Two Dishes But To One Table

Deerhoof at Prospect Park 2008 was amazing

Visually you can get a good hint of live Deerhoof by checking out photos of the tiny frenetic singer
and the overly motivated drummer:

In the midst of the normal routine of sort-of-cool if you squint shows at Celebrate Brooklyn tonight's show was an authentic, can't stop yourself from jumping up and down, sort of gig.
Deerhoof rocked the house and fans responded.  Two indicators:
1)  The aisles of the pavillion were packed with standing people, violating the usual decorum that keeps standing people out on the lawn.   Fans couldn't help themselves.
2)  The concession stand was dead.  "Yeah, this is kind of a first." a casher said. " Usually during any set, there's a steady rotation of traffic for beer and food."

Deerhoof really has something for everyone.  The foundation is Gang of Four guitars and Primus eggheadtechnical bass.  The drummer is super spaz, flailing like a thresher trying to beat sundown. 
Visually, it's a backdrop of three beanpole looking Berklee School of Music guys with bad posture, holding forth like a slacker Mt Rushmore  behind a four-foot-something peppy girl who sings the entire set in Japanese. 

Nerd-dom was in full effect too.  The first guitarist announced that many of the songs are unreleased but that we could read the sheet music for them.  Huzzah?  Fighting for the mic between songs, the second guitarist stepped forth and let us know that, not only is the sheet music available for free at the back of the hill ("I know that sounds exciting but try not to rush the table "), but that we are encouraged to take it, grab our own instruments, and , before the album comes out, send Deerhoof our own recording of us doing their still unreleased song, to be somehow added to their effort. 

Last night’s Beth Orton show.

A couple photos via Flikr are (here)(here)

This was part of the Prospect Park Celebrate Brooklyn $3 summer concert series.  The show featured an enthusiastic singer, enthusiastic crowd, cheap tix, and open air well matched to the music style.  Although I started non-committally , merely laying aside my bike to listen from across the road, I was lured in stages, first moving to lie beneath the pines in the cheater bleachers (where noone pays and the view is actually clearer than the lawn).  After a couple songs of this, I paid, went inside and moved seat by seat to eventually the seventh row seats.  Going alone makes it easy to come late and still sit close.

Every song was radically unplugged and re-sung.  Even when Beth Orton got to a standard like “Stolen Car” my recognition dawned only gradually. 

Coming from me, a casual fan, I think we all felt an I-got-my-money’s-worth sensation, what with the intimate between song patter, the special song renditions, and the frequent switching of instruments . 

The constant aw shucks patter between songs inspired a lot of sympathy.  When she talks it's as if it's just you and a few friends sitting across from each other playing a game of cards.  She noted that she is a small hall performer and was a little awed that anyone would think she could please a SRO amphitheater.  “How are you people back there in the trees!  I feel I’m not satisfying you.” .  Out of the blue, she told an unrehearsed joke that she didn’t set up right so the punchline didn’t make sense.  This mistold joke, plus all the talk about being a mom well-cemented the bond between her and the fans.

The crowd was less female than I expected, although, to a man, the guys were all in tow of at least a woman if not a baby pram.  In the entire sold out crowd, I saw no example of a guy there with other guys.  It is apparently a losing proposition to convince a buddy to “meet me at the Beth Orton show”. 

The crowd’s style was surprisingly uncrunchy.  This was a white wine Prospect Park demographic.  Conspicuously absent, given the venue: Under-30s and African-Americans. 

Review of Bob Dylan 1965 Press Conference

Our universal disappointment in the impossibility of time travel certainly accounts for the appeal of watching film clips from crucial points in history.   I'm especially keen on things that I missed during my childhood era.  Seeing them now that I'm bigger is really satisfying finally, able to understand the secret world of those grown ups.  It's like waiting 35 years for the other shoe to drop and it finally does.

The word "Dylan" flew around with such import when I was a kid.  It was spoken with gravity but completely eluded my understanding. Today I rented Dylan Speaks, the 1965 press conference he gave in San Francisco and I saw some of the  iceberg for which Bob Dylan was, to his bemusement, the tip, a clue of new-stirring mid 60's tidal motions.

