And now, ladies and gentlemen: the haunting poetry of Talking Heads.

—————————————————————–

“Don’t Worry about the Government”

I see the clouds that move across the sky.
I see the wind that moves the clouds away.
It moves the clouds over by the building.
I picked the building that I want to live in.

I smell the pine trees and the peaches in the woods.
I see the pinecones that fall by the highway.
That’s the highway that goes to my building.
I picked the building that I want to live in.

It’s over there.  It’s O-VER THERE!

My building has every convenience!
It’s gonna make life easy for me.
It’s gonna be easy to get things done.
I’m gonna relax alone with my loved ones.

Loved ones, loved ones!  Visit the building.
Take the highway, park, and come up and see me.
I’ll be WORK-ing, WORK-ing, but if you come visit,
I’ll put down what I’m doing.  (My friends are important.)

Don’t you worry ’bout me.
I wouldn’t worry about me.
Don’t you worry ’bout me.
Don’t you worry ’bout MEEEEE!

I see the states across this big nation.
I see the laws made in Washington, D.C.
I think of the ones I consider my favorites.
I think of the people that are working for me.

Some civil servants are just like my loved ones!
They work so hard and they try to be strong.
I’m a lucky guy to live in my building.
They all need buildings to help them along.

It’s over there.  It’s O-VER THERE!

My building has every convenience!
It’s gonna make life easy for me.
It’s gonna be easy to get things done.
I’m gonna relax alone with my loved ones.

Loved ones, loved ones!  Visit the building.
Take the highway, park, and come up and see me.
I’ll be WORK-ing, WORK-ing, but if you come visit,
I’ll put down what I’m doing.  (My friends are important.)

I wouldn’t worry ’bout me.
I wouldn’t worry about me.
Don’t you worry ’bout me.
Don’t you worry ’bout MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes.

1) The Kids Are All Right – I caught this film when some friends and I went out drinking and then decided we were in danger of going home too early to be decent.  Amusing and diverting.  I was watching it from a somewhat singular perspective; I am not a kid person, you see,* and as Mark Ruffalo’s character is confronted with teenage biological offspring (via sperm bank) that he had not known existed, I was too busy scrutinizing his surprisingly relaxed interactions with them to think so much about the homo-/heterosexual interplay that the filmmakers may have expected would steal the proverbial show.  Like Mark, I might be more inclined to consider breeding if the kids (who are all right, incidentally) were 18 when they showed up.  Ah, well.  The story proffers a cornucopia of awkward scenarios, so it’s nice that we can each pick our own focal bit of awkwardness, based on personal resonance.

In other news, I’ve decided that I like Mia Wasikowska.  That is all.

2)  A Single Man – One of my movie-going compatriots brought this film up at the aforementioned screening; I suppose she was reminded by its similar motifs of homosexuality and Julianne Moore.  In turn, I was reminded that I never got to the older flick during my pre-Oscars cinema spree.  I did get to A Serious Man, which I was forever confusing with A Single Man, in spite of the fact that the former featured entrely dissimilar motifs of Judaism and Michael Stuhlbarg.

To make up for my neglect, I watched A Single Man on demand.  Far less amusing, although equally diverting.  My favorite thing about it was the music, the earnest strings that accompanied virtually every minute of footage like a dreamy ether in which the narrative was suspended.  I liked the film, but for the first time ever, I’m not entirely sure I liked Julianne Moore.  She felt a little over the top to me.  Yes, yes, I know her character was meant to be boisterous, hiding her pain, etc.  Lay off.  Okay, I found her portrayal of over-the-topness to be a bit over the top.  Still, it’s not like she hasn’t made up for it elsewhere.

3) MGMT – There was grave information to be gleaned from this concert experience.  It took the form of what the young’uns around me were wearing — the ones who had clearly been planning their outfits for days, if not weeks.  Rompers, dear readers.  They were in rompers.  Not one and all, but how many must there be to instill alarm? Headbands were also everywhere — not this kind, but this kind.  People who are less averse to offspring (their own and others’) than I am likely know all about such trends, but I never look directly at minors unless I have exhausted all other options.

What?  Oh, the music?  Yeah, that was good.

