As I've said before, I'm an atheist, and pretty firm about it. But something that bothers, even embarrasses me, is the spectacle of protests and legal challenges against the smallest display of religiosity - the use of the word "god" in public proceedings, etc. Part of what sticks in my craw is the meaninglessness of it - honestly, I don't see how anyone is put out or feels like they're getting their rights trampled - and how that triviality discredits opposition to serious instances of religious intrusion into public life. The other problem is that it's not honest. The sort of person who's going to pick a fight over a line in a national anthem making reference to a belief that 90% of the world holds to some degree or another is the sort of person who's mostly pissed about being part of that last tenth. And what they probably want is not just for that display to be taken down, or the words to not be sung, but for everybody else to start being atheist too. (Personally, I don't give a rat's ass what the rest of y'all think. I also don't care that everybody else seems to think AC/DC aren't the worst band in the world, so long as they don't force me to listen to their weak shit.)
And here's where we say hello to one of the most delicious foodstuffs I have ever consumed: foie gras*. If you don't know, it is goose (or sometimes duck) liver with an insane amount fat in it; the flavour is similar to sweetbread drowning in butter - it is an astonishing thing to eat. It is also, unsurprisingly, fantastically unhealthy and not at all cheap. In the four years since I first tried foie (as part of the incredible tasting menu at Beckta), I have had it about three or four more times, and even that feels a little excessive.
All that flavour does not come without another cost, of course. The process of creating the fat-riddled liver involves force-feeding the fowl for the last two weeks or so before slaughter. There is a natural gorging stage in the life of migratory geese, where the birds will voluntarily over-eat to similar (although less extreme) effect. (An 'ethical' version of foie gras is produced by slaughtering birds at this stage, although it is by necessity a seasonal thing.) Most production of foie is done by gavage, or deliberate force-feeding of corn and, naturally, this is considered by some to be unacceptably cruel.
A number of bans of foie gras production have been enacted - in parts of the EU, Turkey, Israel, and California (although it doesn't take effect for another three years) - although these have little effect, since the vast majority of it is produced in France, Hungary, other parts of the US and Quebec. The city of Chicago briefly outlawed its sale in 2006, but the ban was short-lived and widely ignored. We in Ottawa have had a charming group of protesters who have harassed two excellent restaurants so far (Domus, and then Stephen Beckta's Play) through picketing and abusive emails and telephone calls. Beckta capitulated recently, although I was pleased to see that the protesters can claim no moral victory - his opinion hasn't changed, he just wanted to stop getting screamed at. (Sincerely, to anyone responsible for troubling Mr. Beckta, who is a very nice man, or his staff: go fuck yourself.)
I would like to emphasise that I don't entirely disagree with the protesters' position, much in the way that I don't disagree with many things vegans say about the consumption of meat. I won't attempt to say that eating artificially enlarged goose liver (or beef, or cheese) is just fine and dandy. There are genuine ethical questions - or rather, there aren't - raised by the consumption of meat and dairy, and it's not hard to see why the protesters feel it's an issue worth getting worked up about. But it is difficult to understand why they feel that their tactics are an acceptable response, or why they feel a right to regulate what a small portion of the public chooses to eat when it goes out. Indeed, one wonders why they've chosen to pick on small, independent local businesses whose methods they would otherwise applaud, and who in turn support local, sustainable farms.
It's true, as the protesters breathlessly insist, that some foie gras is produced from geese kept in cages and treated poorly - crappy foie that no restaurant worth eating at would serve. In much the same way, one can get lousy meat of any kind from shitty, cut-rate producers who treat animals (and most likely their workers) poorly, or you can give a shit, pay a little more and get meat raised by people who care about what they're doing. Chefs - good chefs, at least - are well aware of the conditions under which their food is produced, and generally will buy locally from farms that they can visit (or even work at) whenever possible. The notion that the protests are about "informing" restauranteurs about what they're serving is laughable.
I’m reminded of what Ian at Mariposa farms was saying about it – foie gras is actually a canard (pardon the pun); the activists actually would like to ban the eating of meat entirely, but since that wouldn’t attract much support or produce results, they pick on something smaller. Which, tactically, makes some sense; but again it’s dishonest, and it’s picking on something that makes such a tiny difference that it distracts from a useful resistance to factory farms or the raising of battery hens (why not encourage people to support to restaurants that use sustainable and smaller-scale suppliers instead? Oh, right, those are the same places.)
It’s easy to pick on something that hardly anyone eats, and that has great photo ops and it’s easy to exaggerate about, because you’ll get some result you can point to and say, ‘we saved some ducks’ lives’ (that’s an actual quote from a protester’s comment to the Citizen.) But of course, they didn’t save any ducks’ (let alone geese's) lives. There were two possible results: those livers will be sold somewhere else, or the farm that provides Beckta with his foie will stop producing it (and/or possibly go out of business, since I would assume it’s a fairly profitable commodity.) But the ducks will still die, as all living things die, and if they’re out in the wild, they will most likely die more slowly and painfully than at the hands of a farmer. While it might be a comfort to squishy urban liberals that the duck died a ‘natural’ death in the jaws of a predator or under the wheels of a car, I can't imagine the duck sharing that rosy view.
*I'd like to emphasise that crispy, pan-seared foie is pretty much the only preparation I enjoy. I've had foie poutine, and was slightly repulsed by the texture.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The strike, and general political carping.
It's day 47, now. Tomorrow, January 26th, is the day that Parliament resumes business after the pirogies or prorogation or whatever you want to call that nonsense they got up to back in November.
My analogy of choice was to a poker game, where both sides overplayed weak hands. Harper threw down a pair of twos (the pre-budget announcement) and said "ha!" Dion and Layton countered with their own pair of twos, but with an outside ace (the coalition), whereupon Harper called the cops (GG) to break up the game. And as miserably as things worked out - our government was AWOL at the moment that everyone else (he said smugly) worked out that our economy's fundamentals were, in fact, completely fucked - I think that the pirogieing was probably the least-bad option available.
Had Harper pushed his exceptionally dumb move - and had the coalition idea not come together, or if Duceppe had chosen not to support the Liberal/NDP partnership - we would have faced an election again almost immediately after one called, unnecessarily and unwanted by all except Harper. And it would have meant that in three years, we'd have voted federally three times, to effectively identical results. And Harper could claim - he'd almost certainly still be minority PM - that the political instability had led to the economic woes, and if he'd had a free hand, by gum, things would've been just peachy.
Alternatively, as would have been a tactically smart move, had Dion, Layton and Duceppe had kept mum about their plan until after they voted the mini-budget down and then announced their plan to avoid an election, the roars of umbrage from conservatives - and as much as I don't like it, there are a significant number of them - would have been louder and more unreasonable than they actually were. And that was just for announcing their intentions. When the next election came along - and it would come well before things stopped getting worse economically - the Conservatives would have the golden opportunity to point to the state of affairs and claim that things were just fine until their firm hands were wrenched away from the tiller.
Both scenarios would result in medium-term gains for the CPC, and the serious possibility of long-term damage to both Liberals and NDP. As events actually transpired, Harper now - I hope - faces a party disillusioned about his leadership and tactical skills, an array of provincial leaders demanding he start dealing with their woes, and an uphill climb to that majority status that seemed so close a few months ago. The fact is, he'll never get it. Another leader, one with skills and empathy and a willingness to work with the opposition - for no real reason, I'm thinking Peter McKay, although he's probably unpalatable to Western conservatives - could get there if things don't go quite as miserably as I'm fearful they will. But Harper has, I think, fluffed his last, best shot.
The Liberals, whom I don't support by the way, got a freebie; when Ms. Jean sent the MPs home early, it gave the Grits time to do the housecleaning they needed. While I have problems with Ignatieff on a small raft of issues, the fact that he's a smart, worldly guy and not ashamed of it is kind of refreshing. And I say 'refreshing' in contrast not only to the last few Conservative/Reform leaders (Day was dumb and provincial, Harper is smart but small-minded) but also those on the centre-left and left (Layton is smart but uninspired about it, Dion was smart but seemed apologetic about it, and Martin appeared to not be aware if he was smart or not.) I don't know if the Liberals will be able to recover in time for the next election - and I agree that this country needs one in February 'like a hole in the head' - but if we make it to the what-the-hell?-fixed-election date in 2010, I would hope that the Liberals will be looking at a clear improvement, and possibly even a win.
(Part of why I don't think the CPC will manage to get out of their doldrums - other than the economy tanking - is that their front bench is wafer-thin. What potential heirs to the throne exist? A few years ago I might have said Chuck Strahl, but like most of the others, he barely gets to utter a peep. Prentice or McKay might be decent, but the former's a Harper loyalist and the latter used to be Progressive Conservative, and I'm sure some hard-liners suspect him of Red Toryism. Outside of that: I don't see the next leader coming out of Ontario, now that they've made their breakthrough; and that leaves precious few names in Cabinet who aren't bumbling idiots [eg., Rona Ambrose, Jason Kenny] or total fuckwads [Vic Toews, Gary Lunn])
However, one thing that was exposed in that tumultuous week last year was the depths of petty, bitter feelings roiling under our boring surfaces. Sure, the pro-Harper protesters may have been party activists, but they were still there, and the letters to the editor and cranky phone calls to cranky radio shows might be from, well, cranks, but...these are, presumably, that large minority of the public that votes Conservative and doesn't mind Pierre Poilivre's immature assholitry (for example.) That unwillingness to accept that the other side might have a legitimate point used to be something I saw only when I looked at the politics south of the border, and I really need to stop thinking that we're special and different. We're not.
