Even though I majored in college in TV, movies, and music, I've never claimed that I have my finger on the pulse of this country's pop culture. I'll be the first to admit I never know why some things hit the public jackpot and why others seem to strike the fancy of the nation's many cultural critics.
Take for example the continued employment (and therefore seeming popularity) of FOX's top baseball analyst Tim McCarver who has now maintained that exulted position since the 1980's as Major League Baseball has moved from ABC to CBS to Fox. McCarver clearly knows the game well but his reliance on puns and his redundant analysis has even made me long for the more palatable Tony Kubek or Jim Kaat.
So the other night as I was watching the Chicago White Sox play the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim and I was getting ready to go to bed, I decided I couldn't listen to McCarver anymore so I turned down the TV sound and plopped my iPod in to listen to the new Liz Phair CD, Somebody's Miracle, for the first time. So unimpressed was I that I nearly turned the sound of the TV back up to hear what McCarver was saying about a horrible call that allowed A.J. Pierzynski to go to first base despite striking out, ultimately causing the Angels the game. But I didn't. I stayed with Liz. And I thought to myself, "God this is awful."
The next day at work I put the CD on again and this time I cut the gal some slack. Somebody's Miracle like last year's Liz Phair is slickly produced and thus all but erases Liz's claim to the throne of one time Indi-Queen. The songs all but sound exactly alike and there's not one of them that hit me between the eyes (or legs) like say, "Divorce Song" or "Perfect World." Yet unlike her last effort (an effort some accused her of trying to be a much older Avril Lavigne) at least this time Liz isn't singing about her favorite pair of underwear or favorite human secretion. This time she's singing about some much sadder stuff albeit at times with nearly Spector-ish bombastic production to cover it all up.
Paul McCartney has recently been praised up and down by music critics for stripping his sound down bare and releasing an album that seems deeper and more intimate. But his CD, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard doesn't reveal as much as Liz poetically does on Somebody's Miracle. Her CD's opening track, "Leap of Innocence" sets the tone for all that is to follow. The singer is expressing remorse for so enjoying an affair while admitting that while you're having fun things can't last "like love in California." And then the chorus is laid out for all to hear. "Anyone can tell you were my instrument/He said, 'I understand you/You want to play me...'" How devastating.
The ultra-polished production is unfortunate making some decent songs sound as if they could have been anonymously written/sung by anyone from Shania Twain to Sheryl Crow. And what's up with such a bland CD title? Liz has previously been four for four in that category with cocky CD names like Exile in Guyville, Whip Smart, whitechocolatespaceegg, and the ironic Liz Phair that revealed less (except for some sexy girly photos) than Dylan's ultimate match this for awfulness cuz you can't, throwitallaway Self Portrait. This time there are shrapnel wound inducing lines that would have made a great CD title scattered throughout like "One Eyed Ingenue" or "Sometimes I Am Inspired." So just what the heck is one supposed to make about Somebody's Miracle?
My favorite track is the playful "Got My Own Thing" that is Liz at her clever best. You gotta smile when she delivers sly lines like, "They say I'm pretty as a song..." or "I don't have to save for a rainy day I know that something comes along... IT ALWAYS comes along..." and "Everybody changed when I do what I do... CUZ I DO WHAT I DO..."
Bottom line may be that I'm in love and may always be with Liz Phair. Sure I may love Bob Dylan's music but I am in love with Liz Phair. Good looks, good luck, cheeky music and that attitude, how can one resist a package like that?
Monday, October 17, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
Calm and Constipation in the Well Landscaped Front Yard
Everyone should know by now that Paul McCartney and I have a lot in common. Besides the early fame, the boyish charm and good looks, the billions of dollars, we both share the uncertainty of not knowing just where to go to next.
The Beatles' music was among the first music that changed my life and I always appreciated that so many McCartney-penned songs were piano based enhancing my own struggling keyboard tinkling (extremely accurate use of the term in this instance) repertoire.
McCartney's latest CD, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard has gotten quite a few good reviews. Clearly with Radiohead and Beck producer Nigel Godrich (recommended to Paul by Sir George Martin) at the helm Macca clearly was seeking to do something more significant than just his next CD. It's one of his most introspective CDs from start to finish and the fog of melancholy (unusual in a McCartney effort) lingers throughout.
Upon first listen I was reminded of the spring of my senior year of high school when I was driving with my two best friends at the time, Steve and Jay, and we were discussing Macca and what he had to do at that time to restore some of the luster to his rapidly becoming irrelevant career. I suggested that Paul record an all acoustic LP that would force him to concentrate on his words as much as he did the ever increasing need to show he was the experimental force of the Beatles.
Macca's next release Pipes of Peace was released the fall of my lost freshman year of college. I meandered down to my neighborhood Cheapo store and picked it up the day it was released. On a gloomy, grey fall day when it was my turn to pick the music in our room my two roommates suffered through this insipid music (although in my defense it followed listening to Dr. Pete's choice of the Police's Synchronicity, and Alcoholic Bruce's pick of Cheap Trick's One on One so it wasn't like my choice was that out of line). I remember how after the first listen I commented how Paul seemed to have lost all inspiration altogether to which Dr. Pete for the one and only time in our time together offered some words of sympathy. "It's not that bad and you have to keep in mind he's been writing music for so long..."
So the next time Steve, Jay and I got together was around Thanksgiving time and we tried to analyze Pipes of Peace and tried to find all the hidden meanings. We got stuck on the song "The Other Me" that contained the somewhat confessional yet entirely made up on the spot lyrics "The other me would rather be the glad one/The other me would rather play the fool/I wanna be the kind of me that doesn't let you down as a rule..." It wasn't that Paul wasn't trying, it seemed he was trying too hard- something I've done once or twice.
It is now some 22 years after that forgettable CD and one of the songs on Paul's latest mostly acoustic (maybe he heard me!) CD is a little nugget called "Jenny Wren" (that some of us might disturbingly relate to another Jennie with an animal name). This latest lament about spreading one's wings, a certain flight for freedom doesn't exactly inspire the same release that one might have felt all those years ago but it's still a darn fine song.
