Braiiiins... and no brains- a pop-movie twofer

Saw two movies in the past week, guys and gals. "Zombieland" and "The Invention of Lying". Both had their moments, but I'd say for your money you'd probably best see "Zombieland". Let's break this down, shall we?

"Zombieland"- most characters eat brains, shamble and moan
"Lying"- most characters have no brains, plot shambles, characters talk on the phone

"Zombieland"- solid actors, gut-busting meta-universe cameo
"Lying"- Ricky Gervais makes fun of his own "solidness" and gut, best punchlines concern nonexistent metaphysical character

"Zombieland"- makes you hate clowns even more
"Lying"- makes you hate God... natch.

"The Invention of Lying" wasn't a bad film, really, just one with an obvious slant to it. I mean, we all get that writer/director Gervais is an atheist. Hell, I even agree with some of his reasons for thinking religion is ridiculous. He's a comedian, he's paid to point out absurdity. But the big problem I had was not just with the ham-fisted atheist-ing, but with the shit nature of the crapsack world the characters inhabit in "Lying".

Sure, in their world, there's no flattery, no awkwardness, and there's no misleading advertising or social faux pas, but everyone has brain-diarrhea. There aren't just no lies; there are also no omissions, so anytime someone thinks something nasty about our main character, they just spit it out. It doesn't seem to be a natural consequence of the world we're told this is; it's just a joke, a gag. It isn't really called for in the premise.

Jennifer Garner has got to be the biggest offender in the movie, if only because she is supposed to be the love interest. I have to ask, why would a nice little toad like Ricky, who plays a downtrodden sad-sack who suddenly comes to fame and fortune through lying, want to romance an absolute cunt like Garner? In the movie, her character is completely unattractive in her personality- she's mean-spirited, shallow, judgmental, and dull. Any theatergoer should have been thinking, "Hell, I could do better than that ice-queen. Ricky, what are you doing?". I know I was.

Aside from the jarring nature of seeing a movie in which no character could even censor themselves and wherein the love interest was a superficial slut, the movie wasn't terrible. It got laughs, it got jabs at the vapid religious types. But the main plot did bother me because of Garner's character, and because, at the end of the movie, when the whole sham of Ricky's lies are revealed, there is no stated consequential end to his revealed religion or anything. It just seems to fall by the wayside. Joke-wise the movie was solid, but the plot could have been done better, especially for such a wicked concept. (One of the better advertising jokes- a bus ad for Pepsi that states: "Pepsi- for when they don't have Coke". Lawls for truth.)

"Zombieland" fared a bit better, surprisingly. I went in expecting a popcorn-munching gore-comedy, but I actually got a bit more sweet, awkward road-comedy than I bargained for. Special mention has to go here to Jesse Eisenberg as our hero. Jesse is a great stand-in for when Michael Cera is not around- for proof, see Adventureland. ("Jesse Eisenberg- for when Michael Cera is busy") Woody Harrelson plays a delightful badass with a Twinkie obsession- he provides the guru-ing, although Eisenberg also has some great tips for zombie-movie survivor types. (Avoid bathrooms, check the backseat- these rules pop up helpfully in a nouvelle vague gag every time a rule is demonstrated.)

Our two lovable, tricky chicks are Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin. The two are quite cunning in this film, and it was refreshing to see female characters in a zombie flick who were neither completely asexually badass nor resolutely pouty and helpless. Instead, we get the girls scheming and plotting while still knowing how to pull off a nice headshot.

So, with our four person cast, the group dynamic falls in place naturally by personality and age difference; we get younger Abigail as our perky instigator who riles up rough-hewn but lovable Harrelson, often disgusted at the spunky youngster's lack of knowledge of old fogey culture. Emma is our badass with a heart of gold, falling for our nervous but surprisingly resourceful Jesse, who is often at odds with the intimidating and not-very-affable Harrelson. Nothing groundbreaking, but it works.

The cameo that elevates the movie from good to hilarious should be against the law to spoil- it's unexpected, but entirely apropos, and the joke is distended and stretched to cover most of the late-middle of the movie. It gets plenty of mileage not only from the jokes, but from the obvious mutual respect and affection between the cast, the writers and director, and the cameo star. The feeling of good vibes is infectious, and stays long after the credits.

So, to wrap, to wit, in totality and sum, just go see "Zombieland". Oh, and buy that new album by... who were they? That veteran rock band, new album, Matador records...

Yo La Tengo, that was it.

New Mission of Burma Vid

Music video for 1, 2, 3, Partyy!. Apparently their first official music video. Side note: if there was a Mission of Burma brand beer, would it take 22 years plus change to get your drink on? Just a thought...

Anyways, enjoy the awesome, and sorry again for the delay in postings, I've just had a bout of month-long nerves/ writer's block. I know, pretty specious claim, but, lemme tell ya, I had a lot of doubts as to whether I would keep posting. However, that's all done now, and I'm movin' on, dammit. So Fuck It!

The Sound The Speed The Light

Can you see it, hear it, feel it? The sensation upon me, transmitted through these words. Bursting excitement, explosive joy.
A new Mission of Burma album arrives.

Can they top their other reunion albums?

Our first single, "1, 2, 3, Partyy!" is the opener to the new album, a furious scorcher that throttles forward from the deadpan spoken opener. "1... 2... 3..." and with the four count on the sticks that end on "3", a rumbling, slashing bass and guitar duel throws our heroes back into the the ring. No punches are pulled here. Clint barks out his delivery in the same voice he's had since 1979, and one always imagines his lanky form hunched purposefully over his bass during every riff, retreating from the mic to pummel his instrument with the vigor of a man ensnared in the fevered ideals of a youth rebellion, caught within the hands of some politicized, impassioned "movement" that is less discussed than shouted. Burma has always begged anthem status with its biggest numbers, and "Partyy!", despite the jokey title, is a barn-burner on par with Certain Fate or Academy in the canon of pissed-off but somehow exuberant art-punk anthems. Incredible bass solo? Aw, you shouldn't have. It's more than I deserve.

So, how does the rest of the record stand up to the lofty standard set by our opener? Suffice to say that the flow of the typical Burma formula, if they can be said to have one, remains unbroken. "Possession" in its live form has been a treasure of mine; I've deeply dug its groovy guitar scratches and shuffling, morphing beat and gonzo vocal (while listening, notice the completely asynchronized "gotcha!" Roger proclaims during the verse). In studio it has gained a bit of artsy effects, notably some electronic treatments for vocals and harmonies as well as the usual tape manipulations by Bob Weston. All told, it manages to be both as raw as I'd hoped in its ragged, twitchy, anti-groovy squawks and still bizarre enough in its production for Burma to still warrant the "art-rock" label. Listen to "Possession" here.

"Blunder"'s effected intro that retreats into a more live sound kicks in Peter Prescott's first composition for the record, and its lumbering verses give way to a Middle-Eastern guitar riff for the chorus. Clint's bass growls and slices effectively here, and the biting emotional edge of the break is bizarrely truncated by a cymbal crash leading into a tinkling, zonked out bridge. Mean riffage meets weird once more.

Peter's drumming has got to get special mention here as well, as his abilities are fully utilized to great effect throughout the record. It seemed to me that "Obliterati" had straighter beats for the most part, and I feared Peter was simply in a holding pattern, or maybe losing his touch. My fears were, of course, completely unfounded. Prescott contributes muscular beats everywhere, his trademark complex fills, punishing polyrhythms and hyper-fast syncopations driving every song toward the heart of aggression, insanity, emotional desolation, and anger that lurks within even the most upbeat Burma tune.

Roger's vocals are mostly delivered in a classic 60's style, very psychedelic production and frequently screwy lyrics, as is typical of the guy that wrote "Max Ernst". Bob did a better job producing this one; the band feels more than just muscular, they feel like they have more than just volume, more than just power. Instead of "Obliterati"'s flat, heavy tone, SSL is more nuanced, more varied. Everything feels more alive, more electric. Melody comes through with more clarity. Their use of the studio is as good as it's been since that beautiful field of steel-wrapped flowers, "Vs.", appeared in 1982.

This record has melancholy, it can do frailty, sadness. Like Burma's other work, there are some fast songs, some slow. There are still three distinct songwriters here pouring their hearts out. But no matter the sound or the speed, there still pulses behind that light a deep heart of passionate joy and anger in equal measure, a true Heart of Darkness.