And here's where I get to the OC Transpo strike. When the strike started on December 10th, I wailed and gnashed my teeth that because of the pirogieing, the drivers couldn't be ordered back to work until January 26th at the earliest. And since our terrible, terrible Mayor had decided that he didn't give a crap about settling quickly - and in fact, seemed primarily concerned with getting his way and damn the torpedoes, er, public - it looked like things were going to run right up until Xmas. I never, in my worst imaginings, thought that an elected city council would be so stupid as to let a transit strike run more than a couple of weeks.
But our mayor, aided by a scurrilous local press, has painted the issue as one of greedy union vs. all that is good and great. And a large part of the public bought it, at least for a while. There's certainly still a good constituency of people who care about exactly one thing: their property taxes. The rest of the city, for them, can go to hell; they've got their car, they're still getting to work and they're still getting out to their local Wal-mart. The fact that city businesses are losing an estimated $8 million dollars a day doesn't seem to bother them, so long as the city holds the line on property taxes. (These people are also probably going to bitch if their federal taxes don't go down, even though the Feds are starving the provinces - particularly Ontario - and thanks to the GST cut, are now facing structural deficits on top of the need for massive infrastructure spending.) And to gauge from the rhetoric - which might, of course, just be hot air - there's some very deep anger that's not going to fade quickly once this gets resolved, and that is frighteningly personal. (My own theory is that people stuck in traffic are stewing and getting angry; those like me, who have to walk to work - an hour and change each way - are getting exercise and fresh cold air, which keeps us level-headed.*)
It's depressing, really, to realize that you live in a city, a province, and a country full of mean, petty, blinkered people. And of course, there are lots of great people around who are smart, generous, open-minded, considerate, and so on. But I do wonder if they're not the minority.
So it turns out that Rona "Unsafe At Any Ministry" Ambrose has announced that she doesn't intend to order our bus drivers back to work, and that the city and union need to work it out themselves. Which, if this were December 9th, might be an admirable stance, given the city's half-witted negotiating technique, and intransigence on the one issue that union had announced they'd go to the mat on. I suspect that Mayor O'Brien's lack of experience with unions - his old job was running a staffing agency - has left him with a bunch of right-wing bullshit about them in place of understanding, which would explain why he was willing to waste two weeks on a free vote that any idiot - except the one that mattered - could have predicted would be soundly rejected. I'm pleased that as of today, at 12:30, city council appears to have sidelined O'Brien and made an overture to the union that 'revises' their bargaining position. But it's ridiculous that it's taken a month and a half for us to get here.
*smug? moi?
My analogy of choice was to a poker game, where both sides overplayed weak hands. Harper threw down a pair of twos (the pre-budget announcement) and said "ha!" Dion and Layton countered with their own pair of twos, but with an outside ace (the coalition), whereupon Harper called the cops (GG) to break up the game. And as miserably as things worked out - our government was AWOL at the moment that everyone else (he said smugly) worked out that our economy's fundamentals were, in fact, completely fucked - I think that the pirogieing was probably the least-bad option available.
Had Harper pushed his exceptionally dumb move - and had the coalition idea not come together, or if Duceppe had chosen not to support the Liberal/NDP partnership - we would have faced an election again almost immediately after one called, unnecessarily and unwanted by all except Harper. And it would have meant that in three years, we'd have voted federally three times, to effectively identical results. And Harper could claim - he'd almost certainly still be minority PM - that the political instability had led to the economic woes, and if he'd had a free hand, by gum, things would've been just peachy.
Alternatively, as would have been a tactically smart move, had Dion, Layton and Duceppe had kept mum about their plan until after they voted the mini-budget down and then announced their plan to avoid an election, the roars of umbrage from conservatives - and as much as I don't like it, there are a significant number of them - would have been louder and more unreasonable than they actually were. And that was just for announcing their intentions. When the next election came along - and it would come well before things stopped getting worse economically - the Conservatives would have the golden opportunity to point to the state of affairs and claim that things were just fine until their firm hands were wrenched away from the tiller.
Both scenarios would result in medium-term gains for the CPC, and the serious possibility of long-term damage to both Liberals and NDP. As events actually transpired, Harper now - I hope - faces a party disillusioned about his leadership and tactical skills, an array of provincial leaders demanding he start dealing with their woes, and an uphill climb to that majority status that seemed so close a few months ago. The fact is, he'll never get it. Another leader, one with skills and empathy and a willingness to work with the opposition - for no real reason, I'm thinking Peter McKay, although he's probably unpalatable to Western conservatives - could get there if things don't go quite as miserably as I'm fearful they will. But Harper has, I think, fluffed his last, best shot.
The Liberals, whom I don't support by the way, got a freebie; when Ms. Jean sent the MPs home early, it gave the Grits time to do the housecleaning they needed. While I have problems with Ignatieff on a small raft of issues, the fact that he's a smart, worldly guy and not ashamed of it is kind of refreshing. And I say 'refreshing' in contrast not only to the last few Conservative/Reform leaders (Day was dumb and provincial, Harper is smart but small-minded) but also those on the centre-left and left (Layton is smart but uninspired about it, Dion was smart but seemed apologetic about it, and Martin appeared to not be aware if he was smart or not.) I don't know if the Liberals will be able to recover in time for the next election - and I agree that this country needs one in February 'like a hole in the head' - but if we make it to the what-the-hell?-fixed-election date in 2010, I would hope that the Liberals will be looking at a clear improvement, and possibly even a win.
(Part of why I don't think the CPC will manage to get out of their doldrums - other than the economy tanking - is that their front bench is wafer-thin. What potential heirs to the throne exist? A few years ago I might have said Chuck Strahl, but like most of the others, he barely gets to utter a peep. Prentice or McKay might be decent, but the former's a Harper loyalist and the latter used to be Progressive Conservative, and I'm sure some hard-liners suspect him of Red Toryism. Outside of that: I don't see the next leader coming out of Ontario, now that they've made their breakthrough; and that leaves precious few names in Cabinet who aren't bumbling idiots [eg., Rona Ambrose, Jason Kenny] or total fuckwads [Vic Toews, Gary Lunn])
However, one thing that was exposed in that tumultuous week last year was the depths of petty, bitter feelings roiling under our boring surfaces. Sure, the pro-Harper protesters may have been party activists, but they were still there, and the letters to the editor and cranky phone calls to cranky radio shows might be from, well, cranks, but...these are, presumably, that large minority of the public that votes Conservative and doesn't mind Pierre Poilivre's immature assholitry (for example.) That unwillingness to accept that the other side might have a legitimate point used to be something I saw only when I looked at the politics south of the border, and I really need to stop thinking that we're special and different. We're not.
And here's where I get to the OC Transpo strike. When the strike started on December 10th, I wailed and gnashed my teeth that because of the pirogieing, the drivers couldn't be ordered back to work until January 26th at the earliest. And since our terrible, terrible Mayor had decided that he didn't give a crap about settling quickly - and in fact, seemed primarily concerned with getting his way and damn the torpedoes, er, public - it looked like things were going to run right up until Xmas. I never, in my worst imaginings, thought that an elected city council would be so stupid as to let a transit strike run more than a couple of weeks.
But our mayor, aided by a scurrilous local press, has painted the issue as one of greedy union vs. all that is good and great. And a large part of the public bought it, at least for a while. There's certainly still a good constituency of people who care about exactly one thing: their property taxes. The rest of the city, for them, can go to hell; they've got their car, they're still getting to work and they're still getting out to their local Wal-mart. The fact that city businesses are losing an estimated $8 million dollars a day doesn't seem to bother them, so long as the city holds the line on property taxes. (These people are also probably going to bitch if their federal taxes don't go down, even though the Feds are starving the provinces - particularly Ontario - and thanks to the GST cut, are now facing structural deficits on top of the need for massive infrastructure spending.) And to gauge from the rhetoric - which might, of course, just be hot air - there's some very deep anger that's not going to fade quickly once this gets resolved, and that is frighteningly personal. (My own theory is that people stuck in traffic are stewing and getting angry; those like me, who have to walk to work - an hour and change each way - are getting exercise and fresh cold air, which keeps us level-headed.*)
It's depressing, really, to realize that you live in a city, a province, and a country full of mean, petty, blinkered people. And of course, there are lots of great people around who are smart, generous, open-minded, considerate, and so on. But I do wonder if they're not the minority.