It's my favorite song on the CD. Like many of Paul's greatest songs ("Hey Jude," "For No One," "Little Lamb Dragonfly," "Hope of Deliverance,") it's a song about one soul consoling another. And the lasting feeling created is that the singer is singing the song to console the writer beyond the literal meaning of the words.
Chaos and Creation... suffers and yet benefits from the fact that all the songs sound somewhat alike. One of Paul's trademarks over the years has been that most his CDs inevitably feature a somewhat impressive yet equally annoying tendency to trip from idiom to idiom (see London Town) as if he just has to show off how many different styles of songs he's mastered. The CD may lack the big traditional McCartney ballad yet it's clear that Paul has reached the point where he doesn't really want to be just a nostalgia act and he wants his music to still matter. This CD may not quite get there but I for one relate to the effort.
The Beatles' music was among the first music that changed my life and I always appreciated that so many McCartney-penned songs were piano based enhancing my own struggling keyboard tinkling (extremely accurate use of the term in this instance) repertoire.
McCartney's latest CD, Chaos and Creation in the Backyard has gotten quite a few good reviews. Clearly with Radiohead and Beck producer Nigel Godrich (recommended to Paul by Sir George Martin) at the helm Macca clearly was seeking to do something more significant than just his next CD. It's one of his most introspective CDs from start to finish and the fog of melancholy (unusual in a McCartney effort) lingers throughout.
Upon first listen I was reminded of the spring of my senior year of high school when I was driving with my two best friends at the time, Steve and Jay, and we were discussing Macca and what he had to do at that time to restore some of the luster to his rapidly becoming irrelevant career. I suggested that Paul record an all acoustic LP that would force him to concentrate on his words as much as he did the ever increasing need to show he was the experimental force of the Beatles.
Macca's next release Pipes of Peace was released the fall of my lost freshman year of college. I meandered down to my neighborhood Cheapo store and picked it up the day it was released. On a gloomy, grey fall day when it was my turn to pick the music in our room my two roommates suffered through this insipid music (although in my defense it followed listening to Dr. Pete's choice of the Police's Synchronicity, and Alcoholic Bruce's pick of Cheap Trick's One on One so it wasn't like my choice was that out of line). I remember how after the first listen I commented how Paul seemed to have lost all inspiration altogether to which Dr. Pete for the one and only time in our time together offered some words of sympathy. "It's not that bad and you have to keep in mind he's been writing music for so long..."
So the next time Steve, Jay and I got together was around Thanksgiving time and we tried to analyze Pipes of Peace and tried to find all the hidden meanings. We got stuck on the song "The Other Me" that contained the somewhat confessional yet entirely made up on the spot lyrics "The other me would rather be the glad one/The other me would rather play the fool/I wanna be the kind of me that doesn't let you down as a rule..." It wasn't that Paul wasn't trying, it seemed he was trying too hard- something I've done once or twice.
It is now some 22 years after that forgettable CD and one of the songs on Paul's latest mostly acoustic (maybe he heard me!) CD is a little nugget called "Jenny Wren" (that some of us might disturbingly relate to another Jennie with an animal name). This latest lament about spreading one's wings, a certain flight for freedom doesn't exactly inspire the same release that one might have felt all those years ago but it's still a darn fine song.
It's my favorite song on the CD. Like many of Paul's greatest songs ("Hey Jude," "For No One," "Little Lamb Dragonfly," "Hope of Deliverance,") it's a song about one soul consoling another. And the lasting feeling created is that the singer is singing the song to console the writer beyond the literal meaning of the words.
Chaos and Creation... suffers and yet benefits from the fact that all the songs sound somewhat alike. One of Paul's trademarks over the years has been that most his CDs inevitably feature a somewhat impressive yet equally annoying tendency to trip from idiom to idiom (see London Town) as if he just has to show off how many different styles of songs he's mastered. The CD may lack the big traditional McCartney ballad yet it's clear that Paul has reached the point where he doesn't really want to be just a nostalgia act and he wants his music to still matter. This CD may not quite get there but I for one relate to the effort.
Monday, October 3, 2005
If I Were a County Attorney
Supposing that scientists were to develop cloning techniques so that humans could be cloned. I'm not saying it's gonna happen or anything but just suppose it did. And say that maybe I had been cloned and I'm not saying I would be, but if I was and for a freakish reason my clone, let's pretend, was the exact same age as I am. I would have to say if all that happened my clone might have enjoyed a pretty spectacular week pop culture-wise.
I'm not saying it's a given that my clone would have the exact same taste in things as I do, but supposing he did? Let's just say, for the sake of all this that he would have watched the PBS documentary No Direction Home about Bob Dylan. I'm not saying that one of the reasons he would have admired Dylan was Dylan's ability to turn expectations of him inside out- how when his fans were berating him for not being who they thought he should be, he channeled that anger into his music and made something lovely out of it. I'm not saying my clone would have cared one whit about that but if he did, No Direction Home might have impressed him for its capturing of this process.
I'm also not saying my clone would rely on music to get him through his life as much as I do but let's just say he did for a moment. If music mattered that much to him and he, let's just say, bought Ike Reilly's new CD Junkie Faithful and now accepting that the clone had made the exact same choices in CD purchases over the past few years, and I'm not saying that would necessarily be the case, but let's just say it is, maybe he would find too, that Junkie Faithful is the best CD he's heard since Dylan's 2001 Love and Theft. Matter of fact the clone, maybe just maybe might not be able to stop playing Junkie Faithful over and over because the music cuts through the other crap of his life like a cat's paw cuts through the fabric of the nearest couch. It maybe would be enough, and I'm not saying this is written in stone, to raise the clone's deflated spirit, if he had one, just a notch or two.
Let's just pretend for a moment and say that the clone would have agreed (and who knows if he would?) that Reilly's music is best played loud, like blasting out of a car stereo on a sunny summer day. Maybe despite this the clone would listen really carefully to the lyrics on Junkie Faithful and understand that when critics heap praises on Ike Reilly the comparison to Dylan often comes up and let's just say that the clone, like me for example, has never before understood that comparison until listening to the songs on Junkie Faithful.
