still twitching

Last Stop: This Post

2010-03-21T17:31:00.002-04:00

I don't want to say that I'll never post anything on this site again, so I'll just say that I probably won't post anything on this site again. While I've had a lot of fun here over the past 20 months or so, I'll be moving on to a short-story-oriented site called Popular Fiction. (Yes, the name is entirely wishful thinking.)

I'm sincerely grateful to the select few of you who have made this a semi-regular part of your internet surfing, and I hope you'll continue to follow me at my new joint.

10 Listens: Broken Bells

2010-03-03T12:13:00.001-05:00

I get the sense that a strange intelligence lurks behind Danger Mouse & James Mercer's "Broken Bells," today on 10Listens...

10 Listens: Fang Island

2010-02-25T13:35:00.001-05:00

My latest review for 10Listens.com looks at the punky, proggy, Pentecostal new record by Fang Island.

10 Listens: Surfer Blood's Astro Coast

2010-02-18T12:49:00.002-05:00

The songs on Surfer Blood's Astro Coast chill me out and kick my ass simultaneously. Read my rave today on 10Listens.com...

10 Listens: Efterklang's Magic Chairs

2010-02-15T13:14:00.002-05:00

Efterklang make some beautiful music, but it wasn't enough to stir my stony, stubborn soul. My latest review for 10Listens.com explains...

10 Listens: The Magnetic Fields' Realism

2010-02-02T11:51:00.002-05:00

How good are the "Songs" on The Magnetic Fields' Realism? My review on 10Listens.com explains...

10 Listens: Charlotte Gainsbourg's IRM

2010-01-25T15:18:00.000-05:00

Today I'm back to work at 10Listens, reviewing the detached erotica of Charlotte Gainsbourg's Beck-produced IRM...

Little Letter Commas For Big-Ass Numbers

2010-01-12T15:02:00.002-05:00

Whenever I read a large number written in full numeric form- something larger than a hundred million, say- I always need to count how many commas there are first before I can go back and read the entire number. So I wish we would substitute the first comma in large numbers with a tiny letter that would indicate what size number we're dealing with. For instance: 376t986,021,552,113- where the tiny "t" immediately tells me we're in the trillions. Of course, I realize the regular comma system has seemed to work for everyone else for thousands of years, so maybe I'm just terrible at reading big numbers.

The Real MESSAGE of Avatar

2010-01-04T00:17:00.001-05:00

Finally saw Avatar, and overall I agree with our apparent general consensus: though I figured out most of the plot points at least 20 minutes before they happened, the visions were like nothing I've ever witnessed before. It's a spectacular must-see, and splurging for the 3D IMAX experience was worth every penny.

The allegory of the story was certainly heavy-handed, but not as oversimplified as it might seem at first. (Some SPOILERS ahead, but again, there are few surprises in this movie, plot-wise.) Take, for instance, the way that the Pandoran animals basically turn the tide of the big climactic battle. Of course, these are probably just my biases talking, but it's like, after two hours of tree-hugging, pro-environmental MESSAGE, James Cameron suddenly becomes Werner Herzog and admits that the human race and its puny technologies are ultimately no match for Mother Fucking Nature. Yes, we should treat the environment with respect, and we should never recklessly kill other living things. But really, the worst our pollution and carbon footprints and oil drilling and global warming can do is wound the planet. We can never destroy the planet- not without a Death Star, at least. If the planet ever detects that we humans are a serious threat, it will probably start killing us off like an immune system kills off a cold.

Or: we should be environmentally responsible, but not to "save the earth;" we should be environmentally responsible so the earth doesn't retaliate and kick our ass like a herd of Hammerhead Titanotheres stampeding an army of robot-soldiers.

My Rating: $16 Million out of $20 Million Worth of Unobtanium

Awards I Would Nominate It For: Special Effects, Cinematography, Editing, Sound- basically all the technical stuff

Early Impressions of Edwin Mullhouse

2009-12-27T02:02:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago, award-winning author Lily Hoang was a guest in our apartment, and of course she and I talked a lot about books. Before she left to return home, she was kind enough to leave for me a copy of Steven Millhauser's first novel, Edwin Mullhouse- even though she hadn't read it, she digs some of Millhauser's other work, and thought I might like his style as well.

And I am enjoying Edwin Mullhouse very, very much so far. I'm enjoying it so much that I'm reading it very slowly, savoring it, the way you might savor a happy childhood if you could go back and live it again. It did take me a while to appreciate it, though. The book practically dared me not to like it at first. In its introduction, a character calls the book- which is written as a biography of a child prodigy- "one of the most remarkable documents ever recorded in the annals of biography." While I admired Millhauser's balls for making a statement like that- even by a fictional character that's not technically himself- I also decided that this book would have a lot more to prove because of said balls.

I was also put off at first by the voice of Jeffrey Cartwright- the fictional author of the fictional biography of Edwin Mullhouse- who also happens to be a child prodigy. It's one thing for a ten year-old kid to be precocious, even genius, but no matter how smart they are, kids are always kids at heart. Characters like Lisa Simpson and Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes strike just the right notes in that way, even if they occasionally come across as mouthpieces for the adult writers behind them. For the first few chapters of Edwin Mullhouse, I felt like the boy wonder narrator sounded much too adult. About 2/3 of my way through the book, I still kind of feel that way, but I'm over it. There's far too much about the book to like to let one flaw spoil it all. (I also have the suspicion that there's something else to the story that might explain why Jeffrey writes like a smart adult instead of a smart kid, but of course I'll have to wait and see.)

What I love most about Edwin Mullhouse so far, aside from its beautifully written prose and the vivid characters, is the way it captures the details of childhood. Like the way some kids gradually enter a cold ocean on a hot summer day: "...he rose on his toes or jumped with the advancing waves in order to preserve his waterline." The various catch-phrases and mispronunciations of young tongues: "o-weez," "scaredy pants," "goody goody gumdrops." The way kids will incite jealousy by pretending to tell secrets with "the sounds of feigned whispering: pssh-pssh-pssh-pssh-pssh." The story might take place in the 1940s and 50s, but most of the experiences it describes are timeless. If the rest of Edwin Mullhouse is as great as what I've read so far, then Mr. Millhauser might even deserve the back-patting he indirectly gave himself in the introduction.

10 Listens: Kurt Vile's Childish Prodigy

2009-12-15T11:57:00.001-05:00

Kurt Vile's Childish Prodigy is an intoxicating ride until it runs out of steam. My latest review for 10Listens.com elaborates...

10 Listens: Lady GaGa's The Fame Monster

2009-12-08T15:04:00.002-05:00

Lady GaGa's new album is pretty great, it's just a little mixed up. My newest review for 10Listens.com explains...

10 Listens: The Fiery Furnaces' Take Me Round Again

2009-11-30T14:39:00.000-05:00

Finally, The Fiery Furnaces made a record that even people who hate The Fiery Furnaces can enjoy. My newest review for 10Listens.com explains how they did it.

10 Listens: Them Crooked Vultures

2009-11-19T19:54:00.000-05:00

How much ass do Them Crooked Vultures kick? My newest review for 10Listens.com examines this complex and historic question.

10 Listens: MV & EE's Barn Nova

2009-11-16T12:43:00.002-05:00

My review of the spaced-out folk-jamming on MV & EE's Barn Nova, now up at 10Listens.com ...

10 Listens: The Almighty Defenders

2009-11-05T15:39:00.003-05:00

Just posted my second review for 10Listens.com- a chronicle of my love/hate affair with The Almighty Defenders' self-titled debut.

10 Listens: Thomas Function's In The Valley of Sickness

2009-10-26T13:55:00.001-04:00

My friend and former colleague Jeff Laughlin recently launched a very cool music review site called 10 Listens. Today, 10 Listens features my review of Thomas Function's In The Valley Of Sickness, which is one of the most enjoyable rock n' roll records I've heard in a long time.

(Listen to the album here.)

Cool Abed Films Presents: Six Candles

2009-10-03T02:29:00.002-04:00

By the end of the current television season, Community might belong in the same class (no pun intended) as 30 Rock and Arrested Development. For a taste of why this show is so great, check out Six Candles, a spoof of student filmmaking that's delightfully Dada and surprisingly poignant.

Album Of The Year?

2009-09-21T17:04:00.003-04:00

Embryonic might be The Flaming Lips' third musical masterpiece in ten years. It's certainly the album I needed right now, at least as a music geek. For one thing, it backs me up by drop-kicking the silly notion that The Album is dead. But not only is it a capital-A Album, it's my favorite kind of album- The Superstar Band's Go-For-Broke Double Album. (Haven't had a good one of those in a while- not since Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, and before that, probably Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness.)

Apparently, the SB's G-F-BDA is also one of Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne's favorite kinds of album, too. "Some of my favorite records," he said, "- thinking Beatles' 'White Album,' Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti, and even some of the longer things The Clash have done- part of the reason I like them is that they're not focused. They're kind of like a free-for-all and go everywhere."

One of the many interesting things about Embryonic, though, is that for a free-for-all, go everywhere album, it's relatively cohesive- it doesn't hopscotch through genres like The Beatles or Sandinista! Most of the tracks on Embryonic have similar textures. The basslines are usually huge and superfuzzy with a gravitational pull to rival Jupiter's. The drums (when they're there) strike like Zeus' thunderbolts. The guitars blip and squeak like Morse code on an intergalactic distress signal. Coyne's vocals bounce between his usual fragile Neil Young warble and a ghostly Ian Curtis drone, and they ain't stingy with the reverb. The melodies are fragmented, and they hypnotize more than they hook.

Convinced Of The Hex - The Flaming Lips

Overall, Emrbyonic is a whimsical, existential space odyssey, not unlike the last few Flaming Lips records (those would be the masterpieces The Soft Bulletin and Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, as well as At War With The Mystics, which is pretty good, but The AV Club was right- it would have been great as an EP). But what sets the new album apart from those others- aside from its length- is its darkness. The Soft Bulletin had some spooky moments, and Yoshimi had a bit of Saturday morning cartoon villainy, but a lot of stretches on Embryonic sound downright menacing, and I love that. I also love the sporadic Bitches Brew-style freak-outs, which make The Flaming Lips sound more spontaneous than they've been since the 1980s.

Silver Trembling Hands - The Flaming Lips

Embryonic floats in the space between shambolic and symphonic, and if not for the lack of a potential Top 40 hit like "She Don't Use Jelly" or "Do You Realize??", it could have been the epitome of Flaming Lips records. Instead, it will have to settle for induction in the Superstar Band's Go-For-Broke Double Album Hall Of Fame.

My Rating: 11 out of 12 Zodiacal Constellations

Embryonic is streaming at Colbert Nation until the end of today. It goes on sale October 13.

The Flappers Have Been Rescheduled

2009-09-09T21:23:00.002-04:00

That's Tuesday, September 22, starting at 8:30 PM at the Cameo Gallery (inside the Lovin' Cup Cafe) in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (93 North 6th Street). Tickets are $8. I've been told that two other bands will be playing as well: Ishmael (at 9:30) and Univox (at 10:30).

Review of Pitchfork's Review of Kid A: Special Collectors Edition

2009-09-01T23:38:00.003-04:00

Some people just can't resist the urge to declare things dead long before those things are actually dead. For the record, The Album, like Fidel Castro, is still kicking, like it or not.

"We used to listen to music in an entirely different way," says the first sentence and first preposterous statement in Pitchfork's review of the new deluxe 2-disc version of Radiohead's Kid A. It goes on:

There was once a time when music was organized into 45 - 75 minutes chunks-- often a few standout tracks padded with a lot of mediocre filler, but occasionally designed so that the parts built up a larger structure. Used to be, people would sit down and listen to that lengthy piece of music from front to back in one sitting, resisting the urge to jump to their favorite parts or skip over the instrumental interlude that served as grout between two fuller compositions. These antiques were called CDs. Here's a story about the last of its kind.

I'll grant that there's a hint of tongue-in-cheekiness in that paragraph, but that hint is peanuts compared to the globs of pretension heaped upon it; that reviewer really believes he's teaching us a Big Important Musical History Lesson. Let's go over the Big Fat Stupid Holes in that lesson:

Listening to an entire album all the way through has long been just one of many ways in which we listen to music. Is this guy trying to say that during the height of the CD era, we never listened to playlists of singles on the radio, or on MTV, or in clubs, or on jukeboxes, or on our own homemade mixtapes? Did we rarely go to concerts where bands played a mix of their greatest and latest hits? Did we only seldom eject a CD after we heard just the songs we wanted to hear, and then pop in another CD (or cassette, or LP) to do exactly the same thing?

And is Kid A really, seriously "the last of its kind"? Forget how lame-brained that claim would be if Kid A were released yesterday, but it was released nine years ago. Radiohead alone has released three more albums since then that can certainly be enjoyed in one sequential, uninterrupted sitting. (Those albums, in case anyone has forgotten already, are Amnesiac, Hail To The Thief, and In Rainbows, and Pitchfork's own reviews of these allegedly non-existent albums can be found here, here, and here.) And yes, it's true Thom Yorke recently said that the band has no plans to record any more full-length albums, and will instead focus on EPs and singles. But despite what Pitchfork may want to believe, Radiohead is not The Only Band That Matters.

