So at least this year’s Oscars were not quite as predictable as they can be. Many of the choices defied cynical attitudes towards the Academy. Which is not to say that all their choices this year made any fucking sense–but at least it wasn’t boring. There certainly were more head-scratching, cringe-inducing moments this year than any ceremony I can recently recall. And some welcome firsts transpired as the first woman won the Best Director award while Jeff Bridges finally got his due, Dude.

First off, go ahead and call me a heartless bastard, cause but I’m thrilled the Academy chose to steer clear of their typically pandering feel-good ways. Prescious took away only two awards (Best Supporting Actress/Best Adapted Screenplay) after nearly sweeping the Independent Spirit Awards. I had bet the farm at our Oscar pool that it would be also be picked for Best Picture and Best Actress. But as luck would have it, I tied for the Oscar pool win–and gladly traded money lost for justice won. For Best Picture at Least. Now, as to Best Actress… What. The. Fuck?

Now, I don’t want to take anything away from Sandra Bullock. She’s cute as a button, seems like a really cool chick I’d actually like hanging out with (cause, you know, she’s dying to hang out with me); and, in the right role, she can be convincing, fun and charming as all hell. I’m a fan. But The Blind Side? As if it were not offensive enough that this mother of all pandering films even got nominated for Best Picture. Does anyone else see the irony here? Precious, a film by and about the black community gets relatively snubbed while a film by white people about gun-toting white soccer moms giving an underprivileged black teen his first bed gets two nominations and a win??!! Gimme a fucking break. It’s irked and befuddled me enough to actually go see it ;-)

Cringiest Moment: What up with that crazy cock-blocking beeoch in the purple mumu? Stealing Roger Ross William’s thunder, the producer of Music By Prudence vulgarly sabotaged humble Roger’s acceptance speech for Best Documentary Short. I wanted to reach into the television and slap her. Hopefully someone back stage had a better opportunity.

Best Actor: And I’m talkin’ about the Dude here. About fuckin’ time for the brilliant and modest Jeff Bridges. That statue is really gonna tie the room together, man. ‘Nuff said.

Best Supporting Actor: I woulda driven to Hollywood and strangled someone, anyone I could find responsible if Christoph Waltz had been passed up. Whether you care for Tarantino or not (and if you don’t, do you even like the movies?) Inglorious Basterds is a must-see for Christoph’s hilarious, unnerving, pitch-perfect performance. If you haven’t already, run, don’t walk to this one.

Best Picture. Despite my indignance over the whole Blind Side thing (I never promised I’d be consistent here. This is my house, you live by my rules), I’m not entirely convinced Hurt Locker really was the best picture this year. It was good. It was relentlessly realistic. It was tense and relevant, chock full of sizzling performances. Loved the generous 30-second cameos by Guy Pierce and David Morse. And it’s definitely cool that Cameron’s ex-wife kicked Avatar’s little blue butt. But HL really wasn’t all that memorable as “great” war films go. Certainly not nearly as much as, say, Platoon, Apocalypse Now or the Deer Hunter. Frankly, the most memorable Best Picture nominee was unarguably District 9, the most intersting piece of filmmaking I’ve seen in years. And how cool would it have been to have an animated feature win Best Picture? Very cool. At least it floated off with Best Animated Feature.

Best Hilarity: How ’bout Ben Stiller as one of those rat-tailed blue thingies from Avatar? Can we agree that by now Stiller’s humor is so played. But last night? Bizzare. Acerbic. Inspired. Hilarious. Even hosts Steve and Alec managed to side-step the awards curse to tease a few laughs out of us (That’s Madame Helen Mirren, Steve).

So, all in all, this years Oscars? Best Yet? Ok, maybe not. I still think John Stewart’s helmsmanship a few years back qualifies for that. But at the very least, pretty, pretty, pretty…pretty good.

There are so many reasons to hate the Oscars. It’s prom night for the celebrity set. It’s tediously long. It’s indulgent acceptance speeches. It’s lame hosts reaching for laughs and falling flat (John Stewart and Billy Crystal gleefully exempted). It’s often a reward for middling achievements in popular filmmaking. And more often than not, each year the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts & Sciences consistently disappoints discerning audiences in choosing the best picture of the year. But…

I still find myself drawn to them–particularly in the last few years, when some truly remarkable films and performances have made the dubious Oscar grade. George Clooney and David Straithern in Good Night, and Good Luck; Tilda Swinton and George Clooney in Michael Clayton. Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan.Roger Deakins double nomination for Best Cinematography for different films in the same year (No Country for Old Men and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford).

Then there’s the few unscripted award night moments that break through the artifice to reveal something genuine: Glen Hansard’s  inspiringly modest acceptance speech for Best Original Song followed by John Stewart’s decisive, utterly classy move to give co-writer Marketa Irglova her due after being rudely cut off by commercial interests.

So I must admit I’m looking forward to tonight’s events. Even though I’m worried the Academy will favor Precious to undeservedly sweep (I know, I’m an asshole) and Avatar, perhaps just a little less deservedly, will come a close second. Or is it the other way around? Either way, ho-hum… And don’t get me started on the pandering and highly offensive choice to include The Blind Side among the Best Picture candidates. Affluent white woman saves underprivileged black teen from a presumed life of poverty and crime. You fucking kidding me?

But on the flip side… an animated feature is amongst the Best Picture nominees for, I believe, the first time. The awesomely weird District 9 has not chance, but it’s up there. The Dude is nominated, this time as a drunken country singer. And George Clooney is once again nominated. He won’t win this year, but still…I love that man. Not in a gay way. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Besides Sandra Bullock’s startling hair do, there’s more than a few good reasons to check out this tasteful little clip–celebrities are asked their pick for Best Performance of the Decade. There’s some predictably just answers (Kate Winslet, duh), but more often than not, this group of indie and A-list actors come up with some thoughtful, interesting choices. The fact that Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan was not one of them still boggles the mind, but… there was one particular response particular that caught my attention: Jake Gyllenhall chose “any performance by Peter Sarsgaard.” Abso-fucking-lutely. About time some one said it.

Now, whether this is nepotisim or not (his sis Maggie is married to Peter) I could care less. Sarsgaard consistently outperforms all others in small and headlining roles alike (check out Shattered Glass, Boys Don’t Cry, Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Kinsey and Until The End of the World, to start with). His measured, minimalist performances are as disciplined as any of Matt Damon’s work (after Syriana, The Good Shepherd and the Bourne films we can legitimately consider Ben Who-fleck’s ex-boyfriend a fine actor). So, if Damon is the “thinking man’s action hero,” then Sarsgaard is the thinking man’s…thinking man.

Watch the interviews on New York Times Video

Beers in a can suck
They lose their crispness and body and deny us the eye candy of a glistening, sweaty golden bottle of lager or the thick foam of a chocolaty, full-bodied stout. (Sorry, I got carried away there, but I’m sure there’s such a thing as beer porn out there).