    

In the Q & A, Bob Dylan speaks plainly and unspectacularly, gently confirming that, if people want to make him a Johnny Bravo, they can do that, but he doesn't want to wear the suit, he just wants to make songs.  He sits at a microphone and ashtray, facing  a couple dozen people and an enormous KQED TV camera.His interviewers are mostly unhip cats, mostly not his peers.  Everyone engages each other with more respect and less ridiculousness than I would have predicted.  Bob shows up with a tweed suit, broach-not-a-tie, and a pack of Marlboros.  For the first 20 minutes every answer he gives is a 5 word sentence.  At most.  He mumbles at the table, gives a little laugh, and fumbles for another cigarette.  He's exactly as uncomfortable as I am in the center of an attentive circle.  It opens up quite a bit after that. 

Watching this in 2007 we laugh as the men in suits look for the meaning. 
What are your songs about? 
Are you trying to be the most famous man in the world? 
You really just want to be rich, right?   
They're' all attempts to analyze this folkie / youth culture thing, prodding him because it's easier than prodding 21 million young adults coast to coast.
We would never care to do this now.  We now know youth culture is no threat to anything whatsoever and is a harbinger of nothing at all,. really just a record label, a shoe style, and a face on a magazine.  Nothing that the brylcreemed man running Exxon need take any note of..  But who knew back in 1965.

Watching the interview you could paint 5 or 6 completely different pictures of Dylan from his mix of serious and joking things he says.  His statements are calm, patient, a bit bored, but pretty good taken as a whole piece of work.  There's little worth quoting here but the whole thing can be consumed to great insight, the context and rhythm of the encounter bearing much of the message. I found it engrossing, all 50 minutes.  It can be watched to great result if you seek the gestalt of 1965 America.

I jotted down a few quotes anyway:

"Mr. Dylan, I know you dislike labels.
For those of us who are, uh, well over 30, could you label yourself and perhaps tell us what your role is."

"Well, I'd label myself as 'well under 30'.  (Audience laughter.)
And my role is to just stay here as long as I can."

Bob why not sing your old songs anymore (Girl from the North Country,  Talkin WWIII Blues, Bob Dylan’s Blues, Blowing in the Wind, etc)
I just consider them something from another time.   It would be kind of dishonest for me to sing them now.

“Are you considering any further radical changes to your music?”
“Writing a symphony.”
(stops for four seconds to gauge the response.  Noone laughs, he sees he's being taken seriously. he elaborates)  "with different melodies, different words, different ideas all being the same, that all roll on top of each other and underneath each other" [so the whole Tommy idea was just generally in the air.back then..]  “People complain my songs are pretty long now.  At some point maybe I’ll just get to where I put out, an album consisting of one long song.”
“Do you prefer songs to have an obvious message?  Everyone says your songs are subtle.”
“Where'd you read that.”
The questioner, a very awkward teenager, obviously a daughter that tagged along says “In a movie magazine.”
(general laughter.  Girl melts into her chair.)
“What do you think of question and answer sessions like this one?”
“I don’t know.  I really can't take it seriously.
We all have a different idea of the words we'r using
If I say 'house' we’re both going to see a different house. If I just say that one word.  So we're using all these other words...mass production, movie magazine.  We all have a diff idea of these words too  so I dont really know what we're saying here.”
“Is it pointless?”
“No, it's not pointless.  If you want to do it, it doesn't hurt me any.  (Then half-facetiously) All my songs basically say is 'Good luck.'  They all tail off at the end with good luck, hope you make it.”
“You started out so quiet today.  It made me feel like you were doing a kind of penance of silence here.”

“Writing songs and performing them, that's what I do.  Anything else, interferes with it. Trying to get on top of it and make something out of it that it isn't, it just brings me down.  It makes it all seem very cheap.”.

UPDATE:  MICHIKO KAKUTANI  writing in today's obituary of Norman Mailer observes that the 1960s were " a decade so surreal, so stupefying, so confounding, in the view of some, that it surpassed anything a novelist might plausibly imagine."

Review of 'Into the Wild' - (to call each thing by its right name)

As the lights came up, I got to chat for once with the person sitting in front of me.  This was partly because she had sobbed all through the credits.  In between sobs I could hear her saying “That’s why we insisted we buy him a phone”. 

Into the Wild was a very satisfying movie for me.  In ticket price terms I would pay up to $60 to watch it.