I’m not quite as big a fan of MGMT’s new album as I was of their last, owing in part to the fact that the title track, “Congratulations,” really bores me.  (Never mind the fact that the video belongs in the dictionary under “self-important, condescending artist” — what? They removed that entry?)  Parts of the album feel a little too clever to me, for what that’s worth.  I consider the moderately epic semi-ballad “Siberian Breaks” to be a standout; it’s wayward, but lush.  Unfortunately, it did not translate so well to a live, stadium-style performance.  By that point in the show, all the little romper stompers were drunk on bouncier selections like “Kids” and “Time to Pretend,” and they showed insufficient interest in meditations on surfing in Russia.  Fair enough.  A bold move to play the song anyway, I say.  But then they finished their encore on “Congratulations,” which provided me with a fine opportunity to scram and beat the rush.

Details aside, Andrew VanWyngarden’s voice comes through like a needle in a live show. Good on ‘im.

4) The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo - Huh.  Who knew the book would involve so much sexual torture?  (Answer: People who read it.)

Now.  I enjoyed it, I was entertained, I found the resolution reasonably satisfying, etc. The dénouement went on for too long, à la The Return of the King. The writing wasn’t bad, or didn’t seem to be, under the circumstances of translation.  But . . . why this book?  No knocks to Stieg, but well-constructed suspense novels are not so rare that this semi-random selection should set the world aflame.  Is it the “exotic” Swedish setting? Is it society’s fascination with sullen, inked-up antiheroes?  Is it the pretty cover?  Is it the sexual torture?

Whatevs.  I’ll read the other two, but not right now.  Right now, I’m delighted to be able to read something far less recognizable on the subway.  I’m shifting from Swedish sexual torture to Icelandic sexual torture for a while.  You know, to cleanse the palate.

———————————————————————

* To put it mildly.

I have not forgotten the mission put forth in my Post-It post.  But first, a few relevant notes on my trip.

I traveled to Iceland via Icelandair (like you do), and no sooner had I seated myself than I received the following sinister warning from my personal entertainment screen:

Given recent events, there was no question that this message constituted a threat, and for the first time in my life, I was afraid to fly.  I decided that the only way to placate the Great Mel in the Sky was to watch his movie, and so I bypassed such time-tested classics as Mr. Bjarnfreðarson in favor of yet another Gibson revenge epic, in the grand tradition.

Edge of Darkness is one of those Boston-based films that wear their Bostonianness like a pair of creaky leather chaps.  As Hermano has pointed out, movie makers routinely insist that everyone cast in such films make ham-fisted attempts at hardcore Boston accents, no matter how comical, out of the misguided belief that a failed stab at “authenticity” beats a safer film in which people at least sound like real human beings. Perhaps he and I are overly sensitive because we live in Boston — a city in which you can go days at a time without hearing a Boston accent at all, let alone one as galumphing as Mel’s.  If he had just cut himself some slack and gone with some casual, nondenominational American, I think we yahoos still could have grasped, say, the special fraternity that grows among city police officers, or the fierce loyalty of the traditional urban family.

Regardless, each time I was sure that actress Bojana Novakovic (who played Mel’s daughter) was NOT Carey Mulligan, there would be some shot from some angle that made me unsure again.  You can imagine how emotionally draining this was.  Not to mention the fact that The Government and Large Corporations are conspiring to kill us all, in case you have somehow missed this fact after watching . . . pretty much any other Hollywood movie ever.  It’s a wonder you’re not dead already.  (What’s your secret?)

But I successfully completed the film, and Mad Max wreaked no vengeance on my person.  Unless he was responsible for putting me in a middle seat.

In other (more) Icelandic news, I encountered an advertisement for an exciting cultural event in downtown Reykjavik, which I was sadly unable to attend:

Now, obviously you are wondering, “Where can I go to familiarize myself with the musical stylings of Severed Crotch?”  The answer is: here.  I like “Entropy” okay, but on the whole, I think it’s a little smug; it lacks the delicate formulation of “Ecstasy of Death.”  I also want to take a moment to compliment the second band on the list on having found a font that is so righteous as to be largely illegible.  I spent some time with it and ultimately identified it to be GonePostal — or Gone Postal, if you forgive the runny scrawl.  They can be found here, and they are apparently seeking a label, if anyone would like to get in on the ground floor.

