Monday, November 21, 2016

Don't Rest In Peace



REPENTLESS
9/11/2015


(Oops, they did it again.)

For the record…I don't like that this review is a thing. Because I don't like that a Slayer album sans the direct presence and influence of Jeff Hanneman is a thing. Tom Araya's reticence versus Kerry King's stubbornness, never was there a possibility that the greatest metal band ever would actually hang up the horns.

Despite misgivings, again, Slayer are the best their genre has yet boasted. How could I not root for 'em? Remember that other album they released on 9/11, and how it treated your scalp like the lid of a tennis ball can?

After years of filling in for Hanneman on stage, former Exodus mastermind Gary Holt finally takes his place in studio. Alleged bad business once more sent Dave Lombardo towards the exits…enter Paul Bostaph, after fourteen years of not sitting around waiting for Slayer to ring him.

So that's a Slayer album without two of the original members.

"Delusions of Saviour"
--A nearly two minute intro Kerry wrote after listening to the conclusion of Pearl Jam's "Black" while giving baths to his pet snakes or whatever the hell. As a mood-setter, it beats the odd-smelling pee out of candles named "Essence of Twilight" or "Guest on the Third Day".

Short, enjoyable, goes nowhere, oh shit life metaphor.

"Repentless"--Is not a word. Did Kerry the King not know of the perfectly extant word "unrepentant" (inconceivable!)?

Flame-tosser, still. Kerry writing about the world through the eyes of his late great P.I.C., although honestly it could be about King just as well (the lyrics are just that aggressively angst-soaked). The Seasons-esque intro devolves into a stand-around riff hardly worthy of the legend, but then woo, the fellas start decimating faulty appliances on a timer and all is all right. (Until you realize they left nine washing machines and refrigerators virtually untouched.)

Amidst a riot-ready spray of bad language, King manages to flip a cliche ("What you get is what you see") and I tend to nod appreciatively at such gymnastics, but still…"repentless" is so not a word that my poor autocorrect is audibly weeping.

(Imagine King penning a tune through the eyes of his old drummer. "Pay me what you owe me, motherfuckers!" ad nauseum.)

The solos make me wanna flip off some stupid kids.

"Take Control"--Darkening skies, brightening gazes. Maniacs will incite mania if need be, sending up plumes of smoke and flame into the sky while blades clash and blur below.

Wow, no profanity? Oh wait, spoke too soon--this one's a wedding night.

"Vices"--Outta the way is what I'm gonna get this thing.

"A little violence is the ultimate drug/Let's get high!"

"Vices" is at best unfinished; at worst, undecided. No, actually, at worst, it's that fucking lyric up there. Does Araya come through to salvage it somewhat? Look at those words again. Tell me what you think could make them palatable when spoken aloud. Then tell me how long you've been a syrup-sipper.

When Araya shuts up and the tune can lumber 'long on a trio of wheels, finally I can dig into "Vices."

"Cast the First Stone"--War ships, eh? War with Lego, is that what the situation's deteriorated into? I got two big feet for all the Lego in the world. The imprints and the pains are barely worth the receipt.

"When Stillness Comes"--"Spill the Blood" another 'gain. Slayer do "storytime with a sociopath" so well, but they have also done it better in the not-too distant past. 'Bout as spooky as snakes in a can, but I have to give it up for producer Terry Date, even if many of the bands he's worked with have been the aural/moral opposite of James Baxter rollin' on a beach ball, he cuts 'em from sternum to navel with an expert touch.

"Chasing Death"
--Men tend not to do the emotion stuff well, meaning the extent of the helplessness the other guys felt at watching Jeff's losing battle with the bottle will never be fully expressed. (I'm sure there was at least one night that ended with bloody fingers.) The "slave of discontent" earns a screaming heap of disgust and disbelief. The tough love approach is a risky one--try it on me and one of us won't live to regret it.

"Oblivious to the end"--well shit, how would they tell the difference?

"Implode"--I choose to believe the song begins at 0:48.

The apocalypse is thunderously overrated, the supposed imminent zombie apocalypse especially. Extremely picky eaters are supposed to bring about the "extermination of the swine"? Eff zombies, pigs are coming! For thirty minutes, apparently!

Bostaph's best is far from Lombardo's best, but that's not as far as some fanboys might claim.

"Piano Wire"--Inarguably the most-anticipated song on Repentless, "Piano Wire" was rejected from inclusion on World Painted Blood thanks to an underwhelming Araya performance. After the death of its composer, however, Tom gave it another, apparently vastly improved go.

