Yeah Yeah Yeahs, It's Blitz
I had feared Yeah Yeah Yeahs were a one-trick pony even before their first album came out. Thankfully they've proven me wrong, though they haven't exactly developed into innovators either. That first album, Fever To Tell, was thrilling in the face of great expectations, and it's a thrill the band haven't quite been able to match in the time since.
It would be tempting to trot out that old cliche, the "mature album," when discussing It's Blitz, except that it was already trotted out a few years for Show Your Bones. Perhaps the more appropriate (and even more dreaded) cliche is the "reinvention album," though that of course doesn't tell the whole story. The story it does tell is about the perils of being a succesful indie rock band in this day and age.
Typically when a band goes into reinvention mode, they downplay their main strength in order to show versatility, almost as an act of defiance. On It's Blitz Nick Zinner's guitar is largely absent, replaced by icy synths and gurgling loops. When the guitar is most prominent, it's usually just chugging along with some power chords. It's a shame, in one sense, because Zinner has shown himself to be one of the most creative guitarists around, but the approach also has its merits, as some tunes do manage to squeeze a higher impact out of their guitar riffs, at least once they finally poke their way through the keyboard washes. Outside of the occasional big riff though, Zinner seems more interested in chiming, Edge-style atmospherics when his guitar does take center stage.
That's not the only strange (and alarming) echo of U2 on the album. The windy ballad Skeletons (bafflingly placed fourth in the running order - but more on sequencing later) has a vaguely Celtic melodic backbone and the kind of dramatic bombast present on latter-day U2 records. Now "bombast" is not necessarily a pejorative. Yeah Yeah Yeahs at their best have a bombastic approach, but it's a scruffy, slightly wild kind of bombast. And as U2/Coldplay/et al. have shown, bombast coupled with melodramatic pathos leads right to MOR piffle. It's a line Yeah Yeah Yeahs flirt dangerously with on a few It's Blitz tracks, fortunately without ever fully crossing over.
The counterintuitive sequencing of the album certainly puts more of the focus on the slow jams. Openers Zero and Heads Will Roll are more or less the same song tackled from different angles, and then comes Soft Shock and the aforementioned Skeletons, which test the patience as number three and four tracks. Not to pick on Skeletons too much, because it's really not bad or anything, but it just has such a last-song-on-an-album feel (and, at over 5 minutes, lenght), it's hard not to get lulled into thinking It's Blitz is coming to a close at track four.
Thankfully things pick up immediately with Dull Life and Shame and Fortune, the album's two best songs placed back to back. And for all my harping on Skeletons, without it I doubt that Dull Life would have the electric shock impact.
The most interesting song is Dragon Queen, which has the same 21st century space-disco vibe as Jimmy from MIA's Kala. If there weren't so many ballads, this song would qualify as the most outside-the-box for Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and it's a much more interesting potential direction for the band to take. Also, Dragon Queen is a pretty great catch-phrase to describe Karen O's onstage persona.
If this all seems too focused on the negative, it's just because the biggest stumbling blocks on the album are the most self-consciously "different," while the highlights are mining safe territory, albeit with bracing effect. But that brings up the Catch-22 for modern bands: stick to your strengths and you'll be chastised for playing it safe, but try to branch out and you'll be criticized for abandoning your strengths. That attitude, perpetuated most egregiously by Pitchfork, ironically only serves to further homogenize the musical landscape, because people are afraid to take risks with their careers, lest they be pilloried for it and lose the chance of having careers at all. A site like Pitchfork is so consumed with annointing instant classics that they've forgotten that musical creation requires trial and error, fits and starts, and sometimes that means falling flat on your face before breaking new ground.
A great example, and quite relevant to Yeah Yeah Yeahs, would be Liars, who made a universally-acclaimed first album, followed it up with a Pitchfork-slandered (and therefore universally-slandered) second album, but one that turned out to be a mere stepping stone en route to the fantastic heights they reached with their third and fourth albums.
With the way things are going, it's unclear how many bands are going to be able to weather that kind of storm. Yeah Yeah Yeahs certainly deserve the chance.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
On Michel Houllebecq
Every time I re-read Houllebecq I'm struck by something different. Of course the underlying themes of dissipation, sexual malaise and millenial exhaustion are still there, but I notice different things about the execution of these themes.
