Beowulf

I don't know if I've ever known anyone - including me (not to be confused with the villainous, wraithlike Not Me) - who actually enjoyed this dumb poem. I suppose it's only fitting that they've adapted it into a supremely goofy-looking entry in the "I'M-YELLING-LIKE-BRAVEHEART" genre of film. One thing's for sure, I highly doubt Crispin Glover's performance as Beowulf's monstrous, large-tailed foe Grendel tops my own portrayl of the creature from my Old English literature class in college. Like most of the class exercises from this period, I don't recall what the point was, but everyone had to form groups and act out scenes from the material we had read that semester. I was assigned to portray the scaly villain Grendel, perhaps because my icy paleness fostered rumours of reptillian blood that hounded me throughout my scholastic life. This in-class performance entailed (ho ho) fashioning an elaborate costume that consisted of a fierce nametag pointedly identifying myself as the waste-laying monster, and a prop tail sewn together by a cowed classmate from old pillows or something.

While Sir Dwight Sheckman, the author of Beowulf, portrays Grendel as a fierce killing machine in the early stanzas, I called upon my Methodd* training to unlock the diffident nature at the character's core; disposing of my enemies with appropriately wry nonchalance rather than unseemly vigor. When I was called upon to convey Grendel's panicked terror during his losing battle to Beowulf, I let forth the thundering, soul-shattering utterance, "Ow, my tail;" a moment that so rocked my classmates they had no recourse but to laugh to ease the unbearable dramatic tension in the room. Finally, once I, GrendelChris (the line where my character ended and I began had become distressingly blurred), was dispatched to the icy depths, I compounded my character's misery by intentionally getting my tail caught in the door following my dramatic exit from the classroom. Needless to say, word of my world-beating performance reverberated across select portions of the campus for a good hour or so after class.

But if I may quote one of Sir Sheckman's own lines to reflect the aftermath of this event, "We mayest be thru with Grendel, but Grendel sureth ain't thru with us." I found, dear reader, that one cannot disappear so deeply into the mind of a monster without sacrificing a part of oneself. But what black inner morass spawned in place of my old self? To this day I cannot say, except that it may be nestled in the liver. All I know is, the urge to don The Tail and swat at passerby remains strong, and on some languid nights it's all I can do to summon the strength to supress it. Will I manage to keep the monster at bay? Will Crispin Glover finally pay me some much-deserved royalties? And how will Auntie Anne's pretzels figure into future events? Stay tuned...

*a style of acting that utilizes a concentrated lack of effort to uncover a powerfully incompetent form of dramatic truth; not to be confused with the the "Method" taught by Lee Strasberg, which mainly involves excessive twitching and biting the heads off rodents.

You can't help but compare yourself against the old bloggers.

Cormac McCarthy's recent chat with the Coen Brothers in TIME revealed that over the years, whenever he wasn't building shelter or memorizing antique dictionaries, he had time to see at least a few movies (appropriately enough, he's a Malick fan). Maybe he had at least a flickering thought of a film adaptation in the back of his mind when he was writing his atypically brisk thriller No Country For Old Men, the only one of the six McCarthy books I've read so far that seemed tailor-made for the screen; what with its cattle gun-and-air tank-wielding supervillain, its outrageous but not-undigestible violence, and its ambiguously gay wizards and witches. Thankfully, the Coen Brothers were of course smart enough to realize the potential for cinematic greatness there on the page, provided there was no excessive tinkering. Of course, I read plenty of fretful comments on the intertubes about how the Coens would supposedly ruin the material with their "wink-wink approach," as if that's all they ever bring to the table, and as if McCarthy's work were 100% humorless. I would think both author and filmmakers are at least somewhat bemused, for instance, at the sheriff in No Country who laments the presence of "kids with green hair and bones in their noses" on the streets of small Texas towns, even if the concern for our decaying world is real. So if it looked to you from the previews and trailers of this movie that the Coens nailed it, they did. Well, you could argue the ending is somewhat deflating, but it worked for me, and reminded me how No Country can be seen as a pre-apocalyptic prelude to The Road.

Now bring on the other film of 2007 that looks like some fantasy movie draft pick, There Will Be Blood. Kudos to Paul Thomas Anderson for turning one of the two phrases that guarantee box office success into an actual film title (the other one being There Won't Be Balls).

Just in time for Halloween!

