By now The Simpsons is among the most predictable institutions in America. Not in the sense that the show is boring or unsurprising – though many will argue that it is – but predictable in that, after two decades, it’s still on the air every week with new episodes Sunday night at eight o’clock. Like baseball or the Ramones, The Simpsons has come to be synonymous with America.
That wasn’t always the case, obviously, and when the series began it success was anything but assured. That hectic period is at the heart of The Simpsons: An Unauthorized, Uncensored History, a 300-plus page oral history that began two years ago as a Vanity Fair piece. Drawing from extensive interviews with cast members, current and former writers (including Conan O’Brien, Wallace Wolodarsky, George Meyer and others) and loveable Aussie billionaire Rupert Murdoch, the book was also done without the participation of principals such as Matt Groening, James L. Brooks and Sam Simon, forcing Ortved to rely on outside sources (primarily quotes from print and broadcast interviews) and the word of the dozens of others interviewed for the project.
While several other books have catalogued the show’s impact on television, culture and American life (as well as multiple other topics), the focus here is almost entirely historical. Ortved goes to great pains investigating the relationship between Brooks, Groening and Simon and how that led to Simon’s departure from the show after Season Four. Also of note are the extended sections detailing the differing dynamics of the show as run by Simon, Al Jean and others.
This being a history, however, readers should note that the material is infinitely more detailed on the early seasons, with the last decade barely glanced at in comparison. (The Simpsons Movie gets a moderate amount of ink, but less so than one might expect for a project that took more than 15 years to make it to the screen). As Ortved says at the outset, if you’re looking to learn about what happened behind the scenes during Season 16, you’ll be better served by DVD commentaries.
The book loses much of its steam in the second half but, to be fair, an upstart show on a fledgling network that’s successful beyond anyone’s wildest dreams is an inherently more interesting topic than an established commodity. Even so, Ortved’s account is remarkably thorough, witty and stands as likely the best Simpsons volume we’ll see for some time to come.
Woods - Songs of Shame Monsters of Folk - s/t Telekinesis - Telekinesis! Jarvis Cocker - Further Complications Morrissey - Years of Refusal The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - s/t The Decemberists - The Hazards of Love Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix The Soundtrack of Our Lives - Communion Faunts - Feel.Love.Thinking.Of
Honorable Mention:
Flight of the Conchords - I Told You I Was Freaky The XX - xx Regina Spektor - Far Bishop Allen - Grrr... Wilco - Wilco (The Album) They Might Be Giants - Here Comes Science Grizzly Bear - Veckatimest Built To Spill - There Is No Enemy Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band - s/t Real Estate - s/t
2010... **new Spoon album - it's great! **full-length from Brown Recluse! buy their EP now and get in on the ground floor! **even more Susan Boyle! (just kidding!) **as always, some bullshit i've never even heard of but will fall ass over feet in love with!
The very notion of a hyped band means said group is unlikely to live up to that hype, and few bands in the last 10 years received more of it than the Strokes. Eight years after the release of Is This It, the buzz may have faded and the band may have splintered a bit, but the music remains as compelling as it was in the fall of 2001.
Perhaps no band since the Beatles has served as such a template for the way in which popular music was perceived throughout the rest of its decade. In the initial years after that first record, nearly every upstart group of bed-headed would-be garage rockers was positioned as Strokes disciples: The Hives? Swedish Strokes. The White Stripes? Bluesy, sibling Strokes. Kings of Leon? Southern Strokes. The Bravery? Synth Strokes. (And that's not even going into the untold numbers of blatant rip-off artists pilfering the New Yorkers' sound and style that have since been forgotten.) Sure, a lot of that was journalistic laziness, but the band still served as a critical template (and high-water mark) for the way much of the garage-influenced rock spewed forth circa 2001 - 2005 was perceived. Seemingly every new rock band came to be seen as either a vindication of the Strokes' back-to-basics style and/or a repudiation of the late '90s rap-metal jackassery that carried into the new decade.
If there's a prevailing mood on the disc, it's a mix of disenchantment, disengagement and old-fashioned just-don't-give-a-shit. None of that's a surprise considering the late '90s/early '00s culture that preceded the record's release - and the opening title track conveys that with its hazy chorus and middling pace. Hell, the disc opens with an exasperated "Can't you see I'm trying?" But, like their forbearers in the Velvet Underground, the Strokes set their fuzzed-out malaise to inescapable melodies and arrangements, like the radio-ready "Soma" or the bouncy, oldies-tinged "Someday," all while accompanied by guitar lines pulled from the Television playbook. By the time "Take It or Leave It" rolls around to close out the album - with frontman Julian Casablancas straining his vocal chords in hollering out the final chorus - you can almost feel the exasperation. It's tiresome business, after all, trying to give a damn - especially when you just don't have it in you. Still, a bad attitude rarely sounded so good.
