Elves = Virgins

Few character races are as indelible as the elf (save for maybe the dwarf). The elf has a wide reaching empire through the realm of fantasy stories; a tall humanoid with pointy ears, a forest dweller, slightly magical with heightened senses, and a master with the bow and arrow. But for all their useful additions to any group of adventurers, one question has always bothered me: are elves virgins?

So first off, we need to establish a few important facts about elves, the most important of which is their extreme age. Lord of the Rings (LotR) mythology says that elves, while they can be killed, are still technically immortal. Even non LotR canon that does not explicitly indicate immortality tends to making elves nigh-immortal, living for mulitples of centuries (i.e. still a very long time). And, like a number of other immortal races, elves remain roughly ageless (in human standards), keeping their same youthful looks, energy, and stamina, both physically and mentally. Therefore, we can make the assumption that elves may remain sexually vital, in at least reproductive terms for the vast duration of their either very long, or potentially endless lives. This is a very important point, because most other immortal or near immortal races are indicated to be incapable of reproduction; vampires (most universes, at least) and even the Highlander-universe immortals are all explicitly stated to be incapable of spawning children either among themselves or with normal humans. Now, if we assume that a single elf then is capable of living millenia (or forever), is capable of producing progeny, and is capable of producing said progeny for a comparatively long time, then we run into a very serious problem with the elven population over time.

In a normal species, reproduction is limited by the time it takes to come to sexual maturity (puberty) and then on the back end by gradual march towards death. Among humans, the lion's share of the bell curve for reproduction is focused between 16 and 51 (the average age of the last period for a woman and the onset of menopause). This is taking an average life expectancy of the modern human being 67 years of age. But part of what keeps our population stable is the ratio between death and birth rates. Too high on the death side, and the population declines in size, but go the other way, and the population grows. However, in the case of elves, when you have a death rate that is effectively zero (excepting any major wars), even a single birth causes the population to grow. If allowed to reproduce ad libitum, the elf population would grow exponentially, because a single elf mother could mother hundreds of elflings during her life, if she reproduced once per year. Allowed to deal with itself, the elf population could easily blossom and take over the world in a few hundred years, because they reproduce so readily with no deaths to offset the population growth. (Just look at what happened when rabbits were introduced in Australia – a small warren of 12 European rabbits were released in 1859, and within 10 years 2 million could be shot or trapped annually without making any change in population size.)

Now the Elves, given their longer lifespans and their reported wise natures, would no doubt have realized the potential their race has to completely dominate any planet they are on. Four elf mates can double themselves every two years, and they can do that forever. Given that elves don't want to drown out every other species (effectively killing their own species in the end due to overcrowding), elves would have undoubtedly made certain stipulations about mating (probably a maximum of one or two children per couple, like that Christopher Lambert movie Fortress) this is because the elven culture is always portrayed as wise and self-aware. But given that even small increases can almost permanently change the demographics (given that a new addition will never actually leave), what is more likely is that Elven leaders would hold a very tight hold over reproduction. For one, given that any new elves will have to become permanent members of the gene pool, the Elven high council would undoubtedly approve any mating to ensure that only the highest quality of new elf was being produced. In fact, look at the scene again from Helm's Deep when the elf army shows up to back up the Fellowship and humans, and tell me that those hundreds of elite and identical looking soldiers are not the result of controlled breeding and eugenics. Additionally, since LotR elves at the very least never die unless there is war, reproduction would likely only be approved after some elves died, or when the leadership decided it was time to increase the size of the population. (On the plus side, the massive casualties at Helm's Deep meant that there was a lot of state-dictated elf boning going on.)

So, back to the original thesis; given that Elves who are following the society-approved mandates cannot reproduce without state approval, and even then only if they meet certain genetic criteria for reproduction, and taking into account the dearth of available birth control methods (excluding Orc-skin condoms and pulling out), any attempt to copulate among elves, is a risky business, especially if it ends up in conception. (Think about how pissed Hugo Weaving was at Liv Tyler for falling in love with Viggo Mortensen in Fellowship. He's not mad because she's going outside of the race – he's mad because she is diluting a carefully constructed über-elf genetic makeup as well as potentially producing offspring that could potentially live forever, and offset the entire population balance of Middle-Earth.) Given the potential penalties for screwing with that, the only sensible solution for a wise elf is to avoid sex altogether, meaning that Legolas, and potentially nearly every elf seen in any fantasy story is likely still a virgin.

