A friend who hadn't been by for a while was over the other night and she noticed how the normally gray haired Mr. Max's coat is getting redder. I had just assumed since he hasn't seen one of his favorite red-headed inline skaters in a while, he was taking on a new look in a show of protest. Turns out it is a zinc deficiency. Yes the passing years can change a whole bunch of things.
Perhaps the very best gauge of my changing (or not changing) mental state is to analyze my movie watching habits. Last week I was surreally spooked as the amphibian precipitation scene from Magnolia played out on my computer's DVD system. So spooked that it put me in (for only the second time this year) a let's go to a movie type mood (the other excursion was to see Ms. Congeniality for a whole other reason). I wanted to see either Mulholland Drive or The Man Who Wasn't There. Unfortunately neither was playing at a theater near me. So instead I went to Ocean's 11.
In the interests of full disclosure let me begin by saying that until last week I hadn't seen the original version starring the Rat Pack boys. My exposure to the movie was limited to the wonderful SCTV spoof featuring Sammy Maudlin and Bobby Bittman. It's usually difficult to enjoy a spoof unless you've seen the original but the SCTV bit was done with such love and glee that it remains deeply etched in my memory. "EEEOOOUHLEVEN..."
The new Ocean's 11 is flashy and entertaining. I love heist movies where the intricate split second plans unfold even if they turn out to be slightly unrealistic. The way this movie's plot plows forward, the sheer momentum makes it as fun to watch as the charismatic performances of George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Elliot Gould.
But there is little comparison between the original and the remake, not because one is better than the other but because the movies don't have much in common. Both are about a group of men deciding to pull off a historic heist by ripping off a number of Las Vegas casinos simultaneously but other than that there isn't too much of a connection. (I'm 37 years old and I spent hours seriously contemplating the corresponding character to Brad Pitt: Was it Joey Bishop or Dean Martin?) Watching both movies back to back one is able to clearly see the difference between being slick and being cool.
The original "Ocean's" is fun, fun, fun. It was a heist caper that was just an excuse for a bunch of friends (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., et al) to get together and make whoopee. They met in the capital of decadence, Las Vegas, during that precious pre-p.c. era when a man in an orange angora sweater stirring a martini could call a woman in a tight skirt and pumps a "great broad" and she'd take it as a compliment.
The new version is dumb, dumb, dumb. It's a heist caper that was an excuse for a bunch of highly paid actors (George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, et al.) to get together and make big box office. It was made in the post-p.c. era when a man in a badly fitting suit can't say anything witty or clever in a movie because 12 people on some team have to OK the script based on its appeal to 13-year-old boys and whether it will offend some special-interest group.
-Karen Croft
Well maybe. For me the reason I enjoyed the original movie better is while the 2001 version is about a group of stars pulling off a high tech caper the 1960 Rat Pack version was ultimately about friendship and loyalty. One doesn't necessarily automatically associate the word "heart" with Sinatra and Co., but the genuine friendship and camaraderie that existed between Frank and Dean and Sammy and Peter and Joey was palatable in the movie. Plus there are a lot of great lines:
"Give it to me straight doc. Is it the big casino in the sky?"
"You'd better stop getting prettier every day otherwise you'll be a monopoly."
"I married you once and it didn't work out. What's wrong with a little hey hey?"
A big surprise is that Angie Dickinson (the jiggling Pepper of Police Woman) is absolutely fabulous in the role of the wife of Sinatra's Danny Ocean. She actually comes across as radiant and demure. On the other hand Julia Roberts' Mrs. Ocean to Clooney's Danny is stiff, humorless and quite frankly rather boring. A little hey hey indeed.
And yes it's entertaining to watch the token Asian character played by the acrobatic Shaobo Qin flip and contort himself in order to help Clooney and the gang's heist but it still doesn't come close to watching ole Dino suavely sing that wonderful song about love being a kick... a kick in the head that is.
Monday, December 17, 2001
Monday, December 10, 2001
You Know the Song in My Heart
There's something seriously wrong with me (and hush to all of you who reflexively sighed, "duh"). It isn't that I took it as a personal attack when I received the latest invoice from my Columbia House video club threatening that if I didn't return their notice by December 7, they would ship me Pearl Harbor. I surrender already. Nor is it the voices I've always heard in my head have started singing a group of songs that just won't leave me alone and for whatever reason I don't exactly mind. Or maybe it is.
A couple of weekends back the Minneapolis attorney who pays fairly cheap parking and the divine mother of little baby Henry Louis served me English tea and cookies. There were a lot of lessons to be learned that day. I learned that you always pour the milk in first so the hot tea can cook it. I also learned what a long elusive tea cozy looks like. Finally I learned it's OK to borrow an egg from a neighbor. I left the mansion on the hill with a tape of two Sopranos episodes checked out from the Roseville branch of the Ramsey County Library. I was asked to return the tape to the library after I was finished watching it. "Do you know where the library is?" I was asked. Well I may look like I'm perpetually lost and confused and I also may look like I've never read a book, but the building is a mere mile from my house so I do have some memory of driving by it now and then.
I was glad to finally get to see the Sopranos having heard and read so many rave reviews of the show. Indeed it was entertaining and very well done. I love the premise of Tony the ultimate bad-ass gangster being in therapy for depression. I can see why the show has won so many awards and so much critical acclaim. Like the similarly lauded West Wing, the Sopranos features sharp, witty writing and complex characters.
But I remain firmly convinced neither show comes close to Buffy the Vampire Slayer in terms of emotional depth, artistry, creativity and insight. While the West Wing admirably deals with politics and power and the Sopranos looks at dysfunctional families and power, Buffy unblinkingly takes on slightly more meaty theological subjects like what the meaning of life is. There's a thoughtful running thread about what a soul is, whether someone without a soul is capable of love, and what love itself is through its many incarnations. By its very nature does it have to be about either ecstasy or melancholy? Is there a stable middle ground to be found? Though I know all of you are tired of reading about the show in these pages week after week, it's on my mind more than ever now that I haven't been able to stop watching the musical episode. I also haven't been able to stop listening to the clever songs (downloaded from the Internet) that capture the rich humor and intelligence of the best Buffy episodes.
Before the musical ("Once More with Feeling") I was convinced Buffy the Vampire Slayer was among the all time great network TV shows. After the superlative episode I am now convinced it is THE greatest series of all time. I think the episode represents a clear line in the entertainment continuum. From this point on we will be forever identified with those that saw the episode (and thus were duly enlightened) and those who did not see it (and thus have to wonder why the rest of us are walking around with a knowing grin on our mugs).
Now that we've come to that line in the sand I think the only way I'll die a happy gray hatted man is if I live to see the day when high schools across the land will be staging their own versions of Buffy the Musical in place of standard fare like Oklahoma! and the Sound of Music.
Like the best art "Once More with Feeling" was able to spoof and pay tribute to its art form all at the same time. It cheerfully acknowledged musicals that preceded it while setting the bar a little higher for any that are to come. While none of the songs are instantly memorable like say "Climb Every Mountain" or "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" once heard they cannot quite be forgotten (or ignored). Upon repeated listening the songs reveal more and more, the level of reflection truly unmatched by anything I've ever seen on TV.