Upon re-reading The Elementary Particles recently I was surprised at how lyrical it is in places. There seems to be a general critical notion that Houllebecq isn't much of a writer, more of an "ideas man," (to borrow a phrase from Platform), but check out this passage:
There's something very special about this country. Everything seems constantly trembling; the grass in the fields or the water on the lake, everything signals its presence. The light is soft, shifting, like a mutable substance. You'll see. The sky itself is alive. (The Elementary Particles)
There's even a kind of eloquence to the descriptions of drab consumerism in Platform:
My backpack was cutting into my shoulders; it was a Lowe Pro Himalaya Trekking, the most expensive one I could find at Vieux Campeur, and it was guaranteed for life. It was an impressive object, steel gray with snap clasps, special Velcro fastenings - the company had a patent pending - and zippers that would work at temperatures of -65 Celsius. (Platform)
These examples belie the myth that all Houllebecq's novels are the same. Read back-to-back, (which is admittedly a near-dangerous intake of misanthropy), The Elementary Particles and Platform plainly attack the same problem - sexual entropy - from completely different standpoints. The former carefully locates its protagonist outside of mainstream society (ie. in the field of theoretical molecular biology), while the later places him resolutely in the center of the mainstream (a white collar worker whose life centers around the office and the supermarket). In the Isaiah Berlin formulation, Houllebecq is a hedgehog, rather than a fox - he does onen thing very well. I've always felt a bizarre affinity between Houllebecq and Haruki Murakami in this regard, though their approaches couldn't be more divergent.
By the way have you heard that Iggy Pop's next album is inspired by Houllebecq's The Possibility of an Island? Strange, but true.
Upon re-reading The Elementary Particles recently I was surprised at how lyrical it is in places. There seems to be a general critical notion that Houllebecq isn't much of a writer, more of an "ideas man," (to borrow a phrase from Platform), but check out this passage:
There's something very special about this country. Everything seems constantly trembling; the grass in the fields or the water on the lake, everything signals its presence. The light is soft, shifting, like a mutable substance. You'll see. The sky itself is alive. (The Elementary Particles)
There's even a kind of eloquence to the descriptions of drab consumerism in Platform:
My backpack was cutting into my shoulders; it was a Lowe Pro Himalaya Trekking, the most expensive one I could find at Vieux Campeur, and it was guaranteed for life. It was an impressive object, steel gray with snap clasps, special Velcro fastenings - the company had a patent pending - and zippers that would work at temperatures of -65 Celsius. (Platform)
These examples belie the myth that all Houllebecq's novels are the same. Read back-to-back, (which is admittedly a near-dangerous intake of misanthropy), The Elementary Particles and Platform plainly attack the same problem - sexual entropy - from completely different standpoints. The former carefully locates its protagonist outside of mainstream society (ie. in the field of theoretical molecular biology), while the later places him resolutely in the center of the mainstream (a white collar worker whose life centers around the office and the supermarket). In the Isaiah Berlin formulation, Houllebecq is a hedgehog, rather than a fox - he does onen thing very well. I've always felt a bizarre affinity between Houllebecq and Haruki Murakami in this regard, though their approaches couldn't be more divergent.
By the way have you heard that Iggy Pop's next album is inspired by Houllebecq's The Possibility of an Island? Strange, but true.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Conficker
A couple of interesting articles on the Conficker virus here and here.
Basically they've discovered that this particular computer worm, which is creating a linked network of infected hard drives a few million strong, is set to enact something on April 1. What that something is is anyone's guess. People are positing it as an April Fool's joke in the most benign sense, and a concerted assault on the world's computer networks in the most nefarious.
Most likely it is some sort of massive phishing scheme designed to steal loads of money, and that to me would be very disappointing.
The idea of a massive computer hack as some sort of anarchist statement has appeal to me. Whoever programmed Conficker is obviously a genius, and at the absolute cutting edge (I'd even say avant garde) of computer science, fooling MIT, Interpol, the FBI and updating and modifying the virus with rapid frequency so as to avoid detection and prevention. If it all turned out to be a money grab, well, what a waste.
The outlaw is always appealing, and my chaos fantasy is of a tech-crime so prevalent (and non-violent) it shakes the foundations of our slavish dependency on computers. Sort of like a cybernetic Situationist prank.
In all likelihood it will be a techie smash n' grab by some Baltic savants who are apprehended when they try to flush their bank accounts.
Lame.
Basically they've discovered that this particular computer worm, which is creating a linked network of infected hard drives a few million strong, is set to enact something on April 1. What that something is is anyone's guess. People are positing it as an April Fool's joke in the most benign sense, and a concerted assault on the world's computer networks in the most nefarious.
