Album of the Day - I haven't given up

I just haven't had time to write recently.

I have listened to quite a few new albums. Cash's "American Recordings" is, as expected, a magnificent collection of songs. I can't get over the fact that he does a Danzig song.

The Flaming Lips' s/t EP and "Hear It Is" are both wonderful recordings. They remind me at times of the Melvins, which was unexpected.

I'm working my way through the 2nd disc of Outcast's "Speakerboxxx/The Love Below," but ahven't gotten through enough to say much.

X (the Australian band, not the Los Angeles band) has a fantastic re-issue of "Aspirations." I have never heard this band, but I do have a New Bomb Turks album that has "Good On Ya Baby" and I had no idea what band originally did the song. So it was great to hear this. The band is a snotty punk rock band in the vein of the Fun Things, the Viletones and the Sex Pistols. A really great find for me.

Lastly, I listened to the Raconteurs, featuring Jack White of the White Stripes. The Raconteurs sound more classic rock than garage rock. It's a very cool sound. I have a feeling I will listen to this one a lot.

Album of the Day - Outkast "Speakerboxxx"

I have thus far listened to the Big Boi half of Outkast's near-epic (at least in length) album, "Speakerboxxx/ The Love Below." The album is ambitious and is one of the most sonically interesting hip-hop albums I have ever heard. I got so tired of all of the lazy rappers out there; you know the ones who just barely enunciate their sloppily written, intellectually devoid lyrics over the slowest, sparest most boring Casio-sounding beats. I love hip-hop artists who are daring enough to move beyond the dull percussion-only tracks and put in some guitar, piano, or any other instrument.

"Speakerboxxx" seems to be pretty standard in its subject matter, but Big Boi's lyricism and ddelivery is more ambitious. He creates metaphors and imagery that make me wonder where in the heck he came up with his ideas. I remember one line along the lines of "Hip hop's there to destroy ya/ Leave a mother****** open like a foyer." I scratched my head inquisitively, but it's creative.

There are more interludes than I feel are necessary. It seems like commercials cutting into a TV show. I especially wasn't too cool with the one that featured a little kid using the mf word. I'm not particularly excited about adults who find comedy in hearing children use profanity.

Overall the album, particularly musically, is fun to listen to. I appreciate the chances that were taken on this record.

Album of the day - Beastie Boys "Hello Nasty"

I've never been a Beastie Boys fan, although for a long time I've thought maybe I should be. When I was a youngster, during their "Licensed to Ill" era, I was afraid of them. I lived in Maryland at the time, and I remember hearing about the Beatie Boys kidnapping people and taking them to a concert. I was only 10 at the time, so I guess I didn't realize it was a conteast, and the people being "kidnapped" were winners. A 10-year-old hears "beastie" and "kidnap" and certain thoughts fly through his head. Hearing "License to Ill" 20 years later, the album hasn't really aged well.

The only other connection to the Beatie Boys I've had was in D.F.L., and awful hardcore band that Adam Horowitz produced (and allmusic.com claims he was once a member). The band was awful on record (I got a free copy of "Proud to Be" from Epitaph Records) and awful live (I saw them open for Pennywise, I think). Just truly awful.

But this is supposed to be about "Hello Nasty," an album that kind of confirms that I'm not a Beastie fan. Some songs on the album are good, although I didn't pay close enough attention to tell you which ones I enjoyed. But a lot of the songs fell into a mediocre category, and some I thought were absolute filler. Nothing grabbed me on this record, and maybe it's the kind of album that requires multiple listens to truly appreciate. I didn't outright hate the album, because their combination of rap, electronic music and rock is not unpleasing to the ears.

I'll try to listen to "Paul's Boutique" soon, and that will tell me for sure where I stand on the Beasties.

Album of the Day, Part 2

Godspeed You Black Emperor "Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven"

GYBE plays what I would describe as orchestral rock music. The only other album I can think of that compares to this is the Melvins' self-titled album on Boner Records. LYSFLATH is made up of four movements, all that seem to begin slowly then build to a crescendo before falling back to a melancholic, glacial tempo.

I listened to this while at work today, and the album had me enraptured. The work is both abrasive and beautiful. By the fourth movement, I felt the music welling up inside of me, and I wished that it could continue longer. Rare is the record that does not outstay it's welcome.

I will definitely give this more listens in the future, but first I have many more albums to go in my Album of the Day project.

Album of the Day - Fugazi "13 Songs"

Another album I can't believe I haven't heard before. Comprised of the "Fugazi" and "Margin Walker" EPs, this collection of songs has to be among the classic, essential punk rock albums. Fugazi has been descibed many times using better words than I can conjure up right now, so I will not attempt it. Suffice it to say, Fugazi is amazing.