It's been recently announced that not only will the Strokes start touring again in early 2010, but they may release a new record as well. At this point, nobody expects them to save rock 'n' roll - and, really, isn't rock 'n' roll the kind of thing that's beyond saving anyway? Would it be any fun if anybody actually did? - but at least they'll still be around to show the next anointed savior just how it's done.
Regardless of your budget, Paul McCartney seems determined to stuff himself in your stocking one way or another this holiday season, either by way of The Beatles: Rock Band (which will set you back about $50), Fab Four reissues (running about $18 each) or Good Evening New York City, a two-CD/one-DVD set averaging $15.
Showcasing McCartney's opening shows at New York's Citi Field, Good Evening is pretty much what you'd expect; a lengthy greatest-hits retrospective chock-full of a whole lot o' Beatles (more than half of the entire set and the entire second disc). The whole affair is billed as historic, what with the Beatles' epic '60s Shea Stadium performance, and there's certainly merriment here to mark the occasion, but one has to wonder how much this varies from any other McCartney show - does he not put out nearly three hours of classics at any other show?
In spite of its virtues, it's by no means a perfect set, in part because McCartney's voice isn't near what it used to be and has a strained quality for much of the recording. Some Beatles tracks - in particular, showstoppers like "Hey Jude" and "Get Back" come off strong, whereas many songs suffer from overly beefed-up arrangements. Just because of the way four decades wear on and tear at vocal chords, much of the more recent material comes across better, almost to the point where it'd be nice to get more Wings and recent solo material. Ironically, the records he's ostensibly promoting - 2005's Chaos and Creation in the Backyard and 2007's weaker Memory Almost Full - get little more than a cursory glance. Then again, who goes to a McCartney show to hear new songs?
In addition to three fully-loaded discs, the package also comes with notes by veteran music scribe Michael Azerrad (Our Band Could Be Your Life). All told, it's a solid set and certainly a value, considering the low asking price. And if you can't afford to give McCartney concert tickets - and, in this economy, who can? - then this is at least a decent substitute.
If you’re inclined to look down on the concept of “essential” “Weird Al,” don’t.
In a career spanning nearly 30 years, Weird Al has surpassed the Dr. Demento show that spawned him as a cultural institution; survived and thrived while the artists he’s parodied have faded to obscurity; stayed consistently funny while SNL continues to tank; and become a modern musical icon to rival just about any other of his time, so widely recognized that even your mom knows who he is.
So why not an Essential collection, then?
The two-disc set – selected entirely by the man himself – comprises 38 tracks from across Weird Al’s career, wisely splitting the difference between straight-up parodies (“Another One Rides The Bus,” “Fat,” “Canadian Idiot” and more) and originals and style-parodies. It’s a smart move, since two discs of non-stop parodies would quickly grow stale. The chronological sequencing also gives a fairly nice overview of the past 30 years of popular music (filtered through Al’s distinct sensibility, of course).
There’s certainly some notable omissions here, but mostly on the early end of his career – it’s disappointing not to see “Ricky” (originally Toni Basil’s “Hey Mickey”) and slasher movie tribute “Nature Trail To Hell” left off, while tracks like “Bedrock Anthem” (originally the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Give It Away”) and “The Saga Begins” (Star Wars, to the tune of Don McLean’s “American Pie”) made the cut.
Among the standouts, however is “Don’t Download This Song,” a “We Are The World”-style screed against filesharing that serves as essential listening for anyone who thought Weird Al may have jumped the shark. Nice to see that three decades into his career he hasn’t much changed the formula. Then again, there’s little need to reinvent yourself when mocking the changes in popular music is your job description.
After a collection of previously-published essays and taking an ill-advised stab at fiction, Chuck Klosterman’s latest offering gets back to what he does best, but it all feels a little too familiar.
In Eating The Dinosaur, Klosterman once again takes the position of all-encompassing cultural commentator, riffing on Abba, Garth Brooks, Kurt Cobain and David Koresh, time travel and more. Composed of a collection of un-related essays, Dinosaur ostensibly replicates 2002’s Sex Drugs & Cocoa Puffs, inexplicably Klosterman’s best-selling title to date (as he himself admitted in a 2008 Borders.com interview). If the book is “about” anything at all, it’s a dual treatise on the nature of authenticity and the way we as a society make meaning out of shared media experiences.
The problem, among others, is that Klosterman is at his best when sticking to one subject and following that thread throughout a book, as he did with hair metal in Fargo Rock City and dead rock stars in Killing Yourself To Live.
