We’ll admit that we’ve always had a soft spot in our heart for Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. In the mid-1980s, when we had a full head of hair (and were in elementary school), one of our prized possessions was a dubbed audiotape copy of their “Born In The USA” album. We’ve never really been much for the title track of that album, but some of the deeper cuts from that tape – “Darlington County,” “Workin’ On The Highway,” “Bobby Jean,” and “I’m On Fire” – can still be counted among our favorite songs to date.
Well, Bruce and the band (whose ranks currently include guitarists Stevie Van Zandt, Nils Lofgren, and Patti Scialfa, bassist Garry Tallent, keyboardists Danny Federici and Roy Bittan, violinist Soozie Tyrell, drummer Max Weinberg, and saxophonist Clarence Clemons) are about to come out with a new album. Called “Magic,” it’ll be available in early October.
The first single, “Radio Nowhere,” debuted this week (it’s available as a free download on I-Tunes until next Tuesday, as well as here), and while we might be biased, it’s one of the most interesting songs we’ve heard in awhile – a wall of aggressive guitars accompanied by an aggravated-sounding Springsteen growling. It’s a relatively brief track – just over 3 minutes – with a centerpiece saxophone solo from Clemons front and center. It’s extremely interesting and worth a listen.
For those of you in the Capital Region, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band will be touring this fall – on November 15, they will be appearing at the Times Union Center in Albany. Tickets go on sale September 8. We’re hoping to be there, naturally.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
(Overrated) Movies That Provide Iconic Imagery That Define Generations
Have you ever watched one those “decade in review” shows? You know the type: generally found on basic cable, they offer comedians and television personalities of all types sniping at cultural touchstones from years past with the benefit of perspective and a deft comic touch. Anyway, have you noticed that, even within these irreverent shows, there are a few sacred cows – movies that are revered as being super-important signifiers of their time?
Well, those movies suck, and here’s a decade-by-decade breakdown of these so-called “important” films and why they’re actually terrible.
1950s: “Rebel Without A Cause.” Nicolas Ray’s film is emblematic of the explosion in teenage culture that came in the 1950s. “Blackboard Jungle” will forever be known as the movie that introduced rock-n-roll music to a mass audience, but “Rebel Without A Cause” will stand as the zenith of 50s-era teenage iconography because of its introduction of James Dean as a troubled bad-boy. What is overlooked, however, is the fact that Dean simply isn’t all that good in this film – his moment of rage (the famous line “you’re tearing me apart”) is terribly emoted, and Dean’s other setting – that of studied cool – seems to conceal the possibly-blasphemous notion that he’s not that good of an actor. My verdict: this movie is only legendary because of Dean’s infamous car-accident death, which gave more credence to his performance than anything that actually occurred on celluloid.
1960s: “Easy Rider.” In the famous coda of this 1969 film, which has long been held as emblematic of the counterculture and the shift in values that occurred with the continued insurgency of youth culture, Peter Fonda’s Captain America character says, “We blew it.” He couldn’t be more right. Filmmaker/star Dennis Hopper created a film with some magnificent imagery – the famed shot of the lead characters riding their motorcycles through the American West, for example. However, the movie has extreme difficulty in maintaining any type of consistent narrative structure; its use of jump-cuts (especially during the Mardi Gras scenes) may have been revolutionary (and anticipated a legion of faux-artistic music videos in later decades), but subvert the viewer’s best efforts to stay with the film. This may be a film best viewed with, um, chemical interference; without it, it doesn’t really hold up. They blew it.
1970s: “Saturday Night Fever.” This movie is 119 minutes long, and feels like a much longer film. The imagery it presents – that of strutting disco king Tony Manero (John Travolta) – serves as shorthand for the 1970s, largely because it presents a number of dance-oriented scenes centered around the feel-good, gotta-dance “me” decade. The dance scenes are good; however, Norman Wexler’s patented ultra-realistic dialogue (also present in films like “Serpico” and “Joe”) falls flat when whiningly delivered by John Travolta and his cronies, who come off as anti-heroes that simply aren’t worth rooting for. “Saturday Night Fever” was an excellent music video, but it’s a terrible, grating movie.
1980s: “The Breakfast Club.” People of a certain age absolutely worship this film – why, I don’t know. This might be John Hughes’s worst movie (and this is a man who brought the world “Baby’s Day Out.” The heavy-handed grouping of character archetypes – the nerd, the jock, the princess, et al – doesn’t flow particularly well as a movie. It’s a group of dramatic monologues, loosely combined. While some of the actors are capable in this movie (Molly Ringwald looks absolutely at ease here), many of the portrayals in this film suffer from inane overacting (I’m looking at you, Judd Nelson – his Bender may be the worst-acted character of the entire decade, for God’s sake) or are underwhelming, barely-there sketches (Ally Sheedy). To paraphrase William Shakespeare and Robert Downey, Jr, this film is a lot of “sound and fury,” signifying “less than zero.”
1990s: (tie) “Fargo” and “Being John Malkovich.” While I actually really liked both of these movies, and have seen them each several times, they’ve come to emblemize a different kind of filmmaking excess: the overindulgence in character quirkiness in a film. Frances McDormand’s pregnant Midwestern police officer may have been a revolutionary role at the time, but how many films tried to piggyback on this eccentricity without a compensatory amount of plot? (The answer: a lot, with varying degrees of success, from the terrible “Drop Dead Gorgeous”.) “Being John Malkovich” was a movie that suffered from chronic underacting – while I enjoy the work of screenwriter Charlie Kaufman and director Spike Jonze a great deal, I think that they could have done a lot better with the conceit behind this film, which supposes that there’s a portal into the brain of a prominent character actor. This film introduces several fascinating characters, but doesn’t do a tremendously good job of grounding them in anything resembling reality. As someone who has dabbled in acting in the past, I applaud the effort to create fascinating, distinguished characters – however, they can simply not carry a movie by themselves. These movies are emblematic of that late-90s desire to be grittier and more “real,” but instead serve as reminders of what happens when quirks overcome plot as a dominant feature of a film.
I don’t think that there’s really a definitive film for this decade yet – and there is still a solid ¼ of a decade to determine this. But it bears thinking – what will provide the iconic filmic images of this decade? Will it be one of the “Frat Pack” comedies of the last few years? Will it be “Borat” or something similar? Who knows! That said, I promise this – once this decade is defined, I’ll find something that’s very wrong with the film that defines it.
Well, those movies suck, and here’s a decade-by-decade breakdown of these so-called “important” films and why they’re actually terrible.
1950s: “Rebel Without A Cause.” Nicolas Ray’s film is emblematic of the explosion in teenage culture that came in the 1950s. “Blackboard Jungle” will forever be known as the movie that introduced rock-n-roll music to a mass audience, but “Rebel Without A Cause” will stand as the zenith of 50s-era teenage iconography because of its introduction of James Dean as a troubled bad-boy. What is overlooked, however, is the fact that Dean simply isn’t all that good in this film – his moment of rage (the famous line “you’re tearing me apart”) is terribly emoted, and Dean’s other setting – that of studied cool – seems to conceal the possibly-blasphemous notion that he’s not that good of an actor. My verdict: this movie is only legendary because of Dean’s infamous car-accident death, which gave more credence to his performance than anything that actually occurred on celluloid.
1960s: “Easy Rider.” In the famous coda of this 1969 film, which has long been held as emblematic of the counterculture and the shift in values that occurred with the continued insurgency of youth culture, Peter Fonda’s Captain America character says, “We blew it.” He couldn’t be more right. Filmmaker/star Dennis Hopper created a film with some magnificent imagery – the famed shot of the lead characters riding their motorcycles through the American West, for example. However, the movie has extreme difficulty in maintaining any type of consistent narrative structure; its use of jump-cuts (especially during the Mardi Gras scenes) may have been revolutionary (and anticipated a legion of faux-artistic music videos in later decades), but subvert the viewer’s best efforts to stay with the film. This may be a film best viewed with, um, chemical interference; without it, it doesn’t really hold up. They blew it.
1970s: “Saturday Night Fever.” This movie is 119 minutes long, and feels like a much longer film. The imagery it presents – that of strutting disco king Tony Manero (John Travolta) – serves as shorthand for the 1970s, largely because it presents a number of dance-oriented scenes centered around the feel-good, gotta-dance “me” decade. The dance scenes are good; however, Norman Wexler’s patented ultra-realistic dialogue (also present in films like “Serpico” and “Joe”) falls flat when whiningly delivered by John Travolta and his cronies, who come off as anti-heroes that simply aren’t worth rooting for. “Saturday Night Fever” was an excellent music video, but it’s a terrible, grating movie.
1980s: “The Breakfast Club.” People of a certain age absolutely worship this film – why, I don’t know. This might be John Hughes’s worst movie (and this is a man who brought the world “Baby’s Day Out.” The heavy-handed grouping of character archetypes – the nerd, the jock, the princess, et al – doesn’t flow particularly well as a movie. It’s a group of dramatic monologues, loosely combined. While some of the actors are capable in this movie (Molly Ringwald looks absolutely at ease here), many of the portrayals in this film suffer from inane overacting (I’m looking at you, Judd Nelson – his Bender may be the worst-acted character of the entire decade, for God’s sake) or are underwhelming, barely-there sketches (Ally Sheedy). To paraphrase William Shakespeare and Robert Downey, Jr, this film is a lot of “sound and fury,” signifying “less than zero.”
1990s: (tie) “Fargo” and “Being John Malkovich.” While I actually really liked both of these movies, and have seen them each several times, they’ve come to emblemize a different kind of filmmaking excess: the overindulgence in character quirkiness in a film. Frances McDormand’s pregnant Midwestern police officer may have been a revolutionary role at the time, but how many films tried to piggyback on this eccentricity without a compensatory amount of plot? (The answer: a lot, with varying degrees of success, from the terrible “Drop Dead Gorgeous”.) “Being John Malkovich” was a movie that suffered from chronic underacting – while I enjoy the work of screenwriter Charlie Kaufman and director Spike Jonze a great deal, I think that they could have done a lot better with the conceit behind this film, which supposes that there’s a portal into the brain of a prominent character actor. This film introduces several fascinating characters, but doesn’t do a tremendously good job of grounding them in anything resembling reality. As someone who has dabbled in acting in the past, I applaud the effort to create fascinating, distinguished characters – however, they can simply not carry a movie by themselves. These movies are emblematic of that late-90s desire to be grittier and more “real,” but instead serve as reminders of what happens when quirks overcome plot as a dominant feature of a film.
I don’t think that there’s really a definitive film for this decade yet – and there is still a solid ¼ of a decade to determine this. But it bears thinking – what will provide the iconic filmic images of this decade? Will it be one of the “Frat Pack” comedies of the last few years? Will it be “Borat” or something similar? Who knows! That said, I promise this – once this decade is defined, I’ll find something that’s very wrong with the film that defines it.
Forthcoming: "3:10 To Yuma"
From the moment that mankind developed a technique for creating moving images on strips of celluloid, it seems as though there have been actors dressing up in the legendary garb of the cowboys of the Old West in films.