Most likely it is some sort of massive phishing scheme designed to steal loads of money, and that to me would be very disappointing.
The idea of a massive computer hack as some sort of anarchist statement has appeal to me. Whoever programmed Conficker is obviously a genius, and at the absolute cutting edge (I'd even say avant garde) of computer science, fooling MIT, Interpol, the FBI and updating and modifying the virus with rapid frequency so as to avoid detection and prevention. If it all turned out to be a money grab, well, what a waste.
The outlaw is always appealing, and my chaos fantasy is of a tech-crime so prevalent (and non-violent) it shakes the foundations of our slavish dependency on computers. Sort of like a cybernetic Situationist prank.
In all likelihood it will be a techie smash n' grab by some Baltic savants who are apprehended when they try to flush their bank accounts.
Lame.
Monday, March 16, 2009
From a Speech By Haruki Murakami
The author was accepting a literary award in Jerusalem. Full text here.
* * *
Please do allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is "the System." The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others -- coldly, efficiently, systematically.
The Always Trenchant Glen Greenwald
Lighting it up at Salon.com.
This particular article calls the complacent American press corps to task, but I highly recommend reading Greenwald on a regular basis.
This particular article calls the complacent American press corps to task, but I highly recommend reading Greenwald on a regular basis.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Other Side Reacts
It's articles like this that show who The New York Times really caters to.
I mean, my God, how dare Jon Stewart call out Jim Cramer for being a clueless blowhard? Hasn't the man suffered enough??
Laughable.
I mean, my God, how dare Jon Stewart call out Jim Cramer for being a clueless blowhard? Hasn't the man suffered enough??
Laughable.
The Case Against U2
I own a number of U2 records. There have been periods where I've been slightly obsessed with War. They've written a bunch of classic songs. But if you stop and look at this band objectively, they are absolutely ridiculous.
A few points:
U2 have been around for 30 years. These men are pushing fifty, but Bono and The Edge have not relinquished their awful nicknames and decided to simply go by Paul and David, respectively. U2 are the middle-aged uncles of rock and roll.
Despite being white, Christian and affluent, U2 insist on acting as the moral conscience of pop music, including hobnobbing with such slags as the Pope, Tony Blair and Mother Theresa. U2 are the White Man's Burden of rock and roll.
Despite the economic implosion of the Western world and the tanking record industry, the new U2 album is available in no less than 5 formats, with booklets ranging from 16 to 64 pages (and that one's hardcover), proving that, if nothing else, U2 are well aware of their target market, namely idiots, banker, lawyers and accountants. U2 are the Banana Republic of rock and roll.
Perhaps these points would be moot if U2 still made good music. But they do not. I recently caught some of the band's week-long stint on David Letterman. Their new stuff is, in a word, lame. Bono's embarrassing preening didn't help. He even name-checked Joey Ramone at one point, for no particular reason, though it was an illustrative moment - even when shamelessly trying to be cool U2 are still horribly outdated. Also, I'm pretty sure the "live" performances were just Bono singing over backing tracks while the band mimed playing. Not that it matters.
Maybe I'm being needlessly cruel, but I don't see how anyone benefits from U2's continuing presence. It's time they were put out to pasture, or better yet, taken to the glue factory.
A few points:
U2 have been around for 30 years. These men are pushing fifty, but Bono and The Edge have not relinquished their awful nicknames and decided to simply go by Paul and David, respectively. U2 are the middle-aged uncles of rock and roll.
Despite being white, Christian and affluent, U2 insist on acting as the moral conscience of pop music, including hobnobbing with such slags as the Pope, Tony Blair and Mother Theresa. U2 are the White Man's Burden of rock and roll.
Despite the economic implosion of the Western world and the tanking record industry, the new U2 album is available in no less than 5 formats, with booklets ranging from 16 to 64 pages (and that one's hardcover), proving that, if nothing else, U2 are well aware of their target market, namely idiots, banker, lawyers and accountants. U2 are the Banana Republic of rock and roll.
Perhaps these points would be moot if U2 still made good music. But they do not. I recently caught some of the band's week-long stint on David Letterman. Their new stuff is, in a word, lame. Bono's embarrassing preening didn't help. He even name-checked Joey Ramone at one point, for no particular reason, though it was an illustrative moment - even when shamelessly trying to be cool U2 are still horribly outdated. Also, I'm pretty sure the "live" performances were just Bono singing over backing tracks while the band mimed playing. Not that it matters.