Despite some successful moments – particularly essays on time travel and Garth Brooks, respectively – the book unsuccessfully tackles some pet projects rather than sticking with what’s tried and true: the introductory essay on the nature of interviewing falls flat and belabors its point, and the author twice delves deep into sports – a topic he admits much of his readership doesn’t give a shit about.
There’s enough winning moments here to make it worth a read, but at this point Klosterman is enough of a known quantity that he can do just about whatever he wants (see: Downtown Owl) and his fans will still buy it.
At first glance The Strokes and KISS wouldn't seem to have much in common, but as The Strokes continue to not release Strokes albums and instead put out solo and side projects, they become less and less the sum of their parts—much like that time each KISS member released his own solo record. And, like the KISS solo efforts, each subsequent Stroke's record is less and less interesting than the one that came before, to say nothing of their output as an actual band.
More than three years since the last Strokes LP and the best that Julian Casablancas could come up with was these 8 songs? What sticks with you about Phrazes for the Young isn't that it's finally The Strokes solo project you've actually been waiting for, but just how disappointing and disposable the vast majority of it is. Granted, there are some fine melodic moments on tracks such as "Out of the Blue," and "11th Dimension" is easily the best '80s jam of 2009; but by and large the songwriting is weak and Casablancas comes off as uninspired. In lieu of a Strokes record, you get this instead.
Whereas the members of KISS had distinctive personalities (or at least recognizable make-up personas), their solo efforts were largely unimaginative KISS re-hashes that suffered from a) not being actual KISS albums and b) canonizing songs that ordinarily probably would've ended up on the cutting room floor. Likewise, the solo Strokes are less the sum of their parts; contrary to what was promulgated five years ago, the band is essentially interchangeable, with its members having little to say of musical merit when left to their own devices. The only real big surprises on all non-Stroke releases has been that Albert Hammond, Jr. is a surprisingly credible popsmith and Casablancas fetishizes synthesizers a lot more than you'd expect.
It's not all awful, and it's certainly not Gene Simmons doing "When You Wish Upon A Star," but it sure ain't the Strokes, either.
Part of what made Wolfmother's 2005 debut stand out was that the band wasn't afraid to embrace stupidity with a straight face. Here was a group of dudes that grabbed onto some of the most ridiculous aspects of psychedelic hard rock and held them close - fantastical cover art, druggy influences, blistering riffs, a Plant-esque howl and nonsensical lyrics: "She's a woman, you know what I mean/ You better listen, listen to me/ She's gonna set you free."
Did it make sense? No. Was it probably about fucking? Yes. Did you love it? Of course you did! It was the perfect soundtrack to turn up loud and stomp around your apartment like a Neanderthal while nobody's home.
Four years later, the trio is now a quartet (with bandleader Andrew Stockdale the sole original member) and while many of the same elements that made Wolfmother a success are here, overall the album doesn't quite add up. Stockdale's songwriting isn't up to the level of their debut (and he wasn't exactly crafting poetry there) and many of the riffs are weaker this time out, making it more difficult to divert the listener's attention from cliché-ridden lyrics.
Despite some high points, there's more than a few misguided attempts to broaden their sound, most notably the gratuitous power ballad "Far Away" ("I believe that love is gonna last forever/ And it's all within my mind") and "In The Morning," which begins like bad Oasis before building to a guitar-soaked conclusion. Neither achieves their transcendent aims (though of the two "Far Away" comes closer) and they're an ill-advised step away from what Stockdale does best.
For sure, Cosmic Egg has its memorable moments: the simple "New Moon," propulsive opener "California Queen" and "Phoenix," initially driven forward by a throbbing bassline until coming to fruition while Stockdale yelps about phoenixes rising and giving way to an extended guitar solo.
It seems unfair to criticize an album for not being stupid enough, but that's the case here. The primordial trudge and explosive riffs still make appearances, but they're largely undercut by attempts at musical growth - something it initially seemed Wolfmother rejected the very idea of.
A decade and a half after making a name for himself with High Fidelity, Nick Hornby has at last written a novel that, while not topping his debut, comes closer to the mark than any of his more recent output.
Juliet, Naked centers once again on the nature of male musical obsession. In this case it's Duncan, a middle-aged fanatic fan of reclusive singer/songwriter Tucker Crowe—imagine a cross between Jeff Mangum and Blood On The Tracks-era Dylan—who hasn't released any new music in more than two decades. As the novel opens, Duncan and his longtime girlfriend Annie, both residents of a small seaside English town, are touring the United States—specifically, visiting U.S. landmarks as they pertain to Tucker Crowe: the home of his ex-lover who inspired his best-known album, the bathroom stall where he sporadically decided to drop out of public life, etc.