I've always been a fan of the musical genre. Ever since I was a kid I remember thinking how cool it would be if we could spontaneously burst out in song every now and then. Some of my all time favorite songs come from musicals, and some of my all time favorite memories come from participating in the orchestra of some of my high school's productions. Of course I've also understood the point of view of those who can't stand musicals because it seems absurd to them that the gangs of West Side Story, or the brooding king in the King and I would interrupt their lives with a song and dance. That's where "Once More with Feeling" has an advantage- the premise is that a demon comes to town that makes people reveal their hearts through songs. Thus the gang can't help but sing at the most inopportune times.
Of course like most demons on Buffy this one is evil as it turns out that once someone gets too involved in their number they will spin out of control and eventually burst into flames. Pure emotion ends up burning you after all. The show begins with the wonderful cliche of Buffy's alarm clock clanging opening the overture that establishes the musical themes of the show. Buffy's first number "Going Through the Motions" is about going through life, work and relationships without any passion. And it's not as if the passion wasn't at one time there, it's a passion lost that is the most difficult loss of all just like our most famous romantic F. Scott Fitzgerald losing his life's romanticism and having to endure the aftermath. Writer Joss Whedon's wicked humor is immediately on display with the dancing demons supporting Buffy's ambivalence. As she stabs a goat guy he bellows, "She's not half the girl she (looks down at his chest) OW!"
The song plays off the major theme of the series season thus far, that Buffy died last year saving the world and jumping into an abyss of energy only to be brought back by her friends through a witch's spell. They thought they were saving her, but it turns out they ripped her from a warm place where she felt unequivocal, unending love; a place where she felt peace at last only to be ripped and returned to a world that is "cold and hard."
The next song is perhaps my favorite amongst the bunch. "I've Got a Theory" has the group trying to figure out what is going on. Willow guesses it's all somebody dreaming and they're all "stuck inside some wacky Broadway nightmare." Xander guesses it might be the mischief of witches, and then quickly recants as he realizes he has offended Willow and Tara (practicing members of the craft). Anya, the one time demon, not quite figuring out the human experience thing and soon to be married to Xander bellows out it must be hares. "They've got them hoppy legs and twitchy little noses! And what's with all the carrots? What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?" The group looks at her as if she is daft and she meekly retracts her outburst "or maybe midgets..."
Every little detail of the show has been carefully thought out and when Buffy wonders if it is just the group that has been affected she opens the door and sees a mob of people out side a dry cleaning establishing dancing in unison with a guy proudly belting out, "They got the mustard out!" A wonderful touch indeed.
Tara's love song to Willow, "I'm Under Your Spell" is one of the most erotic scenes that will be on network TV this year and certainly the most effective prime time lesbian love scene imaginable. "Spread beneath my willow tree... you make me com-plete..." And likewise Anya and Xander's "I'll Never Tell" about the fear of commitment and the absolute terror of marriage is not only a wonderful tribute to all those sappy sunny duets of 50's musicals but also is wickedly funny with its frank lyrics playing off the dippy melody. "She eats these skeezy cheeses that I can't describe/I talk, he breezes/She doesn't know what please is/His penis got diseases from a Chumash tribe..."
Spike the used to be poet now evil vampire who can't act evil because of a government chip implanted in his brain (see season 5), has his moment in the sun (so to speak) in a dark love song to Buffy. He's the only one Buffy has revealed her secret too (that she was in heaven not hell) even though his expressions of love have fallen not only on deaf ears but with disgust filled eyes. "Whisper in a dead man's ear, it doesn't make it real..." One of the most interesting things that the musical touches on (and the rest of the season's episodes have dealt with) is Buffy's willing decision to sacrifice her life and not being able to feel the same since her return. Once you decide that it doesn't matter whether your live or die you cross a line and you can't quite come back all the way again. That it takes a soulless living dead being to understand this speaks volumes about the depth of insight the show consistently wallows in.
The finale "Life's a Show" is where "Once More with Feeling" departs from the traditional musical genre. Most musicals start with the conflict quickly stated and end on a happy note; this show starts sunny and ends on a decidedly ambivalent gloomy tone. Once a heart is revealed it can't be hidden and it is thus weakened. Buffy's revelation stuns her friends "All the joys life sends, family and friends. All the twists and bends, knowing that it ends. Well that depends on if they let you go. On if they know enough to know."
Leave it to Spike, the only one without a soul to save Buffy from spinning out of control and burning. "Life's not a song. Life isn't bliss. Life is just this. It's living. You'll get along. The pain that you feel. You only can heal by living." It's a perplexing revelation. The old thought that it is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all is seriously called into question. Is the best way forward not to let yourself feel or is it to accept that not feeling is part of the process of letting yourself feel once more?
This episode was absolutely as breathtaking as it was heartbreaking as it was thought provoking as it was spellbinding. Being an alum from a school that was recently named number one for having students who most often ignore God, maybe I'm not supposed to think (or feel) about things like this that deeply. A friend recently returned from New Orleans told me how there are parts of the city you don't dare roam at night because the locals are afraid of vampires. Misguided reality? It was a revelation that was life affirming rivaling the brilliant production Nimrod High's must have been great rendition of the "Butler Did It" featuring a decidedly anti-Meryl Streep like lovely Ms. Haversham.
A couple of weekends back the Minneapolis attorney who pays fairly cheap parking and the divine mother of little baby Henry Louis served me English tea and cookies. There were a lot of lessons to be learned that day. I learned that you always pour the milk in first so the hot tea can cook it. I also learned what a long elusive tea cozy looks like. Finally I learned it's OK to borrow an egg from a neighbor. I left the mansion on the hill with a tape of two Sopranos episodes checked out from the Roseville branch of the Ramsey County Library. I was asked to return the tape to the library after I was finished watching it. "Do you know where the library is?" I was asked. Well I may look like I'm perpetually lost and confused and I also may look like I've never read a book, but the building is a mere mile from my house so I do have some memory of driving by it now and then.
I was glad to finally get to see the Sopranos having heard and read so many rave reviews of the show. Indeed it was entertaining and very well done. I love the premise of Tony the ultimate bad-ass gangster being in therapy for depression. I can see why the show has won so many awards and so much critical acclaim. Like the similarly lauded West Wing, the Sopranos features sharp, witty writing and complex characters.
But I remain firmly convinced neither show comes close to Buffy the Vampire Slayer in terms of emotional depth, artistry, creativity and insight. While the West Wing admirably deals with politics and power and the Sopranos looks at dysfunctional families and power, Buffy unblinkingly takes on slightly more meaty theological subjects like what the meaning of life is. There's a thoughtful running thread about what a soul is, whether someone without a soul is capable of love, and what love itself is through its many incarnations. By its very nature does it have to be about either ecstasy or melancholy? Is there a stable middle ground to be found? Though I know all of you are tired of reading about the show in these pages week after week, it's on my mind more than ever now that I haven't been able to stop watching the musical episode. I also haven't been able to stop listening to the clever songs (downloaded from the Internet) that capture the rich humor and intelligence of the best Buffy episodes.