Now, cans certainly afford us a pseudo-manly display of strength as we punctuate our last slug with a crushing hand (shark hunter Captain Quint did it best). But the canned beers’ charm ends there. At least until recently. Three beers negate the theory:

1. The Sapporo tall boy: Housed in a tank of a can, it’s a stalwart silver monster that will defeat all but the manliest hands. It’s crisp, flavorful, delicious. Drink it from a glass bottle: Insipid and lame, tastes like ass.
2. The Heineken Mini Keg. Also quite the sturdy vessel. When offered the same beer in a bottle, I opt for wine, whiskey, gin, hell – even a Coke. But not so in the mini-kegger.It’s delicious, crisp, relatively full-bodied. But don’t be fooled – the run of the mill canned version also tastes like ass.
3. Tecaté: For some, it’s Mexico’s Budweiser, except, you know, actually tasty.
   Add a lime and it’s sublime.

OCD recipe for crispy Coca-Cola
I’m from two Southern locales that revere Coca-Cola: Mexico City (the second biggest market in the world) and Atlanta (the birthplace of Coke). Neither is responsible for my love and loyalty to the best beverage every made (bourbon, another typically southern spirit running a close second, though never, ever mixed with Coke. Why ruin two good things by putting them together).

To borrow from a terrible movie (The Invention of Lying), Coke’s competitor should adopt the following marketing campaign: “Pepsi. When they don’t have Coke.” Though an urging Sir Knight (another fellow Southerner) and I would still not heed. Sitting in a New York deli one fine day, we each asked the waitress for a Coke with lime. “Is Pepsi ok,” she asked. “No!” we replied in close harmony. We order iced tea instead.

So, if you share our passion for the crispy caramel delight, here’s the proper way to serve it:

1. It’s gotta be in a can. Or at least a glass bottle if you can find it these days. Coke in a plastic bottle: flat-ish and strangely film-y.
2. You gotta pour it over ice. But not just any ice. It’s gotta be wet ice, cubed, not crushed. Plop them in a highball glass, rinse them with cold water, then pour out the water, leaving only the ice. Trust me.
3. Squeeze a wedge of lime over your freshly-rinsed ice. No self-respecting Mexican uses lemon.
4. Pour the Coke like a pro pours a beer. Slowly, tilting the glass.
5. Now tell me if that’s not the crispest coke you ever had.

Friends laughed at the fastidiousness of this approach. Till I presented them with a taste test that forever changed them. One beverage was prepared with love and tenderness. The other was sloshed carelessly into a glass smoking with dry ice, resulting in quickly-dissolving carbonation that left the beverage flat as a pre-teen and as syrupy sweet as a bad romantic comedy.

Go try it. Get back to me. Who’s OCD now?

And who the hell is Kloot? It’s not you, and it’s not me, and it’s certainly not John & Bree.
Shit. That wasn’t supposed to rhyme.

Once upon a time, Morrissey and The Verve hitched a ride with Robyn Hitchcock, rounded up the Go-Betweens and made their merry way to a Paris cabaret where David J was taking the stage, strapped with a Gretsch, spewing a mouthful of bees.

I Am Kloot are three Manchester lads who last decade released a slew of remarkable records. I’m sure there’s more than a few coolies out there that beat us to them, but for those still on the catch-up: these records are so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend you pick one up.

2001’s Natural History leans to the acoustic just enough to be sensitive but not so much as to be fey. These are delicate little ditties guarded by wild swings and jabs. But five years later the gloves come off on the BBC Radio 1 Peel Sessions. Peel recordings have always captured performers at their most exciting and elemental. In this environment the three-piece sounds lithe and muscular, the vocal delivery both intimate and intimidating. It’s a pastiche of bossa nova shuffle, windmill blues and la-la love-you-nots.

Those Brits. They that sure as shit know how to make pop records.

Just a taste…

The idea behind NPR’s All Songs Considered has spawned a musicologist as obsessive, if not considerably more disciplined and eloquent, as yours truly. Brian Wall’s Some Songs Considered blog serves up daily observations focusing on a single track–as catchy an idea as Rob Grover’s charming blog The Song That Got Stuck In My Head Today.

Today’s post takes the words right out of my mouth:

“…it’s hard to “stumble” on music from another era without an introduction. For example, I count a bunch of records from the postpunk era among my favorites, but I discovered them many years later.”

Not an entirely original statement, but one that rings especially true here. My own recent obsession with PostPunk was initially sparked by certain Brooklyn bands’ appropriation of the period; aided and abetted by Simon Reynolds’ Rip It Up and Start Again; and permanently cemented by Gang of Four’s Entertainment! Thusly PostPunk became a staple of my musical diet a full 25 years after it’s inception.

But enough about me… check it out:

http://somesongsconsidered.com/

Ok, maunet will not be a place to voice my political opinions. This forum is devoted to much less consequential topics (though I would argue and hope you agree that music, humor, film, art and literature are certainly worth a minute or two of your day).

Nevertheless, friend Miles Cliatt articulates beautifully on the subject, particularly in response to the notion that Obama did not accomplish enough in his first year. Thanks Miles, for providing a venue such as yours so I don’t have to.

Read it here

I know there’s a whole roost of folks that are “not cat people,” or say that they’re “more of a dog person” or, at their most vulgar extreme “hate cats,” (you in particular, can suck it).

Great. Fine. I get it. Dogs are cool. They’re funny and loyal and goofy and fun outdoors. If I owned a British bulldog, I would have little need for therapy or anti-depressants. Just looking at that ridiculous face would lift the spirit. So, dog people, dont’ say I never loved you, or them. But:

Here at maunet (and our extended fold of writerly pet friends) we are most definitely cat folk. They’re handsome, independent, quirky and self-sufficient. You don’t have to get up at 6AM in the middle of a Brooklyn blizzard to walk them and–ahem–pick up their steaming little piles of poop for them. I hate getting up early. And I most definitely hate picking up other mammal’s poop.

And what about water? A wet dog smells god-awful. A wet cat? Well, first off, they have enough sense to not get wet. And if some unfortunate incident befalls them and they end up wet, they don’t leave your hands smelling like…like… hell i don’t know what like–here my writerly metaphors are stumped by that nasty wet-dog smell.

I could go on and on. But better to have Robert DeNiro’s
intimidating authority put to rest this age-old argument:

Loss, inevitable
Two years ago, my beloved Benjamin developed liver cancer. I spent one long year and more money than I could afford keeping him comfortable enough to enjoy, relatively speaking, one more quality year before finally letting him go. Now our dear Sir Knight and the Lady Kate are going through the same thing. One half of the charming duo Cosmo & The Drake has taken quite ill and may not make it through the winter. And as sad an ordeal as this is, it has at times been leavened by humor.

A recent visit to the vet yielded this conversation:

Kate: He seems to have some kind of growth near his anus.
Vet (lifting Cosmo’s tail): That’s his penis.
Knight: A penis anus.
Vet: What?

