Thanks to my big sister, Jane, I grew up listening to New Order and other great bands in the eighties. My early memories of NO come from the Substance singles compilation LP, in particular the songs "Bizarre Love Triangle" (of course), "True Faith", "Perfect Kiss", and "Blue Monday". But the very first song on this album is the one that today gives me chills from just thinking about it. One might find "Ceremony" unassuming at first. When it comes to NO singles, many will inevitably skip it in favour of the pure electro-pop joy of their other songs. New Order songs are (for the most part) danceable, uplifting, and upbeat, despite their often obscure and occasionally melancholy lyrics. But not this one.
The type of pop music that New Order creates is nostalgic. This is a pretty common trend since the seventies, when bands began to long for the blissful pop songs of the sixties. But that is not NO's nostalgia. Theirs is more the uncanny sort that makes you feel instantly comfortable (or uncomfortable), like you recognize the music, though you may not connect it with anything you've heard before. (Clearly I'm biased on this point, since, as I mentioned, I grew up listening to this music; but bear with me. I have felt this type of instant nostalgia with several bands since, both new and old, and I am certain that it points to a real phenomenon.) I think New Order reached the peak of this form with the song "Regret" from their 1993 album, Republic. In my opinion, that is one of the greatest pop songs of all time. But I digress.
"Ceremony" feels nostalgic, but it is hardly a pop song. It was written by Joy Division—meaning the members of New Order plus Ian Curtis, but minus Gillian Gilbert—but never properly recorded in studio by them. The only existing recordings of "Ceremony" by Joy Division are a demo and a live version from a show just two weeks before singer Ian Curtis's suicide. I was ecstatic when I discovered a couple of years ago that these recordings existed, and more so that I actually possessed one of them—the demo—on the Joy Division box set, Heart and Soul. It is beautiful and haunting, and it leaves me wanting a proper JD recording, not just the New Order version. Still, NO were faithful to Curtis's memory and voice, and I can't imagine that Joy Division would have created anything more beautiful than their successors did. As on their tribute to Curtis, "Blue Monday", New Order singer Bernard Sumner channels his predecessor and sings with his stirring monotone voice. That spirit would follow the latter band throughout their career. And today I discovered that there exist two versions of "Ceremony" by New Order also! It's like a strike to the heart. How could I not have known! How soon can I find and hear the other! Not soon enough.
Occasionally, this song makes me tear up, but they are not tears of sadness that "Ceremony" causes me, and the song does not make me feel nostalgic for any particular time or thing in my life. The shivers and tears are for the beauty of the object: the divine nature of music and the reality it exposes. Good, honest music bares the soul; and if we listen to it honestly, it frees us from our bodies and minds to connect with the soul of the creator—with life. And the nostalgia is the soul yearning for that connection: remembering a time when it knew no walls, when it was restricted by no mind or matter.
"Ceremony" flew low on my radar for most of my life. I was generally aware of it, but I hadn't connected with it the way I do now. I was one to skip past it to the "good stuff" on Substance, meaning the dancey party songs. I felt a more artificial nostalgia for the songs "Bizarre Love Triangle" (my childhood), "Temptation" (my mid-adolescence, caused by the film, Trainspotting), and "Regret" (adolescence generally); not that I don't think those are great songs. I'm just aware that my feelings towards those songs are very closely tied to times and events in my life. I was more connected to "1963", a rather odd and melancholy dance song about a man, Johnny, who only seems to be able to leave romantic relationships by killing his partner. Thinking about it now, it is a common theme among people who are unable to express themselves in relationships: one feels it is impossible for him to tell his partner that he wants to leave, so the only way out is murder. This is all over film, literature, and theatre. My point is that maybe the affinity I felt with this song was due to difficulties I have had communicating with people. Regardless, I now feel towards no New Order song like I do towards "Ceremony".
Now, perhaps I will contradict myself. I couldn't say precisely why I came to connect with "Ceremony". But it "started" like this: Several years ago, when I was still spinning records at Blow Up, the local indie-mod party, DJ Davy Love would occasionally play "Ceremony" later on in the night, often well after last call (2:00 in Toronto, for those who want to know). Unfortunately, my memory of this period is not entirely clear. I can't remember at which club this happened, though I'm fairly certain it was the El Mocambo, which places this event at least seven years ago. And I can't recall my relationship to the song at the time. I knew it and liked it very much, certainly, but let me go on. One night in particular, I remember catching the last bridge of the song, a rising three-note guitar riff repeating quickly over a beat driven by the hi-hat cymbal. I remember thinking, "I know this. What is it?"
Blow Up was the centre of the mod-britpop-indie universe in Toronto for several years around the turn of the millennium. It wasn't part of a scene; it was the scene, every Saturday for people from as far away as Hamilton, Buffalo, New York, and Detroit (not to speak of the boundless Toronto suburbs). In 2002, I went to our namesake mod party in London, England, and that was nowhere near as popular as our Blow Up in Toronto. Anyway, I attended as a partier, a fan, a young mod, nearly every week from the time I was 18 and a half (that's below legal age in Ontario, for the curious), and eventually I began DJing there, too, crystallizing my taste and feel for the unique and particular music that constitutes a scene like that. There is still an awful lot of music from that period that gives me strong feelings when I hear it, and if I were to compile a list of favourite albums, probably at least half of it would comprise things I fell in love with then. So clearly, I have a nostalgic interest here, and, if I examined more closely, I could probably find that "Ceremony" speaks to my state of mind and my feelings about the mod scene at the time the song struck me. Like, maybe the song is somehow the story of my life then.
It's sad to say that even at that point, in the middle of its tenure, the Blow Up/mod scene was dying in Toronto. (At least the scene as I had known it.) Or rather, it was having an identity crisis. This certainly mirrors my own experience at the time. If I remember correctly, this was soon before the El Mo closed (a sure and sad sign of trouble, though it has reopened since), and Blow Up moved to other, less felicitous venues. After it moved, my heart was no longer in it, and now I don't miss those times. I enjoyed myself, I made good friends, I honed my skill behind the 'tables; I dressed well, I danced hard, and I fell in love. But it's over now, and while very influential, I have no desire to return to that time or to relive it now. In other words, I'm not sad that that part of my life is over, and while "Ceremony" may be connected to an important time of my life, I don't believe that connection is nostalgic. In that "What is this?" moment, I heard the song afresh; it was new to me and out of place and time; it was a sign of things to come. I think that's what it was in the beginning and is still.
The ceremony is the act of recognition, acknowledgment, preparation, and, consequently, transformation. In the ceremony, we prepare to transform, to become new. Is that what this song is about? I don't know. Bernard Sumner himself had to put the early Joy Division recordings of "Ceremony" through graphic equalization to make out the lyrics. But a great song is more than the sum of its individual parts. This is a song written by a troubled man and a band in troubled times. It is a product of a certain time and space, though it persists across those dimensions. It is a credit to the remaining members of Joy Division that they moved on to form New Order and that they paid tribute to Ian Curtis with "Ceremony" (and its b-side "A Lonely Place", also written by JD). It seems to me that they understood the beauty of the song, and would not let death prevent them from giving it to the world. I am very glad that they did.
__
This is why events unnerve me,
They find it all, a different story,
Notice whom for wheels are turning,
Turn again and turn towards this time,
All she asks the strength to hold me,
Then again the same old story,
World will travel, oh so quickly,
Travel first and lean towards this time.
Oh, I'll break them down, no mercy shown,
Heaven knows, its got to be this time,
Watching her, these things she said,
The times she cried,
Too frail to wake this time.
Oh I'll break them down, no mercy shown
Heaven knows, its got to be this time,
Avenues all lined with trees,
Picture me and then you start watching,
Watching forever, forever,
Watching love grow, forever,
Letting me know, forever.
Read on..!
Showing posts with label reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reviews. Show all posts
Saturday, 20 January 2024
Beautiful songs: Stoned (Out of My Mind)
It seems that there was a time in the early 1970s when "stoned" was an adjective that meant something like "happy" or "blissful". But then maybe it meant "confused" or "trippy". I think I can say honestly that I don't know.
"Stoned Love" is one of my favourite Supremes songs. It's mature and understated pop soul with a subtle hook and a curious theme. Overall, a lovely song, though more of a groover than a dancer. But that's not the song this is about.
This is about a song called "Stoned (Out of My Mind)", and I would understand if you've dismissed it as simply a weird psychedelic soul song in praise of marijuana. But it's not—as far as I can tell. It's one of the smoothest soul love songs I've ever heard, by one of the smoothest soul groups of the era.
I first heard the Chi-Lites (those are two long "i" sounds) courtesy of the Crooklyn soundtrack, which features the familiar song, "Oh Girl". You might also recognize the brilliant funk tune "Are You My Woman (Tell Me So)", which Jay-Z sampled for Beyoncé's "Crazy in Love"—thus demonstrating their strength across the soul spectrum. And if I remember correctly, a talented artist named Hammer covered the popular ballad "Have You Seen Her?" back in my early teens.
So, I'm not sure what "Stoned" is supposed to mean, but I know there's more to "Stoned (Out of My Mind)" than a gimmicky title. This is a Heartbreak Song. That's clear from the very beginning. There's barely a hint of a story here, but if there's a real woman behind this song, I don't pity the author. If all Odes to Cheatin' Women were this smooth, they would be worth the heartache.
Still, the ultra-smooth production and the mid-tempo rhythm belie the troubled head behind the words; and combined they create a bittersweet moment that makes it easy to sympathize. And it's got terrific soul lyrics like these:
Part of what I mean when I say it just grabbed me is that I don't really have a story to go along with it. I didn't grow up with it. I've only known the song for maybe ten years. And while I've included it in playlists and mixes over the years, and turned friends onto it, "Stoned (Out of My Mind)" has never really attached itself to any particular event in my life; although I often think of it and hum or whistle the tune. Off the top of my head, I can't even recall more than two or three lines from the song.
"Stoned (Out of My Mind)" remains a staple of my DJing, and when I sat down and listened to the song to finish this review, I had several insights into it that I'd never considered before, so I guess it doesn't matter if it ever fills a dancefloor. And maybe all the title and chorus mean is that the author is so distraught at learning his woman was cheatin' that he's getting stoned out of his mind. Whatever, just listen and feel the bittersweet.
I've hidden some humour in the above. If you find it, please let me know.
___
Baby, when I found out you were lyin'—
Playin' around and connivin'—
Undesired tears I was cryin';
'Cause sugar coated lies I was buyin'.
I was just a backseat driver in a car of love—
Goin' wherever you take me.
Don't know why I put up with the pain;
'Cause nobody else could make me.
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
When you led me to the water I drank it.
Man, I drank more than I could hold.
When you took my mind and body,
You know you wanna take my soul.
Where can I run?
Where can I hide?
Who can I talk to?
Tell me what, what can I do?
When you got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
Hee...you got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
Been around with every guy in town (Stoned out of my mind)
Funny but I just can't put you down (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
Read on..!
"Stoned Love" is one of my favourite Supremes songs. It's mature and understated pop soul with a subtle hook and a curious theme. Overall, a lovely song, though more of a groover than a dancer. But that's not the song this is about.
This is about a song called "Stoned (Out of My Mind)", and I would understand if you've dismissed it as simply a weird psychedelic soul song in praise of marijuana. But it's not—as far as I can tell. It's one of the smoothest soul love songs I've ever heard, by one of the smoothest soul groups of the era.
I first heard the Chi-Lites (those are two long "i" sounds) courtesy of the Crooklyn soundtrack, which features the familiar song, "Oh Girl". You might also recognize the brilliant funk tune "Are You My Woman (Tell Me So)", which Jay-Z sampled for Beyoncé's "Crazy in Love"—thus demonstrating their strength across the soul spectrum. And if I remember correctly, a talented artist named Hammer covered the popular ballad "Have You Seen Her?" back in my early teens.
So, I'm not sure what "Stoned" is supposed to mean, but I know there's more to "Stoned (Out of My Mind)" than a gimmicky title. This is a Heartbreak Song. That's clear from the very beginning. There's barely a hint of a story here, but if there's a real woman behind this song, I don't pity the author. If all Odes to Cheatin' Women were this smooth, they would be worth the heartache.
Still, the ultra-smooth production and the mid-tempo rhythm belie the troubled head behind the words; and combined they create a bittersweet moment that makes it easy to sympathize. And it's got terrific soul lyrics like these:
Baby, when I found out you were lyin'—This is one of those songs that grabbed me despite it not being a real dancefloor filler. I mean, it's danceable, but it's not middle-of-the-night, prime time funky. It hasn't got a driving beat, a compelling bassline, a break. Instead, it has terrific horns, solid and subtle rhythm, and stunning, simple, and clear melody and harmonies. In a strange way, it reminds me of David Bowie's "Sound and Vision"—in style, sound, and structure.
Playin' around and connivin'—
Undesired tears I was cryin';
'Cause sugar coated lies I was buyin'.
Part of what I mean when I say it just grabbed me is that I don't really have a story to go along with it. I didn't grow up with it. I've only known the song for maybe ten years. And while I've included it in playlists and mixes over the years, and turned friends onto it, "Stoned (Out of My Mind)" has never really attached itself to any particular event in my life; although I often think of it and hum or whistle the tune. Off the top of my head, I can't even recall more than two or three lines from the song.
I was just a backseat driver in a car of love—Okay, I've got it. Here's the story: I can't be sure of when it happened, but I can say that "Stoned" was one of the early songs I downloaded via Napster or whatever else I was using at the time. I'm almost certain that I was living on Huron St. The internet offered me exposed to a whole world of music, most of it in the soul and R&B veins. This also coincides with my early DJing career and probably my most creative music-writing period—the rise and fall of The Sound of Circles! But "Stoned" rarely made it into the club, and it didn't seem to inform my songwriting. It was a private thing—almost a dream—that I wanted to let everyone know about, but I just couldn't figure out how.
Goin' wherever you take me.
"Stoned (Out of My Mind)" remains a staple of my DJing, and when I sat down and listened to the song to finish this review, I had several insights into it that I'd never considered before, so I guess it doesn't matter if it ever fills a dancefloor. And maybe all the title and chorus mean is that the author is so distraught at learning his woman was cheatin' that he's getting stoned out of his mind. Whatever, just listen and feel the bittersweet.
I've hidden some humour in the above. If you find it, please let me know.
___
Baby, when I found out you were lyin'—
Playin' around and connivin'—
Undesired tears I was cryin';
'Cause sugar coated lies I was buyin'.
I was just a backseat driver in a car of love—
Goin' wherever you take me.
Don't know why I put up with the pain;
'Cause nobody else could make me.
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
When you led me to the water I drank it.
Man, I drank more than I could hold.
When you took my mind and body,
You know you wanna take my soul.
Where can I run?
Where can I hide?
Who can I talk to?
Tell me what, what can I do?
When you got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
Hee...you got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned) Hey, hey (Out of my mind)
Been around with every guy in town (Stoned out of my mind)
Funny but I just can't put you down (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
You got me goin' (Stoned out of my mind)
Read on..!
