Eternal recurrence of the concept album

According to the Christian Science Monitor, concept albums are hip again. The uncharacteristically anemic article drops names like Brian Wilson, The Streets, Camper Von Beethoven, and Green Day (for God's sake) as the heirs apparent to a new flourishing of rock-operas. The CSM notes that all of these people have put out concept albums since 2001, as though that were some mystical milestone year in which the form was exhumed and reanimated at the altar of Lou Reed.

This is just wrong and overemphasizes a new crop of concept albums as the first of their kind in a long time. Some of the best albums of the late 90's and early millennium were rock operas (and hip-hoperas as appropriate).

It just takes someone with a name like Elvis Costello or Green Day (for God's sake) to get people to take notice I suppose (and lament).

I won't even talk about Radiohead's seminal OK Computer, which really did kick start the concept album thing, at least in my own mind. That, of course, was back in 1997.

Maybe that was too Sci Fi to be considered a rock opera (what, then, of Ziggy Stardust), or didn't follow a single character. It did though, create and fully flesh out a world of human angst, hatred and bigotry that was perfectly fluid and cyclical. It's certainly better than American Idiot (this is a prediction, as I haven't yet heard American Idiot).

There are a half-dozen or so (that I know of) absolutely brilliant concept albums that I'm sure will equal or surpass in quality almost anything in this new wave of conceptualitude. Most of these, now that I think about it, are rap albums. They are, of course, rap albums you may not have heard of because, as in pop music, brilliance always gets pushed to the bottom while the immense pile of more-accessible (and crappier) thug and dance hall ephemera floats to the surface, free of the ballast of creativity and insight. They also, almost without exception, have deep ties to the world of comics and Sci Fi that I'm sure many listeners would be turned off by. Chronologically, they are:

Dr. Octagon -- Octagonagologist -- 1996
Maybe my favorite hip-hop album ever. Dr. Octagon is the alter-ego of rapper Kool Keith, who did a string of back to back concept albums in the late 1990's. This one is the first and best. Keith drops post-apocalyptic, gross-out, comic-book bombshells on every track. His style in general is insane, consistently fashioning rhyme schemes that still create small wormholes in the dope-cortex of my brain, changing me forever. Octagon is a Super-Anti-Hero for the new millenium, and the perfect instantiation of Keith's paranoid schizophrenia.

All of this is laid over brilliant and perfectly fit acid-funk-drive-in-horror-show beats by Dan the Automator, who has collaborated on a number of concept albums himself. Automator's beats always fit the occasion perfectly and show a deep knowledge and respect for the pop culture of the last 50 years. Dr. Octagon is transcendent.

The RZA as Bobby Digital -- In Stereo -- 1998
Orchestrating the beats and dropping most of the best rhymes for the Wu-Tang Clan wasn't enough for the RZA (aka Rzarector, the Razor), nor was fronting and producing the Gravediggaz, nor was writing film scores for movies like Ghost Dog (most recently, Kill Bill), He wanted to do something that was uniquely his own. Here, In Stereo, is something unique, a rap album with no guests. RZA did everything himself and made the journey intensely personal. He mostly drops the Wu's Eastern Mysticism and to a large extent the low-fi samurai samples in favor of beat-boxed computer bleeps and thrumming bass. It's a hip-hopera about the man he was, the hard drinking, one-time-loving, fast living, aimless kid that became one of the most prolific and influential producers ever. It's probably the best Wu-Tang connected album to date. Digital Bullet, the 2001 sequel, continues the theme, but it's just not the same somehow.

Dr. Dooom -- First Come, First Served -- 2000
Dr. Dooom effectively kills Dr. Octagon on the first track of this album, solidifying the serial pulp universe Kool Keith builds around himself. He's an ever evolving persona. Still tight, just not as. Also look for Kool Keith in Black Elvis/Lost in Space (1999), which is more Flash-Gordonish and break-beat centered.

Deltron 3030 -- Self-titled -- 2000
Del the Funky Homosapien teams with Dan the Automator to create a post-apocalyptic world of high technology and apartheid. This time it's not so much a matter of race as it is a matter of style. On Earth, in the year 3030, those in power have "imprisoned/all citizens empowered with rhythm." The resistance, in Fahrenheit 451 fashion, are a group of rhythm aesthetes who find alternate ways to express themselves: "we keep the funk alive by talking with idioms." Del's world is more carefully crafted than either the RZA or Kool Keith's, and Automator's beats have matured significantly since Octagon. Here Dan elects to drop the horror movie motif and adopt a far more sweeping cinematic style. The feel remains oppressive however--good, for an album about dystopian apartheid. The beats would be at home in 2001: A Space Odyssey just as easily as they fit Deltron's scenario. Dan the Automator is a beat chameleon who never fails to impress the hell out of me.