Love the Drake. Love the Cosmo. Love the cats. Long live the cats…

Another few inches of snow last night. Perfect opportunity to finally test long exposure results on the Canon G11. Very pleasantly surprised: virtually no noise shooting in total darkness. The Marble Tea’s new EP (A Blizzard, A True Storm) the perfect soundtrack, on repeat all the live long day.

The Center of The Universe, The Marble Tea: A Blizzard, A True Storm.

G11 | ISO 80 | focal 15mm |  15 sec. exposure@ f 3.2

G11 | ISO 80 | focal 6.1mm |  1/60@ f 5.6

Fat, thick, wet flakes. Not the best light for photog, great light for Nick Drake on repeat.
Seems it’s gonna last through the weekend. Calling for 3 inches today, no big whup.
Why must the weather folks always turn routine into newsworthiness?
Ithaca expecting 20 inches. Now that’s something to sneeze at!

Canon G11 | ISO 200 | 30mm focal | 640th sec at f 4.5 | post-processing in Lightroom 2

Even as a huge fan of all things percussion, I think we can agree to draw the line at the drum solo. As if it was possible, they are even more wanky/showboat-y than their 6 or 4-string counterparts. And though there’s a certain melodic narrative to the drum circle, it’s still god-awful hippie shite.

But when John Bonham settles his lumbering frame onto the throne, a juggernaut exception shatters the barrier of bad taste. This guy can do more with one foot than all of Manchester United. He plays the drums “like two jack-rabbits fuckin‘.”

Witness Bonzo’s Montreux…

Those in creative fields still beholden to client demands (record labels, global brands, movie studios, corporate retailers, the list goes on…) are well familiar with the mercenary principle: you gotta make a living, the client is “always right,” (but not really, ever). So whaddya do? Suck it up and deliver often-emabarassing, sub-par work.

In the December issue, Wired presents us with a “how to fail” strategy presumably aimed at lifting our spirits and helping us turn setbacks into advantages. Gotta love the bullshit affirmation, elusive as it may be. But the piece does deliver some satisfaction in this short anecdote from Alec Baldwin:

“The Fail: Mercenary acting.
I needed to make a living. People don’t realize actors are like plumbers. When you invite a plumber to your house and say, “I want you to put this sink in my bathroom,” the plumber doesn’t say, “I’m not going to install that sink, it’s hideous. You have the worst taste in sinks!” No, he just says, “OK,” and he puts it in.

The Save: Making a terrible romantic comedy.
My Best Friend’s Girl had one of the worst scripts I’ve ever read in my life. The movie was a huge disaster. Scathing reviews.
And I realized: I’m done with doing it for the money.”

You know what it takes to make it in the creative business with your pride intact: It takes brass balls. Go and do likewise, gents…

–

This is not narrative filmmaking, simply some stunning architectural sequences created entirely with CGI. Sweet use of rack-focus and the texture work is amazing. Avatar can suck it.

Great stuff at the 7:15 mark.

It’s a little long/repetitive, the guy could use an editor, but impressive that he wrote, “shot,” lit, directed, rendered and scored the entire thing himself.

Hell, who am I to critique it at all, I’m just a guy watching it, there’s people out there actually, you know, doing stuff.

-

In this case, Every Day is Like Monday, every Ithaca winter is silent and grey. Morrissey in heavy rotation. Hard time putting nose to grindstone. Photog: iPhone + Camera Bag. Too lazy to break out a proper camera.

 Ah, the Blahs…

But who’da thought you’d find them featured in this context:

Pretty fucking cool.

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…

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.

 Listen here as John let’s his band have it…

Hallelujah, brother…

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.

But what really lifted the iPhone from woefully inadequate pocket camera to viable on-the-go capture device is the wealth of camera Apps now available for the iPhone. Selective focus, whole-screen shutter release, digital zoom, Tilt Shift simulators, Photoshop exposure processing and other on-camera tools now enable you to turn otherwise underwhelming shots into arty little treasures.

I’ve tried a number of these apps, only one of which I use consistently: CameraBag. This handy little shutter-bug assistant  provides a variety of filters that, when used alone or in successive applications, yields some pretty interesting results. CameraBag filters include Helga, Lolo, Magazine, Instant, 70’s and a few others (the developers were required to alter proprietary brand names to avoid copyright violations).

CameraBag’s filters do have one significant drawback. Unlike other image-processing apps, they are limited to a single setting that can sometimes over or under-process the image. Certain shots respond better to specific filters, depending on the original capture’s exposure, saturation and contrast characteristics. But creative application of filters applied on top of each other can create some nifty effects.

I’ll be posting a more comprehensive slideshow collection of the my Best Shitty iPhone Pics, but for now, here’s a brief glimpse of what can be accomplished with a good eye, the right lighting conditions and creative application of CameraBag filters.

Not talking strictly performance or technical prowess. It’s the texture, man.

In no particular order:

1. John Lennon: Watching The Wheels
2. Spoon: All the Pretty Girls Go to the City
3. Dusty Springfield: Son of A Preacher Man
4. The Beatles: (tie) A Day In The Life/Tomorrow Never Knows
5. Cream: White Room. Just for you, hippies.
6. Joy Division: Transmission
7. Led Zeppelin: (tie) Fool In The Rain/Good Times Bad Times
8. PJ Harvey: O Stella
9. The Police: (tie) Roxanne/Every Breath You Take. Don’t lie, you love it.
10. Velvet Underground: Oh Sweet Nothin’
11. Gang of Four: Damaged Goods
12. The Smiths: How Soon Is Now?
13. Prince: (tie) Lady Cab Driver/Pop Life
14. Beastie Boys: Sabotage
15. The Fall: Chicago, Now!
16. Lou Reed: Coney Island Baby
17. Fleetwood Mac: Dreams
18. David Bowie: Five Years
19. Elvis Costello: Lipstick Vogue
20. The Cure: 10:15 Saturday Night
21. The Cars: Candy-O
22. Gary Numan: Cars
23. Psychedelic Furs: Pretty In Pink (OST Version).
24. U2: (tie) New Year’s Day/Elvis Presley In America
25. Adam Ant: Goody Two Shoes
26. R.E.M.: 7 Chinese Brothers
27. The National: Brainy
28. Elliott Smith: Alameda
29. Big Country: In A Big Country
30. The Who: Eminence Front. Surprise! Keith Moon doesn’t play on this track.

Don’t argue, young’uns. Go to your room and don’t come out till you finish your homework:

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…

We all know and love Sir Knight Berman’s prolific charm as a pop craftsman. Ok maybe not all of you, so pay attention…

If Calvin & Hobbes hosted a tea party for Truman Capote, J.D. Salinger, Richard Brautigan, Willy Wonka, Stephin Merritt, 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-a-loo-pop.

