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. //More
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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.
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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.
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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 areso 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.
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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.
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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‘.”
I haven’t completely stopped thinking about this, and I’ve determined that what gets me about the ‘modern’ drum solo – meaning particularly those popular from the late 60s to mid 80s, I suppose – is the length of the solo. (“The drummer’s having a wank, let’s go get a beer.”) Drum circle chants need to be long because they’re a collective journey, but I think short displays of prowess, like this one from Gene Krupa, serve well whether drummer, guitarist, keyboardist, or etc.: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSqltiTvbTc
Wanking is not a desireable practice, lest it’s done quietly in the privacy of your own bedroom. Though you hit the nail on the head with Good Times, Bad Times, my most oft-cited example of monster drumming. Check out this link: http://bit.ly/8u4u9d
Gotta take the time to think about those. I’m sure I could add a few. Check out “Only In Dreams” by Weezer. There’s a slow part where he pares everything down slowly, cutting the number of times he strikes the cymbal in half once per measure until he’s down to just playing it on the 1 beat. Then, it’s like he throws the machine in reverse, and plays the exact same thing only backwards and twice as fast. So the speed-up part of the song happens twice as fast as the slow-down did. It’s a pretty subtle thing; I knew the song for years before I noticed it. Pat Wilson is a very good, understated drummer.
What’s wrong with wanking? Don’t knock my favorite sport!
Bonham is entirely listenable, solo or no solo. I do not get tired of him, ever. I walk around with his drum beats in my head, trying to figure out how to play them. Sometimes when I’m trying to go to sleep, I lie awake worrying about how to use my right foot on “Good Times, Bad Times.” Bonham is the muse.
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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…
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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.
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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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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.
thanks daniel, had not seen this documentary, so very much my speed ;-) Sadly, Netflix doesn’t offer it, so I’ll watch it piecemeal. I love that it’s intentions as serious documentary vs. satire are very much unclear. Kinda like SynthPop itself ;-)
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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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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.
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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, 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.
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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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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).
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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.
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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.)
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Couple of days ago, after weeks of listening to nothing but Post Punk records by Gang of Four and Adam Ant, I found myself in a singer/songwriter state of mind. But not for any of that precious Bon Iver/Jose Gonzalez stuff…. yes, They Are Great. Yes, this decade’s crop of SSWs is quite lush. But I’ve been craving something that doesn’t have the word Hip stitched on it’s sleeve; I’m craving a singer that doesn’t deliver his lines in a wispy-willow whisper (or a wimpy James Taylor whine) that says “I’m sensitive and sad but it’s ok cause soon I’ll be almost famous in Brooklyn.”
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.
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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.
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Couple of days ago, after weeks of listening to nothing but 
Thursday 03.04.2010 | 2:13 EST
KBJr says:
I haven’t completely stopped thinking about this, and I’ve determined that what gets me about the ‘modern’ drum solo – meaning particularly those popular from the late 60s to mid 80s, I suppose – is the length of the solo. (“The drummer’s having a wank, let’s go get a beer.”) Drum circle chants need to be long because they’re a collective journey, but I think short displays of prowess, like this one from Gene Krupa, serve well whether drummer, guitarist, keyboardist, or etc.: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSqltiTvbTc
Saturday 02.27.2010 | 4:55 EST
chairmanmau says:
Wanking is not a desireable practice, lest it’s done quietly in the privacy of your own bedroom. Though you hit the nail on the head with Good Times, Bad Times, my most oft-cited example of monster drumming. Check out this link: http://bit.ly/8u4u9d
Saturday 02.27.2010 | 7:19 EST
miles says:
Gotta take the time to think about those. I’m sure I could add a few. Check out “Only In Dreams” by Weezer. There’s a slow part where he pares everything down slowly, cutting the number of times he strikes the cymbal in half once per measure until he’s down to just playing it on the 1 beat. Then, it’s like he throws the machine in reverse, and plays the exact same thing only backwards and twice as fast. So the speed-up part of the song happens twice as fast as the slow-down did. It’s a pretty subtle thing; I knew the song for years before I noticed it. Pat Wilson is a very good, understated drummer.
Saturday 02.27.2010 | 4:48 EST
Miles says:
What’s wrong with wanking? Don’t knock my favorite sport!
Bonham is entirely listenable, solo or no solo. I do not get tired of him, ever. I walk around with his drum beats in my head, trying to figure out how to play them. Sometimes when I’m trying to go to sleep, I lie awake worrying about how to use my right foot on “Good Times, Bad Times.” Bonham is the muse.
Thursday 02.25.2010 | 4:14 EST
KBJr says:
Soon hippie drum circles can be wanks too: http://is.gd/8RXIJ – pretty amazing video.
And no one can transcend the wank, because a wank is a wank. Not even ol’ Bonzo, IMHO.