How fitting Jeff's last song concerns Nazi atrocities. While not fit for the pantheon, "Piano Wire" shows why his presence will be missed: doesn't fuck about, values the insidious over the straightforward, doesn't demand that Tom scream like the world's angriest teenager trapped in a middle-aged man's creaking body.

"Atrocity Vendor"--Tom and Kerry time! Dunno which man brought the Elmer's glue and which one brought the soft-batch scissors, but the best thing about Slayer's art projects is this: frequently, they depict horrors I would hate either I or my loved ones to suffer through, but would totally love to see my hated ones endure.

 "You Against You"--Solo less than a minute in. Dunno what makes me more nauseous, the sight of the impotent hard-on or the smell of the fumes.

"Pride In Prejudice"
--"Finality to the fuss," indeed.

A single gunshot signals the beginning of the scene. The anti-hero emerges, his definitive stance in an amorphous world nearly as inspiring as his unwavering belief in the self. What followed I totally missed, too concerned that I don't qualify as a real American since I've yet to be shot at. (I've had a gun pointed at me in a non-playful manner once; maybe I can be Russian?



Once carcass kickers nonpareil, once apple pie shit-inners with no equal, Slayer have fallen a few rungs on the ladder whose primary material escapes me at the moment. Repentless is better than Diabolus in Musica and Divine Intervention, but is the whitest shade of pale alongside God Hates Us All and Christ Illusion. (Compared to the classics? No, let's not be cruel.) Forget virgin sacrifices, the worst sin Slayer commit here is that of indistinction.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Disgruntled White Guys Ruined A Perfectly Good Basket


DYSTOPIA
1/22/2016

Fight the arbitrary government! Defy the tyranny of the rich and out of touch! Will Dave Mustaine be on the battlefield alongside you, waving a weapon and shouting semi-coherently? Good grief no. He and his loved ones will be well-cloaked in the California hills (or rather, he will be ranting and riffing in a subterranean studio while his loved ones compare recipes for homemade strychnine).

Drummer Shawn Drover and guitarist Chris Broderick won't be joining you either; the former called it a night after twelve years on the throne, and the latter just missed the aluminum anniversary. Enter Chris Adler (Lamb of God) and Kiko Loureiro, each bringing their own pair of shoes.

"The Threat Is Real"--The relentless scratching of an old familiar itch. Crazy how a horseshoe to the back of the head doesn't even a sliver of blood, but here's my unblemished hands for proof.

One man's threat is another man's realization that immigration made America vital. There's a hole in the melting pot, and I wish Mustaine and his pro-segregationist ilk would slither on out through it and leave the rest of us to enjoy our lesbian tacos in relative peace.

"Dystopia"--Possibly I've listened to "Hangar 18" too much, 'cause the title track sounds like a re-write. (No, I mean an unintentional one.) Mind you, the shit bangs. Screwface pyrotechnics all over the place.

"Fatal Illusion"--Ellefson sells, I buy.

The best MegaD makes me wish I could flip on the TV and hunker down for an hour of someone far shapelier and skilled performing a breath-thinning figure skating routine on a pond of frozen pig's blood. Rusted and rooted in the most unforgiving earth, "Fatal Illusion" qualifies.

"Death From Within"
--I suppose a listenable record is an innovation for this band at this point. Leans towards the poppier missteps of Risk, yet references "embers of avarice."

"Bullet To the Brain"--In lust we come to distrust. One another, ourselves. Bewitched is soon bedeviled, and all the slaps to the face with all the bricks in the yard won't be enough to keep the darts from finding their targets.

The soloing on this album is banoodle boats.

"Post-American World"--When Mustaine snarls about the Big Evil "crushing all the dissenters who still think for themselves" it's far too inclusive a lyric to feel comfortable with. Segregationists do not want their avowed goal achieved. They thrive on the "us vs. them." In a narrow utopia, these big bad patriots would have to begin reassessing blame for problems that persist despite their bravery. An activity which is not as fun when there are no "others" around.

"Poisonous Shadows"--A tachycardiac thrasher which leaves a crystalline trail. More than welcomed (and thanked, profusely) after the hackneyed hokum immediately preceding.

"Conquer…Or Die!"--Acoustic beginning. Aw, just like Papa James used to make!

Then the scaffolding collapses around the elixir hustler and his malnourished kin.

"Lying In State"--What's more frightening--fire, or people who love fire? Just another ponder for the sewer dweller.

Dave Mustaine's vision of dystopia is ever more childish compared to that of Jaime Meline's (El-Producto, he produces and raps too). Listen to Fantastic Damage or...well, anything El-P's been involved with. He specializes in the cathartic release of toxicity. Mustaine would rather hoard his poisons, place them inside ornate jars and display the jars on shelves made of haunted wood, carved by the wizened hands of disgraced men. Both men are obsessed with kinesis, but only one ends the journey at a place ahead that which it began. Both men are struggling in the cesspool, but only one is flipping off the lifeguard.