"Lockdown" may be my favorite song on the album. It is anthemic, aggressive and forceful yet melodic and tuneful. Actually, that seems to decribe the album as a whole as well. These songs get under my skin, in a very, very good way.

Capote - Can't Think of Clever Title for This Post

Can a screenwriter and director make an interesting film out of the story of an author in the process of writing a true-crime novel? Watching someone hunched over a typewriter for two hours doesn’t stir thoughts of riveting drama. But some of my favorite films are about writers or the process of writing: "Wonder Boys," "Finding Forrester," "Barton Fink". "Capote" joins the pantheon of literate films about literary works.

The film opens when Truman Capote (Philip Seymour Hoffman) first reads a news item about the horrific murder of a Kansas family, and an idea for a new novel germinates. Accompanied by friend Harper Lee (Catherine Keener), Capote sets off for the Midwestern state, where he manages to endear himself to one of the accused murderers and work his way into close proximity of local law enforcement.

Hoffman, an actor of remarkable diversity, has previously given life to characters ranging from rock writer Lester Bangs (Almost Famous) to the lovable tornado chaser Rusty ("Twister") to gambling addict Dan Mahowney ("Owning Mahowney"). His Capote is a man of startling complexity. He is driven as much by his need to be the center of attention as he is by artistic excellence. He is that rare egotist who possesses abilities that back up his grand proclamations about his own superiority. He appears at high-society parties as the man whom everyone crowds around to hear what profundities he may deliver. Even as he is being celebrated for the earth-shattering power of the novel that he has not even yet completed, he finds it within himself to dismiss the success of his friend Harper and her novel-turned-film “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Keener, in her portrayal of novelist Lee, provides a grounded complement to the self-absorbed Capote. She stands by him, offers him help and encouragement even as he scoffs at her achievements. Keener always brings a down-to-earth quality to her roles, and here is no exception.

The film moves between the wealthy and affluent circles of New York and the Kansas cell that accused murderer Percy Smith occupies. In both worlds, Capote is selfish and manipulative. Director Bennett Miller traverses these two worlds as easily as does Capote. The posh nightclubs and restaurants are juxtaposed with Percy’s dank, cramped cell; the exotic Spanish vacation home with the warehouse where death row inmates are executed. It is in the place where these worlds intersect that the genius of Capote, the film, and the egotism of Capote, the author, is found.

I wonder, though, whether the graphic depictions of the murders were necessary. While shocking and effective in establishing the gruesome nature of the slayings, the flashback sequences were essentially superfluous. The audience could certainly imagine that what took place in the farmhouse was unpleasant, and Percy’s account of the murders would have been no less powerful and revelatory in the absence of the gratuitous violence.

Good Night, Great Film

"Good Night, and Good Luck" portrays that bleak time in America’s history when a Wisconsin senator steamrolled his way into the history books on falsehoods and rumor. By allowing us to see the events through the eyes and experiences of a limited group, the film brings a fresh quality to a story that, while only several decades removed, has already been told countless times. Rather than tell the story amidst ordinary American citizens, writers George Clooney and Grant Heslov choose to use broadcast journalism as its protagonist.

David Strathairn plays Edward R. Murrow as a man seeking to bring credibility, legitimacy and integrity to his role as a journalist. He is single-minded in his determination to seek out the truth, and considers dissent and disagreement to be the mark of a patriot. Strathairn’s every quality –voice, diction, posture, facial movements – turn him into a broadcast journalist. Likewise, George Clooney imbues Fred Friendly with an energy and a frenzy that complements Murrow’s more stoic, simmering fire.

As director, Clooney has enough confidence in his actors to fill the film with close-ups. The actor’s faces and their expressions seem to dictate the composition of the frame. There is little quick-cut editing in this film. True to the era which it describes, the film contains many longer shots, but Clooney modernizes the look with wonderful, sweeping pans. He uses the frame fully, finding beauty as much in close-ups as on long shots where the actors and the action seem likely to burst out of the frame.

"Good Night, and Good Luck" is not a fast-paced film. It is not likely to dazzle the viewer. Rather, its more labored pace and black and white photography allow the viewer to be slowly immersed in the atmosphere of fear and trepidation in which the characters live. Certainly, the film leads to questions about current events and the journalists who cover those events. The story lends itself easily to such a discussion, especially since McCarthyism has already been transplanted on various eras before and after its own time.

More than mere Office Space

Company
By Max Barry
Publishing date: January 17, 2006

We have “The Office” on NBC. We have the new special edition DVD of Office Space. Many of us have the reality of working in an office, complete with cubicles and failing laser printers and confounding work procedures. So why do we need a new novel to point out the banality and ridiculousness of life at the office?