Maybe I'm being needlessly cruel, but I don't see how anyone benefits from U2's continuing presence. It's time they were put out to pasture, or better yet, taken to the glue factory.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
A Very Interesting Read
Fidel Castro blogs. Imagine that.
Yesterday I stumbled across Escambray, the digital version of the Cuban state newspaper. Fidel has a recurring column. Yesterday he wrote about the World Baseball Classic. I scanned through a bunch of his other posts and they're really quite interesting, well-reasoned and erudite.
Here's one about President Obama. It's a good dose of alternative perspectives on the new US regime, from the leader of a nation that has good reason to distrust the US. Fidel cuts through some of America's self-satisfied attitude.
However you feel about Castro, these aren't the rants of a lunatic, and it really is fascinating to look at America through another lense.
Yesterday I stumbled across Escambray, the digital version of the Cuban state newspaper. Fidel has a recurring column. Yesterday he wrote about the World Baseball Classic. I scanned through a bunch of his other posts and they're really quite interesting, well-reasoned and erudite.
Here's one about President Obama. It's a good dose of alternative perspectives on the new US regime, from the leader of a nation that has good reason to distrust the US. Fidel cuts through some of America's self-satisfied attitude.
However you feel about Castro, these aren't the rants of a lunatic, and it really is fascinating to look at America through another lense.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Appeal of Pedro Martinez
From yesterday's MetsBlog:
…i actually think i would prefer Livan Hernandez as the team’s fifth starter, at this point, over pedro… because, i don’t expect my fifth starter to win a Cy Young… i want him to accumulate innings and help save my bullpen, and livan does that… pedro, god love him, does not… plus, he’s pedro, and i believe the team will benefit by keeping his dominant personality out of the clubhouse this time around…
First off, I've heard this meme a number of times recently - the Mets will be better off without Pedro's "dominant personality" clogging up the clubhouse. I don't really get it. For three years Pedro's personality and presence were lauded by everyone covering the Mets. He was a "spark" in the dugout, a "true competitor." Now he's a nuisance. Where is it coming from?
Now I'm not saying I necessarily want Pedro back either, though he's looked good at the WBC so far. But Livan Hernandez is not a very good pitcher. Sure he eats innings, but that's about it. His line for last year isn't even much better than Pedro's, except for IP:
PEDRO 5-6, 109 IP, 127 H, 87 K, 5.61 ERA, 1.57 WHIP
LIVAN 13-11, 180 IP, 257 H, 67K, 6.05 ERA, 1.67 WHIP
I'd say Pedro compares rather favorably here, particularly in hits allowed, especially if Citi Field turns out to be as cavernous as people are saying.
I also wonder if Livan hasn't earned his reputation as a workhorse simply by pitching for so many dreadful teams who had no choice but to keep running him out there.
To me the numbers indicate a pretty good risk-reward ratio in favor of Pedro, if he bumps up the IP considerably. And while Matthew Cerrone says "I don't expect my fifth starter to win a Cy Young," wouldn't it be nice if he gave you more than 180 decidedly mediocre innings?
…i actually think i would prefer Livan Hernandez as the team’s fifth starter, at this point, over pedro… because, i don’t expect my fifth starter to win a Cy Young… i want him to accumulate innings and help save my bullpen, and livan does that… pedro, god love him, does not… plus, he’s pedro, and i believe the team will benefit by keeping his dominant personality out of the clubhouse this time around…
First off, I've heard this meme a number of times recently - the Mets will be better off without Pedro's "dominant personality" clogging up the clubhouse. I don't really get it. For three years Pedro's personality and presence were lauded by everyone covering the Mets. He was a "spark" in the dugout, a "true competitor." Now he's a nuisance. Where is it coming from?
Now I'm not saying I necessarily want Pedro back either, though he's looked good at the WBC so far. But Livan Hernandez is not a very good pitcher. Sure he eats innings, but that's about it. His line for last year isn't even much better than Pedro's, except for IP:
PEDRO 5-6, 109 IP, 127 H, 87 K, 5.61 ERA, 1.57 WHIP
LIVAN 13-11, 180 IP, 257 H, 67K, 6.05 ERA, 1.67 WHIP
I'd say Pedro compares rather favorably here, particularly in hits allowed, especially if Citi Field turns out to be as cavernous as people are saying.
I also wonder if Livan hasn't earned his reputation as a workhorse simply by pitching for so many dreadful teams who had no choice but to keep running him out there.