So it turns out that Rona "Unsafe At Any Ministry" Ambrose has announced that she doesn't intend to order our bus drivers back to work, and that the city and union need to work it out themselves. Which, if this were December 9th, might be an admirable stance, given the city's half-witted negotiating technique, and intransigence on the one issue that union had announced they'd go to the mat on. I suspect that Mayor O'Brien's lack of experience with unions - his old job was running a staffing agency - has left him with a bunch of right-wing bullshit about them in place of understanding, which would explain why he was willing to waste two weeks on a free vote that any idiot - except the one that mattered - could have predicted would be soundly rejected. I'm pleased that as of today, at 12:30, city council appears to have sidelined O'Brien and made an overture to the union that 'revises' their bargaining position. But it's ridiculous that it's taken a month and a half for us to get here.
*smug? moi?
Friday, January 09, 2009
Another Year End Round-Up, In Which I Am Surprisingly Nice About Nostalgia For The Goddamned Eighties.
So, last year was pretty rotten for me personally, what with one of my favourite pair of socks wearing out. Oh, and the break-up. That was pretty bad too.
Movies: I saw about three new movies last year, so I'll just say: Wall-E was the best one; there were a couple of comic-book adaptations, and Planet B-Boy, which I think by default was the worst one I saw. But it was still pretty good.
Books: I read a Jane Austen book this year! I had no idea she wrote comedies. I'd probably have given her a chance much earlier if I'd known that.
The Other Arts: My friend Liz made me feel like a Philistine with her list of theatre- and gallery-going. It then occurred to me that I went to galleries in three provinces (Ontario, Quebec and Manitoba), attended a performance by the National Ballet in their fancy new home, and...well, okay, I didn't see any plays or operas or anything. But I did see the Yves St-Laurent retrospective and thought it lacked context. How's that for a trenchant criticism? BAM!
Music: On the other hand, I listened to a lot of new music in '08. And it was a very good year.
1. Torche, Meanderthal
You know, I miss new Superchunk records. This more than makes up for the lack. Thunderous and catchy at the same time; not unlike Chavez at their best.
2. Fucked Up, The Chemistry of Common Life
Like I said about their last record: this is hardcore living up to its potential. This is hardcore getting old gracefully.
3. Deerhunter, Microcastle/Weird Era Revisted
Not sure which one I like more, the glossy one or the cavernous one.
4. Oneida, Preteen Weaponry
Runs the gamut from space-rock to spacey Kraut-rock. Three songs, 40 minutes, bliss.
5. Cadence Weapon, Afterparty Babies
The best rapper in all of Alberta strikes again, and is witty and nerdy and samples Brian Eno.
The many, many runners-up:
Not-Really-An-Album Category
Girl Talk, Feed The Animals; Jay Reatard, Matador Singles '08.
The former is a mash-up (and the best and most shockingly vulgar dance party you'll have all year), the latter is the best singles comp I've heard since Tossing Seeds.
I-Wish-It-Was-1985-And-I-Was-Watching-Friday-Night-Videos Category
M83, Saturdays=Youth
To be honest, I kind of hate this record, but can't bring myself to stop listening to it. There's a lot of really stupid, embarrassing things on it - pretty much every time their female vocalist opens her mouth, for instance, and the whole thing is like the soundtrack to a John Hughes movie about goths - but it's got something. Or else I'm just stupid.
I-Wish-It-Was-1985-And-I-Was-Signed-To-Homestead Category
Parts & Labor, Receivers
Okay, there's a little too much technology here to sound that retro, but the sound of this record is very 80's Midwestern postpunk (yes, that's a thing.) And it's a kickass album, too.
Snotty Punks Still Rule OK Category
No Age, Nouns; Titus Andronicus, The Airing of Grievances; Born Ruffians, Red Yellow and Blue; Tokyo Police Club, Elephant Shell.
Very quickly - No Age are the arty Angelenos, Titus Andronicus swear a lot, Born Ruffians are punks the way Jonathan Richman was a punk, and Tokyo Police Club...well, they're just fun.
I-Wish-It-Was-1986-Or-Possibly-1994 Category
Vivian Girls, s/t; Los Campesinos!, Hold On Now, Youngster/We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
I thought earlier this year how unusual that a band would release a full-on twee album in 2008, and then that band - who are Welsh, even - released a second one. And the Vivian Girls decided to channel either the Shop Assistants or Scrawl (both perfectly acceptable, but hardly au courant.)
I Do So Listen To Metal Category
Disfear, Live the Storm; Harvey Milk, Life...The Best Game In Town; Earth, Bees Made Honey In The Lion's Skull.
Disfear are for the kind of person who does yoga while blasting Motorhead. It's a shame that challenging, unpredictable bands like Harvey Milk get lumped into this 'genre' and ignored, because you (yes, you) would probably like them if you gave 'em a chance. To say nothing of Earth, which is what you should be listening to during yoga class. Really!
Worst thing I heard all year: Hercules & Love Affair. Antony (of the Johnsons) brings his horrific voice to some truly wretched dance twaddle. Avoid at all costs.
Looking forward to 2009: New albums from Neko Case, Andrew Bird, Belle Orchestre, Tim Hecker, Mastodon, Buried Inside, Dan Deacon, and Grizzly Bear; the Watchmen movie (fingers crossed), and an end to this frackin' bus strike. Happy January!
Movies: I saw about three new movies last year, so I'll just say: Wall-E was the best one; there were a couple of comic-book adaptations, and Planet B-Boy, which I think by default was the worst one I saw. But it was still pretty good.
Books: I read a Jane Austen book this year! I had no idea she wrote comedies. I'd probably have given her a chance much earlier if I'd known that.
The Other Arts: My friend Liz made me feel like a Philistine with her list of theatre- and gallery-going. It then occurred to me that I went to galleries in three provinces (Ontario, Quebec and Manitoba), attended a performance by the National Ballet in their fancy new home, and...well, okay, I didn't see any plays or operas or anything. But I did see the Yves St-Laurent retrospective and thought it lacked context. How's that for a trenchant criticism? BAM!
Music: On the other hand, I listened to a lot of new music in '08. And it was a very good year.
1. Torche, Meanderthal
You know, I miss new Superchunk records. This more than makes up for the lack. Thunderous and catchy at the same time; not unlike Chavez at their best.
2. Fucked Up, The Chemistry of Common Life
Like I said about their last record: this is hardcore living up to its potential. This is hardcore getting old gracefully.
3. Deerhunter, Microcastle/Weird Era Revisted
Not sure which one I like more, the glossy one or the cavernous one.
4. Oneida, Preteen Weaponry
Runs the gamut from space-rock to spacey Kraut-rock. Three songs, 40 minutes, bliss.
5. Cadence Weapon, Afterparty Babies
The best rapper in all of Alberta strikes again, and is witty and nerdy and samples Brian Eno.
The many, many runners-up:
Not-Really-An-Album Category
Girl Talk, Feed The Animals; Jay Reatard, Matador Singles '08.
The former is a mash-up (and the best and most shockingly vulgar dance party you'll have all year), the latter is the best singles comp I've heard since Tossing Seeds.
I-Wish-It-Was-1985-And-I-Was-Watching-Friday-Night-Videos Category
M83, Saturdays=Youth
To be honest, I kind of hate this record, but can't bring myself to stop listening to it. There's a lot of really stupid, embarrassing things on it - pretty much every time their female vocalist opens her mouth, for instance, and the whole thing is like the soundtrack to a John Hughes movie about goths - but it's got something. Or else I'm just stupid.
I-Wish-It-Was-1985-And-I-Was-Signed-To-Homestead Category
Parts & Labor, Receivers
Okay, there's a little too much technology here to sound that retro, but the sound of this record is very 80's Midwestern postpunk (yes, that's a thing.) And it's a kickass album, too.
Snotty Punks Still Rule OK Category
No Age, Nouns; Titus Andronicus, The Airing of Grievances; Born Ruffians, Red Yellow and Blue; Tokyo Police Club, Elephant Shell.
Very quickly - No Age are the arty Angelenos, Titus Andronicus swear a lot, Born Ruffians are punks the way Jonathan Richman was a punk, and Tokyo Police Club...well, they're just fun.
I-Wish-It-Was-1986-Or-Possibly-1994 Category
Vivian Girls, s/t; Los Campesinos!, Hold On Now, Youngster/We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed
I thought earlier this year how unusual that a band would release a full-on twee album in 2008, and then that band - who are Welsh, even - released a second one. And the Vivian Girls decided to channel either the Shop Assistants or Scrawl (both perfectly acceptable, but hardly au courant.)
I Do So Listen To Metal Category
Disfear, Live the Storm; Harvey Milk, Life...The Best Game In Town; Earth, Bees Made Honey In The Lion's Skull.
Disfear are for the kind of person who does yoga while blasting Motorhead. It's a shame that challenging, unpredictable bands like Harvey Milk get lumped into this 'genre' and ignored, because you (yes, you) would probably like them if you gave 'em a chance. To say nothing of Earth, which is what you should be listening to during yoga class. Really!
Worst thing I heard all year: Hercules & Love Affair. Antony (of the Johnsons) brings his horrific voice to some truly wretched dance twaddle. Avoid at all costs.
