Friday, October 29, 2004
"How I Learned to Start Worrying . . . "
Courtesy of Kittenpants: "How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate Everyone". This is my kind of political commentary.
Election Night?
Is anyone (local) gathering folks together to watch election night returns on the telly? I'm starting to get the panicky, nervous feeling that I usually only get before New Year's Eve, that feeling of, "I very badly want to be in a warm, comfortable place with people I love in case the world ends." I'd offer to host, but that'll only be two days after our move to the new apartment and I'm sure everything will be in complete disarray. Please e-mail or call or leave a comment below to let me know if there's room on your couch for my little bum!
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Em Takes on Dubya
Have you guys seen the video for Eminem's vehemently anti-Bush rap "Mosh"? It seriously almost brought tears to my eyes. (In a good way.) Check it out, and spread the word.
NOT a Balehead
It seems like at least once a year for the past five or six years, someone's always forecasting how Christian Bale is poised to become the brightest shining mega-supernova of all hyper-celebrity actors in the known universe. And, curiously, it hasn't quite happened. (Yet. Yes, Batman is still on the way.)
I don't know, maybe it's because I was of the tween demographic (before it was called that) that Newsies was aimed at in its original theatrical release or because Little Women ranks high on my all-time favorite list, but, in my world, Christian Bale always has been a huge star. It's just an unquestionable fact of my pop cultural consciousness. So, the debate surrounding his fame or stardom or talent or box office viability or whatever has always struck me as being a combination of odd, redundant, and, I dunno, square?
Anyway, this week Cintra Wilson has a go at this sub-sub-sub-genre of entertainment journalism, the "Jesus! Christian Bale Is a Superstar!" revelation essay. It, typically, made me laugh out loud ("when I am Supreme Dictator, I will demand that all Americans watch [American Psycho] every Christmas morning"), grimace ("[humor] so subtle that American audiences probably missed it entirely (I did, on first viewing)"), and want to revist his (ahem) body of work again sometime soon.
I don't know, maybe it's because I was of the tween demographic (before it was called that) that Newsies was aimed at in its original theatrical release or because Little Women ranks high on my all-time favorite list, but, in my world, Christian Bale always has been a huge star. It's just an unquestionable fact of my pop cultural consciousness. So, the debate surrounding his fame or stardom or talent or box office viability or whatever has always struck me as being a combination of odd, redundant, and, I dunno, square?
Anyway, this week Cintra Wilson has a go at this sub-sub-sub-genre of entertainment journalism, the "Jesus! Christian Bale Is a Superstar!" revelation essay. It, typically, made me laugh out loud ("when I am Supreme Dictator, I will demand that all Americans watch [American Psycho] every Christmas morning"), grimace ("[humor] so subtle that American audiences probably missed it entirely (I did, on first viewing)"), and want to revist his (ahem) body of work again sometime soon.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
R.E.M.
Let me just start off by saying: the audience cheered for Peter Buck's mandolin.
I'm not kidding you. I realize that much of it probably had to do with the fact that it made its primary appearance for the much loved solo in "Losing My Religion," but still. We cheered for a small stringed instrument. And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
Much of my experience of the concert was colored by the fact that our seats were way the hell up in the nosebleeds. From that height, sitting among rows and rows of such exquisitely polite, well-behaved folks, it felt like I was passively consuming a spectacle rather than actively participating in a musical experience. And not only that--except for a few rare moments when some sort of unexpected energy would flicker and electrify the air, I didn't feel . . . moved. And not that every show I go to has to blow my mind or change my life, but it just would have been nice if everything didn't feel so clean and rehearsed. The musicianship was a little too impeccable, you know? It's not like I wanted someone to fuck up, either, though. I just wanted to feel like I was witnessing something unique. Something that was just for us, on just that night. And maybe something unique was happening on the floor that I couldn't feel up there where the sound quality wasn't much different than turning up my stereo a little louder than usual and where the intoxicating vertigo compensated for the fact that I was in no mood to shell out for sweet-smelling beer in plastic cups. **shrug**
I hate having to be so harsh, especially considering how out-of-control hot Michael Stipe is. That rock star energy, those fantastically sexy, snakelike origami poses, the reedy caterwauling about Andy Kaufman and the one he's left behind. En fuego, baby.
And though yes, I'm voting for Kerry on November 2, blah, blah, blah, there was the asshole, punk rock part of me that very badly wanted to start chanting pro-Bush slogans in the middle of the crowd just to watch everyone's heads explode.
I'm not kidding you. I realize that much of it probably had to do with the fact that it made its primary appearance for the much loved solo in "Losing My Religion," but still. We cheered for a small stringed instrument. And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
Much of my experience of the concert was colored by the fact that our seats were way the hell up in the nosebleeds. From that height, sitting among rows and rows of such exquisitely polite, well-behaved folks, it felt like I was passively consuming a spectacle rather than actively participating in a musical experience. And not only that--except for a few rare moments when some sort of unexpected energy would flicker and electrify the air, I didn't feel . . . moved. And not that every show I go to has to blow my mind or change my life, but it just would have been nice if everything didn't feel so clean and rehearsed. The musicianship was a little too impeccable, you know? It's not like I wanted someone to fuck up, either, though. I just wanted to feel like I was witnessing something unique. Something that was just for us, on just that night. And maybe something unique was happening on the floor that I couldn't feel up there where the sound quality wasn't much different than turning up my stereo a little louder than usual and where the intoxicating vertigo compensated for the fact that I was in no mood to shell out for sweet-smelling beer in plastic cups. **shrug**
I hate having to be so harsh, especially considering how out-of-control hot Michael Stipe is. That rock star energy, those fantastically sexy, snakelike origami poses, the reedy caterwauling about Andy Kaufman and the one he's left behind. En fuego, baby.