The Shining recently topped some British poll of the scariest horror movies (just take my word for it - don't stifle me with your link orthodoxy, man). This despite the fact that only the beginning of the movie is all that creepy. The rest of it is mostly about Kubrick making a hotel look cool and Jack not having to worry about being too high to act that day. Not that I'm complaining. I could have picked a much scarier #1 than that though; In fact, I think any of these classics would do in a pinch:

Mr. Blandings Builds Your Grave (1950)
The Betamax Throttler (1982)
Friend of Blacula (1978)
The Hag I Saw in Saginaw (1925)
Alien vs. Pitchfork (2005)
It Smudged My Boat Shoes (1998; available for sale on latenightshots.com)
The Baconator (2007; released for a limited time only)
Weekend at Cthulhu’s (1989)
Kraftwerk Treffen Sie den Wolfmann (German, 1977)
Adult Kickball Slaughterhouse (2010; actually a script of mine)
www.yourbrainsbeenslashed/slash/thefilm.gov (1999)
The Cripple That Went Out During the Day (1935)
We Are Zombie Marshall (2007)
Jerry Lewis Meets the West Memphis Three (1994; never released; believed to be destroyed)
MAC and Me (???)

As a side note, you should avoid these at all costs:
Brunch of the Dead (1990 remake)
Don’t Pick Up the Phone Unless It’s Me 2: What Did I Tell You?!? (1974)
The Critic-Murdering Spectre (working title; M. Night Shyamalan, 2008)

I'm

...going to see the latest final cut of Blade Runner tonight. Please God, please don't let there be people there dressed as Rutger Hauer and/or Daryl Hannah for Halloween. I can handle Edward James Olmos, but not that. Update to follow later.

Also, complete this sentence:

"Where you're going..." e.g. "Where you're going, they serve fry grease instead of coffee and the jukebox only plays bass solos." OR: "Where you're going, the crowds are so ugly even Paul Stanley doesn't love them." OR, in honour of tonight's movie, "Where you're going, the electric sheep dream of androids for chrissakes! Ooo!" I know you could do better.

UPDATE: OF COURSE no one was in costume. Plus, Edward James Olmos (or "EdJOlm" as the gossip rags call him) was way creepier than I remember. This is now the third version of the movie I've seen, on what is probably the biggest screen in DC. Funny thing is, it's still not THAT good. The Ford/Sean Young relationship is a bore, and a lot of it just kind of drags and feels weirdly inert. The whole appeal of Blade Runner remains about 6% Rutger Hauer and 94% the overwhemlingly amazing visuals. Just think, without that landmark cityscape Billy Idol's Cyberpunk album and all that anime I ignored might never have happened!

By the way, the military ads that seem to run before every AMC theater showing I've been to in the last few years are getting more and more ridiculously overblown. This time we were treated to an interminable, propaganda-laden music video by 3 Doors Down (who I hear just left their label and signed with In the Red) that actually drew jeers afterward. Plus, the total avoidance of Iraq in these ads is bitterly amusing, in a "Screw You, Taxpayer" kind of way.

Misselanius things I like (Did I spell "things" right?)

For starters, I like this comp:
If you intuitively trust two soul/funk/hip hop djs to put together a more interesting rockabilly/jump blues comp than, say, some lumpy wannabe greaser, your trust will be rewarded. As Keb Darge queries in the liner notes, "Why do so many people listen to so much shit today when they haven't heard this stuff yet?"

Whether you dig the new Radiohead album or have already kinda had your 160 kbps fill of it, you may be interested in another commercially viable band that took their sound even further out into abstratct territory. Try downloading this jazz-like (which in my head does not equal "jazzy," or even "jazzgasmic"), occasionally woozy-sounding gem for $6 next.
I like this funny show, which I didn't realize before I bought the dvd is only 9 minutes long and thus all over YouTube:


I really, really like this hardass movie, which is the Ultimate Paul Schrader Film. Taxi Driver was already the Ultimate Paul Schrader Script; I'm sorry the 70's never brought us the Ultimate Paul Schrader Game Show ("How much do you bid for this cache of small arms?"). This film is still not on dvd in the States, so of course I'm obligated to mention it here.

And above all else, I like - nay, love - the "Shreds" videos. StSanders, you are so aptly monikered. You can't not laugh at this:

This whole premise is sweaty.

Hi folks, still dealing with a bunch of shit that I've tried twice to address here, unsuccessfully. One very, very minor issue right now: I really do not want to get back to the usual shallow subject matter of this blog, yet eventually I probably will. So if you're currently not getting enough shallowness from other sources, be patient.

