The Toys R Us by the Valley Mall is, by and large, weaksauce. This is less the fault of the store as it is of the toy industry in general. Too many plastic guns, WWE belts and Bratz. Don't even get me started on the "updated" board games: Monopoly with plastic cards instead of paper bills; Trouble replacing the "Pop-o-matic" dice bubble with number cards. Unthinkable, this world.
It felt every bit of the 36 degrees that various bank clocks insisted when Patrick eased his Honda into a parking space mid-lot. Only an extraordinary siren call could pull us from first a warm bed, then a warm car.
We took our spots in line along the front of the building, fifteenth and sixteenth bodies respectively. Directly in front of us were two older men with firefighter moustaches, one with a Boston accent and the other wearing shorts. Meanwhile everyone else is bundled up in thick coats. The people in the very front came off as white trash with white collars, and they all seemed to have familiarity beyond the expected bonding of people who've shared extensive time in a waiting line. Thankfully, they never attempted to engage us, save for the guy who proclaimed to any and all, "Does anyone want any peanuts? 'Cause we're all nuts!" Hilarity, thy name is...whatever that guy's name is.
Also tickling: the people who arrived right after us. Just a mother and two young sons. It was unspectacular until the mom--who looked rather like an anorexic Billie Jean King--asked me some pointed questions: how long has the people up in front been here? How many units is the store stocking?
I gave honest answers. The woman who represented the head of our snake had been there since 7 PM last night. (She was in a cloth folding chair wearing a large hooded coat that practically swallowed her upper body, giving the impression from a distance of a pair of legs propped up on a seat.) Further, I had heard rumors of anywhere from 10 to 40 Wii's being available. I believed not one of those figures I'd heard, and even took care to tell the woman this in a disclaiming "purple monkey dishwasher" tone.
After brief conference with her boys, she led them back to the car, off into that decent morning.
The temperature and tedium teamed to birth typical "J and P Show" shenanigans as we stood there waiting to find out the extent of our luck. Peering through the store windows became a much more enjoyable distraction than, say, gazing at the line or surveying the Valley Mall to the left.
"Look up at the top shelf. It's a Vader head. I want a Darth Vader head. A Wii and a Vader head."
"I think it's a pinata!"
"Hold your wee for a Wii. Remember that? Genius. Like a kid's worth that. 'I believe the children are the future/Teach them well and let them hold their own damn urine'."
I did in fact semi-croon that last part, but kept it soft enough so I didn't entertain/annoy beyond my intended audience. Some people though, they just can't help it.
It started at a quarter to eight. That classically peeving blare of a car alarm. Most of us in line--by that swollen to fifty bodies--were little more than bemused. After three minutes of constant scree, however, the poor car owner's problem took on "$100,000 grand prize on America's Funniest Videos" status. (I was totally ready for the small dog a couple in line brought with them to break off in a mad dash and knock over one of the kids waiting with mommy and/or daddy.) Silently, save for a few throaty chuckles, we watched as the driver fumbled first underneath the wheel, then finally under the hood. His ministrations resulted in aggravation rather than abeyance, however, as the alarm now bleated forth in a polka-esque rhythm. The end finally came when a Good Samaritan shed from the line and went over to assist. From beginning to end, the saga of Car Alarm Guy took ten minutes. Six hundred seconds closer to a Wii.
After 8, two red-shirted employees came out to exalted fanfare. They passed out tickets that would be handed in at the register for a Wii console. Once Patrick had it in his hands, my shoulders and back lost all tension, a palpable release that allowed me to breathe in the refreshing properties of the chilled air rather than guard against it.
Everyone in that line got a Wii. The store had 99 for sale, more than enough for every single person outside. Big fat Darwin Award to Billie Jean King and her sons.
They took customers in groups of five at a time. What a joy it was to step in a warm store and get what we came for. Well, almost. No Super Mario Galaxy or Twilight Princess or Wario Warez, but we did pick up the Wii Play (a bargain with the extra Wii-mote).
I'm pleased to say that based off of nothing more than two rudimentary sporting games, the Wii is a fantastic investment. I have a basic-ass Sony 23-inch TV to put the sensor bar atop, and the controls respond wonderfully.
Wii Sports comes with the console, and offers baseball, golf, tennis, bowling and boxing. Tennis is my runaway favorite, where you operate both players in a doubles match. The Wii-mote is sensitive enough to demand you treat it like a real racket, not just flail wildly. Boxing provides maybe the best overall workout, as it is the only game to require both the nunchuk and remote. Golf is, well, as infuriatingly addictive as its real-life counterpart.
Wii Play is nine short games designed to familiarize the player with the controls. The standouts are the shooting stage (Duck Hunt meets Hogan's Alley) and the billiards stage. For brain games, try Patrick's favorite, wherein you match a contorted "Mii" figure inside descending bubbles. Challenging!
To make the day even greater, later on that afternoon the family got together at my oldest sister's house to throw a surprise party for my mother on her 69th birthday. All the kids pitched in to buy her a round trip air ticket to her hometown of Louisville, where the majority of her sisters and brothers still live. This was her first birthday without her husband, so it meant the world to make her smile.
Nintendo Wii Hagerstown
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Enter the Wii-Tang: 36 Chambers--Approaching the Dojo
Oh mighty Wii...fifth console in Nintendo's world-altering history. So innovative, with the Wii-mote and "nunchuk" controllers demanding actual physical involvement, creating an nearly un-American situation for the average red-white-and-blue gamer, what with standing whilst playing being a frequent requirement for optimum play.
Oh mighty Wii...how dare you be $250 bucks in a world where Sony is hemorrhaging money with a Playstation 3 asking price of $600?
A dearth of the system--in Hagerstown and virtually everywhere else--was to be expected, as consoles of any considerable appeal will be popular for the holidays. Add in the recent release of Super Mario Galaxy, the latest stunner in a legendary series, and the demand for these light white barbarians in Kali's realm was comparable to that which met its initial launch. It was, in fact, the enduring Plumber of Salvation that spurred Patrick and I to participate in something I had previously never taken part in: waiting in the early morning frigid cold for a goddamn video game console. (Patrick had experience in this area several years ago re: Star Wars prequel toys, even getting a quote in the Washington Post. I'd post a scan of the article, but Patrick is experiencing reconciliation difficulties with his young nerdy days of sour cream and onion and roses.)
It started in a kiosk at the EB Games in the Valley Mall. As we walked by the store, I chanced to glance a young man in front of a station holding the telltale nunchuk. Neither 'Trick or myself had ever laid hands on a Wii before, salivating from afar. After a few minutes more shopping, the barrier was breached--only to find that an even more youthful male had taken the place of the previous figure I'd witnessed in thrall to the game onscreen. Said game being the game--Super Mario Galaxy.
It was jointly exciting and exasperating to stand behind this boy--no more than 6 years old--and gaze on as he stumbled his way through a title that held little more for his young mind than bright colors, constant motion, jaunty audio and lots of jumping. I'm not saying he was just bashing buttons and wasting time, but the learning curve is certainly a tad steeper for the small steppers, and the big children (ahem) were chomping at the bit with teeth fine-honed from years of gameplay. After a few more minutes, the lad put down the controllers and picked up his heavy orange jacket from the carpeted EB floor. Almost instantly, then, Patrick swooped in and took over, not even allowing the slightest possibility for intrusion on our rightful space.
Each of us took turns approximately 5 minutes in length. This was more than sufficient to cement SMG as a must-have gaming experience, and thus, the Wii as a necessity. The combined factors of price, improved titles, and quick comfort with the unique controls left little choice. As I did Patrick one better and mastered the trampoline jump, he went up front to inquire on the Wii.
"He said they'll have them in Black Friday, and they open at 6."
This seemed dandy, if a ways off. I mean, six whole friggin' days. Mere moments after Patrick had returned to the kiosk (right after I had blasted Mario off into outer space for more gravity-defying adventures), a woman's voice piped gently behind us.
"Are you looking for the Wii?"
It was an older woman, in her early sixties perhaps, free of gray and stoop, but possessed nonetheless of that intangible quality of certain elderly citizens which suggests that they keep Polaroid pictures of their unsuspecting neighbors in Wal-Mart bags hidden in a locked treasure chest draped with a homemade Washington Redskins quilt. Not crazy, exactly, but rather intensely unorthodox in the face of death.
"Toys R Us will be selling them tomorrow at seven o'clock", she continued, keeping her voice low enough for just the three of us. She then continued on her way, checking out the games for sale on the nearby wall. There was no moment of epiphany between Patrick and I just then, however, as I was preoccupied with the wonder of Mario walking down and around the sides of celestial bodies.
Finally, I was killed off by incidental contact with caterpillar ass. How humiliating!
In the car ride home, Sonic Youth's Goo blasting, it was mutually decided that we should partake in this upcoming madness. We should damn well go to Toys R Us and stand out for at least a couple hours in the testes-freezing western Maryland weather with freaks we don't know from a paint can for the (possible) privilege of getting face-mushed and lung-punched by some mother of three who really should have shown the same vim, vigor and determination to using birth control.
"We have to try."
So we would.
Nintendo Wii Hagerstown Super Mario Galaxy
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
The Peanuts holy trinity of holiday specials goes, chronologically: A Charlie Brown Christmas, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Speaking in terms of quality, it's probably accurate to say that conventional wisdom would leave the order unaltered. While I won't disagree, I emphatically state that the gap between first and second seems to shrink every time I watch this Halloween standard.
Both are fresh takes on hoary traditions, suffused with imitable animation, quotable lines, and homey soundtracks that settle sweetly into that nook in the brain that houses the memories of how damn tasty a cup of cocoa is in the winter, and how goddamn good an accompanying dish of piping-hot apple crisp is too.