To me the numbers indicate a pretty good risk-reward ratio in favor of Pedro, if he bumps up the IP considerably. And while Matthew Cerrone says "I don't expect my fifth starter to win a Cy Young," wouldn't it be nice if he gave you more than 180 decidedly mediocre innings?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Young Adam
I don't think I know anyone else who has seen this film. I've seen Young Adam twice, once when I rented it a few years ago, the other time just because it was on late night TV, about a month ago. It's one of those movies that lingers in your mind even though its overall quality is debatable. What meager attention it garnered in 2003 was chiefly due to the graphic sex on screen.
And yes, there is a bunch of sex, and as usual the controversy surrounding it is out of proportion, but there's also something else to this film, something that keeps coming back to me, and for some reason, the other day, it came back to me again. Young Adam is not a great film, but it is a bracing contrast to most Hollywood films.
There is an offshoot of the music website Stereogum devoted to movies called Videogum (I know this seems apropos of nothing, but bear with me), which has a rather hilarious running segment about The Worst Movies of All Time. I was reading through it the other day and it struck me that most of the non-action/adveture films they skewer have similar faults. They're pompous, ham-handed melodramas about Big Issues and Characters Coming To Terms With Things that suffer extreme cognitive dissonance when it comes to recognizing their own pomposity. Just to throw out a few names : Dan In Real Life, Elizabethtown, Crash (the non-sex-with-cars one).
You get the drift. They're movies whose only purpose is to deliver an obvious and facile "message", usually along the lines of "racism is damaging" or "everybody needs love." The characters in these movies only exist to further the message, and that usually makes them horrible stereotypes lacking in all dimension. But of course the filmmakers think they've given the characters dimension, but it's usually manifested through ridiculous and meaningless detail (I'm into exercise), lazy job-oriented shorthand (I'm a cop), or cruel and obvious twists of fate (My dad just died). These are characters who explain their own motivations to their fellow characters, and by exension to the audience.
Which brings us to a key area where Young Adam diverges from conventional tropes. Ewan McGregor's character, Joe, engages in a lot of questionable behavior, eventually with catastrophic consequences - for someone else. But the film takes a decidedly neutral moral point of view, presenting Joe's actions as matter-of-factly as possible. The entire essence of Joe's character is distance. As he keeps a distance between himself and everyone else, so too does the film keep its distance from the audience.
I think what's most remarkable about Young Adam is that because it leaves the moral compass entirely in the hands of the viewer, it exposes how frequently other films offer pat and tidy answers. As I said before, Young Adam isn't a great film, but it leaves an unsettling impression, which is more than you can say for a lot of films.
And yes, there is a bunch of sex, and as usual the controversy surrounding it is out of proportion, but there's also something else to this film, something that keeps coming back to me, and for some reason, the other day, it came back to me again. Young Adam is not a great film, but it is a bracing contrast to most Hollywood films.
There is an offshoot of the music website Stereogum devoted to movies called Videogum (I know this seems apropos of nothing, but bear with me), which has a rather hilarious running segment about The Worst Movies of All Time. I was reading through it the other day and it struck me that most of the non-action/adveture films they skewer have similar faults. They're pompous, ham-handed melodramas about Big Issues and Characters Coming To Terms With Things that suffer extreme cognitive dissonance when it comes to recognizing their own pomposity. Just to throw out a few names : Dan In Real Life, Elizabethtown, Crash (the non-sex-with-cars one).
You get the drift. They're movies whose only purpose is to deliver an obvious and facile "message", usually along the lines of "racism is damaging" or "everybody needs love." The characters in these movies only exist to further the message, and that usually makes them horrible stereotypes lacking in all dimension. But of course the filmmakers think they've given the characters dimension, but it's usually manifested through ridiculous and meaningless detail (I'm into exercise), lazy job-oriented shorthand (I'm a cop), or cruel and obvious twists of fate (My dad just died). These are characters who explain their own motivations to their fellow characters, and by exension to the audience.
Which brings us to a key area where Young Adam diverges from conventional tropes. Ewan McGregor's character, Joe, engages in a lot of questionable behavior, eventually with catastrophic consequences - for someone else. But the film takes a decidedly neutral moral point of view, presenting Joe's actions as matter-of-factly as possible. The entire essence of Joe's character is distance. As he keeps a distance between himself and everyone else, so too does the film keep its distance from the audience.
I think what's most remarkable about Young Adam is that because it leaves the moral compass entirely in the hands of the viewer, it exposes how frequently other films offer pat and tidy answers. As I said before, Young Adam isn't a great film, but it leaves an unsettling impression, which is more than you can say for a lot of films.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Idea For A Short Short
INTERIOR.