Sci-fi of the hyperbolic present: Technicolor Ultra Mall, by Ryan Oakley
Technicolor Ultra Mall, by Ryan Oakley (EDGE Books, 2011), looks into the future and finds humanity conducting its daily affairs within the walls of city malls, the outdoors reserved for toxic air and garbage. Populations under a roof. For the lowest on the ladder, a dim and desperate basement. For the middle classes, shopping and distractions on their own bright, green level, and sometimes just distractions on the lower red level. For the highest, an unknown blue tier. Maybe they can see the sky there.Technicolor is more William Gibson and Philip K. Dick than Isaac Asimov or Neal Stephenson, but it's not quite cyber-fiction, despite the highly connected setting, cy-fi vernacular, and video-game features. It's grim, dystopic, and all too close to reality. It doesn't romanticize a grand narrative. It is disjointed, frequently interrupted by fake advertisements and television and radio segments. It has subplots that collide in unexpected ways. It speculates on what happens when a society considers new ways to distract, amuse, pamper, and embellish oneself to be progress: better shopping, drugs, sex, television, and violence.
More than anything else, Technicolor is about violence—brutal violence—which is something I haven't come across much in my reading. I'm probably reading the wrong books. It shows its bloodied, scarred, disfigured, and senseless face right away. The characters, including the protagonists, are mainly members of a criminal gang. They're grotesque, self-serving, and proud brawlers and killers. They can also be obsequious, loyal, and wary of greed. These inner conflicts result in near constant taunts, threats, grandstanding, and frequent outbursts of intense and bloody brutality, usually by knife. It seems gratuitous, but that's the point. A central event finds a gang member volunteering to die under a guillotine, in the middle of a wake that is also a rave. The gang celebrates violence. It is creative performance; for some the only creative outlet they have.
Budgie is an adolescent gang member born and raised on the red levels of the mall. The reds are where the authorities send the undesirables in order to maintain peace on the upper levels. They are poorly policed ghettoes populated mainly by criminals, drug dealers, prostitutes, gamblers, and cheats. But the gangs profit from upper-level folk slumming it at red-level clubs on weekends, so despite frequent violence and general lawlessness, there is order.
Budgie's gang, the Vidicons, is ruthlessly expanding its territory, and Budgie has a change of heart after losing the closest thing he's ever had to a friend. Despite rising in the ranks, in the reds he sees only more dumb violence and a quick death. He devises a plan to decamp to the greens and start a new life. But he can't afford it right away. He's got to get a legitimate job, work his way up, before he can make the move permanent. In the meantime, he's got to face his comrades, who have no love for defectors.
Enter TeeVee, an alpha Vidicon hacker who scans the Info Dump, analyzing information to run criminal schemes and make dance music. (I should mention that Oakley displays a dry humour that corresponds to the setting, dark and raunchy.) TeeVee has caught wind of Budgie's plans. He wants a pair of eyes on the green levels to improve his data flow in preparation for a really big scheme. TeeVee doesn't want Budgie to spy; he wants to program Budgie so his eyes effectively become surveillance cameras, feeding information to TeeVee. Budgie accepts, without any real idea of what he's getting himself into, or any real choice in the matter. If he wants to avoid trouble with his peers, he's got to get out of the reds fast. He needs the money. Budgie also manages to woo Harmony, an independent-minded and equally disillusioned Vidicon who gives him hope for a normal life like he's only seen in old mashed-up movies.
A crooked jobs agent finds Budgie work outside the walls of the mall, maintaining the garbage sorting machines in the vast landfill surrounding. He allows his hope to grow, to reach for the horizon. Despite the drudgery of the work, the desolation of the outdoors, and the protective suit he wears against the deadly atmosphere, Budgie feels free like never before. He stares at the sky, awed and afraid. His supervisor warns him not to look at the sun.
It's fun, and it ends in disaster, but I don't want to give anything away.
I hardly need to point out the symbolism of the title, Technicolor Ultra Mall. The literal levels of the city-mall correspond to the figurative positions of their denizens. The poor and criminals live in the dim red basement levels, at the bottom of the social pyramid, where it is perpetually 2:00 a.m; where once overhead projections of stars shone, now interactive ads flickered, barely lurid enough to distract. It is out of sight, but just below the level of sanctioned activity. If they are chipped, red-dwellers are effectively prisoners in a jail city. Those without chips are just in hell, freedom within sight, but made near-impossible by social conditions. Above the reds, presumably at ground level, is "the lawn", the middle class green levels, bright and wide and tall, perfect for shopping and working, passable for entertainment. Every legal thing you want is available, but most things happen via television. Best not to think too much of the activities happening underfoot. Don't cause trouble, and you won't end up there.
Technicolor Ultra Mall is science fiction as the hyperbolic present. Its world is the delusion of a conspiracy theorist or an apocalyptician or the most extreme political commentator, a projection of the paranoid mind. Pollution may have made the outdoors unlivable, but finally, people are free from the stifling regulations of government (except harsh criminal law); commerce flows freely to its natural conclusion: the city as shopping centre. But despite the authorities' best attempts to eliminate the criminal element from polite society, racial and sectarian violence is out of control in expanding ghettoes that threaten the middle and upper classes! Look at how the de facto legalization of drugs and prostitution in the ghettoes has corrupted good citizens! Listen to the angry man on the radio! He argues like a champ and makes his guests sound crazy.
This is life inside a pulpy video game: competing gangs fight over territory, characters wear personal energy displays and carry strange weapons, they collect bonuses for tasks and reach distinct levels of achievement, and there is abundant graphic and cartoon violence.
The violence below the main floors exaggerates the violence that exists below the surface of our daily lives, directly or not—threats, pushes and shoves, looks, arguments, fights, assaults, gang violence, police violence, harassment and abuse, weapons, war, revolution—in person, on television, in the news, in sports and video games. Violence is everywhere, and we hardly notice it, we pretend not to, we acquiesce, or we participate, often without realizing it. There are people who can't ignore it, because it is integral to their life or livelihood. There are people who think some violence is acceptable, even necessary. They justify it. The rest of us pretend the world is safe: TV and video-game violence isn't real, only criminals are violent, war isn't violence, revolutions are for the unemployed, life doesn't end in violence. But it does, in fact, and Technicolor gives it to the reader in gory glory.
Beneath the violence of Technicolor are interesting, realistic, and sometimes exaggerated characters facing extreme conditions, on both the red and green levels. Communication is mediated by antisocial codes and television, but the characters manage to relate when they want to and when they try. They are still human, by turns repulsive and sympathetic, obnoxious and innocent. Without these conflicted characters, the violence they commit might be too much—too hard to take, too pointless, too blunt. Oakley makes it work and, as a result, the book is a strong first effort.
The central idea of Technicolor Ultra Mall is violence: how we can live with it, how some violence is better than other violence, how violence negates heroism. But it is full of sci-fi ideas, original and imminent. In the mall/world, shopping is the central act of citizenship; citizens, including red-levellers, undergo genetic/biological modifications (fur, wings, animal ears, etc.) as we might get tattoos; what is now on the fringe of science and society—pseudo-biological data storage, interactive TV upgraded with surveillance, transfer of mind between bodies, bio-digital computer programs, artificial intelligence, meme viruses and sicknesses, movie remixes/mash-ups, identification chips for criminals, animatronic fish, bio-digital pets, and on and on—is routine. Any one of these ideas could support a plot. Oakley presents all of them in a familiar but confusing world. Together with the well drawn characters, these ideas make the mall less blood red and more Technicolor.
My only complaint with Technicolor is the editing, which probably only bothers me as an editor. There are typos and double words that are evidently out of place, and I believe I noticed a couple of minor inconsistencies that gave me pause. Initially, I tried to rationalize the errors as a stylistic, as though the book was published in the time it takes place and language is looser. But it's clear that the book really just needs a good edit. In any case, this is the publisher's fault, not the author's, and it didn't interfere with my enjoyment of the book.
In Toronto, you can buy Technicolor Ultra Mall at Bakka Phoenix Books on Harbord, near Spadina, and no doubt other fine literary establishments.
Online, you can find it at Amazon, of course, in both print and Kindle versions. Read on..!
Friday, 19 January 2024
Beautiful songs: Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)
I don't remember precisely when I first heard Frank Wilson's "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)", but I can narrow it down to a brief two years, during which I lived at 607 Huron St. in Toronto, with my great friend Derek, to whom I owe much gratitude for invading his apartment and life, and often monopolizing his computer. If memory serves, that was May 2000 to May 2002. I'm not sure if that seems like a long time or not. Certainly a lot has happened in that time, and equally certainly eight years feels longer than six. If I could find the original CD onto which I burned the song, I could narrow down the period even further; but I'm sure that I've since copied and thrown away that scratched disc.
Those were my early Soul years and still the early years of mass illicit downloading. The two are connected since, through Napster and its descendants, I discovered a world of music, thousands of songs—of all genres, but particularly Soul and Funk—that added fuel to my flaming passion for music. I made a series of soul compilations—14 at last count—each containing between 20 and 25 songs; and those were only the ones I deemed worthy of repeat listening or spinning. I was a DJ then, too, and few activities gave me greater pleasure than serving some excellent new discovery in the club and watching the crowd eat it up. Discovering new hidden gems (and playing them for people, in clubs or in private) still gives me immense pleasure.
Ironically, though, "Do I Love You" is a song that I rarely played for the crowds. I'm not sure why exactly. It's almost too specific, too perfect, too sweet for the congregation I ministered to. I feel like it stands apart from other soul music, other music generally, so much that I would have had a hard time fitting it in, mixing it with any other song, as if anything else would seem vulgar in comparison, or bland. Or perhaps I was afraid that other songs would vulgarize "Do I Love You" and make it seem too simple.
The song is simple and sweet. It is devoid of the pretensions of rock and the sappy syrupyness of its Motown brethren. But it is lush and driving and powerful. And at two and a half minutes, it is desperately short, though perfectly indicative of its time. It is over before you realize it and practically demands that you listen to it again. I must admit, I never knew the lyrics before researching this story, because the song sends me into a reverie halfway into the first verse and the song changes to a feeling.
Frank Wilson was a songwriter and producer for Motown from the mid-sixties to the late seventies, and he wrote or co-wrote numerous hits during that time. ("Stoned Love" is another great favourite of mine.) But for some reason, when he recorded this song—his own song—the label said no, even after pressing several hundred copies. The label ordered all copies destroyed and Frank Wilson's solo career was over before it began. But a year later, the song was resurrected by female Motown artist Chris Clark in a new vocal recording over either the original music track or a near identical rerecording. The two versions are very similar, but Chris Clark's vocal lacks the energy of the original, and the urgency—really, I think it suffers simply from its lack of originality.
At any rate, the legend says that two copies of the record survived, and in the seventies, one of them found its way into the hands of a Northern Soul DJ. The whole story is repeated in great and variable detail elsewhere, and if you're at all interested in music history, I recommend you take a look for it. Truly, the legend adds to the song's intrigue, but not to its greatness. The simple fact of its existence—its creation—is a miracle, a testament to momentary genius. That we have the original recording to enjoy today is testament to the unsuppressible nature of genius and creativity: art.
I find it interesting that my connection to this song isn't through some collection of important life events that are somehow wrapped up with it. Rather, my connection is somehow instantaneous, imperative. Despite all of the great great Soul music that exists and that I absolutely love—from both before and after "Do I Love You"—this particular song embodies Soul music: it is simple, it evokes God's connection to love, it contains a chorus-like call and answer, all characteristics that come from Gospel music, the essence of Soul.
It's in a space of sheer wonder that I experience "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)". And in that space I am open to the pure love the song proclaims in its every aspect.
__
Here I am on bended knees
I lay my heart down at your feet
Now do I love you?
All you have to do is ask
I’ll give until there’s nothing left
Do I love you?
As long as there is life in me
Our happiness is guaranteed
I’ll fill your heart with ecstasy, forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do
Indeed I do
The very thing that I want most
Is just to have and hold you close
Do I love you?
From early morning until late at night
You fill my heart with pure delight
Do I love you?
Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me, forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do, sweet darling,
Indeed I do
Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me
Forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do, little darling,
Indeed I do Read on..!
Those were my early Soul years and still the early years of mass illicit downloading. The two are connected since, through Napster and its descendants, I discovered a world of music, thousands of songs—of all genres, but particularly Soul and Funk—that added fuel to my flaming passion for music. I made a series of soul compilations—14 at last count—each containing between 20 and 25 songs; and those were only the ones I deemed worthy of repeat listening or spinning. I was a DJ then, too, and few activities gave me greater pleasure than serving some excellent new discovery in the club and watching the crowd eat it up. Discovering new hidden gems (and playing them for people, in clubs or in private) still gives me immense pleasure.
Ironically, though, "Do I Love You" is a song that I rarely played for the crowds. I'm not sure why exactly. It's almost too specific, too perfect, too sweet for the congregation I ministered to. I feel like it stands apart from other soul music, other music generally, so much that I would have had a hard time fitting it in, mixing it with any other song, as if anything else would seem vulgar in comparison, or bland. Or perhaps I was afraid that other songs would vulgarize "Do I Love You" and make it seem too simple.
The song is simple and sweet. It is devoid of the pretensions of rock and the sappy syrupyness of its Motown brethren. But it is lush and driving and powerful. And at two and a half minutes, it is desperately short, though perfectly indicative of its time. It is over before you realize it and practically demands that you listen to it again. I must admit, I never knew the lyrics before researching this story, because the song sends me into a reverie halfway into the first verse and the song changes to a feeling.
From early morning until late at nightThe vocal performances—both lead and backup—are urgent, approaching breathlessness, as if the words are coming at the moment they are sung, direct from the inspired heart, and occasionally Wilson bursts forth in a sort of raspy yell that suggests he can't contain himself.
You fill my heart with pure delight
Do I love you?
Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me, forever darling
Do I love you?
...
Indeed I do
Frank Wilson was a songwriter and producer for Motown from the mid-sixties to the late seventies, and he wrote or co-wrote numerous hits during that time. ("Stoned Love" is another great favourite of mine.) But for some reason, when he recorded this song—his own song—the label said no, even after pressing several hundred copies. The label ordered all copies destroyed and Frank Wilson's solo career was over before it began. But a year later, the song was resurrected by female Motown artist Chris Clark in a new vocal recording over either the original music track or a near identical rerecording. The two versions are very similar, but Chris Clark's vocal lacks the energy of the original, and the urgency—really, I think it suffers simply from its lack of originality.
At any rate, the legend says that two copies of the record survived, and in the seventies, one of them found its way into the hands of a Northern Soul DJ. The whole story is repeated in great and variable detail elsewhere, and if you're at all interested in music history, I recommend you take a look for it. Truly, the legend adds to the song's intrigue, but not to its greatness. The simple fact of its existence—its creation—is a miracle, a testament to momentary genius. That we have the original recording to enjoy today is testament to the unsuppressible nature of genius and creativity: art.
I find it interesting that my connection to this song isn't through some collection of important life events that are somehow wrapped up with it. Rather, my connection is somehow instantaneous, imperative. Despite all of the great great Soul music that exists and that I absolutely love—from both before and after "Do I Love You"—this particular song embodies Soul music: it is simple, it evokes God's connection to love, it contains a chorus-like call and answer, all characteristics that come from Gospel music, the essence of Soul.