There is no doubt that the era in which the Old West was explored and settled was a compelling time – a lawless age, where justice was questionable (at best) and men relied on their own personal moral compasses to define their character. It’s unquestionably rich – the sheer context of the time serves as a morally ambiguous character in and of itself. When you add the act of mythmaking that comes with creating a motion picture, you add so much more – for actors, it’s a chance to dirty up a little bit, ride horses, and generally play along with a childhood fantasy come to life. I mean, who wouldn’t want to act in a Western – to wear boots with spurs, and kick in the swinging door of a frontier saloon?
As an actor, being in a Western provides one with the chance to follow in the footsteps of iconic cowboy actors like John Wayne (whose turn in, among dozens of other Westerns, “Rio Bravo” cemented his status as a definitively moral voice of law and order in the West) and Clint Eastwood (whose roles in several 1960s “Spaghetti Westerns” – collaborations with the great Sergio Leone – practically single-handedly redefined the genre). Many have jumped at the chance; whether it’s Michael J. Fox as the time-traveling Marty McFly in “Back To The Future Part III,” or Leonardo DiCaprio as a teenaged gunslinger in “The Quick and the Dead,” the annals of movie history are filled with characters who have partaken of the legend of the Old West.
Since the heyday of the aforementioned “Spaghetti Western” in the 1960s, it seems as though every generation of actors has gone back to the well every few years and explored the Old West. In the later 1960s and early 1970s, it was the era of the so-called Acid Western, where counterculture-influenced actors like Dennis Hopper and Robert Redford fused their ideals with Old West sensibilities to create morality plays. In the 1980s, Westerns were essentially laughed at; films like “Silverado” played up the comic sensibilities inherent in the clichés of the genre. 1990s-vintage westerns like “Dead Man,” and most notably, “Unforgiven,” played up the moral ambiguity of the times – the biggest battles in these Westerns often occurred within the hearts of the heroes and anti-heroes that dotted the barren landscapes of the bleak, unsettled territories of the Old West.
Well, it seems like we’re upon another era of Westerns. This fall sees the release of two new Westerns to multiplexes. Later this fall, Brad Pitt and Casey Affleck star in “The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford,” which looks interesting. The Coen brothers, famed for quirky, independent-minded movies like “The Big Lebowski” and “Raising Arizona,” will put their postmodern imprimatur on Cormac McCarthy’s modern-day Western “No Country For Old Men” later in the year. First to screens, though, is the Russell Crowe and Christian Bale-starring “3:10 To Yuma,” based on an Elmore Leonard short story (and a expanded remake of a 1957 Glenn Ford Western). I caught a preview of this movie last night.
With little new ground to explore in the realm of the Western, “3:10 To Yuma” settles for being an amalgam of previous movies; it combines the moral ambiguity and personal dilemmas of more recent films like “Unforgiven” with the thrilling, “shoot-em-up” mentality of John Wayne-era pictures, with a miniscule infusion of humor and the gritty, gory realism of most modern violent films. It’s an interesting combination; unfortunately, it doesn’t particularly succeed.
The movie is headlined by tremendous actors; Russell Crowe and Christian Bale enter the first frame of film in “3:10 To Yuma” with phenomenal pedigrees – I mean, one’s the Gladiator, and the other’s managed to create iconic characters from Batman to (Patrick) Bateman. Unfortunately, they’re playing characters who don’t feel particularly well-formed. Bale is Dan Evans, the “good guy” of the movie, driven to do the right thing. Unfortunately, and I’m not sure whether this is the fault of Bale or director James Mangold, the audience never really comes to understand Evans’s motivations for doing the “right thing.” (There’s a bit towards the end where Evans reveals his hand; by then, though, it’s too little, too late.) As Evans, Bale is asked to be both inherently good and morally ambiguous – it’s ambitious, but never really succeeds. As “bad guy” Ben Wade, Russell Crowe is faced with a similar task – to be inherently bad and morally ambiguous. He comes closer to succeeding than Bale does, due largely to his unfettered charisma – the camera obviously loves Crowe, and he unflinchingly loves it back, which does add an interesting aspect to his murderous, duplicitous Wade. However, because “3:10 To Yuma” is in essence a “traditional” Western – it retains the story from a good-guy versus bad-guy story – it suffers a bit from having the bad guy be a more magnetic presence. Both Bale and Crowe suffer a bit for their character’s voices (both lead actors are foreign-born, and as such, have to obscure their natural accents) – they sound less like distinctive portrayals and more like whispery Clint Eastwood imitators, which is sadly unfortunate.
The supporting characters add an interesting dimension to this film; most notably, Ben Foster (previously known for his teenaged roles, including a part in the disastrously unfunny Dave Barry-scripted “Big Trouble” and a role in the third “X-Men” movie) is an absolute revelation as the psychotically unhinged Charlie Prince. You can’t take your eyes off him when he’s on-screen in this movie. Young Logan Lerman, playing Evans’s conflicted, stubborn 14-year-old son, also scores major points for his unflinching performance. Peter Fonda, Dallas Roberts, Vinessa Shaw, Gretchen Mol, and Alan Tudyk also provide solid, if unspectacular, support.
“3:10 To Yuma” is an interesting attempt at reinvigorating the Western genre for the first decade of the new century, but ultimately, it’s a noble failure because it offers nothing new and instead piggybacks too much on clichés from movies of the past. It will be interesting to see if the remainder of the year’s Westerns continue this trend or breathe new air into this type of film.
[“3:10 To Yuma” arrives in theatres on September 7. It will be showing in sneak previews across the country this weekend; check your local listings.]
There is no doubt that the era in which the Old West was explored and settled was a compelling time – a lawless age, where justice was questionable (at best) and men relied on their own personal moral compasses to define their character. It’s unquestionably rich – the sheer context of the time serves as a morally ambiguous character in and of itself. When you add the act of mythmaking that comes with creating a motion picture, you add so much more – for actors, it’s a chance to dirty up a little bit, ride horses, and generally play along with a childhood fantasy come to life. I mean, who wouldn’t want to act in a Western – to wear boots with spurs, and kick in the swinging door of a frontier saloon?
As an actor, being in a Western provides one with the chance to follow in the footsteps of iconic cowboy actors like John Wayne (whose turn in, among dozens of other Westerns, “Rio Bravo” cemented his status as a definitively moral voice of law and order in the West) and Clint Eastwood (whose roles in several 1960s “Spaghetti Westerns” – collaborations with the great Sergio Leone – practically single-handedly redefined the genre). Many have jumped at the chance; whether it’s Michael J. Fox as the time-traveling Marty McFly in “Back To The Future Part III,” or Leonardo DiCaprio as a teenaged gunslinger in “The Quick and the Dead,” the annals of movie history are filled with characters who have partaken of the legend of the Old West.
Since the heyday of the aforementioned “Spaghetti Western” in the 1960s, it seems as though every generation of actors has gone back to the well every few years and explored the Old West. In the later 1960s and early 1970s, it was the era of the so-called Acid Western, where counterculture-influenced actors like Dennis Hopper and Robert Redford fused their ideals with Old West sensibilities to create morality plays. In the 1980s, Westerns were essentially laughed at; films like “Silverado” played up the comic sensibilities inherent in the clichés of the genre. 1990s-vintage westerns like “Dead Man,” and most notably, “Unforgiven,” played up the moral ambiguity of the times – the biggest battles in these Westerns often occurred within the hearts of the heroes and anti-heroes that dotted the barren landscapes of the bleak, unsettled territories of the Old West.
Well, it seems like we’re upon another era of Westerns. This fall sees the release of two new Westerns to multiplexes. Later this fall, Brad Pitt and Casey Affleck star in “The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford,” which looks interesting. The Coen brothers, famed for quirky, independent-minded movies like “The Big Lebowski” and “Raising Arizona,” will put their postmodern imprimatur on Cormac McCarthy’s modern-day Western “No Country For Old Men” later in the year. First to screens, though, is the Russell Crowe and Christian Bale-starring “3:10 To Yuma,” based on an Elmore Leonard short story (and a expanded remake of a 1957 Glenn Ford Western). I caught a preview of this movie last night.
With little new ground to explore in the realm of the Western, “3:10 To Yuma” settles for being an amalgam of previous movies; it combines the moral ambiguity and personal dilemmas of more recent films like “Unforgiven” with the thrilling, “shoot-em-up” mentality of John Wayne-era pictures, with a miniscule infusion of humor and the gritty, gory realism of most modern violent films. It’s an interesting combination; unfortunately, it doesn’t particularly succeed.
The movie is headlined by tremendous actors; Russell Crowe and Christian Bale enter the first frame of film in “3:10 To Yuma” with phenomenal pedigrees – I mean, one’s the Gladiator, and the other’s managed to create iconic characters from Batman to (Patrick) Bateman. Unfortunately, they’re playing characters who don’t feel particularly well-formed. Bale is Dan Evans, the “good guy” of the movie, driven to do the right thing. Unfortunately, and I’m not sure whether this is the fault of Bale or director James Mangold, the audience never really comes to understand Evans’s motivations for doing the “right thing.” (There’s a bit towards the end where Evans reveals his hand; by then, though, it’s too little, too late.) As Evans, Bale is asked to be both inherently good and morally ambiguous – it’s ambitious, but never really succeeds. As “bad guy” Ben Wade, Russell Crowe is faced with a similar task – to be inherently bad and morally ambiguous. He comes closer to succeeding than Bale does, due largely to his unfettered charisma – the camera obviously loves Crowe, and he unflinchingly loves it back, which does add an interesting aspect to his murderous, duplicitous Wade. However, because “3:10 To Yuma” is in essence a “traditional” Western – it retains the story from a good-guy versus bad-guy story – it suffers a bit from having the bad guy be a more magnetic presence. Both Bale and Crowe suffer a bit for their character’s voices (both lead actors are foreign-born, and as such, have to obscure their natural accents) – they sound less like distinctive portrayals and more like whispery Clint Eastwood imitators, which is sadly unfortunate.
The supporting characters add an interesting dimension to this film; most notably, Ben Foster (previously known for his teenaged roles, including a part in the disastrously unfunny Dave Barry-scripted “Big Trouble” and a role in the third “X-Men” movie) is an absolute revelation as the psychotically unhinged Charlie Prince. You can’t take your eyes off him when he’s on-screen in this movie. Young Logan Lerman, playing Evans’s conflicted, stubborn 14-year-old son, also scores major points for his unflinching performance. Peter Fonda, Dallas Roberts, Vinessa Shaw, Gretchen Mol, and Alan Tudyk also provide solid, if unspectacular, support.
“3:10 To Yuma” is an interesting attempt at reinvigorating the Western genre for the first decade of the new century, but ultimately, it’s a noble failure because it offers nothing new and instead piggybacks too much on clichés from movies of the past. It will be interesting to see if the remainder of the year’s Westerns continue this trend or breathe new air into this type of film.
[“3:10 To Yuma” arrives in theatres on September 7. It will be showing in sneak previews across the country this weekend; check your local listings.]
Friday, August 24, 2007
Meandering Thoughts: Nickelback Is Terrible, And Here's Why
One of my favorite movies of the last twenty (or so) years is Richard Linklater’s 1993 ensemble opus “Dazed and Confused.” The movie (which you really should see if you haven’t already) is a meandering, multi-character excursion through life on the last day of school in a Texas town in 1976.
The movie is filled with memorable performances; among these is that of Sasha Jenson, who plays the affable Don Dawson. His is a supporting role, but it is quite memorable. As the football teammate and best friend of central character Randall “Pink” Floyd (Jason London), Jenson is a wonder to behold. As Dawson, he is a ball of lunatic energy and is so magnetic that it makes one wonder why his acting career never really took off beyond this movie.