To be fair, Pitchfork later concedes that "albums have persisted, sure," but then adds:

...they're increasingly marginalized or stripped for parts-- release Kid A today, and many might choose to save or stream "Idioteque" and Recycle Bin the rest, missing the contextual build and release that makes the album's demented-disco centerpiece all the more effective.

Again, is strip-mining full-length albums really such a novel concept? Technology has made such strip-mining easier and a bit more widespread, maybe, but remember all those things I mentioned earlier- radio, MTV, club DJs, jukeboxes, mixtapes, live concerts, the track-skip and eject buttons on our CD players? They've been strip-mining albums of their best- or at least most accessible- material for decades. How many times has "Here Comes The Sun" been stripped from Abbey Road, depriving the listener of its original context between "I Want You" and "Because"?

Which leads me to another point- when media technology evolves, it simply creates more contexts and options; it doesn't necessarily signal the death of previous options. Listeners can enjoy "Idioteque" in the context of Kid A, or if they don't like the rest of Kid A they can just enjoy "Idioteque" as a single track. Or they can make their own digital playlist and enjoy "Idioteque" in a context between "American Pie" and "The William Tell Overture." I've made basically this same point a while ago in a post about Kindle critics. I don't see why this is so hard for some people to understand.

Are we really listening to entire albums less than we used to? Maybe Pitchfork has some statistics to prove that that's true. I can't answer for everybody, but if there's a method of listening to music that I don't utilize as often as I did nine years ago, it would be the method of skipping through the "greatest hits" of a single album. Now that my iPod has replaced my walkman and discman, I tend to use "shuffle" as my default listening method, and only rarely do I "skip through" single albums anymore.

Which is not to say that I don't strip-mine some albums once I've heard them a few times and know there are certain tracks I don't care to hear again, context or no context. But I still listen to entire albums just as often as I used to. In recent months, I've sat through new albums by John Frusciante, Green Day, Animal Collective, Wavves, Grizzly Bear, AC Newman, The Avalanches, DOOM, and The Dead Weather, just to name a few. I didn't love all of them, but I listened to all of them from beginning to end at least once, because albums are still alive, and that's what they're there for, and only a music reviewer desperate for a bold angle will tell you otherwise.

So, Pitchfork, even though I agree that Kid A is a brilliant album- a perfect 10 even- I violently disagree that "one of the many ghosts that haunt the corridors of Kid A is The Album itself, it's (sic) death throes an unsettling funeral for a format that, like so much else, was out of time."

And for that, my rating of your review of Kid A is a paltry 1.3.

The Shoe Is On The Other Foot, But Does It Fit?

2009-08-23T10:47:00.001-04:00

NOTE: The following post about INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS assumes you have already seen the movie, and contains LOTS AND LOTS OF SPOILERS, right from THE VERY BEGINNING.

When discussing the possible effects of time-travel, people often ask, "If we could go back in time and kill Hitler, should we? What if the world turned out even worse?"

The question is usually about whether we should kill Hitler before the Holocaust and World War II occur. With Inglourious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino's first "Alternate History" movie, the writer/director asks a similar question, but with a crucial twist: "If we could kill Hitler (as well as various other Nazis)- after the Holocaust and World War II have already begun, after he's already proven himself to be one of human history's most vile monsters- should we? What if we felt even worse?"

I'm not sure Tarantino spells out his answer, although I have a hunch what it might be. The movie feels like a Rorschach test for the audience. I'd like to think my reaction is the kind Tarantino was hoping to get, but of course, I have no idea...

...but I'm pretty sure the climax of Inglourious Basterds is supposed to be some kind of exhilarating yet icky catharsis. It's not mere "Jewish revenge porn," although one could certainly choose to see it that way. But such a view might ignore the face of Shosanna Dreyfus (Melanie Laurent) grinning demonically, larger than life on the silver screen of her own movie theater as it burns in a tower of vengeful hellfire. The most basic message here seems to be that war can make monsters of us all, and while it may not be the most original message for a war movie, it's certainly more complex than many folks have given Inglourious Basterds credit for so far.

We may sympathize with Shosanna, whose Jewish family was murdered by the SS, but are we really supposed to be getting off on what she's become by the end of the movie? Hitler and Goebbels weren't the only people in that theater; we assume many of the other audience members were innocent- or at least not-quite-evil- people. The Bride from Kill Bill may have been equally vengeful and bloodthirsty, but didn't she only kill people who directly threatened her? And OK, even if Shosanna's (and the Basterds') plan wasn't just revenge, even if they ultimately wanted to end the war and the Holocaust, did the end justify the means? And when we see Hilter's corpse machine-gunned until it's a bloody mess, do we feel satisfaction? Is our bloodlust really sated? Or do we feel more comfortable with our own version of history, where Hitler swallows some cyanide and shoots himself with a single bullet in his temple?

"Alternate History" works typically deal with their parallel universe-creating, course-changing events early on, so that they can explore the possible consequences throughout the rest of the story. But Tarantino never met a genre he couldn't subvert; with Inglourious Basterds, he builds gradually toward the resolution of his Hitler-killing plot with a series of intense, slow-burning set pieces, each fueled by his trademark double-edged dialogue and punctuated by his brand of hilariously shocking violence. (I've heard some folks say that all these scenes start to feel repetitive, but I couldn't disagree more; I think each of these scenes has its own unique tension and purpose.) Then when Hitler dies, it's pretty much the end. One more scene follows, where the most cowardly Nazi of them all gets a serving of poetic justice- but that's it. We don't get to explore our new parallel universe. The credits roll, and the (real-life) audience members are left to ponder how they feel about having their Nazi-bludgeoning fantasies finally fulfilled...

And now for some stray thoughts:

* Christoph Waltz is stunning as the slimy, silver-tongued Hans Landa. As of now, he's the man to beat for this year's Best Supporting Actor awards.

* Mike Myers' cameo isn't exactly a scene-stealer, but it is a pleasant surprise, and a reminder that his talent hasn't completely disappeared up his own sphincter.

* Leave it to Tarantino to reinvent the Mexican Standoff by having three guys pointing guns at each other's nutsacks. Of course, it's quite possible he stole this idea from some obscure Korean gangster movie.

My Rating: 96 out of 100 Nat-zee Scalps

Awards I Would Nominate It For: Best Picture, Director, Original Screenplay, Editing, Supporting Actor (Christoph Waltz)

Happy Birthday, Joe Strummer

2009-08-21T13:41:00.002-04:00

In Chris Salewicz's book Redemption Song, he writes: "In Japan, Joe Strummer was, and is, considered like a fusion of James Dean, Elvis Presley and Bob Dylan, and bigger than any of them." And of course, Japanese rock n' rollers are the coolest people on planet Earth, and their collective opinion on this matter is exactly right.

Joe Strummer was furious at all the horror and injustice in the world, but he never sank into nihilism, instead embracing a kind of practical optimism. He's famous for saying, "...I haven't got any illusions about anything, right- having said that, I still want to try to change things." If he were still alive, Joe Strummer would have turned 57 years old today.

Courtesy of boingboing.net I learned that in honor of The Coolest Man Who Ever Lived, Jimmy Guterman is offering free downloads of The Sandinista Project for 24 hours. This is the first I've heard of the project- 36 different artists each covering a track from The Clash's overindulgent-but-still-awesome triple album from 1980- and I can't wait to go home and download it.

But first, an ass-kicking live performance of "Clampdown." This song always struck a chord with me more than any other Clash song, particularly when Joe and Mick Jones sing:

...let fury have the hour, anger can be power...d'you know that you can use it?
The voices in your head are calling, stop wasting your time, there's nothing coming,
only a fool would think someone could save you.
The men at the factory are old and cunning,
you don't owe nothing, so boy get running!
It's the best years of your life they want to steal...

Ichiro Suzuki Is Not Of This World

2009-08-17T01:29:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, the AP ran a story titled, "Japanese Professor Creates Baseball Playing Robots," and the opening lines were:

Look out Ichiro Suzuki and Daisuke Matsuzaka. A pair of baseball-playing robots that can pitch and hit with incredible results have been developed in Japan.

For now, let's ignore the odd logic which implies that because these baseball-playing robots were invented in Japan, then Japanese players playing in America have to "look out." The biggest problem with the article is actually that it fails to acknowledge that Ichiro Suzuki is a robot himself. Don't believe me? Check out this quote from an ESPN.com story about the Mariners' victory over the Yankees yesterday:

When asked what it means to win No. 61 in Game 118, as opposed to the final game of last season, Suzuki smiled.

"I think, man, we lost a lot of games last year," Suzuki said through an interpreter. "We also have a lot better human beings on this team."

Sure, maybe it's possible that by "human beings," Ichiro simply meant "people," "guys" or "players," and his meaning might have been tweaked in the translation. But I prefer to think that the above quote is evidence that Ichiro Suzuki is really a baseball-playing robot. Or an alien. Or an alien robot.

The Front Row Rant

2009-08-12T00:48:00.001-04:00

I could list about 26 things that my customers do that really make me twitch, but most of that stuff has already been covered by MCC in his "Jack In A Box" internet show - except for this one thing...

...and I think it might be the absolute worst thing that my customers can do- aside from just being rude for no good reason...

...customers often lie to me, and I know they're lying, sometimes just to save a few measly dollars, and yet even the lying doesn't bug me nearly as much as when they pull this crap:

Me: "So are there any particular seats you might like?"

Customer: "Yes, I'd like to sit as close to the stage as possible, please."

Me: "All right, I can get you a seat in the front row-"

Customer: "No I don't want to sit in the front row, that's too close!"

Me: (angry, condescending sigh) "You said you wanted to sit as close as possible. The front row is as close as-"

Customer: "I don't want the front row, give me like the fourth or fifth row..."

That's right, if you're one of the people who pull this crap on me every single day of my working life, then you get the angry, condescending sigh right in your ear. My co-workers and supervisors will hear me do it, and I don't care, and they don't care either. In fact, they'd probably do it to you too if they had the chance, because you're a colossal jackass.

If you pull this crap, you're basically telling the customer service operator who's trying to help you that you have no respect for logic. If the customer service operator was some sort of cyborg, your paradoxical request might have made that operator's cyborg brain explode, and you don't seem to care the slightest bit.

You also don't seem to know what words mean, and therefore you should be banned from communicating with other humans (or cyborgs).

Leak In The Shower, Save The Earth

2009-08-06T14:26:00.002-04:00

For as long as I can remember, I've had a secret that I've only shared with my most intimate friends and lovers...but now, thanks to this Brazilian public service ad, I'm no longer ashamed to admit it: I pee in the shower.

Michael Jordan, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stephen Hawking all do it! (Or at least people with similar silhouettes.) And each of us is saving over 4000 liters of water per year! No longer will I hide my pride- I'm here, I pee in the shower, get used to it.

If you decide to jump on the shower-whizzing bandwagon, allow me to offer just a couple of quick pointers. One- aim for the drain as much as possible. And two- you can not, I repeat, can not cure your athlete's foot by peeing on the infected area in the shower. It's a myth, no matter what Matt Damon's character in Courage Under Fire says.

Arlo Guthrie's Groundhog Day

2009-07-31T01:27:00.000-04:00

Before tonight, my knowledge of Arlo Guthrie was limited to a handful of his most popular songs, although one of those songs has been a significant part of my life for many years.

Like many radio stations across America, New York's Q104.3 plays "Alice's Restaurant" every Thanksgiving Day. I don't know if the other stations make a habit of playing the song at 12 noon, but Q104 does. So almost every year when I was a kid, my family and I would get in the car around noon to make the 20-minute trip to Grandma's house, and our drive would usually contain some or all of "Alice's Restaurant." I came to love that talkin' blues so much that now, if I ever have to drive myself to Grandma's house for Thanksgiving, I make sure to get my lazy butt in the car just before noon.

Tonight I was fortunate enough to see a free Arlo Guthrie show in Battery Park, and now that I'm more familiar with his work, I feel about 730% more American. I will certainly spend the foreseeable future catching up with all the Arlo I've been missing out on all these years.

He didn't play "Alice's Restaurant," but I wasn't disappointed- I hardly expected him to take up 20 minutes of his 90-ish minute set playing one tune. In fact, one of my favorite parts of the show had to do with the fact that he didn't play "Alice's Restaurant." It went a little something like this:

In between songs, during the middle of the set:

Unruly Audience Memebers: "ALICE'S RESTAURANT!"

Arlo Guthrie: (ignores Unruly Audience Members and plays some other song instead.)

A few minutes later, once again between songs:

Unruly Audience Members: "ALICE'S RESTAURANT!!!!!!!!!"

Arlo Guthrie: (Realizing he can no longer ignore these people, he responds cordially but firmly) "I don't want to play that song."

