The back cover of Eric Nuzum's Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America describes the book as a "thorough and complete chronicle" of music and artists that have been censored or suppressed in Uncle Sam's land. In this sense, it's pretty accurate.
Over the course of several hundred pages, Nuzum covers music censorship according to a variety of themes including race, religion, drugs, and the good ol horizontal tussle. However, Nuzum's book is far from an objective history. Much of it is little more than a very slanted tome that takes far too long to say nothing more than (to use the technical terms) censorship sucks and freedom of expression rules.
At its best, Parental Advisory gives a detailed account of music censorship in the United States. Nuzum covers all the key events including the uproar caused by the skinny Elvis Presley's swinging hips, John Lennon's "bigger than Jesus" comment, the rise and influence of the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) in the 1980s, and attempts by various groups to regulate heavy metal, gangsta rap, and goth rock.
The author does a nice job showing how several key characteristics of censorship have been repeated over the decades:
• Some concerned parents, religious leaders, and politicians always feel the current generation's minds and morals are being poisoned by filthy popular music. For them, music of the present day is far more violent, sexual, and dangerous than music at any other point in history. Music now viewed as both quaint and benign (e.g.: Cole Porter, Bobby Darin) was once viewed as threats to the very moral fabric of the nation.
• Violent tragedies (such as the Columbine shooting in 1999) almost always trigger a backlash against certain types of music, leading to the inevitable Congressional grandstanding and calls for tighter regulation of the music minors have access to.
• In many cases, those advocating parental warning stickers, bans on certain albums, and other forms of censorship don't have the first clue about the music's actual content. In one hilarious story, Nuzum describes how wild rebel John Denver's song, "Rocky Mountain High," was banned by radio stations for its supposed drug undertones. Similarly, Frank Zappa's Jazz From Hell was slapped with a parental advisory sticker for explicit content. The album was entirely instrumental.
• It doesn't take much to get the censorship ball rolling. Musicians who have the misfortune of getting on the radar of an overzealous politician, conservative watch group, religious leader, or everyday parent who complains to the authorities can quickly and easily find themselves at the center of controversy.
The book's major drawback is that it is not a balanced history. Nuzum doesn't really question the motives of the performers who find themselves being censored (with the notable exception of Marilyn Manson). In this way, he sees every artist who was ever suppressed as essentially a crusader for free speech and artistic expression.
In many cases this characterization is accurate (Frank Zappa), but in other cases, it's clear certain artists were more concerned with gaining notoriety — however negative it was — than with fighting as First Amendment soldiers (like 2 Live Crew). This is not to say such acts should have been censored (any music fan realizes the grave implications of any form of musical censorship), but it would be naïve to think certain artists didn't exploit the attention for financial gain in the form of increased record sales and sold-out concerts.
The book fails to place censorship in the larger context of how it influences American culture or society. How censorship has impacted artists as they record and release music, whether consumers avoid (or prefer) censored artists, and the long-term impacts of censorship on freedom of expression are never addressed. There is more to censorship than Congressional hearings, altered album covers, and manic reactionary conservatives. Unfortunately, Nuzum rarely covers these areas.
Music fans interested in a thorough, though biased, history of music censorship in America should enjoy this read. However, readers looking for a thoughtful analysis of how censorship has impacted music will likely be disappointed.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Book Review: Crazy Diamond: Syd Barrett and the Dawn of Pink Floyd by Mike Watkinson and Pete Anderson
Originally published in 1991, Crazy Diamond was one of the first serious attempts to document the life of Pink Floyd founder and cautionary tale Syd Barrett. Recently updated after Barrett's death in 2006, it's still the best Barrett biography I've read.
Its greatest strength is that it looks past the mythic and questionable tales of Barrett's post-Pink Floyd life to create a revealing portrayal of the musician as a person, not a caricature of LSD abuse or the many other labels both fans and music journalists have applied to Barrett ever since he disappeared from the music scene in 1967.
The book takes a chronological approach to Barrett's life, including how he first became interested in art and music at a young age, the founding of Pink Floyd and the band's influence on the psychedelic scene. It also follows Barrett's exit from the band and his two solo albums, and of course, his mental issues. These include his well documented behavioral "eccentricities," and retreat from public view, as well as the possible factors that resulted in this retreat.
The book is nicely rounded out with the critical and commercial responses to Barrett's only Pink Floyd album, The Piper At the Gates of Dawn, why Barrett continues to hold people's interest despite a scant recording career, and how his decline is eerily similar to that of other artists.
In any book about Syd Barrett, there will inevitably be a focus on his mental decline. The authors do an admirable job of chronicling this without turning into hack armchair psychologists. What becomes clear is that starting around 1967, Barrett became increasingly withdrawn, and his behavior increasingly bizarre, with the initial and obvious culprit being his extreme regimen of acid intake. The authors also suggest other factors, with varying degrees of plausibility, including the singer's sensitive personality, his fear of the fan worship he found himself subject to, and a never-diagnosed mental condition (possibly Asperger's disease).
The well-known stories are all told again, including how the musician would be completely uncommunicative, would sometimes play the same note over and over during concerts, and would, as one contributor to the book stated, "travel in his own mind." Pink Floyd member Nick Mason is more direct, describing Barrett as an "f---ing maniac."
Barrett's post-Floyd life is also examined. After releasing two solo albums, including the brilliant and disturbing The Madcap Laughs, Barrett essentially lived a solitary existence until his death in 2006. From what details we do know, he had little human interaction outside of his family, and passed the time by painting, walking, riding his bike, and watching television. Attempts by music fans and journalists to speak with the legendary Pink Floyd founder were either met with adamant refusals or only a few cryptic words. When Barrett was spotted, the details were strange and perhaps apocryphal; no doubt these stories have helped shape the image of Barrett that still persists to this day.
In some ways this book is not easy to read. Many of Barrett's flaws are exposed, including violent episodes against both former girlfriends and music business executives. The irony is that the book discusses the intimate faults and shortcomings of a man who, regardless of whatever mental conditions he had, wanted his privacy from the world at large respected.
The authors do an admirable job of walking the fine line between accurate biography and dirt digging. They also show how the notion of Barrett as a throwback to the suffering artist living in splendid artistic isolation is complete and utter BS. The great unanswered question is what would have happened to both Pink Floyd and Barrett had he essentially not gone off the rails.
Its greatest strength is that it looks past the mythic and questionable tales of Barrett's post-Pink Floyd life to create a revealing portrayal of the musician as a person, not a caricature of LSD abuse or the many other labels both fans and music journalists have applied to Barrett ever since he disappeared from the music scene in 1967.
The book takes a chronological approach to Barrett's life, including how he first became interested in art and music at a young age, the founding of Pink Floyd and the band's influence on the psychedelic scene. It also follows Barrett's exit from the band and his two solo albums, and of course, his mental issues. These include his well documented behavioral "eccentricities," and retreat from public view, as well as the possible factors that resulted in this retreat.
The book is nicely rounded out with the critical and commercial responses to Barrett's only Pink Floyd album, The Piper At the Gates of Dawn, why Barrett continues to hold people's interest despite a scant recording career, and how his decline is eerily similar to that of other artists.
In any book about Syd Barrett, there will inevitably be a focus on his mental decline. The authors do an admirable job of chronicling this without turning into hack armchair psychologists. What becomes clear is that starting around 1967, Barrett became increasingly withdrawn, and his behavior increasingly bizarre, with the initial and obvious culprit being his extreme regimen of acid intake. The authors also suggest other factors, with varying degrees of plausibility, including the singer's sensitive personality, his fear of the fan worship he found himself subject to, and a never-diagnosed mental condition (possibly Asperger's disease).
The well-known stories are all told again, including how the musician would be completely uncommunicative, would sometimes play the same note over and over during concerts, and would, as one contributor to the book stated, "travel in his own mind." Pink Floyd member Nick Mason is more direct, describing Barrett as an "f---ing maniac."
Barrett's post-Floyd life is also examined. After releasing two solo albums, including the brilliant and disturbing The Madcap Laughs, Barrett essentially lived a solitary existence until his death in 2006. From what details we do know, he had little human interaction outside of his family, and passed the time by painting, walking, riding his bike, and watching television. Attempts by music fans and journalists to speak with the legendary Pink Floyd founder were either met with adamant refusals or only a few cryptic words. When Barrett was spotted, the details were strange and perhaps apocryphal; no doubt these stories have helped shape the image of Barrett that still persists to this day.
In some ways this book is not easy to read. Many of Barrett's flaws are exposed, including violent episodes against both former girlfriends and music business executives. The irony is that the book discusses the intimate faults and shortcomings of a man who, regardless of whatever mental conditions he had, wanted his privacy from the world at large respected.
The authors do an admirable job of walking the fine line between accurate biography and dirt digging. They also show how the notion of Barrett as a throwback to the suffering artist living in splendid artistic isolation is complete and utter BS. The great unanswered question is what would have happened to both Pink Floyd and Barrett had he essentially not gone off the rails.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Local Woman Listens To Grandson's iPod
When Kirksville High student and self-proclaimed “Northeast Missouri music czar” Larry Walforten forgot his iPod on his senior class trip to Thousand Hills State Park last week, he was more than a little peeved.
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”
Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.
“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.
Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”
She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”
The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”
Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”
Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”
Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”
Book Review: The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse by Gregg Easterbrook
Gregg Easterbrook’s The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse is not an easy read. The first several chapters nearly suffocate under page after page of statistics, poll results, and findings by researchers and other academic heavyweights. However, if the reader sticks with the book long enough, it proves itself to be a fascinating and thought-provoking study of how quality of life has continued to trend upwards, while personal happiness continues to decline.
The author’s investigation of how quality of life continues to improve is decidedly heavy, and is by far the most difficult and overwhelming part of the book. It’s fairly academic and dry. People who suffer from insomnia could try these first few chapters as non-pharmaceutical sleeping aids. Nevertheless, Easterbrook eventually shows how key areas in quality of life — including income, medical care, and housing — have all improved in the last several decades. He includes many examples of how people, especially in the Western world, by and large live with comforts previous generations could only dream of, and how these luxuries are taken for granted.
To his credit, Easterbrook does acknowledge that some trends are troubling: many in the world still live below the poverty line, and there has been an increase in obesity, especially among children, in the United States. The author is also clearly concerned with unchecked, excessive wealth. He rails against the appalling greedy practices of corporate CEOs while millions across the world still suffer from malnutrition, high rates of disease, and short life spans.
Easterbrook then turns to a sometimes-rambling discussion regarding the possible reasons personal happiness has not increased in step with an improved quality of life. The usual suspects are mentioned: genetics (people might be evolutionarily conditioned to focus on the negative); accumulation of material goods (having carpeted steps for your doggie might not make you any happier); popular entertainment (watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger won’t fill the void in your life); and SUVs (driving an armored tank across America’s highways and byways might not shield you from feeling miserable).
Cynics could of course argue that Easterbrook doesn’t say anything more than the accepted and tired cliché that “money doesn’t buy happiness.” Nevertheless, this middle section is by far the most engaging and interesting element of the book.
A few flaws emerge in Easterbrook’s discussion of why happiness has not increased. First, he never really establishes a working definition of “happiness.” For some people, happiness might mean a beautiful house and a beautiful wife; for others it might mean a high-paying job, copious amounts of booze or drugs, season tickets on the 50-yard line, or bizarre and strange sexual practices.
Second, he only marginally acknowledges that relying on polls to gauge trends in human happiness is inherently problematic; someone polled one day as being “happy” could have a different outlook on another day, or hell, five minutes after being asked the questions the first time. Easterbrook also sometimes comes across as a dry intellectual by focusing on poll numbers a bit too much. He tends to de-emphasize the impact that daily events (loss of job, birth of child, filing of restraining order) have on a person’s outlook on life in favor of broader and impersonal categories.
Easterbrook’s book ends with ideas of how people can possibly increase happiness in their lives through simple steps like forgiving others, reducing stress, reading more and watching television less, and realizing material possessions cannot ensure happiness. Sure it’s perhaps borderline motivational speaker and somewhat sappy, but he makes his case and doesn’t get overly dogmatic or preachy.
Easterbrook shows that as long as people rely on material possessions to make them happy, it’s likely that this unhappiness will continue or increase. This isn’t to say that Easterbrook is against free trade; however, it’s clear he thinks the race to acquire more and more will not lead to happiness.
This book isn’t perfect. Cute catch phrases like “reference anxiety” are used too often and have very little actual meaning outside of a college political science course. There are a few rants that should have been excised, and the initial chapters are repetitive. Easterbrook sometimes tends to get a little starry-eyed in addressing ways to solve the world’s problems, chief among them global poverty.
The Progress Paradox makes a compelling case that people will likely continue to become increasingly unhappy and discontent if their focus remains a bigger house, a better car, and other material possessions. Easterbrook manages to make his case without sounding like either a Luddite or a total reactionary.
The author’s investigation of how quality of life continues to improve is decidedly heavy, and is by far the most difficult and overwhelming part of the book. It’s fairly academic and dry. People who suffer from insomnia could try these first few chapters as non-pharmaceutical sleeping aids. Nevertheless, Easterbrook eventually shows how key areas in quality of life — including income, medical care, and housing — have all improved in the last several decades. He includes many examples of how people, especially in the Western world, by and large live with comforts previous generations could only dream of, and how these luxuries are taken for granted.
To his credit, Easterbrook does acknowledge that some trends are troubling: many in the world still live below the poverty line, and there has been an increase in obesity, especially among children, in the United States. The author is also clearly concerned with unchecked, excessive wealth. He rails against the appalling greedy practices of corporate CEOs while millions across the world still suffer from malnutrition, high rates of disease, and short life spans.
Easterbrook then turns to a sometimes-rambling discussion regarding the possible reasons personal happiness has not increased in step with an improved quality of life. The usual suspects are mentioned: genetics (people might be evolutionarily conditioned to focus on the negative); accumulation of material goods (having carpeted steps for your doggie might not make you any happier); popular entertainment (watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger won’t fill the void in your life); and SUVs (driving an armored tank across America’s highways and byways might not shield you from feeling miserable).
Cynics could of course argue that Easterbrook doesn’t say anything more than the accepted and tired cliché that “money doesn’t buy happiness.” Nevertheless, this middle section is by far the most engaging and interesting element of the book.
A few flaws emerge in Easterbrook’s discussion of why happiness has not increased. First, he never really establishes a working definition of “happiness.” For some people, happiness might mean a beautiful house and a beautiful wife; for others it might mean a high-paying job, copious amounts of booze or drugs, season tickets on the 50-yard line, or bizarre and strange sexual practices.
Second, he only marginally acknowledges that relying on polls to gauge trends in human happiness is inherently problematic; someone polled one day as being “happy” could have a different outlook on another day, or hell, five minutes after being asked the questions the first time. Easterbrook also sometimes comes across as a dry intellectual by focusing on poll numbers a bit too much. He tends to de-emphasize the impact that daily events (loss of job, birth of child, filing of restraining order) have on a person’s outlook on life in favor of broader and impersonal categories.
Easterbrook’s book ends with ideas of how people can possibly increase happiness in their lives through simple steps like forgiving others, reducing stress, reading more and watching television less, and realizing material possessions cannot ensure happiness. Sure it’s perhaps borderline motivational speaker and somewhat sappy, but he makes his case and doesn’t get overly dogmatic or preachy.
Easterbrook shows that as long as people rely on material possessions to make them happy, it’s likely that this unhappiness will continue or increase. This isn’t to say that Easterbrook is against free trade; however, it’s clear he thinks the race to acquire more and more will not lead to happiness.
This book isn’t perfect. Cute catch phrases like “reference anxiety” are used too often and have very little actual meaning outside of a college political science course. There are a few rants that should have been excised, and the initial chapters are repetitive. Easterbrook sometimes tends to get a little starry-eyed in addressing ways to solve the world’s problems, chief among them global poverty.
The Progress Paradox makes a compelling case that people will likely continue to become increasingly unhappy and discontent if their focus remains a bigger house, a better car, and other material possessions. Easterbrook manages to make his case without sounding like either a Luddite or a total reactionary.
Satire: Jerry Falwell Unhappy With Afterlife Living Conditions
In his first public statement since his (un)timely demise, the Reverend Jerry Falwell on Thursday complained that his current heavenly environment is "hotter than freakin' hell." Sweating profusely from his podium and flanked by bodyguards dressed like Ziggy Stardust, Falwell said, "Who do I need to talk to about this heat? I'm sweating more than a lesbian liberal prostitute at one of my television broadcasts. I'm on fire here."
Falwell's complaints were not limited to the fiery temperatures, however. The former televangelist, who reports he now spends his time in the Great Beyond compiling the ultimate Lilith Fair compendium, is apparently also quite upset with his current roommate, poet and truly all-around troubled woman, Sylvia Plath.
"All day long with her it's 'daddy this' and 'daddy that.' And those awful non-rhyming lines she recites all the time. I'm a quiet, reserved, respectful, contemplative person, and I've never been one to criticize anyone whose lifestyle, beliefs, hair color, shoe size, favorite sports team, or preferred Laffy Taffy flavor are opposed to mine, but I cannot help it. In this case our personalities simply clash." Falwell reports that when the poet starts reciting new lines, he plays his Sony Walkman and relaxes to the sweet tones of Conway Twitty.
Fallwell also addressed other concerns in his brief press conference. He's clearly not thrilled with the afterlife's intellectual curriculum. "Crap classes like Science In Intellectual History, The History of Women in Warfare, and Introduction to World History? C'mon, who needs that type of stuff? What good can possibly come from an in-depth, well-informed, and carefully studied examination of such diverse topics? What's a guy gotta do to get one farkin course about important things like the inevitable fall of the hedonistic United States, the history of hate mongering, or how Temptation Island is the best show Fox ever aired?"
Falwell is also peeved about the non-academic activities offered. Aside from his ongoing ambitious Lilith Fair project, and another task he was only willing to refer to as "Project Ultimate Doom," he's having trouble filling the hours. "The only athletic activity offered is amateur wrestling," Falwell morosely lamented. "I've never been one to criticize or condemn anything involving close male physical contact, but the simple fact is that my knees are too wobbly to allow me to participate." Referring to his knee, Falwell said, "Feel that there? That's pure bone on bone, no cartilage left."
