“Your first 10,000 photographs are your worst.”
Working towards that number changes the way you see the world. Living in this crowded-crumbling, sexy-scary, crazy-noisy, feast-of-vision city surely helps a bit. Keep your eyes peeled and trigger-finger ready.
“When I was your age television was called books!” Peter Faulk neatly sums up the written word’s apparent fall from grace. Yes, the telly has of late been dating smarter girls. But there’s more than one way to peel a couch potato. Turn it off and turn the page.
“A film is more like music than like fiction.”
Indeed, they are birds of a feather– a murder of crows pecking away at yoga, politics and walks in the park to carve out a life of blurred vision, tinitus and narrow cultural vocabulary. That’s the way, uh huh, I like it.
If we work on the assumption that Truman Capote’s charming reduction of Kerouak’s amphetamine-driven drivel is accurate, then blogging is certainly an easy target for comparable derision. It’s not writing. It’s typing. And as such we shall consider it here…Henry Miller for the Seinfeld set. Calvin & Hobbs garbed as Salinger & Murakami. You know. For kids.
I jump on this crowded train with trepidation and sheepish enthusiasm. This whole “blog ” thing can be, in the parlance of our times, quite douchy. Maunet may look like a blog. It may dress like a blog and even dance like a blog. More than likely it will, save the occasional purple prose and parenthetical distraction, even read like a blog. But let’s just agree not to call it such. Stop saying blog. Who said blog? Blog. Oh wait, that’s me again, sorry.
Here’s to jumping someone else’s train. Now read on, Macduff…
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Thanks to John, we can now invoke the correct song-writing language needed to enforce the crucial difference between ”simple” and “simplistic.”
Those of you that have spent any time making music should be well-familiar with the little bickers and spats that occur when working in an ensemble setting. Drummers, guitar players, singers–we’re all guilty of over-playing at some point or another. So we each have the responsibility of imposing checks and balances on each other’s wanky, over-wrought performances that sneak in to the arrangement process.
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Over the past 10 years I’ve shot with a variety of film and digital cameras to capture off-the-cuff snapshots: Canon Elf, Lomo, Holga, Canon G11 and the Nikon D80 DSLR. All these produced great results… but busy (or lazy) lives being what they are, good shots often remained on the media storage they were captured on, never quite making it to my desktop where I could process and share images. At least not till months later, when the temporal relevancy of the shot was sometimes lost.
The iPhone was my first and only mobile phone camera. My most anticipated feature was the ability to capture a shot and share it with others via email or MMS in real time. But I was initially disappointed by it’s total and complete shitty-ness: Low pixel-count, horrible low-light capabilty, excessive noise, slow shutter speeds, non-existent exposure control and fixed-focus limitations. I know, it’s a lot to ask from a mobile camera but, to a certain extent, some mobile phone models do deliver on some these features.
The 1st and 2nd generation iPhones were particularly susceptible to these flaws. The 3GS somewhat improved it’s viability as a legitimate on-the-go camera by a boost in pixel count from 2MP to 3MP, dramatically improved low-light results and significant noise reduction. Still no replacement for a pro-sumer pocket camera or DSLR, but at least it was a small step forward.
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I had the priviledge of traveling with The National on their summer 2009 tour supporting some band called R.E.M. I fuess they were pretty good, but the National lads brought it with typical grace and vengeance.
Shooting with the “pro-sumer” Nikon D80, I braved the press trench, touched with a bit of penis envy alongside the “real” press, with their 14” fixed 1.8 lenses, multiple cameras hugging their paunchy bellies. Nevertheless, I managed to get some good live shots with a 2.8 300mm zoom.
Nicknamed The Brokeback Mountain tour, we had our share of unforeseen obstacles. Namely, a broken down tour bus in Berkely. After a show at the Greek Theater that evening, we hopped on the bus and prepared for the 14-hour drive to Minneapolis-St. Paul for an arena show. Bryce and Aaron leave us to pal with their fan, some guy named Michael Stipe, whoever that is. The rest of us are left to the daily task of loading equipment and merchandize into the bus-pulled trailer. Mission accomplished, choice libations are enjoyed by all just before boarding time. The driver straps in, turns the key and… nothing.