There is a moment that Dawson has, though, that has made me understand a central truth about a major player in the entertainment industry. Let me explain the moment, though, before I go any further. In the scene that I’m thinking of, which comes early in the movie, Dawson is walking through the halls of the school building with Pink, discussing the anti-drug pledge (and subsequent moral dilemma) that sits at the center of the plot. As is habitual for the character, Dawson is animated and engaging and generally funny. Then, a weird thing happens – he is approached from the periphery by an unknown figure, and he rears back as though he’s going to hit this guy. The guy scampers away, never to be seen again, and Dawson just as quickly returns back to being animated, engaging, and hilarious. It’s a brief exchange – ten seconds at most – but it reminds viewers of an essential truth about people; one group’s gregarious soul might be another’s feared individual.
This has made me learn a little bit about Nickelback, naturally.
I’ll be very honest. I can’t stand Nickelback. Their music does nothing for me, and after several years in the limelight, I’ve come to understand that their music will do nothing for me - pretty much ever.
That said, there are people out there who love Nickelback. (I’m willing to wager that someone, somewhere will read the above paragraph and think to themselves, “not love Nickelback? That’s unpossible.” To that person, let me clarify something: I know that you like Nickelback. I don’t.) It’s okay to like Nickelback, I think. There’s an appeal to them; I suppose there’s an entire legion of people who enjoy having the soundtrack to their workday be indistinguishable from that of a strip club laden with C-section-scarred muffin-topped “nude models.” Good for them. It’s not for me.
I look at pictures of Nickelback (I won’t provide them here – use Google Image Search), and I see the clique of guys who used to threaten to beat me up in high school. They look like bullies. But, you know what? For that split-second in “Dazed and Confused,” viewers were given a glimpse of the otherwise-awesome Don Dawson as a bully. It makes looking at a band of nu-metal goons somewhat sympathetic; in thinking of Nickelback in these terms, it makes me understand that there’s an entire world that they represent which I’ll probably never have access to, in which these guys are magnetic, affable centres-of-attention.
So, perhaps Nickelback don’t – to paraphrase the great Brodie Bruce (of “Mallrats” fame) – “look like date rapists.” And maybe they are good guys, and probably aren’t the type to dose unsuspecting cheerleader-wannabes with Rohyphnol on their tour bus. I don’t know, and never will.
That doesn’t change the fact that they consistently churn out faceless, derivative metal music that makes goons like Creed look positively, radiantly charismatic in comparison. Nickelback’s music is a wholly unoriginal concoction of pre-watered down ingredients; it takes, as a starting point, Pearl Jam’s first two albums – which were, in and of themselves a combination of Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath – and strip away the charisma of Pearl Jam lead singer Eddie Vedder, replacing it with the aw-shucks blandness of Chad Kroeger. And yes, I’m saying that Nickelback sounds like Pearl Jam. And yes, I like Pearl Jam, but I don’t like Nickelback – and here’s why? Pearl Jam, even in their early, formative years, wore their influences on their sleeves – their music was influenced by acts ranging from the Beatles to the aforementioned Doors-Led Zeppelin-Black Sabbath trio, but they never overtly sounded like they were trying to be them. Instead, Pearl Jam sounded like they were a good band that took bits that they liked from those bands. Nickelback’s blandness can be attributed to the fact that they try to sound like the bands that they love. There’s a big difference, and credit is due to those who can see it.
Then, there are people who love Nickelback. People who tear up every time Chad Kroeger croaks “how the hell’d we wind up like this.” People who found their video for “If Everybody Cared” profound. People who vote incessantly for the band on VH1 countdown shows. These people exist. And you know what? That’s fine. I hope the dudes in 3 Doors Down are okay with you moving on, though.
The movie is filled with memorable performances; among these is that of Sasha Jenson, who plays the affable Don Dawson. His is a supporting role, but it is quite memorable. As the football teammate and best friend of central character Randall “Pink” Floyd (Jason London), Jenson is a wonder to behold. As Dawson, he is a ball of lunatic energy and is so magnetic that it makes one wonder why his acting career never really took off beyond this movie.
There is a moment that Dawson has, though, that has made me understand a central truth about a major player in the entertainment industry. Let me explain the moment, though, before I go any further. In the scene that I’m thinking of, which comes early in the movie, Dawson is walking through the halls of the school building with Pink, discussing the anti-drug pledge (and subsequent moral dilemma) that sits at the center of the plot. As is habitual for the character, Dawson is animated and engaging and generally funny. Then, a weird thing happens – he is approached from the periphery by an unknown figure, and he rears back as though he’s going to hit this guy. The guy scampers away, never to be seen again, and Dawson just as quickly returns back to being animated, engaging, and hilarious. It’s a brief exchange – ten seconds at most – but it reminds viewers of an essential truth about people; one group’s gregarious soul might be another’s feared individual.
This has made me learn a little bit about Nickelback, naturally.
I’ll be very honest. I can’t stand Nickelback. Their music does nothing for me, and after several years in the limelight, I’ve come to understand that their music will do nothing for me - pretty much ever.
That said, there are people out there who love Nickelback. (I’m willing to wager that someone, somewhere will read the above paragraph and think to themselves, “not love Nickelback? That’s unpossible.” To that person, let me clarify something: I know that you like Nickelback. I don’t.) It’s okay to like Nickelback, I think. There’s an appeal to them; I suppose there’s an entire legion of people who enjoy having the soundtrack to their workday be indistinguishable from that of a strip club laden with C-section-scarred muffin-topped “nude models.” Good for them. It’s not for me.
I look at pictures of Nickelback (I won’t provide them here – use Google Image Search), and I see the clique of guys who used to threaten to beat me up in high school. They look like bullies. But, you know what? For that split-second in “Dazed and Confused,” viewers were given a glimpse of the otherwise-awesome Don Dawson as a bully. It makes looking at a band of nu-metal goons somewhat sympathetic; in thinking of Nickelback in these terms, it makes me understand that there’s an entire world that they represent which I’ll probably never have access to, in which these guys are magnetic, affable centres-of-attention.
So, perhaps Nickelback don’t – to paraphrase the great Brodie Bruce (of “Mallrats” fame) – “look like date rapists.” And maybe they are good guys, and probably aren’t the type to dose unsuspecting cheerleader-wannabes with Rohyphnol on their tour bus. I don’t know, and never will.
That doesn’t change the fact that they consistently churn out faceless, derivative metal music that makes goons like Creed look positively, radiantly charismatic in comparison. Nickelback’s music is a wholly unoriginal concoction of pre-watered down ingredients; it takes, as a starting point, Pearl Jam’s first two albums – which were, in and of themselves a combination of Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath – and strip away the charisma of Pearl Jam lead singer Eddie Vedder, replacing it with the aw-shucks blandness of Chad Kroeger. And yes, I’m saying that Nickelback sounds like Pearl Jam. And yes, I like Pearl Jam, but I don’t like Nickelback – and here’s why? Pearl Jam, even in their early, formative years, wore their influences on their sleeves – their music was influenced by acts ranging from the Beatles to the aforementioned Doors-Led Zeppelin-Black Sabbath trio, but they never overtly sounded like they were trying to be them. Instead, Pearl Jam sounded like they were a good band that took bits that they liked from those bands. Nickelback’s blandness can be attributed to the fact that they try to sound like the bands that they love. There’s a big difference, and credit is due to those who can see it.
Then, there are people who love Nickelback. People who tear up every time Chad Kroeger croaks “how the hell’d we wind up like this.” People who found their video for “If Everybody Cared” profound. People who vote incessantly for the band on VH1 countdown shows. These people exist. And you know what? That’s fine. I hope the dudes in 3 Doors Down are okay with you moving on, though.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Yankees In Crisis, or, Why It's Okay For The Bronx Bombers To (Gasp) Not Make The Playoffs
What is a crisis?
Well, the Chinese character weiji, which has long been translated as the English word “crisis,” can be translated into two parts: wei, which means “danger” or “peril,” and ji, which has long been mistranslated as meaning “opportunity,” but actually translates as something more like “turning point.”
Based on that bit of information, it seems as though we could develop a basic description of a crisis as the danger that one faces at a turning point. Yes, it’s a simplification, but let’s go with it; and based on this simplification, I’m going to make a big, broad generalization about baseball: The Yankees are at a crisis point.
As of this morning, the Yankees currently sit in second place, six games back from the first-place Boston Red Sox in the race for the American League East division title. They also sit two and a half games behind the Seattle Mariners in the race for the American League Wild Card, which would give them a backdoor entry into the playoffs. This is neither a season-long high, nor a low, for the Yankees; they have been as far back as twelve games back from the Red Sox, and they have been in first-place in the Wild Card chase.
What makes this a crisis point for the Yankees (and yes, I’m well aware that my use of the word “crisis” in the terms of a baseball season trivializes true crises such as, say, Darfur, but hey, such are the foibles of language) is their current schedule and how they are responding to it. After having spent the better part of the month of July and beginning of August amassing an impressive record against a number of sub-par teams, and (for the first time all season) building up their confidence, the Yankees are now at the beginning of a stretch where they’re going to be playing the best teams in baseball (the American League West-leading Angels, as well as the aforementioned Red Sox and Mariners).
How’s it going so far? Not well. The Yankees lost their first two games of this stretch to the Angels; the first, a demoralizing extra-innings loss, and last night’s utter shellacking to the tune of 18-9 (including a sick 10 runs batted in from Angels outfielder Garret Anderson). Which begs the question – where do the Yankees go from here?
From my point of view, there’s three possible scenarios.
Scenario 1: The Yankees catch fire, buoyed by a motivation reminiscent of the way the Indians played in the original “Major League” movie (although, hopefully without having to strip away pieces of clothing from a cutout of their owner in the buff). Players who have been struggling this year (Mike Mussina, I’m looking at you) catch fire, and everybody contributes. The Yankees win the bulk of their games from here out, and take the division by a solid 3 games en route to their first championship in seven years.
Scenario 2: The Yankees play just over .500 ball through this gauntlet of good teams, and do especially well in their games against teams like Detroit and Seattle, which gives them a solid lead in the hunt for the Wild Card by mid-September. Some struggles continue, but none so terrible that they can’t be overcome by hot hitters – which the Yankees continue to have in spades. They make the playoffs, and by then, it’s anybody’s guess.
Scenario 3: Playing these good teams exposes the Yankees’ fatal flaws: an over-reliance on older, erratic pitching, bats that have been streaky all season, and the infusion of young talent that has boosted the Yankees over the past month fades. The Yankees finish out of the running for the playoffs.
This may sound weird, but you know what I’m rooting for? (And keep in mind that I’m a Yankees fan from the Bronx who has lived and died with their successes.) I’m kind of rooting for Scenario #3 here.