(Laughter from rest of the audience.)

Unruly Audience Members: "ALICE'S RESTAURANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Arlo Guthrie: (still cordial but firm) "Listen to the record. That's what records are for."

(More laughter from the rest of the audience.)

Unruly Audience Members: "ALICE'S RESTAURANT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Arlo Guthrie: (Deadpan, perhaps sarcastically) "I don't remember all the words to that one."

(More laughter from non-unruly audience members.)

Unruly Audience Members: (One of whom actually holds up sheets of paper with the lyrics to "Alice's Restaurant.") "We know the words!"

Arlo Guthrie: "Then you sing it."

(The well-behaved audience members laugh even harder.)

Arlo Guthrie: (continued) Do you ever feel like you're in that movie Groundhog Day? Except it lasts for a half-an-hour on every night of your life?"

(Laughter crescendoes.)

End scene.

Of course these quotes are from my imperfect memory, but I hope I conveyed somewhat accurately just how badly those yahoos got owned by Arlo Motherfuckin' Guthrie.

Anyway, even though it's not Thanksgiving, here's a neat video of a performance of "Alice's Restaurant" featuring clips from the movie version:

Letter To Netflix

2009-07-30T17:06:00.001-04:00

Dear Netflix,

I really dig your service. I'm currently a paying customer of yours, and I have been a customer of yours for 5 of the last 6 years. When I wasn't your customer, it wasn't because I was dissatisfied with your company, it was simply because I didn't have much time to watch the movies I was renting.

Now I can't help but wonder- why do your ads still pop up on my laptop when 99.9% of all other pop-up ads are blocked? Don't you guys have some kind of Big Brother-type program that knows that this particular computer belongs to an already satisfied Netflix customer? And if not, could you please develop such a program?

With Love,

J O'B

The Half-Blood Prince, and "Telling It Like It Is"

2009-07-26T21:24:00.000-04:00

The 6th Harry Potter book was my least favorite- which is not to say I didn't enjoy it- and so it goes that the 6th Harry Potter movie was probably my least favorite (so far), but I still enjoyed it. It looked great, and everyone in the cast performed admirably. But just like the book, most of the time I felt like I was watching the wheels spin idly until the Big Dramatic Ending that sets up Part 7.

My Rating: 3.68 out of 7 Horcruxes

So while I don't quite agree with the inimitable Richard Metzger's review of Half-Blood Prince, I can kind of see where he's coming from. The only thing about that review that really irks me is its headline, which happens to relate to something that's been on my mind recently: the phrase "Tell It Like It Is." To be fair, I doubt Metzger wrote the headline himself. But I still cringe inside when I hear someone say they "Tell It Like It Is." As the late, great Robert Anton Wilson said, "I don't know what anything is. I only know how it seems to me at this moment." Therefore, I wish people wouldn't "Tell It Like It Is"; I wish they'd just "Call It Like They See It."

The KKK Took My Baby Away (Ukulele Version)

2009-07-20T22:06:00.000-04:00

Jack In A Box, Episode 1

2009-07-20T11:49:00.003-04:00

From now on, when my friends and family ask me how my job is going, or when strangers ask me what I do, I'm going to direct them to this video, written and performed by my friend and colleague Michael Cyril Creighton. This is pretty much what it's like to answer phones at an off-Broadway box office:

Good Night, Moonwalker

2009-06-26T16:05:00.004-04:00

Michael Jackson's music has been etched into my consciousness for as long as I can remember. I probably knew "Beat It" and "Thriller" by heart before I knew "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." Some of the first words I remember reading are "Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney - Say Say Say" as that music video aired on MTV. My sister and I both owned flimsy white gloves onto which we glued sparkly faux-rhinestones.

I didn't just own Thriller and Bad and Dangerous, I owned that silly Rockwell song "Somebody's Watching Me" because Michael sang the chorus. I owned the Moonwalker video game for Sega Genesis, which was also rather silly- but in a sublimely surreal way- and I must have played it all the way through several dozen times. My favorite part was when, as Smooth Criminal-era Michael, I used my magic powers to force a horde of zombies to dance the choreography from the "Thriller" video until said zombies collapsed from exhaustion, or something.

No, really:

I'm glad most reactions to the man's death have been positive- that is, celebrating his music and mourning his passing. Sure, in the later part of his life, he was a weirdo. He could be narcissistic, irresponsible, self-destructive, and the way he related to young boys was unusual to say the least. But let us never forget that Michael Jackson was never convicted of anything- in fact, he was acquitted by a jury of his peers. The only court that ever convicted him was the court of public opinion, with the testimony of gossip and the evidence of rumors. I'm not saying he never touched a young boy inappropriately, and I'm not saying he did. I'm saying it's easy to assume he did, but it's just as easy to assume he was set up. The only people who'll ever know for sure are Michael, his accusers, and any omniscient gods that may exist. The rest of us should remember the principle that people are not guilty until proven otherwise.

To the few who keep shouting "You're mourning a pedophile!", I'd like to know where your videotaped evidence is kept. Otherwise, if you have to shout something as the rest of us groove on "Billie Jean," then shout "You're mourning an alleged pedophile!"

Abandon Ship?

2009-04-14T18:12:00.000-04:00

Now that I've finished Ulysses, I've begun reading an English translation of Camus' The Plague. Yeah it's kind of a downer, but hey, its sentences are diagrammable, so I was more than happy to dive in. That is, until the morbid synchronicity...

On the subway this morning I read the first 30 pages. In this section, the people of Oran, Algeria become understandably unsettled when the local rats start dying by the thousands, clogging the streets and hallways and stairwells. The level-headed night watchman aptly notes that the dead rats might be a bad omen, like "When the rats leave a ship..."

Then later today, in the lobby of my box office, I found a dead rat...

Joe Versus Ulysses: The End

2009-04-14T00:38:00.002-04:00

Took me over six weeks to finish, and most of the time it positively pummeled my brain. But at least I can finally say I've read every last page of that fat bastard.

Have no idea what to make of it, except that it illustrates the maddening clusterfuck that is consciousness. I do have a feeling that I'll pick it up again some years from now, after I've accumulated more crystallized intelligence, and a lot more of it will make sense to me. I have an equally strong feeling that other parts of Ulysses, no matter how many times I end up reading it, will seem like practical jokes, emperors deliberately wearing no clothes.

Which brings me back to the reason I finally wrestled this post-modern gorilla in the first place: Ben Linus from TV's LOST. Now that I've finished the book, I still think Ben was reading Ulysses to make people believe he's much smarter than he really is. This is not to say that everyone who claims to enjoy the book is not as smart as they seem; just Ben. Because I'm pretty sure everything he does is done to make himself look smarter and/or more powerful than he really is.

Anyway, now that this grueling bout has ended for me, I can't wait to read something new, something written in Plain Freaking English.

The Law of Diminishing Fluid Intelligence

2009-04-04T01:12:00.000-04:00

I used to take for granted that I'd get smarter as I'd get older, at least until senility kicked in. This week I learned that this is only kind of half-true. Seems only my crystallized intelligence will increase for the next several decades. My fluid intelligence, however, reached its peak about a year ago, sometime after my 27th birthday.

Crystallized intelligence is described as "wisdom," while fluid intelligence is described as "the ability to find meaning in confusion and solve new problems." Well, shit. What good is wisdom when life is little more than one confusing new problem after another?

The Empyrean Is A Place On Earth

2009-03-22T13:13:00.001-04:00

Many moons ago, as I was playing "Dani California" on Rock Band, I was savoring the sublime harmonies and guitarwork of John Frusciante, and I thought, Man I would totally be into the Red Hot Chili Peppers a lot more if it weren't for Anthony Kiedis going "rip-rap-rock-a-rikki-tikki-ting-tang" all over the place.

Actually I used to be way into the Chili Peppers- when I was 11 years old, Blood Sugar Sex Magik was one of my favorite records, maybe even my #1. But as the years went on, I grew weary of Kiedis's rip-rap-rock, even if he now does it far less than he used to.

Anyway, soon after my Rock Band experience, I downloaded as much of John Frusciante's solo work as I could find, and just as I thought, I dug it. Hell, I fell in love- particularly his 2004 album Shadows Collide With People, which features Flea on bass and Chad Smith on drums, and thus is essentially the Chili Peppers minus Mr. Kiedis.

Frusciante's prolific output between 2004 and 2005- 5 LPs and 1 EP in less than a year- always bridged experimentally, avant-gardey, proggy tendencies with poppy, classic-rocky, singer/songwritery ones, and most of the time, it was the best of all those worlds.

But when I discovered that Frusciante had released his first solo album since the Chili Peppers released Stadium Arcadium, I thought he might have dove completely off the experimental/avant-garde/prog deep end. First of all, just look at that album cover up there. It has "Mars Volta" written all over it. Then take the title: The Empyrean, which is just a fancy, proggy way of saying "heaven." (More specifically, the highest heights of heaven.)

And now a few words from Frusciante himself: "It is a concept record that tells a single story both musically and lyrically. The story takes place within one person and there are two characters."

Not that this kind of Artist's Statement is a deal-breaker for me, but it did make me a bit wary. I'm glad I wasn't scared away completely though, because after only a few days, The Empyrean has come to obsess and possess me like no record since...God I can't even remember...

I have no idea when I'll stop listening to The Empyrean. "It is suited to dark living rooms late at night," Frusciante says, and certainly it is. But that's not all. I want to listen to it as I fall asleep, and I want it to keep playing repeatedly as I dream. I want to take it to the top of a mountain and listen to it as I look upon Creation. I want to take it on a rowboat and listen to it as I circumnavigate the globe. I want to listen to it as I float through deep space. I want to listen to it as I slip into Death.

Hyperbole? No, really, I mean it. Of course I don't expect anyone else to be fascinated with The Empyrean nearly as much as I am. But I just have to tell you...

The whole thing starts out with yet another harbinger of prog-doom: a wordless 9-minute guitar wank titled "Before The Beginning." The first few times I heard it, I'd feel like I was listening to it for 20 minutes, and then I'd discover the song was only half-over. I could've sworn that I heard the drummer getting bored. I'd think, Look, John, I dig "Maggot Brain" too, but this is ridiculous. Now, as I begin to listen to The Empyrean for about the 23rd time, I think, Yes! "Before the Beginning!" What a transcendental piece of music! How sad and lonely and full of mystery and yet so at peace with the universe...what a perfect way to, um, begin...

The rest of the songs are much more immediately accessible, and they only sink themselves deeper with each spin. There's a lot of ethereal drifting, punctuated by propulsive, arena-rock climaxes of Biblical proportions; my favorite is the solo in track 3 ("Unreachable") where aquatic wah-wah fingertapping slowly builds to laser-guided catharsis, and in the process, once again proves why Frusciante is one of the greatest guitarists alive.

I also can't get enough of the fucking great Yeaaaaahhhh! at the 3:10 mark of track 6 ("Heaven"). It's just perfect. And speaking of vocals, listen to track 2, a cover of Tim Buckley's "Song To The Siren," and you might just have your breath taken.

Did I mention how wonderful this record sounds? The production is magical. It embellishes the fluid, elegantly simple melodies with myriad effects and gizmos, but without drowning them out or otherwise feeling like overkill.

Lyrically, The Empyrean swims in a sea of New Agey-spirituality that could be interpreted as hokey madness or profound truth. Or perhaps both. I'll report, you decide:

As life goes by a thousand times, it gets a little better...

We should be grateful to the gods/whoever they're real to, they are

Anything that could one day be is as real as what I'm saying/if something is nothing it must not be something in any possible way

What is anything anyway/but a series of thoughts running through your brain?

What is has always been and will always be...

Whatever you think of the lyrics, it's hard to deny that Frusciante "feels his lines" (that is, he means it, man), or that they sound pretty cool when he sings them.

As for his "two-characters-in-one-person" concept, one of those characters is most definitely an unconditionally loving God, and the other might be Jesus, or Frusciante himself, or just some generic everyman. I don't think it really matters. Ultimately, The Empyrean is about finding solace in the infinite and cyclical nature of time and the universe:

If the seasons which change were all still/It's so easy to see life would fail/whatever slips out of our hands/will find its way back to us once again.

My Rating: Eternal and Unconditional Love.

Download the first half here and the second half here

Death Rawk

2009-03-17T13:44:00.001-04:00

Strip away the curious history (as told in last Sunday's NY Times) and the novelty (black dudes punkin' out years before Bad Brains) and Death's ...For The Whole World To See still holds up as a fantastic rock record.

A lot of Bobby Hackney's vocals sound like a conscious emulation of the MC5's Rob Tyner, and guitarist David Hackney's riffs often bring to mind a more restrained version of recently departed Stooge Ron Asheton. Not that those are necessarily drawbacks. Besides, the members of Death- who were between 17 and 21 years old at the time- were just as innovative as they were derivative.

They take the sweaty, rollicking fury of their Motor City heroes and, in songs like "Freakin Out" and "Politicians In My Eyes," add the kind of jittery angst that would surface years later in British punks like the Sex Pistols, the Buzzcocks, and Wire.