Shortform v Longform

I, like so many of my fellow improvisers, started doing improv in college, and started by doing what is commonly known as shortform improvisation. This is in contrast to longform improvisation, and though there is no “official” definition or difference between the two, the generally accepted demarcation is that longform is any improvisation that lasts, uninterrupted, for more than five minutes. Shortform is, well, everything else. Shortform is by far the most common form of improvisation, and prior to moving to Chicago, I was only exposed to longform very briefly and very sporadically. Shortform is so common, that it is even known to people outside of the improv world; I can’t think of a single person who, when describing what improv is to a friend, parent, relative, or co-worker, didn’t say “It’s kind of like ‘Whose Line Is It Anyway?’”

In fact, shortform improv probably encompasses a good 75% of all improv ever performed. And with good reason: it involves the audience tremendously, is almost always funny, and allows for the kinds of outrageous characters and situations that audiences have come to expect of their modern comedians. Longform on the other hand, is unpredictable, often unwatchable if performed by even mid-level experienced actors, and if it uses crazy characters and situations, often collapses into a hot mess within minutes. The difference is largely in structure; while longform has attempted to codify itself by creating forms (e.g. the Harold, the Deconstruction, the Armando), adherence to the form is pretty much open to the interpretation of the director and/or performers and definitely not necessary. On the other hand, shortform is heavily dictated by rules and structure. In fact the success or failure of a game is largely a part of how well the players follow the rules and exploit the particular gimmicks of a game. Even the names show the difference in how seriously people take it: shortform pieces are called “games”, and longform ones “forms”. The former suggests that it is solely for entertainment, while the latter suggests a larger, more amorphous thing.

I like to think of shortform as ‘improv with training wheels’. Follow the structure of the games, and people will laugh. This is important in the beginning, as it allows improvisers to get a feel for the basics of improv, get comfortable on stage and with their fellow players, and most importantly have fun. The biggest plus of shortform is that the rules are designed to make nearly every attempt funny and by definition, the game can only last three-ish minutes. Even if it stinks, it’ll be over shortly with a bell ring, and you can start anew. (Whether or not those three minutes can seem like an eternity is discussion of relativity that is beyond the scope of this article.) Longform is generally not as popular among the general population, excluding of course, the forms that are very gimmicky. (The most significant is the various improvised musical acts, which consistently draw large crowds, probably not least of which because people love musicals in general.)

Now, while shortform is a crowd favorite, it is generally looked down upon by ‘serious’ improvisers. Shortform is seen as silly and valueless to longformers, while shortformers look upon longform as unnecessarily cumbersome and often unfunny. In fact, when I first started doing improv, my group watched one of our sister-troupes perform a Harold, and we all swore that we would never bother doing it. Uninteresting and unfunny. We’ll stick to our “Dating Games” and “Stand, Sit, Kneels”, thank you very much.

One of the big improv teachers in San Diego will only teach shortform, despite interest to the contrary. I asked her why, and she said that it wasn’t worth doing improv if it wasn’t on the level of “TJ and Dave”. For the benefit of those not in Chicago, “TJ and Dave” is generally considered to be the best improv show in Chicago, which pretty much makes it the best improv show in the world. To put it in perspective, they play on Wednesday nights at 11:00 to sold-out crowds. Every week. To say that these extremely talented players are the only ones who should even bother doing longform is like saying it isn’t worth living unless you’re going to be the smartest man alive. The point that I had trouble getting across to her was that improv takes time. Carol Hazenfield described longform as the “outback”, and to be honest, it takes time to cross the outback and see everything in it. You don’t become the best gunslinger overnight – you’ve got to rob a few banks first, and yes, botch a couple too. But shortform advocates see every longform failure as proof that the art is unworkable, and indeed many groups have fallen flat on their face as a direct result of not minding the gap between thirst and sense.

It’s true that longform is more challenging; I won’t argue that. It’s a full 27 weeks into the iO’s program before they let you attempt going for over five minutes. It’s scary being up there with no safety net; no team-member standing by the bell, no built in gimmicks, and no rules. But it’s also exhilarating and rewarding – a well performed thirty minute show blows away both audiences and performers alike. I won’t say that shortform doesn’t have its place; without shortform, I never would have been entertained with improv long enough to be still doing it. And audiences will always love shortform, but shortform has limited potential. Those rules are fences which keep improv focused and ‘normal’, but also limit its creative capacity, because just beyond those fences is a whole untamed, anything-goes world of scenes if you’ll just open the gate and walk outside.