Grandaddy -- The Sophtware Slump -- 2000
Grandaddy is one of my favorite bands. They're often and unfairly compared to OK Computer-era Radiohead. They're only like Radiohead inasmuch as they're focused on an uncertain future and they utilize electronic beats. They have none of the angst of Radiohead and pop sensibilities more akin to Weezer, but the inexplicable comparison remains. Unlike OK Computer, which was filled with sapien-centric paranoia about androids in our midst, The Sophtware Slump takes a compassionate look at our creations. At a time when the only thing faster than the pace of technology is the pace at which technology becomes obsolete, what happens when our gadgets become smart enough to be self-aware? When we move successively through the onrushing generations of gizmos, how does that make the obsolete and forgotten feel? These are pointed metaphysical quandaries not being explored outside of Japan at the moment. It's a lush and beautiful album.

Gorillaz -- Self-Titled -- 2001
Finally getting to the year the Christian Science Monitor has arbitrarily denoted as the reawakening of the concept album, we are given something brave and unique, if something that doesn't quite fire on all cyllendars. Rather than presenting a story or thematic narrative, the concept of the Gorillaz is the band itself. A Pop-hop experiment masterminded by Damon Albarn of Blur and (yet again) Dan the Automator and featuring the likes of Sean Lennon, Del the Funky Homosapien and even Ibrahim Ferrer (Buena Vista Social Club) Gorillaz is an undead Spinal Tap. Each member takes on the life of a zombie, with it's unique perks and pratfalls. For the first time ever a band asks, how can someone be undead and stay funky--even fresh? It's far from perfect and a few tracks fall right on their ass, but it's courageous and did a lot to further the synthesis of pop and hip-hop.

Kid Koala -- Nufonia Must Fall -- 2003
I just noticed this. Kid Koala is a Montreal-based DJ deeply entrenched in the indie scene. Nufonia Must Fall is, apparently, a wordless graphic novel with accompanying soundtrack. Kid envisioned in the vein of a silent movie, where emotion can only be demonstrated via the faces of the actors and through the orchestral score. Very cool. This certainly pushes the boundaries of a concept album far beyond anything Green Day (for God's sake) or Elvis Costello are doing at the moment.

Yes, you have met the dangerous 208 year-old uncle of Dr. Octagon.
I myself Mr. gerbik. half-shark, half-man, skin like alligator.
Carrying a dead walrus. check it.

Read the full thing here.

Trust me

Kazuo Ishiguro knows something about sadness, having made a career out of crafting beautiful, heartbreaking novels about personal tragedy and failure.

What I'd never seen him do before, though, was make tragedy and failure quirky and hilarious. Remains of the Day was just plain sad. So was When We Were Orphans.

But he's managed to do just that in the screenplay for "The Saddest Music in the World," which he co-wrote with Guy Maddin, who directed. It's a grainy and poorly-lit absurdist romp through a decade of grief that touched the entire world. It's really funny.

It's 1933. America's in a depression and isn't allowed to drink. Thankfully, it seems as though prohibition will be ending soon so while Americans may still be depressed, they'll at least be able to forget about it for hours at a time. Lady Helen Port-Huntley (Isabella Rossellini) wants to cash in on this dam of sorrow as soon as it breaches. She's a beer baroness and double-amputee who's seen her share of the stuff, and knows what it does to alcohol sales.

So she holds a contest to see which country can boast the saddest music in the world, which she will then turn into the ultimate glum drinking song. Like she says, "If you're sad, and you like beer, I'm your girl." The competition is a single elimination deathmatch of sadness, pitting such underdog countries as Siam and New Zealand against more traditionally sad countries like Serbia (who, we are reminded, started the great war that killed 4 million people). It's the Iron Composer.

Sound funny? Not really huh. Dammit. I've tried to tell 4 different people about how hilarious this movie about grief is, and it never comes out right. I think that's because much of the humor comes in the form of sight gags, clever turns of phrase, facial expressions, and some amazing and inspired camera work. Also, the winning contestants each round take a victory dip in a beer stein. I don't know. It's funny. Trust me.

Mark McKinney (Kids in the Hall) is effervescent as Chester Kent, a Broadway producer who kicks up America's sorrow with lavish reviews and 'razzle dazzle'. After all, he says, "Sadness is just happiness turned on its ass; it's all show biz." The score commemorating the Luisitania comes complete with a kickline. He bribes other countries to join the American Revue. He's great.

The best performances, though, are by the supporting cast. Gravillo the Great (Ross McMillan), Serbia's heart-broken cellist, carries his dead son's pumper in a jar "preserved with my own tears." That line's funny too. Trust me.

Maria de Madieros (Pulp Fiction) plays Narcissa, a woman who's grief has destroyed her short term memory. She's good too, but her face is so unique I kept expecting her to say, "Who's Zed?" Then have Bruce Willis come from offscreen to say, "Zed's dead baby, Zed's dead."

