Marvels Comics: X-Men #1 isn't a well known comic. It was a part of this one month event in 2000 where Marvel put out a few books with the gimmick that they're meant to be the comics that people in the Marvel Universe would read. Mark Millar wrote the comic (with Sean Phillips on pencils and Duncan Fegredo on inks, neat!) and as obscure as it is it's the book that, for me at least, sums up Millar's entire approach. There's a sequence where the X-Men encounter upon this villainous version of Dr. Strange (apparently in the Marvel Universe Dr. Strange isn't seen in a very positive light). So far I'm enjoying a fast paced and interesting superhero story and then, WHAM!, Dr. Strange just admits to being a cannibal and eating Iron Man. That's what reading Millar's work is so often like. He's scripts are lean so while his scripts aren't filled with a lot of useless exposition or lackluster sequences that would get in the way of a simple story that, well, kicks ass. But while you're in the middle of a story you'll come across something, usually a stray piece of dialog, that just makes you go "ick."
Here we have a comic that proudly states it's temperament in its title. I thought Millar and John Romita Jr.'s run on Wolverine was fun stuff but I was hesitant about their creator-owned series. The conceit is: superheroes in the real world. Okay, we've already had Watchmen, Ex Machina, Blankman and countless other comics and movies trying the same thing. What would Millar's delicate touch bring to this sub-genre?
Now when Douglas Wolk and Paul O'Brien reviewed Millar's first issue of Fantastic Four they spent a lot of time on those little pieces of dialog that are just so irksome. O'Brien even said that devoting so much to two sentences spoken by the characters in the book is "nitpicking to the extreme." But reading a Millar comic it's little things that stay in your mind long after you've put the book down. For me it was the pop culture profile of main character Dave Lizewski. He's a high school student. He and his three friends follow monthly superhero comics. In high school? If they were goth kids who read Jhonen Vasquez's stuff I'd believe it. If they were the literary types who read Maus and Persepolis I'd believe it. But Lizewski and his friends are maladjusted, geeky kids. Comic books aren't going to provide the proper amount of stimulation for a kid with as much angst as that bunch. When a kid enters high school that is the prime age to give up comics. Kids like Lizewski spend their time playing video games, and we do see him do just that, hotlinking stupid crap to their MySpace pages and converse on IM services to lie to their friends about how much sex their having.
Here's where it falls apart for me. Lizewski announces how much he enjoys Joss Whedon's Astonishing X-Men better than Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and he's even the "numero uno" Buffy fan. This kid is what, 17? So he was 12 when Buffy went off the air. He was in grade school when the show had its best seasons. Of course, there are DVDs of the entire show but what would prompt a high school kids to go through seven DVD box sets of a show that was relevant when he was first learning how multiplication and division works? I went to high school when Buffy was on the air and people by and large didn't watch it then. I would read my Mom's copy of Entertainment Weekly and see the critics in their thirties praising the show up and down. It was always the collegiate and post-collegiate demographic that enjoyed Buffy and Angel the most (it wasn't until I was that age did I discover the show).
So that bothered me. Then we come across a scene where Lizewski comes across three taggers and is preparing to strike as his new superhero persona. So what is Lizewski's battle cry? He calls his combatants "homos." I understand how someone could find that offensive but in the context of the story I think it actually rang true. It makes total sense that if one of those geeky kids did try to be a crime fighter he would say that. This is a kid who probably spend his time after school going to YouTube and posting those comments that say "u r gay lol." Granted, I can see having a problem with how Millar treats slurs like that in such an off-handed fashion. But as shallow as this might make me appear my big problem with Lizewski being homophobic is that it makes his appreciation for Whedon's work even more unrealistic. If this kid's the number one Buffy fan did he not pick up any of the message of the work? It's not like Joss Whedon is the king of subtlety. Did he not pay attention to the fact that when Buffy or Firefly fans do any kind of charity auction or event it usually goes to Equality Now? So what we have is a kid whose superhero fandom drives him to be a real world superhero. But that fandom is partly built out of renting numerous DVDs of Buffy box sets because, after all, if high schoolers of today love anything its 90's pop culture. This kid absorbed enough of the show to declare himself the premier fan but the whole feminist and tolerance message just flew right past him. Or maybe the kid's a huge feminist, he just drew the line at acceptance of homosexuals. That makes sense. And while he was missing the point of Buffy he was spending time in the local comic book store buying every Marvel and DC book he could afford. I've shopped at stores up and down the state of California. I've worked in three bookstores, all with visible and well stocked graphic novel sections. When I lived in Ventura County the store I usually shopped at a store that was a ten minute walk away from a high school at most. I've never seen any high schoolers buy or browse superhero comics. If Lizewski was a loner with such a hobby I'd believe it. But a group of high school kids who read Marvel and DC? The only way you're getting four teenagers in front of a rack of mainstream superhero comics is if a nostalgia obsessed adult had quadruplets and brings his kids everywhere.
This is the nitpicking that O'Brien apologized for. Perhaps I should apologize as well but I know I'm not the only one who is going to be bothered by how sloppy Millar is in his choices. The thing is I still enjoyed some of Kick-Ass. There are moments where the Lizewski is being written as a teenage Travis Bickle and those are great. The scene that discusses the kid's mom dying and the numbness he felt afterwards was spot on. Seeing Lizewski fail horribly at his first attempt to be a superhero also made perfect sense. Reading Millar's work feels like reading a comic where one really bad writer teamed up with one really good writer and now they're fighting for control of the story.
John Romita Jr. along with inker Tom Palmer and colorist Dean White do an amazing job that is also ill-fitting for the book. Romita is an artist who instills glamor and dynamism into his characters with the stylistic was he shapes bodies. Those big boxy faces with the large square eyes can look so damn cool. For Eternals or World War Hulk it works perfectly. But I don't think a comic that is supposedly portraying "our world" should look like that. There should be a plainness to the way people look and move. If the book really wanted to establish itself as taking place in the real world it should include some scenes of the mundane situations that the superhero Millar and Romita usually work on never have to deal with. Another comic with a similar premise was Grant Morrison and Gene Ha's aborted Authority run. The first issue had these small panels devoted to a guy looking for his cell phone. Something like that would be perfect for this book. The big splash page Romita gives us is meant to bring home how bad Lizewski screwed up. What it does is betray the atmosphere the book's premise demands. His failure should be quiet and pathetic, not treated with any type of grandeur.
Kick-Ass fails at what it sets out to do. It has those little bits of Millarness that drive people crazy. With all that going against it the book still has a fascinating character at the center of it (he's not realistic mind you). This is only the first issue so perhaps the book will grow into its own strange beast that works by its own warped logic. I'd love to see it jump into a story where Lizeski's obsession prompts the plot but also causes his downfall. I hope we get that and not a scene where I have to read about a teenager tell me how great Dick Sprang is. Permanent Link: 8:24 AM |
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Thursday, February 28, 2008
Razbliuto: Chapter 0
Today is the day you'd probably read a chapter of Razbliuto. You'd find out what happens next with the narrator (gee, who could that be?) and the women in his life. Well, I'm still going to be writing Razbliuto but you're not going to be reading it.