Two factors help swell the Great Pumpkin's thumb:
1. The titular blockhead is utterly outshone by his needy pal, Linus. It is Linus who conjures up this "Great Pumpkin", thus setting himself and his faith up for brutal peer admonition.
2. This special creates an icon. The "Great Pumpkin" concept--while clearly borrowing from Santa Claus--was a beautifully delineated absurdity that has stuck in our pop culture, referenced from squeaky-clean soccer moms to foul-mouthed parodists. It added to the lexicon, and that can never be ignored.
AIRDATE: 10/27/66
STORY: Linus is skipping "tricks or treats" to reside over a "most sincere" pumpkin patch. His mission: prove worthy of the "Great Pumpkin", a fantastic fruit god who blesses the faithful with goodies. The other kids, gearing up for a night of free candy and unsupervised partying, are far from open-minded. The single exception is Sally, as much a sucker as any treat passed out that night. She can't resist the urge to stay by Linus, her unrequited crush. Big mistake. When the Pumpkin pulls a George Jones, Sally goes apoplectic trying to reconcile the reality of having spent the night in a pumpkin patch waiting for some apparent benevolent wonder of the world that she only just found out about while her friends gorged and had a general blast. 10
Also, Snoopy takes flight.
MUSIC: Cozy, autumnal cues coat the action like caramel on a stuck apple. Classy to the point of wearing a monocle, the pinnacle actually comes at the start. Linus and Lucy trot out to grab a pumpkin as their namesake tune bubbles beneath. What makes it so outstanding is the addition of a path-skipping flute to the familiar track, popping up at the conclusion of each piano "riff". One rarely goes wrong with flutes, friends. Big fat 10.
MUSIC: Cozy, autumnal cues coat the action like caramel on a stuck apple. Classy to the point of wearing a monocle, the pinnacle actually comes at the start. Linus and Lucy trot out to grab a pumpkin as their namesake tune bubbles beneath. What makes it so outstanding is the addition of a path-skipping flute to the familiar track, popping up at the conclusion of each piano "riff". One rarely goes wrong with flutes, friends. Big fat 10.
ANIMATION: Vastly improved from the debut, though still flawed, perfect use is made of color, namely in the depictions of trees, leaves and skies. Whether watercolor or painstakingly precise pencil work I do not know--masterful rendering of fall hues, regardless. 10
VOICES: Peter Robbins and Christoper Shea reprise their Christmas gigs, to the tune of 10. Each boy even expands on their respective niches, with Charlie Brown now showing emotions other than raw despair and Linus revealing another side too. The boy who can conjure phantom spotlights as he delivers a pitch-perfect Scripture recitation now comes to our screen immediately as a feckless young boy, who picks up a fallen apple from the ground, takes one hearty bite, and then tosses the tempting fruit in a nearby trash can. That's just disgusting. He also shows disregard for leaves, shown once kicking a pile and then taking a running leap into a carefully-raked pile, scattering the poor castaways every which way once more. Which is why I'm not really buying his horror over the dead pumpkin.
Lucy and Sally are 10's as well. (And how mildly dear that Lucy's voice is done by Sally Dyer.) Lucy is punchy and bitchy, yet somehow still inviting, but Kathy Steinberg's Sally is a riotous joy. From innocent devotion in the face of her myth-spouting beau, to her ambivalence over dressing up ("I wouldn't want to be accused of taking part in a rumble"), to losing her shit when she realizes the unavoidable no-win situation that arises when a young girl places her trust in a boy whose fabrication of a pre-Christmas gift-lord is the only thing keeping him from setting fires, this is the best Sally you will ever hear. Fergie can suck it. There are so many words stretched out to the snapping point, so many sentences rife with the pauses of prepubescent development, that rooting for this little lady is like rooting for Brett Favre's knees to give out.
Gail and Lisa DeFaria do Pigpen and Patty (7.5 and 8) while two kids do double duty: Glenn Mendelson for Schroeder and Shermy (a 7; how's that for alliteration?) and Ann Altieri for Violet and Frieda. She gets an 8 solely off delivering a laugh of halting malice when teasing Linus in the patch. It's like someone you shared a cell with has just come back from a week of nonstop torture and deprivation, and now they're overjoyed to know that you'll get yours too.
I GOT A POPCORN BALL
Lucy and Sally are 10's as well. (And how mildly dear that Lucy's voice is done by Sally Dyer.) Lucy is punchy and bitchy, yet somehow still inviting, but Kathy Steinberg's Sally is a riotous joy. From innocent devotion in the face of her myth-spouting beau, to her ambivalence over dressing up ("I wouldn't want to be accused of taking part in a rumble"), to losing her shit when she realizes the unavoidable no-win situation that arises when a young girl places her trust in a boy whose fabrication of a pre-Christmas gift-lord is the only thing keeping him from setting fires, this is the best Sally you will ever hear. Fergie can suck it. There are so many words stretched out to the snapping point, so many sentences rife with the pauses of prepubescent development, that rooting for this little lady is like rooting for Brett Favre's knees to give out.
Gail and Lisa DeFaria do Pigpen and Patty (7.5 and 8) while two kids do double duty: Glenn Mendelson for Schroeder and Shermy (a 7; how's that for alliteration?) and Ann Altieri for Violet and Frieda. She gets an 8 solely off delivering a laugh of halting malice when teasing Linus in the patch. It's like someone you shared a cell with has just come back from a week of nonstop torture and deprivation, and now they're overjoyed to know that you'll get yours too.
I GOT A POPCORN BALL
--"Notarize your documents" is the new, "Diversify your bonds".
--Charlie Brown, still getting no love. Pigskin denied, head used as a jack o' lantern model, "I got a rock". Whoever doesn't get that last reference whenever it is properly evoked, they're not stupid. They're just unfortunate, and must be enlightened. Chuck's lament, echoed throughout the journey from door to door, works for any situation in which one's expectation of something grand instead turns out to be something wretchedly undesirable.
--Today, the pumpkin...tomorrow, the delicate flesh between Schroeder's shoulder blades.
--Snoopy as the World War One Flying Ace.
It starts off as his costume, an eye-popping ensemble when one considers the sad little conformity of the others. It explodes into violent imagination and imaginary violence with a battle against the Red Baron. Atop his doghouse/plane, Snoopy loops and whirls, plummets and ascends, as his craft is strafed with merciless enemy fire and the skies behind him (and then he himself) shift snaring colors: yellow to clouded blue to orange to purple to blue to red. Snoopy is the doomed hero immaculately, from his resigned salute to his unceremonious ejection into a dog dish.
--Charlie Brown, still getting no love. Pigskin denied, head used as a jack o' lantern model, "I got a rock". Whoever doesn't get that last reference whenever it is properly evoked, they're not stupid. They're just unfortunate, and must be enlightened. Chuck's lament, echoed throughout the journey from door to door, works for any situation in which one's expectation of something grand instead turns out to be something wretchedly undesirable.
--Today, the pumpkin...tomorrow, the delicate flesh between Schroeder's shoulder blades.
--Snoopy as the World War One Flying Ace.
It starts off as his costume, an eye-popping ensemble when one considers the sad little conformity of the others. It explodes into violent imagination and imaginary violence with a battle against the Red Baron. Atop his doghouse/plane, Snoopy loops and whirls, plummets and ascends, as his craft is strafed with merciless enemy fire and the skies behind him (and then he himself) shift snaring colors: yellow to clouded blue to orange to purple to blue to red. Snoopy is the doomed hero immaculately, from his resigned salute to his unceremonious ejection into a dog dish.
(I can't get enough Snoopy saluting; he goes especially fuckin' nuts with it in the Thanksgiving special. To appropriate a quote from Tami during Real World LA: "It wasn't not funny!")
The ensuing scenes with Snoopy in furtive exploration of "France" are just awesome (love the steam whistle in the background too)--
Just one thing. We are transferred to Snoopy's literal flight of fantasy to illustrate Charlie Brown's replying to Lucy as to the beagle's whereabouts. Why, then, does blockhead continue to narrate the action? "Here's the World War One Flying Ace in the French countryside." He clearly can't be telling that to Lucy, as she is not watching the action to need its context--so he is telling us. Awkward, but understandable for the kiddies.
The Ace's tale continues to the party (yeah, I know there's no way he could have slipped unnoticed into that tub of water. He did anyway. He's fucking Snoopy, not Mickey Mouse). The greatest laughs come when he breaks out into a space-conscious dance routine to Schroeder's jaunty "Long Way to Tipperary" (peep the pearlys on the upbeats)...and then collapses from dejection as the music switches to the solemn "There's a Long, Long Trail A-Windin'".
Concluding with the scene that inspired figurines and shirts, the moment that features a slide whistle effect so perfect that I want to say screw this screen capture, how could it dare to boast it is the butter on your breakfast toast. But here it is. Here it is!
Linus, you freakin' licorice-head.
--Charles Schulz went from intense identification with Christianity to secular humanism. The passion of Linus towards a "greater entity" that will honor "the most sincere" is a loving portrait of a wise, searching little boy ("We are obviously separated by denominational differences") whose hopes are put in a touchstone uniquely his own and also a jab at anything that would cause a little boy to sacrifice what should be a due night of junky treats and boisterous interaction with friends just to freeze his loyal ass off.
--Get meta, it pays.
I GOT A ROCK
The ensuing scenes with Snoopy in furtive exploration of "France" are just awesome (love the steam whistle in the background too)--
Just one thing. We are transferred to Snoopy's literal flight of fantasy to illustrate Charlie Brown's replying to Lucy as to the beagle's whereabouts. Why, then, does blockhead continue to narrate the action? "Here's the World War One Flying Ace in the French countryside." He clearly can't be telling that to Lucy, as she is not watching the action to need its context--so he is telling us. Awkward, but understandable for the kiddies.
