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A recent tweet from @the99percent led, through a series of links, to this collection of photos taken by the young Stanley Kubrick in the late 1940s. As in the example above (kudos to the subject for wearing a shirt and tie to clean the windows, by the way), Kubrick's aesthetic is already evident. I wish I had enough disposable income to actually purchase one of these prints.
Just saw, via Brooklyn Vegan, the sad news that Cesaria Evora has passed away. Even sadder, in an altogether different way: the spasm of panic I felt when I first saw the headline, which I thoughtsaid "R.I.P. Eva Longoria."
(Originally posted on NoExpiration)
Until the release of The Pet Sounds Sessions box set in 1997, I never had much time for The Beach Boys. I liked “I Get Around,” “Help Me Rhonda,” and “Surf City” (this last in an ironic way, due to its ludicrous falsetto chorus of “Two girls for ev-er-y boooooy!”), but not much else.
Once I heard the stereo mix of Pet Sounds, however, I started to realize what all the fuss was about. That mix, and the session tapes that accompanied it, made me appreciate the brilliance of Brian Wilson’s melodic gift. When it was announced that Smile—the legendary, unfinished follow-up to Pet Sounds—would be given the same box set treatment, I anticipated a similarly revelatory experience. Smile, according to the legend, was even better than Pet Sounds.
Well, yes and no. Mostly no.
One of the strengths of Pet Sounds is the way its musical adventurousness is anchored by the professional craftsmanship of its lyrics. “Wouldn't It Be Nice” may sound like music from Mars, but the words are pure teenage yearning, as earthbound as you can get. “God Only Knows” is Wilson's outstanding spiritual statement, but it can also be enjoyed as a simple (if breathtakingly beautiful) love song.
With the possible exception of “Good Vibrations,” the songs from Smile don’t have this advantage. Mike Love may have gotten a lot of stick over the years for objecting to Van Dyke Parks’ obscure lyrics, but it’s not hard to sympathize with him when confronted with lines like “Who rang the iron horse?” or “The crow cries undercover the cornfield” from “Cabin Essence.” As the careers of everyone from Little Richard to Michael Stipe prove, pop song lyrics don’t have to make sense—but they do have to deliver an emotional punch. Parks’ lyrics fail on this count. When sung to one of the most beautiful melodies Brian Wilson ever wrote, a line like the infamous “columnated ruins domino,” from “Surf’s Up,” is not just dumb—it’s almost an insult to the music.
But it’s not just the lyrics that are a problem here. Wilson famously called Smile his “teenage symphony to God,” and it shows in the songwriting, which strives for a symphonic effect by stringing together short “movements” in often unrelated musical styles. This pastiche technique works well on “Good Vibrations,” but less so everywhere else. “Heroes and Villains” goes from surf pop to barbershop quartet to piano ballad and doo-wop before finishing off with a one-two punch of cowboy ballad harmonica and English music hall trombone. It’s like a clip reel from The Lawrence Welk Show. “Do You Like Worms (Roll Plymouth Rock)” has a spooky rinky-dink piano section, a Hawaiian guitar interlude and vocal break that sounds like the awful “ooga chaka” song from that dancing baby video back in the ‘90s.* It’s all a bit precious—the kind of twee psychedelic experimentation that ruined a lot of music on both sides of the Atlantic in the mid-‘60s.
After listening to The Smile Sessions, it’s hard to see how the finished album could have ever lived up to the hype it has accumulated over the years. Though it seems almost sacrilegious not to love this music, I don’t think Smile would have been the earthquake its fans dream about. Maybe The Smile Sessions is not the story of Brian Wilson’s creativity blooming, but a snapshot of the moment when it started to ripen and rot.
* - A search of the internets tells me that this song is Blue Swede’s mid-‘70s cover of B.J. Thomas’s “Hooked On A Feeling.” **
** - Two years after I wrote this, the song reentered public consciousness through its prominent use in Marvel's “Guardians of the Galaxy” franchise. There were so many better songs that could have picked, alas.