I know this is a shitty thing to do in the middle of the story that upwards of three people were probably reading. But thinking about the next chapter I knew the only way to make this story work was if I got real personal. I don't mind revealing every stupid part of myself, no matter how boring it is. But even changing the names of the people involved I felt it wasn't my place to reveal certain information about them. They know who they are, they know about this and I didn't want them read their own private information on a public forum. On the other hand I don't want to give those who were enjoying the story something bloodless. I didn't want to write a story that only hinted or suggested certain things that are actually very important to the story. I had to choose one or the other and I chose to not offend people I know. Like I said I'm still writing the story for myself and elements of it could pop up in some other form. But it will be in a way that I hope doesn't exploit other people's lives.
I will come up with a new weekly fictional story. I have no idea what it will be and it probably won't appear for a few weeks. But I liked the process of having to release a new segment every week, even if I wasn't totally happy with it. I had to learn to finish something and learn from whatever mistakes I made. As for Razbliuto, I think I know one mistake I made... Permanent Link: 3:54 PM |
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Wednesday, February 27, 2008
More Comics Round-up
Now with WonderCon a memory let's look at some of last week's comic as a whole new batch descends upon us today. Something struck me about the comics I purchased a week ago. It seems genre comics' pulpy roots were showing pretty strongly in three of the books I picked up.
The Spirit #14: I loved Darwyn Cooke's run on this title. Cooke clearly knew the immense shadow Will Eisner casts on anyone trying to tell new Spirit stories. He made the choice to barrel ahead in his own way, picking up story ideas from modern times and drawing it all in his beautiful noir-yet-animated style. It stayed true to Eisner's approach to comics but it stayed clear of become an exercise in nostalgia.
I don't think Mark Evanier, Sergio Aragones and Mike Ploog (inked by Mark Farmer) are interested in simple nostalgia either. But their Spirit stories can't help but feel more old-school. The biggest reason is of course Ploog is a protege of Eisner. His style features those big rounded figures and faces similar to what Eisner drew. None of the storytelling trickery Eisner employed in stories like "Ten Minutes" appear. Granted, there's no reason for Ploog to pull off any grand feats with the art when Evanier and Aragones are just telling a slight mystery story. The Spirit and Dolan are their familiar selves and there is some comedy with the elderly suspects but there's nothing gripping or memorable going on here.
I must say I miss the mania that Cooke employed in his stories where you got gangsters turning into zombies and murderous TV show hosts. Now the book has lost some of its visionary spirit and will probably be a series of mystery tales with only the modest goal to entertain you for fifteen minutes. There's nothing wrong with that. I do think stories like this would be better served as one story amongst many others, not unlike how Detective Comics of old had a Batman lead story and then Elongated Man or Manhunter in the back. Compared to what else is on the stands a book that just wants to tell fun little mysteries might not be long for this world. A collection of stories at least feels more substantial.
I could be wrong mind you. Maybe there will be an issue where the writing team or the artists give us a story that really takes creative advantage of the form. That, after all, is the first thing I think about when I think of Eisner.
Zorro #1: When creating The Spirit Eisner was told to come up with a superhero character. Eisner wasn't as interested in superheroes as the guys signing the checks so he basically created a detective who wore a mask and gloves. With that look the former Denny Colt resembled more the pulp heroes like The Lone Ranger, The Shadow and the character in Dynamite's new licensed book Zorro. I've enjoyed Dynamite's Lone Ranger series by Brett Matthews and Sergio Cariello. Knowing Matt Wagner was writing the similar Zorro I had to give the book a shot.
There are similarities to Lone Ranger in the art by Francesco Francavilla, with colors by Adriano Lucas. Like Cariello there's a warm, cinematic style here. Unlike Lone Ranger, which continues its cinematic style with a deliberate pacing designed to make every gesture Lone Ranger and Tonto make seem epic, Wagner covers a lot of ground in one issue. Francavilla matches him with pages filled with panels, although the storytelling never feels burdensome. The art style actually reminded me of manga-ka like Naoki Urasawa who convey a lot of information across a single page.
The ground Wagner covers is the childhood of Diego De La Vega, whom would go on to become Zorro. That story is told in flashback. There are a few pages in the book that take place in the present where we see the Spanish colonists reacting to the havoc Zorro is creating. Like a lot of superhero books today the main character isn't given a full reveal in the first issue. Rather his presence hangs over the proceedings. It's a storytelling approach that can be problematic but Wagner still fills the book with content. The two messages being communicated is why Diego resents the colonists and that his current form as Zorro is a bad-ass. Enough of the character is still filled in which wouldn't have been the case if the book was just drunken Spanish soldiers going "who the fuck is Zorro?" Wagner and team still have to pull of a great second issue when we see at least some of the main character in action. For right now we have a very well crafted prologue.
The Immortal Iron Fist: Orson Randall and the Green Mist of Death: One of my favorite things about my favorite superhero book being published today is how writers Ed Brubaker and Matt Fraction have the intent of creating a whole new franchise in The Immortal Iron Fist. Making Iron Fist a legacy character could have meant that Danny Rand was just another of the hundreds of heroes with daddy issues wondering how he could live up to those who came before blah blah blah. Brubaker and Fraction are more concerned with the number of cool concepts they can create for a comic about mystical kung-fu people. One of those concepts is the Doc Savage-esque former Iron Fist Orson Randall, whose Confederates of the Curious (that name!), included Danny Rand's father Wendell. If the previous two comics reviewed here are pulp characters revisited this is the sentiments of pulp being processed through brand new creations.
The four part part story, penned by Fraction alone, centers around Randall and his team on the run from the eponymous mist, a.k.a. The Prince of Orphans who is seen in the current Seven Capital Cities of Heaven storyline in the regular Immortal Iron Fist book. Here is a Grim Reaper figure. It makes a visceral kind of sense. Randall is always just one step ahead of death and by joining his team his friends are putting themselves in harm's way. Now that aspect of the character given form.
It's a neat idea but Fraction is more concerned with filling in some of the plot of the Capital Cities story arc and throwing in some more crazed villains for Randall. I'm up for all of that but there's a problem in the execution. I love most of the art changes in the regular Iron Fist story, each flashback getting its own visual flavor. Here the book has a weird dynamic where the first two art teams fit the pulp feel perfectly and the second two give the book a more modern feel even though the story still takes place in the past. Nick Dragotta and the Amazing Allreds provide that classic superhero look and Russ Heath in the second story gives a touch of validity to the pulp feel with his energetic and very old-school (we're talking pre-Kirby here) approach. It's a lot of fun, especially the sight of Heath drawing crazed Cowgirl Amazons of the Old West.