Afterlife officials commented they were investigating the complaints, but weren't willing to make any promises. "Sure it's hot, but it's always hot down, er, up here. What does he expect? There's not a whole helluva lot we can do about it - if you catch my meaning."
Falwell's complaints were not limited to the fiery temperatures, however. The former televangelist, who reports he now spends his time in the Great Beyond compiling the ultimate Lilith Fair compendium, is apparently also quite upset with his current roommate, poet and truly all-around troubled woman, Sylvia Plath.
"All day long with her it's 'daddy this' and 'daddy that.' And those awful non-rhyming lines she recites all the time. I'm a quiet, reserved, respectful, contemplative person, and I've never been one to criticize anyone whose lifestyle, beliefs, hair color, shoe size, favorite sports team, or preferred Laffy Taffy flavor are opposed to mine, but I cannot help it. In this case our personalities simply clash." Falwell reports that when the poet starts reciting new lines, he plays his Sony Walkman and relaxes to the sweet tones of Conway Twitty.
Fallwell also addressed other concerns in his brief press conference. He's clearly not thrilled with the afterlife's intellectual curriculum. "Crap classes like Science In Intellectual History, The History of Women in Warfare, and Introduction to World History? C'mon, who needs that type of stuff? What good can possibly come from an in-depth, well-informed, and carefully studied examination of such diverse topics? What's a guy gotta do to get one farkin course about important things like the inevitable fall of the hedonistic United States, the history of hate mongering, or how Temptation Island is the best show Fox ever aired?"
Falwell is also peeved about the non-academic activities offered. Aside from his ongoing ambitious Lilith Fair project, and another task he was only willing to refer to as "Project Ultimate Doom," he's having trouble filling the hours. "The only athletic activity offered is amateur wrestling," Falwell morosely lamented. "I've never been one to criticize or condemn anything involving close male physical contact, but the simple fact is that my knees are too wobbly to allow me to participate." Referring to his knee, Falwell said, "Feel that there? That's pure bone on bone, no cartilage left."
Afterlife officials commented they were investigating the complaints, but weren't willing to make any promises. "Sure it's hot, but it's always hot down, er, up here. What does he expect? There's not a whole helluva lot we can do about it - if you catch my meaning."
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Concert News: The National/Modest Mouse/R.E.M. Mega Tour
According to a report from Billboard.com and confirmed by R.E.M.’s and Modest Mouse’s handlers, Modest Mouse and The National will serve as the opening acts on R.E.M.’s upcoming tour. Representatives for The National had been listening to Boxer too often, and were too lachrymose to respond with anything other than muted whispers and resigned attempts at defiance.
This will mark R.E.M.’s 437th official tour, and will be in support of upcoming release Accelerate, the follow-up to turd-in-the-punchbowl Around the Sun. Although fans’ expectations are that the new album will crush Around the Sun like a grape, it must be pointed out that the new album is being released on April Fool’s Day. Not to mention that Athens, Georgia's finest have been stuck in a vacuum of suck since the release of New Adventures in Hi Fi.
Tour dates and ticket prices have not yet been announced. If ticket prices are set based on the number of times Michael Stipe preens and gives the audience sinister glances or the number of times Isaac Brock barks and yelps, fans can expect to pay a premium.
Regardless of past studio album transgressions, R.E.M. still remains a great live act, even if Mike Mills has retired the sequin jackets from the Monster era, Peter Buck still looks a little surly on stage, and Bill Berry no longer mans the skins. Coupled with Modest Mouse and current best band on the indie planet The National, this tour should hold nice treats for fans of any of the three bands.
I’m even told that this here dinosaur band called R.E.M. has had something of a lasting impact on current bands like Modest Mouse and The National. With the quality of music being released by these bands, it’s clear that this influence came from albums like Murmur and Reckoning than Up, Reveal, or Michael Stipe Sings the Ballads of Appalachia.
This will mark R.E.M.’s 437th official tour, and will be in support of upcoming release Accelerate, the follow-up to turd-in-the-punchbowl Around the Sun. Although fans’ expectations are that the new album will crush Around the Sun like a grape, it must be pointed out that the new album is being released on April Fool’s Day. Not to mention that Athens, Georgia's finest have been stuck in a vacuum of suck since the release of New Adventures in Hi Fi.
Tour dates and ticket prices have not yet been announced. If ticket prices are set based on the number of times Michael Stipe preens and gives the audience sinister glances or the number of times Isaac Brock barks and yelps, fans can expect to pay a premium.
Regardless of past studio album transgressions, R.E.M. still remains a great live act, even if Mike Mills has retired the sequin jackets from the Monster era, Peter Buck still looks a little surly on stage, and Bill Berry no longer mans the skins. Coupled with Modest Mouse and current best band on the indie planet The National, this tour should hold nice treats for fans of any of the three bands.
I’m even told that this here dinosaur band called R.E.M. has had something of a lasting impact on current bands like Modest Mouse and The National. With the quality of music being released by these bands, it’s clear that this influence came from albums like Murmur and Reckoning than Up, Reveal, or Michael Stipe Sings the Ballads of Appalachia.
Book Review: Eye Mind: Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators by Paul Drummond
With a collective drug intake massive enough to knock out a Clydesdale, frequent harassment and several busts by police, in-fights, mentally fractured band members, one violent death, and one classic album, the story of the 13th Floor Elevators is a music journalist’s wet dream. What’s surprising is that it’s taken so many years after the band’s disintegration to finally get a biography that looks past the myth and provides a detailed account of the band. Paul Drummond’s Eye Mind: Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators is both an exhaustive study of the band’s story and how the band fit (or didn’t fit) into the 1960s musical landscape. Fans of the band or music history won’t be disappointed.
Drummond covers every aspect of the band, including the Elevators’ rise as one of Texas’ premier live acts, the brief national notoriety gained by the single “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” their failed attempts to break out on a national scale, and their record company’s shoddy management techniques. The band’s (primarily Hall’s) psychedelic philosophy of transcendence, drug regimens, and struggle against Texas’ police force and how these influenced their albums, live performances, daily lives, and relationships with each other are also addressed.
Central to the book are in-depth details about the band’s primary members: drummer John Ike, lyricist/jug player Tommy Hall, guitarist Stacy Sutherland, and vocalist/yelper Roky Erickson. While Erickson is probably the biggest draw for fans of the band, Drummond presents all the major and minor players in the Elevators’ twisted tale. Although Drummond is obviously a fan of the band, for the most part he doesn’t let his bias interfere with providing an objective account.
Tommy Hall, depending on one’s point of view, was either a certified genius or a misguided druggie with half-cooked ideas about LSD, the path to enlightenment, the meaning of life, and other HEAVY concepts, and how the Elevators’ music could be used as a conduit for communicating cosmic truths (what that term actually meant to the band is a convoluted mess).
This portrayal of Hall is often unflattering; the lyricist comes across as a pompous ass, a bully, and the worst kind of drug user. Convinced that LSD was central to a greater understanding of life (one story even recalls how Hall attempted to distribute acid to young schoolchildren), and filling his head with writings by philosophers whose names seriously need to buy a vowel, Hall insisted the band take acid prior to performing, in an attempt to convey the psychedelic experience to the audience. Drummond shows how this dogmatic insistence to play on LSD, coupled with Hall’s abrasive and conceited personality, led to numerous fights within the band, and more than one lousy live performance.
Of course, Roky Erickson remains the central figure throughout the band’s history. Either a cautionary tale about the dangers of consuming LSD like Mentos or a misunderstood left-of-center genius (or both), the singer’s tale is one of addiction, mental instability, and varying degrees of recovery. Drummond’s book traces Erickson’s life carefully, with a central question being when the singer’s mind cracked, what caused it, and whether Erickson either faked or exaggerated his mental illness.
What becomes clear is that at some point starting around 1967, Erickson’s behavior became increasingly erratic and bizarre. The singer would often get sidetracked and turn up at the wrong venue or not all, became increasingly paranoid, and claimed that he was receiving transmissions from Russians and Martians in his teeth. In one famous story from the 1980s, Erickson was discovered in his home with several TVs and radios turned to different stations at maximum volume; another time, he was arrested for driving zero miles an error. With symptoms that included traces of autism, schizophrenia, and the inability towards self control, it’s certainly hard to accept Erickson’s later claims that his mental illness was largely a ruse.
A number of causes for this mental decline are proposed. Erickson’s liberal use of LSD, often fed to him by Hall, clearly had its adverse effects, although the singer’s coddling by his religious mother and friends, the various chemicals he received at the sinisterly-named Rusk Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane, and Erickson’s sensitive personality cannot be ruled out either.
Despite a few relapses – by 1999 Erickson appeared to be completely helpless and lost man-child when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands, as shown in the You’re Gonna Miss Me documentary – he appears to have largely recovered. Some of his solo “Horror Rock” work almost rivals anything from the Elevators’ classic Psychedelic Sounds album, and Erickson’s also managed a few concert appearances in the last few years.
At its depressing worst, the Elevators’ story reads like a from-the-depths-of hell version of VH1’s Behind the Music. All of the clichés are there: regional fame and a failed attempt at national stardom, massive and naïve drug use, gross negligence from a record label, band squabbles, time spent in both prisons and mental institutions, failed reunion attempts, and tragic personal stories for the band’s members (especially in the case of Sutherland, who was accidentally shot to death by his wife in a drunken/drug-fueled argument). Yet despite the Elevators never achieving the attention in their heyday that should have, the band has been cited as an influence by bands such as Spacemen 3 and R.E.M. In some cases, specifically that of Roky Erickson, the band’s story is one of perseverance and survival.
Drummond’s book was meticulously researched and is deeply detailed. It’s the first definitive history of the Elevators and also serves as a nice study of 1960s psychedelic culture. With many new photos and interviews with the band and other key players in the Elevators’ scene, Drummond’s book is a great read for both fans of the band and fans of music history.
Drummond covers every aspect of the band, including the Elevators’ rise as one of Texas’ premier live acts, the brief national notoriety gained by the single “You’re Gonna Miss Me,” their failed attempts to break out on a national scale, and their record company’s shoddy management techniques. The band’s (primarily Hall’s) psychedelic philosophy of transcendence, drug regimens, and struggle against Texas’ police force and how these influenced their albums, live performances, daily lives, and relationships with each other are also addressed.
Central to the book are in-depth details about the band’s primary members: drummer John Ike, lyricist/jug player Tommy Hall, guitarist Stacy Sutherland, and vocalist/yelper Roky Erickson. While Erickson is probably the biggest draw for fans of the band, Drummond presents all the major and minor players in the Elevators’ twisted tale. Although Drummond is obviously a fan of the band, for the most part he doesn’t let his bias interfere with providing an objective account.
Tommy Hall, depending on one’s point of view, was either a certified genius or a misguided druggie with half-cooked ideas about LSD, the path to enlightenment, the meaning of life, and other HEAVY concepts, and how the Elevators’ music could be used as a conduit for communicating cosmic truths (what that term actually meant to the band is a convoluted mess).
This portrayal of Hall is often unflattering; the lyricist comes across as a pompous ass, a bully, and the worst kind of drug user. Convinced that LSD was central to a greater understanding of life (one story even recalls how Hall attempted to distribute acid to young schoolchildren), and filling his head with writings by philosophers whose names seriously need to buy a vowel, Hall insisted the band take acid prior to performing, in an attempt to convey the psychedelic experience to the audience. Drummond shows how this dogmatic insistence to play on LSD, coupled with Hall’s abrasive and conceited personality, led to numerous fights within the band, and more than one lousy live performance.
Of course, Roky Erickson remains the central figure throughout the band’s history. Either a cautionary tale about the dangers of consuming LSD like Mentos or a misunderstood left-of-center genius (or both), the singer’s tale is one of addiction, mental instability, and varying degrees of recovery. Drummond’s book traces Erickson’s life carefully, with a central question being when the singer’s mind cracked, what caused it, and whether Erickson either faked or exaggerated his mental illness.
What becomes clear is that at some point starting around 1967, Erickson’s behavior became increasingly erratic and bizarre. The singer would often get sidetracked and turn up at the wrong venue or not all, became increasingly paranoid, and claimed that he was receiving transmissions from Russians and Martians in his teeth. In one famous story from the 1980s, Erickson was discovered in his home with several TVs and radios turned to different stations at maximum volume; another time, he was arrested for driving zero miles an error. With symptoms that included traces of autism, schizophrenia, and the inability towards self control, it’s certainly hard to accept Erickson’s later claims that his mental illness was largely a ruse.
A number of causes for this mental decline are proposed. Erickson’s liberal use of LSD, often fed to him by Hall, clearly had its adverse effects, although the singer’s coddling by his religious mother and friends, the various chemicals he received at the sinisterly-named Rusk Maximum Security Prison for the Criminally Insane, and Erickson’s sensitive personality cannot be ruled out either.
Despite a few relapses – by 1999 Erickson appeared to be completely helpless and lost man-child when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands, as shown in the You’re Gonna Miss Me documentary – he appears to have largely recovered. Some of his solo “Horror Rock” work almost rivals anything from the Elevators’ classic Psychedelic Sounds album, and Erickson’s also managed a few concert appearances in the last few years.
At its depressing worst, the Elevators’ story reads like a from-the-depths-of hell version of VH1’s Behind the Music. All of the clichés are there: regional fame and a failed attempt at national stardom, massive and naïve drug use, gross negligence from a record label, band squabbles, time spent in both prisons and mental institutions, failed reunion attempts, and tragic personal stories for the band’s members (especially in the case of Sutherland, who was accidentally shot to death by his wife in a drunken/drug-fueled argument). Yet despite the Elevators never achieving the attention in their heyday that should have, the band has been cited as an influence by bands such as Spacemen 3 and R.E.M. In some cases, specifically that of Roky Erickson, the band’s story is one of perseverance and survival.
Drummond’s book was meticulously researched and is deeply detailed. It’s the first definitive history of the Elevators and also serves as a nice study of 1960s psychedelic culture. With many new photos and interviews with the band and other key players in the Elevators’ scene, Drummond’s book is a great read for both fans of the band and fans of music history.
Band of Horses and an Open Letter to Snow
Dear Snow:
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
There’s no easy way for me to say this. Wait, yes there is: I hate you. As Ugly Kid Joe once so eloquently sang, I hate everything about you. There’s a reason dogs urinate on you, plows sweep you away into back alleys, and everyone south of Morehead, Minnesota views you as a slushy pain in the ass. Crazy skiers, snowboarders, and ESPN X-Games executives and sponsors excepted, nobody likes you. I’m also starting to despise your bastard cousins Sleet and Hail.
Don’t act so surprised; we both know things were coming to this. Like Fredo betraying his brother Michael in The Godfather II, we’re past the point of reconciliation, forgiveness, or understanding. All that’s left is raging, indescribable, Baldwin vs. Bassinger loathing.
Sure we’ve had some good times over the years. You managed to get a good number of school days cancelled for me, and I’ll never forget wadding you up into little icy balls of mayhem and hurling them at my father as he begged me to quit screwing around and start shoveling.
But then, on January 31, 2008, the day of the Band of Horses concert in St.Louis, you decided to turn my fair city into Hoth. Of course many St. Louisians responded in typical snow-mania fashion: grocery stores were violently plundered, canned goods thrown into shopping carts with merciless haste and venom, the local stations began running dramatic and sinister “Winter Storm 2008” music and taglines, and drivers in armored SUVs tooled down the highways and byways as if they were leading the siege of Vicksburg.
As I sat in my cubicle and watched you fall steadily to the ground, I noticed you accumulating like the snotty brat you are in alarming fashion. Even so, I knew that nothing was going to deter me from seeing Band of Horses. After all, I’d endured much more treacherous weather in the name of the concert-going experience. I’d learned how to handle nasty weather with a good degree of patience and perspective; three consecutive days spent in line for Bob Dylan shows with freezing rain, below-freezing temperatures, and a whole army of Dylanphiles discussing everything from Dylan’s hats to Dylan’s shoes to Dylan’s role in the late 1990s economic boom have that effect.
Yet a strange thing happened when I began driving on you. My quasi-reliable General Motors vehicle slipped and skidded a little, then a little more, and then a lot. Like Sasha Cohen on ice at the Olympics, my car was wobbly, shaky, and clearly a head case. But for the grace of front-wheel drive did I make it home without hitting an abutment or being steamrolled by those pesky jumbo SUVs.
I didn’t make it the concert; to drive on you would clearly be tempting the cruel fates of a car insurance deductible and towing costs a little too much. I’m assuming the show went on as scheduled and was probably outstanding; nothing online indicates the show was cancelled. I can only imagine that hearing Band of Horses live is far better than listening to either Everything All the Time or Cease To Begin or the Ford commercial that features the song “Funeral.” Now, if St. Louis music trends hold true, the next time the band hits St. Louis, they’ll be opening for a more-established act in a massive, impersonal amphitheatre.
Don’t tell me this shows that I demonstrated good judgment or common sense; that’s no consolation. Even if the concert would have been cancelled, you simultaneously ruined my plans and made me look like a total chickenshit. A few years ago, nothing short of the skies opening and Jesus himself descending to earth, Liar by the Jesus Lizard blasting from his iPod, would have prevented me from missing a St. Louis concert by one of “my” bands. And even then I would have strongly considered attending the performance and dealing with that little apocalypse thing later.
Snow, you and I are no longer on speaking terms. Like Michael Corleone dealing with Fredo, I want advance notice when you’ll be coming around, so I can make sure I’m in a different part of town. And when Band of Horses returns to the STL in a couple years and is opening for Once Forgotten But Now Suddenly Relevant And Respected Dinosaur Act at the St. Louis Enormo-Dome, it won’t make up for missing this show.
Fix you good,
Eric
Sunday, January 20, 2008
TV Review: Terminator - The Sarah Connor Chronicles
I consider myself an unabashed Terminator junkie. I’ve seen the three movies more times than anyone ever should. For a while my wife had an image of a gun-toting, teeth-clenching Linda Hamilton as our PC desktop background, which I fully endorsed. I became envious when my brother-in-law moved to California, not because of the beautiful weather and, uh, scenery, but because he would be residing in the state of Governor T-101 himself.
So it would be gross understatement that I eagerly anticipated the two-night series premier of Fox’s Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Set after Connor and her preteen son John have made Cyberdyne go cablooey, the series certainly has a tough act to follow. All three of the original movies are solid, quotable in everyday life, and even carry a message about the possible destruction of humanity without being heavy-handed.