The clone may or may not, but let's just say he does, think that the opening song "22 Hours of Darkness" depicts the state of depression better than anything he's heard since the songs on Dylan's misunderstood Street Legal. Maybe even just maybe, the clone would understand that the refrain that wails about 22 hours of darkness and two of light just about sums it all up in a neat little ball that often unravels uncontrollably. And maybe just maybe he'd understand thoroughly the line about love not being enough.
Let's also just say for the fun of it that the clone finds the second song on the disc, "The Mixture" to be spine tingling stuff. When in the chorus Ike calls out in desperation "Where were you?" the clone might also just relate to that very question about some necessary friends who disappeared when his mother died. Not that a clone would have a mother.
The clone also might, just might, snicker at the dirty little "Farm Girl" that not only contains clever little lyrics dripping with sexual innuendo but also how farming can be a dirty little business. "Squatting down telling me my top soil's gone/I'd rather die than pack up my farm/Squatting down telling me my beans won't grow, that my plows won't plow and my hoes won't hoe..."
I'm also not suggesting that the clone would so terribly miss the brilliance of his all time favorite TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer that left a hole in his heart as big as the void in his TV watching, and he hasn't found anything since remotely close in its emotional impact. And I'm also not suggesting it's a given that the clone would have been a fan of Buffy's creator/writer, Joss Whedon's next TV show, the never given a chance Firefly. Let's just say he would have been though, and thus he would have also maybe just maybe had made the effort to go and see Whedon's movie Serenity, the big screen version of Firefly.
I'm not sure how the clone would have responded to going to Serenity if he even had. Let's just say he did for pretends sake. Maybe the clone, and maybe he wouldn't have, just celebrated and enjoyed the humor and wit of the movie even though it reminded the clone, and I'm not saying it would, of a sense of humor that's been missing ever since Buffy left the airwaves. The clone may, and let's just imagine he might have, loved Serenity with it's rollicking action packed plot and it's quiet moments of sadness and reflection and insight. If we could somehow accept all this might be a possibility then the clone maybe just maybe could comprehend that not all weeks can be this good.
I'm not saying it's a given that my clone would have the exact same taste in things as I do, but supposing he did? Let's just say, for the sake of all this that he would have watched the PBS documentary No Direction Home about Bob Dylan. I'm not saying that one of the reasons he would have admired Dylan was Dylan's ability to turn expectations of him inside out- how when his fans were berating him for not being who they thought he should be, he channeled that anger into his music and made something lovely out of it. I'm not saying my clone would have cared one whit about that but if he did, No Direction Home might have impressed him for its capturing of this process.
I'm also not saying my clone would rely on music to get him through his life as much as I do but let's just say he did for a moment. If music mattered that much to him and he, let's just say, bought Ike Reilly's new CD Junkie Faithful and now accepting that the clone had made the exact same choices in CD purchases over the past few years, and I'm not saying that would necessarily be the case, but let's just say it is, maybe he would find too, that Junkie Faithful is the best CD he's heard since Dylan's 2001 Love and Theft. Matter of fact the clone, maybe just maybe might not be able to stop playing Junkie Faithful over and over because the music cuts through the other crap of his life like a cat's paw cuts through the fabric of the nearest couch. It maybe would be enough, and I'm not saying this is written in stone, to raise the clone's deflated spirit, if he had one, just a notch or two.
Let's just pretend for a moment and say that the clone would have agreed (and who knows if he would?) that Reilly's music is best played loud, like blasting out of a car stereo on a sunny summer day. Maybe despite this the clone would listen really carefully to the lyrics on Junkie Faithful and understand that when critics heap praises on Ike Reilly the comparison to Dylan often comes up and let's just say that the clone, like me for example, has never before understood that comparison until listening to the songs on Junkie Faithful.
The clone may or may not, but let's just say he does, think that the opening song "22 Hours of Darkness" depicts the state of depression better than anything he's heard since the songs on Dylan's misunderstood Street Legal. Maybe even just maybe, the clone would understand that the refrain that wails about 22 hours of darkness and two of light just about sums it all up in a neat little ball that often unravels uncontrollably. And maybe just maybe he'd understand thoroughly the line about love not being enough.
Let's also just say for the fun of it that the clone finds the second song on the disc, "The Mixture" to be spine tingling stuff. When in the chorus Ike calls out in desperation "Where were you?" the clone might also just relate to that very question about some necessary friends who disappeared when his mother died. Not that a clone would have a mother.
The clone also might, just might, snicker at the dirty little "Farm Girl" that not only contains clever little lyrics dripping with sexual innuendo but also how farming can be a dirty little business. "Squatting down telling me my top soil's gone/I'd rather die than pack up my farm/Squatting down telling me my beans won't grow, that my plows won't plow and my hoes won't hoe..."
I'm also not suggesting that the clone would so terribly miss the brilliance of his all time favorite TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer that left a hole in his heart as big as the void in his TV watching, and he hasn't found anything since remotely close in its emotional impact. And I'm also not suggesting it's a given that the clone would have been a fan of Buffy's creator/writer, Joss Whedon's next TV show, the never given a chance Firefly. Let's just say he would have been though, and thus he would have also maybe just maybe had made the effort to go and see Whedon's movie Serenity, the big screen version of Firefly.
I'm not sure how the clone would have responded to going to Serenity if he even had. Let's just say he did for pretends sake. Maybe the clone, and maybe he wouldn't have, just celebrated and enjoyed the humor and wit of the movie even though it reminded the clone, and I'm not saying it would, of a sense of humor that's been missing ever since Buffy left the airwaves. The clone may, and let's just imagine he might have, loved Serenity with it's rollicking action packed plot and it's quiet moments of sadness and reflection and insight. If we could somehow accept all this might be a possibility then the clone maybe just maybe could comprehend that not all weeks can be this good.
Monday, September 26, 2005
He's Not Selling Any Alibis
Bob Dylan is arguably the greatest artist of the past fifty years. As acclaimed as his work often is, his music has such depth that people are likely going to be discovering new insights from it years after he leaves this place. You take a song like "Angelina" that hardcore fans may appreciate, yet because it's lesser known than many other songs in Dylan's catalog, it remains sadly unheard by ears that should be listening.