Stephen Jones, the new hire at Zephyr Holdings, finds himself promoted over other, seemingly more deserving candidates. Confused, he sets out on a mission to find out what Zephyr Holdings really does. He knows that his department, Training Sales, sells training packages. But their customers are all other Zephyr departments. When he discovers the truth, it’s all a little hard to believe.

At the outset, Company merely seems to use hyperbolic situations to say that office work is boring and meaningless. Yet as the reader digs into the book, we, like Jones, find much more going on. Author Max Barry captures the essence of office work, but then ups the ante for an incredible amount of absurdity. He lampoons the office furniture, the office employees, the decrees issued from Senior Management and edicts from Human Resources. These departments, and even some individuals in the departments, are always given Capital Letters, which helps remove their humanity.

At one point, a departmental assistant receives her annual review. Last year she was told it was no big deal, just routine, so she did not worry about it. Once in the review, however, she finds she is fired for, among other things, failing to achieve her goals. “What goals?” she asks her supervisor. “Well, you didn’t have any…During your last evaluation, we were meant to agree on goals for you, but we never did.” When the assistant responds that she would have met any goals had they been set, her supervisor responds, “Well you might have. It’s hard to say.”

Barry does move well beyond simple satire, however. His novel becomes a wicked version of Douglas Coupland’s Microserfs, a novel about working at Microsoft, meets Peter Weir’s "The Truman Show". His look at office inefficiencies moves out of simple observation and exaggeration toward a voyeuristic, somewhat sadistic view of the corporate world.

Barry utilizes an economical style of writing that suits the story. The novel is absent of any long-winded descriptions, and the characters mostly speak only what is necessary. The language is as stark as the cubicle farms that the employees work in. But I was confused as to why Barry continually refers to employees of a Seattle company being “sacked” (and sick employees are told to get a “doctor’s certificate”), until I realized that he is Australian. Other than that, Barry nailed working for a nameless, faceless American corporation.

Some of Barry’s examples of corporate bureaucracy are brilliant. In one of my favorites, an employee recounts, “Last month we had to sit through a presentation on redundancy, and it was a bunch of Powerpoint slides, plus a guy reading out what was on the slides, and then he gave us all hard copies.” Except, in my world, the Powerpoint presentation freezes up mid-meeting.

Too Much, Too Late, Too Bad It Was Published

I wrote a number of reviews for books, movies, etc, for a webzine, but I'm not sure when it will see the light of day. So I am presenting them here for your reading pleasure.

Too Much, Too Late
By Marc Spitz
Publishing date: February 28, 2006

Sandy James –nee Sandy Klein – drums for the Jane Ashers, a band that split up during its original incarnation and nearly twenty years later reunited with unexpected success. The band becomes an “overnight” sensation, replete with all of requisite, clichéd trappings.

Spitz’s novel seems aimed at or around my generation – the thirtysomething set. He references all of the big musical milestones of my younger years, Nevermind chief among them. Yet the musical name-dropping (the novel itself is presumably titled after the New York Doll’s second and final paean to excess, Too Much, Too Soon) gets old after only a few pages. He mentions everyone from the Replacements to Helmet, The Gun Club to Material Issue. He even calls the band’s guitar player “young, loud and snotty,” which is the Dead Boys first album.

The characters are barely original, inspired or believable. The most interesting character is vocalist Harry Vance, Jr., who struggles to balance the surreal nature of rock success with the very real and more desirable wife and son he leaves at home. The rest of the cast Spitz rounds out with the usual cast of malcontents who wax philosophic while high on topics like whether one would go to jail in place of a shoplifting Winona Ryder.

Spitz peppers his novel with band anecdotes about life on the road, which were told better in everything from Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain’s Please Kill Me and Henry Rollins’ Get In the Van. I got so bored with the alcohol and cocaine abuse that I wished the band would break up again so we could follow Vance back to Dean, Ohio, and watch him learn to adjust to living out his other dream of raising a family. Instead, Spitz treats us to drunken fights, drunken apologies, and coked-up performances. Perhaps the drug use seems so cliché because it is true, but that hardly seems to justify writing a boring novel.

Too Much, Too Late is written as a memoir, but does not work as such. The memoir allegedly comes from the aforementioned drummer, but he frequently gives detailed accounts of events and conversations that he would not know about, much less be able to relate second-hand with any accuracy. James recounts, for instance, what happens in Vance’s home when he orders a new cat to replace one that dies, and bills it to the band. Vance would not have told James about that, much less in such detail. That Spitz decided to remain with his memoir gimmick reveals either how little he thinks of his readers or how little he thinks about his writing. I also had trouble at times figuring out who was speaking certain sides of dialogue, particularly when Spitz himself seem to be tripped up. During a Q&A between Vance, Jr and his newly re-acquainted father, Spitz mixes up some dialogue so that it appears Vance, Sr is saying that Vance. Jr. is now a grandfather.