Blast, I’ve not posted in a bit, and now it shall have to be a bit more;  I’ll be traveling until mid- next week.

So, this is a Post-It post, a note to self:  Upon return, discuss The Kids Are All Right, A Single Man, and the MGMT concert/album . . . not to mention that damned Girl and her infernal Dragon Tattoo.

Then all will be back on track, I’m just sure of it.

Be well!

The wrong time.
The wrong place.
And a day at the beach becomes . . .
A nightmare.

If Shark Week in hi-def on the Discovery Channel doesn’t call for a tribute playlist, then I can’t imagine what would.

photo credit: petersbar

Mark Farina, “Dropped into Water”

Swim, swim.

This track kicks off the series of unfortunate mishaps that lead us to interface with our sharks.  It’s quirky and jovial — jazzy, even — as befits a tranquil, tropical scenario in which nothing has tried to eat us yet.

Frightened Rabbit, “Swim until You Can’t See Land“

I saw these guys a couple Januarys ago, on a very snowy night in Allston, Mass.  This is not my favorite of their songs, but it’s catchy, and it represents an important part of the adventure:

. . . And a nod to the boredom that drove me here,
To face the tide . . . and swim . . .

O the arrogance of man, driven by boredom to tapdance on danger’s doorstep.  Meanwhile:

Are you a man, or are you a bag of sand?

An important existential question to broach with oneself regularly.

Experimental Dental School, “A Seal is a Shark’s Meal”

I saw these folks live, as well, a couple of years back.  They were opening for Deerhoof, and it was uncomfortably crowded.  But I hung tough because I hated to leave before “+81” (choo choo-choo-choo, beep beep).  Mission accomplished.

A terribly perfunctory, matter-of-fact song, both musically and lyrically.  Expect to be reminded early and often that a seal is, most assuredly, a shark’s meal.

Bonobo, “The Shark“

Clearly reflective of the shark at his emotional baseline.  He’s got nowhere in particular to be, nothing in particular to bite.  He’s moseying, inasmuch as a legless thing can mosey.  And, frankly, he’s having a pretty nice day.

I am now distracted by the thought of a playlist devoted entirely to bonobos.  It would probably consist of a lot of Marvin Gaye.

!!!, “Hammerhead“

I am an absolute sucker for !!! — the sort of music I feel compelled to grunt along with. Based on their groove, they were all but predestined to do a shark-based track.  This one begins with the band’s signature, funked-out vibe — you know the shark is grunting along with it, too — before spinning off into a percussive kerfuffle like a feeding frenzy.

Way Out West, “Sharkhunt“

The shark motif does tend to bring the electronica acts out of the woodwork.  And while I’m not entirely sure this track would be my first choice of accompaniment if I were heading out with my trusty speargun (“Rusty”), it’s a nice, middle-range dance piece (no big, club-incinerating climaxes, but neither is it a chillout mix).

Here’s where we arrive and get all up in the shark’s grill.

Freezepop, “Shark Attack“

Oh, Freezepop.  So perky when describing a potentially threatening scenario!  Although actually, that scenario seems to be a “dangerous” round of Wheel of Fortune, if we pay attention to the lyrics.  We must be ready for the very real possibility that we are now steeped in metaphor.

Regardless, it is clear that the shark has turned the proverbial tables on us.

The Drones, “Shark Fin Blues“

Not the anthem of a Shark Week fan!  Still, bits and pieces of it make for a fine narrative soundtrack to the Discover Channel’s quality programming.

I said, why don’t you get down in the sea,
Turn the water red like you want to be? . . .

Just keep one eye on the horizon, man, you best not blink.
They’re coming fin by fin until the whole boat sinks.

Sounds about right.

PsyShark, “Blue Shark“

It’s clear from this psytrance epic that we are in hazardous waters.  Some of these bloopy sounds suggest we may be running low on oxygen, as well.  The genre isn’t named for nothing; psytrance is a bit like an aural hallucination, crossbred with the melodies of a 1980s Atari game.

Perhaps PsyShark was inspired by this.

Shriekback, “Hammerheads“

Nuts.  According to this song, we have grossly misjudged the situation.  It is, in fact, “the age of the hammerheads,” which are “the darlings of God.”  We are in danger of being eaten, sure, but rejoice!  We have the option of joining their movement and becoming “hammerhead people” to save ourselves.