There's also a lot more gear-shifting than most early punk, impressively propelled by the drumming of Hackney brother #3, Dannis. By the third track, "Let The World Turn," they've already slowed things down to a Pink Floyd-floating-in-deep-space pace. Until of course they throw it back into hyperdrive, and then there's a 40-second drum freak-out, then the whole process repeats.

Dynamics like that are all over this record, along with solid, hooky riffs and shout-along choruses ideal for car-stereo-blasting. The only weak links are in the lyrics, which aren't embarrassing or anything, just unspectacular.

The worst part about Death's story is not that their legacy was overlooked until now, but that they never got to develop their brand of hard rock. If only the major record labels at the time had shown more interest in the band, maybe they wouldn't have relocated to Vermont and mutated into a gospel-rock outfit. Maybe they would have taken punk into strange and wonderful new realms long before The Clash was even a twinkle in Joe Strummer's eye. Sigh. Well at least we still have ...For The Whole World To See. Rawk.

My Rating: 3.5 out of 1-2-3-4!

Listen to "Politicians In My Eyes" on the Drag City Website

Joe Versus Ulysses, Round 3

2009-03-13T16:04:00.006-04:00

Page threehundredsomething so far. Reading on the subway, dustjacket removed and spinetitle covered with makeshiftbookmark so fellow straphangers don't think me a pompousshowoff. Truthbetold I'm still lostatsea, the treacheroussea, an odyssey. Shouldn't read this on the hustlybustly subway, but whenelse?

- There are passages which can only be read on the toilet, Henry Miller said, if one wants to extract the full flavor of their content. Joyce recognized dung for dung and angels for angels.

Manymore trustyopinions also say it's great: Robert Anton Wilson, Anthony M. from the Strand...can't think of anymore offtop o'myhead rightnow. Wilson's words shed some light on the mire but evenso this escapade feels hopeless. Not much help from Wiki neither. Gah. Fuh. Mek. Kookookookamuck and a shillelagh upside his eyepatched head for all this mumbojumbojibberjabber. For making me feel abimbo. Shut up about your poetry, subwaybum, you've never won any awards, and now you're distracting my feeblemind from this mindboggler. Want some change? For a whole buck you can translate this for me.

No Surprises (Ukulele Version)

2009-03-11T14:46:00.001-04:00

Don't Blame the Kindle

2009-03-07T15:43:00.003-05:00

I don't own a Kindle, or any other kind of electronic reader, and probably won't for at least a few more months. But I still have an opinion on the matter... especially because I keep seeing narrow-minded Ludditism like this:

Suppose you bring one book along with you on a trip. Suppose you start it and it’s not really doing much for you — you’re having trouble getting into the mood of it, the swing of it. If you have it on a Kindle, you’re almost certain to give up and turn to one of the dozens of other books you have available. But if it’s the only book you’ve got, you’re more likely to stick with it. And if it’s a good book — if it’s a book that holds real pleasure or instruction for the persistent and non- distracted reader — then later on you’ll be glad that you read it. You’ll be glad that you didn’t have something else to read on that trip. You’ll be glad that you had a book instead of a Kindle.

and this:

Generally I’m reading one thing at a time, and I benefit from the finality of that decision, when I leave home with one book. Books have the great built-in advantage of preventing me from surfing away elsewhere when the reading becomes arduous or requires an effort of concentration.

I heard these kinds of arguments when iPods and other mp3 players started catching on: people won't listen to albums anymore! Music will devolve into nothing but catchy pop singles! One giant leap for attention-deficit disorder!

Of course, those kinds of arguments totally ignored the fact that iPods are still able to play entire albums if that's what the listener wants. The random shuffling of individual songs remains an option on all iPods (except the iPod shuffle, naturally).

Likewise, Kindles certainly don't force readers to give up on a book after a few chapters. Neither Kindles nor iPods force their users to do anything they don't want to do. These new technological wonders merely increase the options available to their users. If you want to give up on a book you're reading on the Kindle, now you can give up on it and choose another from the dozens of books you have stored.

And sure, maybe you'd be giving up on a book that might be more rewarding with a little more patience...but it could also keep on sucking...and then where would you be? You could also give up on a difficult book in the privacy of your own home, and choose from one of the other ink-and-paper books on your bookshelf. So, by the logic of Kindle Skeptics, do bookshelves and personal libraries also encourage ADD?

In short, Kindle Skeptics: quit blaming your shitty will power on technological progress.

PS - From now on, I'll try to cut down on the iPod-related analogies.

Joe Versus Ulysses, Round 2

2009-03-06T16:27:00.001-05:00

What the hell are you driving at?
I know. Shut up. Blast you! I have reasons.

The lines above come from an interior monologue (dialogue?) from page 207, and that's exactly the spot I'm up to in this beast of a book. Surely, there's another level to this exchange- the average reader is supposed to, at this point if not much earlier, be asking the first line, and the author, perhaps along with Ulysses' numerous champions, is supposed to offer the following line as a reply...right?

Because really, Ulysses, what the hell are you driving at? Somewhere around page 150, I really tried to change this adversarial relationship between us. Like Craig the puppeteer in Being John Malkovich, I tried to stop seeing you as "an enemy that had to be pounded into submission" and instead tried to see you as "a really expensive suit I enjoy wearing." And then before I knew it, you were assaulting me just as hard as ever with your impenetrable poetry-prose, and now I pretty much hate you again.

I hate you, but I will finish you. That will be my victory, however small.

Quality Mash

2009-03-05T17:04:00.007-05:00

The Avalanches mash that shit up with style on After The Goldrush. It's not just 50-plus minutes of raving in 4/4 time, although when it wants to, it can rave in 4/4 quite hardcore.

It kicks off with a blink of Bob Dylan, then rides 3 minutes of late-70s Beach Boys yacht rock that practically dares us non-tennis players to stick around. But before too long, the Chemical Brothers and The KLF and Q-Tip and some other highly danceable artists show up and get the party started. The samples get hipper and more frequent. After the Goldrush rages, peaks, grooves and struts before it chills out again, this time to another corny late-70s Beach Boys throwaway ("Johnny Carson") as the party whimpers to a close.

After The Goldrush isn't great merely because its record collection is much cooler than ours, although that certainly helps. It has one foot in the mainstream and one foot in its own idiosyncratic stream. It doesn't seem to exist simply to make club-hopping Woo Girls go "Woo!" every thirty seconds- and yet it's not necessarily against making club-hopping Woo Girls go "Woo!" on occasion; it offers the Woo Girls Missy Elliot and Destiny's Child, and offers the headphone-wearing record geeks the MC5 and Aphex Twin.

And unlike lesser masher-uppers, After the Goldrush doesn't feel largely like a cut-and-paste affair. The Avalanches enjoy twiddling with the knobs, and it shows. They take hooks both familiar and strange, and they chop, stretch, and syncopate with charming ingenuity.

If the album was available on the Avalanches' official website at a pay-what-you-want price, I certainly would have dropped some of my hard-earned money for it. Alas, I could only find import copies at grossly inflated prices on Amazon and eBay, so I just downloaded it for free here. Maybe I'll make up for it by re-buying their brilliant debut Since I Left You and donating it to a deserving friend.

My Rating, or What I Would Have Paid For a Legit Copy: at least $10, but not more than $20

Resolved: Capital Punishment Should Be Unconstitutional Until Reanimation Technology Drastically Improves

2009-03-03T23:18:00.002-05:00

First, our nationwide poverty sparked serious legislative discussion about legalizing weed. And now the recession might have scored yet another victory for common sense: several states might scrap the death penalty because they can't afford it.

To be clear, I do not oppose the death penalty for lack of bloodlust. For example, I repeatedly daydream about wailing on Bernie Madoff with a sackful of billiard balls.

I oppose the death penalty simply because as penalties go, it's rather irreversible. (For animals that aren't Pyrenean Ibexes, at least.) And wouldn't you know it, the humans in this country have a ghastly habit of putting innocent people on death row.

So I really hope more states continue to cut capital punishment out of their budgets. And when the economy bounces back, if any of those states still misses killing people, it can always reinstate the death penalty. Of course by the time that happens, we'll also have the technology to cost-effectively reanimate the dead. And then it would be like, no harm, no foul, right?

Joe Versus Ulysses, Round 1

2009-03-02T17:46:00.000-05:00

Because I geek out hardcore for LOST, I'm also a member of the Ben Linus Book Club- that is, whenever I see Ben reading a book on the show, said book usually shoots to the top of my to-read list. (Sawyer has interesting taste in books too, but he's too voracious a reader to keep up with.) I don't necessarily read these books expecting big clues about the show's myriad mysteries- though I do like to think about what a fascinating little devil like Ben Linus might take away from VALIS or The Brothers Karamazov.

Anyway, I'm just over 100 pages into Ben's latest reading material: James Joyce's Ulysses, aka The Modern Library's Most Favorite Book of the 20th Century. I knew going in that this would likely be a frustratingly difficult experience. I knew I'd have to know my Odyssey to fully appreciate Ulysses, and I don't really remember much about the Odyssey except the cyclops, the sirens, and Penelope's many suitors. (And I'm sure I remember these things mainly because of O Brother Where Art Thou.) I knew there'd be reams of inscrutable stream-of-consciousness and aggressive post-modernism.

I was also aware of Joyce's claim that "I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality." Which struck me as not unlike the famous quote frequently attributed to L. Ron Hubbard: "If you want to get rich, you start a religion." Joyce may have been only half-serious, and of course I can respect that. Yet I can't shake the feeling that his spirit is laughing at me and all the other chumps reading Ulysses nearly 100 years after its publication.

Still, I'm determined to finish the whole book, even if, as with Gravity's Rainbow, I'll be lucky to understand anywhere near half of it. Because it's there, like the Mount Everest of literature.

As for now, Ulysses is not without its charms. I dig the musical way it plays with words, long as it doesn't get too cutesy. I dig and respect the groundbreaking way it plays fast and loose with time and perspective, even if it feels like pointless overkill a lot of the time. And I even kind of dig the way it feels like one big shaggy dog of a practical joke, even if I, as the reader, am the butt of that joke.

Back to Ben: what do I think he would get out of Ulysses? Maybe he relates to it because he himself plays fast and loose with time and perspective. Or maybe he just needs to keep up the appearance of being a mastermind of intimidating intelligence.

Make Way For Chemistry

2009-03-01T17:25:00.004-05:00

I'm certainly open to the idea that the Soul is purely a function of a material system- I mean I'd hate for 22nd-Century humans to think I was some kind of flat-earthist, geo-centrist, creationist Neanderthal.

Yet isn't the Soul different from the orbits of the spheres, different from the evolution of life? Shouldn't the Soul, like God, be a concept so intangible as to be undetectable by pure science?

Let's say an alien crash-lands on a post-apocalyptic Earth and finds a discarded iPod, conveniently left with earphones intact and several hours of battery life remaining. And the alien turns the iPod on and starts hearing The White Album.

The alien listens to these sounds and thinks (in its alien language), Well these certainly don't sound like any sounds I've ever heard. And it wonders how those weird and beautiful sounds are being made.

So it dissects the iPod and finds that a computer chip is reading a bunch of ones and zeroes and converting them into sound waves, or however iPods work.

Now certainly, the alien now understands a few reasons why it heard the sounds it heard. But does it understand why George's guitar gently weeps? Or why John says Paul is the Walrus? Or a thousand other things that may or may not be knowable by anyone, including The Beatles themselves?

OK so it's not a perfect analogy, but I stand by it.

The Extinction of Extinction

2009-02-01T12:43:00.000-05:00

Science has resurrected the once-extinct Pyrenean Ibex- yep, just like Jurassic Park, only less awesome and terrifying. This news confirms what I've long suspected: that all those "Save the Whales!" type folks, while big-hearted and well-intentioned, were wasting their energy.

Where There's No Smoke, There's No Cool

2009-01-31T18:45:00.002-05:00

I don't smoke a lot of cigarettes anymore, but I'll always consider myself a smoker. Kind of like how I'll probably always consider myself a Catholic, even if I never go to Church and disagree with much of the dogma. It's just something that's born into you and never really leaves. I like to think I even have a sixth sense for knowing who smokes and who's a born Catholic before they tell me.

Anyway, while I know full well that smoking is unhealthy and, for many people, unpleasant, I'll always have a soft spot for cigarettes. In fact, I tend to feel tidal waves of white-hot prickly rage whenever I'm reminded of the increasingly draconian anti-smoking laws and attitudes of the past few years. Not that I expect hospitals and libraries to allow smoking or anything... but if we dare call ourselves a free country, then a privately-owned dive bar on the Lower East Side should be able to have a smoking section if it damn well pleases.

And now in response to the rise of anti-smokerism, it seems the tobacco companies are evolving. In a coup worthy of Don Draper himself, their product is becoming less gross, carcinogenic and addictive. Which is all well and good, I suppose. But I'm going to miss all the smoke.