Unfortunately, the first two episodes failed to live up to this legacy. It was just a little too slick and glossy to make it stand out from the many other cookie-cutter action/suspense shows on network television.
Although the results were decidedly mixed, there are some positives that make the show worth watching:
There is plenty of suspense, action, and shoot-em-up sequences to keep viewers interested in what will happen next.
There are tie-ins and similarities to the three original movies that Terminator fans will notice and enjoy. The first episode featured movie staples such as the standard cyborg glare-and-walk, the line “come with me if you want to live,” and John Connor sulking about his future as leader of the worldwide resistance.
The acting is good; Lena Headey as Sarah, Thomas Dekker as John, and Summer Glau as femme terminator Cameron all do a nice job. The characters will have room to develop; John of course will transform from the mopey teenager he is now into the less-mopey young man of T3, and eventually into the badass leader of the resistance.
In a ploy long used in television but mastered by Fox in many of its programs, there is plenty of eye candy for hormonal teenage dudes out there. The Terminator-themed Maxim photo shoot starring Headey and Glau is probably inevitable.
Despite this, the series has a long way to go to equal any of the three movies. It’s doubtful that fans of the movie franchise will enjoy the television series as much, and it’s even possible that some fans will view the show as a waste of time.
The first two episodes lacked the grittiness and dark undertones of the movies, especially those of T1. That movie featured a dirty and grimy Los Angeles of bums, chain-smoking cops, and naïve 20-somethings looking for disco kicks, and had an accompanying running soundtrack that sounded like a techno cross between the video game Tron and the band Suicide. It all combined to increase suspense and add to the apocalyptic themes of the movie.
Each of the three movies raised interesting notions about the fate of humanity and how people, through increasingly complex technology designed to advance and protect human existence, could actually unknowingly cause their demise. This major theme was lacking in the first two episodes, probably lost somewhere in a hail of gunfire and the Family Connor running like hell. I’m not asking for the show to turn into a Sartre-like discourse on the meaning of life, but right now the biggest philosophical question raised is the inevitable sexual confusion John will experience as he debates whether he should try to nail his underage femme protector.
Assuming the television series follows the storylines of T2 and T3, some of the show’s mystery is already gone, since anyone familiar with those movies already knows the eventual outcome. In T3, we learn that a new T-101 with a muted understanding of the English language comes back again to protect John, though for some reason this model’s face is far more wrinkled than the T-101 model of T1. We also learn that John’s living off the grid, chugging Budweiser for maximum product placement, and popping pills from various animal hospitals. We learn that the cyborg creators value beauty, since the female Terminator sent back to kill John is damn gorgeous. Finally, we learn that John marries the red-haired chick from My So-Called Life.
The first two episodes were littered with close calls and narrow escapes, a motif Fox has shamelessly used in shows such as Prison Break and 24. Add to that the premiere episode’s introduction of John, Sarah, and Cameron time-traveling from 1999 to 2007, and there’s a potential disastrous recipe for ridiculous storyline twists and abandoned plotlines.
At this point it’s a toss-up as to whether The Sarah Connor Chronicles will succeed or fail. With a nice time slot following Prison Break and frequent promos during the NFL playoffs, the show will likely attract a decent audience. Whether the show can actually match the quality of three Terminator movies remains to be seen.
So it would be gross understatement that I eagerly anticipated the two-night series premier of Fox’s Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Set after Connor and her preteen son John have made Cyberdyne go cablooey, the series certainly has a tough act to follow. All three of the original movies are solid, quotable in everyday life, and even carry a message about the possible destruction of humanity without being heavy-handed.
Unfortunately, the first two episodes failed to live up to this legacy. It was just a little too slick and glossy to make it stand out from the many other cookie-cutter action/suspense shows on network television.
Although the results were decidedly mixed, there are some positives that make the show worth watching:
There is plenty of suspense, action, and shoot-em-up sequences to keep viewers interested in what will happen next.
There are tie-ins and similarities to the three original movies that Terminator fans will notice and enjoy. The first episode featured movie staples such as the standard cyborg glare-and-walk, the line “come with me if you want to live,” and John Connor sulking about his future as leader of the worldwide resistance.
The acting is good; Lena Headey as Sarah, Thomas Dekker as John, and Summer Glau as femme terminator Cameron all do a nice job. The characters will have room to develop; John of course will transform from the mopey teenager he is now into the less-mopey young man of T3, and eventually into the badass leader of the resistance.
In a ploy long used in television but mastered by Fox in many of its programs, there is plenty of eye candy for hormonal teenage dudes out there. The Terminator-themed Maxim photo shoot starring Headey and Glau is probably inevitable.
Despite this, the series has a long way to go to equal any of the three movies. It’s doubtful that fans of the movie franchise will enjoy the television series as much, and it’s even possible that some fans will view the show as a waste of time.
The first two episodes lacked the grittiness and dark undertones of the movies, especially those of T1. That movie featured a dirty and grimy Los Angeles of bums, chain-smoking cops, and naïve 20-somethings looking for disco kicks, and had an accompanying running soundtrack that sounded like a techno cross between the video game Tron and the band Suicide. It all combined to increase suspense and add to the apocalyptic themes of the movie.
Each of the three movies raised interesting notions about the fate of humanity and how people, through increasingly complex technology designed to advance and protect human existence, could actually unknowingly cause their demise. This major theme was lacking in the first two episodes, probably lost somewhere in a hail of gunfire and the Family Connor running like hell. I’m not asking for the show to turn into a Sartre-like discourse on the meaning of life, but right now the biggest philosophical question raised is the inevitable sexual confusion John will experience as he debates whether he should try to nail his underage femme protector.
Assuming the television series follows the storylines of T2 and T3, some of the show’s mystery is already gone, since anyone familiar with those movies already knows the eventual outcome. In T3, we learn that a new T-101 with a muted understanding of the English language comes back again to protect John, though for some reason this model’s face is far more wrinkled than the T-101 model of T1. We also learn that John’s living off the grid, chugging Budweiser for maximum product placement, and popping pills from various animal hospitals. We learn that the cyborg creators value beauty, since the female Terminator sent back to kill John is damn gorgeous. Finally, we learn that John marries the red-haired chick from My So-Called Life.
The first two episodes were littered with close calls and narrow escapes, a motif Fox has shamelessly used in shows such as Prison Break and 24. Add to that the premiere episode’s introduction of John, Sarah, and Cameron time-traveling from 1999 to 2007, and there’s a potential disastrous recipe for ridiculous storyline twists and abandoned plotlines.
At this point it’s a toss-up as to whether The Sarah Connor Chronicles will succeed or fail. With a nice time slot following Prison Break and frequent promos during the NFL playoffs, the show will likely attract a decent audience. Whether the show can actually match the quality of three Terminator movies remains to be seen.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Book Review: 33 1/3 If You're Feeling Sinister by Scott Plagenhoef
Continuum’s 33 1/3 series is an interesting concept: take an author with a sometimes shaky level of qualifications and turn said author loose for about 100 pages to explore the influences, origins, inspirations, and critical and commercial responses of a classic album. At its best, this approach leads to a better understanding and appreciation of an album and its creators (Kim Cooper’s excellent take on Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane Over the Sea). At its worst, the end result is little more than a mind-numbing exercise in recycled minutia, wild speculations, or overblown lyrical analysis (Dai Griffiths’ dismal book on Radiohead’s OK Computer).
Scott Plagenhoef’s study of Belle and Sebastian’s 1996 album, If You’re Feeling Sinister, falls somewhere in between. Plagenhoef, associate editor-in-chief for much loved/hated online music website Pitchfork Media, does an excellent job in exploring general music themes and trends against the backdrop of the album. He expertly shows how listeners now learn about and discover indie music in the Internet and mp3 age, whether it’s even possible for a band to remain “mysterious,” and how a band’s image is often shaped by online media before a listener has an opportunity to form an independent opinion of an artist and its music.
However, the book is severely flawed in that there is little discussion about the album itself. The book is more a treatise as to how music dissemination and consumption have changed in recent years than a study of the actual album.
Plagenhoef persuasively shows how Belle and Sebastian might be one of the last groups to initially maintain an air of mystery about both themselves and their music. Whether it was deliberate or purely accidental, the band’s limited pressing of debut album Tigermilk, eventual refusal to engage the music press, and sporadic, scattershot touring all contributed to a certain myth about the band. It was essentially left to curious indie music fans to discover the band through their own efforts and small circles of like-minded fans.
Plagenhoef argues that this will likely never happen again in indie music. Now a band’s biography and recorded output can all be accessed via a good Internet search engine. In addition, listeners can no longer hear artists without preconceived notions of what that band is supposed to represent, and in the worst cases, how listeners are expected to react to the music. Plagenhoef also discusses how the simple act of listening to an album as a single activity, instead of as part of background noise to another activity, even seems antiquated.
If Plagenhoef’s argument sounds a little reactionary, a close review of the examples he gives shows that it’s hard to disagree with him. If the author can be criticized for anything in this argument, it’s that he glosses over some of the benefits artists now experience from this changing landscape, including easier ways to get their music heard by a wider audience than even a decade ago.
However, this book is advertised as being “about” Sinister. Although Plagenhoef gives a nice history of both the band and of indie rock trends in the 1990s, and addresses the major themes that emerge in the lyrics of primary songwriter Stuart Murdoch, the album is not discussed in any depth until around page 90. This is a shame really; Plagenhoef does a nice job analyzing the album’s themes, especially those centered around childhood, generational gaps, and the role of religion and sex in shaping people, but it’s almost an afterthought in the book. Other areas that are not addressed in any real depth include the album’s possible cultural, literary, and musical inspirations, the album’s place in indie music history, and how the album influenced other artists.
As an analysis of shifting trends in how new music is discovered and how perception of a band is shaped Plagenhoef’s book is an insightful read. However, it’s a stretch to call it a study of Sinister. Belle and Sebastian fans looking for an in-depth analysis of the album might be underwhelmed after reading this book.
Scott Plagenhoef’s study of Belle and Sebastian’s 1996 album, If You’re Feeling Sinister, falls somewhere in between. Plagenhoef, associate editor-in-chief for much loved/hated online music website Pitchfork Media, does an excellent job in exploring general music themes and trends against the backdrop of the album. He expertly shows how listeners now learn about and discover indie music in the Internet and mp3 age, whether it’s even possible for a band to remain “mysterious,” and how a band’s image is often shaped by online media before a listener has an opportunity to form an independent opinion of an artist and its music.
However, the book is severely flawed in that there is little discussion about the album itself. The book is more a treatise as to how music dissemination and consumption have changed in recent years than a study of the actual album.
Plagenhoef persuasively shows how Belle and Sebastian might be one of the last groups to initially maintain an air of mystery about both themselves and their music. Whether it was deliberate or purely accidental, the band’s limited pressing of debut album Tigermilk, eventual refusal to engage the music press, and sporadic, scattershot touring all contributed to a certain myth about the band. It was essentially left to curious indie music fans to discover the band through their own efforts and small circles of like-minded fans.
Plagenhoef argues that this will likely never happen again in indie music. Now a band’s biography and recorded output can all be accessed via a good Internet search engine. In addition, listeners can no longer hear artists without preconceived notions of what that band is supposed to represent, and in the worst cases, how listeners are expected to react to the music. Plagenhoef also discusses how the simple act of listening to an album as a single activity, instead of as part of background noise to another activity, even seems antiquated.
If Plagenhoef’s argument sounds a little reactionary, a close review of the examples he gives shows that it’s hard to disagree with him. If the author can be criticized for anything in this argument, it’s that he glosses over some of the benefits artists now experience from this changing landscape, including easier ways to get their music heard by a wider audience than even a decade ago.
However, this book is advertised as being “about” Sinister. Although Plagenhoef gives a nice history of both the band and of indie rock trends in the 1990s, and addresses the major themes that emerge in the lyrics of primary songwriter Stuart Murdoch, the album is not discussed in any depth until around page 90. This is a shame really; Plagenhoef does a nice job analyzing the album’s themes, especially those centered around childhood, generational gaps, and the role of religion and sex in shaping people, but it’s almost an afterthought in the book. Other areas that are not addressed in any real depth include the album’s possible cultural, literary, and musical inspirations, the album’s place in indie music history, and how the album influenced other artists.
As an analysis of shifting trends in how new music is discovered and how perception of a band is shaped Plagenhoef’s book is an insightful read. However, it’s a stretch to call it a study of Sinister. Belle and Sebastian fans looking for an in-depth analysis of the album might be underwhelmed after reading this book.
Book Review: My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands, by Chelsea Handler
Chelsea Handler certainly can’t be accused of being shy or subtle. Her brand of humor is often snarky, sarcastic, and a little (ok, a lot) vicious. Her current show on the E! Network, besides being one of the few shows on that channel worth watching, is often a vehicle for her sometimes crude, sometimes mean, and often funny comedic approach.
This sense of humor also makes My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands an engaging, funny read. Published in 2005, before Handler become a quasi-household name, the book is raw and honest; the Victorians and Puritans among us would be best served to avoid reading it. Some of the language would make a drunken sailor blush. The first chapter, which recounts how Handler as a young girl discovered her parents doing the Big Nasty, might also scare some people off right away, even though it is laugh-out-loud funny. Each remaining chapter chronicles one of Handler’s one-night stand experiences, including hookups with a cruise ship performer who bears a small resemblance to Party of Five actor Scott Wolf, a midget, and a stone-dumb male stripper.
Although there are plenty of one-night stands described in this book, along with its kissing cousins of vodka and Ecstasy, the book’s funniest moments come from Handler’s descriptions of her family life, especially her car “dealer” father and Mormon sister, her various friends and roommates, including the clueless and naïve “Dumb Dumb,” and her misadventures. In a truly hilarious story, she finds herself breaking into her own apartment the morning after a non-hookup, still wearing her M&M’s costume from the previous night’s party. Handler also uses plenty of self-deprecating humor; she stumbles through some of her experiences and is clearly learning as she goes.
Women might find this book more humorous than men. Written from the point of view of a brutally honest female, it does reveal something of the mentality of what at least one woman searching for a one-night stand looks for in a guy. For the guys out there, it’s a little disheartening: one potential hookup is scuttled because he’s too well endowed, where on another occasion, Handler makes a quick exit because her potential suitor has a “shrinky dink.” I’m sure you can figure it out.
This begs the question as to whether a dude can read this book without feeling like a total, grade A pervert. To determine that, there are simple guidelines to follow:
• If you’re a married or otherwise non-single male and your special lady friend asks you to read it, you’re covered. Pervert Rating 0.
• If you’re a married or otherwise non-single male and you’re sneaking peeks at this book out of curiosity, you’re partially covered. It’s not quite as bad as swiping your woman’s Cosmo for bathroom reading material, but it’s close. Pervert Rating 5.
• If you’re a single male and you claim to be reading the book to understand women, you’re full of it. Pervert Rating 10.
My Horizontal Life ends with the author realizing that a life of one-night stands is exausting; it’s the closest the book comes to having a theme or message. This isn’t a bad thing; Handler never takes herself or her subject matter too seriously. Instead, the book delivers enough witty one-liners, observations about dating and life, interesting characters, and funny bedroom (or cruise ship) stories to make it a humorous book worth reading. Unless you’re a single male.
This sense of humor also makes My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands an engaging, funny read. Published in 2005, before Handler become a quasi-household name, the book is raw and honest; the Victorians and Puritans among us would be best served to avoid reading it. Some of the language would make a drunken sailor blush. The first chapter, which recounts how Handler as a young girl discovered her parents doing the Big Nasty, might also scare some people off right away, even though it is laugh-out-loud funny. Each remaining chapter chronicles one of Handler’s one-night stand experiences, including hookups with a cruise ship performer who bears a small resemblance to Party of Five actor Scott Wolf, a midget, and a stone-dumb male stripper.
Although there are plenty of one-night stands described in this book, along with its kissing cousins of vodka and Ecstasy, the book’s funniest moments come from Handler’s descriptions of her family life, especially her car “dealer” father and Mormon sister, her various friends and roommates, including the clueless and naïve “Dumb Dumb,” and her misadventures. In a truly hilarious story, she finds herself breaking into her own apartment the morning after a non-hookup, still wearing her M&M’s costume from the previous night’s party. Handler also uses plenty of self-deprecating humor; she stumbles through some of her experiences and is clearly learning as she goes.
Women might find this book more humorous than men. Written from the point of view of a brutally honest female, it does reveal something of the mentality of what at least one woman searching for a one-night stand looks for in a guy. For the guys out there, it’s a little disheartening: one potential hookup is scuttled because he’s too well endowed, where on another occasion, Handler makes a quick exit because her potential suitor has a “shrinky dink.” I’m sure you can figure it out.
This begs the question as to whether a dude can read this book without feeling like a total, grade A pervert. To determine that, there are simple guidelines to follow:
• If you’re a married or otherwise non-single male and your special lady friend asks you to read it, you’re covered. Pervert Rating 0.
• If you’re a married or otherwise non-single male and you’re sneaking peeks at this book out of curiosity, you’re partially covered. It’s not quite as bad as swiping your woman’s Cosmo for bathroom reading material, but it’s close. Pervert Rating 5.
• If you’re a single male and you claim to be reading the book to understand women, you’re full of it. Pervert Rating 10.
My Horizontal Life ends with the author realizing that a life of one-night stands is exausting; it’s the closest the book comes to having a theme or message. This isn’t a bad thing; Handler never takes herself or her subject matter too seriously. Instead, the book delivers enough witty one-liners, observations about dating and life, interesting characters, and funny bedroom (or cruise ship) stories to make it a humorous book worth reading. Unless you’re a single male.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Book Review - The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly: Heart-Pounding, Jaw-Dropping, and Gut-Wrenching Moments in Denver Broncos History by Adrian Dater
The typical sports book reads like a printed version of a pep rally or victory parade. Page after page is filled with tales of how the team’s mighty warriors overcame adversity, several plucky opponents, and their asshole coach to win the big game. Sprinkle in personal stories about a few players who dealt with tragedy in their private lives, were dumped by their previous team, or went undrafted, and you’ve got yourself a heartwarming book that the team’s fans will gobble up in droves in the days and weeks after the big championship win.