Looking forward to 2009: New albums from Neko Case, Andrew Bird, Belle Orchestre, Tim Hecker, Mastodon, Buried Inside, Dan Deacon, and Grizzly Bear; the Watchmen movie (fingers crossed), and an end to this frackin' bus strike. Happy January!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Rebounding (in oh so many ways)
Things are in flux these days 'round the, well, let's call it the former Hall of Crammits*, in case you hadn't heard. We've called it quits as a couple, J and I; we're both a little heartbroken about it, but we're still on good terms so don't a) feel the need to give us that tilted-head-sotto-voce "how're you doing?", and b) worry about tiptoeing around us. We're doing fine. I think. (Booze helps.)
All of this came down as the new Death Cab for Cutie record, Narrow Stairs, was getting some heavy rotation around the house. As with most of their other albums, it's littered with breakup songs, like "You Can Do Better Than Me", and "Your New Twin Sized Bed" ("You look so defeated lying there...with a single pillow underneath your single head"). So needless to say, it's a tough one for either of us to listen to without getting upset. Thanks a lot, emo jerks.
Of course, it's also a pretty good record; I've liked most of theirs since my friend Cara introduced me to We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes back when. They've hit something of a plateau over the last couple - I doubt they'll ever improve on 2002's Transatlanticism - so this, like the last one, peters out really badly and contains a couple of outright duds. The single and heart of the record is the eight-minute "I Will Possess Your Heart", one of those creepy songs that will probably (like "Every Breath You Take" or "The One I Love") have the verse lyrics get ignored by thousands of dumbassed couples who prefer to latch on to a cursory reading of the refrain. (I guess it's good that they point themselves out like that.) The intro runs more than four and a half minutes before the first line is sung, and that's something I just adore; the way it feels like the song's nearly done before you realize that everything so far has just been preamble. (My old band Kepler had a song early on that did something similar, and it was long my favourite to play.)
~
I don't know why Band of Horses aren't gigantic. Their second LP, Cease to Begin is one of those summery, good-time rock records that can catapult an otherwise average band into the world of stadiums and beer endorsements. It's a decent improvement over their first record, Everything All The Time, which lacked that hard-to-define but essential rock element, 'oomf.' This time around, the group sound like they've toured out this batch of songs, and found a balance between the often-delicate arrangements and the desire to bring the (southern) rock. Admittedly, I still don't always follow what they're singing about, but again, that's not what's going to bring them the hordes of fans. No, what's going to pull 'em in are the partyable rockers ("The General Specific", "Islands on the Coast") and the sensitive songs ("No One's Going to Love You"), both of which they manage ably. Their singer's voice, too, has improved; it's now reminiscient of Carl Newman's (Zumpano/New Pornographers) reedy, high-but-not-falsetto tone, instead of Jon Anderson (the horrible elf-dweeb from Yes). So that's been a daily listen for me the past month.
I'm also kind of taken with Born Ruffians' Red Yellow and Blue, which had been on the long list for this year's Polaris prize but didn't make the cut (more on that in a minute.) It's an odd record - there's songs that wouldn't sound out of place in a Swell Maps set, and others that remind me of Jonathan Richman's rougher material - and I'm not sure exactly what to make of it. But I suspect that, not unlike their Warp labelmates Grizzly Bear, it's a record that'll reward persistence.
~
I like that the Polaris Prize exists. I have no idea if it's creating much of an effect on Canadian music, either in terms of sales or output, but at least for me it's an encouragement to look up homegrown groups that I might otherwise have never heard. (My friend JCarnie has clips from some of this year's nominees on her blog, for thems that want a sampling of Canada's newest hitmakers.)
The shortlist came out last week, and to win, I'm putting my theoretical money on Basia Bulat's staggeringly dull and charmless Oh! My Darling (given last years' winner, the equally uninteresting Patrick Watson). It's not a bad list, although a little predictable (it's all the hipster favourites!) but having seen the original pool of potential nominees, I'm disappointed with a couple of their omissions. As I said above, I think Born Ruffians should have been included, and I'd rather have Cadence Weapon and/or Thee Silver Mt. Zion instead of, for instance, Stars' unperforming In Our Bedroom After The War or Holy F*ck's good idea/lame execution dance machine. But I am pleased that the Wearkerthans' Reunion Tour and Black Mountain's In The Future are nominees; I'd be content with either of them, or even Caribou's Andorra taking the prize. But as I said above, I'm guessing I'll end up grumbling.
~
I recently saw David Fincher's Zodiac, which was awfully long and had Cloë Sevigny. To be fair, despite its significant length (nearly 3 hours) I only looked at my watch a couple of times; and Cloë's part was mercifully small. The film is based on the true story of the Zodiac killer, who apparently terrorized the San Francisco area in the late 60's and early 70's before disappearing (he was never caught, and his identity remains, officially, unknown.) The focus is on a homicide detective (Mark Ruffalo) following the case over the years, and a San Francisco Chronicle cartoonist (Jake Gyllenhall) who becomes increasingly obsessed with the killer. Given the subject matter, there's little gore - given the fact that he only actually killed a half-dozen people, I guess that makes sense - and it's all over well within the first hour. There's also an entertaining performance by Robert Downey Jr., as the Chronicle's crime reporter, who slowly dissolves into a fierce alcoholism. Which, I know, is a huge stretch for him. Here's the thing, though: I usually have a major hate-on for Downey, and not only did I enjoy watching him in Zodiac, I found him terribly engaging in Iron Man. (Maybe I just don't like him clean-shaven.) Actually, I think the main difference between his younger roles and where he's at now is that he looks like he's having fun, and it's an infectious kind of glee.
The other notable thing I saw recently was Pixar's latest release, WALL-E. My feelings about it are pretty similar to what Phil Nugent wrote, although I did only tear up a bit (what with my metal heart and all). This now brings the number of films that have made me cry to five (for the record: Dancer in the Dark, Hotel Rwanda, When The Levees Broke and Ratatouille, also a Pixar joint.) There's very little dialogue, and none at all for the first half hour or so; and like with other Pixar films, there's very little pandering. No cutesy pop-culture references (although there are homages to 2001, a couple of clips from Hello, Dolly! and there's an air of "we just recently watched Silent Running" to the who thing), minor celebrity voice-casting, and not a single character who would qualify as 'sassy'. If I had kids (shudder), I'd make 'em watch WALL-E and tell them, "This is why you're not allowed to watch that Shrek trash."
~
*So I guess that technically, this blog needs a new name. And anyone able to direct me to a one-bedroom in walking distance of downtown available for September 1st (under $950/mo.) is my new best friend.
All of this came down as the new Death Cab for Cutie record, Narrow Stairs, was getting some heavy rotation around the house. As with most of their other albums, it's littered with breakup songs, like "You Can Do Better Than Me", and "Your New Twin Sized Bed" ("You look so defeated lying there...with a single pillow underneath your single head"). So needless to say, it's a tough one for either of us to listen to without getting upset. Thanks a lot, emo jerks.
Of course, it's also a pretty good record; I've liked most of theirs since my friend Cara introduced me to We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes back when. They've hit something of a plateau over the last couple - I doubt they'll ever improve on 2002's Transatlanticism - so this, like the last one, peters out really badly and contains a couple of outright duds. The single and heart of the record is the eight-minute "I Will Possess Your Heart", one of those creepy songs that will probably (like "Every Breath You Take" or "The One I Love") have the verse lyrics get ignored by thousands of dumbassed couples who prefer to latch on to a cursory reading of the refrain. (I guess it's good that they point themselves out like that.) The intro runs more than four and a half minutes before the first line is sung, and that's something I just adore; the way it feels like the song's nearly done before you realize that everything so far has just been preamble. (My old band Kepler had a song early on that did something similar, and it was long my favourite to play.)
~
I don't know why Band of Horses aren't gigantic. Their second LP, Cease to Begin is one of those summery, good-time rock records that can catapult an otherwise average band into the world of stadiums and beer endorsements. It's a decent improvement over their first record, Everything All The Time, which lacked that hard-to-define but essential rock element, 'oomf.' This time around, the group sound like they've toured out this batch of songs, and found a balance between the often-delicate arrangements and the desire to bring the (southern) rock. Admittedly, I still don't always follow what they're singing about, but again, that's not what's going to bring them the hordes of fans. No, what's going to pull 'em in are the partyable rockers ("The General Specific", "Islands on the Coast") and the sensitive songs ("No One's Going to Love You"), both of which they manage ably. Their singer's voice, too, has improved; it's now reminiscient of Carl Newman's (Zumpano/New Pornographers) reedy, high-but-not-falsetto tone, instead of Jon Anderson (the horrible elf-dweeb from Yes). So that's been a daily listen for me the past month.
I'm also kind of taken with Born Ruffians' Red Yellow and Blue, which had been on the long list for this year's Polaris prize but didn't make the cut (more on that in a minute.) It's an odd record - there's songs that wouldn't sound out of place in a Swell Maps set, and others that remind me of Jonathan Richman's rougher material - and I'm not sure exactly what to make of it. But I suspect that, not unlike their Warp labelmates Grizzly Bear, it's a record that'll reward persistence.
~
I like that the Polaris Prize exists. I have no idea if it's creating much of an effect on Canadian music, either in terms of sales or output, but at least for me it's an encouragement to look up homegrown groups that I might otherwise have never heard. (My friend JCarnie has clips from some of this year's nominees on her blog, for thems that want a sampling of Canada's newest hitmakers.)