Five Things Revisited

I've talked previously about a “trademark” game and about how this game was sort of the pinnacle of why longformers hate shortform because this simple “three” minute (in actuality a 7-8 minute) game takes upwards of 15 minutes to get set up (seriously, time it next chance you get). I was perhaps a bit harsh on this game. All of the things I talked about previously still stand, and I do still think that it takes forever to get the funny, but this game is not entirely without its merits. In fact, by removing nearly every inch of room to actually improvise in by burying the performers in suggestions, the game is as bare-bones as an improv game can be, and as a result, it bears open the two basic tenets of fun, successful improv in a way no other game ever has.

So the game, for those who didn’t read/remember my previous piece, runs down like this. Get five activities from the audience, exchange out elements of each activity with wacky things (He’s snowboarding, but the snowboard is a car, and he’s wearing a porcupine. Hilarious, and wacky.) and the other players have to clue him into the activity through pantomime and gibberish. So the first concept that the game readily shows off is one of audience transposition. You see, when the audience gives a suggestion (especially in a shortform show) they already have a pretty good idea of what that suggestion means to them. (This may be the reason that longform struggles against shortform. On a deeper subconscious level, audiences recognize that they only get to say one thing for a thirty minute show, and their “one thing” may only show up tangentially, at best.)

The moment the suggestion is accepted, everyone is subconsciously forming their idea of what that will look like. Now audiences don’t perform, and most don’t even want to perform (Hence, an audience. It would be something else otherwise.) for whatever reasons. Afraid of being laughed at, making a fool of themselves, etc. But instead of them doing it, they live vicariously through the performers. They want to see their theories confirmed, which is as simple as just doing it.

The second part to this pillar is one of character consistency. One of the popular theories (ideas? philosophies?) that is being taught in workshops is one having to do with characters: basically, when a performer plays a character, people want to see that character continue being himself, regardless of the consequences. Or, “oh, that is so something blank would say/do”. Comedy, at least as far as the theory goes, comes from this character constantly confirming his identity to the audience. They laugh because they see him being open and honest about himself. They don’t laugh when the performer does something out of character and thus denies his identity. They are constantly forming an opinion of this character subconsciously, and they want to see him fit their mental image.

The second pillar is an even simpler one, and its one of performer effort. At the same time audiences recognize (generally speaking) that they don’t want to be on stage, they appreciate the fact that we are. They like rooting for us, sure, but they also love watching us struggle. They love seeing performers confronted with some outrageous situation struggling to get their arms around it. And they love to watch performers getting frustrated against the rules of the universe. There’s a game I see sometimes where reporters are interviewing someone, and they keep getting lost/confused/stuck on strange points, and the interviewer gets increasingly frustrated trying to correct them. Same principle.

Do you realize how awesome this is for us as performers? These two pillars basically say that audiences want to see us take the obvious choice and love to watch us work to get there. Performers take heart: confirm their suspicions and fight like hell, and there’s a terrific chance the audience will love it. Almost makes all that set up worthwhile. Almost.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse

Back in 2004, I used to write movie reviews for the USM student newspaper, the "Student Printz". Because I occasionally feel lazy, and it seems a shame that all of five people ever read these, I've decided to repost them here, in the original versions that I emailed to my editor, Noel, all those years ago.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse is one of those movies you wish somebody would just shoot in the head so it would quit staggering around trying to eat your brains. Resident Evil: Apocalypse is like taking everything that is bad about a Paul W.S. Anderson movie and distilling all the good stuff away, oh wait…it isn’t like that, it is that.

Resident Evil opens just days after the first film finished, with our heroine, Alice (Milla Jovovich) waking up after her first encounter with the evil T-virus and its creator, the Umbrella Corporation. The Umbrella Corporation has been secretly developing this virus, which brings dead people back to life in a secret underground facility called the Hive. After zombies in the first film overran the Hive, the Umbrella Corporation has decided to reopen the facility, allowing all the undead creatures inside to spill out into the streets of Raccoon City, where an entire population of people are waiting to become zombie food. The Umbrella Corporation decide it would just be easier to vaporize the entire city, so they seal off the entire city (which thankfully has only one entrance) and the only people left alive are a small band of police officers and civilians led by Alice. They are contacted by an Umbrella scientist who offers them a way out but only if they rescue his daughter who is also trapped in the city.