Despite its absurdly long title, the general lack of these clichés is what separates Adrian Dater’s The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly: Heart-Pounding, Jaw-Dropping, and Gut-Wrenching Moments in Denver Broncos History from the typical sports book. Dater, a journalist for The Denver Post since 1991, takes an unconventional approach in presenting the highlights and low points of the Broncos’ history. Instead of focusing only on the warm fuzzies, Dater also presents the crushing defeats, lousy players, and off the field (read: criminal, drunken, or just downright stupid) antics.
To be sure, Dater’s book does have some pep rally qualities to it. Quarterback John Elway is of course glorified and spoken of in religious tones. Other fan favorites, including Terrell Davis and his bionic knees, Rod Smith, Ed McCaffrey, Tom Jackson, and Randy Gradishar, are similarly given such treatment. The Broncos’ greatest moments, particularly the Super Bowl wins in the 1997 and 1998 seasons, are described in near-epic terms. The team’s fans will no doubt like this approach; football fans who are more interested in an objective history of the team’s big victories may want to look elsewhere.
One of the book’s greatest strengths, perversely enough, is that it presents the lowlights of the team’s history, an approach that makes it more than just another book of Broncos propaganda. Horrible losses, such as the 55-10 Super Bowl collapse to San Francisco and the 1996 playoff failure to Jacksonville, are presented objectively, and no excuses are given. Other low points are similarly described, including the fugly uniforms worn by the team in 1960 and 1961, bonehead injuries involving the immortal Brian Griese, and, tragically, the still-unsolved murder of Darrent Williams on New Year’s Eve 2006.
The book is rounded out by a series of articles about a variety of Broncos-related topics, including the talented/obnoxious Shannon Sharpe, the tragic story of Lyle Alzado, and the pharmaceutical life of Bill Romanowski. Some of the major power players in the Broncos’ story are also presented, including owner Pat Bowlen, 1980s coach and Elway nemesis Dan Reeves, and current coach Mike Shanahan. Although Dater gives a nice, sometimes critical, overview of these figures, Shanahan for whatever reason is given the kids gloves treatment. There are some gaps in Dater’s book; major players and fan favorites like Simon Fletcher, Dennis Smith, Karl Mecklenburg, and Steve Atwater are either mentioned only briefly or not at all. In addition, a write-up of Kenny Walker, who played in the NFL despite being deaf, would have also been welcome.
Despite these shortcomings, Dater’s book does an admirable job in giving a concise overview of the massive highs and crushing lows in the Broncos’ story, with enough anecdotes, interesting facts, and bits of trivia to make it a worthwhile read for both fans of the Broncos and fans of NFL history.
Despite its absurdly long title, the general lack of these clichés is what separates Adrian Dater’s The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly: Heart-Pounding, Jaw-Dropping, and Gut-Wrenching Moments in Denver Broncos History from the typical sports book. Dater, a journalist for The Denver Post since 1991, takes an unconventional approach in presenting the highlights and low points of the Broncos’ history. Instead of focusing only on the warm fuzzies, Dater also presents the crushing defeats, lousy players, and off the field (read: criminal, drunken, or just downright stupid) antics.
To be sure, Dater’s book does have some pep rally qualities to it. Quarterback John Elway is of course glorified and spoken of in religious tones. Other fan favorites, including Terrell Davis and his bionic knees, Rod Smith, Ed McCaffrey, Tom Jackson, and Randy Gradishar, are similarly given such treatment. The Broncos’ greatest moments, particularly the Super Bowl wins in the 1997 and 1998 seasons, are described in near-epic terms. The team’s fans will no doubt like this approach; football fans who are more interested in an objective history of the team’s big victories may want to look elsewhere.
One of the book’s greatest strengths, perversely enough, is that it presents the lowlights of the team’s history, an approach that makes it more than just another book of Broncos propaganda. Horrible losses, such as the 55-10 Super Bowl collapse to San Francisco and the 1996 playoff failure to Jacksonville, are presented objectively, and no excuses are given. Other low points are similarly described, including the fugly uniforms worn by the team in 1960 and 1961, bonehead injuries involving the immortal Brian Griese, and, tragically, the still-unsolved murder of Darrent Williams on New Year’s Eve 2006.
The book is rounded out by a series of articles about a variety of Broncos-related topics, including the talented/obnoxious Shannon Sharpe, the tragic story of Lyle Alzado, and the pharmaceutical life of Bill Romanowski. Some of the major power players in the Broncos’ story are also presented, including owner Pat Bowlen, 1980s coach and Elway nemesis Dan Reeves, and current coach Mike Shanahan. Although Dater gives a nice, sometimes critical, overview of these figures, Shanahan for whatever reason is given the kids gloves treatment. There are some gaps in Dater’s book; major players and fan favorites like Simon Fletcher, Dennis Smith, Karl Mecklenburg, and Steve Atwater are either mentioned only briefly or not at all. In addition, a write-up of Kenny Walker, who played in the NFL despite being deaf, would have also been welcome.
Despite these shortcomings, Dater’s book does an admirable job in giving a concise overview of the massive highs and crushing lows in the Broncos’ story, with enough anecdotes, interesting facts, and bits of trivia to make it a worthwhile read for both fans of the Broncos and fans of NFL history.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
An Indie Music Junkie's Year-End Best Of List
What would December be without crass commercialism, rampant orgy-like spending, and random year-end lists?
It Was the Best of Concerts, It Was the Worst of Concerts
Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, October 22, 2007 - In October the two music icons appeared at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Costello, armed with an array of guitars, delivered a memorable solo performance full of the spite, anger, humor, and occasional tenderness that mark his best songs. There was crowd participation, furious guitar playing, and a perfect “The Scarlet Tide” to close the set. Then Dylan ambled out, played a couple songs on guitar, and retreated behind his keyboard for a set that sounded like the end days. The mix was horrible, and Dylan could barely wheeze three words at a time as he growled his way through the murk.
Reunion Album That Reconfirmed It All
Beyond - Dinosaur Jr. - Sure, J Mascis looks like the guy you always see in Best Buy monopolizing Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock while children wait impatiently for their crack at it, but Beyond was a tremendous reunion album. With its mix of guitar squall and buried melodies, it stands right alongside You’re Living All Over Me as a classic Dinosaur Jr. album.
Reunion Album That Ruined It All
The Weirdness - The Stooges - Forget that “Lust for Life” is now the theme song for a cruise ship commercial (with the lines about liquor and drugs carefully removed). This underwhelming album by the Stooges killed whatever mystique they had left. Even Steve Albini as “recorder” couldn’t save it.
Best Artist to Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
It was an interesting year for Band of Horses. After a spat with fans in San Diego over videotaping of the band’s July 6 performance, the Sub Poppers took some heat for licensing songs to Wal-Mart for use in an online campaign. In recent weeks, the band’s song “Funeral” has been in heavy rotation for a Ford television commercial, marking the strangest use of a song for commercial purposes since Volkswagen used Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” in 2000.
Best Artist to Not Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
That Tom Waits is a bad mofo. In January, Waits won a decision against Adam Opel AG, an offshoot of General Motors, for using a Waits soundalike to sell cars…in Scandinavia. It was the second time in less than two years that Waits won such a lawsuit. Rumors that BMW wants to use Waits’ “Misery is the River of the World” for their 2008 marketing campaign are not yet confirmed.
Favorite Concert
When The National played the Duck Room in St. Louis on June 11, Boxer was freshly released and beginning to garner plaudits that ranged from reserved praise to over-the-top awe. What could have been a sparsely attended show was instead a packed house with an eager, energetic crowd. Relying on the new material but also playing songs from Alligator and Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, the band delivered an intense, cathartic performance, surpassing the increasing hype. Now, if someone has a recording of it, I’m not hard to reach.
Reissues Are More Than Just Cash Grabs
Bronze – Calenture, The Triffids - The underappreciated 1980s Australian band finally got their due with a nice reissue of their 1987 album Calenture, the follow up to the essential Born Sandy Devotional. The original album, demos, and outtakes were spread out over two discs, plus the album’s packaging was snazzy and liner notes were actually informative.
Silver – Stand in the Fire, Warren Zevon - Long out of print on disc, Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire received the digital treatment this year. A recording of a wild, frenzied 1981 performance, the album showed Zevon at his manic best. Four cuts excluded from the original album were included to top it off. Play it loud.
Gold – Daydream Nation, Sonic Youth - Sonic Youth’s much-worshiped Daydream Nation was given a fat dose of bonus tracks this year. The original album is, of course, great, but the real treat here was the second disc, which was jammed full of Sonic Youth goodness, including a live version of each album track, as well as covers of songs by The Beatles, Neil Young, and Captain Beefheart. A nice essay and cool period photos made this reissue an essential purchase.
You Fool, Reissues Just Rob You of Money
Pointless reissues or compilations were certainly not in short supply in 2007. While many major labels could be taken to task for uninspired reissues/compilations, Columbia’s bland, boring, and utterly useless Dylan release represented everything wrong with such releases. With zero unreleased recordings (unless you paid on iTunes), this abomination rehashed most of the same damn songs as Dylan’s many other compilations. With an artist whose vault must be packed with unreleased goodies, lazy stuff like this shouldn’t even exist.
Favorite Albums
Bronze – Neon Bible, Arcade Fire - Even if many music fans and critics blew their loads over 2004’s Funeral, the Arcade Fire’s self-produced sophomore album gave everyone a chance to get fired up again. Even though the images of apocalypse and bombs could grow a little heavy-handed at times, Win Butler’s voice, ranging from howls to everything in between, and the band’s damn loud playing made this album more than just another rant about the sorry state of our world.
Silver – Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird - With the guitar pushed to the forefront, Armchair Apocrypha marked a stylistic shift for Andrew Bird. The songs were highly textured and far more layered than his previous albums; violin loops, drums, whistling, guitars and glockenspiels were thrown together to create a symphonic sound that amazingly didn’t result in garbled mush. The songs could sometimes be decidedly heavy; absurd superstitions, old age, the futility of war and the fall of empires, childhood confusion, and a general helplessness against a vast, impersonal world all unfolded in Bird’s lyrics. There aren’t many albums that sound like this one, and that’s a good thing.
Gold – Boxer, The National - Never has an album whose characters suffer under a veil of fuck-it-all resignation sounded so good. The songs on Boxer invoked themes of broken relationships, people aging quickly beyond their years, and passing, superficial comforts like drugs and booze; even the implied threats of “Start a War” sounded powerless and empty. Evocative lyrics, Matt Berninger’s weary baritone, and the band’s sometimes minimalist, sometimes layered instrumentation combined beautifully to create one of the best albums of the decade.
It Was the Best of Concerts, It Was the Worst of Concerts
Elvis Costello and Bob Dylan, October 22, 2007 - In October the two music icons appeared at the Fox Theatre in St. Louis. Costello, armed with an array of guitars, delivered a memorable solo performance full of the spite, anger, humor, and occasional tenderness that mark his best songs. There was crowd participation, furious guitar playing, and a perfect “The Scarlet Tide” to close the set. Then Dylan ambled out, played a couple songs on guitar, and retreated behind his keyboard for a set that sounded like the end days. The mix was horrible, and Dylan could barely wheeze three words at a time as he growled his way through the murk.
Reunion Album That Reconfirmed It All
Beyond - Dinosaur Jr. - Sure, J Mascis looks like the guy you always see in Best Buy monopolizing Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock while children wait impatiently for their crack at it, but Beyond was a tremendous reunion album. With its mix of guitar squall and buried melodies, it stands right alongside You’re Living All Over Me as a classic Dinosaur Jr. album.
Reunion Album That Ruined It All
The Weirdness - The Stooges - Forget that “Lust for Life” is now the theme song for a cruise ship commercial (with the lines about liquor and drugs carefully removed). This underwhelming album by the Stooges killed whatever mystique they had left. Even Steve Albini as “recorder” couldn’t save it.
Best Artist to Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
It was an interesting year for Band of Horses. After a spat with fans in San Diego over videotaping of the band’s July 6 performance, the Sub Poppers took some heat for licensing songs to Wal-Mart for use in an online campaign. In recent weeks, the band’s song “Funeral” has been in heavy rotation for a Ford television commercial, marking the strangest use of a song for commercial purposes since Volkswagen used Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” in 2000.
Best Artist to Not Have a Song Featured in a Car Commercial
That Tom Waits is a bad mofo. In January, Waits won a decision against Adam Opel AG, an offshoot of General Motors, for using a Waits soundalike to sell cars…in Scandinavia. It was the second time in less than two years that Waits won such a lawsuit. Rumors that BMW wants to use Waits’ “Misery is the River of the World” for their 2008 marketing campaign are not yet confirmed.
Favorite Concert
When The National played the Duck Room in St. Louis on June 11, Boxer was freshly released and beginning to garner plaudits that ranged from reserved praise to over-the-top awe. What could have been a sparsely attended show was instead a packed house with an eager, energetic crowd. Relying on the new material but also playing songs from Alligator and Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, the band delivered an intense, cathartic performance, surpassing the increasing hype. Now, if someone has a recording of it, I’m not hard to reach.
Reissues Are More Than Just Cash Grabs
Bronze – Calenture, The Triffids - The underappreciated 1980s Australian band finally got their due with a nice reissue of their 1987 album Calenture, the follow up to the essential Born Sandy Devotional. The original album, demos, and outtakes were spread out over two discs, plus the album’s packaging was snazzy and liner notes were actually informative.
Silver – Stand in the Fire, Warren Zevon - Long out of print on disc, Warren Zevon’s Stand in the Fire received the digital treatment this year. A recording of a wild, frenzied 1981 performance, the album showed Zevon at his manic best. Four cuts excluded from the original album were included to top it off. Play it loud.
Gold – Daydream Nation, Sonic Youth - Sonic Youth’s much-worshiped Daydream Nation was given a fat dose of bonus tracks this year. The original album is, of course, great, but the real treat here was the second disc, which was jammed full of Sonic Youth goodness, including a live version of each album track, as well as covers of songs by The Beatles, Neil Young, and Captain Beefheart. A nice essay and cool period photos made this reissue an essential purchase.
You Fool, Reissues Just Rob You of Money
Pointless reissues or compilations were certainly not in short supply in 2007. While many major labels could be taken to task for uninspired reissues/compilations, Columbia’s bland, boring, and utterly useless Dylan release represented everything wrong with such releases. With zero unreleased recordings (unless you paid on iTunes), this abomination rehashed most of the same damn songs as Dylan’s many other compilations. With an artist whose vault must be packed with unreleased goodies, lazy stuff like this shouldn’t even exist.
Favorite Albums
Bronze – Neon Bible, Arcade Fire - Even if many music fans and critics blew their loads over 2004’s Funeral, the Arcade Fire’s self-produced sophomore album gave everyone a chance to get fired up again. Even though the images of apocalypse and bombs could grow a little heavy-handed at times, Win Butler’s voice, ranging from howls to everything in between, and the band’s damn loud playing made this album more than just another rant about the sorry state of our world.
Silver – Armchair Apocrypha, Andrew Bird - With the guitar pushed to the forefront, Armchair Apocrypha marked a stylistic shift for Andrew Bird. The songs were highly textured and far more layered than his previous albums; violin loops, drums, whistling, guitars and glockenspiels were thrown together to create a symphonic sound that amazingly didn’t result in garbled mush. The songs could sometimes be decidedly heavy; absurd superstitions, old age, the futility of war and the fall of empires, childhood confusion, and a general helplessness against a vast, impersonal world all unfolded in Bird’s lyrics. There aren’t many albums that sound like this one, and that’s a good thing.
Gold – Boxer, The National - Never has an album whose characters suffer under a veil of fuck-it-all resignation sounded so good. The songs on Boxer invoked themes of broken relationships, people aging quickly beyond their years, and passing, superficial comforts like drugs and booze; even the implied threats of “Start a War” sounded powerless and empty. Evocative lyrics, Matt Berninger’s weary baritone, and the band’s sometimes minimalist, sometimes layered instrumentation combined beautifully to create one of the best albums of the decade.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Movie Review: Enchanted
A Man Card violation is a serious offense. Holding your special lady friend’s purse while she shops, watching figure skating on ESPN2 when it’s an NFL Sunday, and drinking beverages that combine the name of a fruit with “tini” are three such violations. Enchanted is similarly a dicey proposition. With at least one extravagant, over-the-top song-and-dance routine about true love, an all-women shopping spree while bubblegum poppy music plays in the background, and a slow dance between the two main characters with a weepy love song that sounds like the evil spawn of Michael Bolton and James Blunt, a man could be forgiven for his trepidation about this movie.
Despite these potential crotch-killing features, Enchanted is actually a pretty funny movie, with enough humor so that the men out there won’t need to feel guilty about watching it.Enchanted stars Amy Adams as Giselle, a simple girl from Andalasia who sings to the animals, dreams of her one true love, and is so happy that it’s likely she’s been living on a Percocet drip feed since birth. Meanwhile, Price Edward (James Marsden) is busy wearing purple costumes with puffy sleeves, keeping his teeth freakishly white, and trying to convince the world that he’s not homosexual. Their paths eventually cross when Edward rescues Giselle from the vile clutches of a troll. They fall in love and, in true Hollywood fashion, plan to get married the very next day. A call is made to Us Magazine to generate interest from the paparazzi.
But, alas, there are complications. Edward’s mother, the evil queen Narissa (Susan Sarandon), has a serious Freudian complex and is opposed to her little Eddie getting married. On the two lovebirds’ wedding day, she tricks the bride-to-be and pushes her into a wishing well. Giselle is sent hurtling to a place so vile, so evil, so horrific, so dastardly that it can only be described in two words: New York. In a hilarious series of scenes, she emerges from a sewer and is overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of a land entirely different from Andalasia. This new land is one of honking car horns, gridlocked traffic, and strategic product placement. She wanders the cold, lonely, unforgiving streets of New York aimlessly, and is briefly forced into a life of prostitution as she finds the job market for super-sweet singing Andalasians isn’t very good (wait, wrong movie).
