September 30, 2014 § 5 Comments
I’m impatient. So, I decided to push the button and publish Punk Archaeology today. This is the first book published by The Digital Press at the University of North Dakota. We’re so punk that we don’t really have a webpage.
That being said, we’re also so punk that we will release a book here for free.
I have one favor to ask. If this book is something that you think sounds cool, spread the word. Facebook it. Tweet it. Ello it. Tell everyone you know about it. Since this press has no budget, no staff, no offices (and you might suspect no editors…), I need my readers to serve as our marketing wing. Blow up the internet, please.
Punk Archaeology is a irreverent and relevant movement in archaeology, and these papers provide a comprehensive anti-manifesto.
This volume was made possible by a whole community of folks ranging from the relentless Andrew Reinhard who proofed this over and over and over again to Aaron Barth who put together the conference which produced these papers. The authors were great to work with except Richard Rothaus who insisted that we include his handwritten paper. (I kid, I kid). Support for the whole deal came from the Cyprus Research Fund, the Center for Heritage Renewal at North Dakota State University, the North Dakota Humanities Council, and the delicious beer makers at Laughing Sun Brewing in Bismarck. Administrators at the University of North Dakota are to be commended for raising their eyebrows politely and ignoring what I was doing.
The print copy should be ready to go by the end of the week and available at Amazon. I’ll post a link to that. It should cost around $30.00, but look like a million bucks. Make sure to order copies for friends and families as well as university libraries and private collections.
Here are links to the papers being read at the conference on Soundcloud thanks to Tim Pasch, Chad Bushy, and Caleb Hulthusen for recording the event:
And listen to Andrew Reinhard’s soundtrack here:
Here’s the book, folks:
September 23, 2014 § 1 Comment
As I’ve said elsewhere on this blog, I’m not much of a book writing person. Most of my ideas can be most profitably explored at about 10,000 words. Every now and then, I figure out some idea or concept or gimmick that deserves more words, and over the next month or so, two of those ideas will appear in book forms. Of course, none of this would be even remotely possible without the collaboration of coauthors, editors, and colleagues.
One of the most fun parts about getting a book together (you know, more fun than page proofs or sorting out that one last figure that requires attention!) is writing and receiving little blurbs that are used for marketing new books.
My coauthors and I wrote the little blurb for Pyla-Koutsopetria I: Archaeological Survey of an Ancient Coastal Town. American Schools of Oriental Research Archaeological Report Series Number 21:
Pyla-Koutsopetria I presents the results of an intensive pedestrian survey documenting the diachronic history of a 100 ha microregion along the southern coast of Cyprus. Located around 10 km from the ancient city of Kition, the ancient coastal settlements of the Koutsopetria mircoregion featured an Iron Age sanctuary, a Classical settlement, a Hellenistic fortification, a Late Roman town, and a Venetian-Ottoman coastal battery situated adjacent to a now infilled, natural harbor on Larnaka Bay. This publication integrates a comprehensive treatment of methods with a discussion of artifact distribution, a thorough catalogue of finds, and a diachronic history to shed light on one of the few undeveloped stretches of the Cypriot coast.
I’m also on the verge of releasing my first book as publisher: Punk Archaeology.
The process has been a bit slower than expected, but I invited some sympathetic voices to provide some short perspectives on the book.
The first is from Brett Ommen, hobo academic:
The <Punk> of Punk Archeology exists as acipher, an empty signifier. The value of this volume lies in its commitment to variously loading <punk> with meaning based on the epistemic uncertainties that mark human civilization and its study. This volume traverses the supposed rules of theory and praxis, of art and science, of conservation and change, of information and meaning by way of the unruly <punk>. <punk> helps these authors locate their work and our world, not because it functions as a particular concept but instead because it refuses any particular mode of divination. As such, Punk Archaeology offers all academic fields a lesson for utilizing the anarchy of the cipher to negotiate the perils of disciplinary rigidity.