And though yes, I'm voting for Kerry on November 2, blah, blah, blah, there was the asshole, punk rock part of me that very badly wanted to start chanting pro-Bush slogans in the middle of the crowd just to watch everyone's heads explode.
Monday, October 25, 2004
A Very Musical Monday
A silly interview with Paul Banks from Nerve.
Colin Meloy talks to Pitchfork about the Decemberists' forthcoming album Picaresque.
Ben Folds explains why he had to cancel a recent gig at the University of Oklahoma.
Colin Meloy talks to Pitchfork about the Decemberists' forthcoming album Picaresque.
Ben Folds explains why he had to cancel a recent gig at the University of Oklahoma.
Friday, October 22, 2004
iFilm Goodness
The Jon Stewart/Crossfire affair for those of you who, like myself, missed it the first time around. It's been bouncing around the internet all week, and I finally had a chance to check it out today. Wicked good stuff.
Jon Stewart spinning himself on The Daily Show.
Triumph the Insult Comic Dog visits spin alley the night of the third debate, in a segment they call Poop Valhalla. Finally, Triumph leaves the helpless Star Wars geeks and other essentially harmless schmucks alone and gets back to sending up the bloated assholes who really deserve it.
Here's iFilm's page dedicated to Team America. I would especially, especially recommend scrolling down to check out the clip of "Lonely" or "Kim Jong Il Takes On Hans Blix."
Jon Stewart spinning himself on The Daily Show.
Triumph the Insult Comic Dog visits spin alley the night of the third debate, in a segment they call Poop Valhalla. Finally, Triumph leaves the helpless Star Wars geeks and other essentially harmless schmucks alone and gets back to sending up the bloated assholes who really deserve it.
Here's iFilm's page dedicated to Team America. I would especially, especially recommend scrolling down to check out the clip of "Lonely" or "Kim Jong Il Takes On Hans Blix."
Thursday, October 21, 2004
"Maaatt Damon!"
(Not to be confused with Johnny Damon, of course. Congrats, by the way, Red Sox fans. Fuck those Yankee steroid bastards. Wait, wasn't that the name of that Wilco album?)
If there's one thing I've learned in this crazy, mixed-up world, it's that Matt Stone and Trey Parker are good for what ails ya.
Sick with the pink-eye-chills-and-wheezing-cough flu of death that your roommate has brought back from New York? Pop in the South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut DVD and at least you'll be laughing through your feverish delirium. Overwhelmed by innumerable life stressors? Take an evening to indulge in Team America: World Police and shit doesn't seem so bad after watching puppet sex, puppet puke, and puppet death for some 100 minutes. No, really.
I admit I was a pretty easy target for this movie. I went in wanting to love it, so it would have had to have been pretty bad for me to say much of anything against it. So I'll get that anything out of the way right now: yeah, the satire gets a little threadbare toward the end, especially when the peacenik members of the Film Actors Guild (yes, F.A.G.) start taking up arms in just as ugly a way as any of the equally stupid-looking American military cowboy types that the filmmakers have been lambasting throughout. And, though I think condemning the resolution as "cheap militaristic fatalism" is a bit much, the whole pussies, dicks, and assholes speech does seem a bit facile. This is where the collision of political satire and blockbuster action movie pastiche chafes most, and the fact that the latter is privileged over the former reeks more of cop-out than Parker and Stone's easy-breezy "we want everyone to laugh and have a good time" stance might suggest. They know how smart they are. And though they obviously despise celebrities who use their fame as a soapbox from which to espouse their usually pedestrian political viewpoints, why even touch this topic with a ten-foot pole if you're not really willing to go balls-to-the-wall with your own personal politics?
But I digress.
It's sick, it's hilarious, it's (mostly) everything you want a fucked-up puppet movie to be. The songs are, as ever, so cleverly right-on they're worth the price of admission alone. Even the diction is hilarious in its over-the-top accuracy ("Ah-meh-eh-ree-ee-kah!"). The pinnacle is Kim Jong Il's token sad-bastard ballad "I'm So Ronery," though the Rent send-up "Everybody Has AIDS!" ("Come on everybody/we've got quilting to do!") runs a close second. The puppet sex is just as ridiculous and obscene as they meant it to be (as Cassius so eloquently put it, "it's not so much what they do, it's where they have to put the strings." HEY OH!), and the puking sight gag mentioned above seems timed, much like old Marx Brothers routines, specifically to be seen in a theater with an audience. The dialogue (the women bonding: "I treasure your friendship, Lisa!") is so brilliantly flat, it's straight out of Syd Field, and their goosing of every conceivable action movie convention adds up to a kind of hysterical, Platonic, ideal vision of the very concept of "Blockbuster" that surely has Don Simpson rolling over in his grave, wishing he'd had the sack to do it first.
And, I don't know why the Matt Damon puppet--in all his chinny, sandy-haired glory--is incapable of saying anything other than his own name, but, by God, that's the funniest and most gratuitous celebrity pot-shot I've seen in ages.
If there's one thing I've learned in this crazy, mixed-up world, it's that Matt Stone and Trey Parker are good for what ails ya.
Sick with the pink-eye-chills-and-wheezing-cough flu of death that your roommate has brought back from New York? Pop in the South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut DVD and at least you'll be laughing through your feverish delirium. Overwhelmed by innumerable life stressors? Take an evening to indulge in Team America: World Police and shit doesn't seem so bad after watching puppet sex, puppet puke, and puppet death for some 100 minutes. No, really.