Then there's a turn where Lewis LaRaosa, Stefano Gaudiano and Matt Hollingsworth take on the next story, centered around the Frankenstein myth. The book now has a much darker look but I don't see the story as having a darker feel to it than the previous two. Sal Buscema showed up on The Immortal Iron Fist and I think he'd be a perfect choice for a story like this.
The last story I understand the art choice a little better. This is a slower story about Randall and his dying father. It is more modern and Mitch Breitwesier, with Hollingsworth returning on colors, do a good job. For the nine of you who read the Draz the Destroyer mini-series rest assured that Breitweiser has gone beyond the John Cassady imitation he used to employed and his now drawing like a more outsized version of The Immortal Iron Fist's regular artist David Aja. I just wish there had been a greater difference between the look of this story and the last. I know Hollingsworth is a great colorist but it would be nice some variety against the murkiness he gives both stories. It works in the last story but again, we run into my problem with the third.
This one-shot works as an extrapolation of the current Immortal Iron Fist storyline and as further information on who John Aman is. It pales in comparison to what Fraction, Burbaker, Howard Chaykin and Dan Brereton did in the Iron Fist Annual. I'm still excited about the idea of Iron Fist having his own strange world for himself where endless stories exist. I also realize they can't all be gems. Permanent Link: 10:41 AM |
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Monday, February 25, 2008
Random Mondays?
Yeah right, this whole weekend I was running around like a madman covering WonderCon for both Newsarama and Publishers Weekly Comics Week. I didn't have any device granting me wi-fi either. I had to walk back and forth from the Moscone Center to Sony's Meteron a.k.a. The Disney Version of Blade Runner to get on-line. No random Mondays today because I'm tired as Hell. Maybe you'll get a Random Tuesday.
It was hard work covering the convention but fun (although in my quest to be timely in my coverage there re some bone-headed mistakes in some articles. Nothing too bad but still...) The highlight for me was getting my hands on a copy of Mark Evanier's book Kirby: The King of Comics. Goodness what a package! If you're any fan of Kirby your eyes will turn into diamonds scanning all the gorgeous art in this book. I haven't even gotten to reading Evanier's prose but I know there are plenty of fun anecdotes running around that man's head about Kirby and beyond.
“I was at Bob Kane’s funeral,” Evanier said. “There were only four people from comics there: me, Stan Lee, Mike Barr and Paul Smith. A whole bunch of Batman toys were put into Kane’s coffin and they were lowering it down. As the Kane was being put into the ground Stan turned around to me and said ‘Steve Ditko was the best inker Jack Kirby ever had.’” Evanier admitted that Lee didn’t have the best attention span.
It's the calm before the storm as WonderCon ascends upon the fair city of San Francisco. My coverage will appear on Newsarama and PWCW. For right now let's forget about comics as work and just look at some books I picked up on the radical notion of experiencing comics as enjoyment.
The Amazing Spider-Man #551: When the "Brand New Day" program started I was actually in the middle of Essential Spider-Man Vol. 4. I was a little too uncomfortable with the fact that the Spider-Man comics being published by Marvel today are almost identical to what the company was publishing in 1969. I was going off on this spiel to someone else when I thought "what else are these comics going be?" We've seen so many interpretations of Spidey over the years. Only recently we saw the character "go corporate" with his Iron Spider suit, living it up in Tony Stark's building. Then the character goes dark and brooding with a black costume, itself a retread. Japanese manga-ka have recreated the character. J. Michael Strarczynski tried pulling off the "spider-totem" idea. But like an elastic band snapping back into its original form no matter how hard you extend it the Spider-Man of "Brand New Day," roughly no different than what Stan Lee and John Romita Sr. were giving us during decades ago, is the character that will always be around. The superhero who can swing through New York but is no less a hard-luck schmuck is what works. Why fight it?
Marc Guggenheim and Salvador Larroca's storyline wraps up here. Larroca's an artist I've had my my hesitations about. Reading his recent arc on Uncanny X-Men I became dissatisfied with how stilted his photo-realistic work came across. I don't care how much Storm looks like a real person as much as if there's a rhythm in between the panels. Larroca, I'm happy to say, surprised me by pulling off what's in this story. It's about 80% action, all up front. There's a sparse grace to how Spider-Man and new character Jackpot swing through the sky evading police and hunting down another new character, the supervillain Menace. It works as a counter-point to Guggenheim's busy script.
Not that the script's a problem but ending a three-issue Spider-man story means a lot of exposition from everybody and canny wisecracks from ol' Webhead. Guggenheim balances those requirements well. His Spider-Man is actually funny (I'm thinking of the "whump" bit in particular). The climax of the story features a downbeat ending, not unusual for Spider-Man, but at first I thought it odd that Spidey would be so non-plussed by the tragic incident at the end. Then I realized two things. The first is that Spider-Man's had his fair share of guilt over the course his superhero career and he's not going to start misplacing bad feelings when, as explicitly stated, he knows who is actually responsible. Secondly, and this only intimated at best, perhaps Spider-Man feels he has to appear to stable for Jackpot who has never seen such a thing as this in her shorter stint as a superhero.
The scene in the denouement concerning Jackpot's identity sets another ball rolling in the continuing soap opera that is Peter Parker's life. It all feels very Silver Age and that's without counting the fact that the story's title beings with "Lo, There Shall Come A..." Thankfully, it's Silver Age fun that feels vital and not retro for its own sake. At three times a week it's a fun little book.
Ex Machina #34: If you've been away for a while you can worse than a stand alone issue that spotlights a character whom so far has only been seen in relation with the main character. Brian K. Vaughan gives us the life of New York City Police Commissioner Amy Angotti. We see her as a child, meeting the man she would marry (and, as we learn this issue, divorce) taking on The Great Machine when he was Public Enemy No. 1 and where she was on Sept. 11th, the day Mitchell Hundred saved her husband. Even Jack Pherson from the two Ex Machina specials Chris Sprouse did shows up.
Vaughan keeps the story snappy and emotionally powerful thanks to an excellent utilization of dialouge. It's the word balloons that really lead the storytelling in this series. I view most superhero stories as defined by how artificially theatrical they are (and I mean that as a good thing). Just like in a musical where the absolutely absurd idea of people breaking into song is an acceptable substitute for talking about their feelings, fistfights and other acts of incredible derring-do is how someone like, well, Spider-Man deals with what's bugging him. Ex Machina reverses that. Here the superhero elements of the story have to live by the rules of a more...I guess I'd have to say more modern narrative. Vaughan has a character whom once employed a jet pack but that story elements isn't for granted. People here, like the Angottis, have to sound like actual adults living within a disintegrating realtionship (come to think of it we never truly see the husband and wife happy together). A lot of comics have gone for "realistic superheroes" but Vaughan seems to be one of the few that gets what that means.