The television studio set of a talent show-style reality program.
At stage left and right stand two white men in their thirties, dressed in khakis and pastel Brooks Brothers shirts - they are obviously secret homosexual lovers, or possibly long lost brothers who met at a magic convention. Stage center stands David Hasselhoff. He is very concerned about his hair. He is very possibly not drunk, but wishes he were.
The two men are surrounded by objects, organized in order of increasing danger - from bowling pins to hockey sticks, to butcher knives, to chainsaws, to live grenades, to live tigers - which they intend to juggle between one another and across Hasselhoff. The schtick is to pump up the danger of the objects for the benefit of the crowd and the judges. The men take longer and longer intervals between acts, playing up the menace and the suspense.
MAN #1 - Oh wow David, I think that last chainsaw cleaved some skin cells off your ear!
MAN #2 - Better get that DNA sample to the lab, I think David might be your daughter's real dad.
MAN #1 - Oh boy! Well I better be careful with these live grenades then! Wouldn't want my child to grow up without a father.
MAN #2 - No kidding, and who would be left to satisfy your wife while you're out of town?
MAN #1 - I hear David's a real animal lover, so let's introduce the new pet cat!
MAN #2 - Now ladies and gentlemen, this is Misha, and she's a 300 lb. snow tiger from Siberia. It's a long way from Siberia and poor Misha hasn't had a thing to eat, and the only entertainment on the plane was old reruns of Bay Watch, so you can see she's a little cranky. Our animal experts tell us that cats like Misha don't like too much stimulation and react aggresively to unfamiliar situations...
MAN #1 - Oh man, then why did we give her headphones and blast Wagner into her ears?
MAN #2 - Good call! Guess someone's gonna get fired for that blunder! Alright folks, are you ready?
MAN #1 - We said, Are You Ready?
MAN #2 - Three!
MAN #1 - Two!
MAN #2 - One!
MAN#1 - Zero!
MAN #2 - Negative one!
MAN #1 - Twelve!
MAN #2 raises a revolver and shoots David Hasselhoff in the head five times. The two men walk off stage in silence. Misha remains behind to scavenge the corpse.
CURTAIN.
The television studio set of a talent show-style reality program.
At stage left and right stand two white men in their thirties, dressed in khakis and pastel Brooks Brothers shirts - they are obviously secret homosexual lovers, or possibly long lost brothers who met at a magic convention. Stage center stands David Hasselhoff. He is very concerned about his hair. He is very possibly not drunk, but wishes he were.
The two men are surrounded by objects, organized in order of increasing danger - from bowling pins to hockey sticks, to butcher knives, to chainsaws, to live grenades, to live tigers - which they intend to juggle between one another and across Hasselhoff. The schtick is to pump up the danger of the objects for the benefit of the crowd and the judges. The men take longer and longer intervals between acts, playing up the menace and the suspense.
MAN #1 - Oh wow David, I think that last chainsaw cleaved some skin cells off your ear!
MAN #2 - Better get that DNA sample to the lab, I think David might be your daughter's real dad.
MAN #1 - Oh boy! Well I better be careful with these live grenades then! Wouldn't want my child to grow up without a father.
MAN #2 - No kidding, and who would be left to satisfy your wife while you're out of town?
MAN #1 - I hear David's a real animal lover, so let's introduce the new pet cat!
MAN #2 - Now ladies and gentlemen, this is Misha, and she's a 300 lb. snow tiger from Siberia. It's a long way from Siberia and poor Misha hasn't had a thing to eat, and the only entertainment on the plane was old reruns of Bay Watch, so you can see she's a little cranky. Our animal experts tell us that cats like Misha don't like too much stimulation and react aggresively to unfamiliar situations...
MAN #1 - Oh man, then why did we give her headphones and blast Wagner into her ears?
MAN #2 - Good call! Guess someone's gonna get fired for that blunder! Alright folks, are you ready?
MAN #1 - We said, Are You Ready?
MAN #2 - Three!
MAN #1 - Two!
MAN #2 - One!
MAN#1 - Zero!
MAN #2 - Negative one!
MAN #1 - Twelve!
MAN #2 raises a revolver and shoots David Hasselhoff in the head five times. The two men walk off stage in silence. Misha remains behind to scavenge the corpse.
CURTAIN.