The cinematography of the movie is a little offputting at first. It has the look of a 30's newsreel that was buffed with sandpaper and stored in a damp basement until now. Eventually it becomes an asset, as Maddin does some really amazing things with the special effects of seventy years ago, from cheesy blue screen stuff to wonderful double-exposures. Imagine Isabella Rossellini's disembodied head, with bleached flapper hair and a tiara, appearing suspended over a vat of beer.

It's funny. Trust me.

Roderick, that's the third time you've attacked me. I don't care if you are crazy, you've had it.

Read the full thing here.

A God of Science

"[I]t takes a half a second for a baby to throw up all over your sweater. It takes hours to get it clean." -- Patricia Pricehouse, on inroads Intelligent Design theory has made into high school pedagogy.

The October issue of Wired has an excellent look at how proponents of Intelligent Design are using the public arena, not rigorous scientific methodology, to push their agenda and talking points into the nation's public high schools. The piece centers on the Ohio State Board of Education's recent debate between Darwinists and Intelligent Design advocates from the Design Institute, a conservative think tank and lobby group, based in Seattle. The Crusade Against Evolution is biased against Intelligent Design, as you'd expect a science and tech magazine piece to be. The editors do the smart thing, though, and let one of the intelligent designers, George Gilder, write an op/ed piece on the pitfalls of evolutionary theory.

The controversy is nothing new; it has been raging since Darwin contradicted Paley in Origin of Species. In American educational pedagogy the Scopes Monkey Trial was the culmination of a long-stewing desire to teach what the rest of the world already was, the doctrine of Darwin, to high schoolers.

Now it's just the opposite. The Design Institute claims that evolution has become so entrenched in the biology curriculum that criticism is squelched and science suffers. There may be truth to this, but the Design Institute has bigger fish to fry. They have a system of their own: Intelligent design. ID is all about probability--the probability of complex systems arriving from random mutation and environmental stressors being statistically vanishing, if not altogether impossible. Unlike the similar "creation science" movement, ID-chums proclaim God has nothing to do with it.

That's the official line anyway.

After the Ohio board voted to scrutinize the curriculum, Jonathan Wells, author of Icons of Evolution and one of the pro-ID panelists, "barnstormed Ohio churches soon after notifying congregations of a new, ID-friendly standard."

God has everything to do with it. And, with God effectively removed from the scientific equation by definition, the battle for ID will be fought in the fierce memetic feeding ground of public opinion.

There is no question that scientific rigor is important, and that theories that become universally accepted are in grave danger of becoming obsolete. The backers of ID talk like they're exposing this truth for the first time, when in fact it is a central tenet of science. They love to selectively quote Steven Jay Gould--the prominent Darwinist--as examples of how evolution doesn't work. What they fail to admit is that Darwinists are constantly and forcefully scrutinizing the theory in ways that makes the singular ID claims against evolution seem trite.

"The probability is statistically insignificant--from a scientific standpoint."
"No shit. The numbers are staggering. What's your solution?"
"The solution is obviously an intelligence at work in our design--a God . . . or Aliens."
"Fine. What can you say, scientifically, about this God, or these aliens?"

They can say nothing, because the pivot-point of their theory lies in some kind of noumenal other-worldness that is, at least for now, and probably forever, outside the realm of observable phenomena.

The thing is, Science, by definition and praxis, is the study of observable phenomena and the theories developed from such. It is nothing more.

To say that evolution is statistically improbable is a fair scientific assertion--though the actual math the Design Institute uses to argue for it is controversial. What is most certainly not a valid scientific assertion is the pronouncement with certainty that since complex systems from random processes is improbable, God [or aliens] must exist. One does not necessarily follow from the other.

The funny thing about the aliens argument is that it presupposes an infinite regress, which even Aristotle believed was crap. If aliens created us, who created them? Other aliens? This will go on, with successive alien species creating, for whatever reason, other alien species forever until, at some point, in the experiments of these wacky aliens, there was a first alien, an alien who wasn't created by other aliens.

That alien sounds a lot like Aristotle's God, the first mover.

So whether it be God or Aliens, the essential starting point is still God. Last I heard, God wasn't scientifically demonstrable, though I haven't been keeping up with current events.

If God can not be demonstrated scientifically, he is out of bounds to science. The Discovery Institute knows this, which is why they make no effort to prove his existence, the way Creation Science nuts of the past have. Instead, they attack the prevailing theory, and argue from there. They employ a logical fallacy called the "false dilemma," pretending that evolution and intelligent design are the only choices. If evolution is improbable, they argue, ID must be correct. But that's a false conclusion. Invalidating Evolution is not the same as proving Intelligent Design. For a better explanation of false dilemma, go here.

They are trying to pass off what is essentially faith as the heir apparent: "information age science". They do so only by attacking the prevailing thoughts, not by offering any concrete proof of their own theories.

That's not just bad science, that's not science at all.

Evolutionists, like Pricehouse from the quote at the beginning of the blog, are treating this as a thorn in science's side that will be a mess to clean up. Hopefully it will be only that. But with our nation's children as the target and a faith-based President in the white house, the stakes are high, and I'm a little worried.