OK, I will mention I recently watched what will hopefully be the only 7 minutes of Californication I'll ever see. I know, it's hard to believe that a show named after a Red Hot Chilli Peppers album could be lame, but hear me out. Within the first 30 seconds it looked pretty clear that this show would be Duchovny's slurpy b l0wj0b to himself, and sure enough what happens onscreen two minutes later? He gets a b l0wj0b! Actually, two of them: once in a dream (in a church! EDGY!), then another immediately upon waking up. I didn't want to stick around for the trifecta. HBO may be looking a little hapless lately, but despite its newfound hype everything on Showtime still looks like half-assed* sensationalism to me. Except for Penn & Teller's libertarian "truthbusting" show, which annoys me in other ways and may have been designed for people who find Bill Maher too cuddly.

One more completely random thing I'll mention, aprops of nothing: Lately I've been craving a neck massage. No, not some creepy variant of a massage either. It's for actual tension. Well, I guess it's kinda creepy in that I don't want one from a professional, but it's still not the premium cable kind, is what I'm saying. Wait, what am I saying?

*in this case, I don't know if I'd necessarily prefer the whole ass.**
** EDIT: It only occured to me this morning that this is the second of three posts this month to use "half-assed" as an adjective. Is "quarter-assed" a phrase? I may have to file it away out of necessity.

"It's all a big nothin'" - Livia Soprano*

*not the healthiest fictional character to channel, I know.

Hi, folks - all 4-5 of you - no more posts until November or so. Things are really rough right now. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this gratuitious zinger from the Washington Post review of Drew Carey's Price is Right debut:

Carey was as much spectator as performer. He lacks, at least so far, the ability to control the contestants and keep them from wandering out of camera range during their euphoric conniptions, leaving what might be considered the host's sphere of influence. Carey is something of a sphere himself; when he first came out from the wings at the start of the show, he brought to mind the giant mechanical peacekeeper that went haywire in the first minutes of the movie "RoboCop."

This of course coming from Tom "Pizza the Hut" Shales (as long as we're referencing 80's movies).

Best director ever to inspire an awful Le Tigre song

Every time I read some reference to "mumblecore" (is that still around?) or catch five insufferable minutes of The Puffy Chair on Sundance, I'm tempted to think "What hath John Cassavetes wrought?" Long considered the "patron saint of independent film," not even the best of his microbudget progeny seem to have inherited the kind of odd originality and heavily spiked life juice that pulsates through his finest work -- namely, the entire run from Faces ('68) to Opening Night ('77), along with his "farewell" '84 film, Love Streams (still haven't seen Shadows). A Cassavetes film can be thrilling, albeit exhausting, for viewers who adapt to the extreme emotional shifts and individualistic, drunken language, or just half-assed and irritating for those that don't. But I don't envy anyone that would reject so many wild, priceless moments: Gena Rowlands waiting for the school bus in A Woman Under the Influence; Ben Gazzara taking time out from a forced mob hit to check in on the status of his awful nightclub act in Killing of a Chinese Bookie; Gena suffering through a horrific blind date in Minne and Moskowitz, only to eventually find true love w/ Seymour Cassel and his facial hair; Gena again "shaking things up" for Cassavetes by bringing him a stable of barnyard animals in Love Streams, to name but a few. If you're tuned to Cassavetes' wavelength, the creative rush of his films is still palpable, and certainly very few American filmmakers past or present were ever so liberated in their work, or reached so high for a new mode of self-expression.

But wait, I've just discovered there's more! Cassavetes apparently sought to make great strides not just in filmmaking, but in the realm of wacky talk show appearances as well. Cassavetes, Gazzara and Peter Falk appeared on a full episode of the Dick Cavett Show in 1970, ostensibly to promote Husbands, which as you can tell from the Life cover above was anticipated with much critical fanfare at the time. However, they must have decided the best way to do so would be to try to recreate the film's mad bender vibe on Cavett's show. Dick was a professed Faces fan and remains a great, witty sport throughout his guests' Three Method Stooges act, whereas Letterman would have probably gritted his teeth for five minutes before moving on to the next barely engaged interview. The full episode is uploaded complete with vintage commercials in part one below, as well as parts two, three and four.



