The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
The B-Side
Wednesday, December 9, 2020 — 17

The B-Side: How has ‘South Park’ not been canceled?

Should “South Park” be canceled?
With 
debates 
spawned 
by 

controversial episodes raging across 
Twitter 
and 
echoing 
on 
Reddit 

subthreads, “South Park” remains 
as scandalous as it was back in 1997. 
Mocking 
Clinton’s 
sex 
scandals, 

Scientology and the Virgin Mary with 
equal vigor, the show has done double 
duty as a cultural touchstone and as 
an argument for why you shouldn’t 
let your kids watch Comedy Central. 
Yet over the past two years, many 
have called for the animated show 
to be canceled — claiming that South 
Park has raised a generation of trolls 
inspired by the racist, hate-fueled 
vitriol spewed by main character, Eric 
Cartman. With these considerations 
in mind, is there still a place for South 
Park in 2020? I rewatched some 
episodes to find out. 

By chance, the first episode I came 

across was the “South Park Christmas 
Special” from 2006. Written during 
the height of the war on terror, the 
episode follows Cartman, Stan, Kyle 
and Santa Claus as they attempt to 
bring Christmas to the downtrodden 
children of Iraq. Over the course 
of the episode, Santa’s sleigh gets 
shot down by an RPG over Baghdad, 
Saddam Hussein electrocutes Santa’s 
testicles and Jesus Christ is murdered 

by terrorists. Oh, and back in South 
Park, Colorado, Timmy, the show’s 
resident 
child 
with 
a 
disability, 

stammers through a garbled version 
of a “Partridge in a Pear Tree.” It’s 
ludicrous, 
hilarious 
and 
utterly, 

blatantly offensive. 

But would the episode have aired 

today? In the age of “cancel culture,” 
where Lana Del Ray was “canceled” 
for wearing a mesh face mask, it 
seems unlikely that a show satirizing 
terrorism, making fun of children 
with disabilities and even going 
after Jesus Christ himself would be 
allowed to continue. Shows have been 
canceled for far less or at minimum 
altered to satisfy politically correct 
ideals. Even classic cartoons aren’t 
safe — Elmer Fudd, the rabbit-hunting 
denizen of “Looney Toons,” has had 
his iconic hunting rifle replaced 

by a scythe. “The Simpsons” have 
removed the character of Apu, who 
was 
said 
to 
perpetuate 
harmful 

Indian stereotypes. Yet, somewhat 
inexplicably, 
“South 
Park” 
has 

survived the media purges unscathed. 
The show is in its 24th season and 
shows no signs of stopping anytime 
soon. So how has “South Park” been 
able to avoid cancellation? 

The answer lies in their even-

handed satirization — of everything. 
The show’s creators, Trey Parker 
and Matt Stone, don’t single out one 
specific race, culture or religion. They 
rarely even taunt the same celebrities, 
preferring 
instead 
to 
lampoon 

hundreds of America’s most famous 
figures over the past two decades. 
“South Park” can’t be accused of 
discrimination; they ridicule everyone 
with equal glee. Not unlike the fool 
in the king’s court, the only person 
allowed to tell the truth without 
fearing retribution, “South Park” has 
played the role of America’s jester to 
a tee, revealing society’s hypocrisies 
and laughing giddily along the way. 

Notorious for their tongue-in-cheek 

humor, Parker and Stone are unafraid 
to self-satirize, too. This attitude was 
best exemplified by a video released 
on “South Park”’s official Twitter in 
2018. With white words on a black 
background, a booming voice reads 
off the following text: “America has 
reached a crossroads. What will 
we 
do 
next? 
#CancelSouthPark.” 

Shortly 
thereafter, 
the 
hashtag 

#CancelSouthPark 
was 
trending. 

Many assumed the show’s creators 
finally gained a conscience — or that in 
Trump’s America, the comedy’s once-
outrageous world of “South Park” now 

seemed tame. All speculation was 
moot; the hashtag was no more than 
a marketing gimmick. Never afraid 
to break the fourth wall, Parker and 
Stone were once again poking fun 
at themselves and an increasingly 
prevalent cancel-culture. 