Brandon, young manager/sound man extraordinaire and all around prince of a man “assists” the driver in a differential diagnosis of the bus’ ailing engine. Would have made House proud, but to no avail. So it’s time to unload all the gear again, Bryce and Aaron are, ahem, nowhere to be found. Unloading accomplished, we need to kill sometime before devising our next move. Scott, Bryan and I head to a gloriously lit astroturf football field to play as feverishly competitive round three-man wiffleball. I did not win.
Meanwhile, Brandon expertly arranges for 13 air fares from LAX to MIN for the following morning. Oh wait. It’s already morning, flight leaves in 8 hours. The venue vans rush us to a local Hilton where 6 pizza pies are waiting for us, again, courtesy of the pro-management of Prince Brandon. Man that guy is good. Pizza depleted,choice libations are enjoyed by all just before sleeping time, two to a room in yet another hotel. Matt and I share this time. Ain’t no way I’m sleeping in Bryan’s room again, that formidable snorer from hell. Love you like a brother, Bo–but man.
Morning comes, we have 1 hour to get to LAX. All goes smoothly and we’re off to St. Paul, where most of these photos are taken. Shortly after that show, I contract the flu and miss the following night’s Chicago gig, just before I’m scheduled to fly back to Brooklyn. 10 days on the road with these guys, drinking, smoking and rocking, sleeping in transit, leaves me down for the count. I am not a man. Not like these guys. They do it 235 days a year. These men are men. Very charming, very talented, very generous men…
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We all know and love Sir Knight Berman’s prolific charm as a progenitor of pop. Ok maybe not all of you, so pay attention…
If Calvin & Hobbs hosted a tea party for Truman Capote, J.D. Salinger, Richard Brautigan, Willy Wonka, Steve Merrit, The Jazz Butcher and Sir Lawrence of Felt, they’d likely sip just enough of the magic tea to come up with marble’s own brand of be-bop-pop.
Each month, Berman gifts the internet with 3 minutes of tuneful and tales of whimsy populated by cats and girls, Batman and rain, chocolate and nicotine and the pain of being pure at heart. 12 months later, the inner circle receives a limited edition compilation of those tracks….something we lovingly package as a Marble Sleeve Cover.
It works like this: The BrothersQuote sit in the Garçonerie, smoke and talk pop, snicker, giggle and scheme to come up with the next Greatest Idea for an Album Sleeve Cover Ever. Taking a direct lyrical line from Bowie’s croon for Zimmerman’s sand and glue, we shoot in Brooklyn in 2001 and on the New Jersey Shore in 2005 to produce the gleeful silliness of A Case of the Tea and Jersey Shoreline.
Next year, Berman will don a jet-black punk-rock wig and loosen his tie for maunet’s shot at Patti Smith, Horses. In the meantime, pay Mr. Berman a visit at marbletea.com
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Everybody’s got ‘em, present company obviously included. Lists and lists of the best of this and that to help mark the passing of another 10 crazy years. But the Ought’s ancestors called, and they want their jaggy guitars, compressed drum tracks, cheesy keyboard sounds and whispery vocals back.
So, here’s to those records without whom our latest crop of honorable pirates and thieves would have starved on the streets. And make no mistake, this is no slight. The bad only borrow. Only the good steal.
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This is not Pitchfork. (Ok, obviously not, but stay with me). It’s a grand organization, to be sure. Those talented young boys from Chicago have given me much to love, laugh and barf about. Their opinionated slant, overwrought prose and sharp fashion sense serve as inspiration and anathema to the spirit of this little forum.
That said, any arbiter of all that is Pitchfork-y will be quick to jump on some of the more obvious choices made here. Take it easy. I got a lot of weird records, man. But like old Robyn Hitchcock says, “if you can’t dig cliches, you can’t dig rock and roll.”
So, with that spirit in mind, this list does not give representation to a large swath of the really really cool kids of the decade. Fuckin’ a, there’s like a brazillion coolie bands out there. And while my record collection contains entries for at least a gazillion of them, I’m sticking with just the ones that spent the longest time spinning my disks between Jan 1 2000 and Dec 31 2009. The big guns are such for a reason…
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Ok, so this is not a list of the best books published in the past decade… simply those I happened to read and enjoy most between 2000-2009.