Duncan loves Tucker Crowe in a way many music fans understand, even though that devotion has prevented him from doing anything larger with his life. Annie, on the other hand, tolerates Crowe because he means so much to Duncan. But when the two clash over their responses to a long-awaited new Crowe record—a stripped down, Basement Tapes-esque recasting of his most famous record—the pair split, setting off the interpersonal conflicts and fortuitous encounters that encompass the rest of the novel.
Though the three central characters are fleshed-out well enough, it's Duncan who's the most lifelike, if for no other reason than perhaps because he's the character closest to Hornby's heart. Hornby obviously has a pretty good handle on the inner workings of men and their musical fixations, and like High Fidelity, Naked capitalizes on exploring that mindset. Yet here Hornby also tackles the other side of the equation: the women and friends that have to put up with—and even love—people like... well, let's be honest here, people like us.
Hornby is at his best when dealing that fanatic passion, and Juliet, Naked ranks with the writer's early works on that same subject (High Fidelity, Fever Pitch). Though the plot stretches the limits of credibility—including unexpected Transatlantic romances, contrived family reunions and plot conventions that resolve themselves too easily—it's a satisfying and rewarding read in a way that Hornby's books often aren't anymore.
Like the album it's named for, Juliet, Naked's back-to-basics approach yields dividends, even if it still isn't quite as strong as its creator's greatest hits.
For those about to rock, Kings of Convenience salute you. That's rock as in "rocking chair" or "rock yourself to sleep."
On their third proper LP, Norway's answer to Simon & Garfunkel have toned down their already low-key demeanor, removing from the mix anything that doesn't fall under the category of voices or wooden, stringed instruments.
As such, this disc ends up coming out of a similar space as the duo's debut, Quiet Is the New Loud, rather than their last effort, 2004's more textured (and generally more satisfying) Riot on an Empty Street.
Declaration isn't without its memorable moments, such as the subtle bounce of "Mrs. Cold" and "Boat Behind" or the autumnal "Freedom and Its Owner" and "Renegade." But the record is vastly frontloaded, its first half largely more dynamic and nuanced than its potentially nap-inducing coda.
Though the proceedings have a tendency to run together after a point, a remix campaign would be welcome, similar to Versus, the eclectic electronic remix set that followed the pair's debut.
Produced by the band and Davide Bertolini, who manned the boards on their previous effort, all the typical Kings of Convenience ingredients are here, but they don't add up to quite the right recipe.
Maybe it's the long lag time between releases that accounts for such a lackluster result. Erlend Øye has spent the last few years prodigiously pouring forth new music—both on his own and with The Whitest Boy Alive—so maybe the two are just creatively tapped out.
Whatever the reason, this uninspired offering isn't enough to satisfy the long-building itch for new Kings tunes—and, if the past is any indication—aside from a few brief tours we may not hear much from the duo for another four years.
Cancel the Oscars, Black Dynamite is the best film of 2009 – assuming, that is, your definition of fine cinema includes kung fu, adulterated malt liquor, fightin’ The Man, drug-addled orphans, pimps, exploding cars going over cliffs, soul music, helicopter explosions, Vietnam vets, dudes getting throw through walls, nun chuck fights and former first lady Pat Nixon being pimp-slapped.
Probably oughta cancel next year’s Oscars, too.
Lovingly shot on Super 16 film, the blaxploitation homage Black Dynamite could easily pass as a lost chapter of Grindhouse, Robert Rodriguez & Quentin Tarantino’s 2006 exploitation double feature. And while Grindhouse focused on zombies and car chase movies, Black Dynamite is, not surprisingly, all blaxploitation. Though it’s done in the same spirit as I’m Gonna Git You Sucka! and Don’t Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood, Dynamite draws its humor from making an intentionally bad movie, rather than mocking such pictures. The effects are corny, the editing choppy, the stunts poorly done, the acting stunted and the script full of holes – all on purpose, naturally.
As much as plot synopsis is necessary, our hero begins the film by investigating the death of his brother Jimmy (Jimmy Dynamite? Jimmy Black Dynamite? Just Jimmy? We’re never told) at the hands of The Man. From there the tale spirals to smack-addicted orphans (Because orphans don’t have parents!”), Byzantine riddles around malt liquor ad campaigns, “kung fu treachery,” and a conspiracy leading all the way to the White – er, Honky House.
As Black Dynamite, Michael Jai White (best known as Spawn) is equal parts Black Belt Jones, Shaft, Superman and John Holmes. But while Dynamite runs the show, those around him are half of what gives the movie its charm, including memorable performances from Arsenio Hall and In Living Color’s Tommy Davidson.