Another person who could rightfully stake claim to the lofty title of the greatest artist in our lifetime is filmmaker Martin Scorsese. His body of work from King of Comedy to The Aviator, from Taxi Driver to The Last Temptation of Christ blows just about any other film of the past few decades out of the water.
Thus the combination of Scorsese making a documentary about Dylan is somewhat akin to when the first professional Olympic basketball team, "The Dream Team" was assembled allowing Magic to play with Bird and Michael Jordan. It was almost too good to believe and yet you were almost afraid to watch fearing that the real thing couldn't live up to one's expectations.
Scorsese's No Direction Home thankfully is everything one could hope for. As a biography about Dylan it reveals so much about such an enigmatic artist. As a documentary about a vital part of our cultural and political history, it is essential viewing. I began watching it late one evening knowing I had precious few hours before I had to head into work and thus thinking I'd just watch a few minutes to get a flavor of the thing. Unfortunately I couldn't stop watching, couldn't shut it off and ended up showing up for work the next day with bloodshot eyes and tired as hell.
Even if you're not a Dylan fan No Direction Home is requisite viewing (it plays tonight and tomorrow night on PBS). There are great clear black and white musical clips of Hank Williams, Billie Holiday, Howlin Wolf, Woody Guthrie, and Odetta (WHOMP!) to name just a few. Scorsese's deft filmmaking makes the 207 minutes seem breathtakingly short. One just wants the documentary to go on and on.
Dylan's rise to fame is chronicled in a way never previously imagined even for those of us who were spellbound by the words of the memoir, Chronicles Volume One, he released last year. To see on film, a cheeky young Bob hit New York City as a cherubic imitator of the folk music he was immersing himself in, and grow into a mystical force of substantial significance is something to behold. That Scorsese is able to show Bob's evolution from a ambitious, talented youth into this scornful, weary, burned out poet bound to crash, is fascinating stuff.
No Direction Home captures the astounding hostility Dylan endured just because he decided to play an electric guitar with a band rather than continuing on by himself, with an acoustic guitar (and harmonica). As his music goes from the political to the personal, digging deeper and deeper than anyone else ever had, some of his fans felt betrayed. He's unmercifully booed at every concert, he's confronted by a clueless press, he's jostled by confused fans, jittery and looking like he hasn't slept for months, Dylan looks like he's knocking on heaven's door.
And the music created is startling. Seeing performances of searing and intensely sad performances of songs like "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" and "Leopard-skin Pill-box Hat" is transfixing as if Bob is channeling something quite beyond the realm of pop music. "I had a perspective on the booing," the latter day Dylan recalls. "After all, kindness can kill."
Scorsese's snippets of interviews with Dylan show a leery and weary but wanting to add to his own legacy, still charismatic blue-eyed boy. Talking about his treatment of Joan Baez who helped him professionally as he was breaking her personally, Bob comes close to apologizing for his behavior. "I hope she understands," he says carefully choosing his words. "You can't be wise and be in love."
Baez herself tells the story of what makes Dylan such a great artist. At the height of her fame when she was probably the most respected singer in the country and he was a somewhat unknown but upcoming singer/songwriter that she was helping along, the two of them were checking into a hotel. She had no problem getting a room but management wanted no part of him. She pulled all strings to secure him a room and he then stayed up all night writing "When the Ship Comes In." "Oh the foes will rise/With the sleep still in their eyes/And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin/But they'll pinch themselves and squeal/And know that it's for real/The hour when the ship comes in/Then they'll raise their hands/Sayin' we'll meet all your demands..."
Another person who could rightfully stake claim to the lofty title of the greatest artist in our lifetime is filmmaker Martin Scorsese. His body of work from King of Comedy to The Aviator, from Taxi Driver to The Last Temptation of Christ blows just about any other film of the past few decades out of the water.
Thus the combination of Scorsese making a documentary about Dylan is somewhat akin to when the first professional Olympic basketball team, "The Dream Team" was assembled allowing Magic to play with Bird and Michael Jordan. It was almost too good to believe and yet you were almost afraid to watch fearing that the real thing couldn't live up to one's expectations.
Scorsese's No Direction Home thankfully is everything one could hope for. As a biography about Dylan it reveals so much about such an enigmatic artist. As a documentary about a vital part of our cultural and political history, it is essential viewing. I began watching it late one evening knowing I had precious few hours before I had to head into work and thus thinking I'd just watch a few minutes to get a flavor of the thing. Unfortunately I couldn't stop watching, couldn't shut it off and ended up showing up for work the next day with bloodshot eyes and tired as hell.
Even if you're not a Dylan fan No Direction Home is requisite viewing (it plays tonight and tomorrow night on PBS). There are great clear black and white musical clips of Hank Williams, Billie Holiday, Howlin Wolf, Woody Guthrie, and Odetta (WHOMP!) to name just a few. Scorsese's deft filmmaking makes the 207 minutes seem breathtakingly short. One just wants the documentary to go on and on.
Dylan's rise to fame is chronicled in a way never previously imagined even for those of us who were spellbound by the words of the memoir, Chronicles Volume One, he released last year. To see on film, a cheeky young Bob hit New York City as a cherubic imitator of the folk music he was immersing himself in, and grow into a mystical force of substantial significance is something to behold. That Scorsese is able to show Bob's evolution from a ambitious, talented youth into this scornful, weary, burned out poet bound to crash, is fascinating stuff.
No Direction Home captures the astounding hostility Dylan endured just because he decided to play an electric guitar with a band rather than continuing on by himself, with an acoustic guitar (and harmonica). As his music goes from the political to the personal, digging deeper and deeper than anyone else ever had, some of his fans felt betrayed. He's unmercifully booed at every concert, he's confronted by a clueless press, he's jostled by confused fans, jittery and looking like he hasn't slept for months, Dylan looks like he's knocking on heaven's door.
And the music created is startling. Seeing performances of searing and intensely sad performances of songs like "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" and "Leopard-skin Pill-box Hat" is transfixing as if Bob is channeling something quite beyond the realm of pop music. "I had a perspective on the booing," the latter day Dylan recalls. "After all, kindness can kill."
Scorsese's snippets of interviews with Dylan show a leery and weary but wanting to add to his own legacy, still charismatic blue-eyed boy. Talking about his treatment of Joan Baez who helped him professionally as he was breaking her personally, Bob comes close to apologizing for his behavior. "I hope she understands," he says carefully choosing his words. "You can't be wise and be in love."