Also, here's a bonus slice of Dick Cavett awesomeness (as always, bear in mind my criteria for awesomeness may differ wildly from yours): a great clip from the Orson Welles interview that Gazzara briefly refers to in one of the above clips

Maborosi

I rented this 1995 Japanese film from the director of After Life and Nobody Knows (both unseen by me), on the strength of this youtube clip, which would be gorgeous if youtube were capable of such a thing. The overhead shot with the snowfall beginning -- fantastic. Unfortunately, the US dvd from New Yorker is wretched, much like my attitude in this post. Looks transferred straight from vhs, exactly the opposite of what this carefully composed film demands. Nevertheless, judge this 6 1/2 minutes for yourself.

Another unnecessary sequel!

Fuggedabout Schmidt (2009) - Jack Nicholson returns as discontented retiree Warren Schmidt, and this time he's teaming up with mob boss Frank Vincent to steal -- aaaah, fugeddaboutit! Directed by Linc Cassavetes (yup, there's another one).

Well, they say that Santa Fe is less than ninety miles away...

The term “media circus” didn’t emerge until the mid-70’s, but by 1951, Billy Wilder had already literalized the concept onscreen in his caustic satire Ace in the Hole, recently rescued from oblivion by a much-celebrated Criterion dvd release. When a miner is trapped in a cave-in while scavenging for “Indian artifacts” in New Mexico, opportunistic reporter Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) spins the predicament into an epic human interest story that attracts hordes of gawkers, reporters, entertainers, and yes, even a full-fledged carnival (not-so-subtly titled “the Great S&M Amusement Corp.” in a sneaky move past the censors) to the site. While the disgraced, ex-big time reporter seeks to prolong the rescue mission until he can leverage his way back to his old job with a New York paper, the miner’s discontented wife (Jan Sterling) plans to skip town once the story blows over; lining her coffers in the meantime by charging admission to the site.

Ace has a reputation as Wilder’s most cynical study of human nature, and indeed Douglas’ Tatum is one of the meanest bastards ever to appear outside of a gangster picture in a Hayes Code-era Hollywood film. Stridently unethical and verbally, as well as physically, abusive, Tatum seemingly embodies every negative trope of the 50’s-era news business that Wilder and co-writers Walter Newman and Lesser Samuels could throw in; and the film’s contempt for the broadly drawn “Mr. and Mrs. America” types who lap up every tragic detail of the story (and ostensibly resemble a large segment of Hollywood’s usual target audience) is almost equally pronounced. Not surprisingly, the film was such a box office bomb that Paramount never even released it on VHS, and in fact recouped some of its losses from Wilder’s salary on his next hit, Stalag 17.

Unfortunately, Wilder’s cynicism isn’t as perfectly realized here as in masterpieces like Double Indemnity and Sunset Boulevard; occasionally coming off not only as one-note but insultingly obvious. Tatum’s canny deflection of suspicion from the obviously unwieldy drilling plan also seems like a stretch, until you recall the mainstream media recently took their own sweet-ass time before raising hard questions about the deadly Utah mine disaster. Nevertheless, the film is a must-see not just for its uncompromising tone but because its audacity is complemented to outstanding effect by Wilder’s typically pimped out dialogue and some of the sharpest cinematography of his career.

Ace in the Hole would also make a great double-bill with the even-more prescient A Face in the Crowd (1957). While most Americans today can probably at least acknowledge the distasteful overkill of most media circuses, even as they devote their unhealthy interest to them, plenty are still wholly, gullibly snookered by the sort of sinister, phony folksy charm Andy Griffith lays on in Elia Kazan’s cautionary tale, as evidenced by George W. Bush and that doofy red pickup truck that future washout presidential candidate Fred Thompson uses exclusively for campaign appearances.

"Where am I going to get a pair of beautiful women's legs on such short notice?"

(Above: a possible still from Napolean Dynamite 2: Awkward Boogaloo)

Roger Ebert has been covering the Toronto Film Festival and gives a typically generous heads up (Yes, I said "heads up." I dare not infringe his copyright) about the latest Quirky Indie Comedy that will be driving me nuts in a couple of months... probably without me ever actually seeing it. Juno stars Ellen Page as a 16-year-old pregnant with Michael Cera's mumbleseed, and everything Ebert writes about it gives me an uneasy feeling: The film received a warm, loud, standing ovation (So did Clerks II at Cannes. Means nothing. Plus, the audience was probably packed with these shills); The characters in this situation are unlike any others he's seen before (i.e. they're all driven by precocious child logic that has no bearing on reality); and he predicts the film will be "quickly beloved when it opens at Christmas time" -- most likely by an audience suddenly demanding their comic heroes stride across the screen decked out in a demeaning mish-mash of 70's/80's/90's retrogeek fashion. Michael Cera doesn't need a goofy costume to be funny, but such sloppy visual cues are apparently the new definition of crowd-pleasing for nostalgia-addled... whipper snappers (there, I said it!) who watch too danged much VH1. Why doesn't that channel ever play Amy Grant videos anymore, anyway?