I was on the edge of my seat, heart beating for the first hour and a half.  The sequencing of the real life events and the pacing of the editing made a good dramatic arc.  Into the Wild gets down to business on his semi-suicidal Alaska bivouac in the first ten minutes of the movie.  At which point I started to cry.   I kind of cried several times in the movie.   

As travelogue, ITW sells the idea of the road strongly.  Even North Dakota looks good.  Kids will notice.  The trickle of Supertramp pilgrims that had previously mimicked Alex’s travels will surely now be a flood.  The power of this movie on youth should be at least as “corrupting” as Keruac’s was in the 50’s.

They made Chris McCandless a more sympathetic fellow in the movie than he was in the book.  Sean Penn, unlike Jon Krakauer, makes Chris very likeable, though stops short of making him seem heroic or even smart.

Thoughts on converting a book to a movie:
A)    Filming it transforms Into the Wild into the cultural reference point that it couldn’t be as a book.  No post-Twain book can become part of the culture at large, not in an age without readers or a country with as strong an anti-intellectual streak as the US. 
B)    This will surely lead to spinoff rentals for Werner Herzog’s spin on naïve Alaskan adventures, Grizzly Man   
C)    How did Penn get the parents’ permission to show the family from the sons point of view, including wife beating, adultery, and Dad keeping a second family on the side?  As a teacher I have to say I’m hesitant to film adults based on the observations of kids.

I watched this movie with a Manhattan audience of older people, most were 40 or 50.  Some had read the book obviously by their reaction to onscreen depiction key visual images from the original story.  The downtown audience had a serious disconnect with real life in the woods.  A lot were shocked and disturbed by the hunting scenes, especially Alex’s tragic attempt to single-handedly dress a moose in a place that probably has more flies than anywhere in America.  The guy behind me clucked his tongue, vocally upset when anti-materialist Alex burned a pile of paper money in the desert. 

At the end of the movie people charged out at the sight of the first credit.  I was like, huh? For me, this was more a movie where you couldn't help but sit afterwards,  stunned, contemplative, sad, or at least studying the extensive list of locations in the credits.   Sidenote: Into the Wild was the first movie I saw where the credits has to extensively catalog the original Tolstoy and Thoreau sources. 

Spike Lee's Summer of Sam (review)

Vinnie, patsy, forced to betray his best friend Richie.
Best line preceding a beat down in the movie, outside CBGB's:
"Okay, you called us Bronx Whops, we're gonna be nice:  What's your favorite baseball team?"
The defiant reply in measured even tone, "Boston fuggin Red Sox."

Spike Lee does 'crisis' well.
Great use of Who songs at the middle point montage, as well as the tragic, very Shakesperean "Whoops" of the final tragedy,
Loved the sound vs vision irony twice. First, the baseball announcer overlaid with the last killing, then later, the climactic back and forth splices with newscast sounds in the end.

How likely is it that an outer borough Italian (or anyone) would have Richie's crazy spike hairdo in the year of Reggie Jackson's 3 HR playoff game? A bit early.  Poetical license I guess.

After looking up the real David Berkowitz story (if Wikipedia is real) I regretted that Spike Lee didn't show the S.o.S. trying to Molotov a barking dog.

For me, this is the only Spike Lee movie to equal his Do the Right Thing.  In fact it is a sort of remake of that movie.

Making Sun While the Tennis Shines

We sat courtside for some tennis Saturday.  The US Open comes here every year and tickets are pretty easy to score.

Branko, my fellow chemist, came down from Boston and we joined Thomas, my teacher friend who now runs the Tennis Blog of the New York Times.   

The beautiful thing is you can wander amongst parallel games, in and out at will, a real blessing for my attention deficit.   

The people watching is excellent, fascinating.   The crowd is extremely white.  They have skin tans and wardrobes that indicate they do stuff like this all summer long.  In the fans there is a bias toward female youths, sort of like the balcony at the ballet, but with dad in attendance this time.   