Tony Harris's artwork similarly tries to push past the common boundaries of how genre comics works. Every panel starts as a photograph. I've seen Harris speak about his method and I respect the effort he puts into creating a "penciled fumetti." I respect the effort far more than I enjoy it. It's not the same problem I have with Larroca's work. I think Harris is a good director and can keep the action flowing from panel to panel. But an individual comic panel at its best should feel like more than just one captured millisecond, which is what a photograph is. The pages depicting Amy's childhood reads like a collection of the embarrassing faces people make because the shutter always manages to go off at just the wrong time. For a book that depends on people standing around and talking Harris is injecting the needed dynamism with the perfectly rendered figures and the oft-used giant close-ups. But so many times the picture inside the gutters feel lifeless.
Mind you, it's all saved by the last page of the story. Everything that's great about this series is there. Permanent Link: 10:30 AM |
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Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Razbliuto: Interlude
1994:
With everything that was going on it was good that I found a way to distract myself. My parents were in the middle of a divorce and make things easier for them by getting kicked out of St. Paschal's Baylon School. Comic books and video games provided some relief but I've found another way to "distract" myself with only my hands. This "distraction" gave me a whole new sensation, one I never felt in my pre-pubescent stage. The discovery of this type of "distraction" seems to be covered in so many of the memoirs young men write.
The only thing my parents agreed on was that I was "distracting" myself too much to their liking. Perhaps they had a problem with the fact that I was "distracting" myself at all. One Saturday morning I wasn't getting out of bed fast enough for the numerous wake-up alerts my Dad was administering. This day my only crime was being too sleepy but my Dad suspected otherwise. Eventual he came into my room and set on the chair next to the desk where I did my homework. He gave me some advice in a solemn voice I had never heard him use before and one I would rarely hear since.
"It's okay to have fantasies, thinking about fantasies. But...um...you don't want to think about them too much. You don't want to try and them replace the real thing. Something like that's not going to happen. Then you'll have trouble with the real thing."
I had no idea what he's talking about.
1995:
Thanksgiving at Maggie's house, she a friend of my Mom's, would become a tradition. This was the first time three matriarchal families gathered to cook up enough food to feed around 18 people. The main course was over. The endless picture taking that the Moms liked so well was over. Everyone was free to walk about on their own and eat whatever's left.
I had a plate of mash potatoes in my hand when the though of death hit me. My Catholic mother, much to the chagrin of my Jewish father, sent me to a Catholic school for three years before I was asked to leave. Why? We'll save that for later, if at all. Even out of its official grasp the indoctrination of The Church was still laced throughout my brain. Going to Mass every Friday morning must have worked because for absolutely no reason I was deeply concerned for my immortal soul. It's the immortality part that I was most concerned with. Standing in the kitchen, probably in everyone's way, I imagined eternity. To die is one thing but what about a world with no end? In Heaven we are meant to live in God's presence forever, which is promised to be a good enough feeling to last forever. It might be nice for a while but anything would start to get boring after a few hundred years, right?
I realized the stuff I really enjoy, X-Men comics, probably aren't allowed in Heaven. The comics with Angel in them might pass but anything where Wolverine has blood on his claws or where Rouge and Psylocke are dressed for summer weather have got to be seized as contraband on sight. I'd be in Heaven with all the people who liked going to Mass and doing everything they liked. They might have video games but the only ones they would have are those NES Bible stories where you play as Noah rounding up animals. You can beat those in an hour, how are they meant to last forever?
I could try running all the way to the end of the universe but I'd never escape God and His kingdom. There would be no way out. After a hundred years I'd still be there. After a thousand. After a million. After millions and millions of years I'd still be dead and still living in the same boring place. I'd be experiencing the same boredom day after day after day after day...
I'm paralyzed where I stand. With such fear of the afterlife coursing through me I can't move. My eleven-year-old brain is stretching itself to its limits trying to comprehend eternity and the afterlife. Save for the regular autonomous responses it can only deal with this theological quandary. I'm trying to see what an endless world would look like, one where you can run and run but never leave.
I don't know how long I'm standing there with potatoes probably now too cold to eat when my Mom tells me it's time to go. I put down the plate and started running to my Mom's Saturn. I was ready to get back home and read the fuck out of the issues of X-Men where Wolverine takes on Omega Red.
It's still 1995 when my Dad is driving my brother and I to school on one of the days he has us. I was only awake for an hour but already I was lost in thought. My eyes were fixated on the glove compartment but I wasn't thinking of my Dad's insurance information. I wasn't really thinking of any one thing in particular. My mind was just running in circles. I'd start thinking about my homework last night but I could extrapolate any thought into anything else. First I was thinking about my grades. Then I was thinking about what it would be like to watch your own corpse deteriorate after you die. This merry-go-round inside my mind was constantly twirling. Images of death, religion, what little I knew of sex, family, friends, tragedy happening to all of them, tragedy happening to me were constantly flashing on and off. A riptide opened up in my head and I started drowning in consciousness. My brain would start working on more or less the same pace ever since.
2007:
I may be walking in between classes. I may be waiting for a bus. I may have just woken up. Many times I would just open my wallet and look at the "Lola Cheat Sheet" Lucy made for me at the party. I still haven't seen Lola yet but we've exchanged e-mails. I keep thinking about her. With every new thought she amazes me. So I just keep thinking about her and thinking about her and thinking about her...
In the introduction to the second trade of the Vertigo series Scalped Garth Ennis tells us that if you dig this series tell everyone about it. He specifically mentions blogging about it. Well I am certainly not going to disappoint Mr. Ennis.
The first trade of Scalped was sent to me for review purposes a little before it was about to be published. I was amazed by the previous Vertigo series Jason Aaron wrote The Other Side, illustrated by Cameron Stewart. I was prepared for more of Aaron's excellent characterization skills meshing with how well he sets a sense of place. What I wasn't prepared for was how nasty the world of Scalped is. Keep in mind, The Other Side was about the Vietnam War.
The book takes place on a Lakota Indian reservation in Nebraska. As it is portrayed in the series it is as if you took the world of Deadwood and sent it into today. The modern world is represented mostly by the quality of drugs being used. It's not uncommon for fistfights to break out over any type of quarrel. The local bar is basically the closest thing to a cultural center. A minor character in the book is obsessed with movie Westerns. It's a strange hobby considering he's living in a place that has soaked up the worst of the United State's expansion towards the Pacific. R.M. Guera's art and Giulia Brusco's coloring creates a dark, inky look for everything. It's not that everything is in shadows. This is a darkness that's been living in this world for a while and still shows itself.