Noel-Gallagher
When Liam Gallagher released Beady Eye’s debut Different Gear, Still Speeding earlier this year, he seemed to reclaim the cocky rock star energy of the first few Oasis albums. If Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds is any indication, all the older Gallagher got in the divorce was the meandering weariness of the last few Oasis albums. Anyone looking for a whip smart comeback to Beady Eye will be disappointed: Noel doesn’t get into a musical pissing match with his brother, despite the presence of such song titles as “The Death of You and Me” and “If I Had A Gun” (this last not—alas—a bitchy put-down directed at Liam, but a “Wonderwall”-style love song).
Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds self-titled debut album is not a statement of artistic rebirth. It’s business as usual, hewing closely to the texture of late Oasis albums like Dig Out Your Soul and Don’t Believe The Truth. Perhaps that’s to be expected: Oasis was Noel’s baby, and as main songwriter and producer, he pretty much set the tone. The upshot is that most of the songs on High Flying Birds sound like they were written for Liam to sing. Liam has always been a better interpreter of Noel’s songs than Noel himself, able to convey the emotion behind even the laziest of his brother’s lyrics. Liam could deliver lines like “If I had a gun, I’d shoot a hole into the sun/and love would burn this city down for you” and make it sound kind of touching—as if a football hooligan were mangling clichés in an effort to express his feelings to his girlfriend. But Noel can’t quite pull it off. His voice is fine for backup singing, or the occasional ballad, but it lacks the inherent drama a lead singer needs to be effective. In his hands, the above lyrics sound awkward and tossed off, as if he couldn’t be bothered to write better ones.
Noel still has a gift for melody, and High Flying Birds offers its share of catchy pop hooks. But there’s nothing urgent here: this is music by a craftsman who mastered his formula years ago. Unfortunately, that formula requires the participation of his kid brother. If he wants to fly solo, Noel Gallagher needs to come up with something new.
(This review originally appeared at vivoscene.com)
(This post originally appeared at maxim.com)
Most of the coverage of the recently announced split of Gen X power couple Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore concerned itself with the implications for their band, Sonic Youth. This is, I think, an example of music journalists trying to take the high road. I’ve no doubt that what most of them are really wondering is why Kim and Thurston are breaking up. But to come out and speculate would turn the story into something fit for Celebitchy.com or People Magazine, on par with Kim Kardasian and Kris whatshisname. It’s much more dignified to ponder the future of a pioneering noise-rock band than to imagine a tawdry scenario like Kim catching Thurston in bed with the cleaning lady.
One non-musical aspect of the story that people are commenting on is the unfortunate implication for the institution of Gen X marriage, of which Kim and Thurston seemed the archetype. Speaking personally, the announcement did cause me some vague anxiety. My wife and I celebrated our tenth year anniversary last year. Having reached this milestone unscathed, I’ve been complacently imagining that our marriage will just continue in the same amiable way until one of us drops dead. Kim and Thurston’s announcement is a disconcerting reminder that nothing is guaranteed. If this ultra-cool pair can’t make it work after nearly three decades, what relationship horrors await the rest of us in our middle age?
The future of Sonic Youth seems to me to be the least interesting aspect of this whole story. Unless the break-up brings a new element of danger to the music, I won’t really care if the band calls it quits. I like Sonic Youth, but their output has been hit or miss for nearly twenty years. After the nearly perfect late ’80s trilogy of EVOL, Sister and Daydream Nation, SY slowly lost its focus, tempering the experimental fury of those early years with a move towards accessibility that never quite seemed to gel. The first two major label albums–Goo and Dirty–were enjoyable, but tried a little too hard to match the muscular sound of bands like Nirvana and Soundgarden. Sonic Youth can certainly rock out, but their strong suit has always been their ability to create intricate oceans of sound through non-traditional tunings and the most creative use of feedback since Jimi Hendrix. Even on early noise epics like EVOL‘s “Expressway to Yr. Skull” that feedback was often quiet, no more than a light tapping on the side of the guitar.