I don’t know if it’s possible for me to be a bigger fan of the Yankees’ youth movement. Joba Chamberlain, Phil Hughes, Shelley Duncan, Melky Cabrera, and Robinson Cano have all been extremely fun to watch. However, I can’t help but think that a playoff push might not be the best thing for them at this juncture in time. Young arms like Chamberlain and Hughes, who have never really seen an expanse of innings at the level that a major league regular season requires, are probably ill-prepared for the extensive workload that comes with the playoffs; this would be fine if these two weren’t so needed for such a run. However, they are. As a fan, if it comes between overworking these pitcher’s arms and having them flame out or getting them some rest and having them be major contributors for the next decade and beyond, I’ll take 10 years over 1 any day. As for Duncan, Cabrera, and Cano – well, it’s been extremely interesting watching these three turn into behind-the-scenes sparkplugs and on-field players this season; that said, I can’t help but think that part of the reason that they’ve become so prominent in this role is because of the Yankees’ current status as second-place residents. If they’re so motivated by this now, imagine how much stronger their motivation will be next year, after a year out of the playoffs? Failure can be extremely motivating.
Additionally, the brief successes of the youth movement this season should provide Yankees upper management with ample motivation to build around the youth of this team; why should the team spend money on established “stars” if they can get equal production and a bigger spark from younger, homegrown talent? Message boards are abuzz with the potential of young talent with names like Jose Tabata, Eric Duncan, Bronson Sardinha, Ian Kennedy, Alan Horne, and Andrew Brackman – why not work towards giving these kids a shot, while at the same time shedding the extraneous salaries of over-the-hill players? When the Yankees won their first World Championship of the 1990s, in 1996, it was with then-youthful players like Andy Pettitte, Jorge Posada, Derek Jeter, and Bernie Williams at the helm. Most of them didn’t win in their first year, but instead built up a head of steam from the rougher years that preceded it.
The Yankees could benefit from a rougher year, I think. It’s all in how you look at the turning point that is at the crux of this particular crisis.
Well, the Chinese character weiji, which has long been translated as the English word “crisis,” can be translated into two parts: wei, which means “danger” or “peril,” and ji, which has long been mistranslated as meaning “opportunity,” but actually translates as something more like “turning point.”
Based on that bit of information, it seems as though we could develop a basic description of a crisis as the danger that one faces at a turning point. Yes, it’s a simplification, but let’s go with it; and based on this simplification, I’m going to make a big, broad generalization about baseball: The Yankees are at a crisis point.
As of this morning, the Yankees currently sit in second place, six games back from the first-place Boston Red Sox in the race for the American League East division title. They also sit two and a half games behind the Seattle Mariners in the race for the American League Wild Card, which would give them a backdoor entry into the playoffs. This is neither a season-long high, nor a low, for the Yankees; they have been as far back as twelve games back from the Red Sox, and they have been in first-place in the Wild Card chase.
What makes this a crisis point for the Yankees (and yes, I’m well aware that my use of the word “crisis” in the terms of a baseball season trivializes true crises such as, say, Darfur, but hey, such are the foibles of language) is their current schedule and how they are responding to it. After having spent the better part of the month of July and beginning of August amassing an impressive record against a number of sub-par teams, and (for the first time all season) building up their confidence, the Yankees are now at the beginning of a stretch where they’re going to be playing the best teams in baseball (the American League West-leading Angels, as well as the aforementioned Red Sox and Mariners).
How’s it going so far? Not well. The Yankees lost their first two games of this stretch to the Angels; the first, a demoralizing extra-innings loss, and last night’s utter shellacking to the tune of 18-9 (including a sick 10 runs batted in from Angels outfielder Garret Anderson). Which begs the question – where do the Yankees go from here?
From my point of view, there’s three possible scenarios.
Scenario 1: The Yankees catch fire, buoyed by a motivation reminiscent of the way the Indians played in the original “Major League” movie (although, hopefully without having to strip away pieces of clothing from a cutout of their owner in the buff). Players who have been struggling this year (Mike Mussina, I’m looking at you) catch fire, and everybody contributes. The Yankees win the bulk of their games from here out, and take the division by a solid 3 games en route to their first championship in seven years.
Scenario 2: The Yankees play just over .500 ball through this gauntlet of good teams, and do especially well in their games against teams like Detroit and Seattle, which gives them a solid lead in the hunt for the Wild Card by mid-September. Some struggles continue, but none so terrible that they can’t be overcome by hot hitters – which the Yankees continue to have in spades. They make the playoffs, and by then, it’s anybody’s guess.
Scenario 3: Playing these good teams exposes the Yankees’ fatal flaws: an over-reliance on older, erratic pitching, bats that have been streaky all season, and the infusion of young talent that has boosted the Yankees over the past month fades. The Yankees finish out of the running for the playoffs.
This may sound weird, but you know what I’m rooting for? (And keep in mind that I’m a Yankees fan from the Bronx who has lived and died with their successes.) I’m kind of rooting for Scenario #3 here.
I don’t know if it’s possible for me to be a bigger fan of the Yankees’ youth movement. Joba Chamberlain, Phil Hughes, Shelley Duncan, Melky Cabrera, and Robinson Cano have all been extremely fun to watch. However, I can’t help but think that a playoff push might not be the best thing for them at this juncture in time. Young arms like Chamberlain and Hughes, who have never really seen an expanse of innings at the level that a major league regular season requires, are probably ill-prepared for the extensive workload that comes with the playoffs; this would be fine if these two weren’t so needed for such a run. However, they are. As a fan, if it comes between overworking these pitcher’s arms and having them flame out or getting them some rest and having them be major contributors for the next decade and beyond, I’ll take 10 years over 1 any day. As for Duncan, Cabrera, and Cano – well, it’s been extremely interesting watching these three turn into behind-the-scenes sparkplugs and on-field players this season; that said, I can’t help but think that part of the reason that they’ve become so prominent in this role is because of the Yankees’ current status as second-place residents. If they’re so motivated by this now, imagine how much stronger their motivation will be next year, after a year out of the playoffs? Failure can be extremely motivating.
Additionally, the brief successes of the youth movement this season should provide Yankees upper management with ample motivation to build around the youth of this team; why should the team spend money on established “stars” if they can get equal production and a bigger spark from younger, homegrown talent? Message boards are abuzz with the potential of young talent with names like Jose Tabata, Eric Duncan, Bronson Sardinha, Ian Kennedy, Alan Horne, and Andrew Brackman – why not work towards giving these kids a shot, while at the same time shedding the extraneous salaries of over-the-hill players? When the Yankees won their first World Championship of the 1990s, in 1996, it was with then-youthful players like Andy Pettitte, Jorge Posada, Derek Jeter, and Bernie Williams at the helm. Most of them didn’t win in their first year, but instead built up a head of steam from the rougher years that preceded it.
The Yankees could benefit from a rougher year, I think. It’s all in how you look at the turning point that is at the crux of this particular crisis.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Forthcoming: Movies We're Excited About
Thanks to the miracle of YouTube, we can point you towards some movie trailers that hint at good things to come...to a theater near you.
Be Kind Rewind (due January 2008)
Stars Jack Black and Mos Def as two video store clerks who inadvertently erase every tape in their store, and make up for it by creating their own versions of the films. Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Dave Chappelle's Block Party) directs.
Harold and Kumar 2 (due 2008)
John Cho and Kal Penn revisit their characters from the hilarious Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. This could either be really bad, or really awesome. We're hoping for awesome.
Walk Hard (due December 2007)
John C. Reilly stars as Dewey Cox in this parody of musical biopics like Ray and Walk The Line, co-written by Judd Apatow (see my post on Superbad). Also stars Jenna Fischer (The Office), and features cameos from Jack White (of the White Stripes, as Elvis Presley) and Paul Rudd (from Anchorman and the 40 Year Old Virgin, as John Lennon).
Be Kind Rewind (due January 2008)
Stars Jack Black and Mos Def as two video store clerks who inadvertently erase every tape in their store, and make up for it by creating their own versions of the films. Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Dave Chappelle's Block Party) directs.
Harold and Kumar 2 (due 2008)
John Cho and Kal Penn revisit their characters from the hilarious Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. This could either be really bad, or really awesome. We're hoping for awesome.
Walk Hard (due December 2007)
John C. Reilly stars as Dewey Cox in this parody of musical biopics like Ray and Walk The Line, co-written by Judd Apatow (see my post on Superbad). Also stars Jenna Fischer (The Office), and features cameos from Jack White (of the White Stripes, as Elvis Presley) and Paul Rudd (from Anchorman and the 40 Year Old Virgin, as John Lennon).
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Playlist: August, 2007
Here's what we're listening to this week - songs that are providing our personal soundtrack as we skip merrily through our daily existence, as it were.
1. "This Time Tomorrow," The Kinks
- Growing up, my parents (my mom, especially), took great pains to expose us to the culture that influenced them. As a result, I grew up somewhat conversant in the music of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Peter Paul & Mary, and Bob Dylan. One of the great pleasures of getting older (for me) has been discovering the music that existed on the periphery of my mom's tastes. The Kinks are one of those bands - every time I hear something that's new to my ears from them, I slap my head and think, "these guys are awesome." This song appears in the aforementioned trailer to "The Darjeeling Limited."
2. "I Wait For You," Yume Bitsu
- I'd never heard of this band before checking out this song, a seven-plus minute feedback-laden gem reminiscent of the best guitar work of My Bloody Valentine virtuoso Kevin Shields. Apparently, Yume Bitsu are from Portland. Their name means "dream beats" in Japanese, and this song is dreamy - in the sense of sleep-dreams, not in the sense of Bobby Sherman and Peter Tork. Very cinematic and sweeping. Check it out.
3. "Throw Your Arms Around Me," Luka Bloom
- Originally written by Australian songwriter Mark Seymour for his band Hunters and Collectors, and most notably covered by Pearl Jam, "Throw Your Arms Around Me" is that rarest of tunes - playful and genuine without being sappy. I'm partial to Luka Bloom's atmospheric take on the tune, which benefits from simple acoustic guitar work and the singer's rich, Irish brogue.
4. "The Underdog," Spoon
While I genuinely liked Spoon's last album (Kill The Moonlight), its bare-bones production made me wonder what the band would sound like with more fleshed-out production. This song is the answer - with booming drums, sighing background vocals, and a horn section, this is a veritable orchestra in comparison to the last album. Genuinely cool.
5. "Then She Appeared," XTC
Some music from the late 80s and early 90s sounds very dated. Not this. Those keening guitars at the beginning of the song let you know you are, as the Loving Spoonful once sang, "into something good." XTC lead singer Andy Partridge is notorious for his stagefright; fortunately, the care with which tracks like this were crafted let you know that the man took serious care in the studio. Lovely and amazing.
1. "This Time Tomorrow," The Kinks
- Growing up, my parents (my mom, especially), took great pains to expose us to the culture that influenced them. As a result, I grew up somewhat conversant in the music of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Peter Paul & Mary, and Bob Dylan. One of the great pleasures of getting older (for me) has been discovering the music that existed on the periphery of my mom's tastes. The Kinks are one of those bands - every time I hear something that's new to my ears from them, I slap my head and think, "these guys are awesome." This song appears in the aforementioned trailer to "The Darjeeling Limited."
2. "I Wait For You," Yume Bitsu
- I'd never heard of this band before checking out this song, a seven-plus minute feedback-laden gem reminiscent of the best guitar work of My Bloody Valentine virtuoso Kevin Shields. Apparently, Yume Bitsu are from Portland. Their name means "dream beats" in Japanese, and this song is dreamy - in the sense of sleep-dreams, not in the sense of Bobby Sherman and Peter Tork. Very cinematic and sweeping. Check it out.