Aaron's first Vertigo book was about one war seen by two different soldiers. Scalped is about one soldier (after a fashion), Dashiell Bad Horse, whom has a war going on inside him. He's pulled apart by different factions in and around a Lakota Indian reservation in Nebraska. Bad Horse is one of the reservations' cops, which means he works for Tribal Leader and crime boss Lincoln Red Crow. He was sent back to the reservation he left when he was twelve because he's also an FBI agent, working undercover to aid in Red Crow's downfall. I don't think Guera has ever drawn Bad Horse with a smile on his face. He is constantly angry and scowling. Seeing that face atop a bald head, often adorned by bandages is an intense sight. Bad Horse bucks against any authority over him so he has double the antagonists here.
The second trade (which wins points by being named after a song off of Exile on Main St.) concerns the opening night of Red Crow's new casino. Aaron gives us that one night as viewed by six different characters. Bad Horse, Red Crow, Diesel Engine whose skin is white but if you remind him of that fact will brutally inform you he is 1/16th Kickapoo, Catcher the local mystic, Dino the young boy who has dreams of leaving "the rez" behind for good and Gina Bad Horse. She's Dashiell's estranged mother and the only one from a generation of activists, which once included Catcher and Red Crow, fighting the good fight.
Having one night played out six different ways means the plot of the series doesn't move forward. Indeed, the cliffhanger at the end of this trade is the same that ends the first one. But Aaron needed to get away from the momentum of a plot to take time to showcase the drastically different ways life on the reservation is seen. If Aaron didn't take this time out we wouldn't have seen the almost sympathetic, but no less honest, depiction of Red Crow. A character like Catcher would be forgotten about in a fast moving story since it's his inaction as opposed to his actions that defines him. His issue was my favorite of the six. Guera delves into disturbing territory, pulled off by his magnificent skills, depicting the other main players' spirit animals the way Catcher sees them. Don't worry that there isn't enough action in a collection so concerned with introspection. In Scalped violence comes in brutal, random bursts. Diesel Engine's chapter in particular keeps that motif alive.
I hope some of you out there are interested in enough in picking up the first or second collections of Scalped. Vertigo still trades in genre and while I suppose you can count Scalped as a crime/modern day Western story it's apparent early on its own special brand of darkness sets in. It doesn't read like much else available in comics today. Is it even possible to create a meaner, nastier piece of work than this? Permanent Link: 7:29 PM |
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Random Mondays
The weekend was busy and today is going to be busier. I won't have much time to celebrate President's Day. At best I'll find time to remember William Henry Harrison. I only have time to upload and write about one song. Let's hope the Ipod gods give me a good one, as I yet again rip off the A.V. Club.
Going over previous installments in this series you'll notice that there aren't a whole lot of new bands on the list. I'm more comfortable discovering older artists, from the legendary to the obscure. I read about eras of pop culture I'm interested in and I like to obtain the occasional Rhino box set. What's hard is keeping up with the onslaught of new groups, each and everyone already outfitted with a MySpace page uglier than the last and buzz on Pitchfork dividing everyone who purchases from Busted Tees. There are current bands I do enjoy. Up there with The New Pornographers, Black Keys and Besnard Lakes are The M's, who I discovered when they were guests on the radio show Sound Opinions.
Like Sound Opinions The M's hail from Chicago. Listening to "Banishment of Love" that might come as a surprise because the influences are distinctly British. You can tell they dig Ziggy-era Bowie, Roxy Music and T. Rex. This is a band that understands the prowess of Mick Ronson with the dirty yet melodic guitars thrown on this track. Underneath lies a sexy swing that was perfected by Marc Bolan in songs like "Bang a Gong (Get It On)". I guess it's a bit of a copout that this, like most new music I like, draws its power from what was created in the 60's and 70's but those times were so rich for rock 'n' roll why wouldn't you look there for inspiration? It gives us a great little tune like this one after all. Permanent Link: 8:29 AM |
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Thursday, February 14, 2008
Valentine's Day thought
How can one truly know they are in love? There are countless ways. For the fellas out there, you might be looking into the eyes of that special gal and wondering "could she be the one?" Try this little scenario to be sure.
Your sweetie is coming home from a hard day at work. You're busy, too. You've been preparing a three course meal worthy of a five star restaurant all day. All her favorite dishes are on the table. Imagine the look on her face when she gets home.
You present her gift for the night in all modesty. She is surprised and grateful. This man is something special she thinks to herself. She doesn't know how right she is. You both sit down to eat. You tell her you love her. It's a major statement but one with real meaning behind it. For a moment she is stunned into silence.
Now here is the trick. Before she can regain mastery over the spoken word you reveal a secret about yourself. This is something no one knows about. You tell her that you are not of this world. She is the first person on the planet Earth to know that you are a traveler from a different dimension. You hail from a completely different reality where the sky is purple, lizards talk and popcorn kernels are both more valuable than gold and state-of-the art weaponry. She is flabbergasted but you continue. You remember how you and five others were the first to enter the multi-dimensional traveling machine. It was a momentous day for science, although where you are from days are called "lankos" and science is called "mershobitz." The six of you arrive on this plane of reality, changed into these strange looking creatures you would later find out are known as "hu-mans." The other five go insane and kill each other fueled with maniacal rage. For some damned reason you manage to escape, dazed but more or less intact. It was actually easy to pick up the required demeanor to pass yourself off as a more or less average male hu-man. Your parents that she first met two Thanksgivings ago were actually a couple who had recently lost their grown son. You read the story in the newspaper, marveled at how much the deceased young man in the photograph looked like your new form. You decided to comfort them, hoping to find a home. They took you in. They never said anything and you never did either. It was best for all if from now one you were their son. Have her promise that she will never mention anything about this to them as the slightest suggestion might bring back memories of tremendous emotionally pain to them.
Hold your hands and let her know that the only reason you told her all this is because she is truly special to you and you couldn't live while holding in such a secret. Tell her again that you love her. Perhaps you could also let her know that love where you are from is called "jermenez."
Maybe she'll believe you. Probably she won't. But if she doesn't declare you insane and doesn't run out of the door in fright that means something. If she is still willing to give it a go with a man who at the very least claims he is from the beyond then damn it brother, marry that girl. Permanent Link: 6:03 PM |
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Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Razbliuto: Chapter 4
Previous chapters can be found here. This one's posting kind of late but hey, that makes it right on time for Valentine's Day. Hoo boy.
I was talking to some people I had never met before in the kitchen of Johnny and Lucy's apartment. It was the first party since the one where I met Lola. When the lady in question walked in to grab a drink I announced "and now here is one of my favorite people." She smiled in gratitude, got what she wanted and left.