Eventually Giselle scales a billboard that advertises the Palace Casino, thinking it’s actually a castle where she can find food, water, and a refill for her Percocet drip. As fate would have it, Robert Philip (Patrick Dempsey) just happens to be taking a taxi home from his law office, when his daughter Morgan (Rachel Covey) spots the red-haired woman stuck on the billboard. Giselle is coaxed down by the lawyer, though it’s not a storybook landing as she lands on him and he complains about an injury to his elbow.Giselle is taken back to Robert’s place, where, after several glasses of Pinot, he convinces her to pose naked while he throws salami at her (wait, still the wrong movie). Actually, she sleeps on the couch, and the next morning calls various rodents, birds, and vermin to clean the apartment. Things get a little hairy when Robert’s soon-to-be fiancée Nancy (Idina Menzel) stumbles into his place to find a bubbly redhead wearing only his towel. Since this is a Disney movie, he later explains that nothing happened, minus the salami tossing, and she’s eventually convinced.
Meanwhile, Edward has vowed to find Giselle. Emerging from the same sewer lid, he immediately accosts several Verizon employees at swordpoint. He’s eventually followed by Nathaniel (Timothy Spall), who’s been dispatched by the queen to ensure that Edward fails in his attempt to rescue his brdige, and that Edward also avoids getting shanked on the subway because of his purple, puffy-sleeved ensemble. After some hilarious misadventures (including one where Edward slays the “steel beast,” i.e. bus), the prince manages to find Giselle in the apartment. But she’s no longer the simple Andalasian girl he fell in love with about eight hours earlier. A non-date at a pizza parlor with Robert and a shopping spree with Morgan have shown her there’s more to love than flowers, chirping birds, and apologetic, drunken 3 am phone calls. She’s become a thoroughly modern New York woman and wants Edward to take her on a date.
The King and Queen ball just happens to be approaching, and from the beginning it’s obvious it won’t be a party to forget. The dancing is wild, various white powders are readily available, and the drinks are flowing. Narissa shows up in an attempt to ensure the marriage doesn’t happen. She somehow manages to trick Giselle again (this girl should know better by now); Giselle bites from the queen’s poison apple and immediately falls asleep like a narcoleptic at a bowling alley. With the clock approaching midnight and Giselle on her way to that great Disney Channel in the sky, Nathaniel reveals that the queen has poisoned her and that only the nectar of an Amazonian tree can save her. But all the Walgreens that have this nectar are closed, so they have to settle for True Love’s Kiss to revive her. Edward plants one on her, but nothing happens; he realizes that Robert is Giselle’s true love. Robert wakes her up with a kiss.
This enrages Narissa, who’s jealous of Giselle’s beauty, upbeat attitude, and easy access to Robert’s credit card. She turns into a fire-breathing dragon, destroys the ballroom, takes one last swig from the open bar, and snatches Robert as she scales the building. Giselle pursues the queen and rescues Robert; she even manages to send Narissa tumbling about 500 stories, where the queen splats into the pavement and has her jewelry stolen and pockets turned inside-out by street thugs. Giselle and Robert live happily ever after. Edward even pairs up with Nancy and takes her with him to Andalasia, where she’s clearly in for many unfulfilled nights. So everyone’s happy. Except for the evil queen, who’s being scraped off the sidewalk by the New York Sanitation Department.
Enchanted is a clever and funny movie, with enough humor to offset some of its more wimpy aspects. Disney manages to intelligently poke fun at its own dream world of eternal sunshine by contrasting it with the real world of people with relationship troubles. Giselle and Edward’s brand of optimism/lunacy is completely out of place in modern-day New York, and the movie’s “fish out of water” element is one of its biggest strengths. The actors are cast perfectly; Adams is great as Giselle and also can belt out a tune with gusto. For you guys out there, watch it with an open mind, and you won’t be disappointed.
After further review, Enchanted isn’t a total Man Card violation. It’s entertaining, humorous, and there’s enough sex and violence to keep men watching (okay, not really). There are many more things a man can do to lose his Man Card than enjoy this film. Like watching a Lifetime movie starring Kelly Martin during Super Bowl Sunday.
Despite these potential crotch-killing features, Enchanted is actually a pretty funny movie, with enough humor so that the men out there won’t need to feel guilty about watching it.Enchanted stars Amy Adams as Giselle, a simple girl from Andalasia who sings to the animals, dreams of her one true love, and is so happy that it’s likely she’s been living on a Percocet drip feed since birth. Meanwhile, Price Edward (James Marsden) is busy wearing purple costumes with puffy sleeves, keeping his teeth freakishly white, and trying to convince the world that he’s not homosexual. Their paths eventually cross when Edward rescues Giselle from the vile clutches of a troll. They fall in love and, in true Hollywood fashion, plan to get married the very next day. A call is made to Us Magazine to generate interest from the paparazzi.
But, alas, there are complications. Edward’s mother, the evil queen Narissa (Susan Sarandon), has a serious Freudian complex and is opposed to her little Eddie getting married. On the two lovebirds’ wedding day, she tricks the bride-to-be and pushes her into a wishing well. Giselle is sent hurtling to a place so vile, so evil, so horrific, so dastardly that it can only be described in two words: New York. In a hilarious series of scenes, she emerges from a sewer and is overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of a land entirely different from Andalasia. This new land is one of honking car horns, gridlocked traffic, and strategic product placement. She wanders the cold, lonely, unforgiving streets of New York aimlessly, and is briefly forced into a life of prostitution as she finds the job market for super-sweet singing Andalasians isn’t very good (wait, wrong movie).
Eventually Giselle scales a billboard that advertises the Palace Casino, thinking it’s actually a castle where she can find food, water, and a refill for her Percocet drip. As fate would have it, Robert Philip (Patrick Dempsey) just happens to be taking a taxi home from his law office, when his daughter Morgan (Rachel Covey) spots the red-haired woman stuck on the billboard. Giselle is coaxed down by the lawyer, though it’s not a storybook landing as she lands on him and he complains about an injury to his elbow.Giselle is taken back to Robert’s place, where, after several glasses of Pinot, he convinces her to pose naked while he throws salami at her (wait, still the wrong movie). Actually, she sleeps on the couch, and the next morning calls various rodents, birds, and vermin to clean the apartment. Things get a little hairy when Robert’s soon-to-be fiancée Nancy (Idina Menzel) stumbles into his place to find a bubbly redhead wearing only his towel. Since this is a Disney movie, he later explains that nothing happened, minus the salami tossing, and she’s eventually convinced.
Meanwhile, Edward has vowed to find Giselle. Emerging from the same sewer lid, he immediately accosts several Verizon employees at swordpoint. He’s eventually followed by Nathaniel (Timothy Spall), who’s been dispatched by the queen to ensure that Edward fails in his attempt to rescue his brdige, and that Edward also avoids getting shanked on the subway because of his purple, puffy-sleeved ensemble. After some hilarious misadventures (including one where Edward slays the “steel beast,” i.e. bus), the prince manages to find Giselle in the apartment. But she’s no longer the simple Andalasian girl he fell in love with about eight hours earlier. A non-date at a pizza parlor with Robert and a shopping spree with Morgan have shown her there’s more to love than flowers, chirping birds, and apologetic, drunken 3 am phone calls. She’s become a thoroughly modern New York woman and wants Edward to take her on a date.
The King and Queen ball just happens to be approaching, and from the beginning it’s obvious it won’t be a party to forget. The dancing is wild, various white powders are readily available, and the drinks are flowing. Narissa shows up in an attempt to ensure the marriage doesn’t happen. She somehow manages to trick Giselle again (this girl should know better by now); Giselle bites from the queen’s poison apple and immediately falls asleep like a narcoleptic at a bowling alley. With the clock approaching midnight and Giselle on her way to that great Disney Channel in the sky, Nathaniel reveals that the queen has poisoned her and that only the nectar of an Amazonian tree can save her. But all the Walgreens that have this nectar are closed, so they have to settle for True Love’s Kiss to revive her. Edward plants one on her, but nothing happens; he realizes that Robert is Giselle’s true love. Robert wakes her up with a kiss.
This enrages Narissa, who’s jealous of Giselle’s beauty, upbeat attitude, and easy access to Robert’s credit card. She turns into a fire-breathing dragon, destroys the ballroom, takes one last swig from the open bar, and snatches Robert as she scales the building. Giselle pursues the queen and rescues Robert; she even manages to send Narissa tumbling about 500 stories, where the queen splats into the pavement and has her jewelry stolen and pockets turned inside-out by street thugs. Giselle and Robert live happily ever after. Edward even pairs up with Nancy and takes her with him to Andalasia, where she’s clearly in for many unfulfilled nights. So everyone’s happy. Except for the evil queen, who’s being scraped off the sidewalk by the New York Sanitation Department.
Enchanted is a clever and funny movie, with enough humor to offset some of its more wimpy aspects. Disney manages to intelligently poke fun at its own dream world of eternal sunshine by contrasting it with the real world of people with relationship troubles. Giselle and Edward’s brand of optimism/lunacy is completely out of place in modern-day New York, and the movie’s “fish out of water” element is one of its biggest strengths. The actors are cast perfectly; Adams is great as Giselle and also can belt out a tune with gusto. For you guys out there, watch it with an open mind, and you won’t be disappointed.
After further review, Enchanted isn’t a total Man Card violation. It’s entertaining, humorous, and there’s enough sex and violence to keep men watching (okay, not really). There are many more things a man can do to lose his Man Card than enjoy this film. Like watching a Lifetime movie starring Kelly Martin during Super Bowl Sunday.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Book Review: The Replacements - All Over But the Shouting: An Oral History by Jim Walsh
Jim Walsh’s The Replacements: All Over But the Shouting marks the first full-length book covering the musical misadventures of the Minneapolis band. If there ever was a band perfect for such a study, it’s the ‘Mats. Alternative before the term had yet to be co-opted and applied to everyone from Nirvana to, ugh, Better Than Ezra, the band’s reputation for inebriated concert performances that could be either transcendent or the equivalent of drunken karaoke, erratic off-stage behavior, and occasional flashes of studio brilliance is every music journalist’s wet dream. With the ‘Mats, there’s enough internal band dysfunction and tall tales to fill a Minneapolis dive bar. The trick is separating the fact from the fiction to arrive at an understanding of the band that is more than just VH-1 Behind the Music caricature. Although Walsh’s book is always engaging and often interesting, with plenty of “the fish was this big” stories, it doesn’t really add any new understanding to either the band or its place in music history.
The book does have some strong qualities to make it a worthwhile read. First, Walsh has managed to get contributions from many participants and unwitting bystanders in the ‘Mats madness, including Twin/Tone co-founder Peter Jesperson, R.E.M. guitarist and bane to flight attendants Peter Buck, and Husker Du-er Grant Hart. Hold Steady singer/indie darling Craig Finn, and purveyor of everything that is soulless and wrong with third-generation punk, Green Day singer Bill Joe Armstrong, are called in to show how the ‘Mats influenced later generations of musicians. For whatever reason, Kurt Cobain was unavailable for comment (what’s that… he did what?)
The contributors’ comments and recollections help the reader understand what the Minneapolis music scene was like in the ‘Mats heyday, and how the band was both influenced by, and helped shape, this scene. As expected, there are enough stories of the ‘Mats in-fighting, on-stage and backstage antics, and drunken exploits to satisfy those who like their musical anecdotes with a twist of self-induced implosion. Some of the stories show that the ‘Mats’ drunken hijinks have been exaggerated over time, and were, in some cases, carefully orchestrated to maintain an image.
Despite this, the book is ultimately disappointing; there are far too many gaps, holes, and missing plotlines in the ‘Mats history to ignore. Of course this is the potential drawback of any oral history; the author is ultimately dependent on his interviewees to provide good and complete details. In this case, the result is an incomplete ‘Mats history; Michael Azerrad’s chapter on the band in Our Band Could Be Your Life gives a better overview of the band in fewer pages.The book’s shortcomings include:
There are little-to-no discussions about the (potential) inspirations or origins of the ‘Mats songs, with only a few exceptions. Plenty of contributors spend pages wetting themselves over how good “Unsatisfied” is, but most other songs are ignored.
There are few actual dates given in the book; album releases and concert performances blend from one to the next as the years roll by. If you don’t know your ‘Mats history, this book isn’t a good starting point.
With the exception of one new quote from Chris Mars, all the quotes from the original band members are taken from previous interviews and news features. These quotes don’t add much to the book, especially since it’s mostly accepted that the ‘Mats tended to portray specific personas in interviews. In Walsh’s defense, it is difficult to create a complete oral history when the main players decline to comment.
With the exception of Bob Stinson, whose chemically-addled life is addressed in brutal detail, the reader gets very little sense of what the ‘Mats were like as people. Instead, the band members remain little more than musical stereotypes: Tommy Stinson comes across as nothing more than a naïve and inexperienced boy, Chris Mars is the silent member, and Paul Westerberg remains the truculent/troubled/occasionally cruel/sometimes caring singer-poet.
Overall I expected more from this book, especially given the number of people interviewed and Walsh’s extensive personal experience with the band. Like a drunkenly sloppy ‘Mats live performance or Pleased To Meet Me, the book has some high points, a few drunken low points, and a few broken bottles scattered along the way. At the end of the day the reader is left a little underwhelmed.
The book does have some strong qualities to make it a worthwhile read. First, Walsh has managed to get contributions from many participants and unwitting bystanders in the ‘Mats madness, including Twin/Tone co-founder Peter Jesperson, R.E.M. guitarist and bane to flight attendants Peter Buck, and Husker Du-er Grant Hart. Hold Steady singer/indie darling Craig Finn, and purveyor of everything that is soulless and wrong with third-generation punk, Green Day singer Bill Joe Armstrong, are called in to show how the ‘Mats influenced later generations of musicians. For whatever reason, Kurt Cobain was unavailable for comment (what’s that… he did what?)
The contributors’ comments and recollections help the reader understand what the Minneapolis music scene was like in the ‘Mats heyday, and how the band was both influenced by, and helped shape, this scene. As expected, there are enough stories of the ‘Mats in-fighting, on-stage and backstage antics, and drunken exploits to satisfy those who like their musical anecdotes with a twist of self-induced implosion. Some of the stories show that the ‘Mats’ drunken hijinks have been exaggerated over time, and were, in some cases, carefully orchestrated to maintain an image.
Despite this, the book is ultimately disappointing; there are far too many gaps, holes, and missing plotlines in the ‘Mats history to ignore. Of course this is the potential drawback of any oral history; the author is ultimately dependent on his interviewees to provide good and complete details. In this case, the result is an incomplete ‘Mats history; Michael Azerrad’s chapter on the band in Our Band Could Be Your Life gives a better overview of the band in fewer pages.The book’s shortcomings include:
There are little-to-no discussions about the (potential) inspirations or origins of the ‘Mats songs, with only a few exceptions. Plenty of contributors spend pages wetting themselves over how good “Unsatisfied” is, but most other songs are ignored.
There are few actual dates given in the book; album releases and concert performances blend from one to the next as the years roll by. If you don’t know your ‘Mats history, this book isn’t a good starting point.
With the exception of one new quote from Chris Mars, all the quotes from the original band members are taken from previous interviews and news features. These quotes don’t add much to the book, especially since it’s mostly accepted that the ‘Mats tended to portray specific personas in interviews. In Walsh’s defense, it is difficult to create a complete oral history when the main players decline to comment.
With the exception of Bob Stinson, whose chemically-addled life is addressed in brutal detail, the reader gets very little sense of what the ‘Mats were like as people. Instead, the band members remain little more than musical stereotypes: Tommy Stinson comes across as nothing more than a naïve and inexperienced boy, Chris Mars is the silent member, and Paul Westerberg remains the truculent/troubled/occasionally cruel/sometimes caring singer-poet.
Overall I expected more from this book, especially given the number of people interviewed and Walsh’s extensive personal experience with the band. Like a drunkenly sloppy ‘Mats live performance or Pleased To Meet Me, the book has some high points, a few drunken low points, and a few broken bottles scattered along the way. At the end of the day the reader is left a little underwhelmed.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Addicted to Survivorman
I’m not a survivalist, outdoorsman, hunter, fisherman, shelter builder, or fire starter. Once as a child I tried to camp out in my backward; after several hours of having an exposed oak tree’s root jammed into my back as I tried to sleep, I got bored and frustrated and retreated into the cozy environs of my parent’s house.
This means I should have no interest in Les Stroud’s Survivorman. However, this show has quickly become one of the few television programs on my required viewing list that doesn’t involve footballs, absurd storylines of escapes from Panamanian prisons, or rerun episodes of George Costanza’s various neuroses.
The brainchild of Stroud, a Canadian survival enthusiast (an understatement of terms: the man spent his honeymoon living a paleolithic existence in the Canadian wilderness with his wife) who also plays a mean blues harmonica, Survivorman features Stroud stranded alone with only his camera gear and a few random odds and ends in some of the most godforsaken locations on earth (Passaic, New Jersey is not one of the locations…yet). Stroud’s challenge is to then survive in this location for seven days, film the proceedings, and avoid catching a pathogen or parasite and/or being mauled by an animal with giant claws, sharp teeth, and a penchant for dehydrated and starving Canadian survivalists.
A few things make Survivorman truly unique and separate it from the standard boorish and humorless macho survival show. First and foremost is Stroud’s personality; he has an “everyman” quality and doesn’t come across as the stereotypical Neanderthal survivalist hell bent on proving his manhood by slaying a grizzly bear with his bare hands. Stroud possesses a sort of Canadian Zen humor that is endearing to the viewer; whether he’s stranded on a life raft off the coast of Belize, stuck in a swamp in Georgia being drained by mosquitoes, or rejoicing at being able to drink a few drops of swill-quality water from a puddle, Stroud’s enthusiasm, honesty, and calmness (on camera, at least) in situations where most of us would panic, curse cruel fate, and weep uncontrollably is impressive. Of course, off camera Stroud could be having his own little Serenity Now outbursts.
He also allows the viewer to see both his successes and failures. Even though he could probably start a fire with nothing more than a Gordon Lightfoot LP and a VHS copy of Canadian Bacon, Stroud doesn’t put on any hardass survivalist façade. When he cannot find food or is even forced to cut a trip short due to lack of food and dehydration, it’s captured on film; when being stranded alone for days in locations that lack the comforts of even primitive living (not to mention the Internet!) begins to take a toll on his mental state, the cameras still roll. And unlike many of the more flamboyant nature show personalities, Stroud clearly respects the beauty, power, and sheer indifference of the harsh environments he’s trying to survive in. He’s more interested in sharing his experience with the viewer than in trying to play grab-ass with alligators, mountain lions, or polar bears.