3. "Throw Your Arms Around Me," Luka Bloom
- Originally written by Australian songwriter Mark Seymour for his band Hunters and Collectors, and most notably covered by Pearl Jam, "Throw Your Arms Around Me" is that rarest of tunes - playful and genuine without being sappy. I'm partial to Luka Bloom's atmospheric take on the tune, which benefits from simple acoustic guitar work and the singer's rich, Irish brogue.
4. "The Underdog," Spoon
While I genuinely liked Spoon's last album (Kill The Moonlight), its bare-bones production made me wonder what the band would sound like with more fleshed-out production. This song is the answer - with booming drums, sighing background vocals, and a horn section, this is a veritable orchestra in comparison to the last album. Genuinely cool.
5. "Then She Appeared," XTC
Some music from the late 80s and early 90s sounds very dated. Not this. Those keening guitars at the beginning of the song let you know you are, as the Loving Spoonful once sang, "into something good." XTC lead singer Andy Partridge is notorious for his stagefright; fortunately, the care with which tracks like this were crafted let you know that the man took serious care in the studio. Lovely and amazing.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Beating The Drum For: Wall Decorations
For a long time, we’ve been against the idea of a blank wall – whether it’s in our cubicle at work, or on any of the walls in our home, we’ve long felt that the most inviting spaces are well-decorated walls.
Framed family photos are always nice, but sometimes you want to be distinctive and different, right? Well, here are a few things we like as some quirky alternative ideas.
Etsy.com is a marketplace for sellers of handmade goods to directly sell to people across the country. We’re partial to the surrealistic children’s book-style prints of AshleyG, as well as the digital art of JohnWGolden (and, as long as the topic is Etsy, we’d be remiss not to mention the hand-made crafts of our old NYC pal Erika Kern, who works under the name My Imaginary Boyfriend).
One of the cooler things to happen in rock music lately has been the tendency of bands to commission limited-edition lithograph print posters for concerts. They make for great collectibles – half “I was there” concert memorabilia, half “art.” We have a beautiful Wilco poster that we picked up at a 2004 show in Saratoga; for more examples of great Wilco posters, click their online store here. R.E.M., who we’re also quite partial to, has also commissioned some pretty awesome posters, which are available on their online store at remhq.com. Do yourself a favor – check out your own favorite band’s sites to see what they’ve done. You might surprise yourself.
Also cool? Go to EBay and search for foreign movie posters. Earlier this year, we picked up a vintage Italian-language “Blues Brothers” one sheet. The title loosely translates to “Slaves To A Rhythm.” Head over and see what strikes your fancy.
Framed family photos are always nice, but sometimes you want to be distinctive and different, right? Well, here are a few things we like as some quirky alternative ideas.
Etsy.com is a marketplace for sellers of handmade goods to directly sell to people across the country. We’re partial to the surrealistic children’s book-style prints of AshleyG, as well as the digital art of JohnWGolden (and, as long as the topic is Etsy, we’d be remiss not to mention the hand-made crafts of our old NYC pal Erika Kern, who works under the name My Imaginary Boyfriend).
One of the cooler things to happen in rock music lately has been the tendency of bands to commission limited-edition lithograph print posters for concerts. They make for great collectibles – half “I was there” concert memorabilia, half “art.” We have a beautiful Wilco poster that we picked up at a 2004 show in Saratoga; for more examples of great Wilco posters, click their online store here. R.E.M., who we’re also quite partial to, has also commissioned some pretty awesome posters, which are available on their online store at remhq.com. Do yourself a favor – check out your own favorite band’s sites to see what they’ve done. You might surprise yourself.
Also cool? Go to EBay and search for foreign movie posters. Earlier this year, we picked up a vintage Italian-language “Blues Brothers” one sheet. The title loosely translates to “Slaves To A Rhythm.” Head over and see what strikes your fancy.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Meandering Thoughts: Phil Rizzuto, 1917-2007
Phil Rizzuto died today at the age of 89.
Without being too melodramatic about it, Rizzuto was a major voice of my childhood. I grew up in the Bronx, ten subway stops away from Yankee Stadium. While my dad wasn’t really a Yankees fan per se, he and I shared a love of baseball, and so it was inevitable that we would spin the dial on our television to WPIX, Channel 11, and watch Yankees games.
It was the voice of Phil Rizzuto, supplemented by the gentlemanly Bill White, who would serve as the primary descriptor of some pretty terrible Yankees teams. I don’t know if many folks from my area would have had the love affair they had with the Yankees were it not for him, in fact. His nasal tenor voice, suffused with streetwise Italian affectation, and general good humor made it easier for kids like me to appreciate the play of otherwise-lackluster players like Alvaro Espinoza, Paul Zuvella, Steve Balboni, and Wayne Tolleson.
A lot of people will no doubt, in paying tribute to the man that the Yankees lovingly referred to as “The Scooter” (to the point where the mascot of the short-season Single ! Staten Island Yankees farm team is Scooter “the holy” Cow), refer to Rizzuto’s many malaprops in the broadcasting booth – the man would often say things like, “Nobody’s going to get to that ball, holy cow, he got it.” You know what? Things like that may not have been “accurate,” but they genuinely reflected the thoughts of the average baseball fan. The Scooter was good like that – he’d ask dumb questions, get confused sometimes, and would contradict himself – but isn’t that really just human nature? He gave voice to the average baseball fan, and will forever be adored for that.
Other things that are relevant about Phil Rizzuto: he was the 1950 American League MVP, he was the key shortstop on the Yankees championship teams of the fifties, he is in the Baseball Hall of Fame (in one of the most debated inductions in the game’s history), and the Yankees retired his number. He (allegedly inadvertently) provided play-by-play for a young man’s amorous affections in Meat Loaf’s classic song “Paradise By The Dashboard Light,” and the spelling of his name in the movie “Billy Madison” showed that Adam Sandler’s titular character had no idea how to write a script z. I’m not going to pay too much attention to those details; I never saw the man play, and the rest of it kind of speaks for itself.
I will say this – I will miss that voice. I mean, he hasn’t broadcasted for more than ten years, and I’ve missed that voice. I mean, for years, it was well known that Rizzuto would leave each game he’d broadcast in the seventh inning so that he could beat the traffic over the George Washington Bridge heading back to his home in New Jersey. Anyone else would have been raked over the coals for this, but for Rizzuto, this was an eccentricity that only led to people loving him more.
Rizzuto may not have been the most erudite, booksmart person to have ever stepped behind a microphone, but he made up for it by being endearing and sweet. His was a distinctive voice, and will always remind me of a time when I would sit and watch baseball with my dad and only have to worry about whether my homework was done.
Rest in peace, Scooter.
Without being too melodramatic about it, Rizzuto was a major voice of my childhood. I grew up in the Bronx, ten subway stops away from Yankee Stadium. While my dad wasn’t really a Yankees fan per se, he and I shared a love of baseball, and so it was inevitable that we would spin the dial on our television to WPIX, Channel 11, and watch Yankees games.
It was the voice of Phil Rizzuto, supplemented by the gentlemanly Bill White, who would serve as the primary descriptor of some pretty terrible Yankees teams. I don’t know if many folks from my area would have had the love affair they had with the Yankees were it not for him, in fact. His nasal tenor voice, suffused with streetwise Italian affectation, and general good humor made it easier for kids like me to appreciate the play of otherwise-lackluster players like Alvaro Espinoza, Paul Zuvella, Steve Balboni, and Wayne Tolleson.
A lot of people will no doubt, in paying tribute to the man that the Yankees lovingly referred to as “The Scooter” (to the point where the mascot of the short-season Single ! Staten Island Yankees farm team is Scooter “the holy” Cow), refer to Rizzuto’s many malaprops in the broadcasting booth – the man would often say things like, “Nobody’s going to get to that ball, holy cow, he got it.” You know what? Things like that may not have been “accurate,” but they genuinely reflected the thoughts of the average baseball fan. The Scooter was good like that – he’d ask dumb questions, get confused sometimes, and would contradict himself – but isn’t that really just human nature? He gave voice to the average baseball fan, and will forever be adored for that.
Other things that are relevant about Phil Rizzuto: he was the 1950 American League MVP, he was the key shortstop on the Yankees championship teams of the fifties, he is in the Baseball Hall of Fame (in one of the most debated inductions in the game’s history), and the Yankees retired his number. He (allegedly inadvertently) provided play-by-play for a young man’s amorous affections in Meat Loaf’s classic song “Paradise By The Dashboard Light,” and the spelling of his name in the movie “Billy Madison” showed that Adam Sandler’s titular character had no idea how to write a script z. I’m not going to pay too much attention to those details; I never saw the man play, and the rest of it kind of speaks for itself.
I will say this – I will miss that voice. I mean, he hasn’t broadcasted for more than ten years, and I’ve missed that voice. I mean, for years, it was well known that Rizzuto would leave each game he’d broadcast in the seventh inning so that he could beat the traffic over the George Washington Bridge heading back to his home in New Jersey. Anyone else would have been raked over the coals for this, but for Rizzuto, this was an eccentricity that only led to people loving him more.
Rizzuto may not have been the most erudite, booksmart person to have ever stepped behind a microphone, but he made up for it by being endearing and sweet. His was a distinctive voice, and will always remind me of a time when I would sit and watch baseball with my dad and only have to worry about whether my homework was done.
Rest in peace, Scooter.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Forthcoming: "I'm Not There"
So, buzz is building for Todd Haynes's upcoming film "I'm Not There."
It's an interesting concept: the life of Bob Dylan with the lead role being played by several different actors - including the unconventional casting of female Cate Blanchett and African-American youth Marcus Carl Franklin, as well as the more conventional (read: male, Caucasian) Ben Whishaw, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere, and Christian Bale.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, I've come to understand how compelling a figure Bob Dylan was in the 1960s and early 1970s, through D.A. Pennebaker's contemporaneous documentary film "Don't Look Back" and then through Martin Scorcese's retrospective "No Direction Home," and I'm a pretty big fan of his music.
However, I'm not a big fan of mythmaking - and, if anything, having seven actors play the same, very real person (including Blanchett and Franklin) suggests the propagation of the myth of Dylan as someone who transcends the corporeal. Which I don't think is a good thing, necessary. We're very fortunate to have the music of Dylan, which in and of itself serves to transcend the singer (in the manner of songs, which in being performed by different singers, extend beyond the original composer/singer, as well as in the recordings, which - once committed to tape - become, in a way, immortal). Does Bob Dylan need to become a part of American mythology? Is he already? It's hard to tell.
Related:
The soundtrack tracklisting has been released. I don't know what order the tracks are in. It'd be kind of interesting if the songs are in alphabetic order. That'd be kind of rad, actually.