But, we'll see. I could be very wrong, as I was in my little-read 1997 essay on The Sweet Hereafter, "Tragically Hilarious: Atom Egoyan's Bus-Crashing Laff Hoedown." First-time screenwriter Diablo Cody previously adapted her blog Pussy Ranch - which chronicled her time as an "unlikely" stripper - into a book that landed her this Letterman appearance. Wikipeida not-inaccurately notes that Dave was "imbued with fascination with the sex industry and her observational prowess" during the interview. Hey, it beats listening to Paul Schaeffer's constant cackling. I just found out about Cody 20 minutes ago, but my cold assessment is that her friendly demeanor, calculated wit and anime-ready moniker clearly mark her as a savvy purveyor of Fleshbot-friendly geek chic (I demand that appear as a blurb somewhere). Ultimately, that means she would probably charm me out of my nothin-happenin' schlubdom with ease if we ever met, before she returned to her multitude of fulfilling projects and I to my pretentious Netflix rentals, respectively.

Boy, this post really went in an unintended direction. It's almost like I got my just desserts for complaining about a movie I haven't seen yet; But how could that be?

Update (non-all caps version): I waited until after I posted this to read Michael Hirschon's notes on the proliferation of quirk in The Atlantic, which gets off to an immediately shaky start with its use of the term "Gen-X" but mostly recovers. Looks like I avoided too much overlap, except for a shared disdain of Napolean Dynamite, as Hirschon's big target is Ira Glass. Between this and the Onion's recent smackdown, isn't it odd how there's apparently a This American Life backlash suddenly brewing? For what it's worth, I agree that the one episode of the tv version I saw didn't work at all, with Glass' "And now for something completely different" transitions serving as the nadir. As for a couple of Hirschon's other examples, if anything Arrested Development is more zany than quirky, and Flight of the Conchords ended up charming me to the point where it was my favorite show of the summer. Granted, the only other competition was John From Cincinnati, but still.

Yet more about TheWirethewirethewire

A good read from the Washington Post about the last day of filming. They report the s5 premiere date as Jan 6 - sooner than I thought. So you know what that means: S4 arrives on dvd Dec 4.

As Philly Boy Roy would say:

"Who does he think he is, Omelet Ertegun?"

Sunday's New York Times Magazine had a feature article on former wanna-be wrestling manager/current Columbia Records co-chairman Rick Rubin, detailing his efforts to save the music industry without having to get up from the comfort of his zabuton. First, I should mention the article is amusingly bookended by Rubin's discovery of a "new" band called the Gossip, who I first saw when they opened for Sleater-Kinney in 2000 and are so popular in England that Beth Ditto bared her corpulent flesh on the cover of the NME. Second, this is more like Rubin-as-Guru PR stuff, rather than an astute appraisal of his credentials as a producer. I'd like to read more about just how "hands-off" his role is during the recording process; surely Slipknot can't be the only band with grievances? That said, one need only type the words "Def Jam" to shore up Rubin's cultural cache, and he was unquestionably a godsend for Johnny Cash's career. There may not have been a Walk the Line and probably a lot fewer reissues if the Rubin-helmed American albums hadn't made Cash marketable to Gens X, Y, XY, YX, MXPX, and so forth. He also deserves credit/blame for extending the Red Hot Chili Peppers' career by at least 15 years, thereby establishing Chad Smith as a national treasure (and ensuring that I will now get tons of google hits for "Chad Smith" + "national treasure").

The article also details some of Rubin's ideas for saving the major music labels, who at one time could weather storms like home taping and the Rock 'N' Wrestling Connection but are now in genuine danger of collapse. I have doubts about Rubin's proposed $19.95 subscription model, but at least he seems to be bringing something to the table other than flailing gestures and the usual contempt for consumers and artists alike. Take Steve Barnett of Columbia's suggestion in the article to start gobbling up artists' touring and merchandise revenue; Not exactly the kind of idea that'll prompt Steve Albini to shutter his recording studio and start a supergroup with Ashlee Simpson, Taylor Hicks and Gibby Haynes.