The final aspect that makes Survivorman so engaging is the simple fact that Stroud operates all the cameras himself; his support crew drops him off and then gets the hell out of there. Once the crew is gone, Stroud is entirely alone and is responsible for building a shelter, exploring the environment, searching for food, and trying to avoid freezing to death at night or dying from heat stroke during the day. In order to capture as much footage as possible, Stroud frequently needs to place and re-place the cameras at various points, which in turn means he must often navigate dangerous terrain multiple times for the sake of good camera shots.
I’ve read that Survivorman is quickly gaining popularity and is one of The Discovery Channel’s highest-rated shows. Les Stroud has even appeared on Craig Ferguson’s late night show, and I’m sure the 18 people who watch that show were impressed. Of course, I don’t think families are gathering around the idiot box in droves to watch The Discovery Channel. Regardless, Survivorman is an informative and engaging television show, even if your idea of rough living is missing out on that first cup of coffee in the morning.
This means I should have no interest in Les Stroud’s Survivorman. However, this show has quickly become one of the few television programs on my required viewing list that doesn’t involve footballs, absurd storylines of escapes from Panamanian prisons, or rerun episodes of George Costanza’s various neuroses.
The brainchild of Stroud, a Canadian survival enthusiast (an understatement of terms: the man spent his honeymoon living a paleolithic existence in the Canadian wilderness with his wife) who also plays a mean blues harmonica, Survivorman features Stroud stranded alone with only his camera gear and a few random odds and ends in some of the most godforsaken locations on earth (Passaic, New Jersey is not one of the locations…yet). Stroud’s challenge is to then survive in this location for seven days, film the proceedings, and avoid catching a pathogen or parasite and/or being mauled by an animal with giant claws, sharp teeth, and a penchant for dehydrated and starving Canadian survivalists.
A few things make Survivorman truly unique and separate it from the standard boorish and humorless macho survival show. First and foremost is Stroud’s personality; he has an “everyman” quality and doesn’t come across as the stereotypical Neanderthal survivalist hell bent on proving his manhood by slaying a grizzly bear with his bare hands. Stroud possesses a sort of Canadian Zen humor that is endearing to the viewer; whether he’s stranded on a life raft off the coast of Belize, stuck in a swamp in Georgia being drained by mosquitoes, or rejoicing at being able to drink a few drops of swill-quality water from a puddle, Stroud’s enthusiasm, honesty, and calmness (on camera, at least) in situations where most of us would panic, curse cruel fate, and weep uncontrollably is impressive. Of course, off camera Stroud could be having his own little Serenity Now outbursts.
He also allows the viewer to see both his successes and failures. Even though he could probably start a fire with nothing more than a Gordon Lightfoot LP and a VHS copy of Canadian Bacon, Stroud doesn’t put on any hardass survivalist façade. When he cannot find food or is even forced to cut a trip short due to lack of food and dehydration, it’s captured on film; when being stranded alone for days in locations that lack the comforts of even primitive living (not to mention the Internet!) begins to take a toll on his mental state, the cameras still roll. And unlike many of the more flamboyant nature show personalities, Stroud clearly respects the beauty, power, and sheer indifference of the harsh environments he’s trying to survive in. He’s more interested in sharing his experience with the viewer than in trying to play grab-ass with alligators, mountain lions, or polar bears.
The final aspect that makes Survivorman so engaging is the simple fact that Stroud operates all the cameras himself; his support crew drops him off and then gets the hell out of there. Once the crew is gone, Stroud is entirely alone and is responsible for building a shelter, exploring the environment, searching for food, and trying to avoid freezing to death at night or dying from heat stroke during the day. In order to capture as much footage as possible, Stroud frequently needs to place and re-place the cameras at various points, which in turn means he must often navigate dangerous terrain multiple times for the sake of good camera shots.
I’ve read that Survivorman is quickly gaining popularity and is one of The Discovery Channel’s highest-rated shows. Les Stroud has even appeared on Craig Ferguson’s late night show, and I’m sure the 18 people who watch that show were impressed. Of course, I don’t think families are gathering around the idiot box in droves to watch The Discovery Channel. Regardless, Survivorman is an informative and engaging television show, even if your idea of rough living is missing out on that first cup of coffee in the morning.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Book Review: I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski: Life, The Big Lebowski, and What Have You, by Bill Green, Ben Peskoe, Will Russell, and Scott Shuffitt
The Big Lebowski is the funniest movie ever. For those of you still reading, you’re either aghast in horror at such a statement, coffee now spat out on your computer screen, or you’re an Achiever (fan of the movie) in total agreement who’s busy sucking down White Russians and reciting lines from the movie like “The Dude abides,” “This is not Nam, this is bowling, there are rules,” or many of the more-obscenity-laced quotes from the movie (“First of all Dude, you don’t have an ex. Secondly, this a f—king show dog, with f—king papers. You can’t board it, it gets upset, its hair falls out. The f—cking dog has f—cking papers”).
For those Achievers for whom the movie offers an ethos, catharsis against the daily grind, or Zen philosophy for how to live, I’m a Lebowski, You’re A Lebowski is the book we’ve been waiting for. Written by four Lebowski fans (and Lebowski Fest founders) with both a fierce dedication to the movie and an apparent abundance of available free time, this humorous book offers enough Lebowski ins and outs to satisfy even the most rabid fan.
The book is logically divided into chapters that each take a specific approach related to the movie, and even includes a forward by Jeff Bridges (the Dude himself…er, the movie version of the Dude, anyway). The various chapters cover everything from ways to “Dude-ify” your life, to playful yet informative interviews with the movie’s actors (major roles like John Goodman and minor roles like Jim Hoosier, who played Jesus Quintana’s bowling partner and didn’t even have a single line of dialogue), to a tidy analysis of how The Big Lebowski became a cult classic, to various Lebowski tidbits, including the number of F-bombs dropped in the movie (281 according to the authors. I still count 279, and yes, I clearly need professional psychiatric help).
The most revealing chapter of the book contains interviews with the real-life people upon whom the movie versions of the Dude, Walter, and Little Larry Sellers were based. To a certain amount of horror, we learn that there really was an incident in which a junior high kid was confronted in his home by two men who claimed the kid had stolen the Dude’s car. One of the men even produced the kid’s homework, extracted from the seat of the stolen car, encased in a plastic baggie as if it was some sort of evidence bomb.
A question that runs throughout the book is why exactly some people like this movie so much. This is a good question, especially since on the surface the movie is little more than the story of a hapless unemployed hippie who only wants to replace a rug in his “home” that was, uh, pissed upon. Many theories are mentioned by people ranging from the actors themselves to celebrity fans of the movie. Some of the more interesting theories include:
The movie is very quotable, and it’s incredibly fun and obnoxious to annoy non-Achievers with these quotes. Personal recommendation: saying “I can get you a toe by three o’clock this afternoon,” as Walter says to the Dude, is the perfect way to end any awkward or unwanted conversation.
Through his unemployment, laziness, and pacifism, The Dude possesses a certain Zen understanding of the world that people in the real world envy.
It’s the perfect buddy movie. Maybe this explains why it seems that men are more inclined to like this movie than women.
The writing is funny, perceptive, and insightful. In addition, each scene in the movie has something memorable.
Plenty of people think the movie is stupid, ridiculous, and a waste of film, which makes its appeal that much greater for people who already like it.
The movie sports a great collection of characters, including a pornographer, several nihilists, a reactionary police chief, a giggling video artist, a female artist whose work “has been commended as being strongly vaginal,” a stonewalling teenage kid, a purple-jumpsuit-wearing-pederast bowler named Jesus, and an Uzi-toting Vietnam veteran who’s largely responsible for most of the Dude’s troubles throughout the movie, among others. For many people, this reminds them of their last family reunion.
Some people smoke the hippy lettuce and this is the perfect movie to accompany such an activity.
The cult of Lebowski doesn’t yet rival that of Star Wars or Star Trek; however, it’s far less nerdy and shouldn’t pose a major hindrance when trying to get laid. Even if we Achievers are walking a tightrope between eclectic taste and total, all-out dweebiness, it’s nice to finally have a book that documents what we’ve known for years.
For those Achievers for whom the movie offers an ethos, catharsis against the daily grind, or Zen philosophy for how to live, I’m a Lebowski, You’re A Lebowski is the book we’ve been waiting for. Written by four Lebowski fans (and Lebowski Fest founders) with both a fierce dedication to the movie and an apparent abundance of available free time, this humorous book offers enough Lebowski ins and outs to satisfy even the most rabid fan.
The book is logically divided into chapters that each take a specific approach related to the movie, and even includes a forward by Jeff Bridges (the Dude himself…er, the movie version of the Dude, anyway). The various chapters cover everything from ways to “Dude-ify” your life, to playful yet informative interviews with the movie’s actors (major roles like John Goodman and minor roles like Jim Hoosier, who played Jesus Quintana’s bowling partner and didn’t even have a single line of dialogue), to a tidy analysis of how The Big Lebowski became a cult classic, to various Lebowski tidbits, including the number of F-bombs dropped in the movie (281 according to the authors. I still count 279, and yes, I clearly need professional psychiatric help).
The most revealing chapter of the book contains interviews with the real-life people upon whom the movie versions of the Dude, Walter, and Little Larry Sellers were based. To a certain amount of horror, we learn that there really was an incident in which a junior high kid was confronted in his home by two men who claimed the kid had stolen the Dude’s car. One of the men even produced the kid’s homework, extracted from the seat of the stolen car, encased in a plastic baggie as if it was some sort of evidence bomb.
A question that runs throughout the book is why exactly some people like this movie so much. This is a good question, especially since on the surface the movie is little more than the story of a hapless unemployed hippie who only wants to replace a rug in his “home” that was, uh, pissed upon. Many theories are mentioned by people ranging from the actors themselves to celebrity fans of the movie. Some of the more interesting theories include:
The movie is very quotable, and it’s incredibly fun and obnoxious to annoy non-Achievers with these quotes. Personal recommendation: saying “I can get you a toe by three o’clock this afternoon,” as Walter says to the Dude, is the perfect way to end any awkward or unwanted conversation.
Through his unemployment, laziness, and pacifism, The Dude possesses a certain Zen understanding of the world that people in the real world envy.
It’s the perfect buddy movie. Maybe this explains why it seems that men are more inclined to like this movie than women.
The writing is funny, perceptive, and insightful. In addition, each scene in the movie has something memorable.
Plenty of people think the movie is stupid, ridiculous, and a waste of film, which makes its appeal that much greater for people who already like it.
The movie sports a great collection of characters, including a pornographer, several nihilists, a reactionary police chief, a giggling video artist, a female artist whose work “has been commended as being strongly vaginal,” a stonewalling teenage kid, a purple-jumpsuit-wearing-pederast bowler named Jesus, and an Uzi-toting Vietnam veteran who’s largely responsible for most of the Dude’s troubles throughout the movie, among others. For many people, this reminds them of their last family reunion.
Some people smoke the hippy lettuce and this is the perfect movie to accompany such an activity.
The cult of Lebowski doesn’t yet rival that of Star Wars or Star Trek; however, it’s far less nerdy and shouldn’t pose a major hindrance when trying to get laid. Even if we Achievers are walking a tightrope between eclectic taste and total, all-out dweebiness, it’s nice to finally have a book that documents what we’ve known for years.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Book Review: I Hate Myself and Want to Die: The 52 Most Depressing Songs You've Ever Heard, by Tom Reynolds
Your Thanksgiving was a disaster. Your wife warned you that her third cousin’s extended family “might” be coming to your home for Turkey Day dinner, but you never expected this to happen. Their trailer currently resides in your front yard, your house is being treated like a Red Roof Inn, mashed potatoes are somehow smeared on the walls, and the cousin’s teenage son is suggestively eying your dog with something that approximates lust.
You’re angry, frustrated, and a little depressed; to make things even worse, when you turn on the radio you are subjected to “Seasons in the Sun” and “I Will Always Love You.” According to Tom Reynolds, you’ve just heard 2 of the 52 most depressing songs ever written.
Reynolds’ hilarious I Hate Myself and Want to Die: The 52 Most Depressing Songs You’ve Ever Heard is the perfect way to kill whatever holiday cheer or faith in humanity’s collective taste in music you might still have left. Cynical, snarky, and sarcastic, Reynolds’ irreverent take on these songs and why they’re so depressing is the funniest critique of songs since Greil Marcus’ Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads (wait… he was being serious in that book)?
With chapter names like “I’m Trying to Be Profound and Touching, But Really Suck at It” and “If I Sing About Drugs, People Will Take Me Seriously,” Reynolds’ book cannot be accused of subtlety. Yet Reynolds’ writing style and approach rarely becomes grating or repetitive. Although he never says it directly, Reynolds’ humor takes as its starting point the fact that these songs are so depressing, first and foremost, because they’re so god-awful.
From there, Reynolds’ witty jabs take care of the rest, and no clichéd rock image is safe from Reynolds’ biting humor. Absurd lyrics are exposed (on Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen”: “I don’t know of a single seventeen-year-old girl who would tell off the homecoming queen by saying she has debentures of quality; she’d call her a stuck-up bitch and key her Honda”); musical genres are mocked (on Evanescence’s “My Immortal”: “a song that does for piano ballads what the Hindenburg did for zeppelin travel”); and the flaws of supposed untouchable songs get a swift finger to the eye (on Springsteen’s “The River”: “I’d rather drag my scalp over a cheese grater than listen to it again”).
I can only make a few complaints about this book. Although Reynolds’ song choices are hard to argue against – “Macarthur Park,” “Mandy,” and “Let Her Cry” are indeed both depressing and depressingly bad – it’s a bit presumptuous for the author to call these the most depressing songs ever. No such list is complete without at least one, two, or five choice cuts from Lou Reed’s Berlin, which in my opinion still remains the single most dreary, bleak, and utterly humorless album ever recorded (think I’ll go listen to it now). I’m sure other music sickos out there can find many other songs worthy of consideration in such a list.
The other complaints I have are minor. Sometimes Reynolds comes across as just another VH1 or E! talking head, and can be too witty for his own good. I’m not sure I’d want to sit next to him on the subway. In addition, some of his jokes are very stale and should be relegated to the dustbin of humor at this point (another joke about how Robert Smith from the Cure looks like Edward Scissorhands? A critique of how MTV used to play music videos? Really? Still?).Those shortcomings aside, I Hate Myself and Want to Die is damn funny. Fans of comedy books, cynicism, and good and/or lousy music will find something to like in it. And with enough songs about misery, woe, death, drugs, and suicide, and why they are so appallingly depressing, it’s the perfect holiday gift. Tis the season, after all.
You’re angry, frustrated, and a little depressed; to make things even worse, when you turn on the radio you are subjected to “Seasons in the Sun” and “I Will Always Love You.” According to Tom Reynolds, you’ve just heard 2 of the 52 most depressing songs ever written.
Reynolds’ hilarious I Hate Myself and Want to Die: The 52 Most Depressing Songs You’ve Ever Heard is the perfect way to kill whatever holiday cheer or faith in humanity’s collective taste in music you might still have left. Cynical, snarky, and sarcastic, Reynolds’ irreverent take on these songs and why they’re so depressing is the funniest critique of songs since Greil Marcus’ Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads (wait… he was being serious in that book)?
With chapter names like “I’m Trying to Be Profound and Touching, But Really Suck at It” and “If I Sing About Drugs, People Will Take Me Seriously,” Reynolds’ book cannot be accused of subtlety. Yet Reynolds’ writing style and approach rarely becomes grating or repetitive. Although he never says it directly, Reynolds’ humor takes as its starting point the fact that these songs are so depressing, first and foremost, because they’re so god-awful.
From there, Reynolds’ witty jabs take care of the rest, and no clichéd rock image is safe from Reynolds’ biting humor. Absurd lyrics are exposed (on Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen”: “I don’t know of a single seventeen-year-old girl who would tell off the homecoming queen by saying she has debentures of quality; she’d call her a stuck-up bitch and key her Honda”); musical genres are mocked (on Evanescence’s “My Immortal”: “a song that does for piano ballads what the Hindenburg did for zeppelin travel”); and the flaws of supposed untouchable songs get a swift finger to the eye (on Springsteen’s “The River”: “I’d rather drag my scalp over a cheese grater than listen to it again”).
I can only make a few complaints about this book. Although Reynolds’ song choices are hard to argue against – “Macarthur Park,” “Mandy,” and “Let Her Cry” are indeed both depressing and depressingly bad – it’s a bit presumptuous for the author to call these the most depressing songs ever. No such list is complete without at least one, two, or five choice cuts from Lou Reed’s Berlin, which in my opinion still remains the single most dreary, bleak, and utterly humorless album ever recorded (think I’ll go listen to it now). I’m sure other music sickos out there can find many other songs worthy of consideration in such a list.
The other complaints I have are minor. Sometimes Reynolds comes across as just another VH1 or E! talking head, and can be too witty for his own good. I’m not sure I’d want to sit next to him on the subway. In addition, some of his jokes are very stale and should be relegated to the dustbin of humor at this point (another joke about how Robert Smith from the Cure looks like Edward Scissorhands? A critique of how MTV used to play music videos? Really? Still?).Those shortcomings aside, I Hate Myself and Want to Die is damn funny. Fans of comedy books, cynicism, and good and/or lousy music will find something to like in it. And with enough songs about misery, woe, death, drugs, and suicide, and why they are so appallingly depressing, it’s the perfect holiday gift. Tis the season, after all.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Movie Review: P2
Sometimes theatrical trailers, word of mouth, and positive critical reviews cannot do a movie justice. Sometimes a movie is so powerful, inspiring, hilarious, or suspenseful that it must be seen in order to understand what all the rage is about. Such moments are what make the movie-going experience so memorable.
P2 is not such a movie. With a complete lack of humor or suspense, a laughably over-the-top villain, and a predictable ending, P2 is the worst pseudo-horror movie I’ve seen since the abysmal remake When a Stranger Calls. At least that movie featured one of the coolest movie names ever: Mandrakis. I lived off answering my phone by saying “Mandrakis residence” for weeks.
P2 stars Rachel Nichols as Angela, a hard-working gal who suffers work-related indignities in one of the upper floors of a typical New York skyscraper. On Christmas Eve, while her coworkers are wearing reindeer antlers and getting their drink on in the true holiday spirit, she’s stuck in her spacious office trying to resolve an obnoxious customer’s complaint. In between sputtering out Business Bullshit Bingo clichés and fending off unwanted drunken sexual advances from a male coworker, she’s desperately trying to make it to her parents’ home for a little Yuletide frivolity.