Hear this now. Fucked Up.

Fucked Up is ostensibly a hardcore band from Toronto Canada, but that's really no descriptor for their sound. Though their vocal barks and howls certainly bring to mind hardcore groups, they frequently use female guest vocals for more melodic choruses, and their song lengths hardly fall squarely into the two-minute hardcore rant range. It's no wonder they can comfortably share a stage and a label with Mission of Burma. (See: the Williamsburg Waterfront show in NYC in July)

Man, that is Fucked Up.

Roger's sunglasses can see everything, even the future.

In fact, I came to Fucked Up through Mission of Burma, seeing that both were on Matador records. Their songs don't sound very similar, but the same ethos runs through both bands in totally different and exciting ways.

Mission of Burma's fastest songs and hardest material suggest hardcore, psychedelia, art rock, even heavy metal from time to time. (Fun World is pretty metallic, you could say.) Their anthems are pop-pretty, but ragged, impassioned, sophisticated, and intelligent. Geek punk for those too rational to be angry, but too dissatisfied to just sit down and shut up. I've already waxed poetic on these guys before, so, long story short, they're smart, they rock, kickass bass lines, fuck yeah.

Fucked Up have cultivated mystery and invited controversy since their inception. Their records sport fascist imagery on the sleeve. They take pseudonyms like Mustard Gas, 10,000 Marbles, Pink Eyes, and Concentration Camp. Interviews with the members of Fucked Up have contained incredible distortions and bizarre tall tales told to further the mystery of the group's identities.

Their music is explosive and highly conceptual, combining whip-smart lyrics and hardcore's usual forward-lunging bam-thwok with obtuse arrangements and unexpected moments galore (lounge music, flute solos, strings and whistling). If hardcore bands wrote epic prog-rock anthems... well, I guess now they do.

They've got a style all their own, energy to spare, humor and intellect, and a charismatic front... thing.

Remember how Henry Rollins ate your children? This is the guy that got your dog.

Pink Eyes, a.k.a Damien, is a woolly, growling man-beast who loves puppies, smiles at the laughter of children, and is no doubt a productive member of society. But, just to be careful, stay far away from this man. You just never know. He might just emit the first vocal from this song, then kill you.

New Mission of Burma album gets title, release date (Updated with first single)

October 6th, 2009, Mission of Burma's new LP drops on Matador. I've put my preorder in on matador's website. You should too, if ya know what's good fer ya. $12 for CD, $18 for vinyl. Tell 'em altron2095 sent ya.

First single from the album, y'all. "1, 2, 3, Partyy!" is pure joy, pure bliss. Hear it, love it.

1, 2, 3, Partyy!

Happy Fourth, everyone!

Wow! Sorry for the lack of updates! I've been busy at work...

So, on this, the most American of holidays, let's all remember the treaty of Tripoli of 1796, article 11.

"As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion; as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquillity, of Mussulmen; and, as the said States never entered into any war, or act of hostility against any Mahometan nation, it is declared by the parties, that no pretext arising from religious opinions, shall ever produce an interruption of the harmony existing between the two countries."

So, we are not a Christian nation. Glad we're all clear on this. We are a nation of Christians... and Jews, and Hindus, and Muslims, and atheists, agnostics, and just plain apathetic types. All types and creeds and delicious flavors, one big nation. So, I'm going to take this moment to show my own pride in a display of solidarity. It is my belief that patriotism consists not just in national pride but in pride in one's state's ideals, and as America prizes freedom and liberty as its chief ideals, I hereby exercise my own freedom of speech.

I am an American, and I am an atheist. I take great pride in the rights granted to me in this nation, and I faithfully serve my duties as a citizen by remaining an informed voter and a productive member of society. I look today with great sorrow at the state of religious discourse in this country, and at the hijacking of this society by religious zealotry in politics and the general public sphere. However, I know that a new day will dawn, and soon. We secularists, progressives, liberals and moderates will win, and not because we will fight for ourselves, as the conservative theists would. We will fight for all, so that everyone, including our opponents in this debate, will benefit.

Freedom of religion, and freedom from religion, is not best just for secularists, but indeed for all people of every religion in this country. When religion is concerned with the private sphere, with people and not movements, society and not politics, that is where it shall do the most good, and the largest variety and number of people will profit spiritually and socially.

The only religion that should be minimized, marginalized, and shunned is that dangerous beast of literalist or inerrantist religion, the vitriolic, and hateful speech the "true believers" call their domain. It is a fetid cesspool of anti-gay bigotry, anti-woman and anti-liberty speech, anti-scientific and anti-intellectual nonsense, and oppressive, self-righteous arrogance. The problem is not so much that these people believe as they do; it is that they want no one to believe differently. In the name of America's ideals, they must not win.

My tone is meant only to be indignant and righteously impassioned here. Know that I have no enmity for any person for their group affiliations or opinions, but I do have little patience for bigotry or anti-intellectual sentiment. I only ask that the privately held beliefs of those who denigrate or prejudge homosexuals, atheists or any other minority group not be given respect, as they promote hate.

For my Japanese-speaking friends

My friends and partners in crime, I give you the almighty and amazing Boris!

Power Pop- Iggy's Search And Destroy Mission

Raw Power and Funhouse, kids. Them's the names. The Stooges, those tough, hard-rockin' freaks fronted by crazed rock icon Iggy Pop, were fortunate enough to do two classic albums. Funhouse in 1970, Raw Power three years later.

Let's talk turkey here. Back in 70, the Stooges already had a rep as wild dudes. They had one album of John-Cale produced proto-punk, the brilliantly stupid "The Stooges". That's the one with "I Wanna Be Your Dog" on it for all you indie kids who've heard it covered a thousand times. Iggy was a consummate front man. He had it all- a fake name, a penchant for self-mutilation, and he popularized stage-diving and audience-baiting. He embodied the punk spirit before punk truly came around.

While the Stooges were a brilliantly dumb band, mired in adolescent posturing and simplistic rock, they were also pretty smart in weird ways. Their talent for the apropos riff, the perfect vocal sting, the anthemic but sleazy sex song, was undeniable, and Ron Asheton's basic guitar style was no bar to his experimental spirit. His solos ripped and roared with abandon, no regard for technique or logic, just feeling. It was on Funhouse that these things really came together.

These are still twisted anthems of the street played with an animal at the fore barking madly. But Funhouse loses the sludge and trudges further into psychedelic swaths of noise. Dave Alexander provides tasty bass licks as Ron Asheton digs into the ether and summons forth guitar bliss. Scott Asheton pounds away primitively and with abandon. Through everything, Iggy howls and coos, screams and wails, marshalling all the charisma and energy you can squeeze from a human form. Perfect example? Sure. 1970, go.



Steve MacKay provides some searing sax work. Check the kickass bass too. No wonder Mission of Burma covered it. It rocks hard.

But what of Raw Power? What of it?

Only one of the most pissed-off, destructive, violent, and loud rock albums ever.

By '73, the Stooges were pretty much done for, destroyed by drugs. David Bowie told his management team to give Iggy one more chance. Iggy got James Williamson to play guitar, and Ron and Scott Asheton rejoined the Stooges. Ron was pushed onto bass.

David Bowie's original mix of Raw Power, which I haven't heard for some time, is reputed to be pretty muddy. Iggy remixed the album himself in 1997. The remix is extremely distorted, loud, and violent, completely in the red and in your face.

I quite like the remix myself. The apocalyptic screeches and howls emanating from Iggy cannot be ignored. James Williamson plays a mean, supremely loud lead guitar. For my money, Raw Power is better than Funhouse simply because the guitar playing is less basic. Ron Asheton, the pissed-off guitarist who got pushed onto bass, is practically in a frenzy, really brings energy to the low end. On this record, even the ballads sound evil and pissed off. Ladies and gentlemen, "Gimme Danger".



Gimme danger, little stranger. I'll feel your disease.

"Penetration" is some lecherous, lusty shit, yo.

New Sonic Youth album has arrived. WOOT!

The diagnosis for studio album 16 from veteran underground rockers Sonic Youth? Rockin'. I think my post on Television was pretty timely- the passages in The Eternal seem to echo Marquee Moon and the eponymous Television album; dark moods and tension coiled, pretty and ugly vying for expression and possession of the song. The opener "Sacred Trickster" I had heard pre-launch, and it sounded classic Kim Gordon, bratty and petulant, stabbing and discordant while still rocking in an odd fashion. Check this clip from Later... With Jools Holland, one of Britain's great music showcases.