As for me, I don't pretend to know what could solve the major labels' woes, but I did think of a couple of possibilities while writing this post:

1) Have prominent Dead Boys fan Jim Cramer go on CNBC and beg the Federal Reserve to bail out the music industry like he did in response to the mortage crisis.

2) Expand upon a curious new phenomenon I witnessed firsthand at a club the other night: band elections! Normally, you couldn't drag me out to H St in DC on a Wednesday night to see Rogue Helicoptor Pilot open for These Cupcakes Are Delish, but this was more like a riveting microcosm of our political process than a standard indie rock show. The guitarist, bassist, drummer and glockenspielist of TCAD were all campaigning onstage for the title of Band President, to be chosen by the audience at the end of the show. The lead singer told the crowd he was ineligible to run "under the Van Halen Fairness Doctrine," but that he was promised some sort of honorary title and a specially designed, gold sequined robe from American Apparel as compensation. The singer also introduced scattered "campaign ads" projected on the wall throughout the night - I was struck most by the glockenspielist's heartwrenching tale of having to pay 4% of his art school tuition - and moderated a heated debate during the encore break in which the guitarist called the drummer a "leaden-footed flip flopper," holding up a gasp-inducing cameraphone pic of his rival drumming while wearing flip flops to bolster his claims. The band then handed out golf pencils and paper scraps to the audience and waited until the results were tabulated before playing the last three songs of the night. Unfortunately the voting ended in a tie, necessitating a run-off gig later in the month, but I'm sure Sony or whatever would have the wherewithal to rig it so that doesn't happen very often. At least I hope so, as some of the miffed indie rockers in the crowd started poking each other with the golf pencils, spilling their cheap beer and hurling subtle sarcasm at the visibly cowed band until the club owner politely asked everyone to file out in an orderly fashion, which they did. Maybe next time these kids will learn to run on the only political platform I care about: The Uplift Mofo Party Plan.

That's it! I'm buying a video camera.

There's literally no reason why you and I should not be making movies and cashing in on awkwardness when a film can be released with this title:

My pitch is for a real-time movie called BRB, about a bunch of hip, underemployed college grads who've recently moved to Brooklyn (i.e. the most fascinating, culturally relevant people on earth), waiting on line to buy the latest iGadget. It'll delve into their very mild disaffection; their slightly inarticulate confusion; their somewhat dwindling trust funds; their struggles to recall the perfect Family Guy scene for every social situation. I don't think "mumblecore" adequately describes what I'm going for. I've been kicking around "shirt-edge" as a genre title. What do you think?

People like lists, right? Please tell me people like lists.

Robert Christgau, the Dean of American Windbags, has every Village Voice "Pazz & Jop" critics' poll going back to '71 archived on his website. For no discernable reason, I went through each list and picked my own personal winner for each year from their album and singles lists. In many (i.e. most) cases, my own personal favorite didn't make the list so I had to make due with their choices.

For my own sanity's sake I didn't try to document every snub and absurdity, but I did notice:
- At no point during their 31-year career do The Fall appear to have made either the albums or singles list, yet the Mekons pop up regularly.
- The Go-Betweens were shut out, amazingly, until The Friends of Rachel Worth in 2000.
- Critics reeeeaally hate metal.
- They hated Pink Floyd almost as much.
- I think I've pinpointed 1994 as the year when mainstream pop singles crap out entirely and never recover. There seem to have been surprising numbers of choices in years previous.

Albums:

1971: The Rolling Stones: Sticky Fingers
(Led Zeppelin IV finished last on their list @ #30, right below Delaney & Bonnie. Haterz.)
1972-73: No poll. Projected winners: Hot Tuna
1974: Big Star: Radio City
1975: Bob Dylan: Blood on the Tracks
1976: Ramones: Ramones
1977: Television: Marquee Moon
(Overrated, according to the spritely lad from Franz Ferdinand, who while explaining his reasons why here clearly illustrates why his band isn't built to last)
1978: Elvis Costello: This Year's Model
1979: Buzzcocks: Singles Going Steady
1980: The Clash: London Calling
(a controversial pick, I know. When are the tastemakers finally going to rediscover this obscure gem?!?)
1981: Mission of Burma: Signals, Calls & Marches EP
(winner should either be Black Flag - Damaged, or Minor Threat's first EP. Or Juice by Juice Newton)
1982: Flipper: Album/Generic Flipper
1983: REM: Murmur
1984: Minutemen: Double Nickels on the Dime
1985: Hüsker Dü: New Day Rising and Flip Your Wig
(oh yeah, ties are allowed, apparently)
1986: Beastie Boys: Licensed to Ill
(they manage to bounce a few Budweiser cans off the Smiths' heads)
1987: Prince: Sign "O" the Times
1988: Sonic Youth: Daydream Nation
(I know, God forbid someone shouldn’t pick “It Takes a Nation of Millions…” Also, the Pixies’ “Surfer Rosa” didn’t even make their list)
1989: Beastie Boys: Paul's Boutique
1990: Public Enemy: Fear of a Black Planet
(happy now?)
1991: U2: Achtung Baby
(Yes, I unreservedly love it. Bite me).
1992: Pavement: Slanted and Enchanted
(not even my favorite Pavement album - that would be CR, CR, while acknowledging Wowee Zowee might be the "best" - but my favorite of this list)
1993: PJ Harvey: Rid of Me
(winner should be Wu-Tang Clan - Enter the Wu-Tang)
1994: Guided by Voices: Bee Thousand
1995: PJ Harvey: To Bring You My Love
1996: DJ Shadow: Endtroducing…
1997: Radiohead: OK Computer
(Yet another bold, divisive pick. Look, I'm not afraid of a little controversy! The point of this is to set tongues wagging).
1998: Neutral Milk Hotel: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea
1999: The Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
A few of the following picks are not-so-emphatic:
2000: OutKast: Stankonia
2001: New Pornographers: Mass Romantic
2002: Neko Case: Blacklisted
2003: Cat Power: You Are Free
2004: Elliott Smith: From a Basement on the Hill
(winner should be Reigning Sound - Too Much Guitar)
2005: Sleater-Kinney: The Woods
2006: Scott Walker: The Drift

Singles:

1979 - The Records: "Starry Eyes"
(I hate "My Sharona")
1980 - Joy Division: "Love Will Tear Us Apart"
1981 - Gang of Four: "To Hell With Poverty"
1982 - New Order: "Temptation"
1983 - Prince: "Little Red Corvette"
1984 - Prince: "Let's Go Crazy"/"Erotic City"
(mostly for the B-side)
1985 – Kate Bush: "Running Up That Hill"
(I'm sure Alan Partridge would agree w/ me)
1986 - Pet Shop Boys: "West End Girls"
(... and its 2007 descendant)
1987 - Public Enemy: "Bring the Noise"
1988 - Rob Base & D.J. E-Z Rock: "It Takes Two"
(provides the soundtrack to a summer of mayhem in David Simon's Homicide)
1989 - Public Enemy: "Fight the Power"
1990 - Deee-Lite: "Groove Is in the Heart"/"What Is Love"
1991 - Geto Boys: "Mind Playing Tricks on Me"
1992 - Cypress Hill: "How I Could Just Kill a Man"/"The Phuncky Feel One"
(the Suicidal Tendencies reference @ the end of HICJKM helps seal the deal)
1993 - Dr. Dre: "Nuthin' but a ‘G’ Thang"
aaand here's where the rot sets in:
1994 - Nine Inch Nails: "Closer"
(you can toss everything else they did in the garbage if you must, but this was like the goth/industrial/safely freaky/Skinemax "Nuthin' But a G Thang")
1995 - Elastica: "Three Girl Rhumba '95" (aka "Connection")
1996 - Blackstreet: "No Diggity"
("Common People" would've won if we were talking about William Shatner's version)
1997 – Yo La Tengo: "Autumn Sweater" (a really shitty list. Sleater-Kinney's "One More Hour" was my favorite song of this year)
1998 - Aaliyah: "Are You That Somebody"
1999 – N/A; an even worse list. I can't even pick a winner unless I go up my nose [sorry]! No hope; no hope....
2000 - OutKast: "B.O.B."
2001 - Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott: "Get Ur Freak On"
2002 – fucking Missy Elliott again: "Work It"
2003 - OutKast: "Hey Ya!"
(People were practically in shock that an awesome song could still become a ginormous hit by this point. I still maintain that they ripped me off though, as I was using the expression "Hey ya" years before this was released. Plus, I was sued by Rosa Parks before they were. No originality these days!)
2004 - Jay-Z: "99 Problems"
(might've been the 3rd best song on LL Cool J's Radio, but in 2004 it's single of the year)
2005 - Kelly Clarkson: "Since U Been Gone"
(on the level of an okay Pat Benatar song, but by 2005 standards it's practically runnin' s-hit)
2006 - Gnarls Barkley: "Crazy" (winner should be late-period Crazy Frog)

My ancestry's brush with fame... and infamy!