We had actually met up once after Citizen Kane. We got a drink at a bar in her neighborhood. If the first day together was wonderful because of what we shared with each other than this felt like the inverse. There was a lot of sharing from the both of us about parents, about feelings of unhappiness. But I felt a distance from Lola this time. I'd see her across from me at the table and I realized that I being friends with this woman was not what I truly wanted. I knew we were just going to talk and then part ways in about two hours. The feelings I had for her couldn't be expressed with just a hug at the end of the night. Here we were appearing emotionally naked to each other. It's not something I usually do, certainly not with someone I had known for such a short while. That meant a lot to me. Did that mean anything to her? I'd hear her talk about her boyfriend and it seemed like he didn't offer the personal depth someone like her demanded. That could be a totally unfair assessment as I had only met the man once and very briefly at that. But when I hear her speak of him I remember what Lucy told me about how quickly Lola goes through men. Perhaps she didn't want to get so intellectually intimate with a boyfriend. So what did that make me? Was I a second therapist, one who doesn't charge? I was telling myself I still wanted to be her friend. I still valued her presence. If I wasn't going to be a lover I'd settle for second best. But the feelings I had when I first saw her remained true. I wanted to be more than a friend. That first perfect day together should have spawned something much more than just narcissistic conversations about why we're both crazy. But because of a stupid matter of timing, because when she told me she had to work on finals while at the same time she was being romanced by someone else, we couldn't take the extra step we should have. For someone who could be so open at times Lola was awfully hard to read. Sometimes I figured I could disappear and she would never notice. Then we would hug and it felt like her body was saying "thank you." I was unhappy with how things turned out but I didn't want to just forget about her.
One thing that was always fun to do at Johnny and Lucy's parties was to introduce different people to each other and see how they would get along. I know Johnny and Lucy would do that individually and after a while their friends, including myself, would follow suit. I'm thankful that I do not have the responsibility of introducing Lola to a man named Frank but I had a front row seat to their first interaction. Frank was a regular at the bar/lounge Johnny and I would frequent named The River. I think the reason I got on so well with Johnny, besides our similar ambition of becoming writers and love for The Sopranos, was that it often felt as if we were the only ones at The River who didn't bother putting up a bulldog front. The place is heavy with masculine energy of the overgrown adolescence type. The place was filled with nerdy boys from the Midwest and East Coast who had come out to California to reinvent themselves. They looked around the Bay Area, Hell the whole country, and saw that what was once considered geeky was now cool. If superheroes and computer sciences were being reconsidered by the masses then why not the obsessors of these obsessions? These guys grew up hearing about California as the land of dreams. Growing up just outside of L.A. I was taught to expect this behavior from those emigrating to our state. I didn't think I'd see as much of this phenomena in San Francisco. Oh, how naive I can be. I should say that most of the people I have met at The River are wonderful people. But a guy like Frank is a perfect example of what bothers me about the place. Hailing from Texas Frank called himself a "Sex Nerd." He fancied himself a ladykiller. If asked for an entertaining anecdote amongst friends he thought nothing of revealing how he paid a stripper to rough him up at a club. Perhaps labeling his lecherous lifestyle with a term as quirky as "Sex Nerd" made him more at ease with himself. Most everyone I knew thought it made him sound even stupider.
In one of Johnny and Lucy's rooms Lola reclined on the couch like Cleopatra. Frank sat in a chair to meet her eye line. With a lack of options I sat on the floor, lower than both of them. Frank was telling Lola of his job once working for the accounting firm formerly known as Arthur Andersen.
"You're evil," she said with a giggle.
The thought of Frank seducing Lola with his plastic charms flashed across my mind. I rejected it quickly. Why would someone as smart as her fall for such slime? Anyway, I found out listening to their conversation that Frank worked with her uncle. I was assured that as bad as Frank was wouldn't sleep with a young woman whose big Russian uncle he had to see everyday.
I couldn't let such thoughts bother me. I had other Lola business to attend to. Lucy and I talked about the damage her friendship with Lola had taken after Lucy tried to play matchmaker. Apparently the two weren't talking for a while, although I found out such things happened a few times over the course of their friendship.
When I first met Lucy I had already known Johnny and her brother Blake. In my mind she existed solely on their realtionship to those two. Then, quite randomly, we were sitting next to each other on the bus. I was going home from classes, she from a dental appointment. We started talking about her desire for some independence. She was supporting Johnny as he tried to start his writing career but she had ambition of her own. She talked about becoming a midwife, which interested me as my Mom's an RN. She told me she didn't just want to be seen as "Johnny's girlfriend" and after that day I no longer saw her as such. She told me at the party that the bus ride felt like a perfect little date. She could see those qualities she saw in me meshing well with Lola's personality. She wasn't wrong but because of, oh let's call it a mix-up, Lola thought Lucy was lying to me and ended up hurting me. I was somewhat surprised and glad to hear that Lola actually did think of my feelings when I wasn't around but I promptly informed Lucy that she had done nothing wrong. I told her the only way she would have hurt me if she and I had stopped being friends. Frankly I was dumbfounded at the idea of two women fighting over me. I suppose it makes sense that the only way two women would quarrel over me was becuase of an overblown scheduling conflict.
Much later in the night I saw Lola curled up almost feline-like in front of the apartment's windows. Being quite drunken at the time I wasn't shy telling her that she appeared to know she was the most beautiful thing in the room. She wasn't offended by the comment. Inspired by talking to Lucy earlier I told Lola that I'm really glad we're friends, just friends. It felt true. But I knew it's not what I really wanted. She appreciated the sentiment all the same. We talked some more. I found out that she was actually from The Ukraine, not Russia. I say I'm from Los Angeles even though I was raised in the bustling metropolis known as Moorpark so who was I to criticize?
Lola was gone by the time I walked into the kitchen late into the night. I was half zombiefied due to my liquor consumption. Lucy, as drunk as me but with three times the energy, was standing next to Frank. She told me in an elated manner "this guy gives the best advice." She then ran giddily from the room. I stood there with him and let out the sigh of the lovesick. He guesses it was Lola pretty quickly. He told me that I had to be ruthless to steal a girl away from her boyfriend. "That's how I've always done it," he said. Before I could tell him that wasn't my plan another woman, a stranger to me, ran into the room and gave Frank a big hug. She said she was leaving and with great enthusiasm told Frank how great it was to meet him.
"See, I don't even remember that girl's name," he told me as soon she left.
He told me how success with woman was all about the confidence in your stance. He compared his stance, which made him look like he was working security at a barely attend mall fashion show, to my more reserved look. I couldn't muster up the energy to let him know that a minor case of scoliosis and a family history of back problems left me somewhat permanently lopsided. He told me that the change I needed wouldn't happen overnight. He then told me to read Neil Strauss's The Game. I had worked in a bookstore long enough to know that I wanted nothing to do with the types of guys who read that book.
Walking away from him I couldn't believe that Lucy would recommend Frank's consultation. To paraphrase master wordsmith Jimmy Pardo, what I had just heard had to make my list of Top 1 worst pieces of advices I had ever received.
I'll have the fourth chapter of Razbliuto up later today but for right now here's a song, recorded at The Hotel Utah's open mic, with the same name. The recording isn't great but if you turn it up it should be fine.