Before the musical ("Once More with Feeling") I was convinced Buffy the Vampire Slayer was among the all time great network TV shows. After the superlative episode I am now convinced it is THE greatest series of all time. I think the episode represents a clear line in the entertainment continuum. From this point on we will be forever identified with those that saw the episode (and thus were duly enlightened) and those who did not see it (and thus have to wonder why the rest of us are walking around with a knowing grin on our mugs).
Now that we've come to that line in the sand I think the only way I'll die a happy gray hatted man is if I live to see the day when high schools across the land will be staging their own versions of Buffy the Musical in place of standard fare like Oklahoma! and the Sound of Music.
Like the best art "Once More with Feeling" was able to spoof and pay tribute to its art form all at the same time. It cheerfully acknowledged musicals that preceded it while setting the bar a little higher for any that are to come. While none of the songs are instantly memorable like say "Climb Every Mountain" or "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" once heard they cannot quite be forgotten (or ignored). Upon repeated listening the songs reveal more and more, the level of reflection truly unmatched by anything I've ever seen on TV.
I've always been a fan of the musical genre. Ever since I was a kid I remember thinking how cool it would be if we could spontaneously burst out in song every now and then. Some of my all time favorite songs come from musicals, and some of my all time favorite memories come from participating in the orchestra of some of my high school's productions. Of course I've also understood the point of view of those who can't stand musicals because it seems absurd to them that the gangs of West Side Story, or the brooding king in the King and I would interrupt their lives with a song and dance. That's where "Once More with Feeling" has an advantage- the premise is that a demon comes to town that makes people reveal their hearts through songs. Thus the gang can't help but sing at the most inopportune times.
Of course like most demons on Buffy this one is evil as it turns out that once someone gets too involved in their number they will spin out of control and eventually burst into flames. Pure emotion ends up burning you after all. The show begins with the wonderful cliche of Buffy's alarm clock clanging opening the overture that establishes the musical themes of the show. Buffy's first number "Going Through the Motions" is about going through life, work and relationships without any passion. And it's not as if the passion wasn't at one time there, it's a passion lost that is the most difficult loss of all just like our most famous romantic F. Scott Fitzgerald losing his life's romanticism and having to endure the aftermath. Writer Joss Whedon's wicked humor is immediately on display with the dancing demons supporting Buffy's ambivalence. As she stabs a goat guy he bellows, "She's not half the girl she (looks down at his chest) OW!"
The song plays off the major theme of the series season thus far, that Buffy died last year saving the world and jumping into an abyss of energy only to be brought back by her friends through a witch's spell. They thought they were saving her, but it turns out they ripped her from a warm place where she felt unequivocal, unending love; a place where she felt peace at last only to be ripped and returned to a world that is "cold and hard."
The next song is perhaps my favorite amongst the bunch. "I've Got a Theory" has the group trying to figure out what is going on. Willow guesses it's all somebody dreaming and they're all "stuck inside some wacky Broadway nightmare." Xander guesses it might be the mischief of witches, and then quickly recants as he realizes he has offended Willow and Tara (practicing members of the craft). Anya, the one time demon, not quite figuring out the human experience thing and soon to be married to Xander bellows out it must be hares. "They've got them hoppy legs and twitchy little noses! And what's with all the carrots? What do they need such good eyesight for anyway?" The group looks at her as if she is daft and she meekly retracts her outburst "or maybe midgets..."
Every little detail of the show has been carefully thought out and when Buffy wonders if it is just the group that has been affected she opens the door and sees a mob of people out side a dry cleaning establishing dancing in unison with a guy proudly belting out, "They got the mustard out!" A wonderful touch indeed.
Tara's love song to Willow, "I'm Under Your Spell" is one of the most erotic scenes that will be on network TV this year and certainly the most effective prime time lesbian love scene imaginable. "Spread beneath my willow tree... you make me com-plete..." And likewise Anya and Xander's "I'll Never Tell" about the fear of commitment and the absolute terror of marriage is not only a wonderful tribute to all those sappy sunny duets of 50's musicals but also is wickedly funny with its frank lyrics playing off the dippy melody. "She eats these skeezy cheeses that I can't describe/I talk, he breezes/She doesn't know what please is/His penis got diseases from a Chumash tribe..."
Spike the used to be poet now evil vampire who can't act evil because of a government chip implanted in his brain (see season 5), has his moment in the sun (so to speak) in a dark love song to Buffy. He's the only one Buffy has revealed her secret too (that she was in heaven not hell) even though his expressions of love have fallen not only on deaf ears but with disgust filled eyes. "Whisper in a dead man's ear, it doesn't make it real..." One of the most interesting things that the musical touches on (and the rest of the season's episodes have dealt with) is Buffy's willing decision to sacrifice her life and not being able to feel the same since her return. Once you decide that it doesn't matter whether your live or die you cross a line and you can't quite come back all the way again. That it takes a soulless living dead being to understand this speaks volumes about the depth of insight the show consistently wallows in.
The finale "Life's a Show" is where "Once More with Feeling" departs from the traditional musical genre. Most musicals start with the conflict quickly stated and end on a happy note; this show starts sunny and ends on a decidedly ambivalent gloomy tone. Once a heart is revealed it can't be hidden and it is thus weakened. Buffy's revelation stuns her friends "All the joys life sends, family and friends. All the twists and bends, knowing that it ends. Well that depends on if they let you go. On if they know enough to know."
Leave it to Spike, the only one without a soul to save Buffy from spinning out of control and burning. "Life's not a song. Life isn't bliss. Life is just this. It's living. You'll get along. The pain that you feel. You only can heal by living." It's a perplexing revelation. The old thought that it is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all is seriously called into question. Is the best way forward not to let yourself feel or is it to accept that not feeling is part of the process of letting yourself feel once more?
This episode was absolutely as breathtaking as it was heartbreaking as it was thought provoking as it was spellbinding. Being an alum from a school that was recently named number one for having students who most often ignore God, maybe I'm not supposed to think (or feel) about things like this that deeply. A friend recently returned from New Orleans told me how there are parts of the city you don't dare roam at night because the locals are afraid of vampires. Misguided reality? It was a revelation that was life affirming rivaling the brilliant production Nimrod High's must have been great rendition of the "Butler Did It" featuring a decidedly anti-Meryl Streep like lovely Ms. Haversham.
Monday, December 3, 2001
All the Cyclamens in Minnesota
"You're gonna die, gonna die for sure/And you can learn to live with love or without it/But there ain't no cure..."
-John Hiatt
The last time my placenta previa, or one true one in a million once reliable friend and I saw John Hiatt together was the night in Minneapolis when the Holidazzle accident occurred blocks from the State Theater in which Mr. Hiatt was playing. This time around a few days after receiving my tickets in the mail to see him at O'Shaughnessy Auditorium on the campus of St. Kates there was a silent crash of another kind. There probably won't be any lawsuits involved but suffice it to say the damage was real and permanent enough.
Now I've been around the block more than a few times (I even learned that there's a library near by) and if there's but one thing I've learned it is that during a time of great anguish and trouble perhaps the best thing you can do is something kind for somebody else. And for me, that's what the best Hiatt songs are all about.
