What the heck is up with Hollywood right now? This is such a long and intense movie drought. Hanna and I go to the movies a lot, and there were only three movies I saw in 2011 that I actually liked. They were:
The King’s Speech Drive Martha Marcy May Marlene
Everything else, from Super 8 to Ides of March to Harry Potter, was yawn-tastic.
2011 was a terrible year for movies, and when the list of Best Picture nominees comes out, you’ll think 4 of them sucked or at least shouldn’t be nominated, 2 are worthy, and you didn’t see the remaining 4, because they didn’t appeal to you, because they sucked.
2012 is starting off with a thud, movie-wise, too. We walked out on Young Adult last week, mostly due to the heat, but also because the movie was pure, hookless pap for the first 15 minutes.
This is what’s playing at our theater and I have absolutely no interest in any of them:
War Horse (more like SNORE horse)
We Bought a Zoo (I bought a ticket - psyche. what the hell is this thing anyway?)
The Adventures of Tintin in 3D (should be called Tintin and the Uncanny Valley)
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (boring book, overhyped movie, worst bangs in cinema history)
Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol (the mission was to fill the theater - oh damn)
Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked (as much as I appreciate the horrendous pun that includes my name, I have no interest in accompanying any child in my life to witness the continuing effacement of an already abysmal franchise)
Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (no.)
The Muppets (this is the only movie I am likely to see on this list, and even though I read a gigantic New Yorker article about it, I’m still not convinced that this will avoid somehow tarnishing my 30-year relationship with the Muppets.)
In conclusion, I’ll be on the couch watching streaming Netflix while Hollywood hangs itself with a noose of incompetence and tired formulas.
On my way home today, I was behind a car with a bumper sticker that read “If God wanted us to be vegetarians, he would have made broccoli more fun to shoot.” As a strict vegetarian, I have a few things to say about this.
1. That’s pretty funny
2. God doesn’t want us to be anything, primarily because he doesn’t exist
3. If God wanted us to be mouth-breathing redneck assholes he wouldn’t have given us intelligence and compassion.
4. The light at the end of the Casco Bay Bridge isn’t optional, fucktard.
I read lists like this every year and they mostly make me angry. To those fellow passionate music enthusiasts for whom this list will inspire similar rage (“OMG, no Bon Iver?” etc.), I’m not sorry.
Nor am I energetic enough to write even a paragraph on any of these. This is nothing more than a quick list that maybe you can look over if your iTunes needs a kick in the pants.
Where music is concerned, taste is enormously complex. As often as we revel in the shared enjoyment of a song or artist, we relish the solitary specificity of our individual favorites. We covet the music “nobody else likes.” It’s a strange art form that inspires its enthusiasts to personalize their enjoyment to levels of alienation.
When I was a kid, I used to wake up really early on Saturdays, walk into the playroom next to my bedroom, and chose my morning entertainment. My choices, in order from most- to least-commonly selected, were :
Play with legos
Read Calvin & Hobbes
Play Nintendo
Watch cartoons
I didn’t often opt to watch Saturday morning cartoons, because we didn’t get cable, and PBS showed Sesame Street, which I had by then outgrown, on Saturdays. Sometimes, though I would catch an episode of a cartoon that was, to me, strangely interesting but vaguely unreal. It was called Rad Dog. I don’t remember much about it, and I’m sure it wasn’t even that good, but what I do remember is that I had a poster of planets on my wall that, when viewed from far enough away, looked like a large mosaic of Rad Dog’s face. This all somehow created the idea for me that Rad Dog was somehow relevant to my life, and, ultimately, that I was only person in the world who could actually see the Rad Dog cartoon. Nobody else knew it existed. The Universe put it on display for me at ungodly hours of the morning to communicate some larger message to me. I had a busy imagination in those days.
Several years ago, I found an album on my iPod that I could remember adding, but had never heard. It was a late night and I was driving back north from Massachusetts. I put this album on and listened as I drove into darkness, solitude… that state of near-meditation when driving that can cause a deep, memorable listening experience.
I began to hear music that I instantly believed, like Rad Dog, was specially for me. And after many fruitless attempts to share it with others, I’ve resigned myself to enjoying it personally and, perhaps, selfishly. It’s out of love for this music that I share it here, knowing few will read past this point and fewer will seek it.
The album was 2007’s Gyllyng Street, by the artist Songs of Green Pheasant. The music was so many things I had sought, and still seek, in music. Textured acoustic and electric guitars, ethereal overtones and generous use of reverb, understated vocal harmonies, ideas that are long to develop but deliver a satisfying payoff, and a distinctly medieval/baroque quality that’s so easy to do insufferably with pretension and pastiche but, in rare cases, when done earnestly and with love, results in so much of my own favorite music.
Returning home, I quickly scooped up the rest of SOGP’s releases. These include the self-titled 2005 debut, the Aerial Days EP from 2006, and later, by way of the artist’s now-offline website, the free and equally-good “others” collection, When the Weather Clears.