Because let's be real here: smoke is the coolest part of smoking. The way it dances, especially in high-contrast lighting. It's slow and fast all at once. It's gentle and harsh. It goes pretty much wherever the fuck it wants. It's poetry in motion, and it's sexier than the devil's mistress. Nicotine buzz, schmicotine schmuzz- the buzz is overrated. Ciagrette smoke, on the other hand: underrated for far too many years now.

So the next time I give money to Big Tobacco, you better believe it won't be in exchange for a packet of smokeless pellets that dissolve under my tongue. I'm getting my money's worth: I'm gonna smoke, and I'm gonna look bad-ass doing it.

Happy Birthday, Lewis Carroll

2009-01-27T14:07:00.003-05:00

Talk about going down a rabbit hole- yesterday I spent close to an hour trying to figure out this article on the Boxxy phenomenon and the experience mindfucked me up somethin' good.

The mindfuckery had little to do with Boxxy herself, or why she became such a gargantuan meme in such a relatively minuscule window of time; Kids These Days are always hijacking attention spans by spewing vapidity in wacky voices. This kind of stuff is even logical and inevitable in an evolutionary way (Charlie Callas --> Robin Williams --> Boxxy).

The mindfuckery came when I visited this website they call /b/ (utterly NSFW, by the way). Since I'm old and unhip and haven't even heard a song by Animal Collective in its entirety, this /b/ world was completely alien to me. It was baffling, even frightening- and yet before I knew it, it had sucked me in for God knows how long.

Soon I was laughing, but had no idea why. I felt like I had smoked crack, inhaled a nitrous oxide balloon and stumbled into a virtual Dada museum from 50 years into the future.

So I guess since Kids These Days don't have as many mosh pits as we had back in the 1990s, this /b/ world is how they get primal. This must be how they give enemas to their brains, only without the threat of physical injury. This is how they trip balls without chemistry.

I may revisit this /b/ world again- maybe not on a regular basis, but whenever the need arises. Even if I still feel like what Chris Rock calls "the old guy in the club."

"Christina's World" In a New Light

2009-01-17T12:52:00.007-05:00

Reading the NY Times' obituary of Andrew Wyeth yesterday, I learned that Christina of "Christina's World" was based on a paraplegic woman who refused to use a wheelchair. And then the painting became so much more bad-ass than I ever realized, because, not having done much research on the subject, I always assumed that Christina either tripped and fell, or was waking up from a siesta in the grass, or maybe even had a serious drinking problem.

And like Bart Simpson when he learned that Johnny Tremain had a deformed hand, I got an idea: they should have called this painting "Christina, Who Refuses To Use a Wheelchair." Not for shock value, or to draw undue attention to Christina's paralysis, of course...but because it seems like that piece of information is kind of important to fully appreciate the painting, no?

Well anyway, here's to Christina...

The Questions We Ask (Collage Verse #1)

2009-01-08T00:40:00.003-05:00

Why must we conserve natural resources?

Why must we eat?

Why must we file federal income taxes?

Why must we confess our sins?

Why must we boil lobsters alive?

Why must we study atoms in biology?

Why do I never see baby pigeons?

Why do I sweat so much?

Why do I bruise so easily?

Why do I crave salt?

Why do I sleep so much?

Why do I feel nausea?

What happens if you don't pay a payday loan?

What happens if you drink bleach?

What happens if a dog eats chocolate?

What happens if you eat moldy bread?

What happened to Chris Benoit?

What happened to Seal's face?

What happened to Ben Savage?

What happened to Steve from Blue's Clues?

How do I know if I'm pregnant?

How do I know when I'm ovulating?

How do I know if my dog is pregnant?

How do I know if I'm bi?

How do I know if I'm in love?

When will gymnastics be on TV this week?

When will the world end?

When will I get married?

When will I receive my tax refund?

When will the next blue moon occur?

The Mystery of the Music at the Other End of the Phone

2008-12-29T01:04:00.002-05:00

My day job consists mostly of talking with strangers on the phone. Once in a while- a few times a week, maybe- I can hear music in the background on the other end of the line. And roughly 99.9% of the time, the music in the background is some kind of classical music. (Only twice have I heard non-classical music, and both times they were songs from R.E.M.'s Murmur. And it wasn't the same caller each time. Weird.)

Now most of these callers are rather old. Few are younger than 40. Some of them are so old they don't know if they'll live to see next month. (Their words, not mine.) Every single one of them is interested in off-Broadway theater, because that's the nature of my business. So why is it always classical music that I overhear?

Sure, maybe classical music is more popular with older people...but why is it always classical? Why do I never overhear any Bing Crosby?

And you'd think, with all these people calling about New York theater, maybe I'd overhear a Broadway showtune now and then...but there are never any showtunes.

No jazz, no blues, no klezmer...nothing but classical. And why?

And why so loud? Are these older classical music fans more hearing impaired than most people? If that were the case, they'd probably want to have fewer sounds in their ears while they're on the phone.

My best guess: these people who play classical music loud enough for me to hear over the phone must want me to hear it. Whether they enjoy classical music or not, they want me, a total stranger, to know that they listen to classical music...perhaps because they believe that's what smart, cultured people are supposed to listen to.

Or am I being too cynical here?

9 Or 10 Things I Learned From the Year's Great Movies

2008-12-21T01:48:00.005-05:00

From Transsiberian: Fear is a scary thing. It'll make us do horrible stuff we'd never ever do if we weren't so scared. Also, the continent of Asia continues to hate our American guts.

From The Dark Knight: Most of us want to be good, but deep down our collective morale dangles like a loose baby tooth. Sometimes we need to praise the guilty and demonize the innocent to keep up that morale. In addition, Heath Ledger's Joker is forever awesome.

From Wall-E: It's possible for a beloved family entertainment- besides Roald Dahl's Chocolate Factory franchise- to hold a large portion of its audience in brazen contempt. (Or, if Mike Judge wanted Idiocracy to be a huge success, he should have just made it a kids' movie.) And while not exactly a lesson, this movie made me hope, for the first time and from the bottom of my soul, that machines will one day be able to love.

From Synecdoche, New York: Life's a perplexing, hilarious disease, all the way up til the moment you die.

From In Bruges: Bruges seems like a cute, quaint little place to spend a weekend, but keep the hell outta purgatory- that place'll kill you.

Requiem For a Sports Entertainer

2008-12-18T14:53:00.002-05:00

The camera often lurks behind Randy "The Ram" Robinson (Mickey Rourke) as if it's Death perpetually sneaking up on him, ready to pounce, or at least tap him on the shoulder. Such is existence for a fifty year-old pro wrestler in the twilight of his life and career- so few escape from wrestling superstardom as successful as Mick Foley or The Rock. Far more often, these guys abuse themselves to death with drugs and violence, and The Wrestler is the story of a guy who just might be the next casualty.

May the gods bless writer Robert Siegel and director Darren Aronofsky for giving pro wrestling the proper Epic Sports Movie treatment; it's about damn time. Even though the filmmakers portray the sports entertainment world as kind of a soul-squashing purgatory for its veteran performers, they also show plenty of respect and sympathy. When they poke fun, it's more like the good-natured, elbow-nudging teasing of an old friend, and less like the biting satire of The Onion (where Siegel used to write).

Because it's an Oscar-Baiting Epic Sports Movie, it occasionally slips into cliche. Marisa Tomei plays a Stripper With a Heart of Gold (or at least silver), and Evan Rachel Wood plays the estranged daughter with whom The Ram tries to reconcile. (No points for guessing how the arc of that particular sub-plot plays out.) Naturally, it all builds toward a high-stakes Big Match. Of course a movie based on pro wrestling should be expected to have some degree of soap opera tropes, so we shouldn't hold these things against The Wrestler too much. Besides, most of the times it wanted to move me, it moved me, despite my snobbier instincts.

The movie also works so well because of how authentic it feels- at times I could swear I was watching the documentary Beyond The Mat again. Its minimal, cinema verite style is practically the polar opposite of everything Aronofsky's done before- I was expecting rapid-fire edits and jump cuts involving steroid injections and dropkicks, like the heroin injections and dilating pupils in Requiem For A Dream. Which is not to say The Wrestler doesn't have its share of squirm-inducing, visceral assault, because boy does it ever.

Most of the credit, however, goes to Mickey Rourke, who deserves all the hype you may have heard. He simply is Randy The Ram, and though the meta-connections between his real life and his character's life are hard to ignore, they're not necessary to savor this performance. His aching is palpable from the first frame and never lets up. If anyone else played The Ram, The Wrestler would probably weigh about 200 pounds less.

My Rating: 9 out of 10

Nominations: Best Actor, Best Director, Best Topless Dance Scene (all 3 involving Marisa Tomei)

Carpe Moment-em

2008-12-09T17:01:00.001-05:00

Because Earth's spinning more slowly these days, we get a whole extra second of 2008. Fun fact #2: This will be the longest year since 1992, when we also had a leap year in addition to a leap second. I usually take for granted such bonus time as leap days, or even daylight savings. But that ends this December 31st, at 6:59:60 p.m. - I just need to decide how exactly to seize the second. At first, I thought I'd either do a push-up- probably the most self-improvement I can achieve in one second- or I'd down a shot of whiskey- probably the most self-indulgence I can achieve in one second. Now I'm thinking I'll do a one-armed push-up while downing a shot of whiskey.

Swimming With The Dolphins

2008-12-01T20:09:00.006-05:00

We often hear about once-great TV shows, movie franchises and recording artists "jumping the shark," or in the wake of the abominable Indiana Jones 4, "nuking the fridge". But I don't think either of those terms necessarily applies to Axl Rose and the rest of what is now called Guns N' Roses. Yes, at least half of Chinese Democracy is coked to the gills, bloated and saggy like dead Elvis's gut...still...there's a handful of songs on that album that- well, they're not quite "Sweet Child O' Mine" or "Welcome To The Jungle"...and they're not quite worth a 17 year wait (and what in God's name is worth that kind of wait for mere mortals, except maybe True Love?) ...but the good stuff makes me grateful that Axl didn't end up blowing off the whole project like a, you know, red-headed step-child...

So Axl hasn't exactly jumped the shark or nuked the fridge. He's just swimming with the dolphins. Like in the "Estranged" video. He remains off the deep end, lost at sea, an island unto himself, and he'll probably stay there forever 'cause that's the only place where he feels anywhere close to home. Yet he can still occasionally communicate with higher intelligences- how else could he write a song like "Better," which achieves the nifty feat of sounding years ahead of its time while feeling like classic G N' R? ("Shackler's Revenge" and "I.R.S." also kick much ass for similar reasons.)

Though "swimming with the dolphins" also means that many of the songs on Chinese Democracy simply sound like half-assed re-writes of "Estranged." (See "Street of Dreams," "There Was A Time," "Catcher in the Rye," "Madagascar," and "This I Love.")

Swimming with dolphins does not mean failure, though some rock nerds argue that Chinese Democracy's overall mediocrity might as well be failure. Mediocrity is not failure, of course. (In other news, war is not peace and ignorance is not strength.) Chinese Democracy only fails when examined through that 17 year-long lens of anticipation, and remember: time is just an illusion. And what does Axl say about illusions? Use them, or lose them?

My Rating: 1.44 out of 2 Use Your Illusions, or .612 Appetite For Destructions

The Key to Synecdoche?

2008-11-22T12:10:00.001-05:00

Synecdoche, New York is one of those movies that I fell in love with immediately but can't necessarily recommend to many people I know, 'cause they'll probably find it indulgent and frustrating. (Also in this category, among others: Waking Life, Schizopolis). Its deadpan absurdity is just like every other movie written by Charlie Kaufman, most of which I would absolutely recommend to pretty much everybody, but unlike Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine... and the third act of Adaptation, there's nothing remotely resembling an attempt at a traditional plot.

In those other Kaufman movies, the viewer has far fewer conclusions to draw on their own. Synecdoche never stops asking you to draw your own conclusions, including the biggest one of all: What the hell is going on here?

After hours of reflection, I think I've figured out what the hell is going on there, although I'll have to enjoy the movie at least once more to see how well my theory holds up. (I guess technically I should say this is a "Spoiler Alert," even though it's not exactly a plot twist, and besides, I could be extremely wrong about it anyway). So here goes: the whole movie is Philip Seymour Hoffman's character's memory, as, during the last moments before he dies (possibly of suicide), he looks back on the second act of his life. Most of it's based on real events in the character's life, though many details have been distorted or surrealized due to a touch of dementia, and his half-waking/half-sleeping state of mind. End of "Spoiler."

However, my theory is just a fraction of what Synecdoche is about. Quite simply, it's about everything.

My rating: 98.76347 % of Infinity

Awards I Would Nominate it for If I Had My Own Annual Movie Awards: Best Picture, Director, Original Screenplay, Editing, Actor (PSH) Supporting Cast (everyone), maybe Art Direction

Rachel Getting Married Nominated for 6 Awards*!