I admit I was a pretty easy target for this movie. I went in wanting to love it, so it would have had to have been pretty bad for me to say much of anything against it. So I'll get that anything out of the way right now: yeah, the satire gets a little threadbare toward the end, especially when the peacenik members of the Film Actors Guild (yes, F.A.G.) start taking up arms in just as ugly a way as any of the equally stupid-looking American military cowboy types that the filmmakers have been lambasting throughout. And, though I think condemning the resolution as "cheap militaristic fatalism" is a bit much, the whole pussies, dicks, and assholes speech does seem a bit facile. This is where the collision of political satire and blockbuster action movie pastiche chafes most, and the fact that the latter is privileged over the former reeks more of cop-out than Parker and Stone's easy-breezy "we want everyone to laugh and have a good time" stance might suggest. They know how smart they are. And though they obviously despise celebrities who use their fame as a soapbox from which to espouse their usually pedestrian political viewpoints, why even touch this topic with a ten-foot pole if you're not really willing to go balls-to-the-wall with your own personal politics?
But I digress.
It's sick, it's hilarious, it's (mostly) everything you want a fucked-up puppet movie to be. The songs are, as ever, so cleverly right-on they're worth the price of admission alone. Even the diction is hilarious in its over-the-top accuracy ("Ah-meh-eh-ree-ee-kah!"). The pinnacle is Kim Jong Il's token sad-bastard ballad "I'm So Ronery," though the Rent send-up "Everybody Has AIDS!" ("Come on everybody/we've got quilting to do!") runs a close second. The puppet sex is just as ridiculous and obscene as they meant it to be (as Cassius so eloquently put it, "it's not so much what they do, it's where they have to put the strings." HEY OH!), and the puking sight gag mentioned above seems timed, much like old Marx Brothers routines, specifically to be seen in a theater with an audience. The dialogue (the women bonding: "I treasure your friendship, Lisa!") is so brilliantly flat, it's straight out of Syd Field, and their goosing of every conceivable action movie convention adds up to a kind of hysterical, Platonic, ideal vision of the very concept of "Blockbuster" that surely has Don Simpson rolling over in his grave, wishing he'd had the sack to do it first.
And, I don't know why the Matt Damon puppet--in all his chinny, sandy-haired glory--is incapable of saying anything other than his own name, but, by God, that's the funniest and most gratuitous celebrity pot-shot I've seen in ages.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Lists
A recent batch of excellent McSweeney's lists:
Bands and Musicians Whose Careers Would Be Quite Different Had They Initially Misspelled Their Own Names
Alternative Names for Move On . Org
Lame Excuses Roommate Has Given for Breaking Dates or the Smiths Lyrics?
Alternatives to the "LOVE HATE" Knuckle Tattoo in Order of Increasing Rarity
E-mail Addresses It Would Be Really Annoying to Give Out Over the Phone
Bands and Musicians Whose Careers Would Be Quite Different Had They Initially Misspelled Their Own Names
Alternative Names for Move On . Org
Lame Excuses Roommate Has Given for Breaking Dates or the Smiths Lyrics?
Alternatives to the "LOVE HATE" Knuckle Tattoo in Order of Increasing Rarity
E-mail Addresses It Would Be Really Annoying to Give Out Over the Phone
X-fire
Here's the complete transcript of Jon Stewart's routing of Paul Begala and Tucker Carlson ON THEIR OWN SHOW. Damn. Wish I coulda seen it when it aired.
Interpol
And, as my month of concerts begins to wind down, we come to Interpol.
Another enormously satisfying show at the Riv. In stark contrast to the Death Cab crowd, this was one of the most lovingly boisterous yet respectful audiences I've been a part of in a long time. The fever pitch of enthusiasm that erupted the moment they took the stage was sustained, undiminished, throughout the entire set. It was amazing. And, toward the end of the show, when the band totally cut out after the first chorus of "PDA," the house went out of their minds with delirious anticipation waiting for the second verse to kick back in.
They played as well as they ever have, and, as Giddy astutely pointed out, they're still having fun with the tunes from Bright Lights, even though they've been living with them for well over two years now. Paul's voice just keeps getting stronger and warmer, and Kessler's guitar work is laser-sharp. My only (minor) complaint about the show is that the way the lights were set up didn't allow me to see Sam at the drums. I couldn't take my eyes off him when we saw them play last year, and I wish I would have had the chance to do the same this time around.
But, they played "Length of Love," so I can't complain about anything at all, really. Best. Song. Ever.
As far as the opening bands go, I wanted to like The Secret Machines more than I actually did, and though the vocalist for Hail Social was a bit lacking, I was pleasantly surprised by how sharp they were on the whole.
Another enormously satisfying show at the Riv. In stark contrast to the Death Cab crowd, this was one of the most lovingly boisterous yet respectful audiences I've been a part of in a long time. The fever pitch of enthusiasm that erupted the moment they took the stage was sustained, undiminished, throughout the entire set. It was amazing. And, toward the end of the show, when the band totally cut out after the first chorus of "PDA," the house went out of their minds with delirious anticipation waiting for the second verse to kick back in.
They played as well as they ever have, and, as Giddy astutely pointed out, they're still having fun with the tunes from Bright Lights, even though they've been living with them for well over two years now. Paul's voice just keeps getting stronger and warmer, and Kessler's guitar work is laser-sharp. My only (minor) complaint about the show is that the way the lights were set up didn't allow me to see Sam at the drums. I couldn't take my eyes off him when we saw them play last year, and I wish I would have had the chance to do the same this time around.
But, they played "Length of Love," so I can't complain about anything at all, really. Best. Song. Ever.
As far as the opening bands go, I wanted to like The Secret Machines more than I actually did, and though the vocalist for Hail Social was a bit lacking, I was pleasantly surprised by how sharp they were on the whole.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Death Cab
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
Did I ever tell you my middle name is Guenivere? Yeah, that's what the "M" stands for. Wait a minute . . . uhhh . . .