The second is from photographer, geek, and author Kyle Cassidy:
Archaeologists are at home in the dirt. They start the season respectably enough, in khaki’s and sensible shoes, but after four weeks of living in a tent and sifting rocks for bits of bone all day they’ve stopped shaving (if they ever did to begin with), possibly eschewed grooming altogether and no longer resemble anything you’d expect to see in the front of a classroom. When an archaeologist needs to get a wheelbarrow of backfill across a trench, they build a bridge out of whatever’s lying around; they do it this way because they’re in the middle of nowhere and they know the swiftest way between point A and point B is to do it yourself; because the coyotes aren’t going to do it for you and the board of trustees isn’t going to do it for you. This DIY attitude is how they manage to transport & house two faculty members and five grad students in Syria for three months for less than one lab in the med school’s spent on glassware during the same time period.
Archaeologists rely on themselves because they have to. They are the cassette tapes of academics; played through one speaker, loudly, and full of passion, blasting a song that so many people can’t understand the words to, but are moved by experiencing. Punk Archaeology is filled with this music: In Richard Rothaus’ “Punk Archaeoseismology”, scientists try to understand the destruction of a town 1,600 years ago by racing to Güllük, Turkey the day that it sinks into the sea, killing every single inhabitant, during a terrible earthquake. It is as personal and visceral as any Xeroxed Zine because it is ultimately about science poured from the crucible of very personal chaos. Colleen Morgan’s account of continually explaining her tattoos to workers is an explanation for everyone in the sacrifices we all make to identify our tribe. Kostis Kourelis’ singling out of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania’s unheralded place in the creation of Punk and New Wave reminds us of Philadelphia, Turkey and it’s likewise mostly forgotten place in Byzantine history — archaeologists know better than most anyone else that kingdoms rise and kingdoms fall and the small things that are meaningful to us now won’t even be footnotes in eighteen hundred years unless someone tracks them down.
This book is about archaeology, and more than that, it’s about music, but when you peel back all the power chords, the distorted guitars, the sweat, the frenetic drums, Ramone’s stickers and the cheap beer, most of all, this book is about trying to fit broken pieces together to make sense of a world in which you are constantly reminded that everybody dies in the end, because you’re looking at veritable mountains made up of their triumphs, their failures, and their very bones.
August 21, 2014 § Leave a comment
As a member of Kostis Kourelis’ book club, we were encouraged to read Amanda Petrusich’s Do Not Sell at Any Price (2014). The book describes the remarkable world of 78 rpm record collectors. 78 rpm records were produced largely before the war (although they were made until the 1960s) and usually contained pop music, “race music” (including blues and jazz that were marketed largely to an African American audience), and “ethnic music” that was not widely played on the radio. The discs themselves measured 10 inches across and were usually made of a hodgepodge of unreliable materials that allowed for the fledgling recording business able to produce and circulate music quickly. Most of the masters for these cheap records are lost and in many cases the only recordings that we have of prewar pop music exist on the handful of poorly manufactured discs held dear by collectors.
In fact, Petrusich argued that collectors of prewar 78s attracted the attention of folk and blues artists starting in the 1960s (and Harry Smith’s 1952 Anthology of American Folk Music was often their introduction to music recorded originally on 78 rpm discs) and spurred the popular revival of these genres. This connection to 78s has continued to attract the attention of Jack White and a handful of other oldey timey music fans.
I won’t review this wonderful book, but I do want to use it to make a few little observations about how we listen to music (and some of my comments relate to my interest in recent trends among audiophiles).
1. Authentic Sound. One of the most remarkable things about the survival of 78 rpm records is the incredibly poor quality of many of the prewar discs. First off, the record labels made these discs of schellac which was a rather fragile and inconsistent material that did not lend itself to consistent pressings. Compounding matters is that up until 1924 or so, recordings were made by the “acoustical” method. That is, the performers played into a horn that amplified the sound enough to move a cutting stylus across a master cylinder of wax. These recordings could not capture the same sonic range as later electrical recordings made into microphones, but are more coveted by collectors. The inconsistent character of shellac discs, however, continued to compromise quality at playback as did the tendency to press records that did not play at precisely 78rpm and used various frequency response curves idiosyncratic to particular labels.
As a result, the sound from 78rpm discs might be described as inconsistent, but to some extent the sound we hear from them defines an era of recorded music. There is an undeniable authenticity that audiophiles, in their relentless pursuit of perfect sound, tend to overlook. Recent debates about the LP revival, for example, tend to focus on the idea that LPs sound BETTER than the compressed sound of mp3 recordings so popular with “the kids these days.”