At the risk of getting all philosophical here let me just say that if there is a better symbol with what is wrong with this country than the current cover of Rolling Stone magazine I don't know what it is. The cover features young Britney's bosom fully thrust in our face bursting from a bra that looks to be a size or two too small. Thursday night the voice of America performed at Target Center to a packed arena while Hiatt played a much smaller venue in the other Twin City. I don't know what to make of a place where the majority of folks would rather see the aerobics demonstration in Minneapolis over the goofy giddy witty performance of one of our most insightful songwriters.
I'll never understand why Hiatt has never achieved the popularity his music warrants. His words are always rewarding, his melodies accessible. His voice isn't polished but it gets the job done. He sometimes can be a bit too clever for his own good or maybe it's just that he's not a size 34C. There was something rather peculiar about the audience at the show. Most looked like what I imagine the prototype Cities '97 person looks like complete with very long legs. And there I was scrunched up sitting feeling rather naked without my Survivor/Reebok buff on my head (and without my attractive Einstein hairdo).
I ended up going to the show with the right person after all the fish taco headache, the girl next door (down a few blocks or two). It was nice catching up after not having much of a chance to talk recently. And I knew the evening was perfect when after guitarist Sonny Landreth did a wailing Hendrix like Star Spangled intro to "Memphis in the Meantime" with John doing a bullfrog dance around the stage she said to me, "That was beautiful." She was right of course.
The setlist consisted mostly of material from Hiatt's new CD The Tiki Bar is Open and 1988's Slow Turning, the two CDs that feature his current touring band, the Goners. The songs sparkled particularly on the driving "Tennessee Plates" and the head bobbing "Everybody Went Low."
"I was there that day/Don't know what to say/'cept New York had her heart broken"
I'm not sure there's another writer whose songs have better captured and touched the arc of my own life's journey. That's quite the magical trick to pull off. Hiatt opened the show with a jangly "Drive South" which played during my cross country trip with the star of my novel who I called on September 16, 2001, 13 years later. "We were always looking for true north/with our heads in the clouds/just a little off course/I left the motor running/Now, if you're feeling down and out/Come on baby drive south." And almost as if to demonstrate how far the journey has taken me for his first encore Hiatt played a touching version of "Have a Little Faith in Me" which is a song I'll always associate with my oldest and dearest friend who happened to be sitting next to me this evening. When I took a major step along the way as a going away gift she gave me a photograph of me in a hat with the inscription on the back that says, "Take a look and you will see." That picture maintains a prominent spot in my regular eye sight, a constant reminder of perspective when things aren't going exactly right. And the words were used in that Hiatt song though she didn't know it at the time.
Hiatt's humor was his redemption as it often has been. "I believe this is the first time we've ever played at an all girls school," he said with a bit of drool deliberately dripping from his lips. He screamed, he whispered, he sang and he danced, he came and he conquered. And what a fine night he gave to us all.
-John Hiatt
The last time my placenta previa, or one true one in a million once reliable friend and I saw John Hiatt together was the night in Minneapolis when the Holidazzle accident occurred blocks from the State Theater in which Mr. Hiatt was playing. This time around a few days after receiving my tickets in the mail to see him at O'Shaughnessy Auditorium on the campus of St. Kates there was a silent crash of another kind. There probably won't be any lawsuits involved but suffice it to say the damage was real and permanent enough.
Now I've been around the block more than a few times (I even learned that there's a library near by) and if there's but one thing I've learned it is that during a time of great anguish and trouble perhaps the best thing you can do is something kind for somebody else. And for me, that's what the best Hiatt songs are all about.
At the risk of getting all philosophical here let me just say that if there is a better symbol with what is wrong with this country than the current cover of Rolling Stone magazine I don't know what it is. The cover features young Britney's bosom fully thrust in our face bursting from a bra that looks to be a size or two too small. Thursday night the voice of America performed at Target Center to a packed arena while Hiatt played a much smaller venue in the other Twin City. I don't know what to make of a place where the majority of folks would rather see the aerobics demonstration in Minneapolis over the goofy giddy witty performance of one of our most insightful songwriters.
I'll never understand why Hiatt has never achieved the popularity his music warrants. His words are always rewarding, his melodies accessible. His voice isn't polished but it gets the job done. He sometimes can be a bit too clever for his own good or maybe it's just that he's not a size 34C. There was something rather peculiar about the audience at the show. Most looked like what I imagine the prototype Cities '97 person looks like complete with very long legs. And there I was scrunched up sitting feeling rather naked without my Survivor/Reebok buff on my head (and without my attractive Einstein hairdo).
I ended up going to the show with the right person after all the fish taco headache, the girl next door (down a few blocks or two). It was nice catching up after not having much of a chance to talk recently. And I knew the evening was perfect when after guitarist Sonny Landreth did a wailing Hendrix like Star Spangled intro to "Memphis in the Meantime" with John doing a bullfrog dance around the stage she said to me, "That was beautiful." She was right of course.
The setlist consisted mostly of material from Hiatt's new CD The Tiki Bar is Open and 1988's Slow Turning, the two CDs that feature his current touring band, the Goners. The songs sparkled particularly on the driving "Tennessee Plates" and the head bobbing "Everybody Went Low."
"I was there that day/Don't know what to say/'cept New York had her heart broken"
I'm not sure there's another writer whose songs have better captured and touched the arc of my own life's journey. That's quite the magical trick to pull off. Hiatt opened the show with a jangly "Drive South" which played during my cross country trip with the star of my novel who I called on September 16, 2001, 13 years later. "We were always looking for true north/with our heads in the clouds/just a little off course/I left the motor running/Now, if you're feeling down and out/Come on baby drive south." And almost as if to demonstrate how far the journey has taken me for his first encore Hiatt played a touching version of "Have a Little Faith in Me" which is a song I'll always associate with my oldest and dearest friend who happened to be sitting next to me this evening. When I took a major step along the way as a going away gift she gave me a photograph of me in a hat with the inscription on the back that says, "Take a look and you will see." That picture maintains a prominent spot in my regular eye sight, a constant reminder of perspective when things aren't going exactly right. And the words were used in that Hiatt song though she didn't know it at the time.
Hiatt's humor was his redemption as it often has been. "I believe this is the first time we've ever played at an all girls school," he said with a bit of drool deliberately dripping from his lips. He screamed, he whispered, he sang and he danced, he came and he conquered. And what a fine night he gave to us all.
Monday, November 26, 2001
They Got the Mustard Out
Unlike all those daycare pampered precocious children of today, my pre-school education primarily consisted of the TV shows my mom let me watch while my siblings were off at school. For science there was Sea Hunt; for contemporary American history there was 77 Sunset Street; and for political science there was Mission Impossible.
Perhaps the shows I learned the most from, and were the most fun to watch were cooking shows like the Galloping Gourmet with Graham Kerr and a locally produced show with Chef Hank Meadows. I would cook along with the chefs using my Romper Room plastic cases, Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys serving as substitute food items and utensils (Mom let me borrow her oven mitts). I'll never forget the day Mom (Watakushi no kioku ga tashika naraba...) taught me how to prepare my first real food item (not counting toast and Pop Tarts)- instant pudding. Precisely measuring the milk and mixing up the two ingredients (milk and pudding powder) was a thrill like nothing I had ever experienced.
