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.