Great, great show last night. Almost better than it had a right to be considering how completely shitty the audience was. Well, maybe it was just the people in the upper deck around me. I mean, it just sort of boggles my mind how these people who, obviously, must be Death Cab fans can also be such utter fucking assholes. Aren't Death Cab fans supposed to be sad, vaguely whiny, largely passive-aggressive hipsters and their alterna-hot emo girlfriends? Why in God's name would this obnoxious cunt (British definition) repeatedly yell "YOU SUCK!!!" to goofy, adorable little Travis Morrison? Granted, this new solo project he's embarked upon is not everyone's cup of tea (it's not designed to be), but if you don't like it . . . um, go get a beer and wait for it to be over. This guy's irrational anger and confounding disrespect infected the mood of the whole joint. Well, that's what you get when Q101 sponsors, I guess.
But, Death Cab, ah, Death Cab. I mean, wow. Those boys can play. Much like at the Rufus show the previous night, I always find myself in awe of these singers who open their mouths and sound exactly the way they do on their albums. I mean, how does Ben Gibbard just walk around on the streets knowing he can make that noise come out of his body?
And the songs, the songs! I got a little teary when they launched into "The New Year," and I actually got to hear him sing "I wish the world was flat like the old days / then I could travel just by folding a map / no more airplanes or speed-trains or freeways / there'd be no distance that could hold us back." That line just sends chills down my spine. And, not to keep singling out tunes from Transatlanticism, but what they did live with "We Looked Like Giants" became an incredibly profound, visceral experience. During the instrumental break that, while gorgeous, can feel a bit meandering on the album, they built into this thick, gauzy, sexy, multilayered wall of sound. I involuntarily exclaimed "Jesus!" when they suddenly brought it back down again for Ben to cry out the final "together there / in a shroud of frost the mountain air . . . " Unbelieveable.
I know I sound like a smitten 16 year old right now, and I'm OK with that. I adore this band.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
Did I ever tell you my middle name is Guenivere? Yeah, that's what the "M" stands for. Wait a minute . . . uhhh . . .
Great, great show last night. Almost better than it had a right to be considering how completely shitty the audience was. Well, maybe it was just the people in the upper deck around me. I mean, it just sort of boggles my mind how these people who, obviously, must be Death Cab fans can also be such utter fucking assholes. Aren't Death Cab fans supposed to be sad, vaguely whiny, largely passive-aggressive hipsters and their alterna-hot emo girlfriends? Why in God's name would this obnoxious cunt (British definition) repeatedly yell "YOU SUCK!!!" to goofy, adorable little Travis Morrison? Granted, this new solo project he's embarked upon is not everyone's cup of tea (it's not designed to be), but if you don't like it . . . um, go get a beer and wait for it to be over. This guy's irrational anger and confounding disrespect infected the mood of the whole joint. Well, that's what you get when Q101 sponsors, I guess.
But, Death Cab, ah, Death Cab. I mean, wow. Those boys can play. Much like at the Rufus show the previous night, I always find myself in awe of these singers who open their mouths and sound exactly the way they do on their albums. I mean, how does Ben Gibbard just walk around on the streets knowing he can make that noise come out of his body?
And the songs, the songs! I got a little teary when they launched into "The New Year," and I actually got to hear him sing "I wish the world was flat like the old days / then I could travel just by folding a map / no more airplanes or speed-trains or freeways / there'd be no distance that could hold us back." That line just sends chills down my spine. And, not to keep singling out tunes from Transatlanticism, but what they did live with "We Looked Like Giants" became an incredibly profound, visceral experience. During the instrumental break that, while gorgeous, can feel a bit meandering on the album, they built into this thick, gauzy, sexy, multilayered wall of sound. I involuntarily exclaimed "Jesus!" when they suddenly brought it back down again for Ben to cry out the final "together there / in a shroud of frost the mountain air . . . " Unbelieveable.
I know I sound like a smitten 16 year old right now, and I'm OK with that. I adore this band.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Rufus
The Rufus Wainwright show at the Vic last night was, predictably, outstanding.
He played a handful of new tunes from the forthcoming Want Two, including a song he wrote as a tribute to Jeff Buckley, in which he casts himself in the role of Orpheus going into the Hades below the Mississippi River. No joke. It was gorgeous, and highly emotional. He then nearly caused all of our hearts to stop by segueing directly into "Hallelujah." Other song highlights from the evening included "California," "The Art Teacher," and "Gay Messiah."
His solo shows put his personality center stage since he doesn't have a backing band (and, as much as I love her, Martha) dividing our attention. Much like his music, he effortlessly glides between being silly ("I hope you Want Two! Hahahaha!"), sexy (when a roadie makes an unexpected appearance on stage: "Wait, what are you doing out here? **shakes head** Spanking."), confessional (telling the story of his initially conflicted feelings about Buckley), insecure ("should I stand when I play guitar instead of sitting on the stool? Is standing sexier?"), and everything in between. There's something so startling and refreshing about going to a rock show and not seeing someone perform a persona in addition to performing the music you've gone there to see. He's grown and relaxed as a performer so much since I first saw him live. It's kind of hard for me to believe that this confident, peaceful troubador crooning at the piano last night is the same guy who I saw strip off his grimy vintage t-shirt during the big crescendo in "Evil Angel" two years ago.
(Personal to David Berkeley, Rufus's opening act: use the upper register of your voice more frequently. Your high notes are strong and exciting. You'll differentiate yourself from the glut of sensitive acoustic singer-songwriter guys if you push the limit a little bit. Just a thought.)
Death Cab tonight . . . quite looking forward. I [heart] Ben Gibbard right now.
He played a handful of new tunes from the forthcoming Want Two, including a song he wrote as a tribute to Jeff Buckley, in which he casts himself in the role of Orpheus going into the Hades below the Mississippi River. No joke. It was gorgeous, and highly emotional. He then nearly caused all of our hearts to stop by segueing directly into "Hallelujah." Other song highlights from the evening included "California," "The Art Teacher," and "Gay Messiah."