The second track on the album hooked me pretty hard- "Anti-Orgasm" grooves relentlessly and possesses an excellent bridge of messy, chopping, clanging guitar noise that is classic Youth. Also, the addition of Mark Ibold of Pavement has done wonders for their groove. It seemed with their jam phase that Jim O'Rourke was good as a multi-instrumentalist, but he played guitar more often than not as well as keys and bass.

With a dedicated bassist allowing Kim Gordon to step onto third guitar, the group seems to be recalling their late-80s days more than anything, but with an extra guitar and more killer bass grooves. Check this clip, again from Later With Jools Holland.



I've always preferred Lee's songs as a rule for most of the Youth's albums, and "What We Know" turned out as expected. Lee's "Rats" also had the most badass bassline on Rather Ripped, so there ya go. I can't believe that "Antenna" is the first Lee/Thurston vocal harmony- it really does work, it makes you wonder why a band with such usually unspectacular singers wouldn't just half-ass a few harmonies to cover up their vocal weaknesses in concert more often. Lee usually does fine on his own in a Beat/spoken word style, though. Usually only Kim truly grates my nerves, and only very occasionally- I usually have a perverse admiration for her growling and hollering delivery. I like the non-processed, amateur style in a way. It's the Youth's big "fuck you" toward vapid pop mavens, sorta like Television's Tom Verlaine being a less-than-fantastic crooner. It's these idiosyncrasies that make a band either special, or just plain annoying. Fortunately, I've opted to enjoy Sonic Youth. Back to 'in praise of musics'.

Steve Shelley is still a great drummer, machine-precise and not overly flashy, but he can really anchor down a heady jam. His trademark fills and metronome-accurate pounding really give the Youth the edge they lacked in their very early days- it's no wonder he's the only full-time drummer the Youth ever had for more than two albums.

All in all, The Eternal is about as far as one can get from 2006's Rather Ripped- few clean edges, tons of fraying and squalling and spitfire guitars slicing and singing relentless. Sure, some of the material is a bit clipped or drags, but that's the nature of the Youth. You gotta let their indulgences slide and let their strengths stick. If you can get past some of their quirks, as I have, you'll have a great time with their unique brand of revelling in noise.

Tell A Vision- Standing Under the Marquee Moon

1977 was a momentous year in music by any estimation, and this is thanks in no small part to one of the greatest debut albums and one of the most essential documents of a band ever. Television's seminal "Marquee Moon" is not just a classic of punk or art rock, but indeed all rock music, and even a fan of stale and mainstream classic rock should enjoy it as much as the eggheaded art-punkers who to this day slaver over Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd's unmatched guitar virtuosity. Its appeal is so immediate, its power and technical achievement so palpable and undeniable that only the most staid and cynical of human beings can deny its brilliance. If you hate Television, I hope you hate all music. You could be forgiven for not liking music in general, but Television? No. That would be blasphemy toward our God of Guitar Noodling, Tom Verlaine.

The first time I heard Television, I was in high school. I had been to the local hipster record store (in St. Louis, the only record store of note is the awesome Vintage Vinyl), and had purchased Television's debut album Marquee Moon after a heavy round of internet buzz lauding it as one of the best 70s albums. My initial reaction was of great surprise; the music was much more traditional than I expected, at least in its basic setup. Two guitars, bass, drums, and tasty riffz. But "See No Evil", the opener, got a lot more interesting in the pre-chorus. Billy Ficca turned out this inspired, complex cymbal rush the likes of which I'd not heard anywhere before; Tom and Richard traded cosmic, glinting notes and crunching chords; Fred Smith held it all together with an upbeat and energetic bassline. The chorus itself perfectly encapsulated the song with moral relativism laid out with a start-stop vocal and a dragged out screech from Tom Verlaine's dry, reedy voice- I see, I see no... eviiiiiiiiiiiillllll! Richard Lloyd laid down an absolutely jaw-dropping solo after the second chorus, a non-stop flow of incredible playing that read like prose and sounded like poetry. Tom always said that Richard played solos that sounded like stories or scripts, and it's easy to understand what he meant. From that moment of brilliance, I knew I was hooked, and would never go back. Since then, Television has become one of the most reliable listens in my library. If I ever need a lift, ever need a just sublime moment, I turn on the TV with Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd.

Structurally, there are some touchstones of normal music, some hints of familiarity. It's from this basic framework of classicist rock music that Television's songs spiral into their trademark heady, cerebral jams. Their flow is unmistakable. No other band would be able to pull off a song like Marquee Moon. It takes the tension between traditional rock music and punk and art rock and extracts brilliance from a tightwire rope walk between the familiar and the utterly alien sounds that can emanate from a cleanly picked, undistorted guitar. Spontaneous jams and scripted solos blend seamlessly. Take a listen for yourself to their amazing "Venus" and hear for yourself.



What's amazing is that no part is uninteresting, or merely filler. Everything is in its right place, and even if one guitar is playing just chords, no note progressions, the harmonic relationships are still as interesting as the drum line, as the bass. Though Tom Verlaine dominated Television musically in a lot of ways, it's heartening to know that the band was egalitarian in emphasis on musicality and structure. No instrument really overpowers the mix, and there are few holding patterns, just killer parts, the interlocking teeth of gears that inexorably turn to power the fantastic machine that is Television.

After one more album, 1978's Adventure, Television split. Solo projects followed, of course. Bassist Fred Smith and drummer Billy Ficca worked amicably on and off with Richard and Tom, but the two guitarists would not reconcile until a reunion in 1992. An eponymous album followed, but for the most part was not as brilliant as the debut, though it may be on the level of Adventure. The best track on 1992's Television is, undoubtedly, the epic "Call Mr. Lee". It's got a killer hook, dark and impenetrable lyrics, and a dramatic, powerful solo.

The Chameleons

Damn, May was a dry month. Sorry that I didn't have much to say.

Sit down, kids, and let's take a trip to another world. This is a world of lovely sounds, gorgeous sweeping melodies, lush and vibrant sonic textures. This is the world of the Chameleons, one of the finest post-psychedelic British rock bands.

The Chams formed in Middleton in Greater Manchester in England in 1981. Leader Mark Burgess plays bass and sings lead vocals, and while he's no Clint Conley or Dave Allen, his bass work is driving and buoyant. John Lever plays drums, and though the Chams are mostly known as a guitar band, Lever's their secret weapon; his playing is consistently great and often jaw-dropping. Adept at speedy rhythms, off-kilter time signatures, and punishing pounding, he's all that a rock band can ask for. The signature element of the Chams' sound is the sensational guitar playing of Reg Smithies and David Fielding- their biting guitar riffs are polished to a pretty sheen, managing never to end up brittle or wispy even when soaked in reverb and delay effects. Their playing is superbly rich and textured, and their repertoire ranges from the melancholy to the epic, from the biting and scorching guitar riffs of "Return Of The Roughnecks" to the majestic bombast of the incredible "Swamp Thing", one of my favorite guitar tracks. Have a listen to Swamp Thing as performed by Mark Burgess and the Sons of God.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ6zVlIxnrQ

Sorry I can't embed, but it's been disabled.

Their first single, "In Shreds", is absolutely ace as well. Please enjoy.



Each of their albums is a fantastic listen, but most fans tend to cling to one or another for various reasons. For me, the atmospheric production of "What Does Anything Mean? Basically" and the wonderful drumming throughout propels it past even 1986's epic "Strange Times". It doesn't hurt that "What Does" also includes some of their loveliest guitar work and the hard-charging power of their debut single, the aforementioned "In Shreds" backed with "Nostalgia", a song whose title is a recurring theme in the discography of the Chameleons. Combine those great tunes with chiming, achingly beautiful tracks like "Perfume Garden" and the acoustic-prefaced but crunching "Intrigue In Tangiers" and its awesome vocals, and you've got a sure winner, "Swamp Thing" be damned.

For further proof, check out "Return of the Roughnecks", and dig that marvelous guitar interplay during the intro break. Solo rocks too.



The Chams disbanded after their manager took his own life in 1987, but reunited in 2000 and released one new studio album before disbanding again.If you have the chance, don't hesitate to check out Mark Burgess' solo projects and post-Chameleons work. He even performed a tribute to the Sound's Adrian Borland, mentioned here previously, in a concert series dedicated to the deceased musician's memory. Here's the Chams' Mark Burgess performing Borland's awesome ode to self-reliance, "Possession".