"The Emperor"--Still making ill-advised forays into poppy fields, eh?

"Foreign Policy"--A Fear cover. Don't look or act or feel surprised; one thing punk and metal have always had in common is focusing more on enemies than allies. Not to mention Lee Ving joining Dave for the allegedly-acerbic MD.45 project. If nothing else, here be plenty punk passion. If Slayer could have unclenched their sphincters for a half hour, maybe Undisputed Attitude wouldn't have…no, it still would have sounded like four uncles getting a cover band together because they're afraid of their wives hitting back.




In its first week, Dystopia sold 5,300 units. Metallica's self-titled album, in its 1,275th week, moved 6,400 units. So even though Megadeth's fifteenth full-length stands as a fairer return to form than they've managed in yonks...who the hell cares.

What keeps the record from passing the line of "goodness" over to "greatness" is not Mustaine's personal ideology (far less listenable music has been created by far more admirable people) but his ever-weakening voice. James Hetfield's latterly mannered delivery may have been dreadfully hilarious, but at least it had personality. Every second of parody it inspired, every single damn belly laugh that left me gasping, it earned all of that. Midway through Dystopia, I found myself apologizing to my eyes for all the rolling.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

J & P Etc.

From 2002 till 2011, Patrick and I saw thirty SY (and related) shows in eighteen cities over three continents. (I'm pretty sure anyway; I tallied the numbers whilst hungover.) All of these shows have been written about, featured in 2009's "No Setlist" and the forthcoming "Spirit Desire." For the latter book, I had bandied about the idea of Patrick and myself revisiting some of our favorite extracurricular activities during those travels, which would be used as breaks in between chapters. When I put this idea underneath the lights, though, a multitude of flaws became exposed. So here, in this space instead, I invite you to enjoy a chronological "best of" the stuff that wasn't the show...and, in some cases, outshone the so-called "main attraction."

2002: Towson, MD. It was here, in the city that isn't Baltimore but is close enough to Baltimore so you can tell someone from out of state that it's Baltimore, that J met P. We walked, we ate fries, we left a whole bottle of water untouched by our lips.

2003: Pittsburgh, PA. Great view of Heinz Field from across the river, much lovelier than thousands of ugly hand towels waving virtually non-stop. The local art festival was more interesting than innovative.

Cincinnati, OH. The Millennium Hotel is still the only hotel where I have eaten pizza and Pop Tarts (not at the same time, mind). The neighborhood around Bogart's was sketchy, so it was downright relieving to return to a beautiful building that granted us a superb glance at other beautiful buildings. And I saw a horse-drawn carriage on the street below stopped at the red light.

2004: London, England. ATP was in East Sussex, but the day before, we (and other mates) checked into Piccadilly Hotel. Our mates were a bit more savvy, and knew to request a room with a bath when booking reservations. Meaning, Trick and I ended up sleeping in a closet that had its own closet, with a window that looked out to another window. Walking the city left us with little energy to complain, however. Also, how rude would that have been?

For ATP we were powered by terribly greasy chicken, edible pizza, and Burger King Simpsons watches.

2005: Los Angeles, CA. The year of Arthurfest. Patrick's first time out West. Ah, the sunshine! The lack of reliable public transportation! Doesn't matter, this trip was all about the Museum of Contemporary Art and the Basquiat exhibit. At least, when it wasn't all about Hollywood Boulevard and the homeless guy sleeping outside of Mutato Muzika.

Hoboken, NJ. Never would I have predicted my virgin voyage to the Garden State to go so splendidly. We had to park ten blocks from Maxwell's, but hey, I was a super fat ass then, and whatever physical activity didn't kill me made me realize I didn't want to go on being a super fat ass! The Hoboken Day parade was winding down as we made our way up, which gave us plenty to talk about as well. The second SY's shows finished close to 1 AM (the first ranks among the very best either of us have seen). Instead of finding a place to stay, we walked the ten blocks to the car, and Patrick stayed awake for the whole six hours whereas I lost consciousness a minute after strapping into my seat belt and vowing, "I won't let you fall asleep behind the wheel!"

2006: Atlanta, GA. An utterly average show, but one of the best times I've ever had with my best friend. The Atlanta Aquarium turned us into giddy little kids. It wasn't just about what we saw, but what we heard, mainly the most Tennessee accent ever. The Coca-Cola Museum featured a lot of what you would expect, but who could ever prepare themselves for the World of Coke, offering visitors a taste of what soda lovers in other countries sip. Internet reviews will insist that Italy's Beverly Soda is the worst on tap, and I can tell you that....yeah, it tasted like radish juice and anti-freeze.