There’s real horse race unpredictability to the US Open.   In the space of an afternoon, with so many simultaneous games going on, there are always dramatic inversions of routine.   It’s the complete opposite of football where you invest a whole afternoon watching one team, usually the favorite, grind another into a predictable loss.  Here, at a tennis tourney the champion Maria Sharpova (seeded 2nd out of 64) went down in flames, losing to a youngster and then Roger Federer, the world champion, from Switzerland, was temporarily played to a standstill by a kid that all of the following sympathetic traits:  new guy (22 years old, NCAA champ), hometown boy (or at least American, from Georgia), and eccentric body type (a giant: 6’ 8”).   Federer eventually pulled through but the kid was thrilled just to hold his own.   

Where we sat, the kind of expensive mid level of the main stadium, most boxes were occupied by a wealthy patriarch, lording over his high status brood.  In some ways it was like who you’d see at a church in a wealthy neighborhood:  well dressed WASPs, both parents present and 2.2 kids in tow.   

There was a high level of giddiness in the audience.  Everyone – me, them, the teens, where all kind of pinching ourselves: Am I really sitting behind Federer, close enough to hear little sounds like his shoes, him tapping his strings?  I think some of the giddiness too is all the rich people getting to watch each other and to be seen.  The fathers show off their good postured, well clothed brood, the women show off their tans, and everyone congratulates themselves on being part of this well-respected pasttime.   

On the medium sized court, an African-American hopeful, super young Donald Young, was making a sort of comeback.  After high expectations last year as a newbie the fellow had lost a dozen matches in a row but Saturday he staged a sort of re-birth, fighting his way to almost a draw against a well-known Spaniard.  This match vacuumed 99.9% of the black fans in attendance away from the other courts to root for, again, a hometown sentimental favorite going head to head with a European.   

We paid $118 each but that got much better seats than usual.  I budget for two such tickets a year and it makes life way better to have already okayed it with myself ahead of time.  For the money you get an around the clock show:  11am to 10 pm if you can stand it that long.   

Movie Review of This Is England

The center of the film is our wee 12 year old protagonist Paul and his entry into the world of “skinhead”.   Skinhead is a complex identity, containing the contradictory notions of soul music and racist xenophobia. 

Confounding my expectations for the shaved head boys, it was not at a film about racism or violence.  This Is England is more like Irving Welsh novel "Glue" , covering the micro sociology of one Nottingham neighborhood, circa 1982.  The lives of these tatooed shaved head teens delivers much of the nostalgic appeal of the youth culture you may have enjoyed in Repo Man, Quadrephenia, or Trainspotting. 

The costuming and early slow motion scenes overlaid with Toots and the Maytals Louie Louie are some of the best rock history lessons ever committed to film.  The director, Shane Meadows, really stretched his budget and whoever the art director was should get equal credit for the beauty of the film.    

Other good points:
The screenplay allows good characters do bad and bad characters do good, which lent satisfying, realistic complexity.  The last 20 minutes is edited with good rhythm and brings the story to a swift, tight finish. 

I like when the ending of a film sneaks up on you a bit and doesn’t belabor itself.  Good film endings imitate the tight termination of a punk single rather than the fadeout of a prog rock track or the endless cymbal rolls of an arena rock jam.   

The abundant political newsreels in This Is England evoked the society-wide parallels in Thatcher’s England that gave context to the story on the screen, including the Falkland (Maldives!) War footage, and were used with great logic and efficiency.  The newsreels were integral to film and gave an elegant parallel to the events in the characters lives.

This is England is a bit like watching the great visuals of Quadrephenia but with a much better story (sorry Pete!).

As the credits rolled I had to stay in my seat while the last scenes resonated.  I spent a few minutes divesting my emotional attachment to the characters.   The soundtrack would be great to have.  Unfortunately it’s $46 from Amazon. 
What are the other great movies with nostalgia soundtracks?  One that comes to mind is Donnie Darko soundtrack, especially the suicide-note Tears For Fears cover versions.

Here is a track listing from the This is England Soundtrack.  At least four of these songs are Toots & The Maytals.   Song 24 is a cover of the Smiths original rendered nicely by Clayhill as it played away under the closing credits.     1. 54-46 Was My Number 2. Come On Eileen 3. Tainted Love 4. Underpass (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 5. Instrumental 6. Flares & Cynth (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 7. Morning Sun 8. Shoe Shop (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 9. Louie Louie 10. Pressure Drop 11. Hair In Cafe (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 12. Do The Dog 13. Ritornare 14. Return Of Django 15. This Is England (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 16. Warhead 17. Elgar: Pomp & Circumstance March No. 1 In D Major 18. Fuori Dal Mondo 19. Maggie Gave A Thistle 20. Since Yesterday 21. *Ts (Movie Dialogue From "This Is England") 22. Dark End Of The Street 23. Oltremare 24. Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want 25. Dietro Casa 26. Never Seen The Sea .  Soundtrack review at BBC.

review of an all lowercase title

The 2002 paperback feed, sits on a tiny shelf at the library categorized as Teen – Science Fiction”,  a sub-genre of a sub-genre.   