Thus there was a tinge of nostalgia when I discovered the Japanese cooking show Iron Chef a couple of years ago. For those of you who haven't seen the show it essentially takes the art of cooking and turns it into a fiercely competitive sport. The premise of the show is that Chairman Kaga, a fan of fine cuisine, decided to build Kitchen Stadium, a place where the world's finest chefs would come to test their skills against his "Iron Chefs." The four Iron Chefs specialize in a different style of cooking- Sakai is Iron Chef French, Chin is Iron Chef Chinese, Kobe is Iron Chef Italian, and Morimoto is Iron Chef Japanese.
The challenger is allowed to choose which of the Iron Chefs he/she wishes to square off against. Then Chairman Kaga unveils a food ingredient that must be used in all of the chefs' dishes. (My favorite episode so far was the "carrot contest" in which Kenichi-san defeated his challenger by better realizing that the meat around the core of the carrot is what should be used in fixing exquisite meals.) Many of the shows feature some wacky main ingredients like sea urchin, Shittake mushrooms, and squid- not exactly stuff you'd likely have lying around your house.
There is something uniquely Japanese about the style of the show in its mixture of melodramatic sincerity and humor. Chairman Kaga's presentation of the whole show is over the top but in a sly way. As the chefs scramble to complete their different courses running commentary is provided by a play by play guy, a color commentator and Ota- the roving reporter who runs between the two chefs and breathlessly reports on what ingredients are being used and how the dishes are being prepared. The panel of judges also includes Japanese celebrities usually a bubble headed actress or actor or athlete or politician with no apparent knowledge of food other than they like to eat it. The chefs have 60 minutes to prepare their dishes (usually four or five) and then the panel of judges comments on what they are served.
Despite appearances I'm not exactly the most Japanese guy around. Sure I love my sushi but has there been anyone in recent memory more Americanized by this country's popular culture? Shamefully no and thus I think some of my fondness for the show has to do with my ancestry and feeling some guilt that for an hour I can feel a bit Japanese and a culinary expert as well. At its best Iron Chef inspires not only a love for fine food but also for creativity. Not much of a cook my own self, I must admit being a tad more ambitious with my stir fries after becoming a regular viewer of the show and I even learned what foie gras is. (The duck liver is used in many of the chefs' dishes- and apparently for good reason: It is an expensive delicacy and the chefs are allowed to take items not used up in preparation back to their own restaurants. Thus we see heavy use of caviar also.)
The American version of the show debut last week and predictably something got lost in the translation. While the premise of the show is the same none of the subtle elegance remains. By its very nature there is a campiness but the American version has too much of wink to it- as if the viewer has to be reminded that the whole thing is some big joke. The choice of William Shatner as the chairman was inspired and the over the top actor seems to be having a great time (I liked his little spiel about food being fuel for the body but great food is fuel for the soul.) But the American show is loud and soulless- more akin to professional wrestling or the XFL than Julia Childs or Wolfgang Puck. On the first episode we seldom knew what was being cooked or how it was being prepared- the focus instead was on the celebrity of the chef (and lingering shots of the Playmate of the Year who was one of the judges). While the Japanese Iron Chefs never seem to play to the crowd, the American pretty boy Iron Chef did little but that.
Leave it to Hollywood to take a fun little show and turn it into a spectacle emphasizing flash over substance. It was almost enough to make me want to finally live up to my surname and remove the hyphen from the census category I fall in.
Perhaps the shows I learned the most from, and were the most fun to watch were cooking shows like the Galloping Gourmet with Graham Kerr and a locally produced show with Chef Hank Meadows. I would cook along with the chefs using my Romper Room plastic cases, Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys serving as substitute food items and utensils (Mom let me borrow her oven mitts). I'll never forget the day Mom (Watakushi no kioku ga tashika naraba...) taught me how to prepare my first real food item (not counting toast and Pop Tarts)- instant pudding. Precisely measuring the milk and mixing up the two ingredients (milk and pudding powder) was a thrill like nothing I had ever experienced.
Thus there was a tinge of nostalgia when I discovered the Japanese cooking show Iron Chef a couple of years ago. For those of you who haven't seen the show it essentially takes the art of cooking and turns it into a fiercely competitive sport. The premise of the show is that Chairman Kaga, a fan of fine cuisine, decided to build Kitchen Stadium, a place where the world's finest chefs would come to test their skills against his "Iron Chefs." The four Iron Chefs specialize in a different style of cooking- Sakai is Iron Chef French, Chin is Iron Chef Chinese, Kobe is Iron Chef Italian, and Morimoto is Iron Chef Japanese.
The challenger is allowed to choose which of the Iron Chefs he/she wishes to square off against. Then Chairman Kaga unveils a food ingredient that must be used in all of the chefs' dishes. (My favorite episode so far was the "carrot contest" in which Kenichi-san defeated his challenger by better realizing that the meat around the core of the carrot is what should be used in fixing exquisite meals.) Many of the shows feature some wacky main ingredients like sea urchin, Shittake mushrooms, and squid- not exactly stuff you'd likely have lying around your house.
There is something uniquely Japanese about the style of the show in its mixture of melodramatic sincerity and humor. Chairman Kaga's presentation of the whole show is over the top but in a sly way. As the chefs scramble to complete their different courses running commentary is provided by a play by play guy, a color commentator and Ota- the roving reporter who runs between the two chefs and breathlessly reports on what ingredients are being used and how the dishes are being prepared. The panel of judges also includes Japanese celebrities usually a bubble headed actress or actor or athlete or politician with no apparent knowledge of food other than they like to eat it. The chefs have 60 minutes to prepare their dishes (usually four or five) and then the panel of judges comments on what they are served.
Despite appearances I'm not exactly the most Japanese guy around. Sure I love my sushi but has there been anyone in recent memory more Americanized by this country's popular culture? Shamefully no and thus I think some of my fondness for the show has to do with my ancestry and feeling some guilt that for an hour I can feel a bit Japanese and a culinary expert as well. At its best Iron Chef inspires not only a love for fine food but also for creativity. Not much of a cook my own self, I must admit being a tad more ambitious with my stir fries after becoming a regular viewer of the show and I even learned what foie gras is. (The duck liver is used in many of the chefs' dishes- and apparently for good reason: It is an expensive delicacy and the chefs are allowed to take items not used up in preparation back to their own restaurants. Thus we see heavy use of caviar also.)
The American version of the show debut last week and predictably something got lost in the translation. While the premise of the show is the same none of the subtle elegance remains. By its very nature there is a campiness but the American version has too much of wink to it- as if the viewer has to be reminded that the whole thing is some big joke. The choice of William Shatner as the chairman was inspired and the over the top actor seems to be having a great time (I liked his little spiel about food being fuel for the body but great food is fuel for the soul.) But the American show is loud and soulless- more akin to professional wrestling or the XFL than Julia Childs or Wolfgang Puck. On the first episode we seldom knew what was being cooked or how it was being prepared- the focus instead was on the celebrity of the chef (and lingering shots of the Playmate of the Year who was one of the judges). While the Japanese Iron Chefs never seem to play to the crowd, the American pretty boy Iron Chef did little but that.