2008-11-17T01:24:00.000-05:00

Even before seeing Rachel Getting Married, I felt like I had seen it dozens of times already: dysfunctional family with a tragic past, a recovering addict or two, a big wedding (or funeral, or whatever) on the brink of disaster, all shot like an artsy home video. But in Jonathan Demme's hands, all those well-worn themes feel remarkably and refreshingly alive.

You recognize a lot of the faces at Rachel's wedding, from Debra Winger to the singer of TV on the Radio, and yet it always feels like you're watching a real life family. A family that you might not want to spend time with on the hyper-tense night before the wedding, but hell yeah you'd want to kick it with them at the party after the wedding.

They have phenomenal taste in music, for one thing. Robyn Hitchcock's walking around with his guitar. Some garage-punk kids play "Here Comes The Bride" and at one point a Jamaican aunt grabs the mic and starts toasting reggae style. No offense to anyone I know that might get married soon, but any wedding I attend after today will appear to me as a horrendous failure compared to Rachel's wedding.

Anyway I can't believe I haven't mentioned Anne Hathaway yet, because I adore her. I've sat through both Ella Enchanted and The Princess Diaries just to watch her. To be honest, I did worry that she might not be up for a role as heavy as Kym (Rachel's sister, the recovering addict). Or worse, she could have overdone it and milked it for award gold. But her performance is terrific, which I think is mostly because it's so modest and restrained.

For instance, there's a cringe-inducing (in a good way) scene where Kym embarrasses herself during the rehearsal dinner. Many actresses (and lesser directors than J.D.) might amp it up and let Kym fly off the handle, but in this movie the scene is handled with subtlety; it becomes authentic and powerful.

The Altman-esque life of the movie only lost its grip on me at a handful of points during the second half. These moments felt contrived, either by being too convenient (e.g., an old acquaintance who happens to be in a hair salon at the same time as the bridesmaids) or too melodramatic (e.g., the way Kym spends the night before the wedding). None of these moments were deal-brakers for me, though, and by the time the wedding was over I loved humanity too much to even scold the obnoxious Eastern Europeans behind me who kept talking the whole damn time especially during some of the most quiet and dramatic parts for goodness sake at least whisper if you're gonna talk to each other, God!

My Rating: 11.584 out of 12 Steps

*Awards I Would Nominate it For If I Had My Own Annual Movie Awards:

Best Picture, Actress, Director, Supporting Actor (Bill Irwin), Cinematography, Editing

Sex, Drugs, Fame, Football

2008-10-05T22:41:00.005-04:00

"...everything one craves in a story," says Jeff Pearlman semi-jokingly (I assume) on page 310 of his new book, is "sex, drugs, fame, football." If you agree with at least half of that claim, then chances are you'll eagerly devour Boys Will Be Boys: The Glory Days and Party Nights of the Dallas Cowboys Dynasty.

Pearlman certainly knows how to tell stories of scandalous sports superstars, having previously written books on both Barry Bonds and the 1986 Mets (the latter, I've recommended here and here, though I haven't read the former). So it's no surprise that the sensational rise and tragic fall of the Aikman-Emmitt-Irvin Cowboys- the '86 Mets of 1990s football- is the subject of the author's latest effort.

While the big pictures of these two teams' tales are eerily similar, it's the saucy, lurid details- many of which are made public here for the first time- that make Boys Will Be Boys worth reading. And because Pearlman's done plenty of homework, drawing on research from over 50 books and interviews with nearly 150 Cowboys alumni, there's no shortage of saucy, lurid details- like Charles Haley's penchant for public masturbation, or the time Michael Irvin stabbed a teammate with a pair of barber scissors.

Sure, the dirt is the big selling point here, but Pearlman's extensive research and fair-minded approach ensure that his book is more than just unmerciful, tabloid trash. Unlike some other unmentionable books about the '90s Cowboys that, say, spread unsubstantiated gossip about Troy Aikman's sexuality, Boys paints a rich, and most importantly, honest portrait of a ridiculously talented, ridiculously flawed team. Having followed the team during my tween and teenage years, I can say that within these pages, all those highs and lows come back to life in living color, as if they happened just last Sunday.

The on-field triumphs and off-field transgressions may dominate the book, but there's still quite a few moments tender enough to warm the human heart. The biggest such moment comes, of course, during the last chapter ("Rebirth"), though I couldn't shake the feeling that it lacked at least a couple of pages to better explain how we got from point X to point Z. Nevertheless, the happy ending isn't any less touching because of the missing point Y.

I'm also happy to report that Pearlman's writing style has gotten leaner and more potent, at least more so than in his first book, The Bad Guys Won!, where he seemed to want to write the way SportsCenter anchors talk. (Again, I have yet to read his second book, Love Me, Hate Me: Barry Bonds and the Making of An Anti-Hero, but I'm sure I will sooner than later.)

Now that I've ripped through Boys Will Be Boys in less than a weekend, I can hardly wait to see what Pearlman's next book will be. At the risk of sounding obvious, may I suggest Bad Boys: The 1980s Detroit Pistons? Or perhaps Broad Street Bullies: The 1972-1976 Philadelphia Flyers?

My Rating: 16,541 out of Emmitt Smith's 18,355 Career Rushing Yards

Pictures from China (Vol. 1)

2008-10-03T10:30:00.010-04:00

The view from my window in Taipa, Macau.

Sunset on Lamma Island.

My newest friend, Henry (aka "Blowtorch").

A-Ma, goddess of the sea; Coloane, Macau

Big Buddha, Po Lin Monastery, Hong Kong

All photos by Ashley, except #1 by Joe

Whole Lotta Afterworld

2008-09-21T12:15:00.004-04:00

Fifteen years ago today, In Utero dropped. It's as great as it ever was, even if it sometimes tries too hard to tell us how much punker it is than Nevermind.

But I'm not here today to remind anyone how great In Utero is. Instead, I'm thinking about the lyric from "Pennyroyal Tea" that says, "Give me (a) Leonard Cohen afterworld/so I can sigh eternally," and how now, unlike in the fall of 1993, I have a much better idea what that lyric might be trying to say.

At 12 years old, knowing nothing about this Leonard Cohen gentleman, I assumed the best. I figured Kurt Cobain would have wanted a pleasant, relaxing afterlife, therefore Leonard Cohen must have been some laid-back stoner beach bum like Jimmy Buffett.

Over the next 15 years, however, I've become slightly more familiar with Leonard Cohen's music (I only have about 25 of his songs, but I listen to them a lot). And of course, now I know enough to realize that Leonard Cohen is not quite Jimmy Buffett.

Now, if there is an afterworld, and I have any kind of choice in the matter as to what kind of afterworld I get to exist in, I'd prefer that my afterworld and Leonard Cohen's music were not mutually exclusive. But to go so far as to request an afterworld where Leonard Cohen is the primary motif? That sounds worse than purgatory.

So no Leonard Cohen afterworld for me- give me a Led Zeppelin afterworld! At least for the first week or so after I arrive, I want it to be like Mardi Gras multiplied by 10 Super Bowl Victory Parties. I want angels pouring beers down my throat and screaming, "Wooooo! You made it to the afterworld, dude! Party the fuck out!" Also, lots of good-looking women of all shapes and colors should be dancing around with wizards and vikings and hobbits.

I guess eventually, after such epic partying, I would want to switch off the Zeppelin and change to something more mellow for a while, but I still wouldn't want to blast "So Long, Marianne" from the PA. As tender and beautiful as that song is, it would just be a party-killer.

Instead, I would like the cool-down portion of my afterlife to feel like Erik Satie's "Gymnopedies."

(Warning: the following video, while tasteful and classy, is probably Not Safe For Work.)

America's Next Top Great American Novelist

2008-09-17T13:09:00.001-04:00

I still don't understand why TV can produce reality-style competitions for singers, dancers, rock bands, movie directors, models, designers, chefs, and even hairdressers for some asinine reason, but as of yet I have seen exactly zero shows seeking America's Next Top Great American Novelist.

Oh I'm sure TV would respond with something like, "Because watching writers chain smoke and type on their laptops- whenever they're not staring into blank space- would be excruciatingly dull." And yes, TV would make a good point there. But I would respond to that response with, "You're just not using your brain hard enough, TV!"

After all, we wouldn't let these dorks just sit around, smoking and typing and staring. America's Next Top Great American Novelist can't rely on "peace and quiet" to succeed, unless he or she wants to succeed at becoming a drivel-spewing pansy. Our show will instead offer numerous challenges and distractions. In one episode, the contestants will have to write their stories while baby-sitting adorably mischievous children and/or animals. In another episode, each contestant will have to suck down a three-foot bong-hit of salvia divinorum before writing each paragraph. See- cramming excitement into a writer's life is not nearly as difficult as it seems.

"OK then," TV might say. "But how will you present the writers' work in each episode? If people wanted to read, they wouldn't be watching TV!"

And I'd say, "Listen up, TV, I've got it all figured out: We hire professional actors to read the writers' work aloud, as if they're doing an audiobook. Actors like Gary Busey. He's not doing anything that can't be interrupted for ANTGAN."

We'll also have a host called The Narrator, who narrates everything in Daniel Handler-esque prose. Incidentally, The Narrator should be played by Daniel Handler.

Now all we'd need is a literature-based catch-phrase to inform each contestant that they've been eliminated. Something like "The End," or "This is your final chapter," or "Thank you for your query offering us the chance to consider your material. Unfortunately, after carefully considering your material, we're afraid we cannot accept it at this time, as we are currently re-structuring our niche in the marketplace, and your work does not seem to suit the tastes of our desired target audiences. However, we encourage you to continue submitting your work to other publishers, and we wish you the best of luck and success in your writing career. Sincerely, America's Next Top Great American Novelist."

Needs More Reverb

2008-09-12T04:11:00.000-04:00

Brief thoughts on Death Magnetic:

After weeks of extensive research, I think I've got a darn good theory as to why Metallica continues to alienate so many erstwhile devotees, and the reason isn't Bob Rock, or "Nothing Else Matters," or shortened haircuts, or Lollapalooza '96, or any of the "Load" albums, or the San Francisco Symphony, or the Napster thing, or the group therapy, or even the ferociously awful St. Anger- though all of these things undoubtedly played their parts.

Instead of revisiting all those past indignities, I want to say one word. Just one word. Are you listening, James Hetfield?

Reverb.

If James Hetfield put reverb back in his vocals, Metallica would win back roughly 53.82% of the fans they've lost in the last 15 or so years. Trust me, those are some valuable numbers when you consider how many of these fuckin' kids today are stealing music on the internet.

'Cause you see, if Death Magnetic isn't completely awesome, it's at least close enough to sniff awesome's shampoo. And yet, the album has received lukewarm praise- at least from that pompous website which I won't name and which I don't even know why I still read anymore- and I think it's mainly because of reverb-less James Hetfield.

Some criticisms claim that the earlier and better Metallica albums used to "spit in the face of death," while Death Magnetic is more of a "midlife crisis" with "aging men trying to reclaim their youth." I'd argue that a midlife crisis is still a kind of spitting in death's face, but no matter; I don't see Death Magnetic as a midlife crisis anyway.

I see Death Magnetic like it's the scene near the end of a horror movie where, after it seems as if the monster's finally dead and buried (i.e. St. Anger), suddenly the monster busts out from under the earth and rips the throat out of the young girl who just put roses next to its tombstone. Also, the monster is a cobra the size of a locomotive and has the heaviest, most wicked licks since System of a Down's last two albums.

And if only James's vocals had that reverb of the earlier, better albums, we could more easily forgive the less lyrical lyrics, or even the sloppier tendencies in Lars's drumming. Heck, it worked on Ride the Lightning and Master of Puppets.

Thing is, we want Metallica to sound like they're headlining in Hell's Amphitheater, or in the deepest, darkest, most demonic pit of the human soul. When James has his reverb on, we get that feeling. Over time, however, his voice has gotten clearer and bigger in the mix; now he sounds like a voice in your head, and I think that's a little too close for comfort.

Obviously, reverby vocals don't play well on the FM airwaves, but Metallica doesn't need FM airwaves anymore anyway. They're fucking Metallica, and their tracks once again run an average of 7-plus minutes. (Besides, internet and satellite radio's where it's at these days.) So why not bring back the reverb too?

I guess Rick Rubin had a good reason for keeping those "YAH!"s clean and close on Death Magnetic. I'm not sure what his reasons were, but he seems like a sharp guy, and I'll trust his judgment. I mean, he did bring Johnny Cash back from the dead, too.

My Rating: 542.0279 out of 666

Heaven's Patriots

2008-09-11T01:03:00.003-04:00

A brief review of Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates:

A big chunk of America's infatuated with the idea that we're a "City Upon a Hill", and it doesn't look like this infatuation will dwindle anytime soon. It's in our country's DNA. This should come as no surprise to anyone with cable TV news and a high school diploma.