Yes, yes, hammerheads!  Swimming, kissing.
We are big and clever, and we don’t know anything. . . .

God save hammerheads!  Keeping going,
We are sleek and special, and we’re sure of something.

Not the most message-driven cult, perhaps, but Shriekback’s dark, Laibach-esque ranting in this track has convinced me that the fates are on the hammerheads’ side. Pass me the Kool-Aid (or chum, as it were).

Teenage Tartan Ninja Rampage, “Drown amongst the Deadmen“

A grim synth track.  I hear more danger and uncertainty here than I do a foregone conclusion of death; I’m more inclined to think the shark and I are tussling at this point. And sure, he’s got the teeth, but I’m scrappy, and not to be counted out so early.

Electrelane, “Gone under Sea“

Lively and in French, but don’t be fooled; I’ve disappeared.  I’ve “flowed under the waves,” or something to that general effect.  I underestimated the shark’s right hook.

The Surf Legends, “Can’t Kill the Shark with Coconuts“

No, no, I’m fine.  I poked him in the eye.

A more chipper and whimsical tune.  This is the one you play when you’re back on the boat, sipping a raspberry bellini and chuckling to yourself  in a self-deprecating manner about how foolish you were to try to kill the shark with a coconut.  (You may also be nursing a flesh wound.)  The song includes some happy-go-lucky whistling to drive home the fact that, sometimes, the lesson is worth the loss of limbs.

Tempting though it may be to have another go, “Air Jaws” is on now — that’s the one where the Great Whites come exploding out of the water like aliens out of John Hurt’s chest.  Not to be missed!

*     *     *

photo credit: brownpau

No sooner do I figure out what I think of the Anne Frank graphic novel* than I have to figure out what I think of an Animal Farm musical.   And, while we’re on the subject of classic literature, don’t get me started on the thought of Diablo Cody working on a Sweet Valley Twins screenplay.  I’m exhausted.

But stepping back onto (somewhat) firmer ground: it’s been a bayouful** few days, what with finishing season two of True Blood and season one of Treme.

photo credit: WilsonB

I live my life sans HBO (I know, I’m so brave), so I am reliant on DVDs and the kindness of strangers when it comes to such serial programming.  DVDs took care of the former, and friends Bee and Cray took care of the latter; we gradually watched the whole season of Treme at Bee’s place — often on fittingly sticky evenings — an effort that culminated in a thematic Big Easy finale-feast extravaganza for which Cray made jambalaya and Bee bought Purple Haze beer.  (Lest you think I am merely a leech, I provided French bread, wine, and my winning personality.)

Treme chronicles several New Orleans residents’ life experiences beginning three months after Katrina.  It is not the most jovial series, nor is it particularly up-tempo.  But it is very faithful, both to its characters and to its richly personalized setting.  Most endearingly, several characters are musicians, and hence the episodes feature prolonged musical interludes in the grand Louisiana tradition.  One episode included guest appearances by both McCoy Tyner and Jeff “Tain” Watts — a treat for me, as I have seen both perform live.  Cray, who attended Tulane and has been back to New Orleans as recently as a few weeks ago, tells me the series has done great things for the city, kicking up more tourism and swelling the fan bases of local musicians such as Kermit Ruffins, one of her personal favorites.

The show will be back for another season, although I must admit that it felt like most story lines were wrapped up tidily in the finale of season one.  Still, atmospheric considerations alone lead me to recommend it: join me, simmer in the N’Orleans soup. As a bonus, if you’ve longed to get a look at Steve Zahn’s ass, this is the show for you.

photo credit: DoctorWho

Now to True Blood. I enjoy watching this show, although I’m a bit grumpy with myself about it.  Call me what names you will — I don’t think it’s a very good show.  I haven’t read Charlaine Harris‘s Sookie Stackhouse books, so I can’t comment on those, but I don’t think the show’s plot lines and details are very creative as these trendy supernatural things go — just a bit bloodier.  And while some of the more peripheral performances are good (thumbs up to you, Nelsan Ellis), I find the Paquin/Moyer “chemistry” to be stilted and unnatural.  I didn’t learn until after I’d finished season one that they were really together; oh dear.  Hence, I was not disappointed to hear that they had been “snubbed” by the Academy come Emmy time.  The one thing that absolutely impresses me — and is rightfully nominated — is Digital Kitchen‘s opening sequence for the show; genius!