Each month, Berman gifts the internet with tuneful tales of whimsy populated by cats and girls, Batman and rain, chocolate and nicotine and the pain of being pure at heart. Twelve months later, the MT’s 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 (a moniker bestowed upon us 20 years ago by a dangerously cute fille we both courted, unsuccessfully) sit in the Garçonerie, smoke and talk pop, snicker, giggle and scheme to come up with the next Greatest Idea for an Album Sleeve Ever. Taking a cue 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

–

© maunet.com

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.

Listen up:

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…

In no discernible order:

Top 20:

1. The National: Boxer
2. Richard Thompson: The Old Kit Bag
3. Bon Iver: For Emma, Forever Ago
4. French Kicks: The Trial of the Century
5. Midlake: The Trials of Van Occupanther
6. Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrox
7. The National: Cherry Tree EP
8. Spoon: Girls Can Tell
9. Radiohead: In Rainbows
10. The National: Alligator
11. Bon Iver: Blood Bank
12. Arcade Fire: Funeral
13. Spoon: Kill the Moonlight
14. I’m Not There (OST)
15. Phoenix: Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
16. Dustin O’Halloran: Piano Solos, Vol 1.
17. Elliot Smith: Figure 8
18. Explosions In The Sky: The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place
19. LCD Soundsystem: Sound of Silver 2007
20. The National: The National (debut)

The Other 30

1. The Pink Mountain Tops: The Pink Mountain Tops
2. My Teenage Stride: Ears Like Golden Bats
3. Flight of the Conchords: Flight of the Conchords
4. XX: XX
5. Sufjan Stevens: Seven Swans
6. Friendly Fires: Friendly Fires
7. P.J. Harvey: Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea
8. The Strokes: Is This It?
9. Magnetic Fields: Distortion 2008
10. Songs Ohia: The Magnolia Electric Co.
11. Ambulance Ltd: Ambulance Ltd
12. The Black Angels: Passover
13. Nick Cave & Warren Ellis: The Assassination of Jesse James… (OST)
14. Blur: Think Tank
15. Calexico & Iron and Wine: In The Reins
16. Radiohead: Hail To The Thief
17. Who Made Who: Who Made Who
18. Cat Power: You Are Free
19. Peter Bjorn & John: Writer’s Block
20. The Clientele: Strange Geometry
21. Interpol: Turn On the Bright Lights
22. Crooked Fingers: Bring On The Snakes
23. Cut Copy: In Ghost Colours
24. Iron & Wine: The Creek Drank The Cradle
25. The National: The National
26. Jens Lekman: Oh You’re So Silent Jens
27. Pernice Brothers: Yours, Mine & Ours
28. Robyn Hitchcock: Spooked
29. Sea Wolf: Leaves In The River
30. Menomena: I Am The Fun Blame Monster

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.

Now, to the list:

In no particular order:

1. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay: Michael Chabon
2. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: Haruki Murakami
3. Hard Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: Haruki Murakami
4. Kafka on the Shore: Haruki Murakami
5. Dance, Dance, Dance: Haruki Murakami
6. Master and Margarita: Mikhail Bulgakov
7. In Cold Blood: Truman Capote
8. East of Eden: John Steinbeck
9. The Grapes of Wrath: John Steinbeck
10. Underworld: Don DeLillo
11. Libra: Don DeLillo
12. White Noise: Don DeLillo
13. Little Children: Tom Perrotta
14. The Corrections: Jonathan Franzen
15. Revolutionary Road: Richard Yates
16. American Psycho: Bret Easton Ellis
17. Lunar Park: Bret Easton Ellis
18. A Simple Twist of Fate: Bob Dylan and the Making of Blood on the Tracks: Andy Gill
19. Chronicles Volume I: Bob Dylan
20. Bob Dylan, A Biography: Bob Spitz
21. Rip It Up and Start Again: Post Punk 1978-1984: Simon Reynolds
22. All You Need Is Ears: The inside personal story of
    the genius who created The Beatles: George Martin
23. The Survivor: Bill Clinton in the White House: John J. Harris
24. From Beirut to Jerusalem: Thomas Friedman
25. The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary: Simon Winchester
26. The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America: Erik Larson
27. The Long Goodbye: Raymond Chandler
28. The Lady In The Lake: Raymond Chandler
29. The Big Sleep: Raymond Chandler
30. American Tabloid: James Elroy
31. The Black Dahlia: James Elroy
32. The Music of Chance: Paul Auster
33. The New York Trilogy: Paul Auster
34. Here Is New York: E.B. White
35. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford: Ron Hansen

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’s shlock-infested green-light district finally granted residency to truly artful films possessed of integrity and soul (even as the Academy continues to reward culturally pandering, heart-string yanker-wankers–ahem, Slumdog–over darker, more complex material). More accurately, this list reflects the fact I’m getting old, lazy and soft. I’ve clearly lost my edge. Sigh.

Countering that sentiment (and nepotism aside), I’ve included two award-winning documentaries made by personal friends. I am most awed by directors Marshall Curry (Racing Dreams) and Benjamin Niles (Note By Note) for their will, passion, perseverance, courage, taste 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. Run, don’t walk, to see them.

And the winners are…

By release date:

2000 American Psycho
2000 Best in Show
2000 High Fidelity
2000 Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
2000 The Replacements
2000 Requiem for a Dream

2001 Donny Darko
2001 Vanilla Sky

2002 24 Hour Party People
2002 28 Days Later
2002 The Bourne Identity
2002 Drumline
2002 Punch Drunk Love
2002 Secretary

2003 The Corporation
2003 Finding Nemo
2003 House of Sand and Fog
2003 Lost in Translation
2003 Shattered Glass

2004 The Bourne Supremacy
2004 Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
2004 The Incredibles

2005 Batman Begins
2005 Good Night and Good Luck
2005 A History of Violence
2005 The Squid and the Whale
2005 Syriana

2006 Casino Royale
2006 The Devil Wears Prada
2006 The Lives of Others
2006 Marie Antoinette
2006 Stranger Than Fiction

2007 The Assasination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
2007 Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead
2007 Breach
2007 Control
2007 Helvetica
2007 I’m Not There
2007 Michael Clayton
2007 Mongol
2007 No Country for Old Men
2007 Note by Note: The Making of Steinway L1037
2007 Once
2007 There Will Be Blood
2007 Tom Petty: Runnin’ Down a Dream

2008 The Bourne Ultimatum
2008 The Dark Knight
2008 Frost/Nixon
2008 Ironman
2008 Revolutionary Road

2009 District 9
2009 Racing Dreams
2009 Star Trek

At 83 years of age, the infallible Sidney Lumet wielded the newest HD technology to make 2007’s Before the Devil Knows Your Dead, a disturbing hell-ride that keeps furious pace next to other dark classics, Happiness, The Grifters and Requiem for a Dream.

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, um, position. It 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.

Just don’t make him angry. You won’t like him when he’s angry.

–

We now present to you the unfortunate practice of making
laughable trailers for seriously good films …

Speaking German is easy. Just add Strasse to the end of every English sentence
and you can pretty much get by…

Why indeed? My brainy wife Yula was accepted to Cornell for a well-funded PhD program in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology . She was thrilled, I was less so. I mean, no way in hell I’m moving up there. I mean, my business is here in Brooklyn, right? But who am I to keep the love of my life from self-actualizing? No way. So we ended up with our city home and our country home. How upscale. Who’da thought.