If 
“South 
Park” 
was 
like 

“Family Guy,” it would be viewed 
anachronistically, like “Fuller House” 
or some other show that has been 
dragged, kicking and screaming, out of 
the 1990s. Yet more than any animated 
television show, “South Park” has 

remained remarkably relevant, due 
to their rapid production process. 
Each 30-minute episode is produced 
in six days (most animated television 
series have production periods of 3-6 
months) allowing for timely humor 
and a degree of relevancy most other 
series can’t aspire to. More akin to 
“Saturday Night Live” than “The 
Simpsons,” South Park’s spur-of-the-
moment humor has allowed them to 
stay one step ahead of cancellation. 

I ended my viewing spree by 

watching “The Pandemic Special,” the 
first episode of the show’s 24th season. 
Covering the impact of the coronavirus 
on the inhabitants of “South Park,” 
the town’s children are forced to 
quarantine at school under the guard 
of the district police force, implied 
to be unemployed due to their poor 
handling of the Black Lives Matter 
protests. The episode controversially 
features 
Token, 
the 
show’s 
only 

African American character, being 
shot by the town’s chief of police for 
coughing in the classroom. Was this a 
heartless attempt at a cheap laugh, or 
does it satirically raise awareness of 
police brutality? I’ll leave that for you 
to decide. Regardless, South Park’s 
unique timeliness, absurdity and pure, 
comic stupidity ensure it will remain 
a controversial cultural force for years 
to come. 

Daily Arts Writer Sam Mathisson 

can be reached at mathiss@umich.edu. 

You can’t cancel Fiona Apple, not even in 1997

“This world is bullshit.” 
After a tumultuous past year (to put 

it lightly), you’re probably nodding your 
head in agreement. But 23 years ago, this 
statement provoked a slightly more severe 
reaction. 

Fiona Apple, the then 19-year-old 

alternative pop singer, shocked the world 
with her utterly honest and expletive-
laced acceptance speech at the 1997 VMA 
Awards. After winning Best New Artist for 
the single “Sleep to Dream” off her debut 
album Tidal, Apple delivered a brief but 
soon-to-be infamous message to her fans, 
explaining, “I didn’t prepare a speech and 
I’m sorry, but I’m glad I didn’t because I’m 
not gonna do this like everybody else does 
it.” 

Toddling her chrome astronaut award 

from hand to hand, Apple added, “See, Maya 
Angelou said that we, as human beings, at 
our best, can only create opportunities. And 
I’m gonna use this opportunity the way 
that I want to use it.” Her words, already 
deviating from the formulaic thank-you-
filled speeches of her peers, were met with 
some intermittent applause, but mostly 
bewildered silence. Apple continued, “So, 
what I want to say is — um, everybody 
out there that’s watching, everybody 
that’s watching, this world? This world is 
bullshit. And you shouldn’t model your life 
about what you think that we think is cool 
and what we’re wearing and what we’re 

saying and everything. Go with yourself.” 
A sprinkling of audience members clapped 
at this affirmation, enthusiastic if not a bit 
puzzled. After a few hurried thank-yous 
to her family and producer, Apple cinched 
the speech with one final thought: “It’s just 
stupid that I’m in this world, but you’re all 
very cool to me so thank you very much.” 

Almost instantaneously, the media 

launched into a frenzy. In just under a 
minute and 20 seconds, it seemed that 
Apple had managed to collect enough 
criticism to last for years. The press 
labeled the young artist as everything from 
woefully ungrateful to wildly precocious, 
a reputation that stuck with Apple for 
much of her musical career (and arguably 
still does today). She was essentially, as 
we’ve coined the term, “canceled” for 
being unabashedly honest. Apple’s brazen 
take on an already taboo issue was merely 
fuel to the fire for her developing “bad 
girl” rep. With the release of the sexually 
suggestive “Criminal” music video, Apple 
had already made clear her unwillingness 
to fit into the good-girl charade that’s often 
dumped on female pop stars. With bright 
blue eyes, a brooding alto voice and an 
unfiltered matter-of-factness, Apple was 
by all accounts developing into pop diva 
material. But this prima donna persona 
did little to cushion her from the brutally 
harsh discourse of gossip columnists and 
distinguished music critics alike. 