Director Alexander Witt is working off a script by the director of the first movie, Paul W.S. Anderson. In fact, he’s practically stolen Anderson’s entire playbook, yet seems to have only a minimal grasp of the source material and script. He uses Anderson’s trademark computerized maps to cut between scenes and works the entire movie like its just one big computer game, with characters bumbling about from location to location with no rhyme or reason and the bosses getting progressively harder as the story progresses. Additionally, the lickers, who were only briefly featured in the first film get only about an extra minute of screen time in this movie, which allows them to introduce: the Nemesis. Another product of the T-virus research, the Nemesis moves like Darth Vader, looks like something Todd McFarlane doodled in his spare time, and wears a black leather slicker out fit that looks like it was stolen from the set of I Know What You Did Last Summer. Oh, and he’s bulletproof too, which is a brilliant design innovation.

While most zombie movies usually revolve around themes of commercialism or societies that are losing individuality, Resident Evil: Apocalypse decides instead to focus on giant, evil corporations who own everything (Who released the original “Resident Evil” game? Oh, wait that’s right: Sony.) The only thing that saves this movie is Mike Epps, who has all the great lines and Jill Valentine (Sienna Guillory) wearing an outfit that that is definitely not standard police issue.

To put it simply: if you must go see only one zombie movie this year, wait for Shaun of the Dead. As for Resident Evil: Apocalypse, the movie barely manages to pull enough entertainment to keep the masses from breaking into the theatre to eat the projectionist alive for making them sit through it.

Putting in the Hours

It is an oft-quoted statistic from Malcolm Gladwell's book “Outliers” that becoming an expert in any given field requires a devotion of at least 10,000 hours to that task. This September marks nine years of doing improvisation for me, so I thought it would be a fun experiment to see how well I was doing on reaching this goal. (I have purposely only included times when I was actively engaged in doing improv – watching doesn't count, but teaching does.)

So the first couple of years are the easy part, as I was only doing improv with the Stage Monkeys Hattiesburg chapter – I estimated from a sample school calendar at USM that there would be 15 weeks of practices, once every Thursday, for two hours each go, and I was in the group for four semesters (Fall '03 – Spring '05), and we did four total shows in my first year and six total shows in my second year (at two hours per show), so my first two years are thus:

[(15 x 2) x 4] + (4 x 2) + (6 x 2) = 140 (So far, so good.)

I also played with the Humorrhoids on the MS Gulf Coast, maybe 3 practices/shows, at 2 hrs per, so I'll add 6 to my total, bringing me to 146. From May '05 – December '05, no improv. It sucks, but it's less math at least. I moved back to Hattiesburg in Jan. '06, and played under the normal school schedule until May '07, so:

[(15 x 2) x 3] = 90 (bringing me to 236; and all of a sudden I realize how slowly this number is rising).

There were no extra shows during that period, so that's my total. June 2007, moved to Chicago, started doing iO once a week, 8 weeks per session, six sessions, 3 hours per, so:

6 x (8 x 3) = 144 (And I'm up to 380.)

I did a cage match for what I think was 6 weeks, which I'll say we actually improvised an hour per match, bringing me to 386. And we got together to do extracurricular practice maybe 10 times, two hours per, bringing me to 406, combined with a few iO electives (5 x 2 hours) gives me 416.

Now comes the fun parts; I started teaching the SD Monkeys the first week of June 2009, which was 3 years and three months ago, for a total of 168 weeks (2.5 hours per week), which I'll say I've probably missed 10% of which due to work, being out of town, holidays, giving me:

[168 – (168 x 0.1)] x 2.5 = 377.5 (and a total of 793.5 hours)

I did four levels of NCT classes, 6 weeks per level, 2 hours per week, so:

4 x 6 x 2 = 48

And 2 years, 9 months of NCT SunCo, (to which I'll apply the 10% miss rule) and 2 hours per practice:

[(2 x 52) + (9 x 4) – ((2 x 52) + (9 x 4) x 0.1) ] x 2 = 252

And 9 months of ROAR, (10% Rule), two hours per practice:

[(9 x 4) – ((9 x 4) x 0.1)] x 2 = 64 (And bringing the total to 1157.5 (four digit numbers, yay!))

I'll say that I was in, conservatively, an average of 1.5 shows per month of SunCo's run and maybe 6 shows of ROAR, an hour per:

(28 x 1.5) + 6) = 48

I've done 55 As Ink episodes, for a total of 27.5 hours of improv, five Barrel of Monkeys, which were likely around 12 hours of improv per, bringing me to 1293 hours.