You see, Angela’s a good girl with good intentions, but gosh darn it, she’s always missing family commitments because of her demanding job. She’s also nice to her personal assistant, has no social life or boyfriend, and wears her hair in a tight bun, so we’re supposed to like her.
Things go from bad to worse for her when she finally leaves work and heads to (sinister music, please) parking garage level P2, where her car is parked. She turns the ignition, and in a revolutionary twist never before seen in the horror movie genre, her high-priced Germany luxury car won’t start. Eventually she wanders into to the security office, where she encounters Tom (played by Wes Bentley), the garage’s security attendant. He’s socially awkward, clearly sexually frustrated, wears a dweeby uniform, has a vicious pet dog named Rocky, and sports an outdated haircut, so clearly he’s up to no good. Of course, Angela misses all these clues.
After Tom unsuccessfully attempts to “help” Angela start her car (I am not speaking metaphorically here), she dejectedly calls a cab and waits in the office lobby for the cab to arrive. In another revolutionary twist never before seen in the horror movie genre, she finds that she cannot exit the building because the doors are locked. Despite her protestations, the poor cabbie drives off, and Angela finds herself again trapped in the parking garage on Christmas Eve.
From here, the garage’s lights go off and she’s quickly snatched by Tom, who takes her back to his office, complete with Rubik’s cube, tiny microwave, and Elvis Presley figurine (never a good sign in a movie), and chains her to a chair. When she finally wakes up (Tom drugged her, you see), Angela’s scantily clad in a slip and at the mercy of the security officer, who offers her food, wine, and a whole lot of awkward, thinly-veiled threatening questions. For his trouble, Tom gets a fork jammed in his back courtesy of the feisty Angela when she tries to escape. Ah yes, the seeds of true love always begin with a fork to the back.
Too many stereotypical horror movie staples to regurgitate here then ensue. Tom brutally murders the man who drunkenly accosted Angela in the elevator, in a scene with enough unnecessary gore to rival the Saw franchise. With a truly laughable catchphrase – “Thanks for ruining Christmas” – which Tom says to his various victims, Tom apparently has every psychosis in the book, and makes the villains from Dean Koontz’s absurd novels seem believable.
For added measure, Tom has random outbursts in which he screams violently and irrationally, with dialogue that sounds like a college freshman’s attempt at existentialist writing. And in one truly horrifying scene, Tom performs a karaoke version of Elvis Presley singing “Blue Sunday.” I am not making this up.
Eventually Angela escapes from the evil Tom’s nefarious clutches, pulls herself together, and manages to handcuff Tom to a crashed rental car (synopsis: game of chicken, Angela displays Girl Power, Tom the Super Villain gets cold feet and swerves, cars flip, Tom hobbles out of his car, Angela jams a shank into Tom’s eye). She’s about to walk out of the garage when Tom, because he’s such a bad guy, calls her a name that rhymes with “bunt.” And as the saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a woman called a name that rhymes with ‘bunt’.” Angela torches the car that Tom is cuffed to, and by extension, Tom. Massive explosion, Angela gimps outside into the snow of New York, cop cars and ambulances come speeding in her direction, end scene.
With needless gore, a truly absurd villain whose parents must have done a number on him, a complete lack of humor, and a paint-by-numbers plot, P2 will quickly be relegated to the dustbin of lousy, forgettable horror movies. Look for it on the USA channel in a few years.
But remember, if you find yourself lost in a parking garage late at night, be afraid. However, if you find yourself lost in a parking garage late at night and being pursued by folks with video cameras on Christmas Eve, be very, very afraid. It’s a sequel.
P2 is not such a movie. With a complete lack of humor or suspense, a laughably over-the-top villain, and a predictable ending, P2 is the worst pseudo-horror movie I’ve seen since the abysmal remake When a Stranger Calls. At least that movie featured one of the coolest movie names ever: Mandrakis. I lived off answering my phone by saying “Mandrakis residence” for weeks.
P2 stars Rachel Nichols as Angela, a hard-working gal who suffers work-related indignities in one of the upper floors of a typical New York skyscraper. On Christmas Eve, while her coworkers are wearing reindeer antlers and getting their drink on in the true holiday spirit, she’s stuck in her spacious office trying to resolve an obnoxious customer’s complaint. In between sputtering out Business Bullshit Bingo clichés and fending off unwanted drunken sexual advances from a male coworker, she’s desperately trying to make it to her parents’ home for a little Yuletide frivolity.
You see, Angela’s a good girl with good intentions, but gosh darn it, she’s always missing family commitments because of her demanding job. She’s also nice to her personal assistant, has no social life or boyfriend, and wears her hair in a tight bun, so we’re supposed to like her.
Things go from bad to worse for her when she finally leaves work and heads to (sinister music, please) parking garage level P2, where her car is parked. She turns the ignition, and in a revolutionary twist never before seen in the horror movie genre, her high-priced Germany luxury car won’t start. Eventually she wanders into to the security office, where she encounters Tom (played by Wes Bentley), the garage’s security attendant. He’s socially awkward, clearly sexually frustrated, wears a dweeby uniform, has a vicious pet dog named Rocky, and sports an outdated haircut, so clearly he’s up to no good. Of course, Angela misses all these clues.
After Tom unsuccessfully attempts to “help” Angela start her car (I am not speaking metaphorically here), she dejectedly calls a cab and waits in the office lobby for the cab to arrive. In another revolutionary twist never before seen in the horror movie genre, she finds that she cannot exit the building because the doors are locked. Despite her protestations, the poor cabbie drives off, and Angela finds herself again trapped in the parking garage on Christmas Eve.
From here, the garage’s lights go off and she’s quickly snatched by Tom, who takes her back to his office, complete with Rubik’s cube, tiny microwave, and Elvis Presley figurine (never a good sign in a movie), and chains her to a chair. When she finally wakes up (Tom drugged her, you see), Angela’s scantily clad in a slip and at the mercy of the security officer, who offers her food, wine, and a whole lot of awkward, thinly-veiled threatening questions. For his trouble, Tom gets a fork jammed in his back courtesy of the feisty Angela when she tries to escape. Ah yes, the seeds of true love always begin with a fork to the back.
Too many stereotypical horror movie staples to regurgitate here then ensue. Tom brutally murders the man who drunkenly accosted Angela in the elevator, in a scene with enough unnecessary gore to rival the Saw franchise. With a truly laughable catchphrase – “Thanks for ruining Christmas” – which Tom says to his various victims, Tom apparently has every psychosis in the book, and makes the villains from Dean Koontz’s absurd novels seem believable.
For added measure, Tom has random outbursts in which he screams violently and irrationally, with dialogue that sounds like a college freshman’s attempt at existentialist writing. And in one truly horrifying scene, Tom performs a karaoke version of Elvis Presley singing “Blue Sunday.” I am not making this up.
Eventually Angela escapes from the evil Tom’s nefarious clutches, pulls herself together, and manages to handcuff Tom to a crashed rental car (synopsis: game of chicken, Angela displays Girl Power, Tom the Super Villain gets cold feet and swerves, cars flip, Tom hobbles out of his car, Angela jams a shank into Tom’s eye). She’s about to walk out of the garage when Tom, because he’s such a bad guy, calls her a name that rhymes with “bunt.” And as the saying goes, “Hell hath no fury like a woman called a name that rhymes with ‘bunt’.” Angela torches the car that Tom is cuffed to, and by extension, Tom. Massive explosion, Angela gimps outside into the snow of New York, cop cars and ambulances come speeding in her direction, end scene.
With needless gore, a truly absurd villain whose parents must have done a number on him, a complete lack of humor, and a paint-by-numbers plot, P2 will quickly be relegated to the dustbin of lousy, forgettable horror movies. Look for it on the USA channel in a few years.
But remember, if you find yourself lost in a parking garage late at night, be afraid. However, if you find yourself lost in a parking garage late at night and being pursued by folks with video cameras on Christmas Eve, be very, very afraid. It’s a sequel.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Waving the Rebel (er, White) Flag: Making Peace With Lynyrd Skynyrd Fans
Hardcore music fans, me included, take insults against their favorite artists personally. To prepare my wife for the recent Elvis Costello show in St. Louis (with Bob Dylan providing a disturbing letdown via garbled mumblings and frog-voiced croaking), I dropped a number of Costello songs on her a few weeks before the show. I was convinced she’d be overwhelmed and completely dig the music. I was as wrong as a “kiss your sister” contest in Arcadia, Louisiana. Every Elvis may indeed have his army, but she clearly wasn’t one of the soldiers. “If you say these are his best songs,” she said with something I detected as a bit of a mocking sneer, “I can’t imagine what the bad ones sound like. All of these sound like carnival songs.”
I was crushed and insulted. Her dissenting opinion registered like a cruel, hard knee to the crotch. I had deliberately steered her away from the crap of Costello (“She,” “God Give Me Strength,” and anything that featured Costello’s occasional excessive vibrato and sissy wimpyness), in favor of classic Costello (no, that doesn’t include North). How she couldn’t like My Aim Is True, This Year’s Model, Armed Forces, and Get Happy!! was beyond me, and borderline grounds for divorce. I argued with her and tried to convince her she was missing The Point. But why did I care if she didn’t share my opinion? Although I couldn’t change her mind, it at least made me understand why some people take criticisms of their favorite performers to heart.
Within these HTML-enhanced pages of Blogcritics, I’ve dished out my share of shallow, petty, innocuous, childish, and fairly obvious insults about musicians, particularly those who have been around since the Hawley-Smoot Tariff was enacted.
These shots have generally been along the following lines: 1 – said musician is old; 2 – said musician is really, really old; 3 – said musician is really, really old and resembles a rotting corpse on stage; and 4 – said musician is really, really, really old, resembles a rotting corpse on stage, and is making a king’s ransom via exorbitant ticket prices.
When I started writing this blog, I expected most of the wounded, snotty, or violent email replies to be provided courtesy of the Dylanphiles of the world, who from previous experience tended to be extremely boorish and to interpret any critique of Heir Bobness as a declaration of war. Well, actually, I didn’t expect any replies at all; blogs are a lot like assholes these days. Everyone’s got one. And most of them stink.
To my surprise, most of these comments emailed under cover of night haven’t come from Dylanphiles. Perhaps that’s because the Dylanphiles don’t feel like they owe anyone a rebuttal at this point; they’ve chosen their horse and they’re betting on it until the, er, wheels fall off.
No, some of the most hilarious, angry, and downright snarky volleys have come from a surprising source: Lynyrd Skynyrd fans, with typical code names like suthernman, skynyrd-rulz-bitch, and bama-luves-the-guvner.
Now I will readily admit I thought all remaining Skynyrd fans were either incarcerated or in that great big trailer park in the sky. But, judging from the reactionary emails I’ve received in response to this posting, apparently I was wrong. Although this article was meant to be pure exaggeration and not taken seriously (not to mention the fact that it was a silly article and that I actually like some of Skynyrd’s honky music), something must have been lost in the translation.
So, motivated by own wounded feelings at my wife’s harsh dismissal of classic Costello and as a peace offering to those mullet-sporting, Wrangler-wearing, Southern Comfort-swilling Freebirds out there, I offer the following concessions:I don’t have any problem (excuse me, I ain’t got no) problem with Skynyrd as a band, even if I am a “Yankee blueblood bastard.”
Just to clarify: my ass and my face don’t serve the same purpose.
You’ve convinced me that “That Smell” is a landmark song. Please no more emails about how “even a jackass with a PC and sympathetic editors” can’t argue against the “bad assed awesomeness” of this song.
There was nothing redneck, gun-totin,’ or Suthern’-luvin’ about Skynyrd. We’ll just let album titles like Gimme Back My Bullets and Nuthin’ Fancy slide. I’ll even ignore song titles like “Don’t Ask Me No Questions” and “Down South Jukin’.”
If it makes you feel better to think that Skynyrd’s use of the Confederate flag was purely meant as a display of Southern pride, and in no way showed blind ignorance or unimaginable stupidity, I’ll play along.
The bravest man I’ve ever met was this guy who brazenly wore a shirt that read, in bold giant black letters across the chest, “Your Favorite Band Sucks.” Of course, this was at a Built To Spill concert with the typical indie crowd, which is to say anyone who took offense to the shirt would direct their anger inward, in the form of classic EMO shoe-gazing.
However, as I exited the venue I noticed a shady fellow in a torn Skynyrd t-shirt eyeing the guy like Robert E. Lee spying the Union army at Second Bull Run. And something told me he had a Free Bird-sized chip on his shoulder about that guy’s t-shirt.
I was crushed and insulted. Her dissenting opinion registered like a cruel, hard knee to the crotch. I had deliberately steered her away from the crap of Costello (“She,” “God Give Me Strength,” and anything that featured Costello’s occasional excessive vibrato and sissy wimpyness), in favor of classic Costello (no, that doesn’t include North). How she couldn’t like My Aim Is True, This Year’s Model, Armed Forces, and Get Happy!! was beyond me, and borderline grounds for divorce. I argued with her and tried to convince her she was missing The Point. But why did I care if she didn’t share my opinion? Although I couldn’t change her mind, it at least made me understand why some people take criticisms of their favorite performers to heart.
Within these HTML-enhanced pages of Blogcritics, I’ve dished out my share of shallow, petty, innocuous, childish, and fairly obvious insults about musicians, particularly those who have been around since the Hawley-Smoot Tariff was enacted.
These shots have generally been along the following lines: 1 – said musician is old; 2 – said musician is really, really old; 3 – said musician is really, really old and resembles a rotting corpse on stage; and 4 – said musician is really, really, really old, resembles a rotting corpse on stage, and is making a king’s ransom via exorbitant ticket prices.
When I started writing this blog, I expected most of the wounded, snotty, or violent email replies to be provided courtesy of the Dylanphiles of the world, who from previous experience tended to be extremely boorish and to interpret any critique of Heir Bobness as a declaration of war. Well, actually, I didn’t expect any replies at all; blogs are a lot like assholes these days. Everyone’s got one. And most of them stink.
To my surprise, most of these comments emailed under cover of night haven’t come from Dylanphiles. Perhaps that’s because the Dylanphiles don’t feel like they owe anyone a rebuttal at this point; they’ve chosen their horse and they’re betting on it until the, er, wheels fall off.
No, some of the most hilarious, angry, and downright snarky volleys have come from a surprising source: Lynyrd Skynyrd fans, with typical code names like suthernman, skynyrd-rulz-bitch, and bama-luves-the-guvner.
Now I will readily admit I thought all remaining Skynyrd fans were either incarcerated or in that great big trailer park in the sky. But, judging from the reactionary emails I’ve received in response to this posting, apparently I was wrong. Although this article was meant to be pure exaggeration and not taken seriously (not to mention the fact that it was a silly article and that I actually like some of Skynyrd’s honky music), something must have been lost in the translation.
So, motivated by own wounded feelings at my wife’s harsh dismissal of classic Costello and as a peace offering to those mullet-sporting, Wrangler-wearing, Southern Comfort-swilling Freebirds out there, I offer the following concessions:I don’t have any problem (excuse me, I ain’t got no) problem with Skynyrd as a band, even if I am a “Yankee blueblood bastard.”
Just to clarify: my ass and my face don’t serve the same purpose.
You’ve convinced me that “That Smell” is a landmark song. Please no more emails about how “even a jackass with a PC and sympathetic editors” can’t argue against the “bad assed awesomeness” of this song.
There was nothing redneck, gun-totin,’ or Suthern’-luvin’ about Skynyrd. We’ll just let album titles like Gimme Back My Bullets and Nuthin’ Fancy slide. I’ll even ignore song titles like “Don’t Ask Me No Questions” and “Down South Jukin’.”
If it makes you feel better to think that Skynyrd’s use of the Confederate flag was purely meant as a display of Southern pride, and in no way showed blind ignorance or unimaginable stupidity, I’ll play along.
The bravest man I’ve ever met was this guy who brazenly wore a shirt that read, in bold giant black letters across the chest, “Your Favorite Band Sucks.” Of course, this was at a Built To Spill concert with the typical indie crowd, which is to say anyone who took offense to the shirt would direct their anger inward, in the form of classic EMO shoe-gazing.
However, as I exited the venue I noticed a shady fellow in a torn Skynyrd t-shirt eyeing the guy like Robert E. Lee spying the Union army at Second Bull Run. And something told me he had a Free Bird-sized chip on his shoulder about that guy’s t-shirt.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The Concertgoer's Guide to Appropriate Behavior
The timid finger gently taps the back of the dancing concertgoer, currently engaged in a grotesque pelvic thrust that is part macarena, part electric slide, and all horror.
The concertgoer spins around as if shook from a dream, to hear a kind request to sit down so that the face of the timid finger can see the performer on the stage. The dancer answers by gruffly threatening future physical abnormalities and by telling the person to do something to herself that is physically impossible.
The dancer spins back around and continues his boogie-woogie-woogie. The woman sits in her seat dejectedly. Her seat happens to be a wheelchair.
This, of course, makes the dancing man the world’s biggest asshole.
I witnessed this at the recent Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan October 2007 show in St. Louis.
Only the intervention of a security guard convinced the dancer to at least move to the aisle, so that he could continue his gyrations without blocking the woman’s view. It also led to me to ponder the question of what qualifies as appropriate behavior for a music concert, since I have seen too many cases where norms of human decency have been scuttled in favor of behavior that would rival that of our knuckle-dragging ancestors.
The fact that this type of thuggish behavior has mostly happened at concerts by “established” acts (Dylan, Costello, R.E.M), and not at shows by less-known indie acts (The National, Silver Jews) is a topic probably best left for another day.
What follows is my humble attempt to create a modern day Hammurabi Code for Concertgoers. Minus the punishment by dismemberment and disembowelment.
Reserved Seating
You’ve just thrown down hundreds of dollars and donated several pints of blood in order to afford a couple Neil Young tickets, yet you aren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting at the top of the mountain:
Your reserved seat number is not a suggestion or a general approximation of where to sit. If your ticket says Nosebleed Balcony Seat 236, your posterior should be drawn like a magnet to the confines of that seat’s dimensions.
