a chance, like all new artists, gets to come out and then hopefully word of mouth gets around and he starts to pick up and gain speed, and starts to actually live and breathe like artists do."

On the surface, this statement does not seem strange; it sounds like the normal kind of bulls.h.i.t major recording stars offer up when they have to give twenty interviews in two days. But it is is strange, and not just because Garth is talking about a different person and himself at the same time. It's strange because Brooks is obsessed with the one thing that he did not need to reinvent himself to achieve-mainstream commercial success. His motive for becoming a different person was to become the person he already was, minus the hat. strange, and not just because Garth is talking about a different person and himself at the same time. It's strange because Brooks is obsessed with the one thing that he did not need to reinvent himself to achieve-mainstream commercial success. His motive for becoming a different person was to become the person he already was, minus the hat.

Even more than the alb.u.m itself, the liner notes to In the Life of Chris Gaines In the Life of Chris Gaines (the fake Chris Gaines anthology) indicate a specificity of confusion that's too abnormal to be insignificant. The opening pages of the CD booklet show a photo of Gaines standing in an industrial kitchen, clad in black; its facing page is a biography of our nonexistent musician, presumably explaining what would have become the narrative thread for (the fake Chris Gaines anthology) indicate a specificity of confusion that's too abnormal to be insignificant. The opening pages of the CD booklet show a photo of Gaines standing in an industrial kitchen, clad in black; its facing page is a biography of our nonexistent musician, presumably explaining what would have become the narrative thread for The Lamb The Lamb (had it ever been produced). The biographical details (had it ever been produced). The biographical details2 are explicit, charming, and stupid in the manner one might expect. But more curious is the emphasis Brooks placed on chronicling the chart success of Gaines's career: He notes that Gaines's first imaginary solo alb.u.m spent "an extraordinary 224 weeks" in the Billboard Top 200 before winning a Grammy. His second imaginary alb.u.m, the s.e.xually "dark and angry" are explicit, charming, and stupid in the manner one might expect. But more curious is the emphasis Brooks placed on chronicling the chart success of Gaines's career: He notes that Gaines's first imaginary solo alb.u.m spent "an extraordinary 224 weeks" in the Billboard Top 200 before winning a Grammy. His second imaginary alb.u.m, the s.e.xually "dark and angry" Fornucopia Fornucopia, debuted at number one and spent eighteen weeks at the top of the charts. His imaginary 1994 alb.u.m Apostle Apostle spent eight imaginary weeks at number one "without any artist promotion." It's almost as if Brooks was honestly dreaming of a world where he did not exist, so he felt obligated to create a musician whose career would fill the commercial void left by the disappearances of spent eight imaginary weeks at number one "without any artist promotion." It's almost as if Brooks was honestly dreaming of a world where he did not exist, so he felt obligated to create a musician whose career would fill the commercial void left by the disappearances of No Fences No Fences and and Ropin' the Wind Ropin' the Wind.

In his imagination, Garth knocked himself out of the Billboard charts with himself.

2B In the Life of Chris Gaines In the Life of Chris Gaines ended up selling two million copies in two months, a relative failure in the musical economy of 1999. ended up selling two million copies in two months, a relative failure in the musical economy of 1999.3 It got as high as number two on the Billboard charts, but it never had a "Garth Brooks week," just as its creator feared. And while It got as high as number two on the Billboard charts, but it never had a "Garth Brooks week," just as its creator feared. And while feared feared might be too strong a verb, it's not far off: Garth Brooks really, really cared about record sales. I can't think of any artist who ever cared about sales more. Which is not to say Brooks was obsessed with might be too strong a verb, it's not far off: Garth Brooks really, really cared about record sales. I can't think of any artist who ever cared about sales more. Which is not to say Brooks was obsessed with money money, because that's totally different-the Rolling Stones care deeply about money, but they don't give a s.h.i.t how it's acquired. If Kiss could make more money farming than playing in a band, Gene Simmons would immediately sign an endors.e.m.e.nt contract with John Deere. Jimmy Page is probably counting his money right now right now, as you read this very sentence. The desire for wealth complicates artistic vocation, but it doesn't tell us much about the music. What Garth cared about more were statistics. Like a nongambling Pete Rose, Brooks was consumed by the magnitude of his own numbers: With career alb.u.m sales over 128 million, he is currently the bestselling solo artist of all time. This was not happenstance: At Brooks's request, some outlets slashed the retail price of his late nineties alb.u.ms to guarantee ma.s.sive openingweek sales. "I believe in the Wal-Mart school of business," Brooks has said. "The less people pay, the more they enjoy it." After he released a double live alb.u.m in 1997, Capitol Records put out a press release chronicling his dominance in random U.S. cities: A Media Play in Rockford, Illinois, sold three hundred alb.u.ms when the alb.u.m went on sale at midnight. Tower Records in Sacramento sold four hundred copies in two hours. A Sam Goody in California sold out of the CD in two hours. Some outlet called Gallery of Sound in Edwardsville, Pennsylvania, sold a thousand copies on opening day. Brooks has received twenty-four Billboard Music Awards, an honor based solely on quantifiable unit moving. All his concerts sell out (in 2007, he played nine straight "comeback" shows in Kansas City's Sprint Center, selling 23,750 tickets on every single night). No other nineties artist comes close to his dominance. For ten years, Brooks was twice as popular as U2 and REM combined combined.