The Ace's tale continues to the party (yeah, I know there's no way he could have slipped unnoticed into that tub of water. He did anyway. He's fucking Snoopy, not Mickey Mouse). The greatest laughs come when he breaks out into a space-conscious dance routine to Schroeder's jaunty "Long Way to Tipperary" (peep the pearlys on the upbeats)...and then collapses from dejection as the music switches to the solemn "There's a Long, Long Trail A-Windin'".
Concluding with the scene that inspired figurines and shirts, the moment that features a slide whistle effect so perfect that I want to say screw this screen capture, how could it dare to boast it is the butter on your breakfast toast. But here it is. Here it is!
Linus, you freakin' licorice-head.
--Charles Schulz went from intense identification with Christianity to secular humanism. The passion of Linus towards a "greater entity" that will honor "the most sincere" is a loving portrait of a wise, searching little boy ("We are obviously separated by denominational differences") whose hopes are put in a touchstone uniquely his own and also a jab at anything that would cause a little boy to sacrifice what should be a due night of junky treats and boisterous interaction with friends just to freeze his loyal ass off.
--Get meta, it pays.
I GOT A ROCK
--When Sally reads Linus the 23rd chapter of the Riot Act in the patch post the great non-attendance, she bemoans missing out on "apples and gum and cookies and money and all sorts of things!" Did kids actually once upon a glorious time get money when they tricked and/or treated? Was it in fact I who was gypped on all those Halloweens?
--This program did not win an Emmy; the only of the main holiday specials to go statueless. Unthinkable! This gets the Trapper Jenn score of 9.5, classic status by any standard. If you don't have it, get it. If you don't get it, have at it.
Peanuts Snoopy Great Pumpkin
Peanuts Snoopy Great Pumpkin
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Richard Branson Is Probably an "Only Built 4 Cuban Linx..." Type o' Guy
For the second straight year, Baltimore's Pimlico Race Course hosted the Virgin Festival, the musical clusterfuck birthed from the "transformational" smooth noodle atlas of pillionaire Richard Branson. For the first year, Patrick and I attended.
Waking 'round 6:30, we wasted precious little even more precious time with driving to the Old Court Metro station, then on to the Rogers Ave. station, where a bus was ready to shuttle crackers off. The morning of that Sunday was sunny yet mild. Unfooled, Patrick packed plenty sunblock.
The area surrounding Pimlico is typical "walk-brisk" Balto, with bummy storefronts and bus stop derelicts who acknowledge you only to insult you. The line is mainly younger folk, a lot with the yellow "two-day pass" wristband, and a distressing amount of Panic! At the Disco shirts.
A little after 10 AM, they started permitting folks entrance, with all flesh split into three unequal lines: those with VIP status (oh word to you, crab cake buffet and all no doubt), those with two-day passes, and those with tix for Sunday only. Finances were not the only reason we skipped out on the opening days aural pleasures. Get a gander at some of the acts on display that day: Fountains of Wayne, Amy Winehouse, Incubus, Modest Mouse. All ranging from boring to annoying to worse than rapists. The only bands that caught my eye were TV On the Radio and the reunited Police. The Beastie Boys played also, and I'm sure Adam Yauch's vocals were not only crystal clear, but that his lyrical flow was totally on-beat. Was Beastie wifey Kathleen Hanna in attendance as well, berating the sexist nature of something on site? Gee I sure hope so. Keep it real, Kathleen, since you don't seem to be doing much else.
"Bags will be searched!" Or, bags will be opened, a small flashlight shone into them, and no side pockets looked into at all. The Dimebag Darrell Memorial Security Team on hand, then?
Traversing the "venue" with a little under 2 hours before time of show was like trudging amid the nation's premier endless community yard sale. Scores of booths lined the east and west sides of the course, offering up music (Virgin Megastore had their own tent, with vinyl even), environmental info (Virgin Fest prides itself on being "green"; so does Bonnaroo, but in a different sense), and of course, FOODRINKFOOD. Pitas to gyros to crab cakes, pizza and burgers, even quesadillas and smoothies. Surely if one could not find a repast to satiate them, they were just way too picky to actually step foot outside the basement apartment they're about to get kicked out of anyway.
Making Virgin super-user-friendly was the presence of water fountains. Fest goers were allowed to bring no more than 2 factory-sealed water bottles in with them, which they could they refill to their li'l hearts content at said fountains. For those who get dehydrated with a notorious haste (um, that would be me), this was the kind of innovation that could prove to be an unparalleled Jebus-send.
After acclimation with the area, we found chairs in the "shade tent" nearest the North Stage, the larger of the two main stages. Whilst waiting for the days music to commence, time was passed with the guzzling of H20, the scarfing of a delightfully delicious lamb gyro (I can't even remember what that sauce is called, but oohhhhhh was it ever a fantastic treat for the tongue; EDIT: Patrick has informed me it is called "Tzatziki"), T-shirt-spotting (two Wu-Tang, one Mudhoney, two Dino Jr, two Smashing P "Zero" classics--which Corgan probably even thinks is laughable nowadays--and two goddamn Sonic Youth shirts. Hey Thurston Moore, you love Charm City, why don't you fuckin' bring your band 'round here to play then?! HUH? Wedding in Glen Burnie, my ass!), and smirking amusedly as two guys from the Trojan Condoms booth came over to the tent to dispense free sperm-oppressors. Wonder if it's policy to have the scumbags handed out by dudes who look as though they have very few opportunities to use them.
Someone had the brilliant idea of having a scroller over the stage to display fan text messages. Given a public forum, brilliance was inevitable--
"PANIC! IS THE BEST BAND OF THE WHOLE WEEKEND!!"
"PETER S. RULES!"
"TODAY IS THE GREATEST! ITS MY 33RD BIRTHDAY AND I'M STAYING UP FRONT ALL DAY FOR THE PUMPKINS"
And then there was the actual genius that snuck through--
"GZA SAYS DIVERSIFY YOUR BONDS"
"MUAH SNOOPY"
"PEANUTS AND SNOOPY?!"
Stayed seated near the North Stage for over two hours, by the end of which my bones felt battered. Yeah, nothing quite like sitting for 120 minutes with very little superfluous movement in 90-plus degree weather to tire one out.
CSS played first, prickly dance music for a smallish but still basically enthused crowd. They sounded tight and French, and even convinced security to let 3 festival goers dressed head to toe as trees onstage with the band to dance ("our own Destiny's Child").
Did a cover of L7's "Pretend We're Dead"! Man...L7 have almost been completely forgotten. Thanks CSS for remembering.
Apparently, they want beef with United Airlines. To the point of sucking on helium and proclaiming "Fuck United Airlines!" with predictably gut-busting results. For the scoop, check this link.
Regina Spektor came on to a gleeful gaggle of shrieking females utterly bewitched by her lilting vocals and delicate piano. She reminded me of how Chan Marshall would be if said chanteuse exuded beatitude as opposed to a beat attitude. Decent, especially when she started out acapella making a "drumbeat" by tapping a finger against the ball of the microphone; whatever that mariachi-style shit she was doing midway through, holy crap, never do that anywhere again ever.
The performance of Spoon brought me into better spirits for a few reasons: they reminded us of our friend up in Manhattan who works for Nasty Little Man, the band's publicity machine, and who told us she may be there at the fest in full-on work mode; I am a longtime fan of the band, and Patrick was just recently turned onto them through their latest release, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga; theirs would be the final show to sit through before actually standing and walking like a couple of Rory Calhouns to the South Stage.
Well, the Spoon boys sounded fantastic, and I can't help but imagine (hope?) that they won over lots of folks with their gentlemanly execution of a stellar setlist highlighted by "Don't Make Me a Target." That song's chorus should be bellowed by every fucker watching. Oh, Britt, you is a dreamsicle. Patrick is summarily impressed. "I hope they come by the 9:30 Club, I want to see them in a smaller venue. They sound really good."
We would miss the next two acts at the North Stage: Panic! (are you fucking serious) and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who Patrick was curious to see again, but well...you'll see.
By the time we took our ice cream treats down with us on the ground, Explosions in the Sky were into their set. As with the first time I saw them, they did the drone-to-crunch stuff magnificently, even if all told their presence on the bill stuck out like a cold sore. My general weariness and discomfort was actually well-served by their elongated harmonics.
The crowd, which had been rather respectful for Explosions, exploded for Bad Brains. Opening with "I Against I", are you serious. Ridiculous. Spazmatic dramatic all-the-way magic. HR was the sagely-blissed shaman as the entire band ravaged the stage with sheer sound (cannot give enough props to their soundman with the Nationals cap). With only a couple of reggae tracks thrown into the setlist, this was a pleasantly thrashing performance that whipped up a ferociously retarded moshpit in the middle of a crowd vomiting up crowd surfers by the dozens. (Thank you, festival screens, for giving those of us in the back premo shots of what we're too fucking old to try and deal with.) Finally, they made possible the wonderful sight, some 12 feet in front of me, of a 30-something dude in a backwards brown ball cap, dancing and singing and taking mad hits. I leaned over to Patrick: "Weed--making white people think they can dance since the beginning of time."
Look, I know we could have caught a half hour of the YYY's before Wu Tang Clan. I knew it then, I know it now. I regret nothing. I regret that I had to see all these poorly-tattooed shirtless wonderboys around us, rather. Great back job, dude. I bet you just live for the scorching days of summer when you can show off that...whatever it is. Says something about something against a backdrop of something else.
Directly in front of us on the ground was a father/mother/teen daughter group. The pops looked like a former hippie who still had his long hair, sloppy dress sense and facial hair, with an added middle aged paunch; the mom, she was no doubt from that era too, just add 20 more pounds; and the girl I imagined raised in a lasseiz-faire type household, exposed to cooler music earlier on, and encouraged towards chemical experimentation by her "with-it" parents, if not in fact given Weed 101 courses in the basement.