Rather than use a traditional marketing campaign, much of Black Dynamite’s press has come through viral marketing – smart move, considering the audience they’re looking to reach. It’s the year’s most quotable movie, but it’s only in limited release now. But unlike this year’s Halloween phenom Paranormal Activity, it’s probably not likely to go beyond that. So see it while you can – it’s gritty, action-packed, hilarious and authentic. It’s dynamite!
Black Dynamite is playing in limited release in Los Angeles, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia, Chicago and Seattle.
You know a Built To Spill song when you hear it, and within just over a minute of “Aisle 13,” the opening number on There Is No Enemy, there’s no doubt that you’re in capable hands. Much like Yo La Tengo before them, Doug Martsch and Co. have built a career out of being solidly reliable and meeting expectations, not exceeding them. Which is not to say that familiarity breeds contempt. Rather than being stunted by their own reliability and high levels of critical praise (lookin’ at you, Flaming Lips), Boise’s finest have put together an offering that feels firmly rooted in their best work while avoiding repeating themselves.
Produced by Martsch and Dave Trumfio (Grandaddy, Billy Bragg & Wilco), Enemy dials back some of the lesser elements of their previous effort, 2006’s You In Reverse, most notably the distortion and the extended running times. As with Yo La Tengo, Built To Spill know how to wind together a lengthy song, but they’re at their best when they restrain that impulse and keep it (relatively) short. As such, Enemy has only a handful of lengthier jams, rightly keeping the focus on (relative) brevity, especially on the opening trio of “Aisle 13,” “Hindsight” and “Nowhere Lullabye,” all of which recall 1994’s There’s Nothing Wrong With Love more than they do some of the band’s later works.
On tracks where they linger, such as “Done” and closer “Tomorrow,” the band avoids the pitfalls that befell them last time around both by varying the tracks enough to avoid overstaying their welcome and by staying firmly in mid-tempo territory, rather than the up-tempo aggressive playing that marked much of You In Reverse but wore itself out too quickly (as on tracks like “Goin’ Against Your Mind” and “Conventional Wisdom”).
Yet for all the stylistic similarities to their earlier works, Enemy is 2000s-era BTS all the way through, with Martsch and Trumfio again relying on the fuller sound that’s marked their last few LPs, rather than the lower-fi sonic palate of their more formative years. The record holds together well as a cohesive whole, largely more memorable than their past two releases, thanks in large part to tracks like “Done,” one of the album’s standout tunes. Centered on a two-chord pattern, Martsch sings with a frustrated malaise: “All I want is for your to make up your mind.” By the end of the nearly 7-minute song, however, all that’s given way to a mournful, hazy guitar solo coda. Elsewhere, the ferocity and punkish immediacy of “Pat” contrasts much of the rest of the disc’s contemplation, such as on tracks like the bouncy, effortless “Planting Seeds.”
Doug Martsch may take his time putting together an album, but think of all the bands that have risen and fallen in just the three years since the last BTS record. If you want a speedy output, go find Clap Your Hands Say Yeah – or better yet, Bloc Party. If, on the other hand, you want something that you might still be interested in listening to a year or more down the line, then Doug Martsch is your dude. It’s been worth the wait.
(Originally posted in slightly different form to Spectrum Culture, 10/16/09)
Poor Jeff Mangum. Dude released one of the best records of a generation and the greatest thanks he gets is a bunch of half-assed rip-off artists appropriating his best ideas. Seems like every literate guy with an acoustic guitar and half an idea thinks he can holler out some cryptic, yelped vocals backed by folksy, lo-fi baroque arrangements augmented by stray brass and string accompaniment and call it an album.
But Hallelujah the Hills are at their best on this sophomore set when they ignore that influence and instead, turn up the volume. That's a basic tenet of rock 'n' roll that too many indie bands forget - sometimes it's best to just let the noise speak for itself, rather than going the artier route. Even though the Boston sextet frequently recalls Neutral Milk Hotel (particularly on the openers "A Guide To The World's Most Fantastic Monsters" and "The Might Come Back Club"), elsewhere there are hints of Pavement and Modest Mouse, including "You Better Hope (You Die Before Me)."
But when they do rock, they do it well, as on "Blank Passports," which opens with a solid forward propulsion, eventually growing into a straight-forward rocker complemented by crunchy distortion and a tasteful synth line in the back of the mix. "Allied Lions," on the other hand, brings the best of both worlds, mixing the aggression of both those bands (including feedback chaos as the song closes) while incorporating smatterings of trumpet and a shouting chorus. Closer "Flight of the Paper Pilots" could've fit well on a late-period Guided By Voices release (and stands taller than much of Robert Pollard's post-GBV work).