At the same time, it is hard to deny that our compressed-to-distortion mp3s are the authentic sound of music for this generation just as the crackling, warped, and distorted sound of relatively inexpensive 78s was the sound of recorded music prior to the war. I’ll admit that I’m not a LP guy and, in fact, I find the sound of digitized 78s difficult to enjoy. At the same time, I’m not as mortified by the sound of MP3s, as say, Neil Young or other audiophiles. While I still prefer a CD or even a high-resolution download, reading Petrusich’s book has reminded me that there is something undeniably authentic about both 78s and mp3s.
2. The Song. One of the great tropes in the audiophile press is how the kids these days don’t have the patience for long-playing records or even albums. They just want the poppy singles, loaded onto mediocre sounding portable mp3 players (so called “iPods”), and lasting no more than 3 minutes. In fact, some argue that they simply don’t have the attention span for a LP. This, of course, is crazy as these same young music consumers can watch movies, the NFL, and go out to concerts in healthy numbers and all of these things last for longer than a single song.
More than that, the LP era was an aberration in how we listen to recorded music. The 78 era, lasting from the late teens to the World War II, was all about 3 minute singles. And the average listener couldn’t afford to sit still for too long because once the song was done, they have to get up and flip over the 78! Perhaps our short attention span for recorded music is the norm, and the LP generation was, in fact, a group not only too lazy to get up and flip over an album, but also dulled their music senses by subjecting them to endless, pointless, mediocre b-sides on long-playing records.
3. Rituals of Listening. One of the great aspects of Petrusich’s book is how she describes these 78 collectors listening to their prized possessions. None of these guys (and, yeah, they’re almost all men) hesitated at all to PLAY their records for the author. More than that, almost all of them clearly enjoyed hearing the music. They tapped their feet, squirmed in their chairs, fell into trances, gestured in the air, and generally reveled in the listening experience. They felt the intensity of these authentic listening experiences.
More than that, once they began to listen to 78s, they listened to more and more. The records flew off their shelves and onto their turn table. More than once the author had to extract herself from an emotionally draining listening session before her host was done spinning records.
I found her descriptions of these events to be among the most compelling parts of the book. The way these seasoned collectors still found something invigorating in these poorly produced singles reminded me of enduring power of simple rituals.
It also made me want to go and put a CD in my ole CD player (a 1992 vintage Nakamichi CD4), warm up the tube amp (a very recent Audio Research VSi60), and listen to my big Zu Omen Defs with their old school full-range drivers.
July 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
I have really enjoyed getting back into some scholarly habits the past couple weeks. I have even engaged in this primitive activity where I open a bound stack of paper and read the words, in order, written on each. I’ve heard that some scholars call it reading.
I was pretty excited to read some of the contributions to the Stephanie Foote’s and Elizabeth Mazzolini’s little volume called Histories of the Dustheap: Waste, Material Culture, Social Justice (MIT 2012). The book collects a series of articles on the history of trash, waste, and rubbish, and grounds them, to varying degrees, in the cross-disciplinary nexus of material culture studies and critical theory. The book, however, avoids being too theory laden and manages to speak to practical issues as much as conceptual ones. This practical edge reflects a particular strength of recent work on the history of trash and discard.
The article that caught my attention most in the volume was Phaedra Pezullo’s “What Gets Buried in a Small Town: Toxic E-Waste and Democratic Frictions in the Crossroads of the United States.” She looks at the politics surrounding the discard of PCB in Bloomington, Indiana and locates her treatment in a larger consideration of rurality and pollution in American (although arguably also in global) history. Marginal places, like the rural west (e.g. North Dakota or Alamogordo, New Mexico) become the settings for morally ambiguous practices. It is hardly a leap to apply many of these paper to my recent research in the Bakken Oil Patch in sparsely populated western North Dakota or role in excavating Atari games from a landfill at the edge of a small town in New Mexico.
In fact, the long Western tradition of sparsely populated, “wild” places as the source of various kinds of corrupting influences (from the so-called Germanic hordes who supposedly destroyed the Roman world to the uncivilized “wildlings” in the Game of Thrones) has provided a context for activities that would be far more problematic in the more densely built up core. The willingness to treat the periphery in a different way also captures the binary logic of Western colonialism where behaviors and attitudes unacceptable in the core meet with ambivalence in colonial places.