The 'rents had a brown grocery sack fulla Maryland's finest crabs (yes, some dude there was selling the little fuckers) that didn't last long. Not 'cause they scarfed 'em; the bottom of the bag gave out and sent slimy orange-red crustaceans onto the grass. They were salvaged by the mama's retrieval of a stronger plastic bag, thankfully. I woulda wept to witness those critters die twice.
Wu-Tang were 15 minutes late. Which means they were on time, basically. I liked the two dudes behind me having what I'm sure they fancied as a funny conversation:
"Why aren't there any musical instruments on the stage?"
"'Cause, uh, they don't know how to play any? They aren't talented enough?"
"And yet they're famous musicians! Imagine that."
The screens flashed an amazing sight: Richard fuckin' Branson up in the VIP scaffolding, waiting for the Wu. Unreal! I had to give dude balls for actually coming to his festival (as opposed to just treating it like another investment) and credit for seeing fucking Wu fucking Tang.
The only hip hop act we've seen multiple times (this making our second), the entire Clan minus Masta Killa--and I cannot be the only one wondering what the hell he had going on in his life that could supersede this gig--took the stage to a massive, and massively adoring, crowd that was only 95% white people. In Baltimore! I had a black dude next to me with his white gal buddy who just could not "believe I am seeing Wu Tang, they're actually here, oh God!"
To my great happiness, the family I described earlier were beyond excited as well, and big papa even busted out the video camera to document the show.
RZA started it off by telling us that "there's been a lot of talent on this stage today and you're about to see even more talent. I just have to say one thing...TIGER STYLE!" And straight into Underdoggy-style, as the anthemic "Wu Tang Clan Ain't Nuttin' Ta Fuck Wit'" smashed into the crowd, the relentless clickety-clack snares and barked lyrics ("And the survey says/'You're dead!") inspiring joyous jumping and feral cracker-ass cracker crowd surfing, young men popping up amid the squished-together flesh like desperate, futile flares into the daytime sky.
GZA, Ghostface, Rae and Method Man all got the chance to shine solo ("Liquid Swords", "4th Chamber", "Fish", "Ice Cream", "Bring the Pain", all told), and the hits kept rolling. The only damper was the little problem with GZA's mic...and Raekwon's mic...and at some point U-God's mic (but who the fuck cares if U-God's mic goes out onstage, it should go out when he's in the studio too, if you ask me). Prompting Method Man to address the situation.
"Yo people in the back, when the music is on, can you hear these mics?"
"NOOOO!"
"Well these sound people get paid a lot of money to get this shit right, so tell 'em 'get it right'!"
"GET IT RIGHT!"
Which, more or less, they did. How humiliating, with Branson right there. Humiliating and hilarious!
One of the only songs off the debut we didn't hear when we saw the Wu in DC last year, "Tearz", was masterfully performed at Virgin. The crowd was getting progressively crazier with each passing minute; if you weren't taking part in the surfing/moshing, you were "throwing up the 'W'" and grooving in the most hardcore sense of that classic term.
"Gravel Pit", the oft-derided single off The W, is actually one of my favorite latterly Wu songs, and it was a perfect song for B-more ("Get stupid!" RZA exhorted before the beat dropped. Yeah, uh, Diggs, what does it look like we've been doing?).
Believe it or not, I have even more to say about this set, but it can wait till the end.
It started to rain steadily when we headed back to catch Interpol (who are like a chicken salad sandwich to me; serviceable, and rarely outstanding). A crowd was gathered away from the action on stage as fest staff were on a concrete ramp grappling with a fan. All I could see was three security dudes holding down some dude with a leg tattoo. Opposite me, a guy was capturing it all on his digital camera. Never did discover the story behind it all.
A trip to the Port-a-Jenn caused trepidation; my capris already stained with "grass-ass", I didn't need any further ruination. Without going into detail like I oh so could, I'll just say that whoever was in there before me, they made an effort to not hit the target. Okay? And good job at it, too. Jeesh. Truly I can say I had the full festival experience.
Had to don a poncho. I felt like a cow with protective tarp on.
Smashing Pumpkins were the final act for the North Stage (311 was closing down the South Stage) and their set was maddening. We watched from a safe distance, depending on the screen as much as anything, as Billy, Jimmy, and the two noobs came out in that glam-prison garb to the strains of Suspiria. ("You know who that's by," I told 'Trick, "that's by Goblin. Italian prog-rock band. Lotta hip hop producers sample their stuff." Patrick paused. "Oh yeah, I can definitely hear why.")
If you're gonna start out your "triumphant" set with new shit, make it good, and well, "United States of America" is a good 'un off Zeitgeist. Also thumbs up to vicious renditions of "Tarantula" and "Doomsday Clock".
It was funny as hell when the gentle intro plucks of "Today" filled the muggy air; I turned left and it looks like the largest 200 yard dash is taking place, as people run towards the stage. If they did a few of the new songs well, the band plowed through their "hits". In addition to "Today", "Bullet With Butterfly Wings", "Tonight Tonight" and--wait for it!--"Zero."
"Let's call Annie", Patrick suggested.
"'Oh my God, Annie, 'God is empty just like me, 'cause I'm in love with my sadness.' She will be so jealous we got to hear the lyrics to 'Zero' live."
Which brings us to the less-than-spectacular aspects of the Billy Corgan Ego Show. This son of a fucker thinks he can just throw shit like "Starla" and "Death From Above" in the meat of the set and get away with it. He prefaced "Starla" with "I wrote this at a time when I was doing a lot of mushrooms." Thanks for giving me ammo next time I get into a debate re: drug use inspiring the best music!
"Death From Above" might as well be renamed "Death From the Stage", as it caused an undeniable exodus of flesh. "I hope they're leaving the festival, and not going to see 311," Patrick said. "'Cause there's just no excuse for doing that."
After playing "1979", thereby pleasing Patrick no end, they proceeded into "That's the Way", a sucky new song that is apparently the new single. Yeah, you would pick a sucky one, asshole. It was nearing 10, so we vowed to give them one more chance. The next song was "Heavy Metal Machine". Piss off.
Walking through the mud to the South entrance I was mildly peeved.
"They didn't play 'Cherub Rock'," I muttered. "It's only the best 'hit' they have."
"They played a really good '1979' though."
"Yeah, you got your favorite song, I didn't get mine. Fucker Corgan."
"Ha! Haaaaaterrrrrrrs."
That was a minor complaint compared to what we were subjected to leaving Pimlico: the sounds of 311. The end of their horrific cover of "Love Song" was bowel-clenching enough. Nothing could adequately prepare us for what happened next.
"This is for all the old-school 311 fans."
Oh dear.
Then it could be heard. A sound so ghastly it transported my poor kicking/screaming soul back to 1996, when its horror was newborn and cooed over. That wretched gaping maw of a riff, dripping pure weaksauce from a sky already dropping down enough crap. After these few seconds of frightful nostalgia: "Chill!"
Ah, shit!
Okay, I promised more Wu-Tang, as they were the best show of the day. Props to Complex Blog for a great combo of pics and vids. (You disrespected Poppi Wardrobe King, though, guys.) That was my Woodstock! Woo, when Meth told us to make as much noise as we could for as long as we could...yeah, it's a hoary live rap show trick, but we responded like they'd stop the show at anything less than the sound barrier being shattered. They ate us up. I felt enormous pride when Meth gave thanks to "Baltimore, Maryland", and not just "B-more." Throw ya Bohs up!
Smashing Pumpkins Baltimore Virgin Fest Wu Tang Clan
Waking 'round 6:30, we wasted precious little even more precious time with driving to the Old Court Metro station, then on to the Rogers Ave. station, where a bus was ready to shuttle crackers off. The morning of that Sunday was sunny yet mild. Unfooled, Patrick packed plenty sunblock.
The area surrounding Pimlico is typical "walk-brisk" Balto, with bummy storefronts and bus stop derelicts who acknowledge you only to insult you. The line is mainly younger folk, a lot with the yellow "two-day pass" wristband, and a distressing amount of Panic! At the Disco shirts.
A little after 10 AM, they started permitting folks entrance, with all flesh split into three unequal lines: those with VIP status (oh word to you, crab cake buffet and all no doubt), those with two-day passes, and those with tix for Sunday only. Finances were not the only reason we skipped out on the opening days aural pleasures. Get a gander at some of the acts on display that day: Fountains of Wayne, Amy Winehouse, Incubus, Modest Mouse. All ranging from boring to annoying to worse than rapists. The only bands that caught my eye were TV On the Radio and the reunited Police. The Beastie Boys played also, and I'm sure Adam Yauch's vocals were not only crystal clear, but that his lyrical flow was totally on-beat. Was Beastie wifey Kathleen Hanna in attendance as well, berating the sexist nature of something on site? Gee I sure hope so. Keep it real, Kathleen, since you don't seem to be doing much else.
"Bags will be searched!" Or, bags will be opened, a small flashlight shone into them, and no side pockets looked into at all. The Dimebag Darrell Memorial Security Team on hand, then?
Traversing the "venue" with a little under 2 hours before time of show was like trudging amid the nation's premier endless community yard sale. Scores of booths lined the east and west sides of the course, offering up music (Virgin Megastore had their own tent, with vinyl even), environmental info (Virgin Fest prides itself on being "green"; so does Bonnaroo, but in a different sense), and of course, FOODRINKFOOD. Pitas to gyros to crab cakes, pizza and burgers, even quesadillas and smoothies. Surely if one could not find a repast to satiate them, they were just way too picky to actually step foot outside the basement apartment they're about to get kicked out of anyway.
Making Virgin super-user-friendly was the presence of water fountains. Fest goers were allowed to bring no more than 2 factory-sealed water bottles in with them, which they could they refill to their li'l hearts content at said fountains. For those who get dehydrated with a notorious haste (um, that would be me), this was the kind of innovation that could prove to be an unparalleled Jebus-send.