What makes the intro sequence so successful is how sweatily evocative it is of the show’s best asset: its setting.  Steamy Bon Temps, LA, feels real and reachable; these are excellent shadows from which to be watched.  Evil feels as inescapable as the humidity, and it seems plausible that the forces of light and darkness might square off here with little attention from elsewhere in the world.

Another round of kudos goes to: the soundtrack.  Good in season one, great in season two.  I am particularly tickled by Chuck Prophet’s “You Did (Bomp Shooby Dooby Bomp).”  Nice stuff.  The same goes for Jace Everett’s and CC Adcock’s bump-and-grind masterpiece “Evil (Is Going On).”  Love, as always, to Eels for “Fresh Blood.”

———————————————-

* I guess it’s fine.

** Definitely a word.

A playlist tribute to our beloved li’l LiLo during this, her last weekend of freedom.  It’s the least I can do.

————————————————————————————-

Filter, “My Long Walk to Jail“

Oh, the angst!  Some hearty accompaniment for any last-ditch begging or foot-stamping fits that might make their way into Entertainment Tonight. This is a robust tune to which I find myself micro-thrashing a bit in my living room.  (There’s no shame in it!) And in spite of the decidedly badass nature of the vocals and instrumentals, the lyrics suggest a marginally repentant attitude.  That’s the spirit, Filter!  Accept your comeuppance with grace and humility!

The Postal Service, “This Place is a Prison“

Woe, for this is the cautionary appeal no one made to a certain starlet back in the day — a recognition of the prison before the prison, if we may be momentarily tropological.

This place is a prison,
And this people aren’t your friends,
Inhaling thrills through $20 bills . . .
And the tumblers are drained and then flooded again
And again.

Ben Gibbard could have been a good friend to Lindsay in the days of yore.  But alas, it’s too late.

Was (Not Was), “Dad, I’m in Jail“

This track is like the great, sinister harbinger of Beavis & Butt-Head. And, all things considered, it’s remarkably upbeat!  A nice piece for when our — cough — heroine needs some psyching up, perhaps; this fellow seems to have nothing but good things to say about his experience!

I might never have known this “tune” (meeting it halfway, really) if it hadn’t been for Pump Up the Volume, so many moons ago.  Of course, I could say the same about the Pixies, Leonard Cohen, Concrete Blonde, Sonic Youth . . . .

Lo Fidelity Allstars, “Will I Get Out of Jail?“

Oh dear, a bit of a mood change here.

The time has come.
Certain death,
One last breath.

***

Oh, your majesty,
What a travesty
It is to be alive.

Is there no hope for our young inmate amidst these sluggish beats?

Ren Fetti, “Fuck Jail“

Dude!  I know, right??

This one actually kicks off with a nice, inspiring, Mel Gibson-style “FREEDOM!”  (Now, please make the comment of your choosing about the things Mel has taken to yelping these days.)  But it sounds like FREEDOM is just a pipe dream for Mr. Fetti:

Six years in the pen.
In the day room,
We went from boys to men,
Made a shank out of gray spoon.

This track deals more with the minutiae of day-to-day life in the clink: the cells, the drugs, the phone calls, the “nasty-ass showers,” the painful fact that “if your family ain’t there, it’ll make you feel neglected,” the option of becoming someone’s bitch.  A helpful primer, if you will, to be kept handy.

M. Ward, “Jailbird“

First the tirade, then the despair.  Like a country boy strummin’ from a porch swing on a hot summer’s day, M. paints a picture of a grim state of affairs: loneliness, the world turning away . . . and the hangman, hangman, knocking on the door.  Although when it comes to the question of who is going to hear Lindsay’s “help me, help me” now, my guess is . . . The Insider?  InTouch Weekly?  The Soup?

The Russian Futurists, “Pine Prisonyard”

Well, this one is perkier.  At least, it is until yet another singer (apparently) dies two thirds of the way through.  But he doesn’t seem that broken up about it.  And I hibernate in icy caves, and in the spring I’m dead. . . . Yep, just another pesky obstacle  to be overcome.