After 1994′s Experimental, Jet Set, Trash and No Star, I got off the Sonic Youth train, and only paid attention to a few tracks on subsequent albums, like “The Diamond Sea” from Washing Machine. My biggest problem with the band, I have reluctantly come to realize, is Kim Gordon. With a few notable exceptions (“Eliminator Jr.” from Daydream Nation for example), my least favorite Sonic Youth songs are the ones she wrote and sings on. Murray Street, from 2002, would be a perfect album but for the last two tracks, both of which feature Kim’s monotone sing-speak and both of which grate.
This puts me in a minor moral quandary. Gordon is clearly the coolest member of Sonic Youth–a pioneering figure in alternative rock, and a brilliant example of how a woman can find an enduring place in pop culture without turning herself into a cartoon. So am I a dick for hoping she goes away and leaves the boys to make music without her? Her departure wouldn’t solve all the band’s problems by any means, but it might help.
Someone once told me that no matter how much you try to be even-handed, when a couple breaks up you will inevitably pick sides. Kim and Thurston have always conducted the public aspect of their relationship with grace, and I hope they continue to do so. But if things get ugly, I guess I know whose team I’ll be on.
Expressway To Yr. Skull (aka “Madonna, Sean and Me”) – from “1991: The Year Punk Broke,” just re-released on DVD.
Rain On Tin, one of the standout tracks from Murray Street.
(This post originally appeared on vivoscene.com.)
When the members of R.E.M. recently announced that they were “calling it a day,” I was surprised—not by the fact that they were breaking up, but that I was thinking about R.E.M. at all. There was a moment of confusion—should I care about this?—before indifference set in. Though the band was once one of the most important in my little world, I left their fandom years ago.
I don’t think many people were surprised by the announcement. R.E.M. had long ago ceased being an important part of the pop landscape. Most of the articles that have come out since the official split have the feel of obituaries prepared in advance, their writers quite reasonably focusing on the band’s undeniable historical importance, without dwelling on its contemporary irrelevance. It’s good to be reminded that R.E.M. was once revolutionary, especially for anyone who knows the band only as a trio of well-dressed, well-connected and entirely too well-fed middle-aged men. But even at Rolling Stone—where no amount of unctuous praise is too much—Rob Sheffield was forced to concede the obvious: that R.E.M. had run things into the ground a long time ago.
When, exactly, the group lost its mojo is a matter of personal preference. Drummer Bill Berry’s retirement in 1997 was certainly a turning point, upsetting as it did the group’s delicate internal chemistry. But plenty of fans might point to the release of “Losing My Religion,” when the band finally achieved the pop chart success to which it had so slowly and carefully been building, or to Green, the first major label release. I myself started smelling trouble when I saw the moody Anton Corbijn photos that accompanied Automatic For The People: it’s never a good thing when that guy gets involved. Or maybe it was when Michael Stipe shaved his head, another sign of creeping pretension (see the careers of Billy Corgan, Moby and Midnight Oil).
Of course, R.E.M. was constantly shedding one layer of dedicated fans even as it gained new ones. As far back as 1985, it was a cliché to say that the band was “not as good as they used to be.” Just as the group pioneered and virtually invented alternative rock, they were one of the early targets of indie snark. The first time I saw the band live—in 1986, during the Life’s Rich Pageant tour—I thought they were fantastic. But after the show, when I asked one of my friends for his verdict, he nearly spat in disgust. “I was very disappointed! They should just break up.” He had been a fan since Murmur, and evidently that gave him some perspective on how far the band had fallen. Ten years later, I went to a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden and left with similar dissatisfaction, along with a know-it-all’s contempt of the newer fans, thousands of whom had just had a perfectly wonderful time. R.E.M., it seems, was always disappointing someone.
Fish out of water – early days:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmWW8pZS7ys&feature=player_embedded
Michael tries out the crime-fighting elf look, 2005:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPZzWYkdS6Y&feature=player_embedded
(Originally posted at vivoscene.com)