His solo shows put his personality center stage since he doesn't have a backing band (and, as much as I love her, Martha) dividing our attention. Much like his music, he effortlessly glides between being silly ("I hope you Want Two! Hahahaha!"), sexy (when a roadie makes an unexpected appearance on stage: "Wait, what are you doing out here? **shakes head** Spanking."), confessional (telling the story of his initially conflicted feelings about Buckley), insecure ("should I stand when I play guitar instead of sitting on the stool? Is standing sexier?"), and everything in between. There's something so startling and refreshing about going to a rock show and not seeing someone perform a persona in addition to performing the music you've gone there to see. He's grown and relaxed as a performer so much since I first saw him live. It's kind of hard for me to believe that this confident, peaceful troubador crooning at the piano last night is the same guy who I saw strip off his grimy vintage t-shirt during the big crescendo in "Evil Angel" two years ago.
(Personal to David Berkeley, Rufus's opening act: use the upper register of your voice more frequently. Your high notes are strong and exciting. You'll differentiate yourself from the glut of sensitive acoustic singer-songwriter guys if you push the limit a little bit. Just a thought.)
Death Cab tonight . . . quite looking forward. I [heart] Ben Gibbard right now.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Not a Fetish Site!
When a colleague at work sent me this link called "BikerFox", I had a moment of hope that perhaps, a la Suicide Girls, someone out there had finally zeroed in on my fetish for impossibly, unstoppably hot bike messengers. Oh, was I ever sorely, sorely mistaken. I feel bad laughing, but . . . come on, now.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Thursday, October 07, 2004
War Is Costly
So was my Starbucks this morning.
My usual "tall coffee with room" has gone from $1.54 to $1.65. That's bullshit I say. I gotta buy a coffeemaker. Perhaps I'll put one on lay-a-way and pay for it in eleven cent installments.
My usual "tall coffee with room" has gone from $1.54 to $1.65. That's bullshit I say. I gotta buy a coffeemaker. Perhaps I'll put one on lay-a-way and pay for it in eleven cent installments.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Brown Bunny
From last evening--
CTA: What was the deal with that e-mail? I could barely read it. It was this weird combination of shame and incoherence.
AMF: It was like a Vincent Gallo movie.
CTA: What was the deal with that e-mail? I could barely read it. It was this weird combination of shame and incoherence.
AMF: It was like a Vincent Gallo movie.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Janet Leigh
Janet Leigh, 1927-2004
With the most deep and heartfelt respect, I invite those of you who know the anecdote to repeat it once again with me now.
Jim Naremore (to Janet Leigh): Ms. Leigh, do you realize you were in three of the best movies ever made? Touch of Evil, The Manchurian Candidate, and Psycho? (to Eva Marie Saint) Uhhh . . . and you were in some very good movies as well.
Rest in peace, Ms. Leigh. Film fans around the world will miss you.
With the most deep and heartfelt respect, I invite those of you who know the anecdote to repeat it once again with me now.
Jim Naremore (to Janet Leigh): Ms. Leigh, do you realize you were in three of the best movies ever made? Touch of Evil, The Manchurian Candidate, and Psycho? (to Eva Marie Saint) Uhhh . . . and you were in some very good movies as well.
Rest in peace, Ms. Leigh. Film fans around the world will miss you.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Personnel
This, from GH (I'm assuming someone e-mailed it to her):
The personnel office received an email requesting a listing of the department staff broken down by age and sex.
The personnel office sent this reply:
"Attached is a list of our staff. We currently have no one broken down by age or sex. However, we have a few alcoholics."
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Now It's Time to Say Good-Bye
This week, Professor Bartlett tackles gender, race, class, and nationality. I think he must have known I promised to lay off him after today so he decided to go out with a bang.
Children, to be honest, I don't really have the energy to bang right on out with him. It's not that I've been beaten down, it's just that I'm booooooooooooooooored. Bored. Predictable stupidity is crushingly boring.
But, we press on, for form's sake.
What would possess him to say that Minnie Driver's album will enjoy a "smashing success" despite being not as interesting as either Norah Jones or Natalie Merchant? I mean, how completely insulting to say that music's mediocrity assures its popularity. It's insulting to the artist ("darling, your crap will be popular regardless, so don't try to stretch or improve yourself at all"), insulting to people who, you know, have ears, and, in its own way, implicitly insulting to female musicians. Just because something's popular doesn't mean it's crap. Actually, I have a feeling Minnie Driver's album will probably be an astounding flop. When's the last time you've heard anyone say anything nice about 30 Odd Foot of Grunts or the Bacon Brothers? Exactly. And as far as contemporary female actress/singers go, though I think Driver's a fine and consistently underrated actress (Cassius, care to get into it all over again about her performance in An Ideal Husband?), she's no Hilary Duff or Lindsey Lohan with the potential for tween crossover appeal, either.
"It will, of course, be tempting to treat [Elliott Smith's From a Basement on the Hill] as an extended suicide note set to song . . . " Of course. (It's that "of course" that rankles.) Because a person's music is always inextricably bound to a person's life. And certainly Smith's music, taken on its own terms, will never be as interesting as what the trainspotters read into it for their own macabre amusement. Get a clue, Tommy. You're not only belittling Smith's legacy as a musician, you're also belittling Smith's legions of fans who are still out of their minds with grief about his passing and are desperate to hear whatever shreds of his genius the man left behind. Though Smith's music always was laced with a keen sense of his own mortality, most folks I know (including, emphatically, myself) will be tempted to treat From a Basement on the Hill as nothing other than the precious gift it assuredly will be.