Baez herself tells the story of what makes Dylan such a great artist. At the height of her fame when she was probably the most respected singer in the country and he was a somewhat unknown but upcoming singer/songwriter that she was helping along, the two of them were checking into a hotel. She had no problem getting a room but management wanted no part of him. She pulled all strings to secure him a room and he then stayed up all night writing "When the Ship Comes In." "Oh the foes will rise/With the sleep still in their eyes/And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin/But they'll pinch themselves and squeal/And know that it's for real/The hour when the ship comes in/Then they'll raise their hands/Sayin' we'll meet all your demands..."
Monday, September 19, 2005
Techno Babble
This week we answer the musical question all of you have had on your minds for a long long while, "What do Teddy and Ike have in common?"
Now of course first I must clarify that I'm not exactly a neo-luddite. In high school I was the first one on my block and the second one in my conscious that owned a VCR allowing the taping of some late night programming to watch on the weekends. Later on I was one of the first I knew who owned an actual PC, and I wasn't exactly the last one on this planet to own an iPod.
Still as I watch all these cell phone carrying people who seemingly can't stand a moment of silence and have to conduct the most inane conversations in human history for the rest of us to be a captive audience to, and at the same time we live in the land of satellite radio and TIVO and GPS tracking devices that map out our each and every next move, I think I'm beginning to long for the day when life was much more simple and all we had to worry about was the Commies dropping the big one on us as we ducked and covered underneath the safety of our grade school desks. I'm somewhat reluctant to admit that yes indeed in the past month I've become very glad that I've lived beyond my expiration date to see the mass production (and acceptance) of DVDs and the future of how we listen to music.
When I was browsing the bins of the store we want to be, Amoeba in Los Angeles, I came across something I just had to buy even though its $44.95 price seemed a bit outlandish. It was a copy of one of my all time favorite TV shows on DVD, ABC's mid-90's flop, Murder One that I'm sure I wrote about in these pages all those years ago. I just finished watching the first season and man I'm even more impressed than I was when the show ran on my fuzzy reception rabbit ears aided antenna enhanced TV back in the day when life was just turning the corner of making it to the next day into believing again that something just a little bit greater was waiting for me if I could only hold on.
You must all see Murder One at some point in your life. It's another Steven Bochco serial series (the one that came after Hill Street Blues and L.A. Law and Bay City Blues and Cop Rock and N.Y.P.D. Blue and Delvecchio) and it didn't get the audience it deserved running up against the first few seasons of E.R. Coming just after the outcome of the O.J. trial the premise was that the show would be about just one trial over the course of its season, unlike all the many shows about lawyers that had preceded and followed it, from Perry Mason to Ally McBeal, from Owen Marshall to Law and Order. In its own way Murder One was thus the predecessor of the much more popular but inferior in every way, 24 that depends on its own unique (in TV terms) story timeline to drive its this isn't just another TV show personality.
Watching the first season of Murder One again nearly a decade after I saw it the first time I was a bit taken back by how much the unlikely hero, the not the usual lead character bald and inscrutable defense attorney Ted Hoffman, shaped the professional personae I eventually adopted. Ted seems a bit emotionally distant, and in a film noir world his understated and quiet lectures and moral code have to be listened to and not merely heard as in most television dialogue. Ultimately the only weakness of the series was that the writers apparently didn't map out the entire season in advance and rather made things up as they went along (much like 24) so loose ends are introduced and go nowhere, and false leads come and go for no apparent reason.
I was marveling in this wacky new DVD technology and having the ability to watch some of my favorite TV shows that didn't exactly air more than once even if TV Guide wrote about them as the best TV shows that no one was watching I also found out that my favorite "new" rocker Ike Reilly had four "new" tracks available for Internet download only. I paid twice (my bad) to hear these four new tracks but I'm not exactly upset about that if it means in the end it ends why starving? artists like Ike have so little loose pocket change.
All four download only available tracks blow away any song I've heard this year as Ike's music is wont to do. The spacey tumbling momentum laden "B.I.G.O.T" relies on the cryptic chorus line, "You've got to breed a better bigot for the band" that Ike sings in a way that suggests he's aware of the need of the parallel sounding "big hit" to better his fortunes. I love the line about "I'm part of nothing. I wish I was though. Part of something bigger than myself now" which I think is something many of us struggle with at some time if we are anything other than neo-luddites. The likewise likable "Trainbomber" contemplates and anticipates the awful chaos of a blown up train and ensuing missing of friends. Ike sounds his usual weary and knowing and I just love the trick/track. "She's So Free" paints a picture of the ultimate woman in my book. She's so godless and faithless, she don't need riches, she doesn't slave for nothing and no one, she can't be loyal, she don't need negligee, she don't eat steak and she don't eat soy. Where does she exist exactly and how do I look her up? "Maybe on the Way Out" rocks hard with its torpedo driven guitar melody. I love how Ike's band, the Assassination not only backs what he has to say, but backs it so fiercely that not only a head bob but a nod of the head is mandatory at this point out.
Now of course first I must clarify that I'm not exactly a neo-luddite. In high school I was the first one on my block and the second one in my conscious that owned a VCR allowing the taping of some late night programming to watch on the weekends. Later on I was one of the first I knew who owned an actual PC, and I wasn't exactly the last one on this planet to own an iPod.
Still as I watch all these cell phone carrying people who seemingly can't stand a moment of silence and have to conduct the most inane conversations in human history for the rest of us to be a captive audience to, and at the same time we live in the land of satellite radio and TIVO and GPS tracking devices that map out our each and every next move, I think I'm beginning to long for the day when life was much more simple and all we had to worry about was the Commies dropping the big one on us as we ducked and covered underneath the safety of our grade school desks. I'm somewhat reluctant to admit that yes indeed in the past month I've become very glad that I've lived beyond my expiration date to see the mass production (and acceptance) of DVDs and the future of how we listen to music.