It's in a space of sheer wonder that I experience "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)". And in that space I am open to the pure love the song proclaims in its every aspect.
__
Here I am on bended knees
I lay my heart down at your feet
Now do I love you?
All you have to do is ask
I’ll give until there’s nothing left
Do I love you?
As long as there is life in me
Our happiness is guaranteed
I’ll fill your heart with ecstasy, forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do
Indeed I do
The very thing that I want most
Is just to have and hold you close
Do I love you?
From early morning until late at night
You fill my heart with pure delight
Do I love you?
Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me, forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do, sweet darling,
Indeed I do
Now whenever I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord your soul to keep
And bring you home safe to me
Forever darling
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Indeed I do, little darling,
Indeed I do Read on..!
Beautiful songs: Strangers
My good friend Josh Raskin recently sent me this song, after a long discussion of amazing stuff we're enjoying at the moment. I said the Junior Boys' latest album Begone Dull Care, which I find a really beautiful and excellent collection of songs. Josh mentioned the cable television series Peep Show and a couple of songs: a cover of Prince's "1999" by a band called Dump, led by Yo La Tengo's bass player, and "Strangers" by The Kinks (written by Dave Davies, to be precise). I haven't heard yet what Josh thinks of my recommendation, but I have at long last been converted to The Kinks. I am ready to listen!
I've always appreciated The Kinks on a superficial level—well, I guess since I was properly introduced to them, probably in my teens. Who doesn't like "You Really Got Me", "Till the End of the Day", and "All Day and All of the Night"? But, while these songs helped fill in the gaps in The Beatles' grand music- and world-changing scheme, I'm not sure they ever properly represented what the band was about. They sang more political and satirical songs, like "Well Respected Man" and "Dedicated Follower of Fashion", and I was never quite sold on this other, more thoughtful, side of The Kinks, probably because I didn't consider those songs sufficiently danceable. (That was a prime concern of mine from about 18 on.) I guess I liked this "other" stuff just fine, but being stubborn I wouldn't go out of my way to listen to it. I'm sure that once in a while I even scoffed at "Dedicated Follower..." or other "non-dancey" Kinks songs at clubs. (Before you call me crazy, let me say that I was wrong on the danceable factor, too, since many of what I call the "other" songs are perfect for the dancefloor!)
But most of the music fans among my friends—the ones who know the bands, their albums and songs—said that The Kinks were great. For my part, I just couldn't quite place them in the Pantheon of the British Invasion: where did they fit among The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Zombies? (The latter, they were my type of group, the one I really loved. But, heck, much of what I say about The Kinks I could also say about the Who.)
Anyway, eventually I discovered "Victoria", which became a great favourite and opened my mind some, and then The Village Green Preservation Society, an album that clearly showed The Kinks were doing their own very worthy thing, and they didn't much care what anybody else said about it. I'm not sure that prepared me for the assault of genius I experienced when I heard "Strangers" though.
I can't tell if I have some real memory of this song from before or not because it is so clearly reminiscent of others and so generally nostalgic. I feel like Wes Anderson must have used it in one of his quirky nostalgic films—he used The Kinks' lovely "Nothing In this World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'bout that Girl" in Rushmore, what feels like ages ago—but I can't place "Strangers" among his soundtracks. ... Well, now some accidental research tells me that in fact it was in The Darjeeling Limited, Anderson's most recent film, along with a couple of other Kinks tracks. (It seems he's become far less creative in his musical research as time goes by: all three are from the same album.) The song makes sense in that film, with its searching and cynical quasi-spiritual theme: "Where are you going? I don't mind. I've killed my world and I've killed my time." Of course, since I've seen the movie, now I can't tell whether my feelings are as genuine as I initially thought. No matter; the song will certainly outlast the film, and I can hardly fault Mr. Anderson that his work sowed a seed so deeply that I would think its flower came straight from my soul.
Regardless, I found "Strangers" instantly recognizable—uncanny—the way incredible works often are upon first (or subsequent) experiences. It felt right and good, like it just gets right to the heart of things—of me and you. Mostly it reminds me of "The Weight" by the Canadian-American rock group, The Band (and which, surely not coincidentally, was released and became a hit in the United Kingdom in 1968, just a year or so before "Strangers" was written and recorded). The two songs share many similar elements, from the slow but forceful bass drum beat and acoustic strum to the rolling piano flourishes and organ. But as beautiful as that song is, I find "Strangers" the more affecting, possibly because it's more intimate, and captures the feelings of love, alienation, and the lost promise of the spiritual/love revolution that had occurred in the mid- to late-1960s (and which feeds our current cultural condition); while "The Weight" seems less personal and more narrative—more neutral. It might also have something to do with the fact that I've just heard "The Weight" so many darn times; for example, at the Sports: the Band show at the Tranzac club last winter, I heard a group of ageing hippies jam to it—poorly. I don't know.
To me, "Strangers" synthesizes the roots rock of the time in the United States and the balladeering of the later Beatles; and it seems to predict David Bowie's "Soul Love" and "Five Years" from Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, and some Pink Floyd yet five years away. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that The Kinks were covering this American rootsy rock ground (the sound is evident elsewhere on the album Lola Versus Powerman And The Moneygoround, Part One). Certainly others—notably, both The Beatles and The Stones had gone there—and The Kinks' already eclectic and influential late-60s output justifies any diversion.
There is another aspect to hearing this song besides its uncanniness: a sort of surprise. And I think that comes from the lovely lyrics: at turns passionate and cynical, wise and powerless, patient or lazy. These are real troubled, if not especially heavy, thoughts: "So where do I go what do I see? I see many people coming after me. ... So I will follow you wherever you go, If your offered hand is still open to me." They are thoughts that could easily come off as too simple or too sincere, and the surprise is that something that teeters on the edge of trite can maintain balance so well throughout.
In fact—and if you know the song, I'm sure you understand—at the chorus, the feeling reaches a new level, and grows into a sort of awe. "Strangers on this road we are on; We are not two we are one." It's so obvious, but the performance gives the words life and allows them to tell a thousand stories that, alone, the words are incapable of expressing. Now don't get me wrong; I find the lyrics quite nice on their own, but I don't think they're poetry. Many many musical artists had trod the same ground before, some with far greater flair. And now I can't tell whether the repetition of the word "on" is clever or unnecessary. But it's genius for all these reasons and just because I say so. I tend to find awe in simple things, because I think it's the simplest things that are best able to describe to us our world and our place in it. And music seems to hold a special ability to tell a near-infinite number of individual stories, in a very-finite package of two to seven minutes.
At last, "Strangers" maintains the uncanniness and surprise throughout. I find I become entranced, and I want to climb inside of the song, to see and feel its inner workings, to sing it aloud, to grab my guitar and play it, as it appears that many others have done before me. Or I can just sit and listen and enjoy, which I look forward to doing many more times.
Thanks Josh!
___
Where are you going? I don't mind.
I've killed my world and I've killed my time.
So where do I go what do I see?
I see many people coming after me.
So where are you going to? I don't mind.
If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die.
So I will follow you wherever you go,
If your offered hand is still open to me.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
So you've been where I've just come:
From the land that brings losers on.
So we will share this road we walk
And mind our mouths and beware our talk,
Till peace we find, tell you what I'll do
All the things I own I will share with you.
If I feel tomorrow like I feel today,
We'll take what we want and give the rest away.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
Holy man and holy priest,
This love of life makes me weak at my knees.
And when we get there make your play,
'Cos soon I feel you're gonna carry us away.
In a promised lie you made us believe,
For many men there is so much grief;
And my mind is proud but it aches with rage,
And if I live too long I'm afraid I'll die,
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one. Read on..!
I've always appreciated The Kinks on a superficial level—well, I guess since I was properly introduced to them, probably in my teens. Who doesn't like "You Really Got Me", "Till the End of the Day", and "All Day and All of the Night"? But, while these songs helped fill in the gaps in The Beatles' grand music- and world-changing scheme, I'm not sure they ever properly represented what the band was about. They sang more political and satirical songs, like "Well Respected Man" and "Dedicated Follower of Fashion", and I was never quite sold on this other, more thoughtful, side of The Kinks, probably because I didn't consider those songs sufficiently danceable. (That was a prime concern of mine from about 18 on.) I guess I liked this "other" stuff just fine, but being stubborn I wouldn't go out of my way to listen to it. I'm sure that once in a while I even scoffed at "Dedicated Follower..." or other "non-dancey" Kinks songs at clubs. (Before you call me crazy, let me say that I was wrong on the danceable factor, too, since many of what I call the "other" songs are perfect for the dancefloor!)
But most of the music fans among my friends—the ones who know the bands, their albums and songs—said that The Kinks were great. For my part, I just couldn't quite place them in the Pantheon of the British Invasion: where did they fit among The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Zombies? (The latter, they were my type of group, the one I really loved. But, heck, much of what I say about The Kinks I could also say about the Who.)
Anyway, eventually I discovered "Victoria", which became a great favourite and opened my mind some, and then The Village Green Preservation Society, an album that clearly showed The Kinks were doing their own very worthy thing, and they didn't much care what anybody else said about it. I'm not sure that prepared me for the assault of genius I experienced when I heard "Strangers" though.
I can't tell if I have some real memory of this song from before or not because it is so clearly reminiscent of others and so generally nostalgic. I feel like Wes Anderson must have used it in one of his quirky nostalgic films—he used The Kinks' lovely "Nothing In this World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'bout that Girl" in Rushmore, what feels like ages ago—but I can't place "Strangers" among his soundtracks. ... Well, now some accidental research tells me that in fact it was in The Darjeeling Limited, Anderson's most recent film, along with a couple of other Kinks tracks. (It seems he's become far less creative in his musical research as time goes by: all three are from the same album.) The song makes sense in that film, with its searching and cynical quasi-spiritual theme: "Where are you going? I don't mind. I've killed my world and I've killed my time." Of course, since I've seen the movie, now I can't tell whether my feelings are as genuine as I initially thought. No matter; the song will certainly outlast the film, and I can hardly fault Mr. Anderson that his work sowed a seed so deeply that I would think its flower came straight from my soul.
Regardless, I found "Strangers" instantly recognizable—uncanny—the way incredible works often are upon first (or subsequent) experiences. It felt right and good, like it just gets right to the heart of things—of me and you. Mostly it reminds me of "The Weight" by the Canadian-American rock group, The Band (and which, surely not coincidentally, was released and became a hit in the United Kingdom in 1968, just a year or so before "Strangers" was written and recorded). The two songs share many similar elements, from the slow but forceful bass drum beat and acoustic strum to the rolling piano flourishes and organ. But as beautiful as that song is, I find "Strangers" the more affecting, possibly because it's more intimate, and captures the feelings of love, alienation, and the lost promise of the spiritual/love revolution that had occurred in the mid- to late-1960s (and which feeds our current cultural condition); while "The Weight" seems less personal and more narrative—more neutral. It might also have something to do with the fact that I've just heard "The Weight" so many darn times; for example, at the Sports: the Band show at the Tranzac club last winter, I heard a group of ageing hippies jam to it—poorly. I don't know.
To me, "Strangers" synthesizes the roots rock of the time in the United States and the balladeering of the later Beatles; and it seems to predict David Bowie's "Soul Love" and "Five Years" from Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, and some Pink Floyd yet five years away. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that The Kinks were covering this American rootsy rock ground (the sound is evident elsewhere on the album Lola Versus Powerman And The Moneygoround, Part One). Certainly others—notably, both The Beatles and The Stones had gone there—and The Kinks' already eclectic and influential late-60s output justifies any diversion.
There is another aspect to hearing this song besides its uncanniness: a sort of surprise. And I think that comes from the lovely lyrics: at turns passionate and cynical, wise and powerless, patient or lazy. These are real troubled, if not especially heavy, thoughts: "So where do I go what do I see? I see many people coming after me. ... So I will follow you wherever you go, If your offered hand is still open to me." They are thoughts that could easily come off as too simple or too sincere, and the surprise is that something that teeters on the edge of trite can maintain balance so well throughout.
In fact—and if you know the song, I'm sure you understand—at the chorus, the feeling reaches a new level, and grows into a sort of awe. "Strangers on this road we are on; We are not two we are one." It's so obvious, but the performance gives the words life and allows them to tell a thousand stories that, alone, the words are incapable of expressing. Now don't get me wrong; I find the lyrics quite nice on their own, but I don't think they're poetry. Many many musical artists had trod the same ground before, some with far greater flair. And now I can't tell whether the repetition of the word "on" is clever or unnecessary. But it's genius for all these reasons and just because I say so. I tend to find awe in simple things, because I think it's the simplest things that are best able to describe to us our world and our place in it. And music seems to hold a special ability to tell a near-infinite number of individual stories, in a very-finite package of two to seven minutes.
At last, "Strangers" maintains the uncanniness and surprise throughout. I find I become entranced, and I want to climb inside of the song, to see and feel its inner workings, to sing it aloud, to grab my guitar and play it, as it appears that many others have done before me. Or I can just sit and listen and enjoy, which I look forward to doing many more times.
Thanks Josh!
___
Where are you going? I don't mind.
I've killed my world and I've killed my time.
So where do I go what do I see?
I see many people coming after me.
So where are you going to? I don't mind.
If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die.
So I will follow you wherever you go,
If your offered hand is still open to me.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
So you've been where I've just come:
From the land that brings losers on.
So we will share this road we walk
And mind our mouths and beware our talk,
Till peace we find, tell you what I'll do
All the things I own I will share with you.
If I feel tomorrow like I feel today,
We'll take what we want and give the rest away.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
Holy man and holy priest,
This love of life makes me weak at my knees.
And when we get there make your play,
'Cos soon I feel you're gonna carry us away.
In a promised lie you made us believe,
For many men there is so much grief;
And my mind is proud but it aches with rage,
And if I live too long I'm afraid I'll die,
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one.
Strangers on this road we are on;
We are not two we are one. Read on..!
Beautiful songs: A New England
The name Billy Bragg didn't mean a thing to me until one early morning about 10 years ago, in the dingy upstairs of the pre-renovation El Mocambo. The name still only holds limited meaning for me, event though the man has made a comeback in the years since I first noticed his music. But that meaning is strong, and rests on the power of his first release, the EP Life's a Riot with Spy vs Spy—in particular, the song "A New England". I have in my mind some negligible recollection of the song's name from before that fateful day, but it is most probably false, and it doesn't matter anyway.
It was that morning, probably around four o'clock, when Billy Bragg, alone with his electric guitar, roared into my life with the perfect anti-political slogan: "I'm not looking for a new England; I'm just looking for another girl".
I don't think I considered the politics or simply the meaning behind the words too closely at the time—really they're quite direct and don't need a lot of interpretation—but I clearly remember connecting with them intuitively (i.e., without bothering to think about them), as representative of my state of mind at the time. I was anti-political, and I was looking for another girl, although it sounds simple, and it could probably have been said of the great majority of my friends.