But for every moment where the band gets its rocks off, there's two moments of thoughtful, constrained craftsmanship, including somber moments of cello and piano tinklings. "The Echo Sequence" opens with plucked strings, working in gentle guitars and muted vocals before adding drums, and over the course of nearly six minutes, creates a sonic wave that's always building but never truly crests.
Colonial Drones is a satisfactory, if not entirely rewarding listen, much of it spent recycling old ideas by better bands. Still, there's plenty of indication here that the band may well grow beyond their most obvious influences. Hell, even the Decemberists got tagged with Neutral Milk Hotel comparisons on their early releases, and things seem to have turned out fairly well for them, right?
After enduring a summer of forced nostalgia for the 40th anniv-ersary of Woodstock – a cultural watershed that becomes less relevant each time the baby boomers regurgitate it with an over-inflated sense of self-importance – we’ve come back to a musical moment worth celebrating: Beatlemania.
At least as far as the media is concerned, the release of The Beatles: Rock Band (and new editions of the band’s complete catalog) has generated the most sustained burst of modern Beatlemania since The Beatles Anthology aired on ABC in November 1995. While that documentary was roughly tied to Beatlemania’s 30-year anniversary, the Rock Band frenzy is part of a much bigger and much more American ideal: capitalism.
The reissues and box sets will surely sell briskly – never underestimate the public’s willingness to re-buy a Beatles product they already own – but it’s Rock Band that’s destined to be the larger phenomenon. Despite prices ranging from $50 to $250, depending upon whether you’re buying the bare bones or deluxe edition, the set is destined to be the season’s must-have item and the year’s most un-findable holiday gift.
All of which is to be expected, but it ignores the larger shift that comes with introducing the next generation of Beatles fans to the music in an entirely new way — one that makes the music secondary to the medium.
Like so many others, as a kid discovering the band, if I wanted more Beatles, there was basically only one way to get it: the albums. So you went out and bought them and played them over and over, and everything else you heard seemed a little less special after that, because you knew the Beatles had done it first. (To this day the proper order of Revolver still feels slightly off to me, having fallen in love with the album after purchasing it on cassette with a rearranged tracklist). And if buying an album wasn’t quite scratching that itch then there were tapes of rare recordings, the Anthology set, Live at the BBC, Past Masters and more. But generally you got the music as it was originally meant to be heard.
Not anymore.
For the tweens and teens coming at many of these songs for the first time, Rock Band alters the context of those revelatory encounters, so that rather than actually experiencing the music – poring over it, listening with headphones, marveling at the sonic tricks and innovations – it’s literally a game. The Cavern Club becomes something you’ve got to get through before you play Shea Stadium; “Eight Days A Week” has to be mastered before you get to “I Am the Walrus” and so forth.
In short, interacting with the music becomes more about using than listening.
There’s nothing wrong with approaching a band from the standpoint of its singles and best-known tracks — that’s how popular music has historically been marketed, after all — but when you bought the album you got not only the songs you knew you wanted, but the stuff you didn’t know you wanted – much of which was even better than the tracks you were familiar with.
There’s less surprise with Rock Band; the game comes pre-loaded with 45 songs from across their career, with another 31 available to download at $1.99 a pop. The game may well lead an entirely new generation to purchase Beatles discs and repeat the same experience of previous generations, but I’m not optimistic.
(To be fair, the entirety of Rubber Soul, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Abbey Road make up the bulk of those 31 additional downloads, but buying them that way isn’t really the same as buying the album, is it?)
After all, the Beatles were among the first rock groups to pioneer “the album,” yet as a new brood of music fans wraps their heads around this material for the first time, that format appears to be on its way out, replaced by the ubiquitous 99-cent digital single.
As far as authentic visceral experiences go, making music ranks fairly near the top, but there’s no way a game can truly replicate that, no matter how good the technology is. Even if you get the same hair-raising thrill at moments like the bridge of “Hello Goodbye” or those ringing electric guitar notes at the close of “Strawberry Fields Forever,” it’s not the real thing. Call it the modern musical equivalent of a flight-simulator: sure, you may be “piloting the plane,” but you’re not feeling the G-force.
Playing the songs as a game rather than as music takes away the mystery of “How did they do that?” and replaces it with “How do you do that?” and in turn progress to the next level.
Funnily, now that Beatlemania has risen again, Oasis, the Fab Four’s greatest imitators, appear to have called it a day. Having ascended to fame around the same time as The Beatles Anthology, the Gallagher brothers seem to have finally given up after one fight too many and a career built on pilfering any Beatles idea they could grab..
Oasis make a great case against Rock Band: if Liam and Noel had had access to something similar they might not have been the band they became (whether that’s a good thing or not is up for debate).