Dave Fielding and Reg Smithies, guitar virtuosos extraordinaire, also played in the Reegs, and any band with such a great guitar team is surely worth a listen. Hope that now that the Chameleons' work is available in deluxe editions, more of the public can enjoy their fine brand of lush and atmospheric rock and roll.

Thanks for reading.

Let's talk about the charge of deicide. Oh, goody...

I recently had this conversation for the second time at work. Strange origins it may have, but it is interesting to note how it relates to Important Things.

A manager of mine has an interesting way of settling contests amongst workers who desire to be cut from work and clock out early. When more than one person is scheduled to leave at 3 o'clock, for instance, an equal amount of labor would be saved by not having to pay the wage of either one of the employees. Therefore, because neither side has any tactical advantage, a game of "rock, paper, scissors" rules the day. However, this particular permutation of the familiar game is, though harmless, emblematic of distorted perceptions of history common, it seems, in working-class America. This game is called "Jesus, Hitler, Jew".

Let me explain the rules, as they are a wonderful melange of nonsense. Jesus beats Hitler, Hitler beats Jew, Jew beats Jesus. Now, the question is, why? In the traditional game, rock covers paper, (which makes no sense, I must admit) but scissors cutting paper and rock smashing scissors do sort of make sense. (Perhaps rock is supposed to need to breathe or something, and suffocates when paper covers it?) Well, I guess that in the logic of JHJ, Jesus beats Hitler because Hitler is dead, and in Christian theology, God, of whom Jesus is one manifestation, decides when humans are to die, and so, by this logic, Jesus 'took' Hitler. The rule that Hitler beats Jews is as sound as scissors cutting paper, because, historically, his anti-Semitic views and the policies of his government carried out the Holocaust.

The biggest thorn in my side, however, is the charge of deicide levied by the rule of Jews beating Jesus because they are responsible for his death. The game's rules, because they are more morbid than the traditional game and substitute death for dysfunction or destruction in the case of the titular objects, concern responsibility for the death of the archetypes represented in the game. The charge that all Jews share blame for the death of Jesus as a result of the actions of the Pharisees is no longer an official position of the Catholic church, but I have no idea how many Christians do still hold this view. This excuse for anti-Semitism has been levied throughout history as justification for a variety of prejudices and serves in part as the cornerstone of historical European suspicion and xenophobia of Jews.

Now, all this arises, not only out of my problems with some silly game, but because this semi-intelligent manager of mine who proposed the game actually defended the charge of deicide. This is unacceptable.

It is wrong for many reasons, but some are more theological in nature, some, more moral or historical. Let's go through the list and have a look at this issue.

The reason that the charge of deicide can be levied in the first place is because the Bible claims that the Pharisees, who were Jewish leaders, turned Jesus over to the Romans. The Pharisees believed Jesus preached heresy, and the Romans found his views inconvenient for their political power.

Now, one of the great mistakes of the Christian faith in the view of the non-religious is its distorted view of personal responsibility. At the core of its theology is the doctrine of scapegoating, the belief that the sins of a person or group can be absolved by transferring them to another person or animal and punishing or driving away the object that has received sin. The core doctrine holds that no person is good enough for Heaven; only Jesus' sacrifice and belief in him are enough to merit an eternity in Heaven. The convoluted logic states that Jesus' atonement is for Original Sin, which is in this day and age is completely given the lie by all modern genetic study and even passing knowledge of evolution. However, ignoring the issues surrounding Original Sin itself, of which there are many, the doctrine is clear that all humanity bears responsibility for the death of Jesus. It is sin, the sin of all humankind, that necessitates the sacrifice. Therefore, fault for Jesus' death should lie with all people equally (for sinning), or God (who decided to incarnate himself) in this view.

Logically, there is little ground for the charge of deicide to stand. Even taking the events described in the New Testament as accurate (a large leap, I assure you), there is no grounds to accuse the Jews as a whole of killing Jesus. Now, if we posit the Christian system as true, then granted, the Jews do deny on theological grounds the messianic state of Jesus. The Pharisees (if we grant the narrative as truth) did offer Jesus to the Romans. However, this at worst only makes Jews deniers of Christian divinity and the Pharisees guilty by association. No Jew alive today spat on or attacked Jesus, nor drove nails into his flesh, nor flagellated him. No accusation can stand against the man who is not party to the crime. No guilt can be assigned to the blood, no curse to a race. If my brother kills a man, am I tried for his crime? If a white man defrauds a large swath of the population, does that make all white men guilty? There is simply no justifying punishing those who do nothing wrong.

Morally, the charge of deicide has much to answer for in the history of anti-Semitic thought. The charge has historically been levied by Christians either to excuse or to justify their xenophobia and hatred of the Jews. Deicide has been used in troubled times as a matter of convenient scapegoating when the Jews are needed as targets. Now, anti-Semitic thought does not begin and end with such claims, but it does underlie much ugly history of antagonism. This does not make a strong logical argument against deicide, but it does not make it an attractive position to hold.

Please, don't let this line of thought pollute you as well. Don't fall prey to judgement of others for the crimes of their ancestors, their parents, their class, or any other group you can shoehorn them into. Just let man stand and fall on merit alone.

New Sonic Youth album on the way, and more

Sonic Youth's "The Eternal" comes out next week. I've already got a preorder, here's hoping it's as good as the rest of their post-2000 works. The band is back to a five-piece for this one, with touring bassist and former Pavement member Mark Ibold joining the band officially to supplement our core Fab Four. I'll let you guys know what's up whenever "The Eternal" gets here.

Mission of Burma is putting the finishing touches on their album, I don't have a deadline yet, but rest assured, it's gonna rock. Expect it within a few months, and my own examination of the as-yet-untitled disc soon after.

I've been completely immersed in a role-playing game recently, a little older than most of what I play. Now, I appreciate gameplay over graphics, this is true, but no one likes looking at a butt-ugly game, am I right? To be fair, though, one must account for when a game was made. So I was pleasantly surprised by Troika's Vampire: The Masquerade- Bloodlines. When it came out in 2004, it didn't sell too well, mostly because it was based on Half-Life 2's engine and came out on the same day. Piss-poor timing, that. The game was buggy, as even its ardent supporters admit, but underneath the grit was an unpolished diamond. It's one of the few games I know of that really transcends its technical issues by telling a superb story and having great gameplay at its core. If one can overlook some framerate issues and graphical problems, the core game is fantastic.

Lately, my most-played album has been Lou Reed's "The Blue Mask". Recorded with a superb band consisting of ex-Voidoid Robert Quine, bassist Ferando Saunders, and Doane Perry on drums, it's by turns an evocative and poetic work that isn't afraid to run ragged into an inferno of guitar immolation. There's pastoral beauty in "My House", an aching melancholy in the chiming guitars and emotionally fraught bass riffs. There are penetrating character studies in "The Gun" and "Underneath the Bottle". However, what is perhaps the most inspiring song on the album is the raging, spittle-flecked title track. After a minute of feedback, "The Blue Mask" explodes into rampaging drum fills and a roiling, violent bass riff that anchors down Lou's delivery and carefully pens in the screaming guitars. Reed's lyrics are some of the most perverse and deliriously misanthropic I've had the pleasure of singing along with- check this out.



If this song doesn't make you dry heave and bang your head simultaneously, nothing can be done for you. I can't resist letting this one get me all riled up.

The Sound- a tribute to Adrian Borland and his collaborators

Formed in 1979 from the ashes of the Outsiders, The Sound, hailing from London, are one of post-punk music's most criminally unsung bands. Bandleader and guitarist Adrian Borland crafted fantastic songs that overflowed with emotional power and perfect pop songwriting, and his band delivered tight, polished songs played with power and passion. Just one listen to the headlong charge of "Heartland" from 1979's "Jeopardy" is reason enough to marvel at their collective abilities as a band. For that icy, stabbing synth, that rumbling and bouncing bass that carries the melody, those fantastic guitar riffs and singing, there's little else like the Sound.