This process of internal colonization follows the rough and irregular edge of a rural-urban divide across the United States. Pollution caused by extractive industries in, say, the Bakken Oil Patch in western North Dakota, is simply the “price of progress” for residents of the core and for small communities who see sacrifice as a road to deeper integration with the core and access to economic and political power. In Pezullo’s study of Bloomington, Indiana, the social, economic, and political power of companies like Westinghouse helped to protect the use of PCBs in manufacturing in Indiana even as the risks became visible and known to the community. The absence of strong counterweights to wealthy and powerful corporate interests pervades the Bakken as well.
Pezullo’s observations on pollution in rural America could likewise be applied to the dumping of thousands of unsold and returned Atari video games in a landfill in Alamogordo, New Mexico. This moment in time reflects the “remoteness” of Almagordo from the prying eyes of shareholders. The presence of White Sands missile range nearby only reinforces the suitability for this sparsely populated stretch of rural land for activities set apart from the settlements and interests of most Americans.
The next paper in the book looked at the discard and collection of trash on the slopes of Mt. Everest. Further chapters considered the pollution present in minority neighborhoods impacted by hurricane Katerina in New Orleans. Most of the papers considers the social construction of discard practices and pollution as mediated through varying degrees of economic and political remoteness. For anyone interested in grasping better how trash fits into our modern (and arguably premodern) world, the studies contained in this volume are valuable reads.
January 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
As I continued to read around in the field of the archaeology of the contemporary world, I have become fascinated by the huge body of work on the everyday objects. Much of this work is not properly archaeological or even scholarly, but it points to some kind of abiding archaeological tendency in the way that we engage everyday life.
Over the winter break, I perused Jonathan Olivares’ design taxonomy of office chairs and Lyle Owerko’s engaging work on the boombox. Both books focused on locating the objects in a larger social context. Olivares’ work, true to its roots in design, documented the development of the office chair through time, presented a technical vocabulary for the common features in office chairs, and provided some broad historical notes on the changes in the office chair’s shape and features. The book is filled with lavish technical illustrations with comments on both design and materials. As any good taxonomy, this book would allow a non-specialist to identify and describe a chair in an office setting. If we follow the author’s preface literally and understand the chair as a marker of status in the office environment, his guide would allow someone unfamiliar with an office environment to recognize the social hierarchy in place. The chairs also provide a way to consider the effects of Taylorism and efficiency studies on the office environment. The chair became a productivity tool as well as an object of status.
Owerko’s Boombox project is a different kind of book. He provides little in the way of technical details, descriptions, or taxonomy. Rather than elaborate illustration, the core feature of the book is the series of remarkably detailed photographs of certain iconic boomboxes of the 1970s and 1980s. The photographs are large and sufficiently detailed as to reveal wear patterns, damage, and identifying characteristics of each boombox. You can get an idea of his photographs on his website. The detail is such that one can see the the various plastic parts that give the exterior of the boombox its complex and overwrought aesthetic. The part show the kinds of wear that reflect use. The bent “pause” button on tape controls reflected the common practices of pausing tracks to cue up the next song or even using it to freeze the music for the second to syncopate a groove or, in the most skilled hands, to loop it. Broken handles show the limits of these device’s portability and the practice of adding more flexible shoulder straps. The worn plastic faces preserve signs of how the boombox rubbed against fabric in transport with chips and dents reflecting less forgiving contacts. These battle scars complement stickers and homemade repairs to provide a roadmap to each object’s biography.
The bulk of the book is dedicated to conversations about boomboxes and their place within the “urban underground” of the late-20th century and photos of the boomboxes in use. While I’ll accept Olivares’ notion of the office chair as status marker in a traditional office context, I’m skeptical of Owerko’s more romanticized idea of the boombox as a markers of the urban underground. After all, what made the boombox great was that it was ubiquitous. Get any group of American “Generation Xers” together and almost all of them will talk about boomboxes. These are kids from the cities, from the ‘burbs, from rural areas, rich, poor, or middle class. The boombox was not iconic of some kind of subversive underground, but of the democratizing consumerism of the middle class. Maybe it’s best to say something like the appearance of the boombox in certain settings had a destabilizing effect on the expectation that common material possession would create a cohesive middle class identity. But this does not make a catchy title.