“All Along The Watchtower” :: Eddie Vedder & The Million Dollar Bashers
“As I Went Out One Morning” :: Mira Billotte
“Ballad Of A Thin Man” :: Stephen Malkmus & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Billy” :: Los Lobos
“Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window” :: The Hold Steady
“Can’t Leave Her Behind” :: Stephen Malkmus & Lee Ranaldo
“Cold Irons Bound” :: Tom Verlaine & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Dark Eyes” :: Iron & Wine & Calexico
“Fourth Time Around” :: Yo La Tengo
“Goin’ To Acapulco” :: Jim James & Calexico
“Highway 61 Revisited” :: Karen O & The Million Dollar Bashers
“I Wanna Be Your Lover” :: Yo La Tengo
“I’m Not There” :: Bob Dylan
“I’m Not There” :: Sonic Youth
“Just Like A Woman” :: Charlotte Gainsbourg & Calexico
“Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” :: Ramblin’ Jack Elliot
“Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” :: Antony & The Johnsons
“The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll” :: Mason Jennings
“Maggie’s Farm” :: Stephen Malkmus & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Mama You’ve Been On My Mind” :: Jack Johnson
“The Man In The Long Black Coat” :: Mark Lanegan
“Moonshiner” :: Bob Forrest
“One More Cup Of Coffee” :: Roger McGuinn & Calexico
“Pressing On” :: John Doe
“Ring Them Bells” :: Sufjan Stevens
“Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)” :: Willie Nelson & Calexico
“Simple Twist Of Fate” :: Jeff Tweedy
“Stuck Inside Of Mobile With Memphis Blues Again” :: Cat Power
“The Times They Are A Changin’” :: Mason Jennings
“Tombstone Blues” :: Richie Havens
“When The Ship Comes In” :: Marcus Carl Franklin
“Wicked Messenger” :: The Black Keys
“You Ain’t Goin ‘Nowhere” :: Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
[The "Million Dollar Bashers" are -
Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth), guitars
Tony Garnier (longtime Dylan collaborator), bass
Tom Verlaine (Television), guitars
Nels Cline (Wilco), guitars
Smokey Hormel (Dylan, Beck), guitars
Steve Shelley (Sonic Youth), drums
John Medeski (Medeski, Martin, and Wood), keyboards]
Much respect to The Playlist for the soundtrack info.
It's an interesting concept: the life of Bob Dylan with the lead role being played by several different actors - including the unconventional casting of female Cate Blanchett and African-American youth Marcus Carl Franklin, as well as the more conventional (read: male, Caucasian) Ben Whishaw, Heath Ledger, Richard Gere, and Christian Bale.
I'm not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, I've come to understand how compelling a figure Bob Dylan was in the 1960s and early 1970s, through D.A. Pennebaker's contemporaneous documentary film "Don't Look Back" and then through Martin Scorcese's retrospective "No Direction Home," and I'm a pretty big fan of his music.
However, I'm not a big fan of mythmaking - and, if anything, having seven actors play the same, very real person (including Blanchett and Franklin) suggests the propagation of the myth of Dylan as someone who transcends the corporeal. Which I don't think is a good thing, necessary. We're very fortunate to have the music of Dylan, which in and of itself serves to transcend the singer (in the manner of songs, which in being performed by different singers, extend beyond the original composer/singer, as well as in the recordings, which - once committed to tape - become, in a way, immortal). Does Bob Dylan need to become a part of American mythology? Is he already? It's hard to tell.
Related:
The soundtrack tracklisting has been released. I don't know what order the tracks are in. It'd be kind of interesting if the songs are in alphabetic order. That'd be kind of rad, actually.
“All Along The Watchtower” :: Eddie Vedder & The Million Dollar Bashers
“As I Went Out One Morning” :: Mira Billotte
“Ballad Of A Thin Man” :: Stephen Malkmus & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Billy” :: Los Lobos
“Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window” :: The Hold Steady
“Can’t Leave Her Behind” :: Stephen Malkmus & Lee Ranaldo
“Cold Irons Bound” :: Tom Verlaine & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Dark Eyes” :: Iron & Wine & Calexico
“Fourth Time Around” :: Yo La Tengo
“Goin’ To Acapulco” :: Jim James & Calexico
“Highway 61 Revisited” :: Karen O & The Million Dollar Bashers
“I Wanna Be Your Lover” :: Yo La Tengo
“I’m Not There” :: Bob Dylan
“I’m Not There” :: Sonic Youth
“Just Like A Woman” :: Charlotte Gainsbourg & Calexico
“Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” :: Ramblin’ Jack Elliot
“Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” :: Antony & The Johnsons
“The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll” :: Mason Jennings
“Maggie’s Farm” :: Stephen Malkmus & The Million Dollar Bashers
“Mama You’ve Been On My Mind” :: Jack Johnson
“The Man In The Long Black Coat” :: Mark Lanegan
“Moonshiner” :: Bob Forrest
“One More Cup Of Coffee” :: Roger McGuinn & Calexico
“Pressing On” :: John Doe
“Ring Them Bells” :: Sufjan Stevens
“Señor (Tales Of Yankee Power)” :: Willie Nelson & Calexico
“Simple Twist Of Fate” :: Jeff Tweedy
“Stuck Inside Of Mobile With Memphis Blues Again” :: Cat Power
“The Times They Are A Changin’” :: Mason Jennings
“Tombstone Blues” :: Richie Havens
“When The Ship Comes In” :: Marcus Carl Franklin
“Wicked Messenger” :: The Black Keys
“You Ain’t Goin ‘Nowhere” :: Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova
[The "Million Dollar Bashers" are -
Lee Ranaldo (Sonic Youth), guitars
Tony Garnier (longtime Dylan collaborator), bass
Tom Verlaine (Television), guitars
Nels Cline (Wilco), guitars
Smokey Hormel (Dylan, Beck), guitars
Steve Shelley (Sonic Youth), drums
John Medeski (Medeski, Martin, and Wood), keyboards]
Much respect to The Playlist for the soundtrack info.
Friday, August 10, 2007
"Superbad" - A Review
[Note: Thanks to the munificence of Mr. Javen Bohall and Mr. Paul Hoff, we were fortunate to see an advance screening of “Superbad” in Latham, NY last night. This movie does not enter theaters for another week. This review will not contain any spoilers beyond that which is has been provided for online viewing through YouTube.com; however, if you have not been exposed to this, you might want to stop reading here.]
Way back in the summer of 1999, when the country was gripped with pre-millenium angst and dot-coms ruled Wall Street, writer Adam Herz and directors Chris and Paul Weitz created a movie that reintroduced the concept of the R-rated teen comedy to American audiences. The name of the movie was “American Pie,” of course, and it reminded viewers that modern-era teenagers could be as raunchy and hilarious as their counterparts in films like “Porky’s” and “Fast Times At Ridgemont High” a generation prior. The key to the $100 million-plus success of “American Pie,” however, was its essential sweetness – the characters in this film all had redeeming qualities, even the bullies. In “American Pie,” a character like Seann William Scott’s Stifler could do something completely heinous like dose another character’s mocha-chino with laxative, but wound up being embraced as a friend by his peers (and the audience) by the time his story was completed.
The comedic minds behind two recent entries into the pantheon of rewatchably hilarious movies (that would be “The 40 Year Old Virgin” and “Knocked Up”) have dipped their pool into the R-rated teen comedy with the new release “Superbad.” The film comes with an impressive pedigree: while it’s the teen-film directing debut of Greg Mottola, he’s worked on cult television series like “Arrested Development” and “Undeclared.” Additionally, the film features behind-the-scenes input from the genius Judd Apatow (who produces) and newly-minted comedy star Seth Rogen (who co-wrote the movie as well as taking on a supporting part). While this is not any of these people’s first efforts at capturing the teenage dynamic (most of the above were involved in television shows like “Freaks and Geeks” and “Undeclared”), this is their first go-around in the realm of the teenage-themed motion picture.
Needless to say, “Superbad” scores on just about every level. The plot is simple: three high-school-senior losers – nervous, brainy Evan (Michael Cera), gregarious, talkative Seth (Jonah Hill), and insanely dweeby Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) hatch a plan to purchase alcohol with a fake identification card. Their hope is that, with this alcohol, they can get some girls drunk enough to want to have sex. That’s the main plot: get drunk, get laid. That’s just about it. It seems simple, but that’s pretty much all that they need for approximately 2 hours of hilarity, spurred on by early encounters in school with girls (led by Emma Stone and Martha McIsaac) and then heightened through interactions with two area policemen (Rogen and “Saturday Night Live” player Bill Hader). The simple plot of the movie succeeds because of the utter originality of Rogen and Evan Goldberg’s script, which avoids a great deal of teen-movie clichés and instead takes viewers on a completely original, absurd journey.
The actors are pitch-perfect in this film. Cera’s Evan character is a logical extension of his previous signature role, that of George-Michael Bluth in the late, lamented “Arrested Development” – he retains that character’s stuttery, low-key delivery but adds an edge that’s pretty much commensurate with any sex-and-booze obsessed teenager. As Seth, Jonah Hill is a revelation; he shouts and throws himself around with an abandon remiscent of the finest hours of the late Chris Farley. This movie marks the acting debut of Christopher Mintz-Plasse, who hits a home run – his Fogell is so hilarious and well-rounded that it’s already hard to see him topping this; it’s the kind of definitive role that may well completely define his entire acting career. Hader and Rogen are funny, but their absurdist antics ultimately take a backseat to the teens, who center this movie completely.
In an interesting touch, director Mottola decided to score the film with funk and soul nuggets (the score is performed by a band led by Bootsy Collins) rather than a more current soundtrack – it adds a quirky element to the film that’s somewhat endearing, although I could see some finding it off-putting. Mottola does generally fine work; this is not an auteur’s movie, and generally avoids subtlety for big laughs. The movie does suffer from a mid-way lapse of energy, but is otherwise fun.
Is this film a new “American Pie?” Ultimately, and thankfully, it is not. “American Pie” is suffused with the optimism and naivete of youth, where “Superbad” is infinitely more cynical – it’s a teen movie for people who have survived their own teenaged years and are ready to look back through an unimpeded, non-smoky lens. It’s very funny and well-done, and I highly recommend it.
Way back in the summer of 1999, when the country was gripped with pre-millenium angst and dot-coms ruled Wall Street, writer Adam Herz and directors Chris and Paul Weitz created a movie that reintroduced the concept of the R-rated teen comedy to American audiences. The name of the movie was “American Pie,” of course, and it reminded viewers that modern-era teenagers could be as raunchy and hilarious as their counterparts in films like “Porky’s” and “Fast Times At Ridgemont High” a generation prior. The key to the $100 million-plus success of “American Pie,” however, was its essential sweetness – the characters in this film all had redeeming qualities, even the bullies. In “American Pie,” a character like Seann William Scott’s Stifler could do something completely heinous like dose another character’s mocha-chino with laxative, but wound up being embraced as a friend by his peers (and the audience) by the time his story was completed.
The comedic minds behind two recent entries into the pantheon of rewatchably hilarious movies (that would be “The 40 Year Old Virgin” and “Knocked Up”) have dipped their pool into the R-rated teen comedy with the new release “Superbad.” The film comes with an impressive pedigree: while it’s the teen-film directing debut of Greg Mottola, he’s worked on cult television series like “Arrested Development” and “Undeclared.” Additionally, the film features behind-the-scenes input from the genius Judd Apatow (who produces) and newly-minted comedy star Seth Rogen (who co-wrote the movie as well as taking on a supporting part). While this is not any of these people’s first efforts at capturing the teenage dynamic (most of the above were involved in television shows like “Freaks and Geeks” and “Undeclared”), this is their first go-around in the realm of the teenage-themed motion picture.