Though Michaelangelo Matos and Oliver Wang have already, rightly, pointed out that Tommy isn't exactly up to the task of writing intelligently about hip-hop, who would have thought he'd write himself into such weird little corners writing about race as well? His commentary on Nelly's collaboration with Tim McGraw, despite the fact that he calls it "both brilliant and absurd," doesn't quite go, you know, there, but then he really outdoes himself by going out of his way to point out that Bloc Party's and The Dears' lead singers (Kele Okekure and Murray Lightburn respectively) are black. With a hilarious lack of self-awareness, he ponders (re: Lightburn), "Apparently I'm alone in finding this [his skin color] noteworthy, because other than a short profile in the Guardian, I haven't found a single review or feature on the band that mentions Lightburn's surprising ethnicity." Um, yeah, you probably are alone in finding this noteworthy, Tommy (or, at least, you're alone in feeling the need to waste bandwith writing about it rather than just offhandedly observing to a friend, "huh, he's black, that's interesting" and leaving it at that). Most respectable writers got past the "but he sounds white/black" school of music criticism, oh, about five minutes after Elvis took over the world. Get a grip, Tommy. At the risk of being too woo-woo, touchy-feely here, music is colorless. Unless the music very specifically deals with a racial agenda (and even then...), you're not helping our collective appreciation of the songs by pointing out something as insignificant as a musician's color.
"The globalization of hip-hop has become inevitable." Oh, SPARE US, PLEASE, Tommy!! You're hurting me with your ill-informed philosophizing. It's like the out-of-touch uncle at family gatherings flapping his jaw and trying to sound informed about every topic at the dinner table. Which is even more unfortunate since, based on the photo on his blog, I'm assuming Tommy is probably in his mid- to late twenties and, as such, kind of has no excuse for being ill-informed--especially about music, especially considering it's HIS FUCKING JOB to be informed if he's going to be writing about it. His "appreciation" of Senegalese rapper Shiffai is valuable in that it exposed me to a performer I might otherwise have been unaware of, but my God, his White Male New York Ego has positively stained any of his good intentions here.
Truthfully, I'm glad that my anti-Bartlett month is over. I'm tired. I'll still be reading his column from week to week, mostly as a consumer, but never not as a critic.
Children, to be honest, I don't really have the energy to bang right on out with him. It's not that I've been beaten down, it's just that I'm booooooooooooooooored. Bored. Predictable stupidity is crushingly boring.
But, we press on, for form's sake.
What would possess him to say that Minnie Driver's album will enjoy a "smashing success" despite being not as interesting as either Norah Jones or Natalie Merchant? I mean, how completely insulting to say that music's mediocrity assures its popularity. It's insulting to the artist ("darling, your crap will be popular regardless, so don't try to stretch or improve yourself at all"), insulting to people who, you know, have ears, and, in its own way, implicitly insulting to female musicians. Just because something's popular doesn't mean it's crap. Actually, I have a feeling Minnie Driver's album will probably be an astounding flop. When's the last time you've heard anyone say anything nice about 30 Odd Foot of Grunts or the Bacon Brothers? Exactly. And as far as contemporary female actress/singers go, though I think Driver's a fine and consistently underrated actress (Cassius, care to get into it all over again about her performance in An Ideal Husband?), she's no Hilary Duff or Lindsey Lohan with the potential for tween crossover appeal, either.
"It will, of course, be tempting to treat [Elliott Smith's From a Basement on the Hill] as an extended suicide note set to song . . . " Of course. (It's that "of course" that rankles.) Because a person's music is always inextricably bound to a person's life. And certainly Smith's music, taken on its own terms, will never be as interesting as what the trainspotters read into it for their own macabre amusement. Get a clue, Tommy. You're not only belittling Smith's legacy as a musician, you're also belittling Smith's legions of fans who are still out of their minds with grief about his passing and are desperate to hear whatever shreds of his genius the man left behind. Though Smith's music always was laced with a keen sense of his own mortality, most folks I know (including, emphatically, myself) will be tempted to treat From a Basement on the Hill as nothing other than the precious gift it assuredly will be.
Though Michaelangelo Matos and Oliver Wang have already, rightly, pointed out that Tommy isn't exactly up to the task of writing intelligently about hip-hop, who would have thought he'd write himself into such weird little corners writing about race as well? His commentary on Nelly's collaboration with Tim McGraw, despite the fact that he calls it "both brilliant and absurd," doesn't quite go, you know, there, but then he really outdoes himself by going out of his way to point out that Bloc Party's and The Dears' lead singers (Kele Okekure and Murray Lightburn respectively) are black. With a hilarious lack of self-awareness, he ponders (re: Lightburn), "Apparently I'm alone in finding this [his skin color] noteworthy, because other than a short profile in the Guardian, I haven't found a single review or feature on the band that mentions Lightburn's surprising ethnicity." Um, yeah, you probably are alone in finding this noteworthy, Tommy (or, at least, you're alone in feeling the need to waste bandwith writing about it rather than just offhandedly observing to a friend, "huh, he's black, that's interesting" and leaving it at that). Most respectable writers got past the "but he sounds white/black" school of music criticism, oh, about five minutes after Elvis took over the world. Get a grip, Tommy. At the risk of being too woo-woo, touchy-feely here, music is colorless. Unless the music very specifically deals with a racial agenda (and even then...), you're not helping our collective appreciation of the songs by pointing out something as insignificant as a musician's color.
"The globalization of hip-hop has become inevitable." Oh, SPARE US, PLEASE, Tommy!! You're hurting me with your ill-informed philosophizing. It's like the out-of-touch uncle at family gatherings flapping his jaw and trying to sound informed about every topic at the dinner table. Which is even more unfortunate since, based on the photo on his blog, I'm assuming Tommy is probably in his mid- to late twenties and, as such, kind of has no excuse for being ill-informed--especially about music, especially considering it's HIS FUCKING JOB to be informed if he's going to be writing about it.