After acclimation with the area, we found chairs in the "shade tent" nearest the North Stage, the larger of the two main stages. Whilst waiting for the days music to commence, time was passed with the guzzling of H20, the scarfing of a delightfully delicious lamb gyro (I can't even remember what that sauce is called, but oohhhhhh was it ever a fantastic treat for the tongue; EDIT: Patrick has informed me it is called "Tzatziki"), T-shirt-spotting (two Wu-Tang, one Mudhoney, two Dino Jr, two Smashing P "Zero" classics--which Corgan probably even thinks is laughable nowadays--and two goddamn Sonic Youth shirts. Hey Thurston Moore, you love Charm City, why don't you fuckin' bring your band 'round here to play then?! HUH? Wedding in Glen Burnie, my ass!), and smirking amusedly as two guys from the Trojan Condoms booth came over to the tent to dispense free sperm-oppressors. Wonder if it's policy to have the scumbags handed out by dudes who look as though they have very few opportunities to use them.
Someone had the brilliant idea of having a scroller over the stage to display fan text messages. Given a public forum, brilliance was inevitable--
"PANIC! IS THE BEST BAND OF THE WHOLE WEEKEND!!"
"PETER S. RULES!"
"TODAY IS THE GREATEST! ITS MY 33RD BIRTHDAY AND I'M STAYING UP FRONT ALL DAY FOR THE PUMPKINS"
And then there was the actual genius that snuck through--
"GZA SAYS DIVERSIFY YOUR BONDS"
"MUAH SNOOPY"
"PEANUTS AND SNOOPY?!"
Stayed seated near the North Stage for over two hours, by the end of which my bones felt battered. Yeah, nothing quite like sitting for 120 minutes with very little superfluous movement in 90-plus degree weather to tire one out.
CSS played first, prickly dance music for a smallish but still basically enthused crowd. They sounded tight and French, and even convinced security to let 3 festival goers dressed head to toe as trees onstage with the band to dance ("our own Destiny's Child").
Did a cover of L7's "Pretend We're Dead"! Man...L7 have almost been completely forgotten. Thanks CSS for remembering.
Apparently, they want beef with United Airlines. To the point of sucking on helium and proclaiming "Fuck United Airlines!" with predictably gut-busting results. For the scoop, check this link.
Regina Spektor came on to a gleeful gaggle of shrieking females utterly bewitched by her lilting vocals and delicate piano. She reminded me of how Chan Marshall would be if said chanteuse exuded beatitude as opposed to a beat attitude. Decent, especially when she started out acapella making a "drumbeat" by tapping a finger against the ball of the microphone; whatever that mariachi-style shit she was doing midway through, holy crap, never do that anywhere again ever.
The performance of Spoon brought me into better spirits for a few reasons: they reminded us of our friend up in Manhattan who works for Nasty Little Man, the band's publicity machine, and who told us she may be there at the fest in full-on work mode; I am a longtime fan of the band, and Patrick was just recently turned onto them through their latest release, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga; theirs would be the final show to sit through before actually standing and walking like a couple of Rory Calhouns to the South Stage.
Well, the Spoon boys sounded fantastic, and I can't help but imagine (hope?) that they won over lots of folks with their gentlemanly execution of a stellar setlist highlighted by "Don't Make Me a Target." That song's chorus should be bellowed by every fucker watching. Oh, Britt, you is a dreamsicle. Patrick is summarily impressed. "I hope they come by the 9:30 Club, I want to see them in a smaller venue. They sound really good."
We would miss the next two acts at the North Stage: Panic! (are you fucking serious) and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who Patrick was curious to see again, but well...you'll see.
By the time we took our ice cream treats down with us on the ground, Explosions in the Sky were into their set. As with the first time I saw them, they did the drone-to-crunch stuff magnificently, even if all told their presence on the bill stuck out like a cold sore. My general weariness and discomfort was actually well-served by their elongated harmonics.
The crowd, which had been rather respectful for Explosions, exploded for Bad Brains. Opening with "I Against I", are you serious. Ridiculous. Spazmatic dramatic all-the-way magic. HR was the sagely-blissed shaman as the entire band ravaged the stage with sheer sound (cannot give enough props to their soundman with the Nationals cap). With only a couple of reggae tracks thrown into the setlist, this was a pleasantly thrashing performance that whipped up a ferociously retarded moshpit in the middle of a crowd vomiting up crowd surfers by the dozens. (Thank you, festival screens, for giving those of us in the back premo shots of what we're too fucking old to try and deal with.) Finally, they made possible the wonderful sight, some 12 feet in front of me, of a 30-something dude in a backwards brown ball cap, dancing and singing and taking mad hits. I leaned over to Patrick: "Weed--making white people think they can dance since the beginning of time."
Look, I know we could have caught a half hour of the YYY's before Wu Tang Clan. I knew it then, I know it now. I regret nothing. I regret that I had to see all these poorly-tattooed shirtless wonderboys around us, rather. Great back job, dude. I bet you just live for the scorching days of summer when you can show off that...whatever it is. Says something about something against a backdrop of something else.
Directly in front of us on the ground was a father/mother/teen daughter group. The pops looked like a former hippie who still had his long hair, sloppy dress sense and facial hair, with an added middle aged paunch; the mom, she was no doubt from that era too, just add 20 more pounds; and the girl I imagined raised in a lasseiz-faire type household, exposed to cooler music earlier on, and encouraged towards chemical experimentation by her "with-it" parents, if not in fact given Weed 101 courses in the basement.
The 'rents had a brown grocery sack fulla Maryland's finest crabs (yes, some dude there was selling the little fuckers) that didn't last long. Not 'cause they scarfed 'em; the bottom of the bag gave out and sent slimy orange-red crustaceans onto the grass. They were salvaged by the mama's retrieval of a stronger plastic bag, thankfully. I woulda wept to witness those critters die twice.
Wu-Tang were 15 minutes late. Which means they were on time, basically. I liked the two dudes behind me having what I'm sure they fancied as a funny conversation:
"Why aren't there any musical instruments on the stage?"
"'Cause, uh, they don't know how to play any? They aren't talented enough?"
"And yet they're famous musicians! Imagine that."
The screens flashed an amazing sight: Richard fuckin' Branson up in the VIP scaffolding, waiting for the Wu. Unreal! I had to give dude balls for actually coming to his festival (as opposed to just treating it like another investment) and credit for seeing fucking Wu fucking Tang.
The only hip hop act we've seen multiple times (this making our second), the entire Clan minus Masta Killa--and I cannot be the only one wondering what the hell he had going on in his life that could supersede this gig--took the stage to a massive, and massively adoring, crowd that was only 95% white people. In Baltimore! I had a black dude next to me with his white gal buddy who just could not "believe I am seeing Wu Tang, they're actually here, oh God!"
To my great happiness, the family I described earlier were beyond excited as well, and big papa even busted out the video camera to document the show.
RZA started it off by telling us that "there's been a lot of talent on this stage today and you're about to see even more talent. I just have to say one thing...TIGER STYLE!" And straight into Underdoggy-style, as the anthemic "Wu Tang Clan Ain't Nuttin' Ta Fuck Wit'" smashed into the crowd, the relentless clickety-clack snares and barked lyrics ("And the survey says/'You're dead!") inspiring joyous jumping and feral cracker-ass cracker crowd surfing, young men popping up amid the squished-together flesh like desperate, futile flares into the daytime sky.
GZA, Ghostface, Rae and Method Man all got the chance to shine solo ("Liquid Swords", "4th Chamber", "Fish", "Ice Cream", "Bring the Pain", all told), and the hits kept rolling. The only damper was the little problem with GZA's mic...and Raekwon's mic...and at some point U-God's mic (but who the fuck cares if U-God's mic goes out onstage, it should go out when he's in the studio too, if you ask me). Prompting Method Man to address the situation.
"Yo people in the back, when the music is on, can you hear these mics?"
"NOOOO!"
"Well these sound people get paid a lot of money to get this shit right, so tell 'em 'get it right'!"
"GET IT RIGHT!"
Which, more or less, they did. How humiliating, with Branson right there. Humiliating and hilarious!
One of the only songs off the debut we didn't hear when we saw the Wu in DC last year, "Tearz", was masterfully performed at Virgin. The crowd was getting progressively crazier with each passing minute; if you weren't taking part in the surfing/moshing, you were "throwing up the 'W'" and grooving in the most hardcore sense of that classic term.
"Gravel Pit", the oft-derided single off The W, is actually one of my favorite latterly Wu songs, and it was a perfect song for B-more ("Get stupid!" RZA exhorted before the beat dropped. Yeah, uh, Diggs, what does it look like we've been doing?).
Believe it or not, I have even more to say about this set, but it can wait till the end.
It started to rain steadily when we headed back to catch Interpol (who are like a chicken salad sandwich to me; serviceable, and rarely outstanding). A crowd was gathered away from the action on stage as fest staff were on a concrete ramp grappling with a fan. All I could see was three security dudes holding down some dude with a leg tattoo. Opposite me, a guy was capturing it all on his digital camera. Never did discover the story behind it all.
A trip to the Port-a-Jenn caused trepidation; my capris already stained with "grass-ass", I didn't need any further ruination. Without going into detail like I oh so could, I'll just say that whoever was in there before me, they made an effort to not hit the target. Okay? And good job at it, too. Jeesh. Truly I can say I had the full festival experience.
Had to don a poncho. I felt like a cow with protective tarp on.
Smashing Pumpkins were the final act for the North Stage (311 was closing down the South Stage) and their set was maddening. We watched from a safe distance, depending on the screen as much as anything, as Billy, Jimmy, and the two noobs came out in that glam-prison garb to the strains of Suspiria. ("You know who that's by," I told 'Trick, "that's by Goblin. Italian prog-rock band. Lotta hip hop producers sample their stuff." Patrick paused. "Oh yeah, I can definitely hear why.")