Not too many big surprises here for many of you, but a few are buried or ignored little gems. Some already have their own posts here, others will follow suit.
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I can’t pretend that this is some erudite, New Yorker-style list of the decade’s very best films. Far from it. This is simply a list of the movies I most enjoyed this past decade. Some truly are great films. Some are guilty pleasures that I found myself watching and re-watching despite, or perhaps due to, their decidedly light yet charming stories.
You’ll note there are only a couple of foreign films included here (why are foreign films so…foreign?). And, surprising even to me, most are not independent films. This year’s list has more than its share of big-budget Hollywood films driven by major stars. It seems La-La Land finally granted residency among its shlock-infested green-light district to truly artful films possessed of integrity and soul (even as the Academy continued to reward the heart-string yanker-wankers–ahem, Slumdog–over darker, more complex material).
And, nepotism aside, I’ve included two award-winning documentaries made by personal friends. I am most proud for directors Marshall Curry (Racing Dreams) and Benjamin Niles (Note By Note) for their passion, perseverance, courage and talent. Their positions on this list were hard-fought and well-deserved. If you love independent film, you won’t find two better examples than these.
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A sort of Cane and Abel story, this boiler room drama mines signature Lumet territory: conflicted characters caught in relentlessly escalating circumstances. Long Days Journey Into Night, Network, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Strip Search…all these films follow protagonists through paths that inevitably lead to regrettable ends. In Lumet’s most recent effort, The Devil’s only salve is administered in the first 5 minutes, as the camera exposes Marisa Tomei in a disarmingly compromised, ahem, position. It really kinda knocks the wind out of you. Age has most definitely been kind to Ms Tomei. So very, very kind…
Sorry, let me get a grip here, catch my breath…
Point being that Mr. Lumet has made quite a few fine fucking films (excuse the pun). It started with a bang in 1957. Yet, the only physical violence in 12 Angry Men occurs before the story begins. It stands passively off-stage, letting it’s characters’ urban frustrations burst their well-tailored seams in a court room drama that pits race, class, age, volatile temperaments and stiff moral resolve fiercely against one another.
Maybe what we need is a little yelling here…
On a hot summer day in New York, this jury of twelve angry men are penned-in, pent-up and put out, ready to decide a man’s fate in time to get home for dinner. Until–cue cinema voiceover–One Man Stands Alone in the pursuit of justice.
Henry Fonda plays a sort of inverted Fountainhead hero as an architect Standing Alone against bigotry, peer pressure, disinterest and ignorance. Brave juryman Davis turns the egotist Howard Roark on his handsome, manly head and shakes out a humble servant of the people. With calm reserve and modest intelligence, mild-mannered Davis serenely chips away at the bias and prejudices of his peers in an effort to save a disadvantaged urban youth from the electric chair. Wow. Sounds totally, like, serious. Well, it is– and well it should be.
But cut to the chase. Our hero’s liberal rhetoric and steely resolve does indeed Save the Day. Sorry, it’s not a spoiler when a film is over 50 years old. But the ending is not the true payoff here. Taut script and riveting ensemble performances aside, 12 Angry Men proves the one point that often-maligned, right-winged Ayn Rand got right: thoughtfulness, reason and unflappable integrity are in fact marks of a man worthy of your attention and demanding of your respect.
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In between Loondon and Berlin, while on the National Brokeback Mountain Tour. Lovely town. Some folks were kind of dicks though. It was the Bush years, I guess we’ll for give them.
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Sharing a numerical moniker with c23, Mick 23 iterates one simple graphic element into a remarkable variety of visual/verbal haikus. Oh, and they’re funny. Funny’ll get you every time…
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“Y’all take a listen, you’ll hear a Deep Sound comin’ down from Bobby Peru.”
An unforgettable bit of obliquely vulgar dialogue by Willem Dafoe in Wild at Heart.
What cinephile among us doesn’t conjure these words every time he micturates in a public facility? We know Dean Wareham does…
Watch the clip here. But Caution! Not for the Meek at Heart. Seriously. Don’t play this clip within earshot of mothers, children, bosses or members of polite society.
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