So we buy this awesome house: four bedrooms, tons of light, half-acre of land, large porch with a stunning view of the valley…. plus an apple tree, frequent visits from a family of deer and a fat-ass groundhog we’ve come to call Fatty McFatty. Pretty fucking sweet.

But there’s a catch. This lovely house on the hill is accessed by a driveway with a 45-degree pitch. Try gettin’ up that in a foot of snow, Outback or no… Well, this minor to major annoyance poses a second problem of which you will soon learn, for this is where the real story begins…

We arrived with a moving van on a sunny summer Sunday in August. The following Monday we set out for the inevitable stocking-up trip to Lowe’s, Home Depot, Target, Wegman’s etc. Post-modern malaise aside, shopping can be so much fun, n’est pas? Well, this fun day was coming to a close as we stood in the checkout line of our final destination. Sudden bolt of lightnight, very very frightening, me. Mama Mia. The entire length of Target shook with the clap of thunder. Walking outside we find the parking lot a-wash with the fragrant remnants of a summer thunder storm. Now that’s country livin’, consumer habits not withstanding.

We arrive at our humble new home laden with packages and as we begin shlepping up the stairs towards the side door I notice it: a tree branch, about 12 feet long, not much thicker than an athlete’s forearm. Ably, I toss it aside, unlock the door, and plop the first round of packages in the kitchen.

Walking back out, that’s when I see it: One of our trees, a 70ft giant, split into thirds–one of which has crashed onto the roof of the house. Instead of cries horror and dismay, Yula and I break into spontaneous peals of laughter. First home, first day, big-ass tree on top of the house. Almost simultaneously we summon the appropriate scene from The World According to Garp. A small plane had crashed into their house on their first day of occupancy… a statistic anomaly that christens the home with 30+ years of good luck.

It’s difficult to discern the damage in the pitch black of the yard, but our badass Maglite puts enough light on the subject to assess the damage. Miraculously, it appears to be minimal. We think.

Next morning, in the light of day, we’re relieved that the roof has not caved in – only our satellite dish (installed less than 48 hours prior) had been crushed beyond repair. A quick search on the internet leads us to Limbwalker Treecare. Contrary to any future experience with service professionals in the area, they arrive promtly, within a couple of hours. Boy do they arrive, too.

A young strapping man strides confidently up the driveway to greet us, at which point I can actally feel my wife’s knees go weak. He’s a dreamboat. Manly, yet delicate. Lithe, tall and outdoorsy and carrying a bunch of ropes and power tools. I gotta admit, I was a little smitten myself. Letting my wife catch her breath and regain her composure, I tell him our amusing tale and get him started on the survey… and this is where pictures speak louder than words.

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…

micks15minutes.blogspot.com/

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.

I know i’m probably stating the obvious here, but let me just remind us all:

Jethro Tull sucks ass.

Standing in line at Five Guys Burgers last week, Ian Anderson’s pretentious little flute flurried and pranced out of the speakers like a renaissance fairy. I almost had to leave before my order was up. Thankfully, Deep Purple came on next, raining rawk bombs on Jethro’s baroque parade and I was left to wait in peace as my tasty burger sizzled to perfection.

Now, I’m not a total philistine–I don’t subscribe to the notion that classical arrangements and motifs don’t have a place in the Pantheon of Rock (witness the current crop of exquisite baroque pop from The National, Arcade Fire, Belle Orchestre, Belle & Sebastian).

But I draw the line at the flute…

With very few exceptions (War’s “Spill the Wine” is exempt by virtue of its weirdness and irony) the flute’s trim little figure and sweet falsetto isn’t hussy enough to hang with the bad boys. Cello, viola, tuba, french horn: these fellows have something interesting and unexpected to contribute in the Context of Rock. Their bassy registers and booming voices sit well with the more traditional denizens of rock’s ballsy tribe. But the flute? Sorry. I cannot abide that obsequious little bird flitting around the landscape trying to distract me from the perfectly bad-ass bears, tigers and wolves.

Excuse the mixed metaphors, I’ll get to the point:

At age 12 or 13, I owned more than my share of prog-rock records. Rush, King Crimsom, Yes, ELP… Mmmm…. proggy-treats. I even fell prey to the lamentable second coming of the genre that included Asia and mid-period Genesis. Don’t be a snob, admit it. You love Heat of the Moment and Abacab.

So you see, I was not entirely averse to pretentious doodling and flamboyant overstatement. To wit, one summer day I rode my bike down to Turtle’s Records & Tapes to buy whichever record had “Locomotive Breath” on it. I thought its piano intro was “pretty.” Back home, I quickly realized that there were many better sources for pretty little piano pieces without having to sit through the Jethro’s dreck. The intro to Love Reign O’er Me, or all all of Chopin’s Nocturnes come immediately to mind.

Now recall (or for the younger folk, gasp!): in 1980 there were no listening stations at the record store. No internet cronies to swap tunes with. And at the age of twelve, a $7.99 LP was a week’s allowance. So now I’m stuck with this piece of shit record and nothing new to listen to for another week? Fuck! So I did something bad. Probably the worst thing I’ve ever done. I took out my pen-knife (I lived in a very rough neighborhood), gouged an inconspicuous little groove across the middle of track 2, and Huffied it back to Turtles.

I slipped in unnoticed and stealthily made my way to the Jethro Tull bin, where I buried the one remaining copy of Aqualung among the lamentably deep catalog of Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute. Then I approached the scary-cute goth girl at the counter and entreated her with the irresistible doe eyes of a disappointed young music geek: “This record has a scratch on it,” I sulked, producing my receipt. Goth girl eyed me suspiscioulsly as she slipped the record from it’s sleeve and inspected it with the steely eyes of a particularly tenacious private detective. I helpfully pointed out the scratch and suggested she play it if she was still unconvinced. “Okay, go get another copy,” she relented.

I love it when a plan comes together.

After dutifully rifling through the Aqualung-depleted JT bin, I returned to the counter. Doing my best to mask triumph with indignant disappointment, I muttered: “You don’t have another copy. I guess I’ll have to get this instead,” producing a copy of the decidedly un-proggy, undeniably un-shitty Space Oddity – a piece of vinyl that still occupies my record shelf, pristine as the day I bought it.

The National's 2001 Debut

I don’t have to remind you of my deep and abiding love for The National. Don’t argue, they’re the band of the decade. Finding their purchase with Alligator, Boxer was a mature, mesmerizing monster of a record. But when’s the last time you listened to their recording debut? It truly was a harbinger of great things to come from the Brooklyn lads. (All you real music critics out there, for god’s sake stop calling them Ohio transplants. Let a man escape his past, already.)