If you're gonna start out your "triumphant" set with new shit, make it good, and well, "United States of America" is a good 'un off Zeitgeist. Also thumbs up to vicious renditions of "Tarantula" and "Doomsday Clock".
It was funny as hell when the gentle intro plucks of "Today" filled the muggy air; I turned left and it looks like the largest 200 yard dash is taking place, as people run towards the stage. If they did a few of the new songs well, the band plowed through their "hits". In addition to "Today", "Bullet With Butterfly Wings", "Tonight Tonight" and--wait for it!--"Zero."
"Let's call Annie", Patrick suggested.
"'Oh my God, Annie, 'God is empty just like me, 'cause I'm in love with my sadness.' She will be so jealous we got to hear the lyrics to 'Zero' live."
Which brings us to the less-than-spectacular aspects of the Billy Corgan Ego Show. This son of a fucker thinks he can just throw shit like "Starla" and "Death From Above" in the meat of the set and get away with it. He prefaced "Starla" with "I wrote this at a time when I was doing a lot of mushrooms." Thanks for giving me ammo next time I get into a debate re: drug use inspiring the best music!
"Death From Above" might as well be renamed "Death From the Stage", as it caused an undeniable exodus of flesh. "I hope they're leaving the festival, and not going to see 311," Patrick said. "'Cause there's just no excuse for doing that."
After playing "1979", thereby pleasing Patrick no end, they proceeded into "That's the Way", a sucky new song that is apparently the new single. Yeah, you would pick a sucky one, asshole. It was nearing 10, so we vowed to give them one more chance. The next song was "Heavy Metal Machine". Piss off.
Walking through the mud to the South entrance I was mildly peeved.
"They didn't play 'Cherub Rock'," I muttered. "It's only the best 'hit' they have."
"They played a really good '1979' though."
"Yeah, you got your favorite song, I didn't get mine. Fucker Corgan."
"Ha! Haaaaaterrrrrrrs."
That was a minor complaint compared to what we were subjected to leaving Pimlico: the sounds of 311. The end of their horrific cover of "Love Song" was bowel-clenching enough. Nothing could adequately prepare us for what happened next.
"This is for all the old-school 311 fans."
Oh dear.
Then it could be heard. A sound so ghastly it transported my poor kicking/screaming soul back to 1996, when its horror was newborn and cooed over. That wretched gaping maw of a riff, dripping pure weaksauce from a sky already dropping down enough crap. After these few seconds of frightful nostalgia: "Chill!"
Ah, shit!
The Pumps' bullshit song selection have unwittingly thrust us into the most unenviable position possible at Virgin Fest (just barely beating out, "under Scott Weiland's naked body")--walking through 311's mega '90s hit "Down", a shoutout to all their "Omahomies" that never had the guts to tell them they sucked at their punk/rap/dancehall schtick. Guess weed forgives even the most grievous artistic sins.
Oh, listen to me! Prez of a real Hateration Nation, ain't I. The gutless guitar, the pussy drums, the Flea-ridden bass, SA Martinez' rapping through his scrotum, and Nick Hexum's crooned chorus, which is mixed even higher than you need to be to find this song good. Jeez, I am just a real bitch. Golly. I didn't like this shit when I was a teenager, and it aged as well as...whichever celebrity you can think of that hasn't aged well. Stupid band, ruining my reference capabilities!
I saved my greatest ephemeral burst of vitriol for my wonderful Patrick. Since I couldn't yell at Billy for driving us away a li'l early, I decided to turn on Patrick for agreeing to head out in the first place.
"Impeccable timing, asshole!"
He giggled, as I hoped he would.
After that...wow. The Rogers Ave subway was packed. The guard on duty was suggesting to everyone that if people would go to the end of the train, filling each car in order, everyone would have room to sit. It didn't happen that way, mainly 'cause motherfuckers were tired. Sure enough, said helpful guard stuck his head in our car and said, "I know a secret! And if you'd listened to me, you'd alll be sitting right now. Ha-ha!" And yes, he did it just like Nelson Muntz.
Oh, listen to me! Prez of a real Hateration Nation, ain't I. The gutless guitar, the pussy drums, the Flea-ridden bass, SA Martinez' rapping through his scrotum, and Nick Hexum's crooned chorus, which is mixed even higher than you need to be to find this song good. Jeez, I am just a real bitch. Golly. I didn't like this shit when I was a teenager, and it aged as well as...whichever celebrity you can think of that hasn't aged well. Stupid band, ruining my reference capabilities!
I saved my greatest ephemeral burst of vitriol for my wonderful Patrick. Since I couldn't yell at Billy for driving us away a li'l early, I decided to turn on Patrick for agreeing to head out in the first place.
"Impeccable timing, asshole!"
He giggled, as I hoped he would.
After that...wow. The Rogers Ave subway was packed. The guard on duty was suggesting to everyone that if people would go to the end of the train, filling each car in order, everyone would have room to sit. It didn't happen that way, mainly 'cause motherfuckers were tired. Sure enough, said helpful guard stuck his head in our car and said, "I know a secret! And if you'd listened to me, you'd alll be sitting right now. Ha-ha!" And yes, he did it just like Nelson Muntz.
Okay, I promised more Wu-Tang, as they were the best show of the day. Props to Complex Blog for a great combo of pics and vids. (You disrespected Poppi Wardrobe King, though, guys.) That was my Woodstock! Woo, when Meth told us to make as much noise as we could for as long as we could...yeah, it's a hoary live rap show trick, but we responded like they'd stop the show at anything less than the sound barrier being shattered. They ate us up. I felt enormous pride when Meth gave thanks to "Baltimore, Maryland", and not just "B-more." Throw ya Bohs up!
Smashing Pumpkins Baltimore Virgin Fest Wu Tang Clan
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Charlie Brown's All Stars
So, we all know what happened Tuesday night. The world of Major League Baseball was rocked by a momentous milestone that divided fans and media nationwide into restless frothing packs milling around under clouds of controversy: the Washington Nationals defeated the San Francisco Giants to place DC's best in a tie with the Florida Marlins for fourth place in their division. That's right, the team uniformly picked on by experts to stink up the entirety of baseball with the most pungent loser-stink of all is in fact not even in the bottom 5 overall! Ryan Zimmerman for God, and Dimitri Young for Jesus Christ! (Water into beef, anyone?)
To celebrate, enjoy this review of the earliest--and best--Peanuts animated special devoted to derring-don't on the baseball diamond.
Mildly fun fact: with a debut air date of June 8, 1966, this was the second-ever Peanuts prime-time program, right on the hot heels of A Charlie Brown Christmas. However, it would prove to have none of that holiday standards staying power, having not been rerun on a network since 1972. I blame this, as I do 54% of all things, on the New York Yankees.
STORY: Poor Charlie Brown. He is the manager of a team coming off a season where they were outscored 3000-6 and added on to a losing streak of 999 games (to call them the "Prairie View of little league" is actually an insult to the Prairie View program). Enter Mr. Hennessy, neighborhood hardware store titan, who promises to sponsor this gaggle of never-weres in a league, complete with their own team uniforms. Just one catch: the girls and dog have to go. (And they have to give up drinking Cristal after school. You've never seen Pigpen so distraught.) Sick over the situation, manager Brown tells the team they can expect new duds and to play their hearts out. They end up losing (thanks to the zig-zag kid's completely missing home plate when he attempts to steal it) and then Charlie Brown breaks the bad news--he has refused Mr. Hennessy's offer. Without offering explanation, he stands back as his friends disown the team. Finally, Linus tells everyone why Charlie Brown turned down the uniforms, and the kids pay Charlie Brown a tribute greater than a win. 10
MUSIC: The very first scenes feature Chuck Biz valiantly chasing down a fly ball. As he traverses field and homestead to snatch the airborne orb, a nearly-bratty rat-a-tat drum can be heard.
Quick-paced, call-and-response trio work is heard throughout. Vince Guaraldi proves the magnificent jazz compositions of A Charlie Brown Christmas were no creative stumble-upon, with light-hearted, tasteful piano dallying with muted yet persistent horn and those jumping-bean skins. 10
ANIMATION: Sweetly drawn and colored, setting the viewer in a atmosphere of great comfort to appreciate the story and the words that help it along. 10
VOICES: Charlie Brown and Linus are voiced by the same children who brought them to heart wrenching life in the first special, Peter Robbins and Chris Shea. These two boys would set respective standards for the characters never to be matched since. They sound natural and thus engaging. 10's to both.
Sally Dryer, who had voiced Violet in the first special, was "promoted" to Lucy for this one. She is a good, dependable 8; snappy, not sassy, never elevating past the snarkiness and outright "bitchness" of her lines, but not really needing to.
Speaking of Violet, Karen Mendelson is OK, meriting a 7 on the scale. By contrast, Ann Altieri's Frieda distinguishes herself to an 8 with her hilariously anguished cry when the dust settles on a prone Charlie Brown, still 30 feet away from home plate.
Glenn Mendelson's Schroeder is a 7, while Kathy Steinberg is an unimpressive 5 for Sally. Give also half a ten to Geoffrey Ornstein's Pigpen, and a 7 to Lynn Vanderlip, voice of Patty.
Most surprising is Christopher DeFaria as Shermy. His 7 is well-earned, for even though he has only one line, it is a doozy and delivered with sad-boy perfection: "Charlie Brown, I think you get a neurotic pleasure out of losing all the time." They don't make children's shows like that anymore. Or if they do, network programmers immediately put the kibosh on them before production can commence.
THE INSPIRATIONAL PRESENCE OF LUCY VAN PELT, OUTFIELDER PAR EXCELLENCE
"We can't keep up all that ridiculous infield chatter, like, 'You can do it', because you can't do it, Charlie Brown."