Brief Dither
I don't see much in the way of American cable news anymore - and I think I'm better for it - but I did happen to catch a snippet of Mad Money the other day. It's that show hosted by a hollering insane man named Cramer in a studio that looks like the set of Mystery Science Theater 3000. The hollering insane man had a bit part on Arrested Development, upgrading Bluth Family stock to "don't buy." But you probably already knew that.
Anyway, Cramer was trying to strike a populist note by declaring that President Obama "just doesn't get" that what normal Americans really care about is the stock market. I'm pretty sure the truth is that most Americans just don't care that they don't get the stock market, but then I'm not the host of a market advice show on MSNBC.....
Anyway, Cramer was trying to strike a populist note by declaring that President Obama "just doesn't get" that what normal Americans really care about is the stock market. I'm pretty sure the truth is that most Americans just don't care that they don't get the stock market, but then I'm not the host of a market advice show on MSNBC.....
Thursday, March 5, 2009
LOST: A Rambling Soliloquy
I have a funny relationship with LOST. I love it, yet I find three of the main characters (Jack, Kate, & Sawyer) almost totally insufferable. The writers can elegantly weave together disparate plot lines and thematic elements, yet they are also capable of hackneyed characterizations and gauche melodrama. Sometimes I think the show is a puzzle for a puzzle's sake, other times I'm convinced the creators have had it all mapped out from the beginning.
Ruminating on it is almost beyond the point - I still tune in every single week. (Well, OK, I wait a day and download the episodes from BTJunkie. Sue me, I live in Denmark, they're still on Season 4.)
There are facets of LOST that remind me of Twin Peaks. Both shows knowingly tweak soap opera tropes (long, drawn-out story arcs, copious daddy issues, lots of Big Truth moments) into something resembling TV high art. It's a testament to a definite shift in viewer tastes that LOST has succeeded precisely because of it's protracted mystery building, whereas Twin Peaks lost most of it's audience due to impatience for the revelation of Laura Palmer's murderer, and all of it's audience once the big reveal came.
But in reality LOST is at its best when it keeps things simple. In recently re-watching Season One, I was struck by how character-driven it is, and how satisfyingly sketched the characters are. This made the most recent episode, LaFleur, even more enjoyable, as a return to that style of storywriting. Not that I don't enjoy the supernatural myth-building and sci-fi mind-bending; I do, immensely. My hope is that once the show concludes next year it will have managed to resolve both tendencies in a manner that rings true with the whole of the series. And if the writers/creators manage that, they could achieve a kind of emotional payoff rare to television, but unique to the medium. It doesn't take years to read a book or watch a film, but in television you can invest years in a character's story, and seeing it come to a fruitful end is uniquely rewarding. Think of the finale of M*A*S*H, or Twin Peaks, or the resolution of Mulder's sister's story arc in The X-Files. Sometimes my faith in LOST wavers, but I'm holding out hope for that kind of culmination.
Ruminating on it is almost beyond the point - I still tune in every single week. (Well, OK, I wait a day and download the episodes from BTJunkie. Sue me, I live in Denmark, they're still on Season 4.)
There are facets of LOST that remind me of Twin Peaks. Both shows knowingly tweak soap opera tropes (long, drawn-out story arcs, copious daddy issues, lots of Big Truth moments) into something resembling TV high art. It's a testament to a definite shift in viewer tastes that LOST has succeeded precisely because of it's protracted mystery building, whereas Twin Peaks lost most of it's audience due to impatience for the revelation of Laura Palmer's murderer, and all of it's audience once the big reveal came.
But in reality LOST is at its best when it keeps things simple. In recently re-watching Season One, I was struck by how character-driven it is, and how satisfyingly sketched the characters are. This made the most recent episode, LaFleur, even more enjoyable, as a return to that style of storywriting. Not that I don't enjoy the supernatural myth-building and sci-fi mind-bending; I do, immensely. My hope is that once the show concludes next year it will have managed to resolve both tendencies in a manner that rings true with the whole of the series. And if the writers/creators manage that, they could achieve a kind of emotional payoff rare to television, but unique to the medium. It doesn't take years to read a book or watch a film, but in television you can invest years in a character's story, and seeing it come to a fruitful end is uniquely rewarding. Think of the finale of M*A*S*H, or Twin Peaks, or the resolution of Mulder's sister's story arc in The X-Files. Sometimes my faith in LOST wavers, but I'm holding out hope for that kind of culmination.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
"Theme" Public Image Limited
First in a series of in-depth song analysis.
I'd love to travel back to 1979 to witness the reaction to this song, the first track on the debut Public Image Ltd. LP.