But Billy Bragg wasn't the frontman of some English bourgeois neo-glam art-school band with six members all wearing suits, dresses or jumpers. He was an activist punk and poet with a guitar and a middling voice. And at 3:30 in the morning you could even dance to him in a solo Britpop fist-pumping kind of way. The sound in the El Mo echoed with a few last souls on the floor—this was the "real" end of the night after all—and the touch of distortion screamed and shivered through the place. And then you'd go home—or to someone's home anyway—more or less satisfied that you played your part; your life was justified by some words written as the 1970s turned into the 1980s, as though that time were simpler—oh sad nostalgia.
So anyway, "A New England" finished my Saturday nights for many months. I couldn't say for how long—probably over a year; maybe even two! This was somewhat before I became a DJ at Blow Up, so I wasn't quite "in" yet. I don't remember whom I asked about the song. It might have been head honcho Davy love—it was he who played it every weekend—or it might have been my excellent dancing partner James S.; or I may have harnessed the power of the World Wide Web way back when, and searched for the easily understood lyrics. Either way, I know I bought that record as soon as I saw it at one of my local second-hand record stores. I had remarkable luck finding records I wanted. I played it over and over at home, taking in each of the stunning songs. I hadn't heard anything like it—so powerful, sincere and sparse—and I'm not sure I have since. But nothing else—no other Billy Bragg work that I've listened to—has given me even remotely similar feelings. Clearly the time played a great part.
I wish I had recorded in some way (you know, like in memory) what other groups or albums I got into around the same time, to do some sort of comparative study on what was influencing me. I think I prayed through music then, and throughout my long adolescence. By listening and singing along and dancing to certain songs, repeatedly, I reinforced the themes, ideals and wants they contained. I came to understand the world in terms of middle-class British (anti-)romance and vices and (anti-)politics—a sort of ethic of non-engagement, disdaining authority, but not bothering or willing to dispute or subvert the prevailing order. This is what I brought into my life, and how I lived my life at the time, it's fair to say. I guess it's not an uncommon theme for youth generally.
Recently I gave up the delusion that I might digitize the album from my vinyl copy, and I downloaded Life's a Riot. I hadn't listened to "A New England" for several years. Although I've since and finally left my adolescence behind (as far as I imagine I ever will), along with my apathy and several other traits that are acceptable—even charming—in youth, but distasteful in adults, the song still resonates deeply with me.
And now I'm free to consider the wider circumstances of the song: it is the product of a certain time and condition in the United Kingdom—which I won't pretend to know anything about—and it's certainly not anti-political, despite the appearance of its disarming lyrics. The chorus makes it clear that there is call for a new England, just that the subject of the song won't have anything to do with it. Instead, he is focussed on the issues—or the one main issue—facing young people anywhere in the world at any time: the passage into adulthood, the acceptance into society, the original political act. It did presage this passage in me. Within a couple of years, I moved out of my parents' house, began working regularly, engaged in political discourse, and eventually went to university—and left behind Blow Up, with some sadness. I guess it shouldn't be surprising then, that I stopped pulling Billy Bragg off my record shelf about that time, too.
Now I can listen to it at leisure, and I have. I almost feel guilty listening to it, like I'm indulging in some deep nostalgia. But would I ever feel indulgent listening to The Beatles or New Order? But enough of that! "A New England" is almost overpowering in its simplicity. I was certainly more indulgent the first time around! I hold it in Awe, like a Spring of Pure Beauty filtering through the Fabric of the Universe. I recommend a listen—to the album version first. Some live versions are very good, but none of them match the original recording, to my ears.
I hope you've enjoyed my little story; I promise to have something more for you soon.
___
I was 21 years when I wrote this song;
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long.
People ask me "when will you grow up to be a man?"
But all the girls I loved at school
are already pushing prams.
I loved you then as I love you still;
Though I put you on a pedestal,
They put you on the pill.
I don't feel bad about letting you go;
I just feel sad about letting you know.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
I loved the words you wrote to me,
But that was bloody yesterday.
I can't survive on what you send
Every time you need a friend.
I saw two shooting stars last night;
I wished on them, but they were only satellites.
Is it wrong to wish on space hardware?
I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
Looking for another girl
Looking for another girl
Looking for another girl
Read on..!
It was that morning, probably around four o'clock, when Billy Bragg, alone with his electric guitar, roared into my life with the perfect anti-political slogan: "I'm not looking for a new England; I'm just looking for another girl".
I don't think I considered the politics or simply the meaning behind the words too closely at the time—really they're quite direct and don't need a lot of interpretation—but I clearly remember connecting with them intuitively (i.e., without bothering to think about them), as representative of my state of mind at the time. I was anti-political, and I was looking for another girl, although it sounds simple, and it could probably have been said of the great majority of my friends.
I was 21 years when I wrote this song;So this song was the perfect way to end a long night of dancing, drinking and desperate socializing: with some poetry from another time—when most of us were babies or children—that tidily summed up our lives. This was at Blow Up of course, in case you hadn't guessed. And many songs that one could hear there summed up quite succinctly us mods' and britpoppers' attitudes towards life: the intense focus on style, fashion and cool; the cynicism, apathy and condescension; the need to belong, evinced through excessive drinking and drugs. Pulp, Blur, the Divine Comedy—they all made the life clear: "Modern Life is Rubbish", so let all us "Common People" grab "Something for the Weekend", and so on.
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long.
People ask me "when will you grow up to be a man?"
But all the girls I loved at school
Are already pushing prams.
But Billy Bragg wasn't the frontman of some English bourgeois neo-glam art-school band with six members all wearing suits, dresses or jumpers. He was an activist punk and poet with a guitar and a middling voice. And at 3:30 in the morning you could even dance to him in a solo Britpop fist-pumping kind of way. The sound in the El Mo echoed with a few last souls on the floor—this was the "real" end of the night after all—and the touch of distortion screamed and shivered through the place. And then you'd go home—or to someone's home anyway—more or less satisfied that you played your part; your life was justified by some words written as the 1970s turned into the 1980s, as though that time were simpler—oh sad nostalgia.
So anyway, "A New England" finished my Saturday nights for many months. I couldn't say for how long—probably over a year; maybe even two! This was somewhat before I became a DJ at Blow Up, so I wasn't quite "in" yet. I don't remember whom I asked about the song. It might have been head honcho Davy love—it was he who played it every weekend—or it might have been my excellent dancing partner James S.; or I may have harnessed the power of the World Wide Web way back when, and searched for the easily understood lyrics. Either way, I know I bought that record as soon as I saw it at one of my local second-hand record stores. I had remarkable luck finding records I wanted. I played it over and over at home, taking in each of the stunning songs. I hadn't heard anything like it—so powerful, sincere and sparse—and I'm not sure I have since. But nothing else—no other Billy Bragg work that I've listened to—has given me even remotely similar feelings. Clearly the time played a great part.
I wish I had recorded in some way (you know, like in memory) what other groups or albums I got into around the same time, to do some sort of comparative study on what was influencing me. I think I prayed through music then, and throughout my long adolescence. By listening and singing along and dancing to certain songs, repeatedly, I reinforced the themes, ideals and wants they contained. I came to understand the world in terms of middle-class British (anti-)romance and vices and (anti-)politics—a sort of ethic of non-engagement, disdaining authority, but not bothering or willing to dispute or subvert the prevailing order. This is what I brought into my life, and how I lived my life at the time, it's fair to say. I guess it's not an uncommon theme for youth generally.
Recently I gave up the delusion that I might digitize the album from my vinyl copy, and I downloaded Life's a Riot. I hadn't listened to "A New England" for several years. Although I've since and finally left my adolescence behind (as far as I imagine I ever will), along with my apathy and several other traits that are acceptable—even charming—in youth, but distasteful in adults, the song still resonates deeply with me.
And now I'm free to consider the wider circumstances of the song: it is the product of a certain time and condition in the United Kingdom—which I won't pretend to know anything about—and it's certainly not anti-political, despite the appearance of its disarming lyrics. The chorus makes it clear that there is call for a new England, just that the subject of the song won't have anything to do with it. Instead, he is focussed on the issues—or the one main issue—facing young people anywhere in the world at any time: the passage into adulthood, the acceptance into society, the original political act. It did presage this passage in me. Within a couple of years, I moved out of my parents' house, began working regularly, engaged in political discourse, and eventually went to university—and left behind Blow Up, with some sadness. I guess it shouldn't be surprising then, that I stopped pulling Billy Bragg off my record shelf about that time, too.
Now I can listen to it at leisure, and I have. I almost feel guilty listening to it, like I'm indulging in some deep nostalgia. But would I ever feel indulgent listening to The Beatles or New Order? But enough of that! "A New England" is almost overpowering in its simplicity. I was certainly more indulgent the first time around! I hold it in Awe, like a Spring of Pure Beauty filtering through the Fabric of the Universe. I recommend a listen—to the album version first. Some live versions are very good, but none of them match the original recording, to my ears.
I hope you've enjoyed my little story; I promise to have something more for you soon.
___
I was 21 years when I wrote this song;
I'm 22 now, but I won't be for long.
People ask me "when will you grow up to be a man?"
But all the girls I loved at school
are already pushing prams.
I loved you then as I love you still;
Though I put you on a pedestal,
They put you on the pill.
I don't feel bad about letting you go;
I just feel sad about letting you know.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
I loved the words you wrote to me,
But that was bloody yesterday.
I can't survive on what you send
Every time you need a friend.
I saw two shooting stars last night;
I wished on them, but they were only satellites.
Is it wrong to wish on space hardware?
I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
I don't want to change the world;
I'm not looking for a new England;
I'm just looking for another girl.
Looking for another girl
Looking for another girl
Looking for another girl
Read on..!
Thursday, 18 January 2024
Manufactured Landscapes
Here is the final draft version of my review of the Edward Burtynsky documentary “Manufactured Landscapes” for AND Magazine, issue 1, June 2007.
“
May I begin by asking what is the difference between natural and artificial, anyway? Then, can we just drop the pretense and acknowledge that we don’t know? Artificial, manufactured; these are words that signify things made or conceived by humans. Natural, by nature or God. But surely I’m not the only one who recognizes that all things come from nature, and no matter if humans form them and put them together, they never belong to us. In other words, the very distinction between nature and artifice is artificial. We made it up! Just like we made up words, beauty, cars, art, TV, politics, countries, objectivity, and coincidence.
This is all to say that the manufactured—the man-made—can be equally as beautiful as the natural; even those things that, when we hear about them in the news, we click our tongues and shake our heads at. And we have no objectivity; that is why when faced with something we disapprove of, we can have an entirely different reaction than if we only hear about it.
Edward Burtynsky is a photographer who can show us these confusing elements of the human being, and make them okay. He can make us find things we think atrocities of human excess to be the height of beauty, and it’s okay. At least that has been my experience of Burtynsky’s work. The documentary film, “Manufactured Landscapes,” directed by Jennifer Baichwal, is much the same. It explores Burtynsky’s work from the beginning of his Manufactured Landscapes period, starting with the brilliant orange-red veins of runoff from nickel mining set against dark earth in Sudbury, Ontario, and the immense empty footprint and incredible classical and abstract formations of stone quarries in Vermont, Italy, and India; she looks at fields of fractalized scrap metals and the great hulking shapes of gigantic oil tankers cut into bits in Bangladesh. From there she quickly moves to the film’s main focus: China and the radical changes taking place there due to industrialization and urbanization unprecedented in human history. It is a country where development is undeniable and unquestionable, and our Western, first world, moral arguments are out of place, irrelevant. Perhaps the perfect location for Burtynsky's neutral lens. The Three Gorges dam project, for example, has displaced over a million people in more than a dozen cities, many of whom were subsequently hired to demolish their own homes and neighbourhoods; but it will provide electricity (to the tune of 84.7 TWh per year by 2009) and facilitate the transportation of goods for the next generation of Chinese. Old, 20th century houses and quarters in Shanghai are torn down to make way for high-rises—condos we call them in Canada— their family tenants forced to move to more distant, cheaper homes, to make way for the next generation of economy-driving Chinese. Nearly unimaginably large factories, manufacturing plants, dominate vast tracts of land and house innumerable interchangeable labourers making products for who knows who now. Seas of coal sit waiting to heat the next generation of nuclear power plants.
This is where the documentary diverges from Burtynsky’s own project. Looking through Baichwal’s film lens, following Burtynsky on his unusual tour of China as he speaks with Chinese of the old and new economies, it is hard not to fall into judgments about the changes taking place there. While watching, I wanted to think that it’s wrong what we’re doing to the earth with our gross exploitation of its resources; it’s wrong to displace such a great amount of people no matter what perceived benefits; it’s backwards to think in such simple, short-sighted, and inefficient terms; et c. And surely there’s nothing wrong with thinking those things. If nobody ever did, there might not be human rights or environmental movements. But there are always at least two sides to a judgment: my side and the “other” side, and if there were not another side, we would have nothing to judge. I might look at these images and see atrocities, or I might see progress, and as soon as I pick one or the other, I create someone with whom I do not and often cannot agree: an enemy.
Burtynsky’s own works—his grand, silent, still images—don’t encourage such judgments with the same urgency. They merely present what’s there, and while perhaps we, as humans, cannot help but to judge one way or the other, I find these images at least initially give pause—a brief moment of freedom, a glimpse of objectivity. And in that moment I find I can choose whether to judge or not: whether to see what’s there—the bare beauty—or to see through a veil of judgment—the ugly, wrong, corrupt, immoral. The neutrality of this moment, this meeting with barefaced reality, is a position from which we can re-envision beauty and progress and most, if not all, of our moral concerns. Maybe beauty can sometimes look like ugliness, and the world can be beautiful just the way it is, with all the trouble and suffering that we cannot avoid; and maybe progress, too, can look ugly, but still be progress, and maybe it does here in the west as well. These ideas don't need to be attached to a single ideology or moral framework. My “right” doesn't have to be my enemy’s “wrong”, and indeed, our disagreement doesn't have to make us enemies. For I don’t know what's right or wrong or good or bad, and when I’m presented with images like those in the film, I don’t especially care. I'm simply ecstatic that somebody is taking the time and risk to capture these moments.
These are easily politicized images that Burtynsky has created, and in the end, it’s impressive the amount of restraint that Baichwal shows in her own take on their story. She makes her opinion known without propagandizing and without making the viewer feel guilty or stupid. Nonetheless, and I admit that this may be my guilty conscience speaking, she seems to me to be saying that what is happening in the world is wrong, and we, the decadents, for various reasons, are to blame. My opinion is only that you would do well to see this film and the photographs of Edward Burtynsky, and enjoy being suspended between your judgments and awe.
”
For more information on the Three Gorges Dam:
Three Gorges Probe Fact Box
Chinese Government Official Web Portal - The Three Gorges Dam Project Read on..!
“
May I begin by asking what is the difference between natural and artificial, anyway? Then, can we just drop the pretense and acknowledge that we don’t know? Artificial, manufactured; these are words that signify things made or conceived by humans. Natural, by nature or God. But surely I’m not the only one who recognizes that all things come from nature, and no matter if humans form them and put them together, they never belong to us. In other words, the very distinction between nature and artifice is artificial. We made it up! Just like we made up words, beauty, cars, art, TV, politics, countries, objectivity, and coincidence.
This is all to say that the manufactured—the man-made—can be equally as beautiful as the natural; even those things that, when we hear about them in the news, we click our tongues and shake our heads at. And we have no objectivity; that is why when faced with something we disapprove of, we can have an entirely different reaction than if we only hear about it.