Faith is faith and faith is a great thing, but faith doesn't put men on the moon and it doesn't teach us how the planets rotate or how cells divide.

Read the full thing here.

Poetic narratives

Maya, at the excellent Postcards from Sacramento, has been trying to express herself only in haiku lately. Fantastic. Being the unoriginal idea-thief I am, I decided to try my hand at it as well.

I present to you a . . .

Haiku, on my current mindset:

No pants shall I wear
until given a job or
a breakfast invite.

Cinquain, on unfinished business:

My car
is full of crap
I have failed to unpack.
To do so seems odd, as it just
goes back.

Limerick, on sizeable breakfast portions:

I ate a scramble today
'twas massive in ev'ry way
I gulped it all down
and said with a frown
"Gaw-damn that cook came to play"

Haiku mk II, on smelly-ass plants

Mother has lilies.
They smell like my feet'd, drank I
naught but vinegar.

I'm here all month folks.

Those vinegar-and-foot smelling plants are real. Avoid orange lilies.

Read the full thing here.

"a Jewish farm hand in the Gentile heartland"

I really want to read Philip Roth's new book, The Plot Against America, partly because I love alternate histories and partly because people tell me I'll love Philip Roth. Lord knows I love the idea of Philip Roth, a real contemporary American prose stylist.

I do not, however, love the price of hardcover books. It's an affront to democracy and a miscarriage of free enterprise. I am patently against it!

The aristocratic nature of publishing really eats at me. Wanna buy a book when the buzz is hot? That'll be 26 bucks--belly up plebians, or go wordless.

Materials are not the issue. If you can get a hardbound copy of the 9/11 report for like 5 dollars, then there are some sizable profits being bandied about. Arggh.

It's a form of monopoly. Any one book should have to be in print at at least two different houses if it's to be in print at all. They then compete in regular, capitalistic cock-fight fashion, and the consumer emerges victorious.

It's not even like I need this book. I'm 20-40% through 5 different books at the moment. But I've just got a lot of love to give, and I want to give my love to The Plot Against America. I want to love it right now.

Sure, I could go to Amazon and get exactly 32% off of that price, but I am no whore. Besides, a man can not live by delayed gratification alone. Good day to you sir!

Read the full thing here.

Roadtrip Music Rundown Mark II

Herein lies the second part of my road to musical discovery. The journey was initially about other things than music--it was about moving as well, I think. But all else was quickly washed away on that great open roadway called life. Soon I was really quite busy getting my face rocked off by these albums.

And though I was driving an automobile, my soul had long gone off the rails on a crazy train--A crazy train of rock. Rock rocks.

The Shins -- Oh, Inverted World
The Shins had changed my life even before Natalie Portman told me they would. The album she was talking about, though, was different than the one I had. She was talking about this one. I had a newer one.

That newer one changed my life by chipping away at my cynicism. It made music feel fresh again. They were one of three bands I found out about last year that made me really enjoy music again. I've mentioned this before.

I think I lack the musical vocabulary to describe their sound, but I can say it definitely benefits from high production values. The vocals on this album get muddy and tend to blend into the fuzz-riffs and frenetic drum beats. This is troublesome because what really set Chutes Too Narrow apart for me were the brilliantly quirky lyrics. Not having immediate access to James Mercer's words is like plugging your nose at the ocean, you have the same general idea of the place, but there are layers missing--and sorely missed. Thankfully, God gave us fanboys to decipher lyrics and Al Gore gave us the internet to publish them.

Dismemberment Plan -- Emergency and I

I had the briefest of encounters with this one, but I definitely liked it. Instead of reviewing the thing, then, I thought I'd tell a story about how insanely zealous fans of the Dismemberment Plan are.

I was in a record store, thumbing through the Tom Waits section. Tom Waits' unreleased CD was alternately crooning and death-rattling from the speakers. I wanted it so badly. I longingly fingered the NME review the staff had taped up. I think I drifted off a little.

"I can't wait for this." A voice. Disembodied. Calling me. "It comes out on the 5th."
"Yeah, tight." I was blinking now, trying to orient myself.
"I'm super stoked for like tons of new albums coming out."
"Yeah." I'd never had a record store clerk offer his/her opinions to me without scoffs and rolled eyes as garnish. She was obviously new.

She mentioned a few bands whose names I didn't recognize and forgot immediately. One of them was a solo project from some dude from "you know, the Dismemberment Plan."

"Yeah." I didn't know actually, but the conversation was moderately unbearable and I worried that admitting I had heard of, but not actually heard that band would exasperate the situation.

"God. . . I love them, they're so great. They're amazing. Don't you love them?"

Crap. I could feel my head nodding yes even as I admitted, "Uh, I don't think I've heard them."