Leave it to Hollywood to take a fun little show and turn it into a spectacle emphasizing flash over substance. It was almost enough to make me want to finally live up to my surname and remove the hyphen from the census category I fall in.
Monday, November 19, 2001
I Can't Imagine (a) This World Without You
My one-year-old nephew Caleb, one of the two true Minnesota twins, said his first word ("apple") during the days before my 37th birthday. Thus he like his uncle is on pace to learn about a word per year. And like me I'm not entirely sure the little guy quite understands the meaning of what he uttered having never had the fruit (other than applesauce), but he said it quite clearly and over and over again. Point to a picture of an apple and impressively Caleb clearly identifies it, but read him a Sesame Street book point to a picture of Elmo and ask, "who is that?" and Caleb quite cutely also says, "apple."
Before we delve too steeply into the symbolism of his first word and the obvious Adam and Eve analogy let's just say I think the kid is wiser than his year(s). There are many words I wish I didn't know and there have been many times when I wished and prayed that I didn't have to use the same word to describe the situation I found myself in. Taking my cue from Caleb next time someone asks me how I'm doing I might just mumble, "apple." That should say it all.
You have to envy somebody who can look at just about everything in the world as brand new and shiny and still doesn't have the arrogance to believe that everything all kinda ends up the same no matter what you do so you might as well do the same things over and over. Call it the old comfort routine. But what you find out is that inevitably life intrudes and throws you for a loop by taking away something you've depended on, relied on leaving you gazing through the hole where the bottom fell out.
My day these days (daze e daisy give me your answer do...) is more predictable than it is spellbinding. I have developed a morning ritual that has only changed slightly over the years. It always begins with waking up, a process that one certainly can't take for granted nor even hope for. Also in the morning mixture is enjoying my morning homemade cappuccinos while reading both local daily newspapers. Of course one of the first things I've turned to the past couple of years is the comics page where among the first comics I always read was the Fusco Brothers. Last week those wise folks at the Pioneer Press decided to replace the Fuscos with a generic locally written strip called Amber Waves..
Though I appreciated the fact that the Pioneer Press chose not to follow Major League Baseball's lead and contract its comics page I still was a tad disappointed that they didn't expand it and merely switched one of the better strips with what appears to be another cute kid and animal comic. Which reminds me of another part of the soon to departing routine- occasionally glimpsing up to see the peering gaze of Mr. Max looking around the corner wondering if it is in his best interests to join me. Usually Max decides to postpone really checking up on me and instead goes and finds a splash of sunlight coming through the window to lie in. Eventually he ends up on the couch with me, usually first plopping on the spread out newspaper page I'm trying to read. The twins would chuckle, sneeze and wheeze at the lil guy's antics.
Caleb's brother Micah was the first of the two to take a step bringing up the age old debate whether or not it's better to move forward without saying a word or whether one doesn't dare take a step in any direction without first expressing oneself. I think Buffy/Joan said it best when she sang, "Life's a song/You don't get to rehearse/And every single verse/Can make it that much worse..." Baby Steps baby steps... When one word can make all the difference in the world especially if it is the only word that you know. Sometimes as that other famous slayer bard said "the silence can be like thunder."
And it was at the Bob Dylan concert during the first encore when the band strummed the chords of "Love Sick" when my friend, call her the Fusco sister, turned to me and said, "You like this song don't you?" And I muttered something incoherent back to her (as I'm wont to do) as I nodded my head. If only I had been able to say what was in my heart, what was in my mind: "apple."
Before we delve too steeply into the symbolism of his first word and the obvious Adam and Eve analogy let's just say I think the kid is wiser than his year(s). There are many words I wish I didn't know and there have been many times when I wished and prayed that I didn't have to use the same word to describe the situation I found myself in. Taking my cue from Caleb next time someone asks me how I'm doing I might just mumble, "apple." That should say it all.
You have to envy somebody who can look at just about everything in the world as brand new and shiny and still doesn't have the arrogance to believe that everything all kinda ends up the same no matter what you do so you might as well do the same things over and over. Call it the old comfort routine. But what you find out is that inevitably life intrudes and throws you for a loop by taking away something you've depended on, relied on leaving you gazing through the hole where the bottom fell out.
My day these days (daze e daisy give me your answer do...) is more predictable than it is spellbinding. I have developed a morning ritual that has only changed slightly over the years. It always begins with waking up, a process that one certainly can't take for granted nor even hope for. Also in the morning mixture is enjoying my morning homemade cappuccinos while reading both local daily newspapers. Of course one of the first things I've turned to the past couple of years is the comics page where among the first comics I always read was the Fusco Brothers. Last week those wise folks at the Pioneer Press decided to replace the Fuscos with a generic locally written strip called Amber Waves..
Though I appreciated the fact that the Pioneer Press chose not to follow Major League Baseball's lead and contract its comics page I still was a tad disappointed that they didn't expand it and merely switched one of the better strips with what appears to be another cute kid and animal comic. Which reminds me of another part of the soon to departing routine- occasionally glimpsing up to see the peering gaze of Mr. Max looking around the corner wondering if it is in his best interests to join me. Usually Max decides to postpone really checking up on me and instead goes and finds a splash of sunlight coming through the window to lie in. Eventually he ends up on the couch with me, usually first plopping on the spread out newspaper page I'm trying to read. The twins would chuckle, sneeze and wheeze at the lil guy's antics.
Caleb's brother Micah was the first of the two to take a step bringing up the age old debate whether or not it's better to move forward without saying a word or whether one doesn't dare take a step in any direction without first expressing oneself. I think Buffy/Joan said it best when she sang, "Life's a song/You don't get to rehearse/And every single verse/Can make it that much worse..." Baby Steps baby steps... When one word can make all the difference in the world especially if it is the only word that you know. Sometimes as that other famous slayer bard said "the silence can be like thunder."
And it was at the Bob Dylan concert during the first encore when the band strummed the chords of "Love Sick" when my friend, call her the Fusco sister, turned to me and said, "You like this song don't you?" And I muttered something incoherent back to her (as I'm wont to do) as I nodded my head. If only I had been able to say what was in my heart, what was in my mind: "apple."
Monday, November 12, 2001
Ask Me To Sing About the Second President
I spent Tuesday in the basement of St. Therese's Catholic Church in Highland Park serving as a head election judge. Besides coming uncomfortably close to running out of ballots (the county gave us 800- we ended up with exactly 800 people voting) things went pretty smoothly. Despite all the repetitive jokes about hanging chads and whether or not we allow dogs to vote (not if they're them foreign dogs like a German shepherd) I enjoyed working with a group of people many of them believe it or not, a little older than myself. I was even tolerant of the woman who kept saying to departing voters, "See ya later alligator..." in hopes of grown ups playing along and completing the greeting with the proper response. She wasn't having a whole lot of takers. As a group we did form a bond, a team camaraderie that comes with doing one's civic duty and working a fifteen-hour day protecting the legitimacy of our election system.