Edward Burtynsky is a photographer who can show us these confusing elements of the human being, and make them okay. He can make us find things we think atrocities of human excess to be the height of beauty, and it’s okay. At least that has been my experience of Burtynsky’s work. The documentary film, “Manufactured Landscapes,” directed by Jennifer Baichwal, is much the same. It explores Burtynsky’s work from the beginning of his Manufactured Landscapes period, starting with the brilliant orange-red veins of runoff from nickel mining set against dark earth in Sudbury, Ontario, and the immense empty footprint and incredible classical and abstract formations of stone quarries in Vermont, Italy, and India; she looks at fields of fractalized scrap metals and the great hulking shapes of gigantic oil tankers cut into bits in Bangladesh. From there she quickly moves to the film’s main focus: China and the radical changes taking place there due to industrialization and urbanization unprecedented in human history. It is a country where development is undeniable and unquestionable, and our Western, first world, moral arguments are out of place, irrelevant. Perhaps the perfect location for Burtynsky's neutral lens. The Three Gorges dam project, for example, has displaced over a million people in more than a dozen cities, many of whom were subsequently hired to demolish their own homes and neighbourhoods; but it will provide electricity (to the tune of 84.7 TWh per year by 2009) and facilitate the transportation of goods for the next generation of Chinese. Old, 20th century houses and quarters in Shanghai are torn down to make way for high-rises—condos we call them in Canada— their family tenants forced to move to more distant, cheaper homes, to make way for the next generation of economy-driving Chinese. Nearly unimaginably large factories, manufacturing plants, dominate vast tracts of land and house innumerable interchangeable labourers making products for who knows who now. Seas of coal sit waiting to heat the next generation of nuclear power plants.
This is where the documentary diverges from Burtynsky’s own project. Looking through Baichwal’s film lens, following Burtynsky on his unusual tour of China as he speaks with Chinese of the old and new economies, it is hard not to fall into judgments about the changes taking place there. While watching, I wanted to think that it’s wrong what we’re doing to the earth with our gross exploitation of its resources; it’s wrong to displace such a great amount of people no matter what perceived benefits; it’s backwards to think in such simple, short-sighted, and inefficient terms; et c. And surely there’s nothing wrong with thinking those things. If nobody ever did, there might not be human rights or environmental movements. But there are always at least two sides to a judgment: my side and the “other” side, and if there were not another side, we would have nothing to judge. I might look at these images and see atrocities, or I might see progress, and as soon as I pick one or the other, I create someone with whom I do not and often cannot agree: an enemy.
Burtynsky’s own works—his grand, silent, still images—don’t encourage such judgments with the same urgency. They merely present what’s there, and while perhaps we, as humans, cannot help but to judge one way or the other, I find these images at least initially give pause—a brief moment of freedom, a glimpse of objectivity. And in that moment I find I can choose whether to judge or not: whether to see what’s there—the bare beauty—or to see through a veil of judgment—the ugly, wrong, corrupt, immoral. The neutrality of this moment, this meeting with barefaced reality, is a position from which we can re-envision beauty and progress and most, if not all, of our moral concerns. Maybe beauty can sometimes look like ugliness, and the world can be beautiful just the way it is, with all the trouble and suffering that we cannot avoid; and maybe progress, too, can look ugly, but still be progress, and maybe it does here in the west as well. These ideas don't need to be attached to a single ideology or moral framework. My “right” doesn't have to be my enemy’s “wrong”, and indeed, our disagreement doesn't have to make us enemies. For I don’t know what's right or wrong or good or bad, and when I’m presented with images like those in the film, I don’t especially care. I'm simply ecstatic that somebody is taking the time and risk to capture these moments.
These are easily politicized images that Burtynsky has created, and in the end, it’s impressive the amount of restraint that Baichwal shows in her own take on their story. She makes her opinion known without propagandizing and without making the viewer feel guilty or stupid. Nonetheless, and I admit that this may be my guilty conscience speaking, she seems to me to be saying that what is happening in the world is wrong, and we, the decadents, for various reasons, are to blame. My opinion is only that you would do well to see this film and the photographs of Edward Burtynsky, and enjoy being suspended between your judgments and awe.
”
For more information on the Three Gorges Dam:
Three Gorges Probe Fact Box
Chinese Government Official Web Portal - The Three Gorges Dam Project Read on..!
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
VIVIV/Ken Reaume at Holy Oak, October 29, 2009
Ken Reaume has never disappointed me in the music department, either live or recorded. His immense talent, skill, and passion define his songwriting, although you might not know it from his humble stage presence. Nevertheless, his performances explode with subtle emotion and energy. But he doesn't just write songs, he crafts them, and his work is as fine as any other craftsman I know. Unfortunately, like many craftsmen, Ken has worked in relative obscurity for much of the time since he first put his name out there.
Amid a recent explosion of talent and success in folk and similar music in Toronto, too few have caught on to Ken. And it's a damn shame, because when it comes to the music and the shows, I've rarely seen a performer so poised and with such charisma—who can so easily captivate an audience.
The setting for this show was new to me—and relatively new to the neighbourhood. Holy Oak is a café and bar transformed from a storefront in a diverse and run down section of Bloor St. W., near Lansdowne Ave. I had no idea what to expect going in, just surprise that another entrepreneur has decided to bring another hip space to the area (also new: 3Speed, Starving Artist, and Disgraceland). At first, I find it to be an underwhelming space. Maybe because it's night, the place doesn't seem to know quite what it is. It's all painted white and the lighting is uneven, but the atmosphere didn't appear to bother any of the few patrons. It reminds me of Montréal quite a bit, though, which pleases me a lot. My companions, Danijela, Jen, and Elly, wanted couches, but I think the space is just too small.
And it's quiet. The acoustic ceiling tiles (presumably held over from one of the place's previous lives) seem to absorb most sounds that originate from inside, and some kind of excellent sealing around the windows and doors prevents any noise from entering via the street. Without looking out the window, I hardly felt I was on a busy stretch of Bloor. It wasn't rush hour, but this place was really quiet. Still, they serve a good Americano, and various other refreshments went over well at our table. I can imagine spending a sunny autumn afternoon there, working by the window, or even just people-watching. But that's not why you're reading is it?
I mention the atmosphere because it had a part to play in the show itself: first, as I mentioned, the place was super-quiet, which was great for listening, but made every non-musical (e.g., audience) noise stand out and between-song talking awkward; second, because the place is a coffee house, with few seats, and something about the place made it feel strange as a musical venue—there's definitely no place to go if you want to have a conversation while a performance is happening. (But in fairness to everyone, only about 15 people attended the show, and a bigger crowd would change the dynamic of the place entirely.)
But on to the interesting stuff!
Ken played a shortish set, maybe ten songs, and most of it was new.
"Hiatus" is brooding, with a stomp beat, and a step away from the Leonard Cohen influence that I heard in his recent (but not new) stuff. Despite, the song consisting only of voice, guitar, and foot stomps, I hear a lot of things going on in "Hiatus". The song's repetitive picking creates a hypnotic rhythm that never quite reaches beyond the droning bass beat, and the whole thing feels a bit like shoegazer folk. The live version lacks the harmonies of the recording, but I didn't find it missing in performance.
"Sapling" could hardly be different. It's an uptempo strummed number—a significant departure from his usual arpeggio work. It shows much richer influence and range than anything I've heard from him before. It's so simple, but it evokes a full on rock'n'roll assault with only a Spanish guitar and a voice. The melody (and harmony in the recorded version) is like something Lennon and McCartney could have written, and Ride (along with a hundred others) would have stolen. Truly remarkable and new, and yet fully VIVIV.
In performance, there's no ignoring Ken. Sometimes his shows are well attended and other times not, but at all times, his audiences pay attention and notice. This show was no exception.
He says he'll be releasing a new record early in the new year. When he does, you'll probably be able to get it through his MySpace or Facebook pages. You can get his past releases at Zunior.com.
Also, he's playing at Holy Oak again this Saturday, November 21. Don't miss it! Read on..!
Amid a recent explosion of talent and success in folk and similar music in Toronto, too few have caught on to Ken. And it's a damn shame, because when it comes to the music and the shows, I've rarely seen a performer so poised and with such charisma—who can so easily captivate an audience.
The setting for this show was new to me—and relatively new to the neighbourhood. Holy Oak is a café and bar transformed from a storefront in a diverse and run down section of Bloor St. W., near Lansdowne Ave. I had no idea what to expect going in, just surprise that another entrepreneur has decided to bring another hip space to the area (also new: 3Speed, Starving Artist, and Disgraceland). At first, I find it to be an underwhelming space. Maybe because it's night, the place doesn't seem to know quite what it is. It's all painted white and the lighting is uneven, but the atmosphere didn't appear to bother any of the few patrons. It reminds me of Montréal quite a bit, though, which pleases me a lot. My companions, Danijela, Jen, and Elly, wanted couches, but I think the space is just too small.And it's quiet. The acoustic ceiling tiles (presumably held over from one of the place's previous lives) seem to absorb most sounds that originate from inside, and some kind of excellent sealing around the windows and doors prevents any noise from entering via the street. Without looking out the window, I hardly felt I was on a busy stretch of Bloor. It wasn't rush hour, but this place was really quiet. Still, they serve a good Americano, and various other refreshments went over well at our table. I can imagine spending a sunny autumn afternoon there, working by the window, or even just people-watching. But that's not why you're reading is it?
I mention the atmosphere because it had a part to play in the show itself: first, as I mentioned, the place was super-quiet, which was great for listening, but made every non-musical (e.g., audience) noise stand out and between-song talking awkward; second, because the place is a coffee house, with few seats, and something about the place made it feel strange as a musical venue—there's definitely no place to go if you want to have a conversation while a performance is happening. (But in fairness to everyone, only about 15 people attended the show, and a bigger crowd would change the dynamic of the place entirely.)
But on to the interesting stuff!
Ken played a shortish set, maybe ten songs, and most of it was new.
"Hiatus" is brooding, with a stomp beat, and a step away from the Leonard Cohen influence that I heard in his recent (but not new) stuff. Despite, the song consisting only of voice, guitar, and foot stomps, I hear a lot of things going on in "Hiatus". The song's repetitive picking creates a hypnotic rhythm that never quite reaches beyond the droning bass beat, and the whole thing feels a bit like shoegazer folk. The live version lacks the harmonies of the recording, but I didn't find it missing in performance.
"Sapling" could hardly be different. It's an uptempo strummed number—a significant departure from his usual arpeggio work. It shows much richer influence and range than anything I've heard from him before. It's so simple, but it evokes a full on rock'n'roll assault with only a Spanish guitar and a voice. The melody (and harmony in the recorded version) is like something Lennon and McCartney could have written, and Ride (along with a hundred others) would have stolen. Truly remarkable and new, and yet fully VIVIV.
In performance, there's no ignoring Ken. Sometimes his shows are well attended and other times not, but at all times, his audiences pay attention and notice. This show was no exception.
He says he'll be releasing a new record early in the new year. When he does, you'll probably be able to get it through his MySpace or Facebook pages. You can get his past releases at Zunior.com.
Also, he's playing at Holy Oak again this Saturday, November 21. Don't miss it! Read on..!
Sunday, 20 September 2009
NOMO at the El Mocambo, September 18, 2009
Overall, a very good show.
Maybe you've figured this out already, but it only really hit me at this NOMO show that music is invisible, and this fact has implications I can't even imagine. That was actually my first thought when these guys started playing, and I couldn't stop thinking it for the rest of the show.
It is the main difference—well, it's one way of describing the main difference between seeing a band perform music live and listening to a recording of it, regardless of the quality of the recording; because while music itself—the sounds that comprise it—is invisible, and involves mostly hearing, performance is highly sensual, involving each of the major senses. Listening to music on its own—at home, in headphones, at a bar, even at a dance club—lacks so much sensory information about the music that it's almost unfair to place it in the same category as live music.
They must put something in those sound waves, because at a good live show, they penetrate mind, body, and soul; and each sense enhances the others, as the vision of the artist creates a wonderful—in fact, necessary—connection with the sounds they make, and those waves press into your body. Volume helps in many cases; but at any volume the feeling of the music from watching an artist live is usually incomparable to listening to a recording.
I might make an exception for dance clubs, because in those cases, the audience is actually participating in a performance of sorts, and one's senses are reasonably engaged. But in most club situations, volume acts as the major sensory stimulator, almost artificially compelling the body to move, and pushing the non-aural senses to the edges. Even hearing can play a minor role at a dance club, since it's the rhythm that moves the body, and the rhythm that the body feels the most—but a song's rhythm is commonly interchangeable, rarely unique to a particular song. In other words, at a dance party, the songs are less important than the rhythm that animates them. That doesn't mean that individual songs are unimportant, but there's a reason that we prefer to hear some songs at home and others at the club.
I don't mean to denigrate the experience and joy of listening to music recordings. The difference is like that between watching a play and reading a book: one is immediate, the other reflective. With live music and performances, the audience has to remain with the performer, and doesn't have a lot of time to think beyond what is contained in the script or song; with recordings and books, the audience can take its time and look out for things that are less obvious in the work.
Which, I suppose, brings me to the show on Friday. It starts with a happy combination of events that don't quite add up to coincidence.
I had never heard of NOMO before last week. Then my friend Elly started mentioning that some friends of hers from Chicago were coming to Toronto to play a show. That's the first event. (They're actually half from Chicago and half from Ann Arbor.) In fact, the band were to stay at Elly's and Danijela's studio, which has lots of room, but very few beds (that's facetious—it has no beds).
So, when I saw Elly's post about the show on Facebook, I decided to have a listen some NOMO. Usually I don't listen to music while I work, because it prevents me from focussing, but sometimes I can, and recently I have done, mostly because I've discovered Hype Machine (that's the second event), which is a Web 2.0 service that scours music blogs across the internet and adds any songs it finds to its database, aggregating in a user-friendly way for easy finding and listening; but also because I've been working on a project that requires a different kind of focus. It helps if I listen to instrumental music—it's mainly the singing that distracts me.
I liked what I heard. (That's the third event.)
Now, if you read my show reviews, you'll know that I hardly ever see live music, and that's sad because I adore the experience. Not only that, but Danijela and I have been going through a period of almost-unprecedented busyness—improving the house projects, work projects, various trips. (Sorry neglected friends! I'll be free again soon from the shackles of adult responsibility.) So we're like tired, and often cranky, old people right now. But I hate to turn down the opportunity to see a potentially good show (and for free—thanks Elly!). In this case, I had an open evening (recent Fridays I've been busy DJing at The Painted Lady) and some remaining energy from the week and day. Unfortunately, Danijela didn't have the same energy.
Which, I guess really brings me to the show. All of the above is actually relevant to what I experienced at the El Mo. If you listen to some of NOMO's music, I think you'll find it pretty funky in a jazzy and white sort of way. I would say they are obviously fans of Gil Scott-Heron and his style of acid jazz, but initially I heard a lot of Steely Dan (especially from the Rhodes keyboard and sometimes in the guitar) in the mix. The recordings also made me think of experimental artists like Can and !!!, who are often funky, but frequently too avant-garde to be dancefloor funky. Regardless, I liked the songs and definitely heard a lot of potential; and when I saw the seven band members walk on stage, I was ready to be impressed. They surpassed my expectations.