If they’d been able to sit in the living room and knock back lagers while piddling around with buttons and plastic guitars, they would’ve merely reproduced exact copies of Beatles songs. Rather, it took using real instruments to work out the mechanics of music – the hows and whys of what makes a great pop song – for the brothers to produce almost exact copies of Beatles songs. Everyone has their own opinion on Oasis, but it’s pretty hard to argue with even their latter-day highlights like “She Is Love,” let alone bona fide classics like “Live Forever” and “Wonderwall.”
Everybody knows the old saw about the Velvet Underground – they didn’t sell many records, but everyone who bought one went out and started a band. Well everybody did – and still does – buy Beatles records and, for better or worse, a hell of a lot of bands were formed because of them. But those kids played real guitars and wrote their own songs and took drugs and over time turned into the Velvets and Bowie and the Ramones and more, which in the end moved rock music to where it is today – something a video game has a scant chance of doing.
Tomorrow’s Beatles – or at least tomorrow’s Oasis – may be sitting in a basement somewhere thrashing out “Helter Skelter” on their plastic guitars, but if the game fails to move them beyond that then it will have wasted in its greatest opportunity.
Having once been declared Kansas City's biggest Weezer fan (no bullshit!), it gives me great pain to write the following: Weezer, please break up. I know, it hurts to hear it from someone you love, but I mean it this time. I used to hate those people that said "I only like old Weezer" the way some people say "I prefer old Modest Mouse" or "The Cure haven't done anything good since the '80s." But I can only be an apologist for so long.
It's been widely reported by now that your next album will be released on October 27th, and the first single is slated to be released within the next week or so. How about pulling a Grandaddy on this one and breaking up in advance of the release; just let the album quietly come out and speak for itself, with no tour or promotion to back it up. It'd be a more dignified way to go. I mean for fuck's sake, you've spent the summer sharing a bill with Blink-182. It's not like you can sink much lower, so quit while you're still (somewhat) ahead.
Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we? I was there at those first shows in 2000 when you started playing live again after nearly a half-decade hiatus. It was great. Mind-blowing, even. Like taking a cast off a broken leg and realizing not only can you still walk, but you're actually a pretty fucking good runner, too. And so, on that wave of goodwill, you made an album—2001's self-titled offering, or The Green Album, as it's known. It was good. Not great, but good. Nothing on there to the level of "Buddy Holly" or "Only in Dreams," of course, but I don't hear anybody turning off the radio when "Island in the Sun" or "Hash Pipe" comes on, either. There's a dud or two, but all in all it's pretty solid stuff—basic, four-chord pop-rockers with strong hooks and melodies that go down easy. Granted, if it was some other band or somebody's debut it probably wouldn't have been worth noting, but because it was Weezer people paid attention. Hell, they came out in droves for it.
And then a year later Maladroit came out-a step up from The Green Album, for sure. It showed the kind of band you always seemed to want to be but hadn't found an outlet for yet. It was bigger and louder and more hard rockin' than anything you'd ever done and even had flares of your old self, particularly on tracks like "Slob," which—gasp!—actually felt like a real, honest-to-God Weezer song. Again, even if it wasn't perfect, it still felt familiar and right.
And then there was the Make Believe fiasco of 2005. There's really nothing positive to say about the record and I'll mostly skip over it. Suffice to say that, aside from "Perfect Situation"—which once again teasingly glimpsed how good you can be when you actually put some heart into it—there's nary a positive moment to be found.
So I came to the conclusion—long since reached by so many others—that you should break up. And, with Make Believe as justification, I basically did my best to forget that you were a still an active band.
But then last year's Red Album was like a revelation in some ways. Granted, "Pork & Beans" was your best song in a decade, even if the whole point of the song was venting frustration at people wanting you to be something you're not anymore. Even "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived"—despite unfortunately revisiting the mock-white-boy rap of "Beverly Hills"—had its moments, if only for the sheer scope of the song, something you hadn't really explored since "Only in Dreams" 14 years earlier.
As for the rest of the album, well, there are some strong moments, but it peters out midway through. And as for sharing some of the vocal duties, you of all people, Rivers, should have learned from the KISS solo albums how much that lowers your batting average. But, oh, "Pork & Beans"—finally something more than just the rock-by-numbers that made up so much of the rest of the record and its predecessor.
I heard the new single and, while it's not the worst thing you've ever done, it's not exactly first-rate, either. Ten years ago this might have been acceptable from somebody else, but not anymore.
In a box somewhere I've still got (some of) my old Weezer t-shirts and the flag from your early tours that used to hang above my bed. I've got piles of CDs and tapes compiling demo tracks posted on line and bootlegged live shows. Somewhere I've probably even got the Weezer sheets my mom made for me when I was in college, festooned with flying Ws. And I might even pull some of that stuff out of retirement if you gave me good enough reason to. But I'm not terribly optimistic, and come October 27, I expect I'll be proven right again.