One such critic of The New Yorker 

characterized her as an “underfed Calvin 
Klein model”; another NY Rock journalist 
remarked that her speech was “one of 

the most ridiculous soliloquies ever to 
be witnessed at an MTV Awards event.” 
Comedian Janeane Garafalo even went as 
far as to mock Apple’s eating disorder in a 
blistering parody, stating, “You shouldn’t 
model your life about what you think that 
we think is cool . . . Even though I have an 
eating disorder and I have somehow sold 
out to the patriarchy in this culture that 
says that lean is better.” It’s a disappointing, 
if not unsurprising, reaction to a young 
artist’s openness. Given the media’s 
constant fixation with women’s bodies, 
it’s also unsurprising that Apple’s physical 
appearance became a focal point in almost 
every fuming article and subsequent album 
review. There was no escape from the 
piercing opprobrium of an industry eager to 
mark Apple as a moody teen, permanently 
on the verge of a breakdown. Luckily 
for us, this didn’t stop her from making 
breathtaking music. 

I started listening to Apple this past year 

with the release of her long-anticipated 
album Fetch the Bolt Cutters (I know, I 
know, I’m extremely late to the party). 
Needless to say, I tore through her entire 
discography in a day, mesmerized by 
Apple’s sharp lyricism and unconventional 
pop sound that makes you question 
everything you think you know about the 
genre. My visceral reaction on first listen 
was how gloriously refreshing Apple’s 
voice was. She didn’t shy away from hard 
questions and blunt truths of life, and I felt 
at home in this mania of biting, vulnerable 
sincerity. 

For the same reason, I believe Apple’s 

1997 VMAs speech is a resounding victory. 
Beneath its overtone of teenage angst and 
clumsy delivery, Apple presents a gem of 
a message. As a young female artist in the 
era before social media, receiving a massive 
platform to talk candidly about toxicity in 
the music industry was incredibly rare. 
Apple merely vocalized the frustration 
thousands of other women in the public eye 
had been feeling for years before her. Not 
only that, but she addressessed the feeling 
of inadequacy and “uncoolness” that comes 
from being an adolescent on the peripheries 
of a celebrity-obsessed culture. In all 
honesty, maybe we have that speech to 
thank for Apple’s incredible artistry today. 
Standing there on national television, in 
front of hundreds of people, Apple seemed 

to reach a moment of clarity. She got a taste 
of pop stardom and subsequently decided it 
went against everything she stood for. 

Despite their best efforts, critics failed 

to cancel Apple. With each fiery criticism, 
her commentary on the artificiality of the 
American music industry is only proven 
further. Since 1997, Apple has released four 
more albums, each more introspective and 
mature than the last. In a sense, she’s finally 
been justified. Despite all the dizzying 
circumstances, Apple has found freedom in 
being unfailingly outspoken. Only this time 
it’s not in an acceptance speech, but in the 
intimate lines of her musical masterpieces. 

Daily Arts Writer Nora Lewis can be 

reached at noralew@umich.edu.

KAI BARTOL
Daily Arts Writer

NORA LEWIS
Daily Arts Writer

The answer lies in 
their even-handed 
satirization — of 

everything.

Notorious for their 
tongue-in-cheek 
humor, Parker and 
Stone are unafraid to 

self-satarize, too.

CBS

Why you’re still listening to Azealia Banks in 2020

Though maybe not an A-list celebrity 

anymore 
(she’s 
too 
merciless 
for 

invitations to ornate parties or wine 
nights in gilded mansions), Harlem-
based rapper Azealia Banks has stuck 
around. She’s still in your friend’s 
Spotify feed, albeit normally on private 
mode so it’s hard to know unless you 
bring it up. She has maintained just 
under two million monthly listeners 
on Spotify (with no mixtape release 
in 3 years), has been nominated for 
dozens of awards and this year even had 
an unreleased demo, “Competition,” 
become particularly popular on TikTok 
with over 53,000 videos recorded to the 
track.

What makes this interesting isn’t 

that Banks has lost her talent. Her most 
recent single, “Black Madonna,” peels 
back her typical cover of electronic 
clamor to reveal her effortless flow 
and vicious lyrical jabs as much as 
ever. Rather, Banks has been canceled 
endlessly (and rightfully so) on Twitter 
and 
its 
compatriot 
social 
media 

sites. To list all of her transgressions 
would itself take up an entire article; 
a comprehensive list on Wikipedia 
will show the long-winded extent of 
Bank’s controversy. The sins range 

from impressively articulate, narrative-
length jabs at Kanye West and Iggy 
Azalea to homophobic and transphobic 
posts that have resulted in temporary 
bans from Twitter.