It’s all the work of Duncan Sumpner, a thirtysomething school teacher who lives in the English countryside, according to Fat Cat Records’ website. Duncan recorded the first LP in his kitchen and used the same reverb box and tape deck to overdub all the instruments. It wasn’t surprising to me that the music was borne of home recording… its humble production values are a giveaway and major element of its charm.
Although it has ancestry in the traditions of English folk, tonally, this music doesn’t suggest Pentangle, Nick Drake and Fairport as influences. There’s more early-period Pink Floyd and “Songs of the Whale” in effect than elements of Bert Jansch, Vashti Bunyan or Jethro Tull. In fact, I’m not quite sure what Duncan’s influences are, and I like that about his music.
Before I go on, here’s one of my favorites:
West Coast Profiling by Songs of Green Pheasant
Songs of Green Pheasant has been a greatly significant influence on my own recordings as Greyshield. Listening to his music teaches me about using space… the importance of providing a room before starting the conversation. I wrote to Duncan to tell him this a few years ago, and he replied gratefully and kindly, promising to give Greyshield a listen.
In his songwriting, Duncan achieves something in the smallness of his expression and modesty of his voice that makes me, as a musician, feel I could also achieve. And yet, with repeated listens, through which I discern the unfolding of layers and surfacing of his lyrics, the meandering codas and progression of melodies through the track breaks, I begin to appreciate the massiveness of his songwriting talent.
I’m always one for “evocative” music and lyrics. I like to be transported. Music isn’t a mere soundtrack to my days and nights. It’s another place entirely, to which I go hungry and from which I return fulfilled.
Don’t lose sight of beauty in the ordinary lives Come outside for awhile I remember faces silver like December sun Times were good for awhile
I walk alone and one by one the fires, light up the way I hurry home tonight
I want to wake up early, stand outside on the white frost Breathe the marvelous dawn I want to be the sailor on leave, back where I belong But I don’t know where to start
- “Fires P.G.R.” by Songs of Green Pheasant
We first perceive the large bird’s outline, noting his gait and direction. We then acknowledge his feathers, natural in arrangement but exotic in color. It’s only after he takes flight that we understand our special fortune.
This is my friend, Megan Taylor. She’s one of my favorite people, and has been for about ten years. This photo is from April 2010, when Hanna and I visited Meg in San Francisco. Before I forget, Meg’s blog is called Poem Sweet Poem. Note: If you’re reading this in Google Reader or another RSS agent, you may not be able to listen to the song files below.
Meg reciprocated the visit with a trip to our home in Maine last month. Meg went to Bates with us and lived in Portland for a few years, so she’s no stranger to these woods.
During this visit, we did all kinds of fun stuff. We baked a pie, took Reina (our doggie) to the park, listened to tons of late-era Led Zeppelin, ate Thai food and, as always, talked extensively on a variety of topics both serious and frivolous. It was awesome.
We also played music in the basement. Hanna played drums, Matt played bass, I played guitar, and Meg sang lead. We played a lot of songs. Some didn’t work out very well, but we still had fun. Here are some of the ones that worked out better than the others.
Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac
Dreams by Fleetwood Mac
The Battle of Evermore by Led Zeppelin with Sandy Denny
Be My Baby by the Ronettes
Love Me Do by the Beatles
Handle With Care by the Traveling Wilburys
Thanks for visiting us, Meggie. Until next time, I’m waiting for the Angels of Avalon… waiting for the eastern glow.
Did you watch WWF wrestling when you were a kid? If so, have you paused in your adult life to consider how truly bizarre those televised events were? I have, and to me, there was no single aspect of WWF wrestling more bizarre than the promotional spots each wrestler made before and after each match, during which they pumped up their images, smack-talked their opponent, and reacted to the canned drama spoon-fed by the “reporters” conducting the interviews for the spots.
Not surprisingly, hundreds upon hundreds of these videos can be found on Youtube. Within the span of a few lunch breaks this week, I browsed dozens of WWF video spots featuring faces I hadn’t seen or thought about in years — the Ultimate Warrior, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan, Legion of Doom, Rowdy Roddy Piper, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, and, the king of it all, “Macho Man” Randy Savage.
The WWF, which became WWE long after my childhood ended, is truly one of America’s strangest entertainment offerings. Stranger still is its popularity — the bona fide professional sports league founded in 1952 somewhere along the way begat the circus of overhyped, poorly-acted fights featuring shiny, steroid-fueled characters playing out unimaginative revenge sagas. The WWE is still going strong today, employing more folding chairs, steel cages and carefully-engineered elbow-drops than ever.
It’s all in the same corner as our tabloid magazines and reality TV shows. We know it’s fake, we know it’s terrible, and we can’t get enough. Welcome to America, and to the surreal world of WWF promos.