One of my fellow judges was an elderly gent named John who told me the best thing he ever did was to get married. He said that when he turned 36 he figured it was time, so he went out church hopping in search of a good woman. Forty years later John had nothing but nice things to say about the missus. The other thing John sure couldn't say enough about was the exploits of our nation's second president, John Adams. Seems election judge John had just finished reading the new Adams' biography written by David McCullough. Every five minutes or so John would walk over to me and tell something else about Mr. Adams. The only things I could offer to judge John in return were a couple of conversational nuggets: that I had recently learned the world now has turkey Spam; and that more and more I'm becoming convinced life is all a song and dance.
Like most conversations I'm responsible for starting, the Spam one drew first a blank stare followed by a look of what can only be described as sympathetic concern. The other observation elicited more curiosity especially after I told John that I was sacrificing watching my favorite TV show to be working in the precinct. (Of course true to accusations, I wasn't disclosing everything I knew- before I left for work that morning I was quite paranoid in double and triple checking my VCR to make sure that it was all set to tape the special episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.)
Buffy the musical (or "Once More with Feeling") got a fair amount of publicity, enough so that even my nieces who don't watch the show and roll their eyes whenever I mention it, asked me if I was looking forward to the episode. Actually I was a little worried that having the cast members break into song would be too gimmicky, an ambitious experiment gone wrong (does anyone remember Cop Rock?). But I should know by now that the show's creator/producer/writer Joss Whedon is too skilled an artist to not pull off the unexpected.
Unlike peers like the West Wing's Aaron Sorkin, Whedon doesn't need to rely on cliche to get to the heart of his show's emotional fabric. The West Wing may have gotten ALL the Emmys but has anyone noticed how through this entire impeachment/the president lied to his staff and the country story line how Sorkin more and more has relied on swelling background music to convey the emotion of payoff scenes?
Whedon on the other hand has created a world so rich, so complex that even when the characters spoof old musicals they do so with wit and charm and it even makes sense in the series' overall plot. (I was seriously pissed off however when the show ran eight minutes longer than normal and thus my tape shut off just as all the revelations were occurring.)
I told none of this to election judge John. Didn't think he'd be all that interested. But he persistently told me about the love/hate relationship between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. The two men played such an integral part in establishing our country yet they shared entirely different points of view. They died on the same day, exactly fifty years to the day that our country was born.
The relationship reminded me of another rivalry/partnership that produced great things- Lennon and McCartney. I would have told election judge John that but again I figured the connection might not click. I almost recommended he listen to Paul's new CD, Driving Rain- a CD I couldn't stop listening to over the weekend. Driving Rain is a departure from much of Paul's work. Many of the songs deal with his undying love for Linda, and finding solace through song and through the inspiration of the new love of his life Heather Mills. Unlike Lennon, Paul has never particularly been a autobiographical writer. While many of Lennon's best songs seem torn directly out of his diary, Paul has never been one to reveal much in his writing. His best songs like "Hey Jude" and "Tough on a Tightrope" remarkably convey deep emotions without revealing that much about the writer.
More and more I've found myself feeling defensive for remaining a staunch Paul fan but his music holds a special place in my life. I can play most of his songs on the piano. And I remember the day in high school when my life became a musical as I serenaded Sue Weiss, who I didn't ask to the prom, with "C Moon" over a game of shoddy played pool even though I was much too shy to speak to her.
Paul's melodic bass playing on the new CD is stellar and expressive and the singing of a revealing set of lyrics shows a skilled artist meshing his life with song. On Driving Rain it is truly refreshing to hear Paul writing music that truly matters; if not for anyone else, certainly for himself.
One of my fellow judges was an elderly gent named John who told me the best thing he ever did was to get married. He said that when he turned 36 he figured it was time, so he went out church hopping in search of a good woman. Forty years later John had nothing but nice things to say about the missus. The other thing John sure couldn't say enough about was the exploits of our nation's second president, John Adams. Seems election judge John had just finished reading the new Adams' biography written by David McCullough. Every five minutes or so John would walk over to me and tell something else about Mr. Adams. The only things I could offer to judge John in return were a couple of conversational nuggets: that I had recently learned the world now has turkey Spam; and that more and more I'm becoming convinced life is all a song and dance.
Like most conversations I'm responsible for starting, the Spam one drew first a blank stare followed by a look of what can only be described as sympathetic concern. The other observation elicited more curiosity especially after I told John that I was sacrificing watching my favorite TV show to be working in the precinct. (Of course true to accusations, I wasn't disclosing everything I knew- before I left for work that morning I was quite paranoid in double and triple checking my VCR to make sure that it was all set to tape the special episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.)
Buffy the musical (or "Once More with Feeling") got a fair amount of publicity, enough so that even my nieces who don't watch the show and roll their eyes whenever I mention it, asked me if I was looking forward to the episode. Actually I was a little worried that having the cast members break into song would be too gimmicky, an ambitious experiment gone wrong (does anyone remember Cop Rock?). But I should know by now that the show's creator/producer/writer Joss Whedon is too skilled an artist to not pull off the unexpected.
Unlike peers like the West Wing's Aaron Sorkin, Whedon doesn't need to rely on cliche to get to the heart of his show's emotional fabric. The West Wing may have gotten ALL the Emmys but has anyone noticed how through this entire impeachment/the president lied to his staff and the country story line how Sorkin more and more has relied on swelling background music to convey the emotion of payoff scenes?
Whedon on the other hand has created a world so rich, so complex that even when the characters spoof old musicals they do so with wit and charm and it even makes sense in the series' overall plot. (I was seriously pissed off however when the show ran eight minutes longer than normal and thus my tape shut off just as all the revelations were occurring.)
I told none of this to election judge John. Didn't think he'd be all that interested. But he persistently told me about the love/hate relationship between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. The two men played such an integral part in establishing our country yet they shared entirely different points of view. They died on the same day, exactly fifty years to the day that our country was born.
The relationship reminded me of another rivalry/partnership that produced great things- Lennon and McCartney. I would have told election judge John that but again I figured the connection might not click. I almost recommended he listen to Paul's new CD, Driving Rain- a CD I couldn't stop listening to over the weekend. Driving Rain is a departure from much of Paul's work. Many of the songs deal with his undying love for Linda, and finding solace through song and through the inspiration of the new love of his life Heather Mills. Unlike Lennon, Paul has never particularly been a autobiographical writer. While many of Lennon's best songs seem torn directly out of his diary, Paul has never been one to reveal much in his writing. His best songs like "Hey Jude" and "Tough on a Tightrope" remarkably convey deep emotions without revealing that much about the writer.
More and more I've found myself feeling defensive for remaining a staunch Paul fan but his music holds a special place in my life. I can play most of his songs on the piano. And I remember the day in high school when my life became a musical as I serenaded Sue Weiss, who I didn't ask to the prom, with "C Moon" over a game of shoddy played pool even though I was much too shy to speak to her.
Paul's melodic bass playing on the new CD is stellar and expressive and the singing of a revealing set of lyrics shows a skilled artist meshing his life with song. On Driving Rain it is truly refreshing to hear Paul writing music that truly matters; if not for anyone else, certainly for himself.