It was immediately clear that NOMO is made up of very competent musicians—this had better be the case in a group with three horn players (trumpet, tenor and baritone sax) and two drummers. They're tight and at the same time they rely pretty heavily on (presumably-)improvised horn solos, which is always a pleasure to hear. I couldn't help thinking of Sharon Jones's backing band, The Dap Kings, or any of the several revival jazz bands I've seen.
But: NOMO are thoroughly modern. Despite wearing their influences on their sleeves, and keeping within the realm of traditional jazz instruments (drums, bass, guitar, horns, keys, &c.), there is little sign of retrospection in their music. Reverence, yes—at one point I was wishing they would play John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme"—but no nostalgia. Maybe it helps that many of their songs feature two drummers and no guitar, and others feature guitar in a purely rhythmic mode, so that the songs remain unique, despite frequent similarities, which I think are inevitable in instrumental music.
More: early in the show—after three or four songs—I started to think that NOMO's songs followed a relatively simple formula: start out with a funky synchronized groove, introducing the melodic theme with the horns, giving way to solos and duos—a little bit chaotic, the unity falling apart—then a rhythmic breakdown followed by a return to unity, with the horns together reintroducing the theme or some modification—rise to crescendo and stop. (In this structural sense, they actually reminded me of Godspeed You Black Emperor!, whose entire catalogue was defined by this formula (with strings in place of horns, and no funk). Well, that's an exaggeration; that was my experience of that band, and it bored me.)
In one sense, this is simply a standard song structure that countless artists use to this day—sort of an instrumental version of the "verse-chorus-verse" form—the really important part is how the band uses the structure. In any case, it quickly turned out otherwise, as NOMO used enough variations on the form to keep their songs from becoming repetitive.
And, for me, watching talented and skillful musicians helps keep a performance interesting. Part of the visual aspect of music is seeing the players play their instruments—especially nice when there are so many players to look at—and communicate with each other, which these guys did a lot.
Finally, at the end of an hour-plus show, each of the band members, beginning with the horn players walked off the side of the stage and into the crowd, playing all the while (the drummers carried their toms, the bassist grabbed some bells). The crowd surrounded them, clapping and dancing along to the music—much reduced in volume, but heightened in presence.
In short—if it's fair for me to say that at this point—NOMO provide a serious sensory experience, better live than on record; but the recordings that I've heard so far are impressive, and totally worth hearing. I bought their new album, Invisible Cities, and I'm sure I'll be introducing a few tracks from it at The Painted Lady in the near future.
Read on..!
Maybe you've figured this out already, but it only really hit me at this NOMO show that music is invisible, and this fact has implications I can't even imagine. That was actually my first thought when these guys started playing, and I couldn't stop thinking it for the rest of the show.
It is the main difference—well, it's one way of describing the main difference between seeing a band perform music live and listening to a recording of it, regardless of the quality of the recording; because while music itself—the sounds that comprise it—is invisible, and involves mostly hearing, performance is highly sensual, involving each of the major senses. Listening to music on its own—at home, in headphones, at a bar, even at a dance club—lacks so much sensory information about the music that it's almost unfair to place it in the same category as live music.
They must put something in those sound waves, because at a good live show, they penetrate mind, body, and soul; and each sense enhances the others, as the vision of the artist creates a wonderful—in fact, necessary—connection with the sounds they make, and those waves press into your body. Volume helps in many cases; but at any volume the feeling of the music from watching an artist live is usually incomparable to listening to a recording.
I might make an exception for dance clubs, because in those cases, the audience is actually participating in a performance of sorts, and one's senses are reasonably engaged. But in most club situations, volume acts as the major sensory stimulator, almost artificially compelling the body to move, and pushing the non-aural senses to the edges. Even hearing can play a minor role at a dance club, since it's the rhythm that moves the body, and the rhythm that the body feels the most—but a song's rhythm is commonly interchangeable, rarely unique to a particular song. In other words, at a dance party, the songs are less important than the rhythm that animates them. That doesn't mean that individual songs are unimportant, but there's a reason that we prefer to hear some songs at home and others at the club.
I don't mean to denigrate the experience and joy of listening to music recordings. The difference is like that between watching a play and reading a book: one is immediate, the other reflective. With live music and performances, the audience has to remain with the performer, and doesn't have a lot of time to think beyond what is contained in the script or song; with recordings and books, the audience can take its time and look out for things that are less obvious in the work.
Which, I suppose, brings me to the show on Friday. It starts with a happy combination of events that don't quite add up to coincidence.
I had never heard of NOMO before last week. Then my friend Elly started mentioning that some friends of hers from Chicago were coming to Toronto to play a show. That's the first event. (They're actually half from Chicago and half from Ann Arbor.) In fact, the band were to stay at Elly's and Danijela's studio, which has lots of room, but very few beds (that's facetious—it has no beds).
So, when I saw Elly's post about the show on Facebook, I decided to have a listen some NOMO. Usually I don't listen to music while I work, because it prevents me from focussing, but sometimes I can, and recently I have done, mostly because I've discovered Hype Machine (that's the second event), which is a Web 2.0 service that scours music blogs across the internet and adds any songs it finds to its database, aggregating in a user-friendly way for easy finding and listening; but also because I've been working on a project that requires a different kind of focus. It helps if I listen to instrumental music—it's mainly the singing that distracts me.
I liked what I heard. (That's the third event.)
Now, if you read my show reviews, you'll know that I hardly ever see live music, and that's sad because I adore the experience. Not only that, but Danijela and I have been going through a period of almost-unprecedented busyness—improving the house projects, work projects, various trips. (Sorry neglected friends! I'll be free again soon from the shackles of adult responsibility.) So we're like tired, and often cranky, old people right now. But I hate to turn down the opportunity to see a potentially good show (and for free—thanks Elly!). In this case, I had an open evening (recent Fridays I've been busy DJing at The Painted Lady) and some remaining energy from the week and day. Unfortunately, Danijela didn't have the same energy.
Which, I guess really brings me to the show. All of the above is actually relevant to what I experienced at the El Mo. If you listen to some of NOMO's music, I think you'll find it pretty funky in a jazzy and white sort of way. I would say they are obviously fans of Gil Scott-Heron and his style of acid jazz, but initially I heard a lot of Steely Dan (especially from the Rhodes keyboard and sometimes in the guitar) in the mix. The recordings also made me think of experimental artists like Can and !!!, who are often funky, but frequently too avant-garde to be dancefloor funky. Regardless, I liked the songs and definitely heard a lot of potential; and when I saw the seven band members walk on stage, I was ready to be impressed. They surpassed my expectations.
It was immediately clear that NOMO is made up of very competent musicians—this had better be the case in a group with three horn players (trumpet, tenor and baritone sax) and two drummers. They're tight and at the same time they rely pretty heavily on (presumably-)improvised horn solos, which is always a pleasure to hear. I couldn't help thinking of Sharon Jones's backing band, The Dap Kings, or any of the several revival jazz bands I've seen.
But: NOMO are thoroughly modern. Despite wearing their influences on their sleeves, and keeping within the realm of traditional jazz instruments (drums, bass, guitar, horns, keys, &c.), there is little sign of retrospection in their music. Reverence, yes—at one point I was wishing they would play John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme"—but no nostalgia. Maybe it helps that many of their songs feature two drummers and no guitar, and others feature guitar in a purely rhythmic mode, so that the songs remain unique, despite frequent similarities, which I think are inevitable in instrumental music.
More: early in the show—after three or four songs—I started to think that NOMO's songs followed a relatively simple formula: start out with a funky synchronized groove, introducing the melodic theme with the horns, giving way to solos and duos—a little bit chaotic, the unity falling apart—then a rhythmic breakdown followed by a return to unity, with the horns together reintroducing the theme or some modification—rise to crescendo and stop. (In this structural sense, they actually reminded me of Godspeed You Black Emperor!, whose entire catalogue was defined by this formula (with strings in place of horns, and no funk). Well, that's an exaggeration; that was my experience of that band, and it bored me.)
In one sense, this is simply a standard song structure that countless artists use to this day—sort of an instrumental version of the "verse-chorus-verse" form—the really important part is how the band uses the structure. In any case, it quickly turned out otherwise, as NOMO used enough variations on the form to keep their songs from becoming repetitive.
And, for me, watching talented and skillful musicians helps keep a performance interesting. Part of the visual aspect of music is seeing the players play their instruments—especially nice when there are so many players to look at—and communicate with each other, which these guys did a lot.
Finally, at the end of an hour-plus show, each of the band members, beginning with the horn players walked off the side of the stage and into the crowd, playing all the while (the drummers carried their toms, the bassist grabbed some bells). The crowd surrounded them, clapping and dancing along to the music—much reduced in volume, but heightened in presence.
In short—if it's fair for me to say that at this point—NOMO provide a serious sensory experience, better live than on record; but the recordings that I've heard so far are impressive, and totally worth hearing. I bought their new album, Invisible Cities, and I'm sure I'll be introducing a few tracks from it at The Painted Lady in the near future.
Read on..!
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Sports: the Band, with Hexes and Ohs, Green Go, and others at the Tranzac, January 10, 2009
A Saturday afternoon in winter is a surprisingly fun time to see a show. And it feels pretty good to support local scenesters, such as the good folks behind The Singing Lamb, a new music blog based in Toronto—er, a new Toronto-based blog about music. And the show was five dollars, what!
It was thanks to Facebook that I heard about Hexes & Ohs playing at the Tranzac; even better, they were playing with Sports: The Band, which features friends Shayne "Extra Large" Cox and Nathan "Home" Rekker, as well as Michael Small of The Meligrove Band and Robin Hatch (both of whom I'm sure are equally deserving of meaningless but clever nicknames, but I'm not sure that's appropriate for people I only know through others).
According to their Facebook page, and their preview in the Eye Weekly (I think), Sports is a vehicle for Nathan's songwriting. I'd never heard any of his songs, but I know that Shayne has great taste, and is a great performer himself, so I was anxious to see them. Luckily I know how rock'n'roll shows work, and I got there just in time for their delayed 1:30 start.
So, once again I've been amazed at a friend's band, particularly one that I've waited ages to see and hear. I'd made half-hearted attempts to see them in the previous few months, but it just hadn't happened—not surprising, knowing me. Anyway, I saw them this time; that's what counts.
It's a great sign when a band makes me smile, because that usually means they're doing something I haven't heard before—in some way, the songwriting or performance stands out. That happened pretty much throughout Sports' set.
For someone of my age and taste, I think it should be hard not to hear a certain mid-1990s North American indie aesthetic in their sound, but I would have a hard time pinning it down to specific bands. mostly it was the simple, but slyly innovative song structures, the clever lyrics, and the confident and nonchalant performance. But now that I've forever painted them with my 90s brush, I have to make it clear it would be a real shame to say that Sports are some sort of 90s revivalist band—frankly, the idea of such a thing sounds awful! It's just interesting to see some uncommon influences displayed—unlike, for example, with the next band at the show.
All of that said, Sports are clearly a product of now; they just don't bother with all of the new-new wave post-post punk electro nonsense, like so many others. As a musician, I'm always watching and listening for the little things—changes, motions, chords—that make a band or individual band member stand out. With Sports it was all about ease. They just write and perform excellent pop-rock songs, with little fanfare, good energy, big smiles, and a healthy dose of noise. I like that—a lot.
Green Go performed next, and if I had no idea what to expect from this young group, I learned quickly enough. The five-piece band immediately pounced into a set of driving dance pop, and the crowd responded, doing their best to make 2:30 in the afternoon seem like 11:30 at night.
These folks didn't show me anything that I haven't heard before from the Rapture, controller.controller, Hot Chip, the Arcade Fire, or others, but that doesn't mean they weren't good. They didn't exactly sound like those bands, I just didn't achieve the same amount of smiles as with Sports—in fact, none, until near the end of the show.
The thing is, this is new music today, and Green Go are not afraid to say it. Anyway, this band is young. With luck—and these guys (and girl) seem plenty talented and energetic—they will move beyond the simple self-referentiality of the present, to the hyper-self-referentiality of the near future, and create something new from within themselves. I hope they do, because despite the lack of sly smiles, I enjoyed their show very much.
The only thing that bothered me was the instrument-switching that they did too frequently. It's a time-consuming, distracting, and almost certainly totally unnecessary gimmick that takes away from the energy of the show. Still, the show consisted of pretty much all live instrumentation, which is better than I can say for Hot Chip when I saw them a couple of years ago.
As for Hexes & Ohs, I've heard the hype over the past couple of years, and I tried to find some of their music early on—without actually, you know, going to a record shop—to no avail. So I went to the show knowing only what I'd read, which wasn't much more than a piece in the Star a couple of days before: basically, they're a two-piece electronic pop band from Montréal who are also a couple. And they have a cute name.
But for all the hype, I was expecting better than I got. Their songs were fine—some of them even verging on good—but their performance was weak. I simply find it uninteresting to watch two people play over canned beats and music. That might fly at a dance party, but not at a rock show; and certainly not in the afternoon. Also, maybe they were off that day, but it seemed that neither of them could sing very well: the lead whined, and the harmonies were flat. I'll probably just sound bitter if I mention that they had some technical problems, and, like Green Go, they switched instruments too often.
Somehow, remarkably, these negatives didn't add up to an awful show, which they probably should have; so I must give them credit for that, whatever it means. I did enjoy the show overall, but it wasn't good. I'll have to reserve judgment on Hexes & Ohs until I hear some recordings, but I won't be looking out for them to return to Toronto.
Also at the show were Maylee Todd and Winter Gloves, but I didn't watch them, so I'm not about to review them, am I? Read on..!
It was thanks to Facebook that I heard about Hexes & Ohs playing at the Tranzac; even better, they were playing with Sports: The Band, which features friends Shayne "Extra Large" Cox and Nathan "Home" Rekker, as well as Michael Small of The Meligrove Band and Robin Hatch (both of whom I'm sure are equally deserving of meaningless but clever nicknames, but I'm not sure that's appropriate for people I only know through others).
According to their Facebook page, and their preview in the Eye Weekly (I think), Sports is a vehicle for Nathan's songwriting. I'd never heard any of his songs, but I know that Shayne has great taste, and is a great performer himself, so I was anxious to see them. Luckily I know how rock'n'roll shows work, and I got there just in time for their delayed 1:30 start.
So, once again I've been amazed at a friend's band, particularly one that I've waited ages to see and hear. I'd made half-hearted attempts to see them in the previous few months, but it just hadn't happened—not surprising, knowing me. Anyway, I saw them this time; that's what counts.
It's a great sign when a band makes me smile, because that usually means they're doing something I haven't heard before—in some way, the songwriting or performance stands out. That happened pretty much throughout Sports' set.
For someone of my age and taste, I think it should be hard not to hear a certain mid-1990s North American indie aesthetic in their sound, but I would have a hard time pinning it down to specific bands. mostly it was the simple, but slyly innovative song structures, the clever lyrics, and the confident and nonchalant performance. But now that I've forever painted them with my 90s brush, I have to make it clear it would be a real shame to say that Sports are some sort of 90s revivalist band—frankly, the idea of such a thing sounds awful! It's just interesting to see some uncommon influences displayed—unlike, for example, with the next band at the show.