If you are occupying someone else’s seat and you get called out on it, don’t feign surprise and act like you were unaware you parked it in the wrong spot. Your hangdog expression and slow ascent into the wilds of less cozy environs within the venue gives you away every time.
People occasionally leave their seats to get a drink or buy $50 tour sweatshirts. When they come back to their seat, you shouldn’t be sitting there like a rock-n-roll Goldilocks.
General Admission
General admission is always a dicey proposition. You have a great chance to get in the pit and get close to the musician you’ve been stalking for years. Yet as your fellow concertgoers jockey for prime real estate before the show begins, violent elbows to your spleen are a real concern. Here’s how to handle this situation:
If you are a male under 5’9’’, forget about it. You will be muscled out of your spot in the pit; it is a Darwinian certainty.
Sitting on the floor of the pit until the show begins is not a good strategy. Some concertgoers equate sitting heads with steps. And like a turtle hiding inside its shell, eventually you must come out. When you do, that winged predator with sharp teeth you were hiding from will still be there.
Tables with either chairs or stools at a general admission show are the equivalent of water from a cactus for a man starving in the desert. Do not hesitate, do not look around for a better spot, and do not be fooled by the mirage of a near-empty orchestra pit. Grab the table and bunker down. Do not leave it unguarded under any circumstances.
Bodies in Motion (Dancing and Standing vs. Sitting)
You’ve impressed your date with third-row center seats, but she’s not yet aware of your Travolta-like tendency to treat the venue as part of your personal discotheque. What’s a guy to do?
Consider the performer:
If you are seeing Johnny’s Disco Explosion, go gonzo. There are no laws, rules, or regulation. It’s Thunderdome.
If you are seeing Johnny Q. Folkie, part your butt in your seat, hold hands with your neighbors, and join in when he sings “We Shall Overcome.”
If you are seeing something in between, commit hard in one direction. Either remain rigidly seated even though the other 19,999 people in the arena are shake-shake-shaking all over like frustrated wannabe go-go dancers, or, while everyone else is moping and staring at their shoes, perform your own rhythmic gyrations from the time the show starts until the performer walks off stage. Or until security throws you out. Whichever comes first.
Those around you should not need to drive a flag into the ground to claim their space as part of their familial birthright. Likewise, your raised arms, flailing legs, and shaking ass should not intrude upon any concertgoer with whom you are not intimately familiar.
Nicotine Consumption and Beyond
Your reformed smoker friends constantly tell you to drop the habit. Yet you cannot get the full concert experience without a few puff-puffs. Although your lungs are crying on the inside of you, you need a few lung darts to have a truly enjoyable time. With public smokers becoming pariahs, what’s a dedicated Marlboro man to do?
If it’s a smoking venue, puff away until you can’t puff any more. For extra spite, blow your smoke in the direction of the 6’3’’ jerk that muscled you out off your spot near the pit’s railing (see above).
If it’s a non-smoking venue, you will likely be relegated to an inconspicuous, dimly-lit, and borderline-dangerous alley near a side door to the venue. As you shorten your lifespan along with your fellow cigarette cronies, take this opportunity to remember the old days when non-smokers didn’t complain about minor things like secondhand smoke, their personal comfort, or their desire to not smell like Joe Camel.
A popular alternative to smoking in the great wide open at non-smoking venues is the classic play of smoking in the bathroom. Not only does this say that you won’t be relegated to an alley, it also shows that you are a true worshipper at the altar of God Nicotine. A word of warning though: this approach is the equivalent of running the gauntlet .Those pesky male pissers tend to be uncompromising with anything that keeps them from reaching the porcelain goddess, especially in dire situations.
If your chemical proclivities extend to, technically speaking, illegal substances, follow these simple guidelines to maximize your illicit enjoyment and to avoid an awkward 2 am call to your parents from a holding cell:
You are not hanging out in your basement room with your friends Slappy and Jimmy C-Nuts after your parents have gone to sleep. Be discreet about it.
If you are holding and Security approaches you, do not panic and throw your stash in the lap of the stranger sitting next to you.
Liquid Consumption
You’re a hard-working white collar dude, but sometimes you want to cut loose with half a dozen strawberry-almond flavored microbrews, to show your fellow concertgoers that you’re not a total suit. Before you or your significant other get blitzed at the Police reunion show on drinks that all end in “tini” and drunkenly croak out “Roxanne” in your own key, observe these rules:
Remember that beautiful duet of “I Shall Be Released” that Dylan and Costello sang at Tramps in 1999? How you couldn’t believe your luck to be in the front row to witness such a moment? How the crowd was pin-drop silent and just knew they were witnessing something amazing that would defy later description? No? Then you drank too much.
Remember hitting on the blonde bartender, challenging the bouncer to a mixed martial arts fight, and screaming hysterically for Kelly Clarkson to sing “that one song from the radio?” Yes? Then you didn’t drink enough.
Performances come and go, bands come and go, but the memory of an unplanned concert vomit on someone’s Chuck Taylors lasts forever.
Waiting in Line
You’ve got general admission tickets to see your favorite musician for the 47th time tonight. To ensure you get close enough to him to see the wrinkles in his catcher’s mitt-like face, you’ve lined up outside the venue six hours before the doors open. You’ve got no one for company except the voices in your own head. You’ve got some time on your hands, so remember these rules:
Eventually people will line up behind you. Do not snarl, bark, or constantly look over your shoulder in paranoia at them. They mean you no harm. Besides, they are piss-fear afraid of you.
Sometimes people will need to walk past you. They are not trying to steal your spot. Some of them aren’t even going to the show. There is no need to eye f-blankety-blankety-blank them.
Sometimes security moves the line to a new starting point, for no reason other than their sadistic pleasure. Shake your fist at the sky, blame cruel fate, whatever gets you through, but the bottom line is that you’d better run like hell. Your previous position as king has been suddenly usurped.
Talking During Shows/Other Random Noises
For some reason, we Americans love to spend large sums of money on concerts and then talk through the buggers. You’ve done this in the past but want to repent; you still have a sneaking suspicion that your constant gum-bumping precipitated the riot at the Guns-N-Roses concert in St. Louis years ago. Follow these simple rules and you shall be granted forgiveness:
If someone smaller than you tells you to quit talking, ignore him. If someone bigger than you tell you to quit talking, listen to him.
Opening acts are people too. Give them a chance before continuing your conversation about how opening acts aren’t people and almost always stink.
Your brand new, super-shiny Motorola V-1,000,000,000 is pretty cool. It’s Web-enabled, is smaller than your pinky finger, washes your car, feeds your children, and when you’re feeling frisky, its vibrate function packs a decent punch. But no one wants to hear your Bette Midler ringtone as Springsteen and Max Weinberg’s Semi-Retired Superstars play “Rosalita” for the 700th time.
Remember that shows are taped with increasing frequency nowadays. Unless you want your conversation about your asshole boss recorded for posterity, keep your voice down.
You’ve followed Dylan across the country since 1963, screaming at every show for him to play “Let Me Die In My Footsteps.” Give it up. It’s not gonna happen.
Behavior in Outdoor Venues
These shows aren’t for the uninitiated. And if you have a heart condition, be warned. Like scaling Mount Everest, surviving outdoor concerts and festivals requires a certain kind of mental fortitude, along with a blatant disregard for sanity, hygiene, flushable toilets, and other key pieces needed for human life to flourish. So before brazenly heading off to that White Snake/Poison double bill under the stars, observe the following:
Urinating in a port-a-potty is gross. Urinating on the lawn where people sit is grosser. Use the port-a-potty.
Not everyone shares your affinity for mud. The mud people are not hard to find. Find them and fling away.
That early 20s-something girl who sported four-inch bangs and flashed Bret Michaels at the Poison concert in 1987 still lives inside you. Please warn everyone around you before your now-undersized shirt is tossed into the ether.
It’s July in Chicago. It’s Hades hot. You’re hungry and tired. The “chill tent” looks like a sick room. You’re surrounded by thousands of people who all resemble Will Oldham and smell like an unholy mixture of sunscreen, weed, and corn dogs. This is the true festival experience. Enjoy it.
Common human decency should dictate how to behave at a concert. And everyone should drive the speed limit. When that decency deteriorates into a mixture of chaos, anarchy, and baby boomers breaking out “Heart of Gold” in a drunken frenzy, the guidelines above could help out in a pinch.
Then again, the 300-pound guy in the Metallica Kill ‘Em All shirt who’s now sitting in your seat hasn’t ever really cared much for rules.
The concertgoer spins around as if shook from a dream, to hear a kind request to sit down so that the face of the timid finger can see the performer on the stage. The dancer answers by gruffly threatening future physical abnormalities and by telling the person to do something to herself that is physically impossible.
The dancer spins back around and continues his boogie-woogie-woogie. The woman sits in her seat dejectedly. Her seat happens to be a wheelchair.
This, of course, makes the dancing man the world’s biggest asshole.
I witnessed this at the recent Elvis Costello/Bob Dylan October 2007 show in St. Louis.
Only the intervention of a security guard convinced the dancer to at least move to the aisle, so that he could continue his gyrations without blocking the woman’s view. It also led to me to ponder the question of what qualifies as appropriate behavior for a music concert, since I have seen too many cases where norms of human decency have been scuttled in favor of behavior that would rival that of our knuckle-dragging ancestors.
The fact that this type of thuggish behavior has mostly happened at concerts by “established” acts (Dylan, Costello, R.E.M), and not at shows by less-known indie acts (The National, Silver Jews) is a topic probably best left for another day.
What follows is my humble attempt to create a modern day Hammurabi Code for Concertgoers. Minus the punishment by dismemberment and disembowelment.
Reserved Seating
You’ve just thrown down hundreds of dollars and donated several pints of blood in order to afford a couple Neil Young tickets, yet you aren’t exactly thrilled to be sitting at the top of the mountain:
Your reserved seat number is not a suggestion or a general approximation of where to sit. If your ticket says Nosebleed Balcony Seat 236, your posterior should be drawn like a magnet to the confines of that seat’s dimensions.
If you are occupying someone else’s seat and you get called out on it, don’t feign surprise and act like you were unaware you parked it in the wrong spot. Your hangdog expression and slow ascent into the wilds of less cozy environs within the venue gives you away every time.
People occasionally leave their seats to get a drink or buy $50 tour sweatshirts. When they come back to their seat, you shouldn’t be sitting there like a rock-n-roll Goldilocks.
General Admission
General admission is always a dicey proposition. You have a great chance to get in the pit and get close to the musician you’ve been stalking for years. Yet as your fellow concertgoers jockey for prime real estate before the show begins, violent elbows to your spleen are a real concern. Here’s how to handle this situation:
If you are a male under 5’9’’, forget about it. You will be muscled out of your spot in the pit; it is a Darwinian certainty.
Sitting on the floor of the pit until the show begins is not a good strategy. Some concertgoers equate sitting heads with steps. And like a turtle hiding inside its shell, eventually you must come out. When you do, that winged predator with sharp teeth you were hiding from will still be there.
Tables with either chairs or stools at a general admission show are the equivalent of water from a cactus for a man starving in the desert. Do not hesitate, do not look around for a better spot, and do not be fooled by the mirage of a near-empty orchestra pit. Grab the table and bunker down. Do not leave it unguarded under any circumstances.
Bodies in Motion (Dancing and Standing vs. Sitting)
You’ve impressed your date with third-row center seats, but she’s not yet aware of your Travolta-like tendency to treat the venue as part of your personal discotheque. What’s a guy to do?
Consider the performer:
If you are seeing Johnny’s Disco Explosion, go gonzo. There are no laws, rules, or regulation. It’s Thunderdome.
If you are seeing Johnny Q. Folkie, part your butt in your seat, hold hands with your neighbors, and join in when he sings “We Shall Overcome.”
If you are seeing something in between, commit hard in one direction. Either remain rigidly seated even though the other 19,999 people in the arena are shake-shake-shaking all over like frustrated wannabe go-go dancers, or, while everyone else is moping and staring at their shoes, perform your own rhythmic gyrations from the time the show starts until the performer walks off stage. Or until security throws you out. Whichever comes first.
Those around you should not need to drive a flag into the ground to claim their space as part of their familial birthright. Likewise, your raised arms, flailing legs, and shaking ass should not intrude upon any concertgoer with whom you are not intimately familiar.
Nicotine Consumption and Beyond
Your reformed smoker friends constantly tell you to drop the habit. Yet you cannot get the full concert experience without a few puff-puffs. Although your lungs are crying on the inside of you, you need a few lung darts to have a truly enjoyable time. With public smokers becoming pariahs, what’s a dedicated Marlboro man to do?
If it’s a smoking venue, puff away until you can’t puff any more. For extra spite, blow your smoke in the direction of the 6’3’’ jerk that muscled you out off your spot near the pit’s railing (see above).
If it’s a non-smoking venue, you will likely be relegated to an inconspicuous, dimly-lit, and borderline-dangerous alley near a side door to the venue. As you shorten your lifespan along with your fellow cigarette cronies, take this opportunity to remember the old days when non-smokers didn’t complain about minor things like secondhand smoke, their personal comfort, or their desire to not smell like Joe Camel.
A popular alternative to smoking in the great wide open at non-smoking venues is the classic play of smoking in the bathroom. Not only does this say that you won’t be relegated to an alley, it also shows that you are a true worshipper at the altar of God Nicotine. A word of warning though: this approach is the equivalent of running the gauntlet .Those pesky male pissers tend to be uncompromising with anything that keeps them from reaching the porcelain goddess, especially in dire situations.
If your chemical proclivities extend to, technically speaking, illegal substances, follow these simple guidelines to maximize your illicit enjoyment and to avoid an awkward 2 am call to your parents from a holding cell:
You are not hanging out in your basement room with your friends Slappy and Jimmy C-Nuts after your parents have gone to sleep. Be discreet about it.
If you are holding and Security approaches you, do not panic and throw your stash in the lap of the stranger sitting next to you.
Liquid Consumption
You’re a hard-working white collar dude, but sometimes you want to cut loose with half a dozen strawberry-almond flavored microbrews, to show your fellow concertgoers that you’re not a total suit. Before you or your significant other get blitzed at the Police reunion show on drinks that all end in “tini” and drunkenly croak out “Roxanne” in your own key, observe these rules:
Remember that beautiful duet of “I Shall Be Released” that Dylan and Costello sang at Tramps in 1999? How you couldn’t believe your luck to be in the front row to witness such a moment? How the crowd was pin-drop silent and just knew they were witnessing something amazing that would defy later description? No? Then you drank too much.
Remember hitting on the blonde bartender, challenging the bouncer to a mixed martial arts fight, and screaming hysterically for Kelly Clarkson to sing “that one song from the radio?” Yes? Then you didn’t drink enough.
Performances come and go, bands come and go, but the memory of an unplanned concert vomit on someone’s Chuck Taylors lasts forever.
Waiting in Line
You’ve got general admission tickets to see your favorite musician for the 47th time tonight. To ensure you get close enough to him to see the wrinkles in his catcher’s mitt-like face, you’ve lined up outside the venue six hours before the doors open. You’ve got no one for company except the voices in your own head. You’ve got some time on your hands, so remember these rules:
Eventually people will line up behind you. Do not snarl, bark, or constantly look over your shoulder in paranoia at them. They mean you no harm. Besides, they are piss-fear afraid of you.
Sometimes people will need to walk past you. They are not trying to steal your spot. Some of them aren’t even going to the show. There is no need to eye f-blankety-blankety-blank them.
Sometimes security moves the line to a new starting point, for no reason other than their sadistic pleasure. Shake your fist at the sky, blame cruel fate, whatever gets you through, but the bottom line is that you’d better run like hell. Your previous position as king has been suddenly usurped.
Talking During Shows/Other Random Noises
For some reason, we Americans love to spend large sums of money on concerts and then talk through the buggers. You’ve done this in the past but want to repent; you still have a sneaking suspicion that your constant gum-bumping precipitated the riot at the Guns-N-Roses concert in St. Louis years ago. Follow these simple rules and you shall be granted forgiveness:
If someone smaller than you tells you to quit talking, ignore him. If someone bigger than you tell you to quit talking, listen to him.
Opening acts are people too. Give them a chance before continuing your conversation about how opening acts aren’t people and almost always stink.
Your brand new, super-shiny Motorola V-1,000,000,000 is pretty cool. It’s Web-enabled, is smaller than your pinky finger, washes your car, feeds your children, and when you’re feeling frisky, its vibrate function packs a decent punch. But no one wants to hear your Bette Midler ringtone as Springsteen and Max Weinberg’s Semi-Retired Superstars play “Rosalita” for the 700th time.
Remember that shows are taped with increasing frequency nowadays. Unless you want your conversation about your asshole boss recorded for posterity, keep your voice down.
You’ve followed Dylan across the country since 1963, screaming at every show for him to play “Let Me Die In My Footsteps.” Give it up. It’s not gonna happen.
Behavior in Outdoor Venues
These shows aren’t for the uninitiated. And if you have a heart condition, be warned. Like scaling Mount Everest, surviving outdoor concerts and festivals requires a certain kind of mental fortitude, along with a blatant disregard for sanity, hygiene, flushable toilets, and other key pieces needed for human life to flourish. So before brazenly heading off to that White Snake/Poison double bill under the stars, observe the following:
Urinating in a port-a-potty is gross. Urinating on the lawn where people sit is grosser. Use the port-a-potty.
Not everyone shares your affinity for mud. The mud people are not hard to find. Find them and fling away.
That early 20s-something girl who sported four-inch bangs and flashed Bret Michaels at the Poison concert in 1987 still lives inside you. Please warn everyone around you before your now-undersized shirt is tossed into the ether.
It’s July in Chicago. It’s Hades hot. You’re hungry and tired. The “chill tent” looks like a sick room. You’re surrounded by thousands of people who all resemble Will Oldham and smell like an unholy mixture of sunscreen, weed, and corn dogs. This is the true festival experience. Enjoy it.
Common human decency should dictate how to behave at a concert. And everyone should drive the speed limit. When that decency deteriorates into a mixture of chaos, anarchy, and baby boomers breaking out “Heart of Gold” in a drunken frenzy, the guidelines above could help out in a pinch.
Then again, the 300-pound guy in the Metallica Kill ‘Em All shirt who’s now sitting in your seat hasn’t ever really cared much for rules.
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