The shortlist came out last week, and to win, I'm putting my theoretical money on Basia Bulat's staggeringly dull and charmless Oh! My Darling (given last years' winner, the equally uninteresting Patrick Watson). It's not a bad list, although a little predictable (it's all the hipster favourites!) but having seen the original pool of potential nominees, I'm disappointed with a couple of their omissions. As I said above, I think Born Ruffians should have been included, and I'd rather have Cadence Weapon and/or Thee Silver Mt. Zion instead of, for instance, Stars' unperforming In Our Bedroom After The War or Holy F*ck's good idea/lame execution dance machine. But I am pleased that the Wearkerthans' Reunion Tour and Black Mountain's In The Future are nominees; I'd be content with either of them, or even Caribou's Andorra taking the prize. But as I said above, I'm guessing I'll end up grumbling.
~
I recently saw David Fincher's Zodiac, which was awfully long and had Cloë Sevigny. To be fair, despite its significant length (nearly 3 hours) I only looked at my watch a couple of times; and Cloë's part was mercifully small. The film is based on the true story of the Zodiac killer, who apparently terrorized the San Francisco area in the late 60's and early 70's before disappearing (he was never caught, and his identity remains, officially, unknown.) The focus is on a homicide detective (Mark Ruffalo) following the case over the years, and a San Francisco Chronicle cartoonist (Jake Gyllenhall) who becomes increasingly obsessed with the killer. Given the subject matter, there's little gore - given the fact that he only actually killed a half-dozen people, I guess that makes sense - and it's all over well within the first hour. There's also an entertaining performance by Robert Downey Jr., as the Chronicle's crime reporter, who slowly dissolves into a fierce alcoholism. Which, I know, is a huge stretch for him. Here's the thing, though: I usually have a major hate-on for Downey, and not only did I enjoy watching him in Zodiac, I found him terribly engaging in Iron Man. (Maybe I just don't like him clean-shaven.) Actually, I think the main difference between his younger roles and where he's at now is that he looks like he's having fun, and it's an infectious kind of glee.
The other notable thing I saw recently was Pixar's latest release, WALL-E. My feelings about it are pretty similar to what Phil Nugent wrote, although I did only tear up a bit (what with my metal heart and all). This now brings the number of films that have made me cry to five (for the record: Dancer in the Dark, Hotel Rwanda, When The Levees Broke and Ratatouille, also a Pixar joint.) There's very little dialogue, and none at all for the first half hour or so; and like with other Pixar films, there's very little pandering. No cutesy pop-culture references (although there are homages to 2001, a couple of clips from Hello, Dolly! and there's an air of "we just recently watched Silent Running" to the who thing), minor celebrity voice-casting, and not a single character who would qualify as 'sassy'. If I had kids (shudder), I'd make 'em watch WALL-E and tell them, "This is why you're not allowed to watch that Shrek trash."
~
*So I guess that technically, this blog needs a new name. And anyone able to direct me to a one-bedroom in walking distance of downtown available for September 1st (under $950/mo.) is my new best friend.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Out of hibernation
Sorry about the vanishing act there. So. Lots of new stuff...so I'll talk about old TV and old music.
In the "big disappointments" category: one arrived, as it often does, in a red Zip envelope. You probably haven't ever heard of the series Buffalo Bill, let alone ever seen it, because it didn't last terribly long, wasn't popular, and as far as I know, was never shown in syndication. It did get at least one good - heck, great - review when it first aired back in early '83, which I read at the time, and is why I looked it up.
Unfortunately, it's fucking awful.
The series starred Dabney Coleman as a misanthropic, self-centred, hapless talk-show host (not unlike a malicious Alan Partridge), which sounds like comedy gold waiting to happen. However, the scripts are weak and predictable, the surprisingly sturdy supporting cast are wasted, and there's a laugh track (which only highlights the fact that the preceding line wasn't funny.) The show also looks a lot older than it is - roughly about the vintage of The Bob Newhart Show, with the exception of the opening credits, which have that almost-handwritten typeface so popular on California-themed restaurants in the 80's. If it weren't for the women's haircuts (uniformly pouffy) and the lack of trouser flares, I'd have guessed that this show sat in the can, unaired until Coleman became bankable after Tootsie and/or series regular (and writer, apparently) Geena Davis attracted some notice for...um...also Tootsie.
More enjoyable was Chinatown (although I probably don't have to tell you that). If you haven't seen it, it's an excellent modern noir; as much a story of water rights and the development of Los Angeles as a story about a murder (like how Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, with its digression into the destruction of public transit in post-war L.A.) Jack Nicholson puts in a great performance of the kind he hasn't since, oh, The Shining, which can be startling if (like me) you're used to him being JACK™ in every role.
We also finally got the classic love triangle story Jules et Jim, which Jess surprised me by liking immensely (given her earlier disdain for the other nouvelle vague films we've seen). It's a difficult one, I've got to say; the mercurial Catherine (who loves both Jules and Jim, among others) is painful to watch, and Jules either needed to grow a pair or admit that he's out of his depth with her (a lesson that, ahem, certain other men could learn from). Also weird: Henri Serre (who plays Jim)'s startling resemblance to Chris Noth.
My favourite scene of the film - and it's the most new wavey moment in it - is where the three leads are walking down the street after having attended a play, and the men start criticising the direction, script and staging in such a way that it could easily apply to Jules et Jim as well. Which is what I've decided is my favourite thing about that school of filmmaking - their absolute refusal to let the audience 'lose' themselves in the artifice of it all. It takes some getting used to, but it is possible to love a film even when you're being reminded that yes, you are watching a construction.
- -
My recent musical fixation has been Roxy Music, particularly their early albums For Your Pleasure and Country Life (and no, I am not merely fixated on the cover art.) It's a little strange, to me at least, that this represents my first real stab at listening to the band, given that I've been a long-time fan of Bowie's glam phase and my total adoration of Brian Eno's pop records (which came out immediately after his split with the band). I've also always liked Bryan Ferry's voice - he had a trashy pop hit in '85 with "Slave to Love", which I enjoyed in the same sort of way I like Steely Dan (and wow, that's another story): it's sulty and mature and sounds like being quietly drunk in the afternoon. But, alas, my brother had only a copy of their 1980 album Flesh + Blood in his collection, and so my first impression was that I really didn't care for their weak shit.
Years passed, and every once in a while I'd hear somebody talk about Roxy Music's early, weird phase, and I'd think about checking them out; but then I'd forget, but then I'd buy a Sea and Cake record and my desire for languid, decadent pop would be sated for another couple of years. And then there was that scene in Lost in Translation, after which I knew I needed to get a copy of "More Than This". Unfortunately (again), it's from Avalon, which isn't a very good record - too eighties by half, and even that song is much glossier than I'm comfortable with - but I think I gave it a fair listen before discarding it.
Their first few, though - in the years 1971-74, man, that's some excellent stuff. The band, particularly on the self-titled debut, anticipate the jarring angularity of post-punk, while still the spectre of prog-rock (Ferry had auditioned to be vocalist for King Crimson prior to forming RM) hangs over the proceedings. The group's rough edges (aka Brian Eno) get smoothed out on Stranded (1973), and by 1975's Siren (with its hit single, "Love is the Drug") there's little remarkable about them.
It's interesting to see how the band hasn't been lionized as glam icons the way that, for instance, T. Rex were. A quick side-by-side comparison of their music (the former's "Out of the Blue" vs. Bolan's "Ride A White Swan"): one's sexy, noisy and overblown, while the other's a jangly but straightforward blues song with hippy-assed lyrics. Go figure. At their beginnings, of course, Roxy Music were thoroughly aligned with glam-rock (no doubt aided by their aggressively pan-sexual appearance) but perhaps they're one of those bands who started as out cool in a subculture but squandered it through bland MOR success (cf. The Police, the Bangles).
- -
And my last recent curiosity has been, apparently, women with the last name Deschanel. First off is Zoey, who appears on the slight but endlessly charming album Volume One, with singer/songwriter M. Ward (under the name She & Him.) Ward isn't someone I've had any real exposure to; he's on a couple of Merge Records compilations I own, and generally I skip his contributions. He's often touted as a brilliant songwriter by the same critical sources who rave about, for instance, Ron Sexsmith, which I take as evidence that I'm not missing anything I'd enjoy. But She & Him is quite a different beast: her voice, while far from perfect, has a winning sassyness, and the arrangements are sunny and twangy with an early-60's pop feel. It's not going to change the world, but "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" ought to liven up more than a couple of parties. (She's also an actress, which I keep forgetting, even though I've seen her in like, five things, and look forward to seeing her in The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford.)