While he's all but unknown to even the most knowledgable historians today, my great-great-grandpa Venison Plowe (our family dropped the silent "P" shortly after his death, although the "l" remained lowercase) was at one time arguably the third or fourth most famous lip reader in western Maryland. I hardly need to remind my readers that entertainment options were scarce around the turn of the century, centered as they were mostly on bible reading, deer tickling and poisoning one's spouse. Therefore, an accomplished lip reader could dazzle crowds far and wide with his "feats of verbal verification," as the posters used to say. Yes sir, folks would travel from as far as Johnstown, PA to see ol' Venison practice his craft. One time he even performed in front of 1,500 people at the county fair, although it's possible that most of the crowd was there to see the follow-up act: a pig blowing into a jug.

Still, it was pretty impressive whenever great great grandpa Venison strapped beaver tails to his ears for soundproofing and attempted to repeat back whatever people said to him from a distance as great as 1.9 yards. I say "attempt" because despite the relatively close proximity and the faultiness of the beaver tail earphones, his guesses were almost always wildly off the mark. An audience member might remark "the fire engine is red" and Venison would interpret it as "The Duchess is swathed in jump rope and blubber." But ol' Venison's piss-poor lip reading skills didn't matter because he had a secret trick: he was also a trained hypnotist! No matter what someone would actually say, he'd hypnotize them and the entire audience into thinking the correct phrase was something like "Zeus has crashed through my skylight wearing a mu'umu'u." Whenever I heard stories as a kid about great great grandpa Venison I'd usually ask why he didn't just bill himself as a hypnotist, since they made a lot more money than lip readers anyway. This usually resulted in me getting a belt to the face from the nearest relative for "asking too many gay-ass questions." Later I discovered that Venison was kicked out of the Western Maryland Hypnotists Guild early in his career and blackballed for "theft of ceremonial robes, improper clucking instructions, and suspicion of buggering somnolent bystanders." All in all, I can't say I blame them.

After the demand for lip readers dried up - along with his hypnotizing ability - Venison "fharted around for a whyle," as he later wrote in his "jhournal." He eked out a living writing trashy stories under a pseudonym ("The Stupendous Gus") for hypnosis magazines like Mesmerised Lasses and Wacky Trance, wallowing in profanity by day and moonshine at night, until he accidentally swallowed a toenail clipper and died in 1917. Not a pretty story, I know, but hey I'd like to see some of the sleazeballs and slave traders in your family tree... jerk!

Teddy Rockstar: Powered by (a) Starbucks (van)

Coincidentally, this went down four years ago tomorrow (it's also on the Dirty Old Town dvd):



In other news, the (most likely series) finale of John From Cincinnati was packed w/ gibberish and malarkey, even by their obtuse standards. The parade at the end was like the goofiest movie Robert Altman never made, although Ed O'Neill had me cracking up. This after the episode kicked off with maybe the greatest non-Al Bundy moment of the series: an aerial shot and montage set to Bob Dylan's "Series of Dreams," culminating in Shaun and the titular Cincinnatite surfing back down to Earth. It would have been even better with a "Lawrence of Arabia"-style POV shot of Butchie and Kai watching them emerge as a speck on the horizon. The tragedy of all this is that future generations will never understand the unique grip that John From Cincinnati held on our collective psyche, and we'll have to settle with telling our grandkids exactly where we were when Palaka's tattoo got infected.

Oh, and you want some unexpected synergy between Ted Leo and JFC? Here ya go.

Patton blows my mind again

I'd give THREE kudos if I could!

New Derrière Rising

Jon Swift picks apart the "Derrièrists," thankfully only a few of whom are publicly enjoying another touchdown dance following the deaths of Bergman and Antonioni. For my part, I love, love Bergman, obviously, and liked L'avventura when I saw it a few years ago, but I couldn't get into The Passenger at all (I'll give it another chance at some point) and really don't care for Blow-Up, aside from this wicked scene and maybe one or two others. Check out this great letter to Ebert from the actor who played the corpse in Blow-Up. He was originally supposed to have a bigger role, but the film was shut down and pieced together in editing due to Antonioni going over-budget. The producer was a tad peeved that Antonioni was spending money on painting grass a different shade of green and sprucing up houses and the like.

Also came across this quote on Bergman's passing: "I am proud to say he treated me exactly like his other children - with no interest whatsoever." - Lars Von Trier