"Oh really? Wow, well if you like Tom Waits you'll love them. They've got that whole thing," I must not have been nodding enthusiastically enough because she hastily added, "and you know, if you like, like Deathcab and, you know, other indie bands, they're a lot like that too."

Right.

If given time I might be able to come up with a more dissimilar pair, but, in the moment, Tom Waits and Deathcab for Cutie seemed just about as far flung musically as any two bands can be.

And this human being was telling me that Dismemberment Plan somehow managed to be Yin and Yang simultaneously. Now I was curious, but I'd managed to slowly back away while maintaining eye contact until I could slip into the Drum and Bass section. Would I dare go back and ask her which album to get?

Of course I would.

Her diatribe was reverberating off the wood paneling. Thus by means of crude echo-location, I presented myself back in front of her.

"Alright, so, uh, show me the best Dismemberment Plan CD you have here."

She lit up, grabbed my hand, and led me to the rack, mumbling mostly incoherencies.

This was the CD I left the store with--roughly an hour of uncomfortable nodding later.

It doesn't seem, by the way, to be anything at all like either Tom Waits or Deathcab for Cutie, but this review seems to back up the record store girl's story, so maybe I just don't get it.

The Vells -- Flight from Echo Falls
God, that last story was really way too long, so I'll keep this short. Did you ever wish that Geddy Lee had cut an album with The Mommas and the Poppas over the percussion of an ex-Modest Mouse drummer? No?

I think the Vells did. Does that sound tight? No?

It is. Do you want to buy it? No?

You should. Tristan Marcum's vibrato tries so hard to hit Rush-like heights of gender-neutral, pseudo-operatic wailing, he often overshoots Geddy Lee entirely and hits somewhere around Nico. Nico was cool. Shame about the heroin.

Jeremiah Green's drumming is exactly what you'd expect, nuanced and exciting.

I'm going to need a few more listens to nail down everything else, but suffice it to say, this album, more than any of the others, had my car swaying rhythmically across the vast scablands of Eastern Washington while I did my best to wail like a German or Hungarian model/actress/composer/banshee/minx.

Sorry Quasi. That's Hot Shit.

And her fingers, are they telling/of the barren of her belly?

Read the full thing here.

Quite a hug

A disciplinary hearing examiner ruled today that public defender Theresa Olson should be suspended for her "hug gone bad." What's this? How bad was this hug?

That depends on who you talk to.

The Seattle Times reports Olson "testified that Burns had come up behind her as she was preparing to leave and given her a hug." Burns was her client, on trial for murder. The setting was a federal lockdown somewhere.

To the felon I say: "The old hug-from-behind trick, classy."

Her lack of resistance was inappropriate, she admits, but emphasized that it was just a hug.

Four guards, who apparently watched this hug for several hot minutes, tell a different tale however:

"Correction officers Leander Glenn and Dexter Pasco said they saw Olson bent over a table with one arm propped against the wall and Burns was standing behind her with his hands on her hips."

Olson admitted to having developed feelings for the convicted triple-murderer she represented, but said "those feelings had been discussed and dismissed."

The discussion, anonymous sources say, included questions such as: Do you like that?, Huh? and Do you?

After the brief Q and A period--which Burns said took 15 minutes, but Olsen estimated at around four--Olson addressed the charge of "leaving me all hot and bothered." She reportedly screamed, "case dismissed," just before guards separated the pair.

And thus she lost her ability to practice law in Washington State. But what has she gained?

That is, besides an encyclopedic set of venereal diseases from the passionate, unprotected hug of a murderer.

Never one to rest on her laurels, Olson is using the time away from the courtroom to pursue a different passion--a passion for fashion. Examples of her work--complete with patterns and fabric--can be seen at www.purrfection.com, where she focuses on sleepwear. In this striking bedtime look we see some of the signature vivacity and shamelessness that typifies both her courtroom bravado and her cell-block tantrics.

The controversy will undoubtedly help improve sales of her sleepwear line's patterns and fabric. Critics are uncertain, however, whether the hubbub will have any affect on her stunning inability to design something that's not ugly.

Celebrities are staying very tight-lipped about the controversy.

When asked to comment, neither <-- Molly Ringwald nor Sideshow Bob --> had anything to say.

Only time will reveal just what that means.

"It was a hug gone bad," her attorney said. "She regrets it."

Read the full thing here.

The end is in sight

It has taken 17 years and it's going to take 5 more, but, finally, the end of the Jay Leno suckathon is on the horizon.

Will he be forced to retire? Shot in the back? Keelhauled?

No, it looks like he's going to go out just when he wants to, while his neck can still support his chin without a system of levers and pulleys.

Leno had high praise for Conan O'Brien, the man selected to--eventually--replace him, "there is no one more qualified than Conan." Indeed, especially not you Jay.

Fans don't seem so sure though, with only 53 percent of voters on CNN.com saying that Conan is the right choice for the job. This is disheartening and reaffirms my belief in the general stupidity of humankind. There was no place to vote on an alternative to Conan, I'd liked to have seen the responses, or perhaps a Dennis Miller vs Arsenio Hall vs Sinbad cage match for the legacy of Johnny Carson.