The book’s future world is a brave new utiopia of easy-going shopping.  The interesting feature is that everyone has chat and Google available in their head 24-7 by a brain-implanted Wi-Fi chip.  Feed is a teen love story, with the main character continually surprised by the new emotions he feels when he is around a weird girl he meets at a snackbar on the moon.  She was homeschooled and knows how to knit as well as fire an anti-aircraft gun [the survivalist subtext there is never explicitly explored]. 

There are weird future drugs that kids do, some of them electronic, rather than molecular, although it is a nice touch that even in 2100, the kids still try to break into the lock to get booze from the hotel room mini-bar. 

Cracks in the shiny future heaven are first suggested to the young couple when at a  moon rave these two get hacked by a culture jammer. The Trojan Horse that then infects their brain chips lands the hacker in Guantanamo Bay but inspires the two teens to become merry pranksters, exploring the contradictions of their utopia. 

I enjoyed the Feed's invented slang (null, unit, et al), the naïve love story, the speculation about what search engines have already done to us in 2007.   There are lovely scenes that would translate well to film, such as parties where a third of the guests are staring off into space, group-watching a banal TNT re-run.  The ability to privately chat someone, even though you are all sitting in a group, ostensibly having an audible conversation, is a great narrative invention, creating Dangerous Liasons type layers of gossip and alliances, right under the nose of the person you’re talking about. The cruelness of teens is depicted but the overall tone is sweet, optimistic. 

I liked Feed a lot and recommend it.  It’s a VERY easy, very satisfying thing to consume, not unlike eating a small bag of Doritos. The author is a professor at Vermont College.  The book has a built-in Reader’s Guide on the last few pages.

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Motherwell, Rauschenberg

(*long post*)

If the web is good for anything it is good for Robin Hood-esque liberation of fine art.

There was a time when removal of precious art was done with actual tools.  Both of my undergrad universities had valuable, original art hanging on the library walls, fully at risk from the unsupervised 19 year olds.   Oakland had a Helen Frankenthaller that confounded me at the time (I was really bothered by her pouring paint onto untreated canvas and letting it bleed everywhere.) And NIU had many huge names (a Picasso sketch of bulls, a Dali print…).  One morning, crack of dawn (finals week, maybe) I went down to the main desk:  “You know the Lichtenstein painting is gone, right?  It was there at closing yesterday and now there are just a bunch of snipped wires on the wall where it was pulled off of the bolts…”  Some nightshift janitor must have taken the painting out the back door with a cartload of recycled paper.

Now I live in a town with lots of free art.  I saw some nice paintings yesterday on my day off.  I was really in a terrible funk all day, all the worse because I didn’t realized I was depressed.  It’s a pattern.  The first day of vacation seems, glorious, unearned, so precious that it’s impossible to spend in a worthwhile-enough way.  Though up at 9, I stayed inside until sundown.  Finally I went out to free night at the Museum of Old Modern Art to stare at exactly two paintings and then get on the train and come home without calling or talking to anyone.   I’m better this morning, thanks, fully ready to be a human being and make phone calls again with two weeks of sweet, precious vacation possibilities.

So, can I show photos of the two paintings that were so nice last night?

God bless any museum guard who declines to hassle me, even as he watches me with concern, rocking on my heels, humming, suspiciously obsessed with a single painting.   
And God bless the otherwise-lame MoOMA for letting my camera have its way with the art.   I feel like I walked out with a backpack full of  rolled up and razored canvas.

A couple nice paintings:
1. Sort-of-cool Robert Motherwell  -  two details. 