It seems that Spitz, a writer for Spin, is too in love with his insider knowledge to be able to drop it long enough to craft a good story without pretension. There is a good story to be told in reuniting a band well past its prime, and it was told in the film “Still Crazy.” Rent that, and avoid this book.

Album of the Day - Wilco "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"

This is the album that Wilco recorded, clashed with Warner/Reprise over, and then took the album with them when they left the label. After the record was leaked to the internet, it was picked up by Nonesush (owned by Warner) for release. And quite a successful release, if I recall. Kudos to Warner for refusing to release, then buying back, such a fantastic album.

"Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" at first glance seems to be a pop album, with happy sounding instrumentation and easy to listen to compositions. But under the facade of cheer, there seems to be something darker at work. Some songs seem to get darker the closer you listen to them. I haven't looked at the lyrics for the songs, so I am not sure where they fit. And I have only listened to the record once so far. Maybe I will discover that I am completely wrong with more listens, but this is my initial impression. The jangly guitars mixed with more experimental noise-rock make an interesting, and to my ears a highly listenable, combination.

I particularly enjoyed the opening and closing tracks. Jeff Tweedy really knows how to begin and end an album.

Inspired by The Hamster - Words Are Wonderful

"But why should you care what I think?" Nash watched her through the cigarette smoke. "Miranda." And he just said her name, isolated and with enough pause before it to not seem part of the previous sentence. She didn't say anything. She felt a seriousness she couldn't quite locate as either hers or his. But there it was, now, between them.

This passage from "Eat the Document" by Dana Spiotta is so good that I will even forgive the split infinitive. I love this novel so far, as much for what the story is about as how it is about. Spiotta is a talented writer; she has many moments that cause me to marvel at her word choice.

Album of the Day - Sonic Youth "Daydream Nation"

Sonic Youth's "Daydream Nation" reminds me of my high school years. It came out a couple of years before I entered high school, but listening reminds me of staying up late to watch "Alternative Nation" hosted by the ubiquitously bespectacled Kennedy. It reminds me of discovering music with my friend Ken: my first time hearing Helmet, the Jesus Lizard, Velocity Girl, Mudhoney. I discovered all of this music around the same time. Sonic Youth never really came my way, though.

My first Sonic Youth record was 1994's "Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star." I believe my comments regarding the record were something to the effect of "This record is certainly experimental, but it is trash and gets no star." I'm sure I thought myself clever, as well. Turns out, I was neither clever nor correct. I simply lacked taste and a sense of history.

Now that I possess both taste and a sense of history (in my own opinion, of course), I now appreciate Sonic Youth. Yesterday and today marked my first listen to the incredible 1988 album, which hearkens back to a time when rock n' roll could alternately traffic in 3 chord punk rock riffs and chaotic noise and feedback. Sonic Youth excelled in merging avant-garde noise with traditional rock n' roll. Few bands today do it at all, much less do it well. If they do attempt to join the two, it comes across as self-indulgent and self-aware.

A few years back I read "Confusion Is Next" by Alec Foege. He writes about Sonic Youth and their music with such passion and fervor that I declared to myself that I would seek out their music. I would highly recommend reading the book, and listening to the music.

Album of the Day - Danger Mouse "The Grey Album"

This collision of Jay-Z's "Black Album" with the Beatles' "White Album" is a beautiful sonic adventure. I will admit upfront that I have not heard either of the source albums, but I hope someday to rectify that. That said, this record is a fantastic combination of the two. At no point does anything sound forced or unrelated. The music fits the vocals and hip hop beats quite well. Wikipedia has the tracklist, including which Beatles samples were used for which songs.

I like Ike

My friend Ken sent me a number of CDs recently, many of which were Ike Turner albums. The first I listened to, Dance with Ike & Tina Turner, is an amazing collection of instrumental 60's rock n' roll songs. I wondered what the heck Ken was doing listening to Tina Turner, but these tracks answered my question. Ike wrote some stomping, rocking R&B tunes that sound fresh, original and far more inspired than dreck that the kids are listening to today.

I also started listening to "A Proper Introduction to Ike Turner," which is made up of a number of songs from the 50's, showcasing Turner's band backing musicians like Jackie Brenston and Howlin' Wolf. This is the real deal, and my thanks to Kendrick for introducing me to these gems.

Oh, the Guilt

The other day, on the way home from work, I called Melanie.

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"Aidan learned to take off his own diaper."

"Really?"

"And then he peed in his pack and play."

We had to end the conversation so she could wipe down his pack and play. Luckily, he had already thrown most of his toys out of it, so he didn't spray those down.

When I got home, I opened the door, and there he stood. "Did you pee in your pack and play?" I asked him. He looked down, almost ashamed, and grabbed himself, like he was mad at the responsible appendage.

He will hate me later in life for writing things like this.