Then there's her sister Emily, who appears in the post-mortem-investigation-drama (and really, how did that become a whole genre?) Bones, which we've tuned into the last few weeks and found, to our surprise, a real gem. The show is based on the life and novels of Kathy Reichs, although to what degree I'm not sure (she gets writing credits on every episode, although that doesn't necessarily mean anything). The interplay between Deschanel and co-star David Boreanaz is stellar; when combined with their supporting cast of oddly sexy medical examiners, the effect is a little dizzying. (One treat is John Francis Daley, formerly of Freaks and Geeks, whose role as a smug, boyish FBI profiler teeters between love-to-hate and just-plain-love.) Individually the two are entertaining enough for their own programs - Deschanel plays up her complete social alienation without being Spock, while Boreanaz...heck, he could host a telethon and I'd watch for hours (shut up). Having just jumped in at the end of their third season, there's a good possibility that the show isn't usually this good, or that it's about to suck mightily. But for the moment, I'm still very intrigued.
In the "big disappointments" category: one arrived, as it often does, in a red Zip envelope. You probably haven't ever heard of the series Buffalo Bill, let alone ever seen it, because it didn't last terribly long, wasn't popular, and as far as I know, was never shown in syndication. It did get at least one good - heck, great - review when it first aired back in early '83, which I read at the time, and is why I looked it up.
Unfortunately, it's fucking awful.
The series starred Dabney Coleman as a misanthropic, self-centred, hapless talk-show host (not unlike a malicious Alan Partridge), which sounds like comedy gold waiting to happen. However, the scripts are weak and predictable, the surprisingly sturdy supporting cast are wasted, and there's a laugh track (which only highlights the fact that the preceding line wasn't funny.) The show also looks a lot older than it is - roughly about the vintage of The Bob Newhart Show, with the exception of the opening credits, which have that almost-handwritten typeface so popular on California-themed restaurants in the 80's. If it weren't for the women's haircuts (uniformly pouffy) and the lack of trouser flares, I'd have guessed that this show sat in the can, unaired until Coleman became bankable after Tootsie and/or series regular (and writer, apparently) Geena Davis attracted some notice for...um...also Tootsie.
More enjoyable was Chinatown (although I probably don't have to tell you that). If you haven't seen it, it's an excellent modern noir; as much a story of water rights and the development of Los Angeles as a story about a murder (like how Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, with its digression into the destruction of public transit in post-war L.A.) Jack Nicholson puts in a great performance of the kind he hasn't since, oh, The Shining, which can be startling if (like me) you're used to him being JACK™ in every role.
We also finally got the classic love triangle story Jules et Jim, which Jess surprised me by liking immensely (given her earlier disdain for the other nouvelle vague films we've seen). It's a difficult one, I've got to say; the mercurial Catherine (who loves both Jules and Jim, among others) is painful to watch, and Jules either needed to grow a pair or admit that he's out of his depth with her (a lesson that, ahem, certain other men could learn from). Also weird: Henri Serre (who plays Jim)'s startling resemblance to Chris Noth.
My favourite scene of the film - and it's the most new wavey moment in it - is where the three leads are walking down the street after having attended a play, and the men start criticising the direction, script and staging in such a way that it could easily apply to Jules et Jim as well. Which is what I've decided is my favourite thing about that school of filmmaking - their absolute refusal to let the audience 'lose' themselves in the artifice of it all. It takes some getting used to, but it is possible to love a film even when you're being reminded that yes, you are watching a construction.
- -
My recent musical fixation has been Roxy Music, particularly their early albums For Your Pleasure and Country Life (and no, I am not merely fixated on the cover art.) It's a little strange, to me at least, that this represents my first real stab at listening to the band, given that I've been a long-time fan of Bowie's glam phase and my total adoration of Brian Eno's pop records (which came out immediately after his split with the band). I've also always liked Bryan Ferry's voice - he had a trashy pop hit in '85 with "Slave to Love", which I enjoyed in the same sort of way I like Steely Dan (and wow, that's another story): it's sulty and mature and sounds like being quietly drunk in the afternoon. But, alas, my brother had only a copy of their 1980 album Flesh + Blood in his collection, and so my first impression was that I really didn't care for their weak shit.
Years passed, and every once in a while I'd hear somebody talk about Roxy Music's early, weird phase, and I'd think about checking them out; but then I'd forget, but then I'd buy a Sea and Cake record and my desire for languid, decadent pop would be sated for another couple of years. And then there was that scene in Lost in Translation, after which I knew I needed to get a copy of "More Than This". Unfortunately (again), it's from Avalon, which isn't a very good record - too eighties by half, and even that song is much glossier than I'm comfortable with - but I think I gave it a fair listen before discarding it.
Their first few, though - in the years 1971-74, man, that's some excellent stuff. The band, particularly on the self-titled debut, anticipate the jarring angularity of post-punk, while still the spectre of prog-rock (Ferry had auditioned to be vocalist for King Crimson prior to forming RM) hangs over the proceedings. The group's rough edges (aka Brian Eno) get smoothed out on Stranded (1973), and by 1975's Siren (with its hit single, "Love is the Drug") there's little remarkable about them.
It's interesting to see how the band hasn't been lionized as glam icons the way that, for instance, T. Rex were. A quick side-by-side comparison of their music (the former's "Out of the Blue" vs. Bolan's "Ride A White Swan"): one's sexy, noisy and overblown, while the other's a jangly but straightforward blues song with hippy-assed lyrics. Go figure. At their beginnings, of course, Roxy Music were thoroughly aligned with glam-rock (no doubt aided by their aggressively pan-sexual appearance) but perhaps they're one of those bands who started as out cool in a subculture but squandered it through bland MOR success (cf. The Police, the Bangles).
- -
And my last recent curiosity has been, apparently, women with the last name Deschanel. First off is Zoey, who appears on the slight but endlessly charming album Volume One, with singer/songwriter M. Ward (under the name She & Him.) Ward isn't someone I've had any real exposure to; he's on a couple of Merge Records compilations I own, and generally I skip his contributions. He's often touted as a brilliant songwriter by the same critical sources who rave about, for instance, Ron Sexsmith, which I take as evidence that I'm not missing anything I'd enjoy. But She & Him is quite a different beast: her voice, while far from perfect, has a winning sassyness, and the arrangements are sunny and twangy with an early-60's pop feel. It's not going to change the world, but "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" ought to liven up more than a couple of parties. (She's also an actress, which I keep forgetting, even though I've seen her in like, five things, and look forward to seeing her in The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford.)
Then there's her sister Emily, who appears in the post-mortem-investigation-drama (and really, how did that become a whole genre?) Bones, which we've tuned into the last few weeks and found, to our surprise, a real gem. The show is based on the life and novels of Kathy Reichs, although to what degree I'm not sure (she gets writing credits on every episode, although that doesn't necessarily mean anything). The interplay between Deschanel and co-star David Boreanaz is stellar; when combined with their supporting cast of oddly sexy medical examiners, the effect is a little dizzying. (One treat is John Francis Daley, formerly of Freaks and Geeks, whose role as a smug, boyish FBI profiler teeters between love-to-hate and just-plain-love.) Individually the two are entertaining enough for their own programs - Deschanel plays up her complete social alienation without being Spock, while Boreanaz...heck, he could host a telethon and I'd watch for hours (shut up). Having just jumped in at the end of their third season, there's a good possibility that the show isn't usually this good, or that it's about to suck mightily. But for the moment, I'm still very intrigued.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Wait, what?
2007 was the first year in a while that went past in such an even-keel blur that it took me a minute to realize, last night whilst polishing off a bottle of nice Argentinian Malbec, that it was a pretty damned good year for me. Sure, there's lots of miserable shit going on in the world, but here in the warmth of Hintonburg, life is pretty sweet. I didn't have to look for work, or move,
It has, however, been another of those years where I don't get to see all the films or hear half the records I wanted to, so my year-end list is going to be one of those ones like the CBC does, although I'm not going to claim that obnoxious 'reality' shows on MTV or drunken Bush-apologist Christopher Hitchens were anything but passing annoyances.
1. No Country For Old Men. A stunningly dark, almost completely humourless Coen brothers masterpiece. Bloodier than Miller's Crossing and with a moral centre that's almost a perfect opposite to Fargo's Marge Gunderson.
2. Nina Nastasia & Jim White, You Follow Me. My favourite songwriter and my favourite drummer ditch the other players and make up the volume and then some. Interestingly, it frequently sounds like the guitar is holding the song together while Jim goes about his merry, thundering and meandering way.
3. 30 Rock and The Office. It took us a while to recognize just how brilliant the former show is - which, given our embarrassingly pathetic love of Tina Fey, is surprising - but sometime earlier this year, Jess and I realized that this one-two punch of blink-and-you'll-miss-it humour was nearly flawless, and yeah, if you ask us to do something with you on a Thursday night, we'll probably bail on you to watch TV and we won't even feel bad about it.
4. The Dirty Projectors/Grizzly Bear at Barrymore's, January somethingth. At the time, I'd enjoyed Grizzly Bear's Yellow House LP fairly well, although I was a little anxious about how it would translate into a live show, and I'd never heard of these Dirty Projectors. There were two local openers, the first of whom flat-out sucked, and the second, the appallingly-named As The Poets Affirm, were merely very, very disappointing (I'd kind of expected them to be more of an A Silver Mt Zion/Set Fire to Flames thing, instead of just a rock band with a cello.) So, the Dirty Projectors took the stage, and their singer's got a faux-hawk, and the collar on his polo shirt is turned up, and he's got a fucking scarf on indoors, and I'm right away ready to hate this band with a special new kind of loathing I've been saving for a big occasion. And yet after three songs, I was pretty sure that they were the best band I'd ever seen (or at least in the running.) They played an inscrutable kind of new-wave take on contemporary R&B, but rather than playing songs, they seemed to be hinting at things and playing around the music. Quite something. Oh, and Grizzly Bear were also very good.