Throwing in a few random teaching gigs, improv camp, LA improv fest workshops, I'd bring that section to a total of 150 hours (this is the part of my record keeping that is unfortunately guessing) and my total comes to 1393 hours. Including Partial Credit, Mike & Chris, and Fourth Date practices and performances, I'd throw another 75 hours, giving me a total of 1518 hours. I've taught a four week workshop run, and two a month for the period of January to June 2012, and one a week since then (two hours each), giving me:

(4 x 2) + [(6 x 2) x 2)] + [(3 x 4) x 2] = 56 (Up to 1574)

I've done Dinner Detective for 15 months now, averaging around 2 shows per month, of which I'll be conservative and say I've maybe improvised for 1 hour a night (given the scripted beats, and that I've done seated roles here and there), and I'll be generous and give myself an extra 10 hours to account for any shorter gigs I may have forgotten. Combined with four Simply Symbiotic gigs, with two hours apiece, it brings my grand total, for 9 years of improv to:

1622 hours.

That's it. Nine years, and I'm not even 1/5 of the way to being a virtuoso/expert/adept. Now, by my estimates, it would take five years of someone working 40 hours/week to reach this mark, and over the last 9 years, I have worked on my craft an average of ~3.5 hours per week (which actually sounds about right). Oh, well, time to keep improvising.

Camp

(Author's note: this was originally published on the Camp Improv Utopia blog in August of 2012.  It received some negative feedback (likely from the same people who are being called out for their actions in it) and was taken down.)

What I've been telling everyone since I got back from camp, is that my favorite thing about the weekend wasn't the workshops or the teachers or getting to do some camp activities (though those were all great, I should emphasize, as was the wonderful conclave of improvisers I met and the food we ate). No, my favorite thing was the energy – the attitude, as it were, of everyone there. A noncompetitive, supportive, and overwhelmingly positive view towards improv being a gift; one that we were all fortunate enough to have received and even more fortunate to get to give to others. Now this is a wonderful 'tude, but could it survive outside the confines of a place where we were all gathered under the banner of “CAMP”, which is to say, could it last when we got back to whatever jingoistic tendencies we had back in the real world?

So a little background here: the San Diego improv scene has been dominated by one theater for the last decade, and the people in charge there have firmly self-enthroned themselves as being the pinnacle of improvisation in the city. (And I know from talking to other people that this, or similar behavior, is not unheard of in other burgeoning communities too, but San Diego's where I'm at, so it's where my examples come from.) They have their own space, five shows a weekend, and a regular training center. However, the folks in command have also become petty, insecure, and elitist about their work – and it's this negative aspect I've most become concerned with. I didn't realize it until I had gone to camp, but I had been tainted with this negative attitude; a wary, watchful, and defensive eye to anyone else trying to do nearly anything. All attitudes are contagious, and bad attitudes are perhaps the most viral, and it wasn't hard to ascertain where the disease vector was.

It's unfortunate, more than anything, because the city has started to get a very strong, active improv scene in the last few years, run by people who I consider friends, even though they have a different team name from me. People who don't care what flag they march under, just so long as they get to march. Which, some people (including those at the above theater) interpret to be some indication of untrustworthy, disloyal, or even seditious behavior, but others just see as people just wanting to do and get better at something they enjoy doing. Part of the issue is that this problem group also likes to think of themselves as the solenoid who gets to decide who is and who is not worthy of getting to improvise because they see lesser productions as being a detriment to their image. They play improv as poker - however it's not; poker is a zero-sum game, where one player will walk away the victor with more chips than anyone else, at the expense of the other players. In a zero-sum game, the totals of losses and gains all add up to zero, but in improv, everyone can win. We can all walk away from the table with more chips if we want to.

I can't, unfortunately, claim innocence in any of this, this petty, uncouth behavior. This darkness seeps out into our community and it was only when I came into contact with people who don't think about how to take advantage of each other that I see how far I've dropped (an issue I've explored in previous blog posts: 00george.blogspot.com). I think of a line from the Monkees theme song in particular:

We're too busy singing/To put anybody down

Time spent infighting is time not spent improvising, and that is a true waste. And it really is sad, because together, we have the capability to accomplish so much more when we're not worried about stamping out those that are different from us. Diversity should be encouraged; research has shown that being welcoming of diversity is not only good because it makes us not monsters, but because it makes biological organisms stronger and less prone to disease, and makes organizations and systems more agile and flexible. On an artistic level, the more people working on a problem, the faster the problem is solved and the larger the variety of solutions.