Honestly, who else is there? John Stewart maybe, but NBC has proven it doesn't want edgy in its early late night spot, otherwise it would have went with Letterman over Leno to begin with. The 2009 date is probably less for Leno than to allow Conan to get all those masturbation jokes out of his system before taking the reigns.

"Alright O'Brien, you've got four years to make fun of trekkies, terrorists and obese people, make the most of it. Oh, and stop calling Max Weinberg a pedophile." -- some top NBC brass.

So with the future secure and both men locked into their contracts for a really long time, only one question remains: on that last show, in 2009, just how many jokes in the monologue will have "Monica Lewinsky" in the punchline?

Read the full thing here.

Roadtrip Music Rundown

God that was long. The drive. Long. And now I'm on dial-up, so this little exercise will be long as well.

Let's go in order of listen:

Quasi -- Featuring "Birds"

I saw these guys in concert earlier this year and started piecing together a collection. This makes two CDs now. They're kind of hard to find.

Quasi is what Ben Folds Five might be like if Ben Folds stopped trying to write funny songs and concentrated on writing good ones. Then if he trimmed his band from like 120 people to a more manageable two. Then traded in that silly baby grand for a Rocksichord.

Did you hear me? I said Rocksichord.

How two people create such a mammoth layered sound is a mystery to a really horrible former French Horn player like myself (it probably has something to do with the Roxichord). The fact that they are able to maintain those layers live is unbelievable. What makes Quasi so good is the tension they create in their music. The dissonant, often cacophonic rocksichord is lain over solid, rhythmic drumming; the hard, often highly political, lyrics are belted out with innocent, sing-songy abandon. It's an odd dynamic that works very well. There's very little guitar, which is nice as a change of pace.

Featuring "Birds" is very similar to Field Studies, the other album I have. I haven't heard their newest, Hot Shit, but friends say it loses a lot because the dynamic shifts to a more overt, angry political pulpetteering. Shame. It also has almost no Roxichord. Diabolical.

FYI: This was one of the other bands that, along with The Shins and The Decemberists, made me like music again.

The Libertines -- Up the Bracket
There's a lot of hullabaloo about The Libertines new album in some mainstream circles. About The Libertines self-titled album, producer [and former Clash member] Mick Jones said, "a record as good as this only comes along once in a generation . . . You had it with The Clash. And now it's The Libertines turn." Does that mean the Libertines are going to eventually become self-congratulatory dildos as well? Maybe. In true Joe Strummer fashion, Libertines frontman Pete Doherty is already working on a really staggering heroin addiction.

I digress. So there's this new album see? Thing is, every review I read from people who don't generally disappoint me said The Libertines' first album, Up the Bracket, is better. So I bought that one.

I like it a lot. I think they're great. If I'd found out about them before I listened to The Strokes' Is this it twelve times a day for an entire summer, I'd probably think the Libertines were the greatest thing I'd ever heard.

As it stands though, they're better than The Strokes by quite a bit--they just don't feel innovative. Since this album dropped about the same time the Strokes' first one did, that's my fault, not theirs. The vocals are more earnest than (the Strokes') Julian Casablancas, whose world-weary, seen-it-all schtick really rubs me the wrong way. The music is less stultified, and the Brit-pop inflection makes it easier to listen to casually. So they're kind of Clash-meets-Strokes, or rather, what the Strokes could be if they were better musicians and didn't hide behind the greasy hair and tiresome posturing.

Another reason I don't like Casablancas is because he got pissed at a crowd full of Italians in Milan for not laughing at his jokes--told, of course, in English. Also, the set lasted a little under 40 minutes.

Read Yellow -- Radios Burn Faster
Burn . . . yes, that's like the lake of fiery hate I have churning inside me. That hate is directed at the Improper Bostonian, a really bad local arts rag that put this band on their cover the week I was visiting that city. To quote Alanis Morisette and improperly use a literary term: "Isn't it ironic?" No it's not, in fact. It's coincidence, but the web of fate is intricate indeed. Intricate and capricious. Sometimes a chance encounter leads to the discovery of a band I really enjoy. Other times the results aren't so exiting.

This time, the web of fate held me down while a magazine and a compact disc beat me mercilessly, lied to my eyes, stole my money, then raped my ears. Read Yellow makes me black and blue.

In true victim fashion, I'm going to blame myself: The cover warns you, "Art-punks poised for a breakout." I assumed the Improper Bostonians were being positive and enthusiastic. Having listened to the band, it now seems "poised for a breakout" meant that Read Yellow's lyrics are so juvenile and derivative that their music actually gives you acne. I just didn't get the joke.

I know that genres--especially musical ones--are about as fluid as the stuff sloshing in the bottom of an Oxy pad container, but calling these human beings art-punks is stretching like Armstrong. Perhaps I've just placed the art-punk thing on too high a pedestal--put too much literal emphasis on the art part. I might grant that.