Few minutes ago my portable music playing device served up “Son” during a walk through Prospect Heights. For a long stretch, this song held the pole position on early National set lists. Boxer’s lush arrangements and literate understatement aside, this track runs a close race to make the Top Ten National Songs of All Time list. (There is no such list to date, but there will be. There will be.) Matt’s boozy tenor was never more resonant. The roomy production gives the song room to breathe (an asset only temporarily lost on their sophomore record). But I digress. Here’s where the real bias comes in:

It’s the drum part, stupid. Multi-tracked syncopated toms lift the song from Lapsed Catholic Ballad to Primal Paean. Shit. I think I sounded like Patrick Bateman reviewing Sussudio just then. Sorry. Can I distract you with the sweet cover photo of dashing drummer Bryan wiffle-balling in the pool? No? Then I better go now. I have to return some video tapes.

© maunet.com

Every time I walked past American Psycho in a book store, I was mesmerized by the cover: a vaguely victorian photograph of a sinister, steely-eyed yuppie. I knew it was a grisly book about a psycho serial killer. I didn’t read these kinds of books.

Now, I don’t mind movie violence. It doesn’t get inside me and linger. (One notable exception includes Larry Clark’s Kids). But reading mainlines a subject right to the brain, and that particular drug wasn’t my bag, baby. So I saw the movie instead.

Director Mary Harron’s take on Patrick Bateman’s mad shenanigans is pretty gruesome, but it relies more on the suggestion of violence than on graphic torture-porn. She made a wise decision by focusing on the book’s biting satire and black humor that pervades even it’s most horrifying passages. The art direction for the 80’s period piece is pitch perfect, and Christian Bale’s deliberately affected performance is spooky and hilarious. The fact that my girlfriend Chloe Sevigny is in it don’t hurt none either. (Ok, you know she’s not my girlfriend right? I mean in my mind.)

After watching the movie 4 or 5 times, I decided to ignore the better angels of my nature and see if I could get through the book. It is in fact, extremely grisly. And at first, psycho Bateman’s repetitious rants are a little tedious. But gradually, the genius of the narrative reveals itself as it drags you into a world obsessed with money, status, designer clothing, over-wrought culinary concoctions and meticulously crafted business cards (Good coloring. That’s bone. And the lettering is something called Silian Rail).

As I read on, I could hardly think of anything else, especially as a denizen of New York City. I would sit on the subway, nervously eyeing a Wall Street suit, wondering what this guy does when he leaves work at night.

A reviewer on Amazon aptly described American Psycho as a narcotic. It is indeed not unlike a Halcyon high, a book that wacks you out, leaving you feeling it’s influence long after the dose wears off. This may or may not sound like a pleasant experience, but it’s a remarkably adept piece of writing.

Don’t just look at it. Eat it.

I was looking for something that my dad would have listened to when he was wearing hip on his sleeve, wherever Brooklyn was in those days.

So I started pecking around iTunes for the Warren Zevon catalog. I had a few tracks, just the standards. “Lawyers Guns and Money” has always been a long-time favorite of mine. And if you haven’t seen his appearance on the Larry Sanders Show, you just aren’t living. But I’ve always hated the way his records sound: that glossy West Coast pro-production that’s ruined so many decent records (including present day recordings by The Twilight Singers). But I had a suspicion that under all that shitty, dated LA trash, there were some gems to be found. I managed to find some stripped-down demo recordings that lets the old werewolf’s unique brand of sleazy pathos come alive without being buried alive by the glossy sheen of consumate musicianship. (That shit should stay where it belongs. On Steely Dan records, where it’s not just tolerable, it’s fucking joyous).

But I digress….

After pilfering all the Zevon I could handle, I moved on to Kris Kristoffersson. If Johnny Cash is the Stones, then Kris must be the Beatles. I’d always liked his stuff when someone else was singing it (there’s a couple of great KK tributes records out there) so I figured it was time to pony up $29.99 for the Essential Kris Kristofferson and hear the man deliver his own songs. It now sits proudly on my shelf with other artists in that series: Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and Neil Diamond (thank you Matt, for that last one).

But wait. That’s not why I’m writing this either. I suppose I should get on with it before you send me the electronic equivalent of a spit in the eye. Our story is propelled forward by the magic of internet consumer algorithms – through them I was led through the twisted path of 70’s singer/songwriters, turning left at Jim Croce, stopping at Gordon Lightfoot’s roadside boiled peanut stand, crossing the road like a chicken with my head cut off to find Zevon and Kristofferson, to finally arrive at the catalog of crazy old Harry Nilsson.

We’ve all heard “Everybody’s Talkin’” (originally penned by the un-sung Fred Neil) and “Coconut.” You may also know he’s the original composer of “One”, made famous in the 60’s by Three Dog Night and most recently covered by Aimee Mann on the Magnolia soundtrack. And you may even have heard his own deliciously cheesy cover of Badfinger’s “Without You” (I’ve been driving Yula crazy singing it around the Ithaca house at the top of my lungs, clutching my hands to my breast, channelling Bonnie Tyler and Bono. That’s how I roll when left stranded upstate. Since quitting smoking, I don’t even have to leave the house for cigarettes.)

Shit. Stay on track. Ok. Here we go.

Gimmicky little songs and the title track to Midnight Cowboy aside… it seems that Nilsson did indeed record one of the true lost gems of the 1970’s.

The recording is not available on iTunes or Emusic, and it seems to be out of print on vinyl and CD. But there was quite a bit of chatter about if on the Internets, so I bought a copy from some little in shop in California, courtesy of Amazon z-shops (who says mom and pop is dead. Knight, there’s hope for Book Bin yet). I think this might be the first record in 5 years I’ve purchased sight unseen (sound unheard?). Turns out this chatter was no mere static.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of Randy Newman. He’s always impressed me as the musical equivalent of a Norman Rockwell painting. And he looks strangely like a Jewish owl. Don’t get me wrong – I love owls. And you all know I not-so-secretly hope to become a true New York Jew someday when I’m old(er). But Newman’s performances were always too vaudevillian at best and downright douchy at worst.

But hand his songs over over to the John Lennon-obsessed Nilsson, with his creepy-crazy Brian Wilson production and drug-addled delivery and these songs take on a new light. Some of them remind me of Bill Fay (another semi-obscure British folkie from the 60’s recently brought to light by Wilco’s take on  his “How To Fight Loneliness.” But that’s another story. See, I’m on task).

I’m on my third listening of NSN, and dare I say, a gem it is. It’s anachronistic and weird; tinkling and soothing and baroque. I’m pretty sure Jeff Buckley, Rufus Wainwright and Elliot Smith were fans of this record. The production is intimate, the arrangements uncluttered. There’s classic Lennon/McCartney-style double-tracking all over it. Some of it sounds like something you might hear at a carnival in the 40’s. And you can hear how Wilco might have arrived at their Beach Boys take on Americana.

All in all, it’s delicate and nostalgic record; familiar and strange and ultimately pretty easy listening for a Sunday morning or bleary, boozy 3AM winter nights drinking Malbec. Plus, there’s a song about Dayton, OH on it, so you Midwestern kids can relate.