When I was browsing the bins of the store we want to be, Amoeba in Los Angeles, I came across something I just had to buy even though its $44.95 price seemed a bit outlandish. It was a copy of one of my all time favorite TV shows on DVD, ABC's mid-90's flop, Murder One that I'm sure I wrote about in these pages all those years ago. I just finished watching the first season and man I'm even more impressed than I was when the show ran on my fuzzy reception rabbit ears aided antenna enhanced TV back in the day when life was just turning the corner of making it to the next day into believing again that something just a little bit greater was waiting for me if I could only hold on.
You must all see Murder One at some point in your life. It's another Steven Bochco serial series (the one that came after Hill Street Blues and L.A. Law and Bay City Blues and Cop Rock and N.Y.P.D. Blue and Delvecchio) and it didn't get the audience it deserved running up against the first few seasons of E.R. Coming just after the outcome of the O.J. trial the premise was that the show would be about just one trial over the course of its season, unlike all the many shows about lawyers that had preceded and followed it, from Perry Mason to Ally McBeal, from Owen Marshall to Law and Order. In its own way Murder One was thus the predecessor of the much more popular but inferior in every way, 24 that depends on its own unique (in TV terms) story timeline to drive its this isn't just another TV show personality.
Watching the first season of Murder One again nearly a decade after I saw it the first time I was a bit taken back by how much the unlikely hero, the not the usual lead character bald and inscrutable defense attorney Ted Hoffman, shaped the professional personae I eventually adopted. Ted seems a bit emotionally distant, and in a film noir world his understated and quiet lectures and moral code have to be listened to and not merely heard as in most television dialogue. Ultimately the only weakness of the series was that the writers apparently didn't map out the entire season in advance and rather made things up as they went along (much like 24) so loose ends are introduced and go nowhere, and false leads come and go for no apparent reason.
I was marveling in this wacky new DVD technology and having the ability to watch some of my favorite TV shows that didn't exactly air more than once even if TV Guide wrote about them as the best TV shows that no one was watching I also found out that my favorite "new" rocker Ike Reilly had four "new" tracks available for Internet download only. I paid twice (my bad) to hear these four new tracks but I'm not exactly upset about that if it means in the end it ends why starving? artists like Ike have so little loose pocket change.
All four download only available tracks blow away any song I've heard this year as Ike's music is wont to do. The spacey tumbling momentum laden "B.I.G.O.T" relies on the cryptic chorus line, "You've got to breed a better bigot for the band" that Ike sings in a way that suggests he's aware of the need of the parallel sounding "big hit" to better his fortunes. I love the line about "I'm part of nothing. I wish I was though. Part of something bigger than myself now" which I think is something many of us struggle with at some time if we are anything other than neo-luddites. The likewise likable "Trainbomber" contemplates and anticipates the awful chaos of a blown up train and ensuing missing of friends. Ike sounds his usual weary and knowing and I just love the trick/track. "She's So Free" paints a picture of the ultimate woman in my book. She's so godless and faithless, she don't need riches, she doesn't slave for nothing and no one, she can't be loyal, she don't need negligee, she don't eat steak and she don't eat soy. Where does she exist exactly and how do I look her up? "Maybe on the Way Out" rocks hard with its torpedo driven guitar melody. I love how Ike's band, the Assassination not only backs what he has to say, but backs it so fiercely that not only a head bob but a nod of the head is mandatory at this point out.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Theo'd
It's never been my goal in life to be a lifelong Minnesotan. If I were to spend my entire ordeal on this earth in one place I think in some sense I'd view that as a failure of a significant sort. Therefore I'm reminded at how out of place I constantly feel this time of year. Though I'll never quite understand the appeal I'm sure it's fair to say that by most accounts this year's great Minnesota Get Together was just as great as last year's which I'm sure was just as dandy as the year before.
I did indeed make an appearance at the fair again this year and besides the alligator on a stick that I rapidly snarfed down I think my favorite part was seeing the "State's Largest Boar." Of course I carry the exact same title on my business card except for a slightly different spelling. Yawn.
The State Fairgrounds are within walking distance of my house and it's this time of year that all the current occupants of the house watch all the traffic come and go during the day and jump late at night every night when the fireworks boom overhead. For one of us four it's a brand new experience (like much of his life is) and it serves as a reminder (as much of his presence does) of how wonderful it can be to look at life through a fresh set of eyes. Yes many of my friends still think my living arrangements are a tad eccentric being the sole so called soul living with not one, not two, but three kitties. The feline factor in this house is undeniable but as I continually search for potential new career paths I may be deluding myself on my latest round of thinking- that I'd make a darn fine cat psychologist.
Last month when I visited my friend Alex in San Diego I finally got to meet her cat Moussaka, who Alex has told me is on kitty Prozac to help deal with depression and anxiety issues. Deep down I was hoping I could figure out what Moussie needs to help make her more well adjusted. The only basis for this daydream was that all the occupants of my own house are undoubtedly broken in some way, shape, or form. Likely the most stable of us all is Diego-san, the strutting , dashing, handsome black haired cat who in his own mind is in charge yet often times comes across as quite needy and insecure. He's the stereotype of his species- moody, unrelentingly curious, and forever needing to be the center of attention right as he disappears from sight.
Diego-san still seems unforgiving of my decision to bring in the young Theo who constantly follows him around, getting in his space and interrupting his mischief. Theo is half Diego's size and yet he doesn't hesitate to chase Diego around and Diego will inevitably run away and hop up somewhere where Theo can't reach him.
I was told when I adopted Theo that his back legs had been crushed when a child sat on him and when I brought him in for his first checkup the vet admitted he was amazed at how well Theo was walking because there was some doubt at some point whether he ever would walk again. The adoption woman from the shelter that I got Theo told me she thought he may also suffered from some brain damage from suspected abuse since he seemed more than a tad spacey. Theo's got these great big eyes that seem to take up more than their allotted space on his black and white face. He never quite ever looks straight at you and this gives him the appearance of not having a lot going on in his small noggin. I love the way he has worked himself into the routine of this house however. He loves to race the other two boyz (and sometimes the other three boyz) up the staircase into the upper wing. Diego-san has taught Thompson the benefits of drinking water straight out of the bathroom tap but it's Theo that usually pushes the other two out of the way to get his thirst quenched.