Finally, the books are not archaeological monographs or even properly exhaustive studies (although Olivares’s work is close), but windows into the life and times of objects. As archaeologists explore the contemporary world more and more thoroughly, these kinds of non-scholarly collections will start to assert greater value just as, two centuries ago, non-systematic, “amateur” collections of ceramic objects, fossils, or other artifacts became the framework for the first generation of great museums and collections.
November 27, 2013 § Leave a comment
Over the past few years, I’ve thought a good bit about how to approach studying a region. At the Pyla-Koutsopetria Archaeological Project, I’ve worked with my colleagues to write the archaeological history of a microregion on the basis of intensive pedestrian survey. I’ve stood by and watched my buddy David Pettegrew bring together a century of excavations, survey, and texts to write the history of the Corinthian Isthmus. This next year, I embark on a project that will hopefully write the history of the Western Argolid. While the site is not dead, regions are where it’s at.
So it was with some excitement that I tucked into Peter Thonemann’s book: The Maeander Valley: A Historical Geography from Antiquity to Byzantium. (Cambridge 2011). This book was beautifully written, sweeping in scope, and conservative in approach. This final point is not necessarily a criticism.
1. No Theory. The book was almost completely devoid of explicit appeals to theory. The was no discussion of place and space, of place making, or phenomenology or any other late 20th century method of conceptualizing the contemporary encounter with the past. I’ll concede that the lack of theory was jarring, at first, but I soon got over it. In place of theory, the book is filled with careful descriptions drawn from the careful reading of a historical landscape through personal experience and historical texts. At no point in the book do you feel like the author is not intimately familiar with the Maeander Valley. (Thonemann shows his hand a bit more in the epilogue where he appeals to H. Lefebvre, Harvey, and others.)
2. No Archaeology. The books makes almost no explicit appeals to archaeology despite the presence of several long-standing excavations with Miletus and Priene being the being the best known. Throughout the book, Thonemann keeps archaeology at arms length appealing to it selectively such as when he notes the limits of archaeological evidence in documenting settlement change between the Hellenistic and Roman periods in the neighborhood of Miletus. Archaeological evidence is better, he argues, at showing activity in the countryside than explaining the nature of that activity or its causes.
More interestingly, he provides little specific discussion of the results of excavations or survey. There is precious little on the details of ceramic chronology, the typology of fortifications, or the distribution of small scale artifact scatters documented by intensive survey. This is probably a weakness of the book, but his use of textual sources compensates for it in a substantial way.
3. Nature and Culture. The book does a remarkable job interweaving the nature of the Maeander River with the reception of this defining feature in the landscape. The discussion of the relationship between the river’s wandering course and its depiction on coins and in art was to be expected. What was more engaging was his treatment of the way in which folks living, exploiting, or moving through the valley floor interacted with the more substantial settlements on the slopes. Thonemann described the symbiotic relationship between, for example, the Turkish herders who brought their flocks in the valley in the 12th century and increasingly fortified Greek settlements on the valley slopes, and between pastoralists and cultivators in antiquity. The two communities negotiated agreements that ensured herders had access to grazing land and provided manure and weed clearance for agricultural fields. This is but the most simple of Thonemann’s examples of how the river, the valley, and communities interacted.
4. Diachronic and Dynamic. The most remarkable thing about this book was its diachronic scope. Thonemann is as comfortable talking about the sources of a Byzantine estate in the Maeander delta as presenting the complex prosopography of Roman period elites in the various ancient communities throughout the valley. Moreover, his use of these sources demonstrates a genuine understanding of the differing political and social contexts of these statements and the valley in these periods. In other words, Thonemann manages to study the valley in a diachronic way that does little to flatten the dynamism of the region in varying historical circumstances. This is not simplistic ethnohistory that searches for parallels in different periods to support a kind of environmental determinism. Thonemann’s comfort with Byzantine sources is particular commendable.