But Improper Bostonian wants to give the title to anyone who occasionally plays their three-chord progression really, really slowly; who, on the last song of their album, tries really, really hard to sound exactly like At the Drive-In; and who takes a bunch of hot pink construction paper and newsprint and tries to make the cover of their album all Sex-Pistol-y. For that I give no quarter. Maybe it's just that Read Yellow have a girl in the band. Girls are hella artsy.

They're not even really that punk through most of the album. You will often find them straying dangerously close to grunge and even butt rock--though poorly and furtively in both cases. How about this for a genre: Butt Grunge Art.

If you need punk (and we all do) listen to The Thermals (they also have a girl in the band).

And, that's about all I can stay awake for tonight campers. I wrote more than I expected to. Tune in tomorrow around whenever I wake up for more mediocre grandstanding.

Read the full thing here.

And now, I leave

It took about 6 hours, but my filthy apartment is finally cleanish.

After this hellish ordeal, I've decided that, in all future apartmental dealings, I will consider the damage deposit a sunk cost and move on with my life.

With any luck, I'll be in Spokane in four hours or so.

I've bought a slew (6) of CDs for the ride, as I'm wont to do whenever a long road trip beckons. If I'm not too tired tonight, I'll review each and every one of them.

They are:

The Shins -- Oh, Inverted World
Dismemberment Plan -- *something* and I
Quasi -- Featuring "Birds"
The Libertines -- Up the Bracket
The Vells -- Whatever their new album is called
Read Yellow -- Um . . .

In addition to reviewing these albums, I'll also try and learn their names.

Read the full thing here.

The Dangers of Deep Cleaning

Early this morning, in Safeway, a woman approached me in the cleaning aisle. She leaned in as I was reaching for the Bon Ami and whispered, "You want to go with the Comet, she doesn't know shit."

'She' (the one who didn't know shit) was the store manager, who had just given me a grout-cleaning tutorial and suggested the Bon Ami.

I had noticed the woman who was unsatisfied by the manager's advice hovering while the tutorial was on, I had wrongly assumed she was trying to choose a toilet bowl cleaner. People like her don't choose toilet bowl cleaner, they know such things by instinct.

My instincts were telling me to run, but as I looked into the woman's steely eyes and saw her jaw set with resolve, I knew she'd only hunt me down. I consciously maintained eye contact as I bent over to grab the Comet, in case she sprang.

Once the Comet was in my basket, her demeanor passified and she gave me a little wink as she headed off down the aisle.

I remained in the aisle--shaken to my foundation obviously--trying to decide on the Manager's last piece of advice regarding grout cleaner: "You'll need some gloves."

She'd had some difficulty putting the grout cleaner into terms I could understand. Initially, she tried, "It's really harsh and nasty," but this explanation didn't seem to please her, "You'll need to open the windows otherwise it gets all in your eyes and throat and burns." She didn't like this either, as though burning wasn't convincing enough, or perhaps because she assumed that I, a member of the Generation Johnny Knoxville, enjoyed, and perhaps got paid, to burn my eyes and throat.

She almost gave up entirely, but launched one final salvo, "It's just really caust--really . . . hardcore." Her eyes brightened at this. She was visibly pleased. I nodded to let her know that I, 23-year-old, greasy-haired, vintage-clothed hipster, understood perfectly this 'hardcore'.

I finally decided against the gloves, deciding that the grout cleaner may very well be hardcore, but I--sister--am far hardercore.

I walked to the express lane with my head down, trying to digest the primal nature of this encounter. Big mistake. I was trying to decide who would have walked away and whom would have been dragged if those two had met on the sprawling veldt, when I heard the standard Safeway Checker greeting. I looked up. It was her, the manager.

I tried to order my items in such a way as to de-emphasize the Comet. I fooled no one.

She scanned it calmly and shot me a steely glare--identical to the one I'd received just minutes before--"do you have gloves at home?" Her emphasis on 'gloves' and 'home' mystically deepened my shame about the Comet.

"Yes ma'am, I do."

I walked as far as the automatic doors.

Then I ran.

Read the full thing here.

Let this be The Last Shot

There's something about Alec Baldwin that brings me to the theatre. The same can be said--though far less often--of Tony Shaloub. When these two human beings share a screen, then, it's a foregone conclusion that I'll go sit in front of that screen and give it my undivided attention until their projected images cease flickering and their dissembodied voices are silenced.

Tonight I set myself in front of a screen that projected a series of images with accompanying sound that, taken together, created a film called The Last Shot. The movie lasted about an hour and a half. I spent the hour and twenty minutes Tony Shaloub wasn't onscreen wishing he was. I spent a similar amount of time wishing a similar thing of Joan Cusack. I spent pretty much the entire hour and a half wishing Matthew Broderick would just start cashing those Sex in the City syndication royalty checks and leave me alone (Matt, you'll be remembered fondly for Ferris, War Games and Glory--now . . . just . . . stop). It resonated with me deeply, but not because it was an excellent movie. It wasn't even a good movie. It resonated because the film's--and filmmaker's--numerous shortcomings and mistakes seemed immediately familiar.