This is interesting for lots of reasons, but particularly for one: Since his semi-retirement in 2000, Brooks has inexplicably evaporated from the public consciousness. His highest-profile moment was covering Don McLean's "American Pie" at an inaugural ball for president-elect Obama in 2009. Modern country radio rarely plays his music, and he isn't yet viewed as part of the "cla.s.sic country" contingent. None of his songs have become standards. I spent a weekend in Nashville and went to half the honky-tonks on Broad Street, and I didn't hear his music once. He already seems half as famous as Brad Paisley.

So why did this happen? How does someone this beloved not become a legend once he's absent? It wasn't like Brooks was a Lou Reedlevel jerk, or even a Clint Blacklevel jerk. He was always magnanimous and respectful toward his princ.i.p.al influences (George Strait and George Jones) and once played five soldout shows in L.A. for charity. Yet the minute he stepped out of the room, n.o.body cared. And I think the reason this happened is the same reason Brooks tried to become Gaines in '99: His persona was somehow real and fake at the same time. It was real in the sense that it was not contrived or imaginative-he was just the same normal guy he always was. It was fake in the sense that it was unnaturally straightforward-it's impossible for a normal person to sell 128 million alb.u.ms, or even to want want to sell 128 million alb.u.ms. And Brooks seemed to understand that. There was eventually a three-p.r.o.nged disconnect between (a) who Garth thought he was, (b) who the audience thought Garth was, and (c) how Garth a.s.sumed his audience to sell 128 million alb.u.ms. And Brooks seemed to understand that. There was eventually a three-p.r.o.nged disconnect between (a) who Garth thought he was, (b) who the audience thought Garth was, and (c) how Garth a.s.sumed his audience wanted wanted to think of him. So he tried to connect those dots through Chris Gaines, and he failed. But that aborted reinvention tells us more about Brooks than anything else he's ever done. It exposes the confusing truths that had always been there, lurking unnoticed. to think of him. So he tried to connect those dots through Chris Gaines, and he failed. But that aborted reinvention tells us more about Brooks than anything else he's ever done. It exposes the confusing truths that had always been there, lurking unnoticed.

3 In the late 1960s, when three (or at least two) of the four Beatles had started to lose interest in being "the Beatles," Paul McCartney gave an interview where he mentioned how it would be fun to re-form the Beatles under a different name and to wear masks on tour, thereby allowing the band to perform without the responsibility of being who they were. Supposedly, McCartney was shocked and disappointed when the journalist informed him that everyone would immediately figure out who they were the moment they started singing. The first time I read this story was in the introduction to In the late 1960s, when three (or at least two) of the four Beatles had started to lose interest in being "the Beatles," Paul McCartney gave an interview where he mentioned how it would be fun to re-form the Beatles under a different name and to wear masks on tour, thereby allowing the band to perform without the responsibility of being who they were. Supposedly, McCartney was shocked and disappointed when the journalist informed him that everyone would immediately figure out who they were the moment they started singing. The first time I read this story was in the introduction to The Bachman Books