From the first, the distinctive sound of the Sound (get it?) put them firmly on the map as one of London's leading bands. They showed great promise and received much critical acclaim, but had little opportunity to break through to a wider audience. While bands like Joy Division and their progeny New Order scored fans and hits, many more obscure acts like the Sound or their contemporaries the Chameleons and Comsat Angels toiled in obscurity. Though they produced a substantial body of work, both pop and post-punk, the Sound never reached the audience they should have due to their refusal to pander to record label demands. They disbanded in 1988, three years after their last album,"Thunder Up". Despite their lack of success, they recorded quite a few classic tracks, and their albums "Jeopardy" and "From the Lion's Mouth" are both stone classics of underground British rock music. Adrian Borland, their lead singer and guitarist, went on to a very promising solo career. Unfortunately, his life was cut short by his losing battle with depression and other mental problems. He took his own life in 1999, throwing himself under a train at Wimbledon station. Tributes to Borland have been substantial, and can be viewed and contributed at his personal memorial website. Please visit http://www.brittleheaven.com if interested in merchandise, condolences, or discussion on the web forums. Thank you all for reading. Once more, I'll let the music speak for itself- the Sound, with "The Fire".

Lat den ratta komma in- a mesmerising vampire film

I just saw the Swedish romantic vampire movie "Let The Right One In". I watched about four movies in rapid succession over the past few days, and this is the one that stuck in my mind most prominently. The cinematography, score, and themes were all hauntingly and beautifully deployed. The spare musical gestures and interminably snowy and stark landscapes conjured a fragile, dark and lovely story of the friendship between a 12 year old boy and an androgynous vampire. Wonderful sound direction here; the sound effects captured countless ambient nuances of both atmosphere and self- the sound of dry and cold lips gently parting, a brittle crackle of toys moving in cold air, blood dripping languorously into a jar or open mouth. The musical score could be called spare were it not consistently wonderful and, while unobtrusive, utterly hypnotic. The lead children had a great chemistry as well, capturing the awkwardness of adolescent yearning and chaste friendship simultaneously. Thanks to the ambiguity of vampiric Eli's gender, the relationship between s/he and Oskar develops as both a platonic boy/boy interaction and a sweetly romantic childhood love. It's to the credit of the movie that Eli can announce "I'm not a girl" and still maintain his/her femininity and girlish form.

Eli (top) in a strangely sexual/ nonsexual situation with Oskar (bottom)

"Let The Right One In" takes a pretty unconventional approach to vampire movies. Eschewing ultraviolence and tacky stunt-filled fight scenes, it focuses instead upon the psychosexuality of vampire romance and especially that of childhood romance. There are smatterings of violence, but they are as likely to involve humans exclusively as they are vampire attacks. There are few vampires in the film as well, and the film succeeds largely because it can afford to focus on individuals and their relationships instead of vamp politics.

Striking at the heart of the vampire mythos, "Let The Right One In" presents the tragic nature of vampires alongside the ethereal and fragile nature of the humans in whose lives they prowl. Though snow and ice dominate the film, its character interactions lend it warmth and humanity. Truly, a great film.

Funking up your politics- the mind and body-shaking Gang of Four

Of a part with the willfully abrasive and obscure art-rock scene that encompassed fellow Brits Wire and American eggheads Pere Ubu and Mission of Burma, Gang of Four rocked as hard as any of them, but brought a slinky, groovy brand of forward-thinking dance and funk into their dark vision of capitalist society. Their impact reaches farther than many other post-punk or art rock bands because, simply put, they rocked, and rocked hard. They brought clear-eyed analysis and scathing rhetoric into their music, but before shouting slogans and between sneering at love songs and cheeseburgers, they had the good sense to bring a hard groove. Countless British and American bands who now bear the torch of twitchy, atonal dance rock music owe, either knowingly or not, a huge debt to their forefathers.

In their original line-up, Andy Gill, Jon King, Hugo Burnham, and Dave Allen recorded their highly regarded debut, "Entertainment!", and its follow-up, "Solid Gold". Both records put forth a blueprint that many bands were better able to commercially exploit- the politically-motivated funk rock of Rage Against the Machine and early Red Hot Chili Peppers in particular were successful at rounding out the many edges in the Gang's music and making a radio-friendly facsimile that would not threaten listeners of pop music. Today the same goes for indie-rock darlings of all stripes; to name just a few, Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, Liars, and the Rapture. What set the Gang apart is that they questioned their audience without hectoring them, forming anthems and not puerile slogans. Their music demanded elemental movement, their lyrics fostered fierce cogitations.

"Entertainment!" stands as a debut of great note, powerful in the cogency of its ideas and breathless in its savage mauling of conventional punk, funk, and disco music. In any typical song, Burnham would set out a churning disco groove, throwing in just enough high-energy fills and breaks to remind listeners of his chops; bassist Allen reportedly restrained himself when playing Gang's songs, which is hard to believe considering the sheer technical ability of his lines and their overwhelming power. Guitarist Andy Gill never settled for conventional riffs or vanilla solos, chucking out technical wizardry for supremely effective volleys of twitchy, scratching, scabrous guitar gesticulations. Driven by pure rawk energy, he chopped out a mess of both rhythmic and arrhythmic feedback squalls, even opting for (gasp) silence when needed. Jon King ranted and chanted with the best of sardonic Brits, lamenting the state of the working classes, historical revisionism, any idea that would offend the sensibilities of a good leftist.

For a great prototypical GO4 song, look no further than 5.45, from "Entertainment!". A tiny drum and harmonica intro, sounding like some small still voice protesting tragedy to a martial beat. Jon King waxes piteous-
"How can I sit and eat my tea, With all that blood flowing from the television, At a quarter to six, I watch the news, Eating, eating all my food as I sit, Watching the red spot in the egg, Which looks like all the blood you don't see on the television..."
With just this short lyric, King takes to task the news media that glorifies war coverage, the apathetic citizens that can sit and eat whilst others die, and even manages to snipe the news media again for sanitizing reports while simultaneously venerating atrocity. Throughout all this rhetoric, ringing guitar lines cut through a thick and moody bass that cries of the helplessness and hopelessness of the oppressed.

"Down on the street, Assassinate!, All of them look so desperate, Declare blood war on the bourgeois state, ooooooh..." No other band could make such a chorus work; it is intensely politically incisive and revolutionary in nature, and yet perversely catchy.

The mid-song chant lends the album its title, a pronouncement on the sick state of voyeuristic cultural debasement that is the evening news fodder in wartime- "Guerrilla war struggle is the new entertainment!"- that rails angrily at those comfortable upper-to-middle class citizens that can stare at a war-torn country through the lens of a news program and, being desensitized to the suffering of those so many miles and class divisions away, can only shake their heads as they lament the world with a mouthful of microwaved food. The result is a powerful song that, while satiric, doesn't hector its audience, but urges them to think.

Some of their best tracks deal with interpersonal connections in much the same fashion, looking at love with a gimlet eye, rendering relationships into balances and handshake deals, commodities bought and sold, interest not shown by a seductive gaze, but accrued by debt. The commodification of sex and the role of the media in public life surface again and again throughout their discography, giving thematic strength to much of their work. Alienation and the wanderlust of man for interpersonal connection feature heavily as well.

The trajectory of their career fell sadly short of their ambitions, however. After "Solid Gold", bassist Allen left and was replaced by Sara Lee, and a shift in their sound occurred over the course of several albums, moving them decisively toward less edgy and more poppy disco and funk music. The music that followed wasn't necessarily bad, but did not sit well with their original fans, and won them few new ones. Drummer Hugo Burnham left after "Songs of the Free" in 1982, and after only Jon King and Andy Gill remained from the original line-up, they called it quits in after 1983's abysmal "Hard". They reformed twice in the nineties, once for the underwhelming "Mall" and again in 95 for their currently last full-length, "Shrinkwrapped".

In a near-miraculous move, the original line-up of GO4 re-united in 2004, recording an album of new versions of old songs. It's not absolutely essential, but is certainly good listening. Though Burnham and Allen have left again recently, there is still talk of a new album with a new line-up. Their newest single, "Second Life", is a classic. Please support this band and if they tour anywhere near you, make it a priority to see them live. Thanks for reading.

The worst part of 'Knowing'? You're powerless to stop it...

Sometimes a movie comes along that you know nothing about, you see it on a whim, you spend the day out with a friend and see it together. Sometimes you want badly to have a good time, to enjoy a spectacle, to share a good movie. I was sorry to disappoint on a recent outing with a friend of mine. I made the regrettable decision to see Nicolas Cage in "Knowing".