The glue that holds us all together though is Thompson. I'm quite fond of Thompson who isn't exactly the most social being that's ever existed. He's reluctant to come out of hiding whenever a guest is over. He's reluctant to make an appearance whenever something interrupts his normal routine of sleep, being fed, more sleep, and more food. More than Theo or Diego-san, Thompson loves to watch the world outside from a favorite window (which happens to be the same window Mr. Max used to love to sit and watch things transpire). Thompson is also the greatest napper of the three, resting his head on my chest closer than is natural, unimpeded by the missing front leg that got caught in a trap one fateful day.
I can't fathom, nor can I stop thinking about the days Thompson sat caught in that trap, his leg rotting away as he got sicker and sicker. Sometimes I get sad watching him hobble around, struggling to keep up with the other two. Most of the time I watch in amazement at how he doesn't seem to be bothered by the cards life has dealt him. He loves to clean Diego and Theo. He loves to lie next to them, his lone front paw draped over their chests. I love how the morning routine involves rolling out of bed and stumbling to the shower and when I finally open the door Thompson is always right there, wanting me to rub his belly, craving attention for the one and only time during the day. He then races Theo and Diego down the stairs for another breakfast, more than holding his own.
I did indeed make an appearance at the fair again this year and besides the alligator on a stick that I rapidly snarfed down I think my favorite part was seeing the "State's Largest Boar." Of course I carry the exact same title on my business card except for a slightly different spelling. Yawn.
The State Fairgrounds are within walking distance of my house and it's this time of year that all the current occupants of the house watch all the traffic come and go during the day and jump late at night every night when the fireworks boom overhead. For one of us four it's a brand new experience (like much of his life is) and it serves as a reminder (as much of his presence does) of how wonderful it can be to look at life through a fresh set of eyes. Yes many of my friends still think my living arrangements are a tad eccentric being the sole so called soul living with not one, not two, but three kitties. The feline factor in this house is undeniable but as I continually search for potential new career paths I may be deluding myself on my latest round of thinking- that I'd make a darn fine cat psychologist.
Last month when I visited my friend Alex in San Diego I finally got to meet her cat Moussaka, who Alex has told me is on kitty Prozac to help deal with depression and anxiety issues. Deep down I was hoping I could figure out what Moussie needs to help make her more well adjusted. The only basis for this daydream was that all the occupants of my own house are undoubtedly broken in some way, shape, or form. Likely the most stable of us all is Diego-san, the strutting , dashing, handsome black haired cat who in his own mind is in charge yet often times comes across as quite needy and insecure. He's the stereotype of his species- moody, unrelentingly curious, and forever needing to be the center of attention right as he disappears from sight.
Diego-san still seems unforgiving of my decision to bring in the young Theo who constantly follows him around, getting in his space and interrupting his mischief. Theo is half Diego's size and yet he doesn't hesitate to chase Diego around and Diego will inevitably run away and hop up somewhere where Theo can't reach him.
I was told when I adopted Theo that his back legs had been crushed when a child sat on him and when I brought him in for his first checkup the vet admitted he was amazed at how well Theo was walking because there was some doubt at some point whether he ever would walk again. The adoption woman from the shelter that I got Theo told me she thought he may also suffered from some brain damage from suspected abuse since he seemed more than a tad spacey. Theo's got these great big eyes that seem to take up more than their allotted space on his black and white face. He never quite ever looks straight at you and this gives him the appearance of not having a lot going on in his small noggin. I love the way he has worked himself into the routine of this house however. He loves to race the other two boyz (and sometimes the other three boyz) up the staircase into the upper wing. Diego-san has taught Thompson the benefits of drinking water straight out of the bathroom tap but it's Theo that usually pushes the other two out of the way to get his thirst quenched.
The glue that holds us all together though is Thompson. I'm quite fond of Thompson who isn't exactly the most social being that's ever existed. He's reluctant to come out of hiding whenever a guest is over. He's reluctant to make an appearance whenever something interrupts his normal routine of sleep, being fed, more sleep, and more food. More than Theo or Diego-san, Thompson loves to watch the world outside from a favorite window (which happens to be the same window Mr. Max used to love to sit and watch things transpire). Thompson is also the greatest napper of the three, resting his head on my chest closer than is natural, unimpeded by the missing front leg that got caught in a trap one fateful day.
I can't fathom, nor can I stop thinking about the days Thompson sat caught in that trap, his leg rotting away as he got sicker and sicker. Sometimes I get sad watching him hobble around, struggling to keep up with the other two. Most of the time I watch in amazement at how he doesn't seem to be bothered by the cards life has dealt him. He loves to clean Diego and Theo. He loves to lie next to them, his lone front paw draped over their chests. I love how the morning routine involves rolling out of bed and stumbling to the shower and when I finally open the door Thompson is always right there, wanting me to rub his belly, craving attention for the one and only time during the day. He then races Theo and Diego down the stairs for another breakfast, more than holding his own.
Monday, September 5, 2005
The O.C.
As I headed for my seat on the flight to Orange County I was struggling with my piece of carry on luggage in one hand and laptop case in the other while precariously holding on to a full latte. As I got to my seat and tried to fling my carry on bag into the overhead compartment, I spilled some coffee on my arm and my T-shirt. The gentleman seated in the row in front of me recoiled as if I was about to drip some radioactive juice on his golf cap covered noggin. I was having a hell of a time and it would have been nice for him to offer me a hand but he was too busy looking at me in disgust. I thought about dousing his head with the latte but I didn't need no federal marshal coming after me.
We took off. The banged up auburn haired lass was studying for one of her classes, looking at mathematical formulas that would make mush out of a precious porcelain kitty figure so I plugged my headphones into my iPod and dialed up Ike Reilly and got lost in the anger and confusion and snarl and beautiful music.
We arrived in Vegas and had about an hour to make our connecting flight to the O.C. We looked at the airport monitors to find our gate but didn't see it listed anywhere. Finally the banged up auburn haired lass asked a gate agent who informed us we needed to get on a tram and head for some faraway gate. Once we got into the right area of the airport we discovered we needed to go through security again and the ticketing agent told us we were too late anyway that we should have been at the gate at least a half an hour before the flight was to leave. So we ran. Or as close to running as one can get when one is holding a couple of bags and the other is holding the same and is too sore to run.