What most of us don't know, and what Sarah Vowell shows us in this book, are the lives of the folks who brought their starry-eyed visions of the City Upon a Hill from Olde England to New England. We may somewhat remember the names of John Winthrop, John Cotton, Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson, but here we really get to know them- like the kinds of theological hairs that they split, who got exiled where and why, the double-crosses, the war crimes, the stillborn demon babies they buried in the dead of night...

It's juicy stuff, particularly for fans of Puritan melodrama in the tradition of The Crucible and The Scarlet Letter, though much of the juice gets absorbed by all the dry prose. In moderate doses, the dryness adds a refreshing crackle, yet occasionally the mood crumbles from droll overload and stretches of textbook-flat prose, not to mention the shoehorned, semi-sarcastic references to Eminem, "The Brady Bunch" and Star Wars prequels.

The Wordy Shipmates has a lot to offer- as a soap opera, as a highly-accessible history lesson, as a minor sociological study. But I do wish that it offered a deeper exploration of the influence that the "City Upon a Hill" mentality has had on America's psyche, and what it might mean for our future. Vowell doesn't attempt to have a more apparent big-picture thesis than something along the lines of, 'the USA was founded by zealous Christian white folks who thought their God and only their God was the cure for what ailed all the poor, barbaric, heathen foreigners, therefore it's no surprise that George W. Bush invaded Iraq in 2003.' (Not her exact words, just the gist.)

Which is all well and true, but I felt starved for discussion of this topic. Like: are we in the USA trapped in an arrogant, opportunistic, interventionist, evangelical vicious cycle of City-Upon-a-Hillism 'til Armageddon day, or is this a juvenile phase we'll grow out of in a few more centuries? (After all, we're still relatively adolescent, in nation-state years.) Not that I expected to read the answers to this particular question. I just hoped for more questions like it.

My Rating: 349.7284 out of the 400 Wampum Demanded by the Boston Puritans from the Pequot as Retribution for the Murder of Captain John Stone, Even Though Stone Was Exiled From Massachusetts Under Penalty of Death for Being a Drunk and an Adulterer

The Greatest Baseball Movie Never Made (Yet...)

2008-09-08T18:01:00.003-04:00

In case you didn't already know, I'm a life-long, die-hard Yankees fan, a trait that was passed down to me by my dad back in the 80s, one of the few periods in baseball history when being a Yankees fan didn't necessarily mean you had the privileged task of cheering on a perennial playoff team. (Hopefully this season is just a fluke, and not the start of another lackluster era- at least if Chien-Ming Wang doesn't hurt himself on the basepaths again.)

Most fellow baseball fans seem surprised when I tell them that I don't hate the Yanks' neighborhood rivals, the Mets. The Boston Red Sox, however, I hate more than pretty much any organization that isn't responsible for some kind of genocide. But as far as the Mets go, I am, to paraphrase Moe Syszlak, a well-wisher, in that I don't wish them any specific harm- unless they're playing the Yankees.

And, if I could wish into existence any baseball-related movie, it would be a 2 and a half-hour epic based on the coke-and-ego-fueled (is that redundant?) championship season of the 1986 Mets. Sure, the '96 Yanks were a classier act, but who wants to watch a baseball movie about class acts? I may have grown up rooting for the Yankees, but I didn't grow up watching Pride of the Yankees; I grew up laughing my ass off to Major League and Bull Durham. In other words, I like my baseball movies to be scuzzy, nursing a month-long hangover, wallpapered with foul language and reeking of the 1980s. (From what I heard, The Bronx is Burning looked semi-interesting, but I don't know if I could take John Turturro seriously in those fake Billy Martin ears...)

Anyway, I occasionally spend some of my daydreaming time plotting and casting this would-be Best Picture-winner based on the '86 Mets. There's already been a book written about that colorful season (The Bad Guys Won! by Jeff Pearlman), and I would of course adapt the screenplay from that. Sure, Pearlman's relentless, lame attempts at both humor and lively prose got on my nerves roughly once per page, but I imagine even the hackiest hack couldn't make this story non-fascinating. To be fair, though, Pearlman is far from a hacky hack; overall, he does a fine job bringing not just the characters but the entire '86 season to life, and I recommend the book to any baseball fan.

My first choice for director would be Boogie Nights auteur PT Anderson, who I hope would tap into his uncanny talent for staging drugged-up, ensemble-driven portraits of innocence-lost Americana; if he's unavailable or uninterested, then I'd hand the camera over to Ron Shelton, famous for Bull Durham and White Men Can't Jump, which, as far as I know, are the two funniest and most vulgar sports comedies ever made.

Nothing against Mr. Shelton, but I do hope Mr. Anderson will accept my offer, because I plan on casting many of his favorite actors in this picture. For instance, John C. Reilly...

...would have to play the goofy, goody-goody man-child who can't say no to any commercial endorsement, cacther Gary Carter:

Sure, John C. is at least a decade older than Gary was in '86- and in fact a lot of these actors will be older than baseball players should be- but let's suspend our disbelief for the sake of great art, shall we? I mean, just imagine John C. re-enacting that Newsday ad! Though if he doesn't sign on, his cinematic step-brother Will Ferrell would make a nice fit as well.

We also have Alfred Molina (Dr. Octopus)...

...as cocky, coke-head 1st Baseman Keith "I'm Keith Hernandez" Hernandez...

Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje (Mr. Eko from Lost)...

...would play the role of George Foster, the taciturn, bitter and past-his-prime former star who hates his teammates so much, he won't even get off his ass during a bench-clearing brawl...

And our star, Don Cheadle...

will portray Dwight "Doc" Gooden, the young pitching phenom who eventually wastes his potential thanks to a crippling cocaine habit.

There are plenty of other great characters in this story- particularly Darryl Strawberry- for whom I can't yet think of actors to play their parts. Any suggestions from fellow baseball fans/movie buffs would be warmly welcomed.

Top 13 Songs That I Remember Exactly Where I Was And What I Was Doing When I First Heard Them

2008-09-01T01:15:00.016-04:00

The following 13 songs are not necessarily the "best" 13 songs that I specifically remember hearing for the first time; I'm pretty sure they're the only 13 songs that fit this category. (Except that new Metallica song, but that was just a week ago.) Not even "Smells Like Teen Spirit" or "Stairway to Heaven" are on this list, even though I assumed they would be. I don't know if this means that these 13 songs are extra special to me, or if my memory is just hazy. Probably both.

In no particular order:

1. "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" - The White Stripes
(January 2002, Tower Records on 4th Street & Broadway, New York City)

In the latter half of 2001, I had heard and read a lot of buzz about how these White Stripes were going to save rock music, even more so than The Strokes allegedly had just a few months earlier. So when I saw their new album White Blood Cells in one of the listening stations at the East Village Tower Records, I put on the headphones and pressed play.

By the time that the first track was even half over, I knew deep in my bones that this was a band that I would have a long and fruitful relationship with. It was punk, pop, blues, metal, country, R&B, - in short, everything that makes American music great (except maybe hip-hop), distilled into one singer/guitarist and one drummer, so potent and yet so simple they didn't even seem like they were breaking a sweat, even if they sounded like they were stomping on skyscrapers.

I listened up through "Fell In Love With a Girl," at which point I took the headphones off, bought the album, and ran home to listen to it roughly 700 times over the next three months. And to this day I still think the Stripes are the greatest American band out there.

2. "Ponta De Lanca Africano (Umbabaraumba)" - Jorge Ben

(August 2007, Kim's Video, St. Mark's Place, New York City)

This one's another listening station experience, only the store is much hipper. On a whim I started listening to this album Africa Brasil (which happened to be on a list of the 50 most popular albums at Kim's) because I had never heard any Brazilian music aside from Os Mutantes, and wanted to hear more of it.

A minute later, I knew I needed to own this song and this album, and a year later, "Umbabaraumba" is tied for the #1 all-time played song on my iPod. It's what the definition of groovy ought to be. If you ever see me walking down the street with my headphones on and I'm strutting around like I own the place, chances are I'm listening to this tune.

Because the lyrics are in Portuguese, I was a little disappointed when I found out that this song is not, as I originally imagined, the theme to the Brazilian equivalent of Shaft, but is actually about soccer. But that doesn't make the song any less wonderful.

3. "Enter Sandman" - Metallica

(July 1991, My Bedroom, Melville, New York)

I promise this is the last time I'll write about Metallica, at least until Death Magnetic is released on September 12. Anyway, it was on a July evening around 10:30 p.m. when, as was my daily routine at the time, I was watching MTV's nightly countdown of the 5 most requested videos of the day. Because Nirvana's Nevermind was still a few months away from revolutionizing the rock music industry (according to every single article or documentary that mentions Nirvana), those 5 videos were typically of the "hair metal" genre.

So when it was announced that the video debuting at #1 that day was Metallica's new single, I was intrigued. I had heard of Metallica, but until then had never actually heard their music- not even "One." After watching the video, full of strobe-lit visions of James Hetfield's snarling lion face, and some poor kid drowning and then getting chased by an 18-wheeler, I thought I'd have nightmares the rest of my life. I also thought, this band kicks some heavyweight ass.

4. "Alone Again Or" - Love

(August 2001, My Dad's Audi, Somewhere in Houston, Texas)

Me and three of my college buddies took a road trip to Texas in the summer after our sophomore year, and of course we stocked the car with dozens of our favorite CDs. At some point while driving through Houston, Dilee put in Love's Forever Changes, which I had never heard before.

(OK this one's a bit of a cheat- I had seen Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket several years earlier, which uses "Alone Again Or" on the soundtrack during one of its scenes, but I didn't remember it. So in a sense, I was hearing it for the first time.)

The first track dumbfounded me, with its blend of folk, pop, psychedelia and mariachi, as well as the way it built toward the soaring chorus: "I could be in love with almost everyone/I think that people are the greatest fun/and I! Will! Be! Alone Again, tonight, my dear..." and then suddenly, all that hippie-love fanfare dies with a whimper, not a bang.

Forever Changes was the first album I bought once I got back to New York a couple weeks later. Since then, I've spun it all the way through dozens of times, and I still discover new treasures every time I listen to this beautiful and mysterious album.

5. "The Rockafeller Skank" - Fatboy Slim

(August 1998, My Dad's Boat, Somewhere in the Long Island Sound)

As I mentioned a couple weeks ago in my post about Girl Talk, this is how sampling should be done. As I was cruising in a boat with my dad and my sister, this song came on 92.7 FM and I was transfixed for the next seven minutes. I knew right away that this song would be all over the radio and TV commercials and movie soundtracks for the next year or two, and for one of the few times in my teenage life, I was absolutely correct.

And even after all that overexposure, I still get a kick checking out the funk soul brovah.

6. "Paranoid Android" - Radiohead

(July 1997, My Bedroom, Melville, NY)

I'd like to say I was keen enough to dig this song the first time I heard it, but that's not entirely true; this is the only song on the list that wasn't quite love at first listen. Which isn't to say I disliked it either. I think my initial reaction was something like: "Guh?"

Like "Enter Sandman," it's also a song that I simultaneously heard and saw for the first time, which might explain part of my confusion. Because not only is "Paranoid Android" like no other song before it, but the video is an animated acid trip/shaggy dog story, and so when I saw it premiere on MTV's 120 Minutes on that Sunday night in 1997, most of my brain was trying to figure out what the hell I was watching. If I could have done it over again, knowing then what I know now, I'd close my eyes and just lose myself in the Frankenstein cyborg that is the song itself, as I would come to do on many a stoned-and-headphoned evening during my Junior year of high school.

A few months after I was left befuddled by "Paranoid Android," I saw/heard "Karma Police"- a far more accessible song by Radiohead standards- which led me to purchase OK Computer, aka Quite Possibly the Greatest Album Ever, Except For Maybe London Calling.

7. "Little Wing" - Jimi Hendrix

(August 1994, The Basement of Murphy's Music, Huntington, NY)

This item on the list is unique in that the first time I heard this song, I wasn't hearing the famous Hendrix version, and I wasn't even hearing a recording. I was walking down to the basement of a local guitar store to take my weekly guitar lesson, and I heard my teacher, Pete K, playing the most gorgeous and transcendent melodies on his Les Paul.

Because I was, at the time, a 13 year-old rocker in 1994 with limited knowledge of the classics, I thought Pete K was actually playing an embellished version of Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter," aka "The Most Incoherent Eddie Vedder Vocal Ever, and That's Saying A Lot." Of course I knew and loved many Hendrix tunes, but until Pete K told me that the song he was playing was actually the song that Pearl Jam pilfered for "Yellow Ledbetter," I had no idea "Little Wing" existed. (For the record, I still enjoy "Yellow Ledbetter" despite its transparent, unabashed pilfering.)

Not only did Pete K's rendition of "Little Wing" lead me to buy Axis: Bold As Love soon thereafter, but it inspired me, if only a tiny bit, to play guitar better than I ever thought I could. For the most part, my guitar stylings have always slanted toward the Ramones school of loud, fast power chords, with occasional Jack White-Lite riffage. God Bless Pete K, a talented and patient guitar teacher, who always tried to teach me scales so I could solo like Jerry Garcia or Jimmy Page, but I never had the discipline to work on that stuff. Until I heard "Little Wing" that is. To this day it remains the one guitar solo I practiced and practiced and practiced until I got it right, because I loved it so.