5. Margins, Borders, and Frontiers. This summer I’m going to work in a valley at the very edge of Argolid territory. One of the issues that we will investigate is how these areas at the edge of a polis relate to the core and to the neighboring regions. Thonemann’s treatment of these issues through time in the Maeander Valley and argued that even the most seemingly obvious natural divisions between regions rarely reflected the political or cultural borders actually present. Thonemann argues that imperialism, more than anything else, shaped the territory of the Maeander Valley starting in the Attalid period and then continuing into the Roman and Byzantine period. These borders had less to do with the longstanding social practices in the region and far more to do with landscapes of control which the dominant settlement pattern often attempted to defy. Any natural boundaries persisted only because they received cultural affirmation.
Finally, the book begins with a paraphrase of Marx and ends with references to Engels and E.P Thompson. That alone makes it worth reading.
October 7, 2013 § Leave a comment
I spent some quality time this weekend with Fotis Ifantidis photo essay: archaeographies: excavating Neolithic Dispilio (Archaeopress 2013). The book’s title refers to the practice of writing (graph) the past. The author’s work has fascinated me for several years and his interest in photography contributed to my own effort (in collaboration with Ryan Stander) to bring together images and texts from my project on Cyprus. Ifantidis book present photographs taken during the excavation of the Neolithic site of Dispilio in northern Greece. The site, outside of the medieval town of Kastoria, has been a model for innovative practices in reconstruction, documentation of visitor experiences, and archaeological practices. Infantidis work is just the lastest product at this site.
I am hardly qualified to comment on the formal character or technical merit of the photographs other than to say that many of them are visually arresting. The imagery did capture the process of archaeography. A number of the photographs captured the relationship between the individual archaeologists and their field context. Infanidis does this in a number of different ways: he depicts expanses of soil with the archaeologists in the foreground. Tools, hands, and the site are situated in contrasting foci challenging the viewer to consider what is the most important object in the scene. In other photographs, stacks of excavation equipment, laboratory scenes, and artifacts in storage bags provide place the contemporary archaeologist and the archaeological context in the same frame emphasizing the continuity between the modern researcher and the Neolithic.
Infantidis manipulates scale as well as focus. Many of the shots are cropped to feature long (horizontally or vertically) shots of earth, scarps, and landscapes locates the archaeologist at a smaller scale than the objects that they study. The manipulation of scale in these photographs contextualizes the archaeological project in the tension between the archaeologist and the context of excavation. A similar approach occurs with the Neolithic objects found in the excavation. The archaeologists hands, eyes, and tools connect the ancient objects to the modern humans. Infanidis interest in personal adornment shows through in photographs that feature either the jewelry of archaeologists or the archaeologist in relation to decorated objects. Contextualizing decoration and adornment in human terms provides, at very least, a useful reminder that individuals existed in antiquity even if they’re were realized as they are today. The tendency cut off the faces of individuals in the photos or to keep their faces and bodies out of focus, problematizing the relationship between the individual, the archaeology, and the object.
(I have become fascinated by including dramatic skies in my photographs of North Dakota and then cropping these to force the viewer to engage the scale of the sky here. See here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here or in a more Infantidis-like way here.)
The book lacks texts other than a very brief (<250 word) introduction. This seems appropriate for a work that focuses on the excavation of the Neolithic. The absence of text pushes the viewer to look for arguments in the images and objects. The viewer becomes the reader of the text and puzzles out the juxtaposition of archaeologist, site, and objects to tell the story of excavations at Dispilio. Like the site itself, however, the story is not linear or cohesive, but made up of parts isolated on the page and only rarely connected through certain overlapping (stratified?) contexts. The broken (but remarkably well-preserved) wood posts, the dimpled ceramic vessels, the modern hands and tools of the excavators, and the disjointed scenes of the workrooms and everyday life on a dig provide fragments of a narrative that the viewer can only generalize.
The use of black-and-white photographs gives the book a clean, modern, dramatic feel and this was surely the intention of the author. On the one hand, black and white photography has long played a role in archaeological documentation and it long helped to manage printing costs of publications. The black-and-white images also ensure that the focus is on the contrasts both in a technical sense and in the tension between the archaeologist and their context. On the other hand, I can’t help but thinking how color remains central to the archaeologists world. The fabric of ceramics, the glint of a “foreign” object in the trench, and the color of soils (not to mention the contrast between the sea, the sky, the mountains, and vegetation) are fundamental to the experience of archaeology and our experience of the past. Maybe Infantidis’s point is that by writing archaeology we render the dynamic into a world of contrasts.