Do those good vibes survive outside of camp? The answer is yes – but unfortunately a non-emphatic, qualified “yes”. I have forged some very strong bonds with members of the other “independent” groups; we go to each other's birthday parties, we congratulate each other on successful shows, we help get each other gigs when possible. I meet people all the time down here who are excited about improv and just want to “do”. I also meet a lot of people who have become disenfranchised by the haughty and non-supportive attitude, and the strategy is to either put up with it or distance yourself (and of course, others continue to embrace it, which is even more unfortunate). Ultimately, it is our responsibility to promote the kind of energy we want (to which I could quote an endless series of seemingly trite kitsch slogans like “be the change you want to see in the world”). At least we can take comfort in knowing that somewhere out there (maybe not even a place, maybe just a group of people), there's a spot we can be free to work and explore.

A Cult

People get really put off by the word “cult”; my group, the Stage Monkeys, when it originally started in Louisiana, was (and still is) called the Cult of the Stage Monkey, but when it moved to Mississippi, dropped the “Cult” part, because nearly all of the Miss is in the bible belt, and they don't take to kindly to that kind of talk down there. But improv is in general, a cult itself, and not just in the way that other folks have pointed out before (we make you pay money, we steal your time, we make you more open, emotionally bare weirdos), I mean we are a cult of personality.

Even outside of the near religious reverence of people like Del Close (who does have a shrine at the iO Chicago, for Del's sake) – we revere the people that are involved in it. There are certain people, whose personalities are magnetic – players we love watching, regardless of what show we're watching them in, in fact, we may even prefer to see them in low-concept shows so that we can just watch them. I'm as guilty of this as anyone; you tell me Greg Hess or Blaine Swen or Dave Hill or -stop the presses- Bill Arnett is in a show, and I'm there – I don't even care what they're doing. That's a cult of personality: the devotion of a group of people or community to a single person, based solely on the fact that they are them. A religion built on someone's persona.

Now, in contrast, I just started playing in a community band and noticed something that I had really forgotten about bands – the melding of disparate voices into one sound (“one band, one sound”, to use my Drumline parlance). It's really there in the name: band, ensemble, etc., you have a bunch of very different sounds, that all work together to create a song. Now some instruments are stronger than others (trumpet, trombone) in their big, splashy (often brassy) sounds, while others are cooler, more mellow instruments (saxaphone, clarinet) – but the point is that the entire sound of the group isn't derived from a single voice; it's all the tones working together that complete the sound – it is the very nature of the myriad instruments working together that you can make music. Sure, you can still play some songs without some instruments, but you need all of them working together (and in the right balance) or what you're playing isn't complete.

By the same token, it's important that groups of improvisers recognize the need to have a “complete” ensemble to make “complete” improvs. You can't have an orchestra made of just english horns, and you can't have an improv group made of just smart-witty improviser types. We often lose sight of this when recognizing good improv, in focusing on one particular solo, and forgetting that it was the tubas and bass clarinets that finished the picture. And I say this being well aware that being in two-man improvs, it is all about the cult of personality. Two people can't just be playing the bass line; they've gotta carry the melody and the harmony just to make the song go. You watch a two-man improv, and you buy into the cult of personality: you're saying that what these two people do is interesting enough to sustain your attention.

The Onion's AV Club pointed out in a recent article that rock is currently a post-decadence period: we built nearly the entirety of music (and movies, and a lot of other art) on the backs of artists. “A gross display of power” was how they put it; popular musicians with easy access to money, drugs, and women, and in a lot of ways, we celebrated them for it. Sure, we want them to put out good music, but we also want to see how outrageously oppulent their mansions were, although, the AV Club does point out that now being a “rock band” is discouraged among rock bands. Look at the virtual indiffference to film like I'm Still Here, that follows the faux-destruction of Joaquin Phoenix. These are artistic endeavors nearly more focused on the behavior of the people making it than what they're actually making.

But it's that exact same reason that I am always more impressed to watch a group of people put something together than I am to watch a two-man show, it's just plain harder. You get more people, you add more voices to the sound, which both makes the work harder and at the same time more complex, distinct, and diverse. You are no longer relying on two people to do a duet or an accompanied solo, you're watching the whole orchestra folding themselves into each other to create a rich ensemble piece. Which isn't to demean or diminish the work of a great duo of improvisers, as that has its own inherent difficulties, but its to say that there is a difference between a note and a chord. When you diminish the inherent power of the individual, you heighten the value of the collective – the group mind, or in this case, the group sound. But remember that your group is playing a chord, and every instrument should be utilized to fill it out.