All of that said, Sports are clearly a product of now; they just don't bother with all of the new-new wave post-post punk electro nonsense, like so many others. As a musician, I'm always watching and listening for the little things—changes, motions, chords—that make a band or individual band member stand out. With Sports it was all about ease. They just write and perform excellent pop-rock songs, with little fanfare, good energy, big smiles, and a healthy dose of noise. I like that—a lot.
Green Go performed next, and if I had no idea what to expect from this young group, I learned quickly enough. The five-piece band immediately pounced into a set of driving dance pop, and the crowd responded, doing their best to make 2:30 in the afternoon seem like 11:30 at night.
These folks didn't show me anything that I haven't heard before from the Rapture, controller.controller, Hot Chip, the Arcade Fire, or others, but that doesn't mean they weren't good. They didn't exactly sound like those bands, I just didn't achieve the same amount of smiles as with Sports—in fact, none, until near the end of the show.
The thing is, this is new music today, and Green Go are not afraid to say it. Anyway, this band is young. With luck—and these guys (and girl) seem plenty talented and energetic—they will move beyond the simple self-referentiality of the present, to the hyper-self-referentiality of the near future, and create something new from within themselves. I hope they do, because despite the lack of sly smiles, I enjoyed their show very much.
The only thing that bothered me was the instrument-switching that they did too frequently. It's a time-consuming, distracting, and almost certainly totally unnecessary gimmick that takes away from the energy of the show. Still, the show consisted of pretty much all live instrumentation, which is better than I can say for Hot Chip when I saw them a couple of years ago.
As for Hexes & Ohs, I've heard the hype over the past couple of years, and I tried to find some of their music early on—without actually, you know, going to a record shop—to no avail. So I went to the show knowing only what I'd read, which wasn't much more than a piece in the Star a couple of days before: basically, they're a two-piece electronic pop band from Montréal who are also a couple. And they have a cute name.
But for all the hype, I was expecting better than I got. Their songs were fine—some of them even verging on good—but their performance was weak. I simply find it uninteresting to watch two people play over canned beats and music. That might fly at a dance party, but not at a rock show; and certainly not in the afternoon. Also, maybe they were off that day, but it seemed that neither of them could sing very well: the lead whined, and the harmonies were flat. I'll probably just sound bitter if I mention that they had some technical problems, and, like Green Go, they switched instruments too often.
Somehow, remarkably, these negatives didn't add up to an awful show, which they probably should have; so I must give them credit for that, whatever it means. I did enjoy the show overall, but it wasn't good. I'll have to reserve judgment on Hexes & Ohs until I hear some recordings, but I won't be looking out for them to return to Toronto.
Also at the show were Maylee Todd and Winter Gloves, but I didn't watch them, so I'm not about to review them, am I? Read on..!
Tuesday, 30 December 2008
2008 round up: the year in movies
So since I bought a house, I've probably watched more movies than at any other time in my life. Danijela and I have been watching about two a week, often more, alongside some newly discovered television shows. Maybe it's nesting; maybe we feel poor; maybe we are just being lazy after all the work we've done at the house! Could be. It's very cozy here; and now that winter is upon us, there are even better reasons to stay indoors. I've just finished the major part of my Christmas shopping; now if only I could develop some sort of remote shovelling system.
Anyway, I thought somebody out there on the internet might find it interesting to know what I watched in the past 12 months; so without further ado:
It's a Wonderful Life (1946) is a Frank Capra film, starring Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed, and Lionel Barrymore. I'm not much of an older film connoisseur, but from what I have seen, I've found that the style, particularly the acting, is very different, and often difficult to appreciate. I think this film is actually remarkably modern, despite its hyper-sentimentality. The thing is, I just find the story to be so beautiful, and the performances to be so earnest, that the film creates a sort of nostalgic reality that feels right, regardless of its simple storytelling and black and white morality—it's got just enough dirt and meanness. It's a Wonderful Life is a Christmas story that doesn't need to be about Christmas—I'm not sure if the holiday is even mentioned—but it's definitely not about Santa Claus; and the spirit and reason for the season are front and centre in this one.
The Player (1993), a Robert Altman film, starring Tim Robbins and co-starring many others. Adapted from the novel by Michael Tolkin. It's an update of the noir style of film, but under the bright California sun. Altman uses incredibly long shots (the opening scene is over seven minutes long), and lots of tricks with light and shadow and close ups to create this Hollywood insiders thriller. It's full of satire, but not offensive enough to prevent half of Hollywood from doing cameos in the film. Very clever and entertaining; lots of talking makes it feel longer than its two hours; Entourage fans should enjoy.
The Sweet Hereafter (1997), written and directed by Atom Egoyan, and starring Ian Holm and Sarah Polley. Adapted from the novel by Russell Banks. This is a slow and ponderous film that has just enough weirdness about it to be clearly recognized as "Canadian". The thing mirrors The Pied Piper, with all but one of the children of a small town dying in a bus crash—but the question is "Who led them to their deaths?" There are a number of possible culprits of course, and none is clearly identified as the one, so the audience is left guessing. It's mostly well played; and Sarah Polley is excellent as the young teenager who survives the accident.
Mean Girls (2004), written by Tina Fey, directed by Mark Waters (whose brother wrote Heathers), and starring a very fresh-looking Lindsay Lohan at 18, alongside several Saturday Night Live alumni. While this movie clearly pays homage to Heathers, even directly copping some of the latter's scenes, it is definitely its own sort of beast. Mean Girls is far brighter and more optimistic—there are no murders, intentional or otherwise—and its satire is not so bleak. Still, it's very clever and well written, and it makes sense now in a different way than Heathers makes sense now. And Lindsay Lohan is very good, as is the rest of the cast.
Elf (2003), stars Will Ferrell as the title elf, and is directed by Jon Favreau. The movie also features Zooey Deschanel, James Caan, and Mary Steenburgen. This is certainly the best Christmas movie I've seen in years, which is not really fair, since I generally avoid them. Regardless, this one is fun and intelligent and somehow not at all sappy, which is the most important part of all. And the starring role—a wide-eyed fully grown man who grew up among Santa's elves but who travels to New York City to find his real father—is perfect for Will Ferrell's antics and gestures. I think the thing about Christmas movies now is that they're clearly pushing a secular version of the holiday, but the good ones at least also try to encourage some sort of Christmas spirit that is incredibly and increasingly hard to find among the consumption clatter. In other words, despite being very enjoyable, I'm not sure that Elf is a movie with any message at all, other than simply follow the Christmas spirit because that's what you're supposed to do, which cheapens the film to the level of something more crass like Bad Santa. Then again—and I'm afraid you'll have to see it to know what I'm talking about here—maybe the message is that we are looking for a Christmas spirit to believe in, and we don't really know where to look other than to that former-symbol-of-giving-now-symbol-of-consumerism, Santa Claus.
Basquiat (1996), was painter Julian Schnabel's first film. It stars Jeffrey Wright in the title role, as well as Benicio Del Toro, David Bowie, Dennis Hopper, Gary Oldman, and too many others to list. Schnabel is very talented at creating pieces of art out of movies; and over three films and 10 years (I haven't seen Berlin), he has clearly improved in his storytelling. Basquiat drops the viewer right in the middle of the story with next to no context, which works well given the subject and the time in the art world. There's a lot of neat stuff here, and regardless of how true it is, it seems to offer a realistic glimpse of the new-expressionist movement of the 80s in New York. But the film is worth seeing just for David Bowie playing Andy Warhol!
Pineapple Express (2008) was written by Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg, and Judd Apatow, and stars Rogen and James Franco. The plot of this stoner buddy movie is simple, and it contains a lot of stumbling and bumbling around à la Superbad, which makes it easy to enjoy. But there's not a lot of depth, not that one should expect much from this type of movie. If you like these guys' work, you'll probably like this. It is funny, and occasionally surprising, but don't expect even the same sort of light social commentary that one can usually hope for from this crew.
Heathers (1988) was written by Daniel Waters (brother to Mark, who, as mentioned, directed Mean Girls), and, most importantly, stars Winona Ryder (at 17), Christian Slater (at 19), and Shannen Doherty (also 17). This film is in my mind probably the ultimate teen movie, and it is as relevant today as ever, particularly in the frightening new context of school killings. There's no doubt that it's a farce, but that doesn't make it feel any less real or powerful. In addition, it is clearly influential—I'm sure it influenced my young and impressionable mind when I saw it, probably on CityTV's late great movies—but a movie like this one can't help but be influential. It's incredibly written—smart, droll, bitter, funny, and satirical, all somehow without being over the top; and remarkably acted by such a young cast, none of whom, if I may say, went on to really fulfill her potential.
The Dark Knight (2008) was written and directed by Christopher Nolan, and stars Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, and too many others to mention. While I will certainly not buck the trend by saying that Heath Ledger's was not great, I will say that I didn't enjoy this sequel as much as Batman Begins. The sequel has all the great darkness, violence, and gadgetry of the previous film, and the cast is as good, if not better, but I think Nolan tried to force too much material into the project. Actually, I know that's what I didn't like about it: the entire Harvey Dent/Two Face story was rushed and badly developed, and I began to get the feeling that Batman could simply buy his way out of everything. It's a shame, because I really wanted to like it a lot, mostly due to Nolan writing and directing, but I guess you can't win 'em all. Still, I won't say you shouldn't rent it.
Batman Begins (2005) was directed and written by Christopher Nolan, and stars Christian Bale, Michael Cain, and Liam Neeson, among numerous others. This version is a fitting tribute to the Batman that I grew up reading. I was confused by the story at first, because I knew nothing about Ra's Al Ghul or Henri Ducard, nor had I ever read any version of Bruce Wayne's early training; but I caught on quickly. I'm a bit of a sucker for the type of story that involves lengthy training to avenge some sort of wrongdoing in the protagonist's early life. Kill Bill is a good recent example. Actually, I think I've got a thing for revenge movies in general. Anyway, it works here, against the backdrop of a crumbling Gotham faltering under the weight of bureaucracy and corruption and organized crime, desperately in need of a hero. Many of the comic book move tropes are used here: darkness pervades, steam comes from nowhere, people are afraid and paranoid, but somehow struggle through their daily lives. It's a very good effort, and better than the sequel. I hope Nolan keeps it simple for the next one.
Stand By Me (1986) is a Rob Reiner film, based on a Stephen King story, featuring several future stars, all 16 or younger: Wil Wheaton, River Phoenix, Jerry O'Connell, and Corey Feldman; and it's got Kiefer Sutherland, too! I saw this for the first time in 2008. I don't know how I went 22 years without seeing this film. I read the Mad magazine spoof when it came out, so I pretty much knew how the thing went; but it always had a certain mystique about it, which it pretty much lives up to. It's got most of the elements of a Great American Story: a gang of friends, a journey, nostalgia, friendly conflict, poor vs. rich, school smart vs. street smart. It really is great, with excellent performances from all involved—better than Feldman and Sutherland would give the next year in Lost Boys, but that's a different thing entirely.
Love in the Time of Cholera (2007) is an adaptation of the novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, starring Javier Bardem and Benjamin Bratt. I am not happy to admit that of Garcia Marquez's books, I've only read one, and it's not this one; it's One Hundred Years of Solitude. So I can't say how accurate the depiction here is, but with the little knowledge of the author's style that I have, I feel confident saying that the film misses the mark. I'm going to blame the directing here in the main, because the writing is okay, and acting is okay. But the story has no magic, and the characters share no chemistry. To the film's credit, the cast is almost entirely Spanish—even the leads—even though they speak in English. It bothers me when a film set in a non-English locale is full of English or American actors, made to look foreign and speak in awful accents.
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In the unlikely event that you've made it this far, you might have guessed that this exercise is quintessentially new dilettantish. That may not be clear since nowhere have I bothered to explain what that means to me.
Well, it's one thing to post an online journal, simply as a vehicle for thoughts, opinions, and daily exploits, whether the author intends it for general consumption or personal; but it's another thing entirely when those thoughts and opinions presume to extend into the realm of criticism or journalism, without the benefit of a professional background or the hand of a skilled editor (preferably both). In the former case, you have probably the majority of bloggers—random posts on personal topics, and possibly some specific theme of personal interest—in the latter, you have "citizen journalists" (like myself)—probably mostly aspiring writers, artists, or general self-promoters, all of whom feel they have sufficient knowledge on some or many topics to write on them with credibility—most probably don't.
This is the Dilettante: the person who has not gone to the trouble to acquire proper training or education in a small range of activity or field (those would be professionals, specialists, or connoisseurs), who retains only superficial knowledge of anything, but can speak at length about many topics. The dilettante is a product of the bourgeois revolution—at least on the grand scale. There was no time for amateurs before then, among the masses.
And now we are experiencing a new middle-class revolution, which has blessed us with more leisure time than ever and more entertainments to fill it; and, apparently, a desperate need to express to others just how we are using that time, and several means to do so. There's nothing wrong with that. But it is the circumstance of the New Dilettante: adrift on a sea of unimportance, she uses her blog as a life preserver—a beacon in the vast blue. With luck—and much self-promotion—her words might shine out like a flare and draw attention her way.
Don't get me wrong: the name of my blog is not ironic. It's merely a statement of my situation and our time. For all the talk of "democratizing" journalism—which is great in some ways—blogs are generally soapboxes for people who may have informed opinions or may not, but regardless, they have opinions that they feel they must share with the world. Case in point: this rundown of the movies I watched in 2008, featuring short, utterly unprofessional, and uninformed reviews. I don't do scholarly research—the reviews are all based on my feeling looking back on the films. But is there a point to all this babble on the internet? Is there a discussion going on?
For me this is merely an exercise. I suppose I don't expect anybody to read this; but certainly I, along with the legions of other blogger journalists, hope people will. And, as a writer, I cannot help but hope they'll enjoy what they read; for I also have the dream of being discovered—preferably by some reputable and established magazine or newspaper—but really by anyone who will pay and spread my words. But please, read on!
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27 Dresses (2008) stars Katherine Heigl as a traditionally romantic young professional woman, and James Marsden as her cynically modern young professional foil. In other words, she desperately wants to get married, and he desperately doesn't. The movie is light and fluffy, and has a happy ending—definitely a product of the time. And one might argue that it is (along with other recent movies like Juno and Knocked Up) pushing a traditional moral agenda in which the arguments of modern cynics will always come up short—could be. But I wonder about the writers of these fluffy, but cleverly written things. Has the supposed cynicism of Gen X turned to traditionalism? Was it always so? Anyway, there are a number of generational themes tied up here: for example, workaholism and over-ambition, and a new-ish take on finding true love on the other side of all the cynicism. And I think it's worth watching.
The Heartbreak Kid (2007) is a film from the Farrelly brothers, featuring Ben Stiller, Rob Corddry and Jerry Stiller as men who refuse to grow up. On a whim, Stiller's character decides to marry an even less mature woman whom he hardly knows, and queue the pissing jokes. I only watched this because I was in Cuba with cable, and Danijela and I were exhausted from too much fried food, but it wasn't bad. In short, it's a lighthearted comedy about love and fate and tough decisions, and Rob Corddry and Jerry Stiller are two hoots. I wouldn't have paid to see it though.