Sitting in the theater, tensed and pissed off, I fidgeted endlessly as this movie assaulted me in an almost sexual fashion. I felt violated by its emotional bludgeoning, sullied by its pathetic lack of subtlety and technique. I was genuinely offended by its plot, its heavy-handed messages and trite, cliche straw-men of atheists and rational thinkers. Everything about this film sickened or angered me in one way or another.

If you ever have the chance, I fucking dare you to watch this movie with an aim to enjoy it.
No groaning, no sighs. Don't be pestered by the inappropriate score, don't sit with mouth agape at its ludicrous plot, nor its sick manipulation of historical tragedy for a catalytic plot point.
If you can actually sincerely enjoy this movie, in all its bland glory, its facsimile of Christian endtimes lunacy, its tired and predictable plot, and its confused melange of science fiction, disaster voyeurism, environmental alarmism, and religious smugness, you may want to seriously re-examine your ability to enjoy good movie-making.

Let's begin, shall we?

Nic Cage is basically rehashing "Next" here. No bones about it. As always, I was okay with Nic, because I think he does good work and he has a persona as an actor that I like. However, I didn't like his character. John Koestler is a poorly-written skeptic; he sounds like the most cliche atheist a Christian could dream up. He's angry at being the son of a pastor, he lost his faith because of a personal tragedy, and basically espouses nihilism. In short, he's exactly what a person who had never met an intellectually justified atheist would think atheists are like. Argh.

The 'story', such as it can be called, begins in 1959 with a young girl, Lucinda Embry, writing a string of numbers on a sheet of paper to be put into a time capsule. The girl apparently hears overly loud whispers that are mixed too high in the film's audio. That's how early I began to shit on this movie in my mind- immediately following the credits. The first mind-blowingly idiotic thing in the movie is John Koestler's lecture to his class on cosmology. He presents a thinly veiled debate between naturalistic and supernaturalistic viewpoints, and takes up the "atheist" side by declaring "shit just happens". Conflating nihilism with non-deterministic philosophies? Thanks, director Alex Proyas and writing staff, you dicks.

John's son attends the same school that the spooky little girl did, so of course when the time capsule from the opening scene is unearthed, who gets the string of numbers but Caleb Koestler, and brings them home to our depressed, nihilistic caricature of an atheist. The numbers Lucinda wrote are apparently predictions of the next 50 years' worth of disasters, told to her by annoyingly loud whispers. But how does John discover that the numbers are not random? Now, this kind of future prediction plot is not entirely uncommon, but if done well it can be mildly entertaining. However, this is the only "future-disaster" movie I know of that had the utter tastelessness and absurd hubris to abuse a national tragedy still fresh in the minds of Americans for a plot point. That's right, when John Koestler's son brings home the number string from the time capsule opening, the first thing John notices is the number string 91101. Way to disrespect a nation.

A couple of punctuation marks later, John's got a full-blown delusion-made-reality on his hands. He goes back through the list of numbers, circles out some date and casualty strings, and confronts one of his fellow skeptical colleagues, who, like any good skeptic, believes that it is a coincidence, not least because of the large amount of uncircled numbers that appear to be random. He thinks John is just looking for a pattern where there isn't one, like those Bible code buffoons.

Of course, what could possibly happen next but John coincidentally being at the exact spot of the next disaster in sequence? How laughably predictable. He looks at his GPS when on the freeway, matches the numbers to the paper, and voila, he's in just the right spot for a disaster. In true "Final Destination" fashion, he tries to do something, anything, to help when a plane crashes. He is however helpless as the camera lingers horrifically on writhing, burning bodies in a positively bloodthirsty fashion. Truly, tastelessness is elevated to an art form by this hellish train wreck of a movie.

The next disaster in sequence is even worse. John chases down a guy who he thinks is going to bomb the subway, but, oops, he was just stealing CDs! Oh, man, talk about being on the wrong track! (Canned laughter) Speaking of wrong tracks... the subway train derails in a gloriously cheesy CGI fashion! Wheeeee! It plows into countless people (some of them even in first-person 'kill-train' camera!) in an orgiastic display of brutish violence. Joy... Mawkish aftermath music would be bad enough, but "Knowing" again assaults the audience by shoving an American flag into the next shot, just like with shoehorning 9/11 into the plot. I don't know what the film seeks to gain by appealing to our sense of patriotism, but it comes off as crass and trashy.

Torturous story short, through some ridiculous non-logic, John finds out that the next disaster will be the end of the world, and that the bible had some prescience of this event (double ugh). A solar flare wiping out the third planet away from the sun? Yeah, that sounds completely plausible.....

To wrap it all up, John finds, in some Rapture-like theological lunacy, that only a few humans have been chosen to be saved from the impending disaster by aliens, who have been stalking him in order to save his son. Caleb and Lucinda Embry's granddaughter are saved by infuriatingly angel-esque aliens, the vast majority of humans die in a huge wave of fiery fucking doom, and Nic Cage reconverts to theism just before disintegrating. Heavy-handed enough for ya?

Sitting through it was hell. I saw every shitty plot point coming a mile away. Poorly executed, trite, preachy, and stupid in the worst way, "Knowing" is a mess of theological and science fiction daftness. Fuck this movie.

Finally, it's the Weekend. No, not the literal one.