5. Knocked Up. Yes yes, it's got its share of problems with realism; on the other hand, shut up, it's really damn funny.
6. LCD Soundsystem, The Sound of Silver. I didn't mind the first LCD album, although I have no idea why it was a double CD when there's barely an EP's worth of good songs on it. This, on the other hand, is solidly great; the music is infectiously energetic and hooky, and the lyrics (particularly "North American Scum" and "New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down") are like what Mark E. Smith might write if he was American.
7. The Walrus. Canada's best magazine had a stellar year; the special issue on the Arctic and the most recent, "Cities" issue stand out, but there hasn't been a dud since...sheesh, I can't even remember. Essential reading for Canadians interested in where we're at and where we're going.
8. Battles, Mirrored. Robotic elves make an scary/funny album. I really can't describe it any other way. If robotic elves made a record, this is exactly what it would sound like.
9. Kingdom Shore. Mark Molnar has made a lot of music - with Seppuku, Buried Inside, and in my favourite incarnation until now, with improv trio Higney/Mulnar/Gulikson - but this is far and away the most impressive and best-executed of the lot. Strings and laptops, together at last.
10. Miracle Fortress, Five Roses/Panda Bear, Person Pitch. I call this one a tie, because I kept hearing Miracle Fortress songs and thinking, "man, I love this Panda Bear record!", and vice versa. By now I can tell them apart, of course, and it turns out they actually don't sound much alike - Miracle Fortress are relentlessly sunny and poppy (not unlike the Wondermints) and Panda Bear is like remembering a sunny day a long time ago when your heart was broken and it was actually kind of cold out (not unlike the weirder ends of the Beach Boys, only with a lot less structure).
There were a lot of older things I picked up on this year - Lost, Joanna Newsom, Jesu, The Children of Men - and other things that continued to go over my head - grime and/or dubstep (huh?), J.K. Rowling's writing, the idea that Michael Rappaport is funny - but that's not the point of these lists, is it?
Anyhow, I hope that this New Year's Day finds y'all well and warm and regretting, even if only a little, something fun you did last night, and looking forward to doing again next year, only louder.
It has, however, been another of those years where I don't get to see all the films or hear half the records I wanted to, so my year-end list is going to be one of those ones like the CBC does, although I'm not going to claim that obnoxious 'reality' shows on MTV or drunken Bush-apologist Christopher Hitchens were anything but passing annoyances.
1. No Country For Old Men. A stunningly dark, almost completely humourless Coen brothers masterpiece. Bloodier than Miller's Crossing and with a moral centre that's almost a perfect opposite to Fargo's Marge Gunderson.
2. Nina Nastasia & Jim White, You Follow Me. My favourite songwriter and my favourite drummer ditch the other players and make up the volume and then some. Interestingly, it frequently sounds like the guitar is holding the song together while Jim goes about his merry, thundering and meandering way.
3. 30 Rock and The Office. It took us a while to recognize just how brilliant the former show is - which, given our embarrassingly pathetic love of Tina Fey, is surprising - but sometime earlier this year, Jess and I realized that this one-two punch of blink-and-you'll-miss-it humour was nearly flawless, and yeah, if you ask us to do something with you on a Thursday night, we'll probably bail on you to watch TV and we won't even feel bad about it.
4. The Dirty Projectors/Grizzly Bear at Barrymore's, January somethingth. At the time, I'd enjoyed Grizzly Bear's Yellow House LP fairly well, although I was a little anxious about how it would translate into a live show, and I'd never heard of these Dirty Projectors. There were two local openers, the first of whom flat-out sucked, and the second, the appallingly-named As The Poets Affirm, were merely very, very disappointing (I'd kind of expected them to be more of an A Silver Mt Zion/Set Fire to Flames thing, instead of just a rock band with a cello.) So, the Dirty Projectors took the stage, and their singer's got a faux-hawk, and the collar on his polo shirt is turned up, and he's got a fucking scarf on indoors, and I'm right away ready to hate this band with a special new kind of loathing I've been saving for a big occasion. And yet after three songs, I was pretty sure that they were the best band I'd ever seen (or at least in the running.) They played an inscrutable kind of new-wave take on contemporary R&B, but rather than playing songs, they seemed to be hinting at things and playing around the music. Quite something. Oh, and Grizzly Bear were also very good.
5. Knocked Up. Yes yes, it's got its share of problems with realism; on the other hand, shut up, it's really damn funny.
6. LCD Soundsystem, The Sound of Silver. I didn't mind the first LCD album, although I have no idea why it was a double CD when there's barely an EP's worth of good songs on it. This, on the other hand, is solidly great; the music is infectiously energetic and hooky, and the lyrics (particularly "North American Scum" and "New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down") are like what Mark E. Smith might write if he was American.
7. The Walrus. Canada's best magazine had a stellar year; the special issue on the Arctic and the most recent, "Cities" issue stand out, but there hasn't been a dud since...sheesh, I can't even remember. Essential reading for Canadians interested in where we're at and where we're going.
8. Battles, Mirrored. Robotic elves make an scary/funny album. I really can't describe it any other way. If robotic elves made a record, this is exactly what it would sound like.
9. Kingdom Shore. Mark Molnar has made a lot of music - with Seppuku, Buried Inside, and in my favourite incarnation until now, with improv trio Higney/Mulnar/Gulikson - but this is far and away the most impressive and best-executed of the lot. Strings and laptops, together at last.
10. Miracle Fortress, Five Roses/Panda Bear, Person Pitch. I call this one a tie, because I kept hearing Miracle Fortress songs and thinking, "man, I love this Panda Bear record!", and vice versa. By now I can tell them apart, of course, and it turns out they actually don't sound much alike - Miracle Fortress are relentlessly sunny and poppy (not unlike the Wondermints) and Panda Bear is like remembering a sunny day a long time ago when your heart was broken and it was actually kind of cold out (not unlike the weirder ends of the Beach Boys, only with a lot less structure).
There were a lot of older things I picked up on this year - Lost, Joanna Newsom, Jesu, The Children of Men - and other things that continued to go over my head - grime and/or dubstep (huh?), J.K. Rowling's writing, the idea that Michael Rappaport is funny - but that's not the point of these lists, is it?
Anyhow, I hope that this New Year's Day finds y'all well and warm and regretting, even if only a little, something fun you did last night, and looking forward to doing again next year, only louder.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Another rant against the 80's...
I've been trying to work out how to sum up a lot of the stuff that's been going on in my life, and a big ol' gripe seems as good as anything (maybe a list or two...)
Viewing:
First on the block, one of the more recent things we've seen was part of the first season of Moonlighting. For the first two or three years it aired, there simply wasn't anything else on television that compared; and as anyone who watched it knows, it stands as the single best cautionary example of how not to handle romantic tension in a TV show. And I sure loved it, as a teenager, partly because it was funny and clever, and partly because it had Cybill Sheppard.
Well, it didn't hold up terribly well. Granted, we watched the pilot and then the first regular episode, and very few shows are at their best right out of the gate. (Newsradio, for example, which hit its stride faster than most, still had to have a couple of clunkers in order to get the expository nonsense out of the way.) So maybe I'm not being fair when I say that the dialogue sounds corny and slow and the plots predictable. But it's interesting to see how Willis' character looks after twenty years. At the time, sure, he didn't seem like a smug, obnoxious fratboy - but that was mostly because there were so many other, more smug, much more obnoxious fratboys being fÍted in the public eye that he seemed funny and tolerable by comparison. Nowadays, that persona is best represented on the tube by Steve Carrell's Michael Scott on The Office - a man whose attempts to be funny and likeable are pitiable, when they don't make us laugh uncomfortably (or callously). Who says there's no such thing as progress?
Going back a ways in our viewing was Francis Ford Coppola's Rumble Fish; I'd heard some good things about it, and some of that may have to do with the fondness people have for S.E. Hinton novels. The film also has a pretty good cast: Nicholas Cage, Lawrence Fishburn, Matt Dillon, Tom Waits, and, if you like that kind of thing, Mickey Rourke (I don't.) But it aims for a theatricality, with a muddled setting (half-big city, half-small town, and a bizarrely 1950's kind of 80's) and it just didn't work for me, in part because Dillon, in particular, wasn't up to what should have been the demands of the script (see also: Keanu Reeves in My Own Private Idaho and Much Ado About Nothing). The appearance of the film, however, was clearly influencial on a generation of commercial and music-video directors; seeing it now means having to remind yourself that the visual clichés you keep seeing weren't clichés at the time. It doesn't make it more fun to watch, though.
What would have made better fodder for directors to rip off: I Am Cuba, an early-60's Soviet propaganda film about the Cuban Revolution, shot in a lustrous grain of black and white. The story isn't great, of course, but as I said, it's agitprop and it does what it's supposed to in that regard. What it also does, though, is look beautiful, and take full advantage of the limitations of the medium in capturing the vibrant colours of the foliage, the burning villages, or the Havana nightlife.