You see lots of people on screen, but very few discernable characters. The main ones are so flat as to be interchangeable. Joe Divine (Alec Baldwin) really likes his dog, who commits suicide as the film opens. Without this, he and Steven Shatz (Broderick) might as well be the same person. Shatz is a director. He has a script. Why? Well, as Joan Cusack points out, it's Hollywood, everyone has a script. His entire motive amounts to this, "But we've worked so hard." He says that to his brother, who co-wrote the script, but got disillusioned and now gets shot three times a day reenacting climactic scenes from Bonanza.

Sound funny? That part is. So are Shaloub and Cusack. Alec Baldwin, bless his brilliant heart, tries really hard to be. But he filmmakers spent so much time crafting a place and filling it with wacky supporting characters, they completely forgot about Steve and Joe--and most of the plot. Even that is generous I think. If I read the script, I doubt I would laugh. Whatever humor there is in The Last Shot is the result of superhuman efforts on the part of the cast to breath life into their parts.

There's a part near the end where Toni Collette squints into the sand-swept distance, says, "An American eagle?" and walks off screen. The camera cuts to Baldwin. Off screen a motorcycle revs up and drives away. This is the payoff of a running gag that works brilliantly and makes the movie all the more disappointing. There are probably another half dozen other gags that also work well. Sadly, the movie has nothing to care about, absolutely no conflict, and no third act. It just spends a little while getting things rolling, immediately begins losing momentum and, just when everyone stops caring, it ends.

The Last Shot is crafted with painstaking care of the little things and criminal disregard for everything else.

It does prove, though, that you can somehow manage to have a denouement without having a climax. That's something.

Read the full thing here.

One or the other

A few days ago I wrote that I'd had some good story ideas while in Boston (riding the T, reading Invitation to a Beheading, frightening commuters).

Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough, but when my ideas are for characters, I always have a hard as hell time writing them into a context, revolving a plot around them. When my idea is a conceit, a fablistic moral, or a plot idea, I always have a hard as hell time creating suitable characters to put in these situations.

Easy solution: take a character and meld it with a plot.

Yes, that would be easy. Except I don't feel like any of my characters fit with any of my plots, like having been fired in separate kilns of inspiration, none of these can ever be joined. This is either very high-minded and uncompromising of me, or lazy. Maybe I just need to get over my idealized conception that each story and character has a particular and specific end--and end that is obviously unbeknownst to me. Maybe writing is messier than that.

The latest idea--the thing I think I really like--is, conceptually, a melding of some fairly disparate influences with my disillusionment with current geo-political trends. Like the others, it has no solid central character.

Influences:

• Gabriel Garcia Marquez

  Magic Realism--his brand specifically--is, for lack of a better word, the shit. I think this might be a semi-conscious backlash against my own hyper-scientific worldview, but there's something about chronicling with journalistic objectivity the movements of ghosts, mystical banana groves, brutal and senseless murders, family curses, etc that just hits me right where it counts. Garcia Marquez taps the part of me that hopes to God there's more to the universe than I think there is.
  

• Hesse's Fairy Tales

  Thanks again Ben. Hesse, in this collection specifically does many of the things that Marquez does with the addition of an Aesop's fable-like moral to each story. It's magic realism in a modern (not to be confused with contemporary) context. Each story, though wildly different, still feels synergistic because of the underlying worldview that informs each. It's very dire and frank about human nature while managing to be optimistic somehow.
  

• Kafkan distopias

  I know, every angsty high schooler and self-discovering College student falls in love with Kafka. Fine. Maybe I'm immature. There's something viscerally enthralling about hopelessness for me. Anyway invitation to a beheading is along these lines, but an order of magnitude more absurd and somehow less sinister but all the more hopeless because of it. It's really pretty brilliant.
  

This thing feels like it should be written, and, maybe for the first time, that I have the resources to write it. I feel like if I do write it, it will flesh out for me some of my feelings on politics and human freedom that aren't totally clear to me right now.

Easy solution: Just write the damn thing.

I would, I swear, but every time I try to flesh out the main character, nothing really comes. I have the situation, most of the plot. The conclusions, I think, will flow out of the plot, but I just can't bring detail to the text without deciding about a character. Often in Kafka the central character is transparent, more or less a placeholder for the reader. This could work, but I think I need him to be more active than those particular characters.

All of this is to say that I feel better about my prospects of finishing this thing than I have previously, because the nature of the plot itself beckons a certain, and fairly specific, character. So maybe I'll be able to pull the trigger.

Sorry for the vague rant.

The desire to disappear, yet remain here--ape self prevails in me still.

Read the full thing here.