I really like the main riff in the song but overall I think the song could afford to be a lot simpler The bridge deflates some of the energy in the song. Maybe I should just make two verses and two choruses and play up the "hook" more. I don't know, we'll see. Permanent Link: 9:31 AM |
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Tuesday, February 12, 2008
RIP Steve Gerber
Hearing the news and reading Tom's eloquent obituary really hit me. Of all the creators in comics Steve Gerber's work was one that hit me personally.
He put so much of his own personality into Howard the Duck, Man-Thing, Nevada and other projects that it's hard not feel as invested in those books as he did. That willingness to include both autobiographical and satirical elements into his work was coupled with the unbridled creativity that Gerber had (Mike has an excellent run down on the characters he has given us). When Gerber combined all of his writing might you got something beautiful like Man-Thing issues #5-6, wonderfully drawn by Mike Ploog. A clown forces Man-Thing and his compatriots to reenact the entertainer's tortured childhood. Reading that is like having someone else's strange dream go on inside your head. The same goes for the run in HTD where Howard has a nervous breakdown and is committed to an asylum, featuring the greatest cameos of KISS and Spider-Man ever.
There's a lot of talk of how Gerber expanded the consciousness of comics, which I certainly think he did and I'm glad to see he's given credit for that. Reading his 1978 interview with Gary Groth collected in The Comics Journal Library Vol. 6: The Writers Gerber had a pretty clear view of the limits in comics given what he and other creators had to work with at the time. It was unreal to think that anyone could go beyond a 7 x 10 page or get a better printing process. But Gerber's work soared over its constrictions. Trapped in a world he never made you could say.
His imagination has bigger than what mid-'70s Marvel comics could contain. The results are often a strange combination of personal storytelling disguised as corporate superhero work. That just added to how unique his work could be, I think.
I don't know, I feel I'm just rambling. The only thing I really can do is just put it all out there and let you know why he is work is so important to me. Reading someone with that vision unleash all that energy even given far from ideal circumstances is endlessly inspiring. I'll always treasure his output and I'm very sad that we won't see anything more from him. Permanent Link: 8:05 AM |
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Oh Firefox spell check, you mean well but that is indeed how The Zombies named their masterpiece of an album. The Stones and The Beatles will always be the twin champions of the British Invasion but I think The Zombies stand out as a great band. Obviously, having Rod Argent's electric keyboard made them sound like no else. But Argent and Chris White's song craft were the band's greatest tools. Most British bands wanted to be Muddy Waters or Little Richard. I think The Zombies wanted to be the best songwriters and backing band in the Brill Building (the real one). This song has the bouncy feel of American pop music as well as British Music Hall. The giant harmonies that come in make the point that these guys were also looking ahead and trying to create the future of pop. That and the fact this song is about someone being released from prison. I think The Zombies accomplished something very similar to what The Beatles did on Sgt. Pepper's, only to far less acclaim.
The Knickerbockers, "Lies" from Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968Listen here!Buy here!
So we go from figuring out what American artist the Brits wanted to sound like in the '60s to what Brits some American artists wanted to sound like in, well, later in the '60s. Going through the first Nuggets box set it's pretty easy to tell which one-hit wonder (if that!) was listening to which British Invasion artist. The Knickerbockers were definitely spinning Rubber Soul and Revolver a few hundred times. Hey, it lead to them turning out a great song like this. You've got a great hook and a great harmonic twist in the chorus. Like most of the songs on Nuggets it's a juicy three minute morsel of rock 'n' roll.
I know the danger of setting your iPod to shuffle is that a track you're embarrassed by will pop up and remind you of your occasional suspect taste. But I do not apologize for having Mr. Cross on my "motherbox!" This is Cross at his most rocking. That doesn't mean this song actually rocks but compared to "Sailing" it's Metallica. What can I say, I dig that piano riff and there is a real groove behind this song. I don't mind a little Michael McDonald showing up for the chorus. And we all learned from SCTV how that recording session went:
SPECIAL BONUS SECTION: As I've written here in the past I'll occasionally play the open mic at The Hotel Utah. I might play tonight although I'm not sure. Every week they post a podcast of certain acts from that night. The podcast from 2/4 was such a doozy I'm telling you all to check out. It's worth hearing for Laura Weinbach's "The Doll" (which starts the podcast), DJ Real's "Magician" and Kelly McFarlan's voice and banjo cover of Yes's "Owner of a Lonely Heart." The website has the time codes telling you where all these songs are. Check it out. Permanent Link: 10:30 AM |
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Friday, February 08, 2008
Be afraid, be very afraaaaaaaaaaaid!
Forget Julie Taymor doing Spider-Man: The Musical (seriously forget it, I've seen Across the Universe and let me just say yeesh). David Cronenberg's The Fly is becoming an opera! Howard Shore is doing the music, no stranger to Cronenberg's work. Maybe the orchestra will feature a talented trumpet player based in L.A. by the name of Jeff Goldblum. Permanent Link: 2:04 PM |
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Yes, yes! Fuck you too!
The outstanding Odienator, as part of his "Black History Mumf" series, profiled one of my favorite comedies Coming to America. He does an excellent job explaining what the film communicates specifically to a Black audience as well as it's why it's appreciated by a universal audience. Reading that article was almost as fun as when I come across the film on cable, which seems pretty often. Those late night viewing sessions didn't have this, though:
Here are the previous two chapters to our tale. I've set a schedule for this story. I'll post a new chapter every week, late on Wednesday. Most of you will read it Thursday morning (well, most of you will probably skip over it but you know what I mean).
It was an historic day in my life when Lola came to my house to watch Citizen Kane. It marked the first time I had ever cooked for someone I wasn't related to (and even when I did cook for my family it was a one time only disastrous attempt at macaroni and cheese). Lola has asked me in an e-mail a few days earlier "will you feed me?" How could I refuse to nourish a cherub? I needed something easy to go with my barely existent culinary skills. I found a recipe for a marinade that I could use on chicken breasts that I could then grill. It was easy enough to pour orange juice and honey into a plastic bag, throw some chicken in there and throw it in the refrigerator for a few hours. This would be our meal for the night.
The main dish wasn't a challenge. What was difficult was trying to pass off my living situation as anything other than the Bachelor Hell it was. Shared with four male roommates, the kitchen was a sparse and depressing collection of unmatched colors and sticky surfaces. I had no time nor the resources to redecorate it. I was too busy transforming my room from the wasteland of post-adolescent masculinity it usually is into something a bit more presentable. The dirty clothes on the floor were concealed in a laundry hamper (actually an old suitcase but it will do). All the comics that occupied the rest of the floorspace were collected into a few cardboard boxes. Looking at my bookshelves I faced the question: is having various literary classics (most of them actually read!) still impressive if they are tattered used copies bought for a few dollars, if not a few cents, at dusty old bookstores? I wondered if my collection of sci-fi paperbacks from the '60s and '70s would be impressive or seen as a grating affectation. While vacuuming lint and old popcorn kernels from the carpet I decided that one look at the covers of The Texas-Israeli War: 1999 or Mutiny in Space (the cover of which promises us "Castaways of the universe - marooned on a lost planet of war-crazed females!") and there would be no need to explain the inherit genius of these works.