Less beautiful was Superbad. It passed the basic test of a comedy film with flying colours - Jess and I laughed long and loud, and were giggling at it for a couple of days afterwards. It's got problems, though, starting with an astonishing crassness (even compared to other Apatow-related projects like Knocked Up) and, most troublingly, a sexist (hell, misogynist) streak a mile wide. There's the usual fat-ugly-guy-dating-skinny-hot-girl ugliness, but that's nothing compared to the way the boys talk about the girls, or how the object of Evan (Michael Cera)'s awkward affections Becca (Martha MacIsaac) has internalized that attitude. The film is on firmer ground where the friendship between Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan. Ultimately, it's a weaker movie than either The 40-Year Old Virgin or Knocked Up; you'll probably laugh a lot, but you might not like yourself for it later.
There's also an exchange in Superbad, where one of the girls asks her friend to bring her "80's dance mix" to a party. My initial reaction ("you kids weren't even born until, what, '89?") has since been tempered with the recollection that there were people I knew, born in the early 70's, who spent their teenage years convinced that the zenith of human culture had passed shortly before their birth. And I'm more than willing to admit a lingering fascination with the pre-disco 1970's, a period widely seen as unredeemably loathesome little more than a decage ago.
But my real complaint is, as always, with the part of the past that's the subject of the misplaced nostalgia. The 1980's produced a lot of interesting things: hilarious cynicism (e.g, Spy magazine); a truly amazing age of hip-hop (that would be the late 80's); great, abrasive post-punk; a wealth of independently produced movies; and the infrastructure, like film fests, distribution companies, and record labels that have produced and made available most of the best in either medium for the last two decades. What it didn't produce, however, was much good television, or good dance pop, or fashion that anyone should even look at again. And if you're ever looking to counter the notion that there isn't a lot to hate about the Reagan decade, try this phrase: "The episode of the Super Mario Brothers show guest-starring Milli Vanilli."
Listening:
I normally talk mostly about what I've liked, but recently I got to hear something really, really bad, and wanted to make mention of that. It's a band called Maximo Park; their latest record (Our Earthly Pleasures) was one of a batch of albums that we recently decided to give a trial listen to. And hoo, it's awful - glossy and vacuous. What's slightly funny is that I just read an interview with their singer, and he claims to be listening to a lot of different things (Johanna Newsom, Clipse, the Shins), and yet his band ends sounding like fucking James. Only worse, if that's possible.
At the other end of the spectrum are the Dirty Projectors, with a truly odd album, Rise Above. The album consists of Black Flag's Damaged LP, re-written with only the lyrics left intact; musically, the covers resemble the sort of art-punk that Ginn & Co. probably despised - Talking Heads, DNA, Wire's post-154 output - when they don't resemble east African guitar pop. And then there's lead singer Dave Longstreth's jagged falsetto to contend with. It's not an easy listen, even (or especially) if you like hardcore punk, but it's rewarding.
Conversely, the Toronto band Fucked Up's Hidden World does a great deal within the HC style. It helps that the shortest song on the record is two and half minutes (the longest is over nine), and that the instrumentation extends beyond guitars and drums (although there's certainly a lot of guitar). But there's more - the songs are powerful, lively and...well, not exactly catchy, but they're tuneful. And that's not something that happens often in hardcore, and I'd hope it'll open more than a couple of ears.
Viewing:
First on the block, one of the more recent things we've seen was part of the first season of Moonlighting. For the first two or three years it aired, there simply wasn't anything else on television that compared; and as anyone who watched it knows, it stands as the single best cautionary example of how not to handle romantic tension in a TV show. And I sure loved it, as a teenager, partly because it was funny and clever, and partly because it had Cybill Sheppard.
Well, it didn't hold up terribly well. Granted, we watched the pilot and then the first regular episode, and very few shows are at their best right out of the gate. (Newsradio, for example, which hit its stride faster than most, still had to have a couple of clunkers in order to get the expository nonsense out of the way.) So maybe I'm not being fair when I say that the dialogue sounds corny and slow and the plots predictable. But it's interesting to see how Willis' character looks after twenty years. At the time, sure, he didn't seem like a smug, obnoxious fratboy - but that was mostly because there were so many other, more smug, much more obnoxious fratboys being fÍted in the public eye that he seemed funny and tolerable by comparison. Nowadays, that persona is best represented on the tube by Steve Carrell's Michael Scott on The Office - a man whose attempts to be funny and likeable are pitiable, when they don't make us laugh uncomfortably (or callously). Who says there's no such thing as progress?
Going back a ways in our viewing was Francis Ford Coppola's Rumble Fish; I'd heard some good things about it, and some of that may have to do with the fondness people have for S.E. Hinton novels. The film also has a pretty good cast: Nicholas Cage, Lawrence Fishburn, Matt Dillon, Tom Waits, and, if you like that kind of thing, Mickey Rourke (I don't.) But it aims for a theatricality, with a muddled setting (half-big city, half-small town, and a bizarrely 1950's kind of 80's) and it just didn't work for me, in part because Dillon, in particular, wasn't up to what should have been the demands of the script (see also: Keanu Reeves in My Own Private Idaho and Much Ado About Nothing). The appearance of the film, however, was clearly influencial on a generation of commercial and music-video directors; seeing it now means having to remind yourself that the visual clichés you keep seeing weren't clichés at the time. It doesn't make it more fun to watch, though.
What would have made better fodder for directors to rip off: I Am Cuba, an early-60's Soviet propaganda film about the Cuban Revolution, shot in a lustrous grain of black and white. The story isn't great, of course, but as I said, it's agitprop and it does what it's supposed to in that regard. What it also does, though, is look beautiful, and take full advantage of the limitations of the medium in capturing the vibrant colours of the foliage, the burning villages, or the Havana nightlife.
Less beautiful was Superbad. It passed the basic test of a comedy film with flying colours - Jess and I laughed long and loud, and were giggling at it for a couple of days afterwards. It's got problems, though, starting with an astonishing crassness (even compared to other Apatow-related projects like Knocked Up) and, most troublingly, a sexist (hell, misogynist) streak a mile wide. There's the usual fat-ugly-guy-dating-skinny-hot-girl ugliness, but that's nothing compared to the way the boys talk about the girls, or how the object of Evan (Michael Cera)'s awkward affections Becca (Martha MacIsaac) has internalized that attitude. The film is on firmer ground where the friendship between Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan. Ultimately, it's a weaker movie than either The 40-Year Old Virgin or Knocked Up; you'll probably laugh a lot, but you might not like yourself for it later.
There's also an exchange in Superbad, where one of the girls asks her friend to bring her "80's dance mix" to a party. My initial reaction ("you kids weren't even born until, what, '89?") has since been tempered with the recollection that there were people I knew, born in the early 70's, who spent their teenage years convinced that the zenith of human culture had passed shortly before their birth. And I'm more than willing to admit a lingering fascination with the pre-disco 1970's, a period widely seen as unredeemably loathesome little more than a decage ago.
But my real complaint is, as always, with the part of the past that's the subject of the misplaced nostalgia. The 1980's produced a lot of interesting things: hilarious cynicism (e.g, Spy magazine); a truly amazing age of hip-hop (that would be the late 80's); great, abrasive post-punk; a wealth of independently produced movies; and the infrastructure, like film fests, distribution companies, and record labels that have produced and made available most of the best in either medium for the last two decades. What it didn't produce, however, was much good television, or good dance pop, or fashion that anyone should even look at again. And if you're ever looking to counter the notion that there isn't a lot to hate about the Reagan decade, try this phrase: "The episode of the Super Mario Brothers show guest-starring Milli Vanilli."
Listening:
I normally talk mostly about what I've liked, but recently I got to hear something really, really bad, and wanted to make mention of that. It's a band called Maximo Park; their latest record (Our Earthly Pleasures) was one of a batch of albums that we recently decided to give a trial listen to. And hoo, it's awful - glossy and vacuous. What's slightly funny is that I just read an interview with their singer, and he claims to be listening to a lot of different things (Johanna Newsom, Clipse, the Shins), and yet his band ends sounding like fucking James. Only worse, if that's possible.
At the other end of the spectrum are the Dirty Projectors, with a truly odd album, Rise Above. The album consists of Black Flag's Damaged LP, re-written with only the lyrics left intact; musically, the covers resemble the sort of art-punk that Ginn & Co. probably despised - Talking Heads, DNA, Wire's post-154 output - when they don't resemble east African guitar pop. And then there's lead singer Dave Longstreth's jagged falsetto to contend with. It's not an easy listen, even (or especially) if you like hardcore punk, but it's rewarding.
Conversely, the Toronto band Fucked Up's Hidden World does a great deal within the HC style. It helps that the shortest song on the record is two and half minutes (the longest is over nine), and that the instrumentation extends beyond guitars and drums (although there's certainly a lot of guitar). But there's more - the songs are powerful, lively and...well, not exactly catchy, but they're tuneful. And that's not something that happens often in hardcore, and I'd hope it'll open more than a couple of ears.
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