2.  The much-cooler Robert Rauschenberg – these are all photos of the same painting, "Rhyme", 1956.  Spot the Empire State Bldg!  Sorry some are out of focus…

Rauschenberg is so different from Motherwell, he's much more sensible, less self-consciously cerebral, more ADD-HD, more relaxing, more on my wavelength.  Whereas Motherwell is telling me an idea HE had, it seems with Rauschenberg that he is merely showing me the inside of my own head.   Awesome.   Rauschenberg is really only viewable in person because of the weird objects stuck in the wet paint:  an almost painted over news clipping of the Empire State Bldg?  A doily?  An entire cuff from a shirt, including the button?  Rauschenberg raises a middle finger but in a jovial way.  I don’t get an ounce of anger or psycho-hangups in his huge output.  It seems as naturally unconflicted as a Bukowski book.  This is a man doing exactly what he wants and luckily for us, it’s all very interesting.   The duality of viewing afar and viewing with your nose against the canvas reminds me of Asian art where panoramic town vistas turn into bedroom dramas as you lean closer and see the house with a backyard full of Geishas or a boy harassing a beetle with a stick.

Motown Remixed

What an opportunity, the vaults of Hitsville opened and the master tapes accessible!

'Motown Remixed' is a 2005 release by producers that were given access to the original master tapes of the Jackson 5, Smokey Robinson, et al.  How should we feel about the enshrined Motown canon being sliced diced, and re-imagined by Generation Y Young Turks?  Let them at it, I say. Whatever they don't understand about our generation is repaid by our misunderstanding of theirs.  In other words, the dialog is potentially compelling.

Anyway, the goal is not reverence.
Re-imagining it is the goal. When furniture is re-finished, the new strategy can improve on the original.  Motown is not a sacred dogma. As a general principle the things we love must never become fixed ideas.   Great creations are not fragile.   Let Plato's Republic take comic book form!  Let JC star in Godspell or a Scorcese movie!

The only restriction on a Motown Remix should be making a product that ages as well as the original did, using legitimate, interesting ideas.  This restriction still leaves room to take risks.

Some of the remixes suffer from faddish dj studio sampler sounds: did they really mean to add a “Rockit” scratch to Rare Earth?

The greatest moments are when the lovely original vocals are isolated and lifted out.     I admit to a strong preference on to remixes where the original melody has been turned inside out (replay the melody in a minor key), subverted (tantalizing clipped here and there, a flowing mane buzzed to a short bob coiff), or entirely replaced, whole cloth (on ABC Michael Jackson now soars above a disorienting harpsichord riff).  Rare Earth's I Just Want to Celebrate is slowed down, making each beat project into space, cantilevered beyond the place your expecting it to fall. 

The Jackson 5 were never allowed to play their own instruments in the studio.  I almost don't mind though, hearing a great Funk Bros session musician's guitar looping on "I Want You Back," sounding timeless like Sun Studios.

The drums + farafisa sound great on Heard it Through the Grapevine.

Papa Was a Rolling Stone, 35 years later, sounds like Eddie Hendricks is a lot less angry now -- the original vocals sounding almost wistfully nostalgic over the new aimless jam; the music now so mellow that it casts Papa more as a colorful Tomcatting tramp rather than the dangerous parasite and bitter disappointment that he was when we first met him in 1970.  Diana Ross' world, however, still sounds every bit as empty.  The music accompaniment gone 100% torch, rather than pop, but we somehow feel additional sadness for the grown up sounding Ms. Ross who is obviously still nursing the hurt of an adolescent breakup.

Several songs sound tired as if the producers ran out of time or ideas.  "Just My Imagination" is a waste of space, seemingly unaltered, the producers out back in the alley smoking the production budget.  But on the balance, a half dozen so-so efforts is not surprising.

The cumulative feeling here is that of a dream: you are revisiting a dead grandparent for a half hour or so; it's a very pleasant feeling. 

The troubling thing about this record, enjoyable as it is, is that once a label does this, the master tapes get locked up again, maybe forever.  "Oh a remix of our old Motown tapes?  We already did that in 2006."  As much as I like this album, the producers took a conservative tone in their creation.  There are surely dozens of qualified hands out there.  I wish this process could be re-done at will, over and over, whenever the muse strikes someone (rather than on-demand as it was here).  I wish the acapellas would be released and find their hands into the Pet Shop Boys, Prince Paul, Dangermouse or whomever.