Luckily we made it. We didn't want to miss our latest mission- to take a tour of the Ricoh factory in Tustin, California. Ricoh makes many of our finest copy machines and they are now in the business of making some voting equipment that might be flooding Minnesota in no time helping us all add things up. We were there to make sure that they were making the apparatus right.
The factory tour reminded me of the Japanese company that Al and I visited in Osaka a few years back right before I became friends with the banged up auburn haired lass. Ricoh which is headquartered in Tokyo, is a very Japanese company. There are pep talk like slogans plastered throughout the factory and the workers are encouraged to offer up their ideas to improve the processes. None of the assembly line workers looked up as we approached their area and none ran from the room when the lunch bell rang, instead conscientiously staying at their station to finish up whatever task they were working on. Not ever feeling comfortable being a management type type I think I related to the mostly foreign looking factory workers a bit too much. I could see some appeal in having a doable task in front of me each and every day- having a routine that one could conceivably achieve some sort of perfection. But who was I kidding? Boredom isn't your major problem when opportunity doesn't even exist.
Our Embassy Suites hotel suites were sweet. We had a living room and a bedroom and though they lacked the 42 inch plasma TV like the room I had at the Beverly Hills Hilton, the TV was plenty big enough to be forever fearful as we watched Keanu Reeves leave his date and destiny in Hell for a hell on Earth in Constantine.
We were wined and dined at a fancy seafood restaurant right next to the hotel. The banged up auburn haired lass isn't too fond of seafood so she had a chicken caesar salad while I gorged myself on the freshest sashimi I ever did taste. My tablemates mostly ignored me although I caught an eye or two with my chopsticks skills.
I've spent a lot of time on the road this summer. Being away from home is always a new heart pumping experience. It's never been my goal in life to be a lifelong Minnesotan. If I were to spend my entire ordeal on this earth in one place I think in some sense I'd view that as a failure of a significant sort. I may not look the type but I do like to partake in a daily adventure or two. When I stay in one place too long it feels like gravity is cheating me, pushing down on me harder than anyone else. Upon my return I noticed that something is amiss. Hitting the road these days means hopefully hopping on my breathe the fresh air scooter. But one of the disadvantages of not traveling by car comes at a stoplight that often refuses to change because you don't weigh enough to trigger a change that changes the light from red to green, allowing you to finally move forward again. Only now they are. The lights are changing. I may be putting my foot down a bit harder than I used to and perhaps that's the only thing that could be causing such a difference. Except I suppose the loosening of the belt another notch. I've seen enough elsewhere this summer to rekindle the this isn't where I'm supposed to be feeling inside to unprecedented levels. Where that may or may not end up taking me is unfortunately forever unclear.
We took off. The banged up auburn haired lass was studying for one of her classes, looking at mathematical formulas that would make mush out of a precious porcelain kitty figure so I plugged my headphones into my iPod and dialed up Ike Reilly and got lost in the anger and confusion and snarl and beautiful music.
We arrived in Vegas and had about an hour to make our connecting flight to the O.C. We looked at the airport monitors to find our gate but didn't see it listed anywhere. Finally the banged up auburn haired lass asked a gate agent who informed us we needed to get on a tram and head for some faraway gate. Once we got into the right area of the airport we discovered we needed to go through security again and the ticketing agent told us we were too late anyway that we should have been at the gate at least a half an hour before the flight was to leave. So we ran. Or as close to running as one can get when one is holding a couple of bags and the other is holding the same and is too sore to run.
Luckily we made it. We didn't want to miss our latest mission- to take a tour of the Ricoh factory in Tustin, California. Ricoh makes many of our finest copy machines and they are now in the business of making some voting equipment that might be flooding Minnesota in no time helping us all add things up. We were there to make sure that they were making the apparatus right.
The factory tour reminded me of the Japanese company that Al and I visited in Osaka a few years back right before I became friends with the banged up auburn haired lass. Ricoh which is headquartered in Tokyo, is a very Japanese company. There are pep talk like slogans plastered throughout the factory and the workers are encouraged to offer up their ideas to improve the processes. None of the assembly line workers looked up as we approached their area and none ran from the room when the lunch bell rang, instead conscientiously staying at their station to finish up whatever task they were working on. Not ever feeling comfortable being a management type type I think I related to the mostly foreign looking factory workers a bit too much. I could see some appeal in having a doable task in front of me each and every day- having a routine that one could conceivably achieve some sort of perfection. But who was I kidding? Boredom isn't your major problem when opportunity doesn't even exist.
Our Embassy Suites hotel suites were sweet. We had a living room and a bedroom and though they lacked the 42 inch plasma TV like the room I had at the Beverly Hills Hilton, the TV was plenty big enough to be forever fearful as we watched Keanu Reeves leave his date and destiny in Hell for a hell on Earth in Constantine.
We were wined and dined at a fancy seafood restaurant right next to the hotel. The banged up auburn haired lass isn't too fond of seafood so she had a chicken caesar salad while I gorged myself on the freshest sashimi I ever did taste. My tablemates mostly ignored me although I caught an eye or two with my chopsticks skills.
I've spent a lot of time on the road this summer. Being away from home is always a new heart pumping experience. It's never been my goal in life to be a lifelong Minnesotan. If I were to spend my entire ordeal on this earth in one place I think in some sense I'd view that as a failure of a significant sort. I may not look the type but I do like to partake in a daily adventure or two. When I stay in one place too long it feels like gravity is cheating me, pushing down on me harder than anyone else. Upon my return I noticed that something is amiss. Hitting the road these days means hopefully hopping on my breathe the fresh air scooter. But one of the disadvantages of not traveling by car comes at a stoplight that often refuses to change because you don't weigh enough to trigger a change that changes the light from red to green, allowing you to finally move forward again. Only now they are. The lights are changing. I may be putting my foot down a bit harder than I used to and perhaps that's the only thing that could be causing such a difference. Except I suppose the loosening of the belt another notch. I've seen enough elsewhere this summer to rekindle the this isn't where I'm supposed to be feeling inside to unprecedented levels. Where that may or may not end up taking me is unfortunately forever unclear.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