Go  now.. take a listen.

Now, you would think a southern boy like me, having spent a good part of the early 90’s in Athens, GA, would have attended quite a few REM shows – not so. They are one of a few must-see bands I’ve managed, for one reason or another, to miss altogether (The Pixies, The Police, The Smiths). The last opportunity I had to see REM was on the Document tour at the historic Fox Theater in Atlanta. Alas, I gave up the tix to my then-girlfriend after an unanticipated break-up. So much for taking the high road…

Despite the missing live action experience, REM records were, for many of us, one of the sountracks to our late teens and early 20’s. But let’s face it – every band must run it’s creative course–after Monster, I got off the train before the band reached it’s next station.

So… the notion of seeing REM 10 years after their prime at first did not thrill me near as much as the fact that old friends were opening for one of the biggest bands of our time. Let’s face it: reunion tours, whatever the band, tend to be a most cringe-inducing event–they reak of desperation and crass commercial motives. (The only reunion tour worth its salt was Fleetwood Mac in the late 90’s when they fucking brought it with a vengeance.)

Boy was I wrong to assume REM would prove the rule.

Michael Stipe has now proven to be the most charismatic rock star I’ve ever seen. WIth flair, humility and sincere appreciation for the audience’s commitment to the band, Stipe was a thrill to watch as he channeled Morrissey’s fey drama and Jagger’s energy and bravado (and gracefully avoided the douche-baggery of Bono’s over-wrought interpretive dancing).

And who knew (ok, well, a lot of people knew) that the spirit of Big Bass Bad Ass John Entwistle inhabited Mike Mills? Fuckin‘ A. Playing big, fat and furious, Mills leaped to the top of my 5 All-time Best Bass Players list. Who else is on that list? Sting (no cringing, now–he’s a master of disciple and simplicity on the four-string, despite his many tepid and earnest adult-contemporary commercial atrocities); John Paul Jones. ‘Nuff said. Andy Rourke, who gave The Smiths it’s balls; and Andrew Bodnar of The Attractions (listen to Elvis Costello’s Robyn Hitchcock look-alike Bill Rieflin’s solid, if not conventional, performance, I’m sure most of those that care about drummers (hell, you all should!) felt the gaping hole left by Bill Berry’s absence behind the kit. Farming must be really, really fun, I guess.

But enough talk–I’m sure most of you have heard this all before. Scroll down and let the pictures speak for themselves…

My Mexican abluelito onced asked my Welsh grandmother if she wouldn’t like a Jack & Coke, to whom she wryly replied:

“Why ruin two good things by putting them together?”

Indeed. I just heard a commercial hawking tex-mex to the tune of Joe Jackson’s “One More Time.” Now, I’ve come to excuse, sometimes even embrace, the tastefully placed pop song used to capture the hipster consumer’s attention. Nick Drake’s Pink Moon for VW. The Walkmen, The National for Saturn. Well done, Sterling Cooper.

But really, c’mon.

Don’t get me wrong. I survived my penniless 20’s by pawning record store promos to salsa with that spicy little dish known as the Taco Supreme. A cheap date is better than no date at all. And to this day, the mexican monkey on my back conspires against my dear wife’s delicious efforts at improving my diet.

But just ’cause José occasionally rocked a Latino pencil-stache doesn’t mean he should be reduced to hawking nachos under his coat.

Bring back the chihuahua instead. That chihuahua was funny.

If you’re gonna do it, do it right.

//photo by Arthur Leipzig

Those ‘ole Nor’easters are at it again, battering old Brooklyn with furious wind and slanting rain.
Listened to Willie Nelson all day long.

Blue skies smilin’ at me
Nothin’ but blue skies do I see
Bluebirds singin’ a song
Nothin’ but bluebirds all day long

True, Stardust suffers a bit from slick production (it ain’t no Red Headed Stranger ), but it did motivate me to finally learn why all the million references to bluebirds in songs, literature, film…

 Blue Skies

So many Pink Floyd fans just won’t give old Roger his due. Oh, he’s such a self-indulgent wanker, Gilmour is so humble and plays that guitar real good.

Undoubtedly, Gentleman Gilmour plays a great George Harrison to Morbid Water’s John Lennon. Clearly it’s would be a different band without him. (Piper at the Gates of Dawn). The Velvet Smog’s voice is more relaxing than a full-body massage, and those guitar melodies bump my goose skin every time. But without Waters, the Floyd is not much more than tepid space-rock, man…

Mean old Roger may be a tyrant too earnestly enamoured of his pain, but c’mon. His insane narratives are what make the band interesting beyond just ambitious production and beautiful melodies. Well-mannered lassies may make us doe-eyed, but it’s the crazy-eyed bad girls that really get their hooks in you..

Revisit 1983‘s unfairly judged The Final Cut. For all practical purposes, it’s a Waters solo record. Most of the band are present only as studio cats taking tyranical direction from Mr. Big Nose. No!, I want it sadder! No, sadder, more sad! The record is in fact a Debbie Downer of a story that imposes WWII’s psychic scars on the Cold War years, complete with felled fighter jet pilots, Thatcher-era nuclear paranoia and the staticky rants of a madman lurking in the mix. It makes for great listening on a lazy Sunday morning, sippping tea and milk. No, wait, sorry, that’s Nick Drake. We’ll get to him later.

Yes, the record’s a little dated. Yes, it’s depressing as hell, but so was Lou Reed’s Berlin. You don’t hear any music critics bitching about that record. Final Cut is borne of a different DNA than Lou’s big apple brand of literate gloom tunes; but it does manage to mutate that most British of genetic traits: nearly robotic emotional reserve. Swallow it down, keep it all in, don’t let them see you blink.

“The rusty wire
that holds the cork
that keeps the anger in
gives way and suddenly
it’s day again…”

Cheerio, chaps. So what if that daylight is really just the second sun of a nuclear detonation. The guy finally gets things off his chest as he layers Jennifer Warnes-style backing vocals on top of jazzed-up apocalyptic torch songs and suh-weet studio production. And it’s all in the key of C, so you can play your mouth harp all the way through to The End. Would that help lighten things up enough for ya?

As a fairly dutiful reader, I tend to follow one rule: Give the book a 50-page chance at grabbing your attention. If it does, commit. Finish the damn thing, even if the deciding early pages prove to be sneaky little posers.

For the past year, I’ve broken that rule time and again.

The culprits: Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, John Steinbecks’s East of Eden and Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

I haven’t finished a book since.

Not having been a fan of the true-crime genre, I put off reading ICB until I was gripped with the narcotic pull of American Psycho some years earlier. With that chilling bit of damn fine writing, I became fascinated with the horrifying, seductive charm of the killer instinct. So, having been charmed with Capote’s Breakfast At Tiffany’s in my teen-age years, I gave ICB it’s due attention. Suffice to say, I didn’t have to wait for 50 pages to make up my mind. More like 50 words. After the first paragraph I knew: this was going to be the most satisfying piece of lyrical narrative since reading (and re-reading) my early favorites Fitzgerald, Carver and Salinger.