8. "Hey Ya"- OutKast

(August 2003, My Apartment, 5th Street & 2nd Ave, New York City)

I wonder why so many songs/moments on this list are from the summer. Is it because that's when all the catchiest tunes come out? Anyway, by the end of Summer 2003, I, like squillions of other young Americans, had been waiting nearly 3 years for OutKast to follow up Stankonia. That album may have been at least 15 minutes too long, but it did have at least a half-dozen of the best tracks in the history of hip-hop. (And I'd still argue that I have yet to hear better hip-hop songs than "B.O.B." or "Ms. Jackson.")

So when my buddy Fabian came by one night and told me that the newest OutKast song was online, I rushed to my laptop to download it. Then for the next four minutes I wore a goofy, child-like smile, and at some points I just plain laughed. Yes, part of the reason I laughed was because of Andre 3000's monologue in the song's second half, where he tells us to shake it like a Polaroid picture, and spits out genius couplets like "I wanna see y'all on your baddest behavior/lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor."

But I also just laughed from how goddamn motherfucking perfect that song was- infectious and breezy and simple in the best possible way. Just like how the guys of Led Zeppelin started laughing during their first rehearsal, because they knew they had just discovered something magical and monumental, and sometimes all you can do in that kind of situation is laugh at life's magnificent surprises.

9. "The Real Slim Shady" - Eminem

(May 2000, the backseat of my friend's car, Huntington NY)

I laughed a lot hearing this song too, but of course it was purely because of Eminem's cleverly stupid humor and meta-trickster hijinks. Before this, I dismissed "My Name Is" cause I thought Eminem's flow was sloppy and the song reeked of novelty. After this, I realized Marshall Mathers was much smarter than I gave him credit for, and I spent the summer of 2000 consuming and dissecting the flawed but undeniably fascinating Marshall Mathers LP.

10. "Where Is My Mind?" - The Pixies

(September 1999, Movie theater playing Fight Club, Union Square, New York City)

1999 was a magical year for movies, and I'm sure I'll elaborate on that in some other post in the near future. But one of the movies that made '99 so magical was Fight Club, and one of the countless magical scenes in that movie is of course the final one, where the credit card company headquarters get blown up to The Pixies' "Where Is My Mind?"

This scene was not just my introduction to that wonderful song, but my intro to the Pixies as well- aside from reading or hearing the band's name referenced in all those articles about Nirvana. A few days after Fight Club melted my central nervous system, I bought a greatest hits collection called Death To The Pixies and the clerk who rang me up at Virgin Megastore said, "After you listen to this and you decide you want every other Pixies album, start with Doolittle." I'm pretty sure he was trying to hit on me, but his advice proved prescient and wise. In fact I think everyone in the world, not just novice Pixies fans, should own Doolittle if they don't already. Surfer Rosa too. And Bossanova and Come On Pilgrim.

11. "Jesus Of Suburbia" - Green Day

(September 2004, My Apartment, St. Mark's Place & Avenue A, New York City)

If you're a Green Day fan who was between the ages of 13 and 30 in 2004 and were far from satisfied with George W. Bush's first term as President, I'll bet that you too know exactly where you were when you first heard this.

12. "In My Life" - The Beatles

(New Year's Eve 1997, my friend's basement, Dix Hills, NY)

Oddly enough this is the only Beatles tune on this list, though not so oddly it is on my list of Top 5 Beatles Songs. (The others, as I'm sure you were wondering: "A Day in the Life," "Happiness Is A Warm Gun," "Let It Be," and the second half of Abbey Road. Yes I'm allowed to count that as one song.)

Though on second thought I guess it's not so odd that I don't remember the first time I heard most Beatles songs, because so many of their songs seem to have been etched into my memory before I knew I had a memory.

Yet "In My Life" managed to fly under my personal radar until I was almost 17, when a girl that would soon become my first real girlfriend told me it was her favorite Beatles song, and she played it for me in the basement of our friend's house during an unsupervised New Year's Eve party. While most everyone else was getting drunk upstairs, I was having the time of my life in that basement with that girl, listening to the most beautiful pop song I'd ever heard, or probably will ever hear.

Me and that girl didn't last more than five months, but I hope I never lose that memory. After all, it's exactly the kind of memory John's singing about in the song itself! Woah...mindfuck...

13. "I Wanna Be Sedated" - The Ramones

(May 1993, My Sister's Sweet 16 Party, somewhere on Long Island)

While my sister and her friends spent the entire night dancing giddily to party anthems I was already sick of at 12 years old- stuff like "Born to Be Alive" and "Break My Stride"- I ambled around and counted the minutes until it was over.

Then the DJ played "I Wanna Be Sedated," and after that, my life was never the same.

I didn't know much at 12 years old, and of course I still don't. But I knew at that moment, just as I know today, that The Ramones were the essence of rock and roll. Yes The Beatles are the greatest band of all time, yada yada, but how hard did they rock? Oh right- not very hard. Not very hard at all.

The sound of The Ramones is the sound of freedom and fun. The Ramones are the fulcrum- everything in rock before was just leading up to the creation of The Ramones, and everything in rock since has been shaped by The Ramones. A world without The Ramones would be... well I just don't even want to begin to imagine such horrors.

Yes, at that moment in 1993, I knew all of these things to be true, that they be written in the bones and DNA of the human species by the gods themselves. By the time Joey finished singing that first "Ba-ba-bamp-ba," I knew it. I knew my next trip to the record store would involve buying something, anything by these fabulous, fantastic Ramones, and I hoped that all their songs would sound just like "I Wanna Be Sedated," because I knew it was a formula that would always and forever, from that moment on, cure whatever might ail me.

Dude, Where's My Car Chase?

2008-08-17T22:29:00.013-04:00

A review of David Gordon Green's Pineapple Express:

You don't have to love weed to love Pineapple Express, but you probably do have to love movies. More specifically, you have to love movies that love movies, especially the type of movies that would have theme songs by Huey Lewis and The News.

OK, so technically the only other movie in that class would be Back To The Future, but hopefully you know what I mean. I mean stuff like Hot Fuzz, or anything by Tarantino. Movies where original, memorable, real characters get into unreal situations- like two pot-heads getting caught in the middle of a bloody war between two drug-dealing gangs. Movies where nearly every line of dialogue is quotable, and the violence makes you cringe and laugh at the same time. Though I do agree with Jim Emerson when he says that "all it's missing, really, is R-rated T & A." Come on, would one gratuitous strip-club scene have been too much to ask for?

Actually there's one other thing I found lacking, and that would be scenes involving villains Gary Cole and Rosie Perez. They get a couple of brief moments to shine, but capital M-Movies like these really ought to have larger-than-life, scene-stealing villains; however, the most memorable bad-guys here are the henchmen played by Kevin Corrigan and Craig Robinson.

If anyone actually steals the movie though, it's James Franco, who will hopefully show off his comic chops more often from now on. Seth Rogen is funny- who else could pull off a line like "(This weed) smells like God's vagina!"- but he's pretty much playing Seth Rogen again. Danny McBride is also funny, though his performance occasionally verges on caricature while most of the others are fairly grounded. But it's Franco's portrayal of Saul, the sweet and loyal pot dealer- along with David Gordon Green's deft balancing act of realism with Movieism- that makes the movie transcendent. If not for them, the scene where Rogen carries an unconscious Franco out of an exploding building might have just been funny because it spoofs scenes where one buddy carries his unconscious buddy out of an exploding building. Instead, it might also make you a little misty, because you actually care whether Saul makes it out alive.

My rating: Seven-eighths of an ounce

"Only In New York!"

2008-08-11T14:53:00.004-04:00

On the A train to Times Square this morning, some dude sitting across from me suddenly busted out into this rambling, stream-of-consciousness monologue, which surprised me because he didn't fit my stereotype of a rambling subway monologuer. He was probably in his late 20s/early 30s, rather than being old enough to be a Vietnam vet; he was also relatively clean-shaven and well-groomed, and had no noticeable body odor.

I couldn't understand most of what he was saying (despite his repeated use of the phrase "know what I'm sayin"), but his gist was that he used to rob people, and once he even cut up a guy "with a Rambo knife," but now he doesn't do stuff like that anymore, because "God helps people who helps themselves." As the train pulled into the 34th Street station, he said, "Peace out, yo," and stepped off. And that's when the dude who was sitting next to the monologuer the whole time uttered that phrase I hate so much: "Only in New York!"

I love New York City, and I do think it's the greatest city in the world, and certainly it's unique in many ways. Granted, I've been to about 14 cities in my entire life. But that "Only in New York!" attitude is one of the reasons people from other cities often think we New Yorkers are so full of ourselves. Guess what, "Only in New York!"ers: crazy motherfuckers are everywhere. We may see crazies more often 'cause there's 8 million of us crammed onto this tiny island, but if you go to any place where human beings exist, it's a safe bet that you'll find crazies.

Perhaps if you saw Donald Trump and Lou Reed brawling inside the Statue Of Liberty's head, then it would be appropriate to say "Only in New York!" But that's about the only time.

On a related note, not all New Yorkers are assholes. I realize this is common knowledge to many people, but apparently it still comes as a surprise to many people when a New Yorker does anything nice for a stranger. Back before I started ignoring everything in the New York Times except the crossword puzzle, I used to come across this weekly feature whose name I can't remember or find on the internet right now. But it was where readers would submit short personal anecdotes about things that happened to them in New York City. Naturally, it seemed that at least once a week, one letter would end with "Only In New York!"

But even worse, it seemed that at least once a week they'd publish another type of letter, something along the lines of: "So I was walking down the street when a stranger came up to me and said, 'Excuse me sir, but I believe you dropped your wallet, and here it is,' and when I opened my wallet, all my cash and credit cards and personal ID cards were still there! I can't believe there are still people like this in New York!" Because, you know, in New York- and ONLY in New York- everyone's a crazy thief.

Sampling a Sampler

2008-08-10T19:35:00.011-04:00

A review of Girl Talk's Feed The Animals:

Should you decide to download Girl Talk's new album, but would rather not pay a single cent for it, you'll be asked why, and will be offered multiple choices for your answer. I had only heard bits and pieces of Feed The Animals before I decided to download it free of charge; I was curious to hear the whole album, but still wasn't sure if I'd thoroughly enjoy it. So I considered reason #1 for paying $0.00: "I may donate later." If I really liked it, that might be true, but I couldn't even commit to that response.

Choice #2: "I can't afford to pay." Sure, I don't make much money these days, but even a $.01 donation wouldn't break my bank. So I passed on that answer too.

#3: "I don't really like Girl Talk." I didn't know for sure just yet if that were true.

#4: "I don't believe in paying for music." Not necessarily true. I'm the only person I know who paid for Radiohead's In Rainbows (a cool $10) 'cause I'm profoundly grateful for Radiohead. Plus, I didn't exactly pay for my copies of their two previous albums, and thought this might make up for that. (It probably doesn't.)

#5: "I have already purchased this album." I had not.

#6: "I don't value music made from sampling." To me, this is a complex issue that can't be answered with a simple 'agree' or 'disagree.' I'll explain in just a moment.

#7: "I am part of the press, radio or music industry." I could make the argument that I am, but it would be a very flimsy argument.

#8: "Other reasons." Bingo! And my download began...

...and after a few spins, I'm not sure I'll "donate later." It's not that Feed The Animals or Girl Talk isn't enjoyable, but it was enjoyable on exactly one level during the first listen- the level of "Hey, cool, he mixed 'Lithium' with 'Groove Is In The Heart'!" After that, I think the only other environment I could enjoy this album would be dancing in a club on a Saturday night after I've had a few drinks, which I don't really do anymore. Most of my music listening nowadays is done in the privacy of my own stereo or headphones, and here, Girl Talk provides few rewards after repeated listening.

Other sample-based artists- The Avalanches, Moby, Beck, Fatboy Slim, and Paul's Boutique-era Beastie Boys being popular examples- at least seem to put some effort into how they twist and reconfigure their samples. I don't hear much in Girl Talk's "songs" aside from the formula of "Verse From Hit Rap Song + Hook From Hit Pop/Rock Song." Sometimes, he'll speed up or slow down a verse or hook to match the necessary tempo, but that's pretty much it. Remember how The Avalanches took samples from about 37 different recordings to make the mind-blowing "Frontier Psychiatrist"?

Or how Fatboy Slim manipulated "Right about now/the funk soul brother" a bunch of different ways for 7 minutes and made "The Rockafeller Skank"? Well there's nothing remotely like that stuff on Feed The Animals.

If there were, I might have gone back to the website and donated a few bucks. But I get the feeling that if I had the right software and a few extra hours of free time, I could have easily made Feed The Animals myself. And I still wouldn't listen to it more than once in a blue moon.

My Rating: 2.73 out of 5 Samples