People following John Lydon because of the Sex Pistols or Public Image, the rather conventional inaugural PiL single, must have been aghast.
Jah Wobble's impossibly low, impossibly loud bass sets the thuggish pace. After a big drum roll the whole band crashes into a titanic groove, set somewhere between cock rock and deep dub, while Keith Levene wrangles an Ornette Coleman impression out of his guitar. His playing is a violent blur, caked in flange and never settling on one riff or motif for too long. The effect is similar to the "sheets of sound" aesthetic espoused by John Coltrane, only propelled by nihilist brutality instead of spiritual ecstasy.
Lydon's vocal is positively depraved, all cackles and yelps in place of anything approaching singing, and punctuated by mocking laughter. It's made even more unsettling by the main refrain - "I wish I could die."
It's intersting that Lydon chose the conditional could. It suggests a number of possible meanings, from a craving for death that is somehow prevented, to an urge to die and be reborn - to experience death for experience's sake. Greil Marcus wrote of Lydon's ability to push language past interpretation into pure effect, and that ability, certainly Lydon's paramount talent, is on full display here. The performance is pure conviction but the sentiment resists categorization.
Theme is almost ten minutes long, and like all the best lengthy PiL tracks (Albatross, Poptones), it creates a strange sensation of lost time. The repetitiveness of the lyrics and the unwavering lock-step of the rhythm section meld with Levene's free-form playing, which implies movement but more creates a sense of hovering in place. The overall sound of it is so encompassing that it's difficult to gauge how much time is passing. Once the tune gets going it's as if it was always already playing and will always be playing, calling to mind the eternal music theories of LaMonte Young.
Of course referencing names and concepts from the high-brow wing of musical theory is a fun exercise, but it's hardly the point. Theme is simply a vicious rock song, an indelible musical moment spun from sheer inspiration. What's remarkable about it is the distinct bridge it builds between so many disparate styles. The drums recall Led Zeppelin but also point the way towards Steve Albini. The noisy guitar could imply free jazz but it's also not too far from No Wave and Sonic Youth, and even the later psychedelic stylings of Jason Pierce from Spaceman 3/Spiritualized. The lasting impression is that perhaps PiL were even more groundbreaking and influential than is usually assumed.
I'd love to travel back to 1979 to witness the reaction to this song, the first track on the debut Public Image Ltd. LP.
People following John Lydon because of the Sex Pistols or Public Image, the rather conventional inaugural PiL single, must have been aghast.
Jah Wobble's impossibly low, impossibly loud bass sets the thuggish pace. After a big drum roll the whole band crashes into a titanic groove, set somewhere between cock rock and deep dub, while Keith Levene wrangles an Ornette Coleman impression out of his guitar. His playing is a violent blur, caked in flange and never settling on one riff or motif for too long. The effect is similar to the "sheets of sound" aesthetic espoused by John Coltrane, only propelled by nihilist brutality instead of spiritual ecstasy.
Lydon's vocal is positively depraved, all cackles and yelps in place of anything approaching singing, and punctuated by mocking laughter. It's made even more unsettling by the main refrain - "I wish I could die."
It's intersting that Lydon chose the conditional could. It suggests a number of possible meanings, from a craving for death that is somehow prevented, to an urge to die and be reborn - to experience death for experience's sake. Greil Marcus wrote of Lydon's ability to push language past interpretation into pure effect, and that ability, certainly Lydon's paramount talent, is on full display here. The performance is pure conviction but the sentiment resists categorization.
Theme is almost ten minutes long, and like all the best lengthy PiL tracks (Albatross, Poptones), it creates a strange sensation of lost time. The repetitiveness of the lyrics and the unwavering lock-step of the rhythm section meld with Levene's free-form playing, which implies movement but more creates a sense of hovering in place. The overall sound of it is so encompassing that it's difficult to gauge how much time is passing. Once the tune gets going it's as if it was always already playing and will always be playing, calling to mind the eternal music theories of LaMonte Young.
Of course referencing names and concepts from the high-brow wing of musical theory is a fun exercise, but it's hardly the point. Theme is simply a vicious rock song, an indelible musical moment spun from sheer inspiration. What's remarkable about it is the distinct bridge it builds between so many disparate styles. The drums recall Led Zeppelin but also point the way towards Steve Albini. The noisy guitar could imply free jazz but it's also not too far from No Wave and Sonic Youth, and even the later psychedelic stylings of Jason Pierce from Spaceman 3/Spiritualized. The lasting impression is that perhaps PiL were even more groundbreaking and influential than is usually assumed.
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