Godard. 1967. Weekend.
Everything led up to this. A culmination, an encapsulation of an aesthetic, a singular talent, an idea, perhaps an idea that was the entirety of a person.
Weekend is not a film. It's much more. Treatise, work of art, self-portrait, screed, bore, declaration, and semi-coherent narrative; these are proper, but not entire. It's visual poetry, arresting and savage critique of every sacred cow of consumer and mass culture. It's the big crunch of shopping malls, the heat death of the factory lines, a mushroom cloud to punctuate Godard's political era.
Weekend contains more content, more ideas, more art than most ten films put together. It's scattershot and bizarre, true, but when it works, it sets fire to the intellectual mind.
As an absurdist film, it lacks in terms of plot, but shines in its setup and execution of thoroughly skewed scenes. The whole mad journey plays out in stops and starts, dragging its feet through intentionally annoying conceptual gags and then hurtling headfirst into a morass of philosophical and historical exposition. Hardly any of the film could be considered easy to watch; whether it's assaulting the viewer with a deviant sexual liason, annoying them with overly long shots and too-loud car horns, or lambasting them for their political apathy, Weekend is a film that does its best to try the patience of its audience. It is all for the best, though, as its techniques force the viewer to confront the film on its own terms. Weekend forcibly restrains any who see it from turning their mind off and just enjoying a simple film. It demands attention, its impish gags and heady philosophical ramblings commanding an uncommon force that I imagine most other 'provacateur' movies simply could not muster.
Our crazed journey begins with one of many pop-art styled intertitles, proclaiming that this is a film 'lost in the cosmos'. In a bourgeois apartment, some light conversation about death. Our materialistic main characters, Corinne and Roland, are making a trip to Oinville to make sure they get their inheritance- the hard way. A fight breaks out in the parking lot below, and our detestable lead bitch remarks that it would be wonderful if someone had died in the altercation. A bizarre conversation follows, with the foreboding score floating into and out of the scene, becoming more obtrusive and annoying, then retreating, as Corinne recounts, in graphic detail, an evening of depraved menage a trois. When asked if the story is true, or a nightmare, she says simply, "I don't know". After bashing in someone else's bumper on the way out, a brief, highly class-related struggle follows. Corinne and Roland, after a little absurdist argument, are on their way. The most famous gag of the movie stops them dead in their tracks; a sprawling traffic jam on a narrow country road that takes up an entire five minute sequence, soundtracked by hellish cacophonies of car horns and yells, and the score once again ominously looms upon the entrance of a Shell gasoline truck. At the very end, a disastrous accident has killed multiple people, but between the start and end of the jam, all manner of ridiculous activities are taking place. Chess games on the roadside, children frolicking, balls tossed between cars, and impossible collisions are everywhere. It's a thoroughly testing scene, but also entertaining in its silliness. It is perhaps one of the best encapsulations of the Weekend style, save perhaps the political screeds that take place later on.
As Roland and Corinne continue into the nearest town, a tractor collides with an expensive sports car. The driver of the car is killed, and his girlfriend verbally eviscerates the man in the tractor. As epithets rife with snobbery and class warfare pile up, the farmer and bourgeois woman try to drag Corinne and Roland into the argument over who had the right of way, and, finding no help, both the girl and the farmer unite in their hatred of our anti-heroes, showering them with racial slurs. As Roland speeds off, our bourgeois bitch and lumbering working class fool stand shoulder to shoulder, arms around each other, grieving the loss of their right to judge.
Our couple then have a short discussion that reveals their attitudes towards other human beings. Contemplating the farmer's claim, "We're all brothers, as Marx said", Roland asserts that "another communist said it. Jesus said it." Corinne replies, "I don't care, even if it's true. These aren't the Middle Ages." Apparently, both feel that modern society has entirely progressed past brotherhood and unity, and that the dawn of modern capitalism should require every man to act in his own self-interest.
The rat race of capitalism is the subject of our theater of the absurd, and Godard skewers it with gusto. Automobiles, as metaphors for modern industrial capitalist societies, are wrecked ubiquitously on every stretch of road. Over and over, the message hits home: modern societies are an insult to human decency, where we value only possessions; where boredom and drudgery are our lives, where sex is a farce and a distraction from ennui, where the working classes are manipulated, and the rich gorge themselves on the carcasses of wrecked lives, leaving only husks. Prescient, non?
The title of my blog comes from the next scene, where Roland and Corinne are carjacked by a madman, armed with a gun, and his accomplice. The madman rambles on, mixing comic pronouncements with bizarrely perceptive mots justes. He asks Corinne her name, then refuses her answers. "Durant is your husband's name. Dupont is your father's name", eventually announcing, "See? You don't even know who you are. Christianity: the death of language, the denial of self-knowledge." Here, he's taking to task the patriarchal nature of religions and societies that both make women subservient and impress upon them the names of their husbands. The director basically self-inserts his own opinions regarding film here, and announces "I'm here to inform Modern Times of the Grammatical era's end, and the beginning of Flamboyance, especially in cinema." Godard boldly states that his film endeavors to signify the beginning of a renaissance of films that are unafraid of absurdity and pass by the merit of their ideas, not their formal structure and rigid lockstep with reality. If we had been lucky, more films would be have taken up this clarion call. Or, perhaps it is best that they didn't, and Weekend remains a singular experience.
After running some other drivers off the road, Roland wrecks his car, in one of the many audio-visual mismatches that serve to highlight the unreality of the film. First, the image of the crash and a scream from Corinne, then a cut back to the preceding moment of tranquil driving, then the crash again. Corinne comically mourns the loss of her handbag, a really nifty one from Hermes. Godard hits hard once more with his brutal critique of consumerism.
The film also contains several scenes of concentrated political commentary, one featuring a man dressed as Napoleon shouting seeming platitudes (which, in actuality, are rather stinging barbs striking at humanity's greatest follies), another featuring a juxtaposition of two political manifestos laid out by off screen characters while the onscreen characters stare and eat a sandwich. The effect of having two men spell out each other's views with perfect mental clarity is a very interesting technique and manages to make these sorts of scenes rather arresting in their unique setup.
Corinne and Roland have a number of meta-referential lines in the movie pertaining to 'fictional' characters within the film. They even set fire to Tom Thumb and Emily Bronte simply because they won't tell them the way to Oinville. However, they do take time to note that they're only fictional characters. When hitching a ride, they ask if the driver is in the real world, or a film. This perfectly compliments the film's aesthetic choice to embrace the absurd and refuse to tell a mundane and hyper-real story, instead presenting a gaudy theater of brilliant and provocative ideas.
In the end, Corinne and Roland kill Corinne's mother for a handsome inheritance, but become hostages of cannibal revolutionaries. As these hippy dippy beat poets-cum-Gaullist gourmands compose odes to the ocean and feast on the dead, the film closes with Corinne having a bit of long pork, and hears that she is eating Roland. Remarking upon its good taste, she decides to have more later. The audacious closing text still rings true- "FIN DU CINEMA", not just the end of this film, but all film.
Godard's hellish vision remains prescient in its political observations, staying mordantly hilarious and farcical even upon repeat viewings. It is a quite obnoxious film at times thanks to its attempts to distance its audience from its own internal reality, but it only does so to force viewers to contemplate its ideas seriously. It truly is the end of all cinema; after seeing it, no other movie will ever seem quite so fiercely intelligent, so belligerent, brilliant, or morbidly funny. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Another Long Raving Post About Anime

Greetings, all. Jim here. Figured I'd better get cracking on my next post. As stated previously, this one will be about the cerebral genre of anime, the cat-and-mouse, plot-counter plot type of thing. In recent memory, 2 examples of this sort would be Deathnote and Code Geass. Both have some pretty obvious similarities, so I'll start by outlining both and move on to comparing and contrasting.

First off, Deathnote. The main character is Light Yagami. Light is a high school student, the son of a police officer, and aiming for the police himself as a career. He is shown to be highly intelligent, ambitious, hard-working, serious, and also to have a very strong sense of personal justice. However, it is these characteristics which society would view as positive that eventually enable Light to become the worst mass murderer in history. Light is, to put it one way, bored. He feels the world around him is rotten, filled with useless people without whom society would be better off. Every day it seems more criminals are making the news with increasingly wanton acts of cruelty and senseless violence. Light sees the hypocrisy and apathy of the world around him and despairs of ever making a difference.

However, Light soon gains the power to change this rotten world- to mold it to his liking using the power of the Deathnote. A powerful supernatural notebook, the Deathnote can cause the death of anyone whose name is written in it, as long as the writer can visualize the target's face as the name is written. This notebook was originally the property of a Death God named Ryuk. However, Ryuk, like Light, was bored with the apparent purposelessness of his life, so he intentionally dropped his Deathnote into the human world to stir up trouble. Light first doubts the note is genuine, but comes to realize its power by killing a criminal in the act of taking hostages. Light has some small reservations about killing humans, even murderers, but tells himself that someone has to change the world, and he is the only one with the power and intellect to do so. In his arrogance, Light proclaims that he will pass judgment on humanity and become the God of his new world.

After various trials and tests, Light begins to use his new found power to remake the world as he sees fit, placing himself firmly in the position of God-like authority. His primary targets are criminals, murderers mostly. As his intervention becomes more and more pronounced, a cult following begins to revere him as an ally of justice, naming him Kira, the savior. However, other agencies begin taking an interest in Light as well. The Japanese police brand Kira a murderer, albeit by unknown means, and eventually call in help from an outside agent. Said to be one of the smartest individuals alive, this agent has solved many cases other agencies considered unsolvable. Known only as L, nothing is known about this mysterious individual save how to contact him, and few even know that much. The deadly match of intellects between L and Kira eventually escalates into a full-scale psychological war, with both sides vying for supremacy by any means necessary. As both parties reveal more to each other to lure the opponent out into the open, the mind games reach unbelievable depths as murder and investigation continuously repeat.

A remarkably noticeable oddity is the main character's complete lack of sympathy and, indeed, much human emotion at all. In many cases, Light is portrayed as so cold and calculating that he can kill someone without even a twitch or change in facial expression. Throughout the series Light uses and discards people like tools, coldly sacrificing others-even family or friends- for personal gain. He just may be the least likable character I have seen in a long time.

One odd thing I noticed is an abrupt shift in tone about halfway through the series, where events take a rather surprising turn, and the mood is considerably lightened for a few episodes. Some sight gags pop up, and a little humor is injected into the series, ultimately giving a rather strange feeling that one has started watching a different show. It kind of comes off as somewhat lame, in my opinion, but the interval is short, and it is appropriate, in a way, I guess.

Some viewers might complain about the rather noticeable lack of physical action, however the mental intensity and great emphasis on complex thought rather than action can be refreshing after so much over saturation of action in many other anime. I cannot recall any other form of media that has made even the act of eating potato chips a dramatic and intense gesture. That may sound like a joke, but it really features into the plot. I'm not kidding. I would definitely recommend this one for anyone looking for something intelligent in the anime realm.

Now for Code Geass. One immediate difference to note is a much higher emphasis on action, and also a more sympathetic main character. Code Geass takes place in an alternate time line in which an empire similar to Great Britain, appropriately named Brittania, has conquered much of the world around the time of WW II. After the invasion of Japan by the Empire, the government is dismantled. The people of Japan lose their homeland, their rights, and even their very national identity as the country is renamed Area 11. Japanese are coldly referred to as "Elevens" and forced into a low position in the social hierarchy.