Monday, November 5, 2001
Waltzing the Floor with a Podiatrist
The electric Christmas card photographer got in line with many others and as we were listening to Emmylou sing Lucinda's "Sweet Old World" she said to me, "You sure do like sad songs." If I had a nickel for every time I heard that I'd be at least three dollars and fifty-five cents less in debt by now. That particular song (which happens to be my current all time favorite song) never has struck me as being all that sad. Sure it's a song chastising one who has killed himself, but it isn't so much about losing one with suicidal tendencies as it is all the beautiful things in this world that are worth cherishing, loving and living for.
Now if you want to hear some really depressing music listen to the Cranberries' new CD, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee. It's not that the new disc is downbeat, indeed it is the group's most chirpy to date; rather it's the music is downright awful and listening to it not only insults your intelligence it sucks brain cells right out of your noggin.
Normally (if that word can ever truly apply to me) I'm as big a fan of insipid music as anyone I know. Paul McCartney remains one of my favorite songwriters precisely because his music can be so inane and cloying. Paul has worked hard to earn his reputation as the empty headed producer of the world's silliest love songs and I for one applaud him for that.
But the new Cranberries' disc is so annoying that it goes beyond my tolerance for such contrived happiness. It reminds me of the fairly lousy Buffy episode in which John Ritter plays a robot/boyfriend of Buffy's mom and seduces Mrs. Summers by putting a drug akin to Ecstasy in her chocolate chip cookies. Just when you think the episode will take the less than normal standard network "ignorance is bliss" stance, pouty Buffy ruins things by showing she is right and that the Ritter character is a bit more evil than your normal "I don't want my mother dating anyone who is not my father" boyfriend. Similarly Wake Up and Smell the Coffee tries to sound convincing in its vapid "we've done the depressing stuff now it's time to sing happy songs" approach.
Lead singer Dolores O'Riordan Burton writes in the liner notes that since having her second child she thought the group owed the world music that's "extremely up and grateful." "I guess family and friends are the essential key to happiness," Dolores writes. "It is from such simplicities that we create love- for me love is all."
Well, fine. But how about writing music that conveys that love and joy and not one that seems contrived and listless? Happiness isn't that uninspiring is it? There isn't a single moment of revelation, a single bit of insight in the 13 songs- a pretty mean trick to pull off. The best song of the lot, "Analyze" sounds so much like the group's biggest hit, "Dreams" that a copyright violation citation seems in order. (In perhaps a bit of unintentional irony the chorus of the song ends with the sing along tag- "lie, lie, lie, lie lie..." how bloody appropriate.) So many of the songs sound so eerily derivative of the group's earlier work that one wants to take the songwriter(s) aside and tell them that if they're going to steal music, at least steal something classic and with roots.
Maybe it was the sour mood I was in when I first listened to the disc. The CD provided background soundtrack noise to the gossip/rumor turned news that MY heart's team is in immediate danger of disbanding. It sure will be a sad day when Macalester no longer has a football team. The news hit me like a needle inserted into a familiar feline's ample stomach. After a difficult day when Mr. Max came home with a shaved belly and I resorted (some would say insensitively) to calling him "Mr. Poodle" in reference to his stylish fur and skin look, I desperately needed some music to pick me up. Believe me, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee wasn't the right tonic.
To get rid of the icky goo stuck inside my mind I put on Loudon Wainwright III's new CD Last Man on Earth. That CD is truly a powerful and admirable effort, a sterling cycle of songs about dealing with the grief after one's mother dies. After listening to the disc my nerves were a bit less agitated. All the songs are worth listening to but the final song "Homeless" effectively closes out the journey in such a powerful manner that it is a wonderful reminder of the healing powers of the sharing of music. "People have called to find out if I'm fine/I assure them I am/But I'm not/It's a line/They say in the end/Your good friends pull you through/But everyone knows/My best friend was you..."
I guess Ms. Electricity was right all along: maybe I do have an affinity for sad songs after all.
Now if you want to hear some really depressing music listen to the Cranberries' new CD, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee. It's not that the new disc is downbeat, indeed it is the group's most chirpy to date; rather it's the music is downright awful and listening to it not only insults your intelligence it sucks brain cells right out of your noggin.
Normally (if that word can ever truly apply to me) I'm as big a fan of insipid music as anyone I know. Paul McCartney remains one of my favorite songwriters precisely because his music can be so inane and cloying. Paul has worked hard to earn his reputation as the empty headed producer of the world's silliest love songs and I for one applaud him for that.
But the new Cranberries' disc is so annoying that it goes beyond my tolerance for such contrived happiness. It reminds me of the fairly lousy Buffy episode in which John Ritter plays a robot/boyfriend of Buffy's mom and seduces Mrs. Summers by putting a drug akin to Ecstasy in her chocolate chip cookies. Just when you think the episode will take the less than normal standard network "ignorance is bliss" stance, pouty Buffy ruins things by showing she is right and that the Ritter character is a bit more evil than your normal "I don't want my mother dating anyone who is not my father" boyfriend. Similarly Wake Up and Smell the Coffee tries to sound convincing in its vapid "we've done the depressing stuff now it's time to sing happy songs" approach.
Lead singer Dolores O'Riordan Burton writes in the liner notes that since having her second child she thought the group owed the world music that's "extremely up and grateful." "I guess family and friends are the essential key to happiness," Dolores writes. "It is from such simplicities that we create love- for me love is all."
Well, fine. But how about writing music that conveys that love and joy and not one that seems contrived and listless? Happiness isn't that uninspiring is it? There isn't a single moment of revelation, a single bit of insight in the 13 songs- a pretty mean trick to pull off. The best song of the lot, "Analyze" sounds so much like the group's biggest hit, "Dreams" that a copyright violation citation seems in order. (In perhaps a bit of unintentional irony the chorus of the song ends with the sing along tag- "lie, lie, lie, lie lie..." how bloody appropriate.) So many of the songs sound so eerily derivative of the group's earlier work that one wants to take the songwriter(s) aside and tell them that if they're going to steal music, at least steal something classic and with roots.
Maybe it was the sour mood I was in when I first listened to the disc. The CD provided background soundtrack noise to the gossip/rumor turned news that MY heart's team is in immediate danger of disbanding. It sure will be a sad day when Macalester no longer has a football team. The news hit me like a needle inserted into a familiar feline's ample stomach. After a difficult day when Mr. Max came home with a shaved belly and I resorted (some would say insensitively) to calling him "Mr. Poodle" in reference to his stylish fur and skin look, I desperately needed some music to pick me up. Believe me, Wake Up and Smell the Coffee wasn't the right tonic.
To get rid of the icky goo stuck inside my mind I put on Loudon Wainwright III's new CD Last Man on Earth. That CD is truly a powerful and admirable effort, a sterling cycle of songs about dealing with the grief after one's mother dies. After listening to the disc my nerves were a bit less agitated. All the songs are worth listening to but the final song "Homeless" effectively closes out the journey in such a powerful manner that it is a wonderful reminder of the healing powers of the sharing of music. "People have called to find out if I'm fine/I assure them I am/But I'm not/It's a line/They say in the end/Your good friends pull you through/But everyone knows/My best friend was you..."
I guess Ms. Electricity was right all along: maybe I do have an affinity for sad songs after all.
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