Skipping discourse about ignoring 

Banks’ canceled status or “separating 
the art from the artist” — because these 
mental gymnastics are the ultimate 
reasons people are still willing to listen 
in the face of controversy, and have been 
written about time and time again — 
what drags people back to Broke With 
Expensive 
Taste? 
Unlike 
listeners’ 

failed campaigns to cancel Kanye 
West or Chris Brown that seemed to 
have inflicted no effective damage, 
with Banks, listeners have the unique 
foresight to slip into private mode (as 
two of my friends have confessed that 
they do) but still are consuming the 
music. People are wary enough to avoid 
association but are still seeking tracks 
like “Anna Wintour.”

A combination of factors likely 

account 
for 
these 
contradictory 

habits. For one, the nature of Banks’ 
music — rabid hip house covered in 
brash lyricism — is an amalgamation 
perhaps best-suited to engage with her 
degree of aggression and controversy. 
The style isn’t constructed for the 
type of close listening that so many 
personality-centered pop stars and 
thoughtful alternative artists elicit. 

Listening doesn’t feel like engaging 
with a conversation; it’s something 
amusing to consume, like what you’d 
put on to dance around to after getting 

good news. Half of Banks’ lyrics are so 
muddled, anyways, almost obscured 
completely by the heavy blanket of the 

beats she creates and sticky in the way 
they gum together as she raps straight 
through the song, so the sense that 
clicking play on something you’ll need to 
think about feels absent when listening. 
The overwhelming consensus among 
supporters online runs along the lines 
of this, too: She’s immoral, she’s crazy, 
but she makes good, irreplaceable beats.

This isn’t to say that the writing on 

Broke With Expensive Taste or mixtape 
Slay-Z is underdeveloped. In fact, 
Banks’ ability to lay out brisk, fiery bars 
with full-throated aggression makes 
the listening, in the half of the lyrics 
that are comprehensible, even more 
difficult to turn down. The lyrics don’t 
feel profound; they feel sassy and fun 
to shout along with. From “212” (“And 
when I hit that dip get your camera / 
You could see I’ve been that bitch since 
the Pamper,”) to demo “Competition” 
(“She’s like, ‘Hey where’ve you been 
honey?’ / What it look like, bitch? Getting 
this money!”), Banks pendulum-swings 
from creative self-flattery to genius 
retorts. You can find another poet, but 
the dancefloor hip hop that moves these 
tracks, and the spiked lyrics in them, 
couldn’t have been made by anyone else. 
They’re addictive, full of lines you wish 
you would’ve thought of yourself, and 
that just makes them more fun to get 
lost in.

From the get-go, too, Banks has 

told the world she’s controversial and 
doesn’t care, which likely suggests 
some self-selection by fans to explain 
her continued following. Her bellicose 
genre-melding and lyrics (even when 
unintelligible) ask listeners not to take 
her too seriously. But her listeners 
probably already didn’t care. Maybe 
they lauded Banks for edginess. Her 
first single and most streamed song, 
“212,” uses the c-word a grand total of 9 
times. She’s been tweeting belligerently 
nearly her entire career. Her songs (see 
“Heavy Metal and Reflective”) have 
always been exaggeratedly explicit.

Which is all to say that Azealia Banks 

is still creating unique, quarrelsome, 
sharp music that blends rap with the 
beats you lose your mind to in clubs, 
and that people are still consuming it. 
At this point, it feels like this might turn 
out to be a small-scale Trisha Paytas 
phenomenon — “uncancelable,” so to 
say, for many listeners, with revelations 
changing things only for those who have 
gone into hiding on private mode. The 
collective decision to “cancel” Banks, 
and stop streaming until she owns up to 
her actions, might be easier to achieve if 
anyone in the industry was mixing like 
she is. Nobody is, and until then, the 
streaming will continue.

Managing Arts Editor John Decker 

can be reached at jndecker@umich.edu. 

JOHN DECKER

Managing Arts Editor

For one, the nature of 
Banks’ music — rabid 
hip house covered in 
brash lyricism — is an 
amalgamation perhaps 
best-suited to engage 

with her degreee 
of aggression and 

controversy.