Needless to say, “Superbad” scores on just about every level. The plot is simple: three high-school-senior losers – nervous, brainy Evan (Michael Cera), gregarious, talkative Seth (Jonah Hill), and insanely dweeby Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) hatch a plan to purchase alcohol with a fake identification card. Their hope is that, with this alcohol, they can get some girls drunk enough to want to have sex. That’s the main plot: get drunk, get laid. That’s just about it. It seems simple, but that’s pretty much all that they need for approximately 2 hours of hilarity, spurred on by early encounters in school with girls (led by Emma Stone and Martha McIsaac) and then heightened through interactions with two area policemen (Rogen and “Saturday Night Live” player Bill Hader). The simple plot of the movie succeeds because of the utter originality of Rogen and Evan Goldberg’s script, which avoids a great deal of teen-movie clichés and instead takes viewers on a completely original, absurd journey.
The actors are pitch-perfect in this film. Cera’s Evan character is a logical extension of his previous signature role, that of George-Michael Bluth in the late, lamented “Arrested Development” – he retains that character’s stuttery, low-key delivery but adds an edge that’s pretty much commensurate with any sex-and-booze obsessed teenager. As Seth, Jonah Hill is a revelation; he shouts and throws himself around with an abandon remiscent of the finest hours of the late Chris Farley. This movie marks the acting debut of Christopher Mintz-Plasse, who hits a home run – his Fogell is so hilarious and well-rounded that it’s already hard to see him topping this; it’s the kind of definitive role that may well completely define his entire acting career. Hader and Rogen are funny, but their absurdist antics ultimately take a backseat to the teens, who center this movie completely.
In an interesting touch, director Mottola decided to score the film with funk and soul nuggets (the score is performed by a band led by Bootsy Collins) rather than a more current soundtrack – it adds a quirky element to the film that’s somewhat endearing, although I could see some finding it off-putting. Mottola does generally fine work; this is not an auteur’s movie, and generally avoids subtlety for big laughs. The movie does suffer from a mid-way lapse of energy, but is otherwise fun.
Is this film a new “American Pie?” Ultimately, and thankfully, it is not. “American Pie” is suffused with the optimism and naivete of youth, where “Superbad” is infinitely more cynical – it’s a teen movie for people who have survived their own teenaged years and are ready to look back through an unimpeded, non-smoky lens. It’s very funny and well-done, and I highly recommend it.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Meandering Thoughts: On Turning 30.
In 1984, one of my favorite bands, R.E.M., released their second album – called “Reckoning,” it was an energized blast of jangle-and-stomp rock and roll. Lead singer Michael Stipe spent the bulk of the album obscuring words and half-phrases; from what I can understand, it was considered “cool” to try to decipher R.E.M. lyrics at that period in time. Anyway, one of the few phrases that could be understood on that album came at the beginning of the album’s last song, “Little America,” as the then-24 year old Stipe hollered, “I don’t see myself at 30/I don’t buy a lacquered 30.”
Initially, this was interpreted as the determinably-obscure Stipe’s version of the rock-and-roll clarion call, “I hope I die before I get old,” which continues to echo over the airwaves of classic rock radio in the attitudes and poses of acts from Buddy Holly to Nirvana. However, as Stipe got older, he backed away from that attitude, saying that – for him, it wasn’t a case of not living until he was 30, but rather, it was about not remaining preserved as he got older and older – not being “lacquered” like a fly in amber for view, but enjoying the flux that comes as part of life’s rich pageant.
Well, today is my thirtieth birthday. It may seem like a nothing milestone to some folks, but heck, I’ve never been thirty before, so it’s a little weird for me. Like Michael Stipe, when I was 24, I couldn’t see myself at 30, and I sure as shoot didn’t want to be preserved for display, with my best work behind me. I also didn’t want to ever be like any of the characters in the television show “Thirtysomething,” who, in my limited exposure to the television show, I found generally whiny and neurotic without ever really seeming anything other than privileged and bratty. Also, I wasn’t crazy about that show’s abuse of denim shirts, processed hair, and pleated khakis.
Since my exposure to those two touchstones, I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned that life will always be vital if you allow it to be – if you stop moving, and stop trying, you’re all but doomed to the lacquered, preserved 30 of as seen in “Thirtysomething” where you can’t see the forest for the upper-class trees. I’d like to say that I’ve learned to embrace the struggle, but I’m still working on that. But, as best as I can figure, that’s just as good as anything else.
Initially, this was interpreted as the determinably-obscure Stipe’s version of the rock-and-roll clarion call, “I hope I die before I get old,” which continues to echo over the airwaves of classic rock radio in the attitudes and poses of acts from Buddy Holly to Nirvana. However, as Stipe got older, he backed away from that attitude, saying that – for him, it wasn’t a case of not living until he was 30, but rather, it was about not remaining preserved as he got older and older – not being “lacquered” like a fly in amber for view, but enjoying the flux that comes as part of life’s rich pageant.
Well, today is my thirtieth birthday. It may seem like a nothing milestone to some folks, but heck, I’ve never been thirty before, so it’s a little weird for me. Like Michael Stipe, when I was 24, I couldn’t see myself at 30, and I sure as shoot didn’t want to be preserved for display, with my best work behind me. I also didn’t want to ever be like any of the characters in the television show “Thirtysomething,” who, in my limited exposure to the television show, I found generally whiny and neurotic without ever really seeming anything other than privileged and bratty. Also, I wasn’t crazy about that show’s abuse of denim shirts, processed hair, and pleated khakis.
Since my exposure to those two touchstones, I’ve learned a few things. I’ve learned that life will always be vital if you allow it to be – if you stop moving, and stop trying, you’re all but doomed to the lacquered, preserved 30 of as seen in “Thirtysomething” where you can’t see the forest for the upper-class trees. I’d like to say that I’ve learned to embrace the struggle, but I’m still working on that. But, as best as I can figure, that’s just as good as anything else.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Forthcoming: A BoomThwackBoom Exclusive
Good news, dear readers. Through back channels, we have been able to gain a reviewer's copy of the second-most anticipated book of the literary year. (The concluding volume of J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series being the obvious number one on such a list.)
Though the book doesn't hit shelves until October, we're stoked to have an advance galley of Alice Sebold's followup to the mesmerizing bestseller "The Lovely Bones." ("The Lovely Bones" was on the New York Times Bestseller List for over a year, and it is currently being made into a movie by little-known Australian filmmaker Peter Jackson, who might be best known for an art-house trilogy called "Lord of the Rings." )
The title of Sebold's latest is "The Almost Moon," and it will be reviewed here shortly.
We may not be the second coming of Michiko Kakutani, but hopefully, we'll be able to relay some interesting information about the book
Though the book doesn't hit shelves until October, we're stoked to have an advance galley of Alice Sebold's followup to the mesmerizing bestseller "The Lovely Bones." ("The Lovely Bones" was on the New York Times Bestseller List for over a year, and it is currently being made into a movie by little-known Australian filmmaker Peter Jackson, who might be best known for an art-house trilogy called "Lord of the Rings." )
The title of Sebold's latest is "The Almost Moon," and it will be reviewed here shortly.
We may not be the second coming of Michiko Kakutani, but hopefully, we'll be able to relay some interesting information about the book
300: To Victory
Quite a weekend for baseball, no?
For those of you who live under a rock, baseball – the American sport which most relies on its past for its current sense of status – experienced quite a historic weekend. Within the span of two days, San Francisco Giants outfielder Barry Bonds hit his 755th home run (which tied Hank Aaron for the most career round-trippers), New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez hit his 500th home run (setting the record for the youngest in baseball history to such a milestone), and New York Mets pitcher Tom Glavine won his 300th game.
I’m going to set aside the home run-based achievements for the time being, and focus on Glavine winning number 300. Glavine’s win against the Cubs last night marked the 23rd time in baseball history a pitcher has reached this milestone, and only the 5th time in the history of the game that a left-handed starter has made it to 300. It’s a tremendous achievement, one that should absolutely be applauded – after all, it’s a triumph based in both longevity, team strength, and personal dominance. Glavine’s been a healthy, front-line starter who produces time and time again, and for that alone, he warrants every breath of praise that he’ll receive.
Yet, I turned off the television last night with a bad taste in my mouth. Why? If I could trace my feeling of disgust to one thing, it would be the constant speculation, by both the broadcasting team responsible for the game as well as the analysts on SportsCenter, that Glavine was “the last 300 game winner.” I found this speculation terribly irresponsible, and I think it unnecessarily overshadowed what should have been a moment of unadulterated triumph for Glavine.
I understand that the current statistics point to no pitchers achieving this milestone any time soon. The next closest to 300 wins is Arizona Diamondbacks starter Randy Johnson, who may be perpetually mired at 283 wins due to chronic back injuries. More than half of the current starters with 200 wins are forty-plus years old and, as such, unlikely to make it through another 100 starts, let alone 100 wins.
However, and especially in the sport of baseball, saying the words “never again” is an act of myopic foolishness. And those were the words that were thrown about over and over again by ESPN analysts Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. (I’m not surprised about Morgan’s arrogance about this – I could go on and on about his commentary, which tends to veer into the land of insane rambling on a regular basis.)
300 wins might seem undoable right now, but you know what? The first pitcher to reach this milestone did so in 1888. This means that the achievement has only been done 23 times in 119 years – and we’ve seen 3 pitchers get there over the last 4 years (Roger Clemens, now of the Yankees, and Greg Maddux, now of the Padres, are the other two). Here’s another fun stat – did you know that there were no 300 game winners between the years of 1963 (Early Wynn) and 1982 (Gaylord Perry)? That’s a span of 19 years that bridged the Kennedy and Reagan administrations! At the end of the 1963 season, Gaylord Perry had precisely 4 career wins.
Look, perhaps Tom Glavine’s win is the end of an era of achievement for starting pitching. Yes, relief pitching is a more dominant force than it was, say, ten years ago, and pitching has become a more specialized art form. However, unless they’re eliminating the statistic of the win altogether, nobody should ever be counted out. Just as records are made to be broken, milestones are made to be met.
For those of you who live under a rock, baseball – the American sport which most relies on its past for its current sense of status – experienced quite a historic weekend. Within the span of two days, San Francisco Giants outfielder Barry Bonds hit his 755th home run (which tied Hank Aaron for the most career round-trippers), New York Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez hit his 500th home run (setting the record for the youngest in baseball history to such a milestone), and New York Mets pitcher Tom Glavine won his 300th game.
I’m going to set aside the home run-based achievements for the time being, and focus on Glavine winning number 300. Glavine’s win against the Cubs last night marked the 23rd time in baseball history a pitcher has reached this milestone, and only the 5th time in the history of the game that a left-handed starter has made it to 300. It’s a tremendous achievement, one that should absolutely be applauded – after all, it’s a triumph based in both longevity, team strength, and personal dominance. Glavine’s been a healthy, front-line starter who produces time and time again, and for that alone, he warrants every breath of praise that he’ll receive.
Yet, I turned off the television last night with a bad taste in my mouth. Why? If I could trace my feeling of disgust to one thing, it would be the constant speculation, by both the broadcasting team responsible for the game as well as the analysts on SportsCenter, that Glavine was “the last 300 game winner.” I found this speculation terribly irresponsible, and I think it unnecessarily overshadowed what should have been a moment of unadulterated triumph for Glavine.
I understand that the current statistics point to no pitchers achieving this milestone any time soon. The next closest to 300 wins is Arizona Diamondbacks starter Randy Johnson, who may be perpetually mired at 283 wins due to chronic back injuries. More than half of the current starters with 200 wins are forty-plus years old and, as such, unlikely to make it through another 100 starts, let alone 100 wins.