I surprised myself with how inoffensive my room actually appeared as Lola's entrance drew near. The floor was spotless, good news as would be sitting on it as we crowded around the small TV set my Dad and I purchased from Radioshack for $99 on the day I moved into the dorms of San Francisco State University.
"Wow, the '70s are alive and well in this house," she said as she looked around.
That was true. There was nothing I could do about the encroaching "brownness" of the carpet and walls that were older than the both of us. I laughed it off with the first of any number of stammering, exasperated sounding apologizes. Most of those left my mouth during my embarrassing attempt to open a wine bottle with a corkscrew I bought for a dollar. As I wrestled with the glass her head cocked to the right, just as it always did whenever she was confused by the behavior of us silly humans. I should have found that insulting. Instead I was completely smitten by it every single time. Even with the help of a roommate I was hardly close to the victory of an open bottle. Lola herself stepped in and managed open the damn thing. As she took a sip from one of two mismatched glasses (actually her was a mug) she declared the wine corked but good. I was certain she had a similar half-enthused appraisal of my entire self.
I try to watch Kane about twice a year. It was good to watch it with someone who had never experienced it before. I tried my best to rein in my utterances of Orson Welles trivia (a subject which I have become a minor scholar of) and just let her watch the film. It was wonderful see the life brimming within the film grab a hold of her. With Kane you never have to explain to someone "okay, we're going to watch an old film now so adjust your expectations." It's a singualr performance that either hits you or it doesn't. When Welles tells George Coulouris "You're right, I did lose a million dollars last year. I expect to lose a million dollars this year. I expect to lose a million dollars next year. You know, Mr. Thatcher, at the rate of a million dollars a year, I'll have to close this place in... 60 years," Lola laughed. It was the first time I heard the unconscious reaction of laughter from her. How could I tell her that melted when I saw her mouth open wide and the sound of approval came out of her?
Occasionally during the film and before it she would call her Dad about picking her up. I wanted to talk to her after the film but she had to get up early the next day. I thought it adorable listening to her speak Russian over the phone. Standing outside my house waiting for her Dad's car I revealed how thinking about Welles's life story makes me insecure. I'd compared myself to someone who was the toast of Broadway at 22, had made the greatest film of all time at 25. Then I remembered Welles's perceived decline after Kane and wondered if I hit it big would the same happen to me. She sent skeptical barbs my way, even saying "yes dear" once. I knew what other might see in her as careless I saw as a refreshing bit of uncompromising tough love. Tough like, maybe. Her Dad drove up, she and I hugged tightly like the last time and she was off.
Get ready, this one has the hits! I ripped off The Onion and blab about what my iPod brings me. Mp3 links work on the blog even if they're being screwy on the RSS feed.
What can I say, this album is the high point of Prince's whole career. I love Dirty Mind and Sing O' The Times (Hell, I even listen to some of The Vault: Old Friends 4 Sale from time to time) but it doesn't get any better than the emotional and spiritual epic that is Purple Rain. This is exactly how a great album opener should sound, with that out-of-tune organ and Pastor Nelson's sermonizing. Right upfront you know that this album will feature killer guitar work and wisdom about not letting the elevator getting you down. I don't know what the Hell an elevator has to do with all this but hey, it works as a great lyric. I can never get tired of this album
Like most people born after 1979 (well, like most people in general to be honest) I discovered The Meat Puppets thanks to Kurt Cobain inviting them on Nirvana's MTV Unplugged show. Thinking abut it now it was quite an amazing thing to do. Millions of eyes were on Nirvana and they decided to use that fame to help a band they liked that before were only known by barely a thousand. I checked out II thanks to that appearance. I was surprised how much different "Lake of Fire" was to the what was played at the Nirvana show. This, along with the rest of the album, can only be described as "punk rock Neil Young" and I think ol' Neil's pretty punk rock to begin with! It's pretty ballsy that anyone associated with SST Records would go "you know what's cool, old time country and roots music" but I'm thankful that the Brothers Kirkwood did just that. As I've said before the only punk rock I can dig now is something that looks towards the history of American music. You'd be hard press to find a better example than this album.
Hey, more Clash. Sandinista! is maligned by conventional wisdom. Listening to that version of "Career Opportunities" with the kids singing it's easy to see why. But this song, actually a cover of a reggae song by Eddy Grant of "Electric Avenue" fame, is just as good as anything on their debut or London Calling. Those guitars sound like knives and Strummer truly sounds like a man on the run when he screams "what have I done?" Is he asking the police that or is he asking himself? The song keeps it ambiguous. The only thing that's clear is the mental distress of our narrator. Permanent Link: 10:47 AM |
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Sunday, February 03, 2008
And now...laughter
DEFENSE ATTORNEY: The defense would like to call to the stand... Blade.
PROSECUTOR: Objection. Blade is not a real person, but rather Mr. Snipes in sunglasses and fake vampire teeth.
JUDGE: Overruled. I'll allow it.
How is Simpsons writer Matt Selman spending his time when he's on strike? Besides being one of the funniest guests on Guys With Feelings he also contributes to Time's Nerd World blog. That's where we get great articles like this about Wesley Snipes's tax evasion trial where a surprised witness is called...Blade! It's funny as Hell whether you're a comics fan or not.
Geez, I really dug that Howard Chaykin Blade series. I think I actually have a letter in one of the issues. Too bad it lasted just as long as the Blade TV show, if not less. Permanent Link: 7:36 PM |
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Friday, February 01, 2008
My songs - I Want You (But I Don't Want to Ruin Everything)
While I've got the programs to start recording music (thanks Jesse!) I still need a mic. Thankfully I do have one recording of me that I can post. I've been playing the open mic nights at The Hotel Utah Saloon and J.J., the mastermind of the event, was kind enough to send an mp3 of my performance from two weeks ago. The mp3 probably still won't show up on the RSS feed (EDIT: nope, it works now!) but on the actual blog you can download it.
I play this song a lot because I've memorized all the words for it (more or less). I set out to write a catchy song with a big guitar hook, something like "Satisfaction" or "Breaking the Law" where you identify that melody from the guitar line immediately (so why do I have this slow intro? Ah, nevermind). The song sounds very "pop" (as much as a dude with a gloomy voice and an acoustic guitar can sound pop) and doesn't have much of a blues rock sound as the other songs you'll hear. If this was the Stones, the biggest touchstone for my music, this would definitely be a "Mick song," not a "Keith song." Hopefully you'll enjoy it. Permanent Link: 8:03 AM |
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