Different kind of prison, too: the heart.  A deep, rich, wildly overused metaphor that I shall magnanimously forgive.

It’s a little repetitive, though, musically speaking.  A little annoying.  Yes, I’m definitely annoyed.  Moving on.

Neko Case, “Prison Girls“

Nothing so uplifting in the lyrics, but the song’s drive and Neko’s voice are so unflinching that one might easily draw grim determination from them.  On the other hand, Neko seems to be singing about the prison girls, not from among the prison girls. Probably easier to refrain from flinching on the outside.

Messages aside, I dig this song mightily, if I may say (and I think I may).  So uncompromising.  The dame’s got moxie.

The Dropkick Murphys, “Jailbreak“

No, Lindsay!  I know the Murphys make it sound cool; dangit, they make everything sound cool!  But they’ll have a vast network of Southie Irish blood brothers helping them to shake the fuzz, and all you’ve got is Joan Rivers.  No one else is going to agree to be within a hundred miles of you.

Creed, “My Own Prison“

That’s better; back to mopey acceptance.  And the boys of Creed are master mopers.

Johnny Cash, “Folsom Prison Blues“

A classic, and not just because it inspired generations to update their respective Facebook statuses to “Beppo Jamalski shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”  If only Johnny were still with us; he might come striding into the Century Regional Detention Center in Lynwood, California, six-string slung over his shoulder, and serve Lindsay Lohan a little slice of hope.

ON THE SUBWAY:

Daft Punk is playing Yankees Stadium this summer, and I REEEEALLY want to go.  They — What?  Why is that terrible??

After suffering terrible insomnia out of fear that, by not yet having read the Stieg Larsson trilogy, I might be deemed ineligible to participate in Life as We Know It, and after suffering a prosaic working day of peevishness and malaise, I finished yesterday with an evening of small pleasures.

First, as I caught up on So You Think You Can Dance to Yet Another Róisín Murphy Song via my DVR, I was tickled to see a routine set to The Atomic Fireballs’ Man with the Hex — even if it was the danged quick step.  I had all but forgotten about that song; its charm is not limited to its merciless throwback to Labyrinth, but let us not pretend that doesn’t help.

Heh.  Goblins.

Then, as I made my way out to a local dive bar (actually more of a bellyflop bar, if we’re honest) called the Cantab Lounge to see some local jazz/funk/blues bands (The Jazzadelic Organ Trio, The Rollo Tomasi Quartet, and Mike the Spike, since you asked), I passed the park that is quite close to my home.  More of a parklet, really.  Or maybe a median strip.  Anyway.  El parquito shows free movies on Thursdays in the summertime, and last night’s was Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, which is obviously awesome.*  I passed by just as Pee-Wee was urging Simone to follow her dreams while they sat in the big dinosaur.  It pleased me.

Then there was the live show itself.  In the Cantab’s downstairs venue (“Club Bohemia,” if you will), one quickly notices a bit of writing on a pipe above the small stage (featured below in tandem with the RTQ):

Should one approach, as your trusty glutton did, it would reveal itself to be the following:

Now, given the recent, most undignified heat wave, not to mention the aforementioned bellyfloppiness of the bar, I became momentarily alarmed that the AC was going to cut out any minute and plunge all who were present into despair.  But it didn’t.  Further, the featured bands all proved themselves to be entirely cool, so no hazards there.  I suppose the words were just a simple advertisement for this band.  But I prefer to let the little pipe message remain a slightly ominous, slightly enjoyable gray area.

Finally, there was treat of the shirt being worn by the RTQ bass player:

And if you don’t know why that is awesome, stop wasting your time here and go catch up.

A postscript piece of joy that is kicking off my weekend: tonight I set my DVR for a little morsel on the Discovery Channel called “Moose Attack!”  Much like “Extreme Poodles,” this title gave me no choice.

———————————————————————-

* I was less forthcoming with my praise when I first saw it in the theater.  Being that I was six, I was not prepared for the full force of Large Marge.**  In fact, I believe I may have been inconsolable for a good 20 minutes after.

** But now, of course, I know that Large Marge is the most awesome part of all.