However, and especially in the sport of baseball, saying the words “never again” is an act of myopic foolishness. And those were the words that were thrown about over and over again by ESPN analysts Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. (I’m not surprised about Morgan’s arrogance about this – I could go on and on about his commentary, which tends to veer into the land of insane rambling on a regular basis.)
300 wins might seem undoable right now, but you know what? The first pitcher to reach this milestone did so in 1888. This means that the achievement has only been done 23 times in 119 years – and we’ve seen 3 pitchers get there over the last 4 years (Roger Clemens, now of the Yankees, and Greg Maddux, now of the Padres, are the other two). Here’s another fun stat – did you know that there were no 300 game winners between the years of 1963 (Early Wynn) and 1982 (Gaylord Perry)? That’s a span of 19 years that bridged the Kennedy and Reagan administrations! At the end of the 1963 season, Gaylord Perry had precisely 4 career wins.
Look, perhaps Tom Glavine’s win is the end of an era of achievement for starting pitching. Yes, relief pitching is a more dominant force than it was, say, ten years ago, and pitching has become a more specialized art form. However, unless they’re eliminating the statistic of the win altogether, nobody should ever be counted out. Just as records are made to be broken, milestones are made to be met.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Beating The Drum For: "World War Z," by Max Brooks
I've never been much for science-fiction. It's a dislike that can probably be traced to having shared a room growing up with my older brother, who has been an unabashed sci-fi geek for the better part of 25 years. I've never really had any patience for the smug self-satisfaction of books, movies, and television shows that seemed (to me, at least) to be all about the cleverness of its creators in creating fantastical worlds. As a reader and a viewer, I've always been about the nuances of the current world. I would rather partake of something straightforward and relatable instead of a pained, extended allegory set in an imaginary world.
That's why the science fiction I have been drawn to in the past (most notably, the brilliant movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind") have taken a different approach: they've used the modern world as a setting for fantastical - but relatable - stories. Max Brooks's "World War Z" is a book that takes this path. Like the brilliant British movie "Shaun of the Dead," it approaches a science-fiction staple - a zombie attack - from a perspective that is utterly human.
The book follows a simple conceit: it traces a war of humans vs. zombies as an "oral history," told in the words of survivors around the world. Brooks creates a wide variety of characters, all of whom are definitively human and separate - the soldiers speak in the grunted shorthand of soldiers, the artists offer perspectives that are assuredly artistic; cultural touchstones ranging from Adam Sandler to the oddly aristocratic ways that American celebrities have assumed are all present, much as they are in a normal world.
The human aspect is what makes "World War Z" such a compelling read (I devoured it over the course of two lazy weekend days). In the credits, author Brooks offers some hints as to where this unique perspective comes from - he thanks his Dad for "the human factor," and then, touchingly uses the last page to say, simply, "I love you, mom."
In this case, "Dad" is the great Mel Brooks, and the mother whom he pays tribute to is the late, great Anne Bancroft.
With or without such lineage, though, "World War Z" is a tremendously compelling read. I recommend it highly.
That's why the science fiction I have been drawn to in the past (most notably, the brilliant movie "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind") have taken a different approach: they've used the modern world as a setting for fantastical - but relatable - stories. Max Brooks's "World War Z" is a book that takes this path. Like the brilliant British movie "Shaun of the Dead," it approaches a science-fiction staple - a zombie attack - from a perspective that is utterly human.
The book follows a simple conceit: it traces a war of humans vs. zombies as an "oral history," told in the words of survivors around the world. Brooks creates a wide variety of characters, all of whom are definitively human and separate - the soldiers speak in the grunted shorthand of soldiers, the artists offer perspectives that are assuredly artistic; cultural touchstones ranging from Adam Sandler to the oddly aristocratic ways that American celebrities have assumed are all present, much as they are in a normal world.
The human aspect is what makes "World War Z" such a compelling read (I devoured it over the course of two lazy weekend days). In the credits, author Brooks offers some hints as to where this unique perspective comes from - he thanks his Dad for "the human factor," and then, touchingly uses the last page to say, simply, "I love you, mom."
In this case, "Dad" is the great Mel Brooks, and the mother whom he pays tribute to is the late, great Anne Bancroft.
With or without such lineage, though, "World War Z" is a tremendously compelling read. I recommend it highly.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
In Defense Of: Stone Temple Pilots
I was thinking about it the other day – and, you know what? I think that the Stone Temple Pilots got a bum rap in the 1990s from music writers, myself included. They were treated like Salman Rushdie following the publication of "The Satanic Verses," and it's like a fatwa was issued by the Ayatollahs of the music industry - you know, "bring me the heads of Scott Weiland, Eric Kreutz, and the DeLeo brothers."
In fairness, it was easy to bash the Stone Temple Pilots. In an era where bands were rewarded for years slugging it away in the trenches, Stone Temple Pilots emerged from just about nowhere and seemed to piggyback on the successes of similar-sounding bands like Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. Righteous indignation, in all fairness, seemed like the way to go when protesting the band’s successes; I mean, are you going to root for the band that built its way up from playing in front of 5 people in a dusky club, or are you going to root for the band that seems like a carbon copy of that band without the dues-paying?
As a result, Stone Temple Pilots got massacred for their perceived sins. The uber-credible Pavement (on one of the catchiest songs, “Range Life,” from what is disputably their best album, “Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain”) riffed on them, saying “Stone Temple Pilots, they’re eligible bachelors, they’re foxy to me – are they foxy to you? I don’t understand what they mean, and I could really give a fuck.” The most crushing blow, though, was the Spin magazine review of the band’s second album. (I tried to find it online, but had no success.) From what I can recall – and bear with me, as we’re talking something I read 12 or 13 years ago, the album was reviewed by Rob Sheffield and he slammed the album with a mercilessness that reminded me of the speech uttered by the great comedy writer Jim Downey, playing the Academic Decathlon Judge in the movie “Billy Madison”:
“…what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I've ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response was there anything that could even be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
It was pretty merciless.
I piled on, too – when I was in college, I wrote a weekly music column for a paper, and I regularly slammed Scott Weiland’s lyrics (which were terrible, admittedly – I mean, “her name is what it means” – it’s not good. I mean, it’s not Anthony Kiedis bad, but it’s not good). What can I say? They were easy to pick on.
However, time has been kind to the Stone Temple Pilots. By the time they released their third studio album, they seemed to shed their poseur label a bit, releasing themselves of grunge-rock pretension and even showing off a sense of humor (the video for “Big Bang Baby,” the first single from that album, was a hilarious dig at early-80s MTV staples). They never really gained that sense of once-necessary credibility, although Scott Weiland’s string of drug-related arrests over the course of the past two decades served to tragically provide them with an edge that hadn’t been there prior (at least publically). That being said, at least two of their songs have withstood the test of time and have made it to constant rotation on classic rock radio formats (“Plush” and “Interstate Love Song”), and for good reason – they’re crazily catchy songs that are quite good.
I think that the best thing that could have happened for the music of the Stone Temple Pilots was the end of the credibility-obsessed nineties. By the time the decade ended, pre-fabricated, insubstantial acts like Ricky Martin and the Backstreet Boys were dominating pop radio. This marginalized so-called modern rock bands in terms of airplay on top-40 radio and the video music channels. It slowed the flood of mediocre grunge-rock bands to the point where one would be lucky if they heard any guitars at all on these mainstream channels. It also unleashed bands that had even less credibility than Stone Temple Pilots – bands like Nickelback, Puddle of Mudd, and Limp Bizkit rose to prominence. Scott Weiland is a polarizing figure in music, but when placed next to folks like Chad Kroger and Fred Durst, he looks like the picture of credibility, durability, and quality.
Stone Temple Pilots’ music is better suited to a classic-rock format, anyway. When you place a song like “Interstate Love Song” in between bands like Styx and Journey, issues like credibility fade away. It becomes all about the music, really, which is (when you think about it logically) what music should be all about. If loving the songs are wrong, then I don’t want to ever be right. I take back what I said. My fatwa has been rescinded.
In fairness, it was easy to bash the Stone Temple Pilots. In an era where bands were rewarded for years slugging it away in the trenches, Stone Temple Pilots emerged from just about nowhere and seemed to piggyback on the successes of similar-sounding bands like Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. Righteous indignation, in all fairness, seemed like the way to go when protesting the band’s successes; I mean, are you going to root for the band that built its way up from playing in front of 5 people in a dusky club, or are you going to root for the band that seems like a carbon copy of that band without the dues-paying?
As a result, Stone Temple Pilots got massacred for their perceived sins. The uber-credible Pavement (on one of the catchiest songs, “Range Life,” from what is disputably their best album, “Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain”) riffed on them, saying “Stone Temple Pilots, they’re eligible bachelors, they’re foxy to me – are they foxy to you? I don’t understand what they mean, and I could really give a fuck.” The most crushing blow, though, was the Spin magazine review of the band’s second album. (I tried to find it online, but had no success.) From what I can recall – and bear with me, as we’re talking something I read 12 or 13 years ago, the album was reviewed by Rob Sheffield and he slammed the album with a mercilessness that reminded me of the speech uttered by the great comedy writer Jim Downey, playing the Academic Decathlon Judge in the movie “Billy Madison”:
“…what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I've ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response was there anything that could even be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
It was pretty merciless.
I piled on, too – when I was in college, I wrote a weekly music column for a paper, and I regularly slammed Scott Weiland’s lyrics (which were terrible, admittedly – I mean, “her name is what it means” – it’s not good. I mean, it’s not Anthony Kiedis bad, but it’s not good). What can I say? They were easy to pick on.
However, time has been kind to the Stone Temple Pilots. By the time they released their third studio album, they seemed to shed their poseur label a bit, releasing themselves of grunge-rock pretension and even showing off a sense of humor (the video for “Big Bang Baby,” the first single from that album, was a hilarious dig at early-80s MTV staples). They never really gained that sense of once-necessary credibility, although Scott Weiland’s string of drug-related arrests over the course of the past two decades served to tragically provide them with an edge that hadn’t been there prior (at least publically). That being said, at least two of their songs have withstood the test of time and have made it to constant rotation on classic rock radio formats (“Plush” and “Interstate Love Song”), and for good reason – they’re crazily catchy songs that are quite good.
I think that the best thing that could have happened for the music of the Stone Temple Pilots was the end of the credibility-obsessed nineties. By the time the decade ended, pre-fabricated, insubstantial acts like Ricky Martin and the Backstreet Boys were dominating pop radio. This marginalized so-called modern rock bands in terms of airplay on top-40 radio and the video music channels. It slowed the flood of mediocre grunge-rock bands to the point where one would be lucky if they heard any guitars at all on these mainstream channels. It also unleashed bands that had even less credibility than Stone Temple Pilots – bands like Nickelback, Puddle of Mudd, and Limp Bizkit rose to prominence. Scott Weiland is a polarizing figure in music, but when placed next to folks like Chad Kroger and Fred Durst, he looks like the picture of credibility, durability, and quality.
Stone Temple Pilots’ music is better suited to a classic-rock format, anyway. When you place a song like “Interstate Love Song” in between bands like Styx and Journey, issues like credibility fade away. It becomes all about the music, really, which is (when you think about it logically) what music should be all about. If loving the songs are wrong, then I don’t want to ever be right. I take back what I said. My fatwa has been rescinded.
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