Knocked Up (2007) is a film from recently overexposed writer and director Judd Apatow, starring Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogan, along with much of Apatow's standard crew. None of that is bad. For the most part—that is, among the Apatow films that I've seen—he is a clever and funny writer, a combination of traits that seems to be missing from straight-up comedy these days (see The Heartbreak Kid above). Here the issue is unplanned pregnancy between unlikely strangers. The real unlikely factor is that they choose to try and continue their relationship and keep the baby, not knowing whether they actually like each other. Is it realistic? No. Is it protesting abortion? Maybe. Do either of these things take away from the writing and the performances? Definitely not. The premise of the film is that the woman gets knocked up; knowing that, we should probably expect before watching that she might go through with it.
Juno (2007) stars Ellen Page and Michael Cera, alongside a great supporting cast including Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. It was directed by Jason Reitman, son of Ivan, so it is basically a great big Canada love-fest. It's also a sort of companion film to Knocked Up, but in high school. A young girl gets pregnant by her best friend and decides to keep the baby, but give it up for adoption. I'm getting back to near the beginning of '08 here, so I don't remember Juno especially well, but the performances are very good, and I enjoyed it quite a bit. Despite its heavy subject matter, it has a light feel,
To come:
The Lost Boys
Weird Science
Iris
3:10 to Yuma
No Country for Old Men
Blades of Glory
Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo
La Vie En Rose
The Golden Compass
Narnia
There Will Be Blood
Control
The Prestige
The Savages
Away From Her
Eagle vs. Shark Read on..!
Anyway, I thought somebody out there on the internet might find it interesting to know what I watched in the past 12 months; so without further ado:
It's a Wonderful Life (1946) is a Frank Capra film, starring Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed, and Lionel Barrymore. I'm not much of an older film connoisseur, but from what I have seen, I've found that the style, particularly the acting, is very different, and often difficult to appreciate. I think this film is actually remarkably modern, despite its hyper-sentimentality. The thing is, I just find the story to be so beautiful, and the performances to be so earnest, that the film creates a sort of nostalgic reality that feels right, regardless of its simple storytelling and black and white morality—it's got just enough dirt and meanness. It's a Wonderful Life is a Christmas story that doesn't need to be about Christmas—I'm not sure if the holiday is even mentioned—but it's definitely not about Santa Claus; and the spirit and reason for the season are front and centre in this one.
The Player (1993), a Robert Altman film, starring Tim Robbins and co-starring many others. Adapted from the novel by Michael Tolkin. It's an update of the noir style of film, but under the bright California sun. Altman uses incredibly long shots (the opening scene is over seven minutes long), and lots of tricks with light and shadow and close ups to create this Hollywood insiders thriller. It's full of satire, but not offensive enough to prevent half of Hollywood from doing cameos in the film. Very clever and entertaining; lots of talking makes it feel longer than its two hours; Entourage fans should enjoy.
The Sweet Hereafter (1997), written and directed by Atom Egoyan, and starring Ian Holm and Sarah Polley. Adapted from the novel by Russell Banks. This is a slow and ponderous film that has just enough weirdness about it to be clearly recognized as "Canadian". The thing mirrors The Pied Piper, with all but one of the children of a small town dying in a bus crash—but the question is "Who led them to their deaths?" There are a number of possible culprits of course, and none is clearly identified as the one, so the audience is left guessing. It's mostly well played; and Sarah Polley is excellent as the young teenager who survives the accident.
Mean Girls (2004), written by Tina Fey, directed by Mark Waters (whose brother wrote Heathers), and starring a very fresh-looking Lindsay Lohan at 18, alongside several Saturday Night Live alumni. While this movie clearly pays homage to Heathers, even directly copping some of the latter's scenes, it is definitely its own sort of beast. Mean Girls is far brighter and more optimistic—there are no murders, intentional or otherwise—and its satire is not so bleak. Still, it's very clever and well written, and it makes sense now in a different way than Heathers makes sense now. And Lindsay Lohan is very good, as is the rest of the cast.
Elf (2003), stars Will Ferrell as the title elf, and is directed by Jon Favreau. The movie also features Zooey Deschanel, James Caan, and Mary Steenburgen. This is certainly the best Christmas movie I've seen in years, which is not really fair, since I generally avoid them. Regardless, this one is fun and intelligent and somehow not at all sappy, which is the most important part of all. And the starring role—a wide-eyed fully grown man who grew up among Santa's elves but who travels to New York City to find his real father—is perfect for Will Ferrell's antics and gestures. I think the thing about Christmas movies now is that they're clearly pushing a secular version of the holiday, but the good ones at least also try to encourage some sort of Christmas spirit that is incredibly and increasingly hard to find among the consumption clatter. In other words, despite being very enjoyable, I'm not sure that Elf is a movie with any message at all, other than simply follow the Christmas spirit because that's what you're supposed to do, which cheapens the film to the level of something more crass like Bad Santa. Then again—and I'm afraid you'll have to see it to know what I'm talking about here—maybe the message is that we are looking for a Christmas spirit to believe in, and we don't really know where to look other than to that former-symbol-of-giving-now-symbol-of-consumerism, Santa Claus.
Basquiat (1996), was painter Julian Schnabel's first film. It stars Jeffrey Wright in the title role, as well as Benicio Del Toro, David Bowie, Dennis Hopper, Gary Oldman, and too many others to list. Schnabel is very talented at creating pieces of art out of movies; and over three films and 10 years (I haven't seen Berlin), he has clearly improved in his storytelling. Basquiat drops the viewer right in the middle of the story with next to no context, which works well given the subject and the time in the art world. There's a lot of neat stuff here, and regardless of how true it is, it seems to offer a realistic glimpse of the new-expressionist movement of the 80s in New York. But the film is worth seeing just for David Bowie playing Andy Warhol!
Pineapple Express (2008) was written by Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg, and Judd Apatow, and stars Rogen and James Franco. The plot of this stoner buddy movie is simple, and it contains a lot of stumbling and bumbling around à la Superbad, which makes it easy to enjoy. But there's not a lot of depth, not that one should expect much from this type of movie. If you like these guys' work, you'll probably like this. It is funny, and occasionally surprising, but don't expect even the same sort of light social commentary that one can usually hope for from this crew.
Heathers (1988) was written by Daniel Waters (brother to Mark, who, as mentioned, directed Mean Girls), and, most importantly, stars Winona Ryder (at 17), Christian Slater (at 19), and Shannen Doherty (also 17). This film is in my mind probably the ultimate teen movie, and it is as relevant today as ever, particularly in the frightening new context of school killings. There's no doubt that it's a farce, but that doesn't make it feel any less real or powerful. In addition, it is clearly influential—I'm sure it influenced my young and impressionable mind when I saw it, probably on CityTV's late great movies—but a movie like this one can't help but be influential. It's incredibly written—smart, droll, bitter, funny, and satirical, all somehow without being over the top; and remarkably acted by such a young cast, none of whom, if I may say, went on to really fulfill her potential.
The Dark Knight (2008) was written and directed by Christopher Nolan, and stars Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, and too many others to mention. While I will certainly not buck the trend by saying that Heath Ledger's was not great, I will say that I didn't enjoy this sequel as much as Batman Begins. The sequel has all the great darkness, violence, and gadgetry of the previous film, and the cast is as good, if not better, but I think Nolan tried to force too much material into the project. Actually, I know that's what I didn't like about it: the entire Harvey Dent/Two Face story was rushed and badly developed, and I began to get the feeling that Batman could simply buy his way out of everything. It's a shame, because I really wanted to like it a lot, mostly due to Nolan writing and directing, but I guess you can't win 'em all. Still, I won't say you shouldn't rent it.
Batman Begins (2005) was directed and written by Christopher Nolan, and stars Christian Bale, Michael Cain, and Liam Neeson, among numerous others. This version is a fitting tribute to the Batman that I grew up reading. I was confused by the story at first, because I knew nothing about Ra's Al Ghul or Henri Ducard, nor had I ever read any version of Bruce Wayne's early training; but I caught on quickly. I'm a bit of a sucker for the type of story that involves lengthy training to avenge some sort of wrongdoing in the protagonist's early life. Kill Bill is a good recent example. Actually, I think I've got a thing for revenge movies in general. Anyway, it works here, against the backdrop of a crumbling Gotham faltering under the weight of bureaucracy and corruption and organized crime, desperately in need of a hero. Many of the comic book move tropes are used here: darkness pervades, steam comes from nowhere, people are afraid and paranoid, but somehow struggle through their daily lives. It's a very good effort, and better than the sequel. I hope Nolan keeps it simple for the next one.
Stand By Me (1986) is a Rob Reiner film, based on a Stephen King story, featuring several future stars, all 16 or younger: Wil Wheaton, River Phoenix, Jerry O'Connell, and Corey Feldman; and it's got Kiefer Sutherland, too! I saw this for the first time in 2008. I don't know how I went 22 years without seeing this film. I read the Mad magazine spoof when it came out, so I pretty much knew how the thing went; but it always had a certain mystique about it, which it pretty much lives up to. It's got most of the elements of a Great American Story: a gang of friends, a journey, nostalgia, friendly conflict, poor vs. rich, school smart vs. street smart. It really is great, with excellent performances from all involved—better than Feldman and Sutherland would give the next year in Lost Boys, but that's a different thing entirely.
Love in the Time of Cholera (2007) is an adaptation of the novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, starring Javier Bardem and Benjamin Bratt. I am not happy to admit that of Garcia Marquez's books, I've only read one, and it's not this one; it's One Hundred Years of Solitude. So I can't say how accurate the depiction here is, but with the little knowledge of the author's style that I have, I feel confident saying that the film misses the mark. I'm going to blame the directing here in the main, because the writing is okay, and acting is okay. But the story has no magic, and the characters share no chemistry. To the film's credit, the cast is almost entirely Spanish—even the leads—even though they speak in English. It bothers me when a film set in a non-English locale is full of English or American actors, made to look foreign and speak in awful accents.
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In the unlikely event that you've made it this far, you might have guessed that this exercise is quintessentially new dilettantish. That may not be clear since nowhere have I bothered to explain what that means to me.
Well, it's one thing to post an online journal, simply as a vehicle for thoughts, opinions, and daily exploits, whether the author intends it for general consumption or personal; but it's another thing entirely when those thoughts and opinions presume to extend into the realm of criticism or journalism, without the benefit of a professional background or the hand of a skilled editor (preferably both). In the former case, you have probably the majority of bloggers—random posts on personal topics, and possibly some specific theme of personal interest—in the latter, you have "citizen journalists" (like myself)—probably mostly aspiring writers, artists, or general self-promoters, all of whom feel they have sufficient knowledge on some or many topics to write on them with credibility—most probably don't.
This is the Dilettante: the person who has not gone to the trouble to acquire proper training or education in a small range of activity or field (those would be professionals, specialists, or connoisseurs), who retains only superficial knowledge of anything, but can speak at length about many topics. The dilettante is a product of the bourgeois revolution—at least on the grand scale. There was no time for amateurs before then, among the masses.
And now we are experiencing a new middle-class revolution, which has blessed us with more leisure time than ever and more entertainments to fill it; and, apparently, a desperate need to express to others just how we are using that time, and several means to do so. There's nothing wrong with that. But it is the circumstance of the New Dilettante: adrift on a sea of unimportance, she uses her blog as a life preserver—a beacon in the vast blue. With luck—and much self-promotion—her words might shine out like a flare and draw attention her way.
Don't get me wrong: the name of my blog is not ironic. It's merely a statement of my situation and our time. For all the talk of "democratizing" journalism—which is great in some ways—blogs are generally soapboxes for people who may have informed opinions or may not, but regardless, they have opinions that they feel they must share with the world. Case in point: this rundown of the movies I watched in 2008, featuring short, utterly unprofessional, and uninformed reviews. I don't do scholarly research—the reviews are all based on my feeling looking back on the films. But is there a point to all this babble on the internet? Is there a discussion going on?
For me this is merely an exercise. I suppose I don't expect anybody to read this; but certainly I, along with the legions of other blogger journalists, hope people will. And, as a writer, I cannot help but hope they'll enjoy what they read; for I also have the dream of being discovered—preferably by some reputable and established magazine or newspaper—but really by anyone who will pay and spread my words. But please, read on!
---
27 Dresses (2008) stars Katherine Heigl as a traditionally romantic young professional woman, and James Marsden as her cynically modern young professional foil. In other words, she desperately wants to get married, and he desperately doesn't. The movie is light and fluffy, and has a happy ending—definitely a product of the time. And one might argue that it is (along with other recent movies like Juno and Knocked Up) pushing a traditional moral agenda in which the arguments of modern cynics will always come up short—could be. But I wonder about the writers of these fluffy, but cleverly written things. Has the supposed cynicism of Gen X turned to traditionalism? Was it always so? Anyway, there are a number of generational themes tied up here: for example, workaholism and over-ambition, and a new-ish take on finding true love on the other side of all the cynicism. And I think it's worth watching.
The Heartbreak Kid (2007) is a film from the Farrelly brothers, featuring Ben Stiller, Rob Corddry and Jerry Stiller as men who refuse to grow up. On a whim, Stiller's character decides to marry an even less mature woman whom he hardly knows, and queue the pissing jokes. I only watched this because I was in Cuba with cable, and Danijela and I were exhausted from too much fried food, but it wasn't bad. In short, it's a lighthearted comedy about love and fate and tough decisions, and Rob Corddry and Jerry Stiller are two hoots. I wouldn't have paid to see it though.
Knocked Up (2007) is a film from recently overexposed writer and director Judd Apatow, starring Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogan, along with much of Apatow's standard crew. None of that is bad. For the most part—that is, among the Apatow films that I've seen—he is a clever and funny writer, a combination of traits that seems to be missing from straight-up comedy these days (see The Heartbreak Kid above). Here the issue is unplanned pregnancy between unlikely strangers. The real unlikely factor is that they choose to try and continue their relationship and keep the baby, not knowing whether they actually like each other. Is it realistic? No. Is it protesting abortion? Maybe. Do either of these things take away from the writing and the performances? Definitely not. The premise of the film is that the woman gets knocked up; knowing that, we should probably expect before watching that she might go through with it.
Juno (2007) stars Ellen Page and Michael Cera, alongside a great supporting cast including Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman. It was directed by Jason Reitman, son of Ivan, so it is basically a great big Canada love-fest. It's also a sort of companion film to Knocked Up, but in high school. A young girl gets pregnant by her best friend and decides to keep the baby, but give it up for adoption. I'm getting back to near the beginning of '08 here, so I don't remember Juno especially well, but the performances are very good, and I enjoyed it quite a bit. Despite its heavy subject matter, it has a light feel,
To come:
The Lost Boys
Weird Science
Iris
3:10 to Yuma
No Country for Old Men
Blades of Glory
Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo
La Vie En Rose
The Golden Compass
Narnia
There Will Be Blood
Control
The Prestige
The Savages
Away From Her
Eagle vs. Shark Read on..!
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