Let’s start with what’s probably the most popular vintage WWF promo on YouTube. The late “Macho Man” Randy Savage sputters nonsense, name-dropping his infamous love, Elizabeth, and wanders around in his tight, awkward stance, snorting and grunting through his lines. Nobody played the part like Randy, and even today I find a ton of humor and maniacal charm in his performances and dedication to his character.
1985: Hulk Hogan explains to Gene Okerlund and all of us why the people of Oakland “get off” on him, and why Brutus Beefcake should watch out.
In this clip, audio problems make an already terrible 1995 Diesel promo spot truly horrible, with enjoyable results.
Jake “The Snake” Roberts is really a gross looking man. I love the Undertaker’s reaction when Jake whacks him with the chair.
More classic Macho Man here:
1990: The Ultimate Warrior threatens to sabotage Hulk Hogan’s airplane so he dies in a fiery crash. Fake or not, this is actually pretty much completely insane.
Finally, here are some clips from the IPW years (International Pro Wrestling) from the early 1980s. The contrast is to the WWF spots is stark — not only are the IPW production values and speech intensity non-existent, but the wrestlers themselves look like they hold down day jobs at Radio Shack. This first one is Jeff Farmer, who would probably lose a fight with a dewy blade of grass.
IPW: Tony the Spider
IPW: Riche Rouge
This will probably be the last time I blog about pro wrestling, or wrestling of any kind. But it’s not the last time I’ll peruse YouTube’s vast collection of WWF and IPW promos, fascinating and feeble.
I saw the Nicholas Winding Refn-directed movie Drive this week. It’s really great. **No spoilers ahead.**
If you’re already familiar with Ryan Gosling’s outstanding performances in Half Nelson and Blue Valentine, you won’t be surprised to see him delivering subtle complexity and outright intensity in his role as “The Driver.” Carey Mulligan, another actor who seems incapable of anything short of brilliance, is impeccable as the leading lady. Her signature heart-melting smile is the perfect cinematic antidote to Ryan Goslin’s brooding glare. A sputtering Bryan Cranston, a demonic Albert Brooks and a disheveled Christina Hendricks are a top-notch supporting cast.
The tempo of Drive is a large part of what makes the movie work so well. It could have so easily formed in the relentless grind of so many action flicks. But that’s not Drive… knowing very little about it before entering the theater, I at times mistook the movie for several other kinds of movie, all the while enjoying whatever I was feeling. It needs to be seen again.
Ask anyone who’s seen it and they’ll mention the fantastic soundtrack, filled with electronic dream pop that contributes a steady stream of cool comfort under the movie’s often blazing heat.
“A Real Hero” by College feat. Electric Youth is the movie’s main theme. I love it… and it reminds me a lot of a song I did with my former band Red Abbott, called “The Spare Room.” We, as a band, had always planned to do more songs like this, but now we don’t really need to.
This more or less illustrates how I felt today. I’ve had a potentially concerning level of lightheadedness these past few months. I fainted at Jeff’s wedding in June and almost fainted at the office this morning.
When a limb hurts or you have shooting pain in your back, you usually know what’s going on. When you’re nauseated, you apply rest and remedies to make yourself feel better. When your brain loses function and the world begins to darken, you’re utterly helpless, and it’s scarier than hell.
Perhaps worst is the inane embarrassment associated with incoming lightheadedness and the dreaded blackout. When someone faints, people flock to panic and assess. I found myself paradoxically reticent about my condition this morning at the office because I didn’t want coworkers to be alarmed or upset. Once safely in my chair, I got over that emotion and called Hanna to pick me up.
I’ll find out tomorrow what the problem is. It’s likely something minor like anemia, but it’s distressing nonetheless. I generally like moving around freely.
Congratulations to my dear friends Jeff and Heather upon their first full day of marriage. Their wedding last night in my beloved hometown of Essex, Massachusetts was one of the truly beautiful, tasteful and original celebrations of love I’ve attended.
On another topic entirely, I just remembered that last week I dreamed of playing in a Herman’s Hermit’s cover band called Kermit’s Permits.
Well, the new album already passed the 500 download mark, which I honestly cannot believe. It must have been posted somewhere really special, because it literally jumped tenfold today compared to Wednesday night’s total.
Huge love and thanks to all who downloaded and shared. It makes it all worthwhile to know people are listening.
Bandcamp wants their nut, so the album is $5 on there for now. I’ll post a free version later. In the meantime, I’m listening to Craft Spells and alternating my sunglasses.
Did you watch WWF wrestling when you were a kid? If so, have you paused in your adult life to consider how truly bizarre those televised events were? I have, and to me, there was no single aspect of WWF wrestling more bizarre than the promotional spots each wrestler made before and after each match, during which they pumped up their images, smack-talked their opponent, and reacted to the canned drama spoon-fed by the “reporters” conducting the interviews for the spots.