As to Steinbeck, I’d avoided him all this time. His reputation was too entwined in my mind with the tedious boredom of most high school reading lists. Plus, as Morrissey says, the Dust Bowl days “says nothing to me about my life.” Again. Proven. Wrong. With simple, direct language, Grapes of Wrath pulls of the difficult trick of rendering rich, textured narrative without mucking it up with purple prose (i.e. the over-rated Lolita. Don’t gasp. It’s the rare case where the movie is most definitely better than the book ).

The honorable Tom Joad and tragic Rosasharon hooked me hard, so I moved immediately on to East of Eden. A re-telling of the story of Genesis, EOD is the multi-generational epic tale of a pair of Celinas farming families. So often, epics are drawn-out tomes whose worth is seemingly measured by page-count, not engaging narrative (God rest your soul, D.F Wallace, but Infinite Jest. Really? I love tennis and weed, but man.) On the contrary, EOD gives epic it’s due with economical language and a steady, deeply satisfying rhythm. The 700+ page novel reads like 350. And it introduces no less than one of the most seductive, horrifying female antagonists in modern literature, the inhuman Cathy Ames.

In contrast to the realist and journalistic approaches of these first two novels, Wind-Up is an exercise in urbane metaphysical fantasy and Manchurian history draped in Raymond Chandler’s gabardine. So much could be said about this book, I’ll devote a post to it alone. For now, a simple real-life anecdote sums it up nicely:

One frigid New York evening, I layered up like an elementary school kid and made the long, slushy trek to 157th street (up hill, both ways!) to attend one of my buddy Ben’s periodic New Orleans Gumbo fests. The gathering had all the requisite ingredients of a smashing party – southern food, whiskey, huge record collections, illicit libations and more than it’s share of delightful ladies. The apartment was, even by New York’s distorted standards, huge: 5 or 6 large rooms, each catering to it’s own distinct cadre of 24 hour party people.

After a skull, a suitcase, and a long red bottle of wine, I made my way to the “quiet” room, where I could climb out on the fire escape to enjoy a smokey treat. There lay our gracious host, (on his bed, not the fire escape), the pages of WUBC tilted towards a scarf-shrouded table lamp. Dude. WTF? It’s a party, you nerd. Looking up sheepishly but entirely without guilt he replied simply: “It’s just so good. I can’t put it down.”

And there you have it. If booze, drink and dames can’t distract ya, you better crack that spine and get readin’. But fast.

So, the main point here is that these three books have positively ruined me to everything I’ve attempted to read since. The only book I completed in the last year was Simple Twist of Fate, The Making of Blood on the Tracks (all things Dylan get me every time). But that’s another story. Other than that, I’ve failed to finish any of the following worthy titles:

(despite my devotion to all of Chabon’s previous efforts).

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (despite it’s captivating anachronistic language).

Inside Tracks(a collection of essays from famous record producers)

(Joe Pernice’s contribution to the 33 1/3 series)

Born To Kvetch (I’m a devoted pupil of the well-crafted Jewish complaint)

The Thin Man (c’mon, it’s like, what? 275 pp? Plus, the NYT crossword puzzle consistently clues Nora’s dog)

The Cider House Rules (got through three-fourths of this before deciding Owen Meany and Garp just can’t be trumped)

(proving to be if not long-term project a dutiful moderate liberal)

So this may be old news, but it’s Simon’s creations of expressive animated line-art warrant revisiting. They’re funny as all hell. Even those slaves to doggy poop known as dog-owners love funny.

//Simon’s Le Chat

The credit card companies unconscionable behavior warrants a re-visit of Sidney Lumet’s livid, prescient satire Network. Fling open your windows, get your anger on, and let your screams fly. It won’t stop the bastards, but it might make you feel better…

photo by H. Hernandez

Having only seen Dylan once, in 2003 at Hammerstein Ballroom, I was pumped when me and Scott got 6 tix for his 3-night stand at United Palace this week.

But alas: Thwarted by the injuries that begin to befall a man as he reaches and passes his 40th year.

My man-date Scott D injured himself after 5 long years of break-neck rock tours around the world, unexpectedly putting him out of commission for the show. So here we both were, with 5 extra $130 tickets to unload. We were confident. It’s Bob Dylan, for chrissakes.

A poll of 50 or our closest friends yielded no takers. Posting to Craigslist: Nada. Offers to give them: ignored. What gives? Sure, he’s old (looks more and more like Mephistopheles each passing year). Sure he shilled Victoria Secret Wonder Bras on television and offered the use of his voice for European GPS navigation systems. Can we blame him? Or is just appropriately weird, just like his recent run-in with NJ police as he became a Peeping Bob on the current occupants of the home where Springsteen recorded Born To Run?.

So, Scott was left holding the bag on $500 worth of seats. And I was left with a decision: Do I trek from Brooklyn to 175th St in Manhattan, try to sell my one ticket, and take in the show all by my lonesome? Waiting for My Man wasn’t too appealing. Rocking it with the old man was a viable option–hey, it’s not like I need a partner to accompany me to dinner, the movies, rock shows…But add to the mix a one-night visit from friends living in Costa Rica and the decision became more daunting.

Three pre-show beers helped me decide. I pussied out, stayed in Brooklyn and spent the evening at Boat wondering how long it will take for me to kick myself for blowing it off. I’ll let you know…

I first read this charming little book in my native Spanish when I was about 6 years old, before I moved the States. I reread it in English a few years later, then again in French in high school. It’s likely the first and last book I’ll ever read in three languages

I read The Little Prince Prince every few years to remind me that now and again, you gotta let your child-like wonder out of it’s post-modern prison and get you straight on a few things: Boas can in fact swallow elephants. Beauty is sad and and a matter of consequence. And flared overcoats with epaulets will always be cool. This book, along with Franny and Zooey, The Beatles, bourbon and cigarettes are the periodic salves I turn to when I feel compelled to throw myself out of a window.

PAUL AUSTER
:
New York Trilogy | Moon Palace | Hand to Mouth | Leviathan | The Music of Chance
Pretty soon after we (the Royal we, you know, the editorial) had moved to New York and secured suitable living quarters on Clinton Street (not the Leonard Cohen version, you know, the Brooklyn one), friend Ben Niles suggested I read New York Trilogy. Boy Benny, you sure know how to welcome a friend to a dark and lonely place. In a good way.

I’d loved Auster’s own screen version of The Music of Chance, a fantastic little gambling film that plays like the best of Mamet’s clipped paranoid rants. Auster deals in themes of coincidence, serendipity, loneliness, loss and search of the self. How very existentialist. Indeed, his noir tales read like Camus dashing out pulp detective fiction. Great fodder for rainy winter days when your sense of self has slipped out of your pocket, lost between the couch cushions.

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