"If he drops it, let's all kick him!"
HEY SNOOPY...YEAH...BE FUNNY FOR THE KIDS!
"Rickey Henderson was a great base stealer. But today...I am the greatest base stealer of all time."
Thanks, Snoopy. Y'always come through.
THE DREAMS OF YOUTH, CAPTURED. THEN DISSECTED BEFORE BEING UTTERLY DESTROYED. THEN SOMEHOW REASSEMBLED TO REPEAT THE TORTUOUS PROCESS. CHARLES SCHULZ REALLY HAD A LOVE/HATE THING WITH KIDS
This scene of a hopeful Charlie Brown, envisioning victory after having told not-the-whole-truth to get his peers (who would clearly rather be having fun) to slap on the caps 'n' gloves, is easy to overlook the first few times you watch, but speaks volumes about what gives this little kid real joy. There is simultaneous admiration for his ambition and knowing pity over his naivete.
Wherein Charlie Brown, shocked as anyone that he is on base, deliberates furiously over whether to steal third after having imperiously snatched second. Actual words spoken: "Here I go! Zoom! Here I go!", spoken by Peter Robbins as if he didn't believe the stupid blockhead would actually even make the attempt. Brings the funny every time.
The twist at the end is the honor the team bestows upon their fearful leader for sticking up for his right to field a pathetically untalented team of girls, dogs and boys way more occupied with composers and philosophers than learning the signal for laying down a bunt. From Linus' shaky hands, to a handy sewing machine (note while watching how the Peanuts bunch show once more a knack for crowding around something, moving their hands around super fast, and creating something incredible), to the lovable loser himself:
Heart, soul, laughs...this is an all-timer in the annals of Mendelson/Melendez/Schulz. 23 thumbs up! Makes me feel good about baseball, kinda like how everyone in Maryland says Cal Ripken's breaking Lou Gehrig's consecutive games streak made them feel. Except, you know, this special is an actual accomplishment.
Peanuts All Stars Charlie Brown
To celebrate, enjoy this review of the earliest--and best--Peanuts animated special devoted to derring-don't on the baseball diamond.
Mildly fun fact: with a debut air date of June 8, 1966, this was the second-ever Peanuts prime-time program, right on the hot heels of A Charlie Brown Christmas. However, it would prove to have none of that holiday standards staying power, having not been rerun on a network since 1972. I blame this, as I do 54% of all things, on the New York Yankees.
STORY: Poor Charlie Brown. He is the manager of a team coming off a season where they were outscored 3000-6 and added on to a losing streak of 999 games (to call them the "Prairie View of little league" is actually an insult to the Prairie View program). Enter Mr. Hennessy, neighborhood hardware store titan, who promises to sponsor this gaggle of never-weres in a league, complete with their own team uniforms. Just one catch: the girls and dog have to go. (And they have to give up drinking Cristal after school. You've never seen Pigpen so distraught.) Sick over the situation, manager Brown tells the team they can expect new duds and to play their hearts out. They end up losing (thanks to the zig-zag kid's completely missing home plate when he attempts to steal it) and then Charlie Brown breaks the bad news--he has refused Mr. Hennessy's offer. Without offering explanation, he stands back as his friends disown the team. Finally, Linus tells everyone why Charlie Brown turned down the uniforms, and the kids pay Charlie Brown a tribute greater than a win. 10
MUSIC: The very first scenes feature Chuck Biz valiantly chasing down a fly ball. As he traverses field and homestead to snatch the airborne orb, a nearly-bratty rat-a-tat drum can be heard.
Quick-paced, call-and-response trio work is heard throughout. Vince Guaraldi proves the magnificent jazz compositions of A Charlie Brown Christmas were no creative stumble-upon, with light-hearted, tasteful piano dallying with muted yet persistent horn and those jumping-bean skins. 10
ANIMATION: Sweetly drawn and colored, setting the viewer in a atmosphere of great comfort to appreciate the story and the words that help it along. 10
VOICES: Charlie Brown and Linus are voiced by the same children who brought them to heart wrenching life in the first special, Peter Robbins and Chris Shea. These two boys would set respective standards for the characters never to be matched since. They sound natural and thus engaging. 10's to both.
Sally Dryer, who had voiced Violet in the first special, was "promoted" to Lucy for this one. She is a good, dependable 8; snappy, not sassy, never elevating past the snarkiness and outright "bitchness" of her lines, but not really needing to.
Speaking of Violet, Karen Mendelson is OK, meriting a 7 on the scale. By contrast, Ann Altieri's Frieda distinguishes herself to an 8 with her hilariously anguished cry when the dust settles on a prone Charlie Brown, still 30 feet away from home plate.
Glenn Mendelson's Schroeder is a 7, while Kathy Steinberg is an unimpressive 5 for Sally. Give also half a ten to Geoffrey Ornstein's Pigpen, and a 7 to Lynn Vanderlip, voice of Patty.
Most surprising is Christopher DeFaria as Shermy. His 7 is well-earned, for even though he has only one line, it is a doozy and delivered with sad-boy perfection: "Charlie Brown, I think you get a neurotic pleasure out of losing all the time." They don't make children's shows like that anymore. Or if they do, network programmers immediately put the kibosh on them before production can commence.
THE INSPIRATIONAL PRESENCE OF LUCY VAN PELT, OUTFIELDER PAR EXCELLENCE
"We can't keep up all that ridiculous infield chatter, like, 'You can do it', because you can't do it, Charlie Brown."
"If he drops it, let's all kick him!"
HEY SNOOPY...YEAH...BE FUNNY FOR THE KIDS!
"Rickey Henderson was a great base stealer. But today...I am the greatest base stealer of all time."
Thanks, Snoopy. Y'always come through.
THE DREAMS OF YOUTH, CAPTURED. THEN DISSECTED BEFORE BEING UTTERLY DESTROYED. THEN SOMEHOW REASSEMBLED TO REPEAT THE TORTUOUS PROCESS. CHARLES SCHULZ REALLY HAD A LOVE/HATE THING WITH KIDS
This scene of a hopeful Charlie Brown, envisioning victory after having told not-the-whole-truth to get his peers (who would clearly rather be having fun) to slap on the caps 'n' gloves, is easy to overlook the first few times you watch, but speaks volumes about what gives this little kid real joy. There is simultaneous admiration for his ambition and knowing pity over his naivete.
Wherein Charlie Brown, shocked as anyone that he is on base, deliberates furiously over whether to steal third after having imperiously snatched second. Actual words spoken: "Here I go! Zoom! Here I go!", spoken by Peter Robbins as if he didn't believe the stupid blockhead would actually even make the attempt. Brings the funny every time.
The twist at the end is the honor the team bestows upon their fearful leader for sticking up for his right to field a pathetically untalented team of girls, dogs and boys way more occupied with composers and philosophers than learning the signal for laying down a bunt. From Linus' shaky hands, to a handy sewing machine (note while watching how the Peanuts bunch show once more a knack for crowding around something, moving their hands around super fast, and creating something incredible), to the lovable loser himself:
Heart, soul, laughs...this is an all-timer in the annals of Mendelson/Melendez/Schulz. 23 thumbs up! Makes me feel good about baseball, kinda like how everyone in Maryland says Cal Ripken's breaking Lou Gehrig's consecutive games streak made them feel. Except, you know, this special is an actual accomplishment.
Peanuts All Stars Charlie Brown
Thursday, July 26, 2007
It's Spring Training, Charlie Brown
Writing this review out longhand, I headed the sheet of paper with the letters "IST", which is close to "shit." Which is itself a not-unfair review of this special. Ah, okay, unfair; but it says something that this second attempt at animating Peanuts baseball was never broadcast on network television (the copyright date is 1992).
STORY: It's springtime again and you know what that means! Birds and bees are frolicking, small white balls once airborne hit the soft grass in front of hapless children, wood chops the air futilely, Lucy and Frieda gab as Charlie Brown grits his teeth in determination to field a winning team, and Snoopy is seen Ty Cobb-ing Franklin (uh...meaning Snoopy flies into second base during a steal attempt and takes Franklin out; not that he hates him for being black). The tiny, stubborn Leland arrives at practice, where he wins over the manager with stick-to-it-tiveness and the fact that Charlie Brown is so desperate for a win he'd give a position to a kangaroo if it brought its own glove. Just like Charlie Brown All-Stars, Mr. Hennessy has dangled the carrot of uniforms in front of the kids faces, with one caveat: win, goddamnit. A toned-down rehash. 6
MUSIC: Judy Munsen and some collective dubbed "D'Cuckoo" are pegged responsible for the soundtrack. Judy handled a lot of the late eighties/early nineties material, armed with an arsenal pilfered from the great Kajagoogoo Yard Sale of 1986: Gorgonzo Moog keybs, Colby Linn drum machine and Casio Pimento effects. At best, this stuff is cornily amusing, at worst, lazy and thus distracting. 3
ANIMATION: Disorienting is the word; super-saturated backgrounds contrast with by-the-numbers color re: the kids and their tangible surroundings. Frequently, the screen appears in a muddle, making concentration frustrating. 5
VOICES: What a formidable group of potential heroes.
Justin Shenkarow, future veteran of mediocrity, does a lively Charlie Brown. 7. John Christian Graas is a disappointing 5 as an underutilized, master of the obvious Linus. Sadly, Marnette Patterson is also a 5 as his sister, with no particular personality evident in her readings.
It is up to Gregory Grudt (how I adore it when parents show an awareness of the power of alliteration) to step up as the voice of li'l Leland, he who is barely bigger than the classic box o' bread, nearly engulfed by a helmet that gives him the appearance of a baby Stormtrooper. And step up he does, struggling mightily with phonetics and stressing the last syllables of words. Good job, kid. 7
The credits say that someone voiced Schroeder. I could not possibly care less. No one gives voice to crosshatched Pigpen. Boo.