Truthfully, I'm glad that my anti-Bartlett month is over. I'm tired. I'll still be reading his column from week to week, mostly as a consumer, but never not as a critic.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Yes, Children
Yes, children, there is a Santa Claus, and it appears that he visits in the early fall and is quite possibly gay.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Just Because They Asked So Nicely
Go check out Better Propaganda. They're a Chicago- (and San Francisco-) based enterprise offering free downloads and mini bios of all the kewl new bands. Tommy Bartlett gets many of his best mp3s from this site, so why not skip the middleman and go straight to the source? Ah, so this is what freedom from tyranny feels like. . . .
I Fear Change
Raise your hand if the Reader's new print design also stresses you out. So many colors . . . which way are the sections supposed to unfold . . . ?
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Why?
Why, why, why do the newspapers insist on running huge, garish, unavoidable pictures of the U.S. hostages in Iraq on their covers? I'm speaking here primarily of today's issue of the Red Eye. I was having a perfectly pleasant morning walking east on Chicago Avenue toward the office when I happened to glance at one of those ugly red paper machines and see the image of Jack Hensley, blindfolded, trapped behind the glass door. Sure, this probably sounds like I'm ostriching myself away from current events, and, honestly . . . that comment probably wouldn't be completely unfounded. It just depresses the fuck out of me. I know enough of what's going on to be informed; I don't need it shoved in my face at 8:30 in the morning. If I felt the need to see the digital photos, I could have Googled that shit. Don't force it on me. Don't turn it into something to be consumed and then discarded, like Britney Spears's wedding photos. And it's not just the media's use and abuse of those images; it's the actual reality behind the photos that really depresses me. The hatred, the violence, the capacity for true evil in the hearts of human beings. I don't care what the fuck Hensley was doing there, and this is certainly not xenophobia speaking. Sure, there are all kinds of extenuating circumstances involved in that situation, but the fact is that we are talking about torture and beheading. It's just so, so sick, so sad.
I Can't Believe He Actually Put the Accent Over the "U"
It's actually completely coincidental that September, the month I've declared the "I Hate Tommy Bartlett" month, has five Wednesdays in it this year. Just more of my vitriol to suck down, beloved friends!
So, aside from the fact that he, very pretentiously, put the accent over the "u" in Medulla (the frickin' album cover doesn't even use the accent), Tommy's actually pretty right-on in his reading of the album. "I think Medulla is brilliant, one of the best records I've heard this year. I also think it's the least successful of Bjork's five studio albums."
As I've stated elsewhere on this blog, I feel like Bjork's all-vocal mission led her astray when it came to the lighter, funner, more dance-y tracks, so I'm inclined to agree with his statement that "Desired Constellation" is one of the better cuts. However, I will take him ever so slightly to task here for choosing that song specifically; I feel like part of the reason "Desired Constellation" is so easy to relate to and love is because it sounds the most similar to the bulk of Vespertine. (It was kind of hard for me to believe when I checked the liner notes that Matmos weren't responsible for the programming; I could have sworn that dark, dense glitch-field had their fingerprints all over it.) So, Tommy, though it's totally valid to make the distinction between the all-vocal tracks and the ones that use more actual instruments and programming, maybe you're just having nostalgia for an album you've already digested.
[Side note: as ever, Bjork discussing her own work is vastly more interesting than most anything the music critics are saying about it. A friend recently pointed me in the direction of this brief but thought-provoking interview from Newsweek.]
Ah. Now on to the mock-worthy nit-picks.
What's with the proliferation of short parenthetical phrases this week?
"(mostly rapturous praise)"
"(reluctantly)"
"(jubilantly)"
"(I might as well say it)"
I love the kind of borderline autistic ruts he gets into, where he locks on to a phrase or a rhythm in his writing that he just uses over and over and over again in the SAME damn column. I know I can get kind of redundant in my own writing; we all have our pet words and phrases we trot out more frequently than we'd like to admit. But his tics become almost comical in their frequency and density.
Also, calling The Arcade Fire "the most hyped band of the moment"? Hilarious. I mean, yeah, Pitchfork has annointed Funeral as among the best new music of 2004, but there's just something so wonderfully, pathetically snobby the exclusionary diction there. "Wellllll, YOU may not have heard of this band, my dear, sweet child, but if you were privileged enough to rub shoulders with the cabal of brilliant, underappreciated artistic types I run with here in New York, you would certainly know what I'm talking about. But you don't live a life as fantastically urban, or urbane, as mine, so allow me to feed my opinions and prejudices directly to you."
Only one Wednesday left in September, kittens. Get your vitriol while it's hot. (Though if you think I'll permanently swear off giving him a hard time just because the month is over, you're sorely, sorely mistaken. Tommy Bartlett will always have a special place in my spleen.)
So, aside from the fact that he, very pretentiously, put the accent over the "u" in Medulla (the frickin' album cover doesn't even use the accent), Tommy's actually pretty right-on in his reading of the album. "I think Medulla is brilliant, one of the best records I've heard this year. I also think it's the least successful of Bjork's five studio albums."
As I've stated elsewhere on this blog, I feel like Bjork's all-vocal mission led her astray when it came to the lighter, funner, more dance-y tracks, so I'm inclined to agree with his statement that "Desired Constellation" is one of the better cuts. However, I will take him ever so slightly to task here for choosing that song specifically; I feel like part of the reason "Desired Constellation" is so easy to relate to and love is because it sounds the most similar to the bulk of Vespertine. (It was kind of hard for me to believe when I checked the liner notes that Matmos weren't responsible for the programming; I could have sworn that dark, dense glitch-field had their fingerprints all over it.) So, Tommy, though it's totally valid to make the distinction between the all-vocal tracks and the ones that use more actual instruments and programming, maybe you're just having nostalgia for an album you've already digested.
[Side note: as ever, Bjork discussing her own work is vastly more interesting than most anything the music critics are saying about it. A friend recently pointed me in the direction of this brief but thought-provoking interview from Newsweek.]
Ah. Now on to the mock-worthy nit-picks.