Our main character here is Lelouch Lamperouge, a former prince of Britannia disinherited by the Emperor and forced into hiding in Area 11. Lelouch has two overwhelming desires- to create a world where his sister Nunnaly can live in peace, and to avenge his mother's murder by unknown assailants. Lelouch lacks any significant military or political power, until one day when he encounters a mysterious girl named CC sealed in a capsule. She grants Lelouch the power of Geass, the "power of the King". While each person manifests Geass differently, Lelouch gains the power of absolute obedience. Any one order he gives to a person he makes eye contact with must be obeyed. Using this power and his tactical genius, Lelouch organizes a rebellion in Area 11 in order to overturn the balance of power in the world, both for the sake of a more peaceful world that his sister desires, and for his revenge on his distant father for coldly discarding him.

One crucial difference between Code Geass and Deathnote is the main characters' motivations. While Light is motivated by selfish egotism and a petty desire to take over the world, Lelouch is much more selfless and sympathetic as a main character. It is true that Lelouch will sacrifice others if he must, but he genuinely feels remorse for his actions and even sacrifices his own safety at times in order to protect others. Light would do no such thing.

Another important difference between the two main characters is their confrontational styles. While Light is more subtle and engages in psychological contests of will with his opponents, Lelouch is more dramatic in his gestures and relies on tactical, military, and political maneuvering to overwhelm his opponents, dominating them with an overwhelming show of force (with lots of grand pronouncements and overly dramatic acts of showmanship for good measure).

The emphasis in Code Geass is more on physical action and some mecha combat, along with tactical and political ploys. Deathnote, on the other hand, is more purely cerebral and focuses on the neat little tricks employed to deflect investigation and suspicion. Also, Code Geass has more actual characters to develop, so it comes off better in that department. Deathnote focuses almost exclusively on Light and L's confrontation, with little time devoted to secondary characters.

Lastly, Code Geass has a more satisfying ending, in my opinion, which I will not spoil. Deathnote's ending is rather anticlimactic, actually. A very small detail is what ultimately decides the contest. Still, some of the huge, grand plots in Code Geass can come off as a little unnecessarily ridiculous, but other than a few minor complaints on both sides, I would still rate both series rather highly.

Chairs Missing- The Music of Wire

Few bands could match them for versatility by the time they made their third album. It's really too much to ask that anyone match them now that they've made 11 studio albums and countless other ephemera. Wire is a rare case, a band that keeps getting better, pushing boundaries, and evolving far into its career. From their debut to their latest album, hardly a track goes by in their discography without a twitch of the head, a nod from the listener- "well now, that's interesting." Don't call them post-punk. Just call 'em bloody well good.

There are a lot of reasons 1977 was an amazing year. The Talking Heads' debut album, Marquee Moon by Television, Ramones and all that. But Wire's Pink Flag has them all beat for prescience. Pink Flag buzzes and drills right past punk into strange territory, becoming an art school Rocket to Russia. 21 tracks, 35 minutes. That's all they need to hook you.

Drill, drill, drilling into your head

The album basically has one guitar tone, that of a scratching, insistent power-drill boring through pop-song forms and the occasional dark epic. The opener, 'Reuters', is named for a news agency that often covered wars. The closing words of the song showcase an ironic band-wide shout of "Looting! Burning! RAPE!", with the 'rape' initially drawn out, and then repeated on certain beats for the duration of the song, forming a near-chant. It even becomes catchy by the end, if you can believe it. The track following, "Field Day For The Sundays", clocks in at 28 seconds, as the narrator expresses his desire to be scandalized, so as to appear in the paper as a tasteless controversy. "I wanna be a target for the dailies so they can show/ pictures of me with a nude on page three/ so lacking in taste/ touched up near the waste, looking as limp as Monday morning". Fun stuff, when you actually can puzzle out the run-together, heavily English idioms.

Each track gets in some memorable licks, welding funky yet often sweetly melodic bass lines and martial drumming to its metallic guitar riffing. Jaunty and bitter proclamations assault the listener, popping up like whack-a-moles, then ducking back, leaving the silence to describe the import of every chant, yell, and pithy lyrical flourish. Some are political, some are willfully obscure, but all dazzle with wit in print, and confound when heard aloud. All this and some genuinely great harmonies to boot. What a record.

Chairs Missing, containing some of Wire's finest mood pieces.

Pink Flag was the start of a promising career as punk-rockists, but Wire weren't content to just sit on their laurels. Their next album was even weirder, darker, and better. For Chairs Missing, they pumped up the eerie soundscapes and keyboard parts, whipped up even more arty-but-not-pretentious lyrics, and dammed up most of the punk stuff, instead favoring haunting, creepy contemplations on insanity, suicide, and all manner of psychological quirk and malformations. The guitars adopt a wider range, the bass rumbles in a frequently evil fashion, and squeedly, bleeping keyboards lend an air of unreality and delusion to masterpieces of madness, from the (literally) killer "Practice Makes Perfect" to the raving, rocking closer "Too Late". Often, the lyrics are themselves as atmospheric as the music, quietly suggesting daft ideas, screwy bouts of violence, and tragicomic singsong from the mouth of the asylum. Pop gems sit uncomfortably and fidget next to screwy black comic farce, and through it all, safe, sensible musical ideas take up their corners and hug themselves into the fetal position, afraid to look into the psychotic abyss. Chairs Missing is, for this fact, one of the most effective Wire albums, perhaps the best, but it does no favors to neophytes with its unerringly arty vision and squirrely keyboards. I do suggest getting to know this one on its own terms, taking it in as a piece and letting its eccentricities slide. (Also, go turn on "I Am The Fly" and see if it syncs up with the Cronenberg remake of The Fly. I'm still wondering if these two can do that Wizard of Oz/ Pink Floyd thing.)



As demonstrated by the above track, 154 moved things in a decidedly different direction. The punks became completely post here; keyboards are integrated more fully, there are dancier and even more atmospheric songs, and the boys crank out more grotesque pop permutations. Graham Lewis, their bassist, gets his first turn on vocals on a number of songs. The tempos slow to a molasses crawl for some more experimental pieces, none of which particularly thrill. That said, most of the material is extremely solid, both presaging the Sonic Youths of later years and the My Bloody Valentines to follow them. Immersive production and smooth electronic elements complement their delicious guitar tones and doomy bass. If it weren't for "A Touching Display" and "The Other Window" to destroy the momentum, this might be the best Wire album. As it is, it's still great.

From here, Wire split for an extended hiatus, and reformed after five years. Since then, their evolution, though not as rapid, has hopped madly from pop, electronic, and dance music to their punk roots between bouts of activity and breaks. One of their most notable periods is their current tenure, starting from 1999. Since their reformation, Wire have looked back fondly on their punk roots even as they approach middle age, something Mission of Burma have done to similar effect. Their current line of albums and EPs, encompassing Read and Burn numbers 1-3 in the EP series and the albums Send and Object 47, show a band still full of restless energy and nowhere near spent for ideas.

Some favorite tracks:

• 'Mannequin', a personal favorite from Pink Flag. The band-wide harmonies during the chorus are just sublime. Fantastic bass runs as well.
  
• 'Too Late', closing out Chairs Missing. Great riffing, but after the first chorus gradually builds in intensity, we get an electronic blot of freakout that lasts for the rest of the track, vocals chiming back in to ask that eternal question, "Is it too late to change my mind? Too late, too late, too too too too too late!"
• 'Map Ref. 41n 93w', one of the finest pop songs they penned, from 154. Heavily layered production, delicious keyboard riffs and guitars chiming and drifting, a little self-referential 'chorus' announcement, wonderful vocal production, it's absolutely gorgeous.
  
• 'Comet', from Read and Burn 01. Insanely fast drumming, especially considering the age of the drummer, Pink Flag-style metallic guitar slashing into your skull. Machine-precise drum breaks, and some whipsawing electronics. Breakneck fast, penetrating riffage.
• 'One of Us', from their latest full-length, Object 47. Silky smooth keyboard textures, bouncy, groovy bass lines, tightly-reined disco drums, and an ace chorus that is completely betrayed by the pop songform- "One of us will live to rue the day we met each other." Very catchy stuff.

As great as their songcraft is, their best albums deserve to be heard in their entirety, all at once. Now that they've been reissued, you can pick up a copy of any of their first three masterpieces from online retailers, record shops, or their own band website. Please support a great band and purchase their music if possible. Thanks for reading.