Franklin is voiced by a girl, one Jessica Nwafor. Still more masculine sounding than, say, the "Men on Film" guys. I give her an 8, and why will soon be blatantly clear.
IF THIS HAD BEEN ANY OTHER CARTOON, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS BY PRETZELS THREE LINES INTO IT, KID
So to get these awesome Hennessy-sponsored uniforms, they just have to win a game. This game. One freakin' game. Their opponents are...
Immediately you can tell they are the villains, via a brilliant blend of a truth passed onto us by fiction (one is a redhead, and redhead boys are always insufferable pricks whose destiny it is to take a rusty knife in the gut at age 24; see A Christmas Story's Scott Farkus) and a truth passed onto us by fact (the team is decked out in pinstripes, a la the New York Yankees, a franchise as a rule stocked sick with intolerable assholes made possible by the mind-warping lack of a salary cap in Major League Baseball and the provincial tendency of Empire State residents to think that all other cities are jealous of their perpetual-eternal awesome and will go to stunning lengths to discredit them).
Faced with such a foe, Charlie Brown leads his team through their standard pre-game warm up--the Hokey Pokey. This was cute in the past, Chuck, but that was a sad time pockmarked with the scars of loss after colossal loss. We have uniforms at stake, here. We need something else. Something more up to date. Something The Fresh Prince would re-record if you paid him enough.
Enter he of the melanin and pants!
I give you the complete lyrics of "That's What It's All About", AKA "Franklin's Rap". Please note the marks at end of several lines, and refer to the end of the song for further discussion.
It's all about all the calls we've done*
You'll be shakin' in your shoes
We're the team invincible
And we're not gonna lose
It's time you started worryin'
Your strategy's in a muddle
If you're a little airplane
We're the space shuttle
You can jeer all you want
Vocalize and shout
But in the end we will prevail
And that's what it's all about
(chorus)
Go! Go! Go! (etc.)**
Here's the game we have to win
Now we've gone and said it
We practiced, planned and strategized
And we're about to get inventive
It's how you play the game that counts
Of that there is no doubt
We plan to be good winners too
'Cause that's what it's all about***
(chorus)
This game has a lot more meaning
Our look is on the line
You may as well lay down your gloves
'Cause we're gonna be sublime
In the past we've had our share
Of failures and defeats
But now our shining moment's here
Might as well take off your cleats
Baseball has a funny way
Of takin' teams and doomin' 'em
We're valiant knights taking down our foes
With weapons of aluminum+
Our brilliant plans will mesmerize
And after that last out
We'll be the team with the highest score
And that's what it's all about
(chorus)
You shake shake shake shake shake shake shakin'
Shakin' in your shoes++
We're the team invincible
And we're not gonna lose
And when the dust has settled
Don't you moan and pout
'Cause we'll be the team with the highest score
And that's what it's all about
*--Does that line make any sense? Is he talking about phone calls? On the field calls? Calling the numbers at bingo games?
**--The chorus sequence is brilliant, as it ups the stakes presented by the old-school exhortation with animation of Snoopy pop-locking (also, after each trio of "Go"'s, you can hear what sounds like a sample of Snoopy going "ah-ahh!" I have not laughed so heartily at a marriage of sight and sound since the Simpsons episode where Bart smashed Homer over the head with a chair as the latter lounged in the perceived safety of his own bathtub).
***--This verse in many ways is an insight into their author, Charles Schulz. Some bulldog Vince Lombardi mixed with a bit of philosophical Grantland Rice. He wants to crush you, but will still feel empathy.
+--After this line, the team raises what are clearly brightly-hued aluminum bats into the air, despite the fact that they never use them before or after.
++--I call bullshit on the very idea that Schulz wrote out all these "shakes". He likely just wrote the word once and parenthetically requested the "stupid kid" singing it repeat it just enough to fill up the bar.
AS TREVOR HOFFMAN IS TO THE SAN DIEGO PADRES, SO IS SNOOPY TO THIS PROGRAM
It would be a whippable offense if I just mentioned Snoopy's dancing without providing proof via the magic of DVD captures. If you need a reason to pick this up off of Amazon or Ebay for 6 bucks or less, let this succession of images convince you.
Kitty cats doin' the corn-cob "nom-nom" got nothin' on the kid Snoopy doin' the ballbat chew.
Sweep it now, sweep it on over.
Electric slide!
Can't see me! (Snoopy was John Cena before John Cena)
Ah hee hee!
Watch yo' mouth.
IN THE END, THOUGH...
A few of the animated specials took their story from the strips, but were given happier twists that simply could not work in the existential minefield of printed Peanuts. Hence, Charlie Brown's team wins and they get new uniforms.
I honestly still have not decided whether this is a mediocre story with one shining classic sequence or a classic sequence surrounded by a mediocre story. It may have helped to have the opposing team fielded by one Mr. Cristal, but we can't go back in time, now can we?
Peanuts It's Spring Training Charlie Brown
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Lucy Must Be Traded, Charlie Brown
The first in my series reviewing the three Peanuts baseball specials, this is the most recent (2003) and also the weakest.
"Here, Snoopy...I've destroyed the script. Are you happy now?"
STORY: Hapless baseball manager Charlie Brown has had it up to here with his lethargic, disinterested outfielder, Lucy Van Pelt, and wants to trade her to Peppermint Patty's superior squad. When Patty tells Chuck that the only player on his team she would want is Snoopy, Charlie Brown amazingly pulls the trigger on the deal, receiving five players in return. However, before the trade can actually go down, it is nullified by two mitigating factors: Charlie Brown realizing he cannot part so callously with his own pet, and Peppermint Patty's handful refusing to dirty up their cleats for Charlie Brown's infamous team. Finally, Lucy is traded for Marcie, not unlike swapping a house of popsicle sticks for one made of aluminum cans in terms of overall usefulness. 8
MUSIC: Innocuous piano that accompanies one's contemplation of how many people will be standing outside the elevator when you reach your floor. 5
ANIMATION: As it is latterly Peanuts, it is much crisper and consistent than the "classics" (ie, skin tones don't change several times over the course of a scene), but the colors are unadventurous, and the actual character animation uneventful and standard. 6
VOICES: Wesley Singerman does a piss-poor Charlie Brown; I mean, I'm sure he's a great kid and his parents hold him to ridiculously high standards that will one day result in his being the world's proudest, most strident FedEx employee ever, but he's struggling to emote here, and that ain't right. Charlie Brown struggles with a lot in life--it's his lot in life. For fans who've followed his Job-like life on the page and on screen, we may have asked things like, "Poor Charlie Brown, why can't he win?" but we have never asked, "Wow, I wonder what he's feeling?" Dude is one open zig-zagged wound. This is a rote reading, and absolute pain when you consider that this special is mainly stitched-together strips dependent on the back 'n forth zings Charlie Brown and Lucy throw at one another. 4
Serena Berman as Lucy, conversely, gets an 8 for being nicely sassy.
Corey Padnos is Linus, and oh how it breaks my heart to hear such averageness. 5. All Linuses must be starved and forced to read the New Testament. Aloud.
A boy, Daniel Hansen, again steps up to the mic as Peppermint Patty, but turns out to be a lamentably dull 6 out of 10. Really not very tomboyish at all (said in Chris Shea's Linus voice. Ah, now there was a kid who knew how to recite!)
Schroeder is voiced by Christopher Ryan Johnson. A higher-pitched Charlie Brown? Oh that's useful. 4. The similarly triple-named Megan Taylor Harvey is a too-chirpy Sally (making me thankful for her brief time in this show). 3. Finally, Melissa Montoya voices Marcie. She gets a 6 for making me believe it when she said "I hate baseball!" Definitely get the vibe ol' Marcie would rather be reading some Anne Sexton and daydreaming about holding hands with "Sir".
OZZIE SMITH, PLAYING THE BALL OFF THE HOP
It is a delight seeing the great "Snoopy dances while Charlie Brown tries to talk shop with his team" strip brought to life. Also, you have to love Marcie shunning Snoop's attempt to engage her in a friendly handshake.
God has no place in schools, but he has a place in Charlie Brown's outfield, where players are heard praying that the ball is not hit to them. Those so blessed are heard to give thanks and finally, one particularly gracious fielder proclaims, "Amen!"
And who doesn't love Peppermint Patty predicting that of the twelve games their teams will play head to head, hers will alternately "slaughter, smash, ruin, murder, annihilate, and pound" his?
MANNY RAMIREZ, PLAYING THE BALL
There is nothing egregiously bad about this special, nothing that makes you cringe or roll your eyes. The producers remain faithful to the strips and provide a fun, passable show, but that's all it is. There's no real heart and soul, and nothing particularly funny, either (I'll let you decide which is the more grievous sin). As you will see later, Lucy vs. Charlie Brown on the diamond was done much better much earlier.
Nah, you know what the worst part of this whole special is? Visting the reviews section on Amazon and finding this bit of genius in defense of not only this, but the recent specials:
The classic Peanuts gags we have all come to love -- and chuckle out loud at via the daily comics and endless array of Peanuts books -- are better executed. Way better. How many of us who watch the Halloween special every year yawn and think "ho-hum" whenever Charlie Brown says, "I got a rock"? I know I do. And why? This piece of dialogue is one of many that just wreaks of poor execution and boredom.
So saith the legendary Internet critic "D.Mart." How many of us go "ho-hum" at the "I got a rock" section of the Great Pumpkin? Only you, assclown. Everyone else thinks it possesses a timeless hilarity and it still gets parodied/quoted to this day. Lucy Must Be Traded looks much "better" than those shows of the past...but in terms of content, viewers get a rock.
Peanuts Lucy Must Be Traded Charlie Brown
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