What's with the proliferation of short parenthetical phrases this week?
"(mostly rapturous praise)"
"(reluctantly)"
"(jubilantly)"
"(I might as well say it)"
I love the kind of borderline autistic ruts he gets into, where he locks on to a phrase or a rhythm in his writing that he just uses over and over and over again in the SAME damn column. I know I can get kind of redundant in my own writing; we all have our pet words and phrases we trot out more frequently than we'd like to admit. But his tics become almost comical in their frequency and density.
Also, calling The Arcade Fire "the most hyped band of the moment"? Hilarious. I mean, yeah, Pitchfork has annointed Funeral as among the best new music of 2004, but there's just something so wonderfully, pathetically snobby the exclusionary diction there. "Wellllll, YOU may not have heard of this band, my dear, sweet child, but if you were privileged enough to rub shoulders with the cabal of brilliant, underappreciated artistic types I run with here in New York, you would certainly know what I'm talking about. But you don't live a life as fantastically urban, or urbane, as mine, so allow me to feed my opinions and prejudices directly to you."
Only one Wednesday left in September, kittens. Get your vitriol while it's hot. (Though if you think I'll permanently swear off giving him a hard time just because the month is over, you're sorely, sorely mistaken. Tommy Bartlett will always have a special place in my spleen.)
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Russian Sex and Dating in the 21st Century
"Telephone help for Russian women to ward off unwanted flirts"
cf "Sex & Dating in the 21st Century" from Monday, August 9, 2004.
cf "Sex & Dating in the 21st Century" from Monday, August 9, 2004.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Linky McLinks
Kittenpants is certainly one of the best new sites I've stumbled upon recently.
"Five ass-related words I think I use a lot"
"Five ass-related words I think I use a lot"
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
I'm Late Coming to the Table (Again)
Looks like I've already got some others in my corner here. I did a quick Google and found these three other blogs eviscerating Mr. Bartlett. Whereas I'm content to just sneer from a distance, they dive right in and shred him line by line. Well done.
See May 1, 2003, "Get Lost Indeed".
See Saturday, May 22, 2004, about three paragraphs down.
See Sunday, May 23, 2004 "How to Write on Music, Part 439".
See May 1, 2003, "Get Lost Indeed".
See Saturday, May 22, 2004, about three paragraphs down.
See Sunday, May 23, 2004 "How to Write on Music, Part 439".
Tommy Bartlett Update
Tommy Bartlett said nothing to actively piss me off in today's Wednesday Morning Download. Well, except when he said he finds Usher "entirely unexciting as a singer, a songwriter, a dancer and, yes, even as a sex object." Which doesn't anger me as much as it just makes me shake my head, like an older, wiser sister or aunt who's just waiting for him to pull his head out of his ass. Ah, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. It's a good thing we plebeians have you! Otherwise we might be stuck in a world of fun music that we actually enjoy without having to be snobby about! Thank you for saving us from ourselves, for being such a guiding light of taste and sensibility and intelligence.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Best. Week. Ever.
Check this shit out, yo:
Rufus Wainwright at the Vic 10/13
Death Cab for Cutie at the Riv 10/14
Interpol at the Riv 10/17
And I've got tickets for all three! So exciting.
Rufus Wainwright at the Vic 10/13
Death Cab for Cutie at the Riv 10/14
Interpol at the Riv 10/17
And I've got tickets for all three! So exciting.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Offensive Celebrity Statement of the Week
Just when I was starting to not begrudge her her fame, happiness, and success, Gwyneth Paltrow lets this kind of garbage fly out of her mouth in Entertainment Weekly, re: the MTV Video Music Awards: "When you're covered in spit-up and you're kind of overweight, the idea of having someone blow out your hair and putting on a good outfit sounds nice. . . . But I just feel like an impostor now going into that world. I have to remind myself that I've got to go be Gwyneth Paltrow. And I don't even know what that means."
Kind of overweight?
A good outfit?
I don't even know what that means?
**sigh**
My circuits are jammed trying to get my head around how many levels of WRONG are embedded in there.
Gwynnie, we short, chubby, low-20K/year single urban gals wearing Old Navy salute you.
Kind of overweight?
A good outfit?
I don't even know what that means?
**sigh**
My circuits are jammed trying to get my head around how many levels of WRONG are embedded in there.
Gwynnie, we short, chubby, low-20K/year single urban gals wearing Old Navy salute you.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Grab Bag
Cintra, sometimes I hate you and sometimes I love you. Right now, I pretty much love you.
Thanks for the laughs, Kittenpants!
Billboards have started popping up all over the city for the new UPN show Kevin Hill. Whereas that shouldn't merit any notice under normal circumstances, this show happens to star Taye Diggs. Which means, Taye Diggs has started popping up all over the city. **swoon** The show sounds like it has an unbelievably retarded premise, but, my God, if that man isn't just this side of physical perfection. . . .
And in other billboard news, there's one on the north side of Chicago Avenue just east of Franklin (in the empty lot next to Bar Louie) advertising the tenth anniversary edition cover of Chicago Social magazine--featuring Adrien Brody. I nearly dropped my bag of Thai takeout when I saw it for the first time.
Thanks for the laughs, Kittenpants!
Billboards have started popping up all over the city for the new UPN show Kevin Hill. Whereas that shouldn't merit any notice under normal circumstances, this show happens to star Taye Diggs. Which means, Taye Diggs has started popping up all over the city. **swoon** The show sounds like it has an unbelievably retarded premise, but, my God, if that man isn't just this side of physical perfection. . . .
And in other billboard news, there's one on the north side of Chicago Avenue just east of Franklin (in the empty lot next to Bar Louie) advertising the tenth anniversary edition cover of Chicago Social magazine--featuring Adrien Brody. I nearly dropped my bag of Thai takeout when I saw it for the first time.
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