Look at Stephen Malkmus or Jarvis Cocker. Those dudes know how to do it—break up the old band and just be yourself. It's not like those dudes aren't selling out shows, and they get away with doing entire tours without "Range Life" or "Common People." Hell, people even go to see them wanting to hear the new songs. How many times has that happened to you in recent years, Weezer?
Let's just admit it, fellas: we've both grown up and moved on. If you wanna put out a record and call it "The Rivers Cuomo Project" or something of that sort, that's fine. Be my guest. I'll probably buy it—I won't even steal it off the Internet, I promise—and maybe there might be a couple noteworthy songs on there. But the idea of more and more "Weezer" albums...I just don't think I can take that kind of disappointment anymore.
Quentin Tarantino never met a genre he didn't like, and nearly every movie he's made thus far has been his own reworking of that specific style of film, whether it's Reservoir Dogs' heist film, Jackie Brown's blaxploitation or Death Proof's car chase movie. So in that spirit, it's best to think of Inglourious Basterds as his foreign-language WWII Spaghetti Western.
Finally seeing release after a decade in development, Basterds is a pastiche of those sprawling, cast-of-thousands '60s and '70s WWII movies—most notably The Dirty Dozen, but with elements of A Bridge Too Far, The Great Escape and Patton thrown in for good measure—but with one fairly critical difference: this time the Jews win.
Brad Pitt gets top billing as Lt. Aldo Raine, the Tennessee-born leader of a band of Jewish American G.I.s charged with killing and scalping Nazis. It's a different directon for Pitt, who wears a smirk for most of the film and provides much of the humor—he's chewing scenery left and right, but it's one of his most unique performances. Close at hand is Hostel director Eli Roth as Sgt. Donny Donowitz—aka "The Bear Jew"—a member of the Basterds who gets his kicks by beating Nazis to death with a baseball bat.
But the real star here is Christoph Waltz as Nazi commander Col. Hans Landa. Despite a career spanning more than 30 years, Waltz is almost entirely unknown in the U.S., though he steals the show from his better-known co-stars. Also worth noting is Mélanie Laurent, as Shoshanna Dreyfus, hiding in Paris as the only member of her family to survive a Nazi execution, and hell-bent on taking down Landa. Laurent is a capable actress, but her best work comes when she's just sitting still and letting her eyes do the talking. Mike Myers even makes an appearance as an English general, doing his best work in a decade in just one scene. Astute viewers will keep their ears pealed for a pair of off-screen voice cameos by two Tarantino favorites (though to name them here would spoil the surprise).
The basic mechanics of the plot - aside from killing Nazis—involve a film premiere which Hitler may or may not attend, and how the Basterds worm their way inside.
Even by Tarantino standards it's all outlandishly violent and cartoonish, but that's the point. It's the antithesis of films like Defiance or even Valkyrie—and besides, if you're going for graphic violence, surely if there's one instance it's excusable it's in the service of killing Nazis, right?
The dialogue, though not up to the level of some of his previous films, still crackles despite the historic setting and multiple languages, although "Say auf wiedersehn to your Nazi balls" surely ranks high in the pantheon of quotable Tarantino lines.
If there's a major fault to be found here it's that even six films into his career, Tarantino still hasn't learned the art of pacing, and the film could easily shave half an hour and be all the better for it. In many ways Basterds most closely resembles Jackie Brown; both films move at a snail's pace (though the payoff here is generally worth the wait) and in both cases Tarantino has attempted to distill a genre that spans countless films down into one, rather than cherry-picking the best bits for inclusion (as he did with kung fu films in Kill Bill).
Throughout much of the film there's little narrative cohesion, and things don't really begin to come together until the final hour. As such, it often winds up seeming like a bunch of things Tarantino wanted to put in a movie—not always a bad thing—rather than a straight A-to-B storyline. Again, something a few nips and tucks would've solved.
If a Quentin Tarantino movie is about anything, it's about how much he loves movies. And that's half the fun—that strange combination of elements pulled from disparate influences colliding, as though Christmas, Halloween and the Fourth of July all got together to make a movie. In the future he'll surely move into other genres; maybe horror or noir, or perhaps even a screwball comedy. Let's see how many times he can cram the F-word into a screwball comedy.
I've been meaning to do this for some time now and not gotten around to it. I've done some blogging at any number of other sites over the last several years, but this seems a bit more, ahem, professional.
Anyway, here's a public blogging space. I'll post original content, links from elsewhere, whatever.