Minehead, England. Another ATP. All I can tell you, I woke up one day at nine, showered; enjoyed Pringles and Heinekin for a ten o'clock brunch; and saw Dinosaur Jr. play live at 1 PM.

Seattle, WA. West Seattle made us envy everyone who lived within its limits. Easy Street Records and Pike's Market. So much hills, but oh well, we got strong ankles as a result. Seriously. Run up on either of us, try to break one of our ankles.

2008: New York. Our last ATP, held at David Lynch Summer Camp (formerly Stanley Kubrick Family Resort and Spa). Arrived a day before, threw our shit in a hostel, and walked parts of Manhattan we hadn't seen before, culminating in a wind-whipped glimpse of the Hudson River.

2010: Riverside, CA. A Mexican lunch followed by a trip to The Mission Inn. This structure's boggling complexity is matched by its enchanting elegance.

2011: Brooklyn, NY: Of all the visits to the Museum of Modern Art, 2011's takes the cake, pie and pudding. Why? The Willelm de Kooning exhibit. I'd been obsessed with his "Woman" paintings ever since reading about them, and seeing them reprinted in art texts, so to get up close at last meant a great deal.

This was the same trip that featured a Scrabble game driven by red wine and cheesecake.

Queens, NY: Sripriphai. The best Thai food we've ever eaten. The only reason I'd be upset if the borough of Queens evaporated.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

This One's For the Texas Prairie Chicken


The Monkees
Headquarters

5/22/67

MTV used to be watchable. Wildly so, in fact. No more so than in its first decade of life. The secret to their success wasn't a secret at all: Music Television delivered on its promises. Careers were made, re-made, and destroyed based on what artists old new and in-between chose to do with their 3-4 minute chunk of audiovisual promo.

I sucked it all up, usually with some junk food and junkier drink. I needed my MTV.

In early 1986, the network ran a weekend-long marathon of The Monkees, a sitcom that my (much) older sisters had watched during its initial late 60s run. Well, I hardly needed their testimony. One (maybe two) eps and I was hooked: four cute goofs with ADD who also happened to comprise a band that delivered their songs from down on one knee. The screwball package--loony humor, loonier fashion--hit me square between. (I love my mother but I will never forget her making me go to bed in the middle of "Love Is Only Sleeping." MIke's always been my fave, despite the havoc his wool hat wreaked on my color blindness.)

I was far from alone. Monkeemania, to MTV's ecstatic shock, had struck America again. The group once derided as "The Pre-Fab Four" had been blessed with something their English progenitors never had: a second act.



To understand Headquarters, one must be aware of the controversy that erupted when the media (with no shortage of relish) "exposed" the Monkees for being faking fakers who faked fakingly on their way to superstardom. Yep, the "American Beatles" were nothing more than machine-manufactured meat puppets. They not only didn't write their own material (whaaaat?) they used session musicians! Never you mind that many "legitimate" groups used one or both of these so-called "cheat codes" on their  records. The Monkees lied to the public and the media. Gasp horror shock.

Each of the guys had musical backgrounds, with Peter and Mike the most accomplished at the time. The latter Monkee-man led the revolt against manager Don Kirshner, who didn't want to see his guys ruin their good looks. The band instead told him "Listen chief, we're taking the china shop by the cash register," and their third album did indeed feature mostly songs written and performed by the madcap teen idols. Headquarters debuted on the Billboard charts at #1 before being overtaken the following week by Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Your eight-year-old blogger-to-be adored Headquarters. Wore that tape out. Haven't given it a full listen since. So what will adult me think? Enter the giant head, split four ways….



"You Told Me" - A good first--be it song, sentence, or sweat--is vital to a time well-spent.

Straightforward country pop courtesy of the tall guy in the hat may not be what listeners expected when the needle dropped, but time has been kind. Nez done had it up to the sideburn flare with "girls and all the games" and as much as I want to beat the drums for my gender, he sounds so warm and wooly, so--she said she said, she lied she lied, he tried he tried.

The Beatles gave listeners George on the sitar. The Monkees, Peter on the banjo. Advantage: PUSH.

"I'll Spend My Life With You" - Micky's antsy mic ways make lyrics such as "The road is long, the road is rough/I do believe I've had enough" stick to the cabinet doors. 

"Forget That Girl" - Davy forgot more about hate than he ever learned about love, so this slice of sugar pie with honey drizzle is all the fun of trying to dance one's way out of a snare made of dryer sheets and cobwebs.

That's a compliment. This is a very good song, shiny and pretty just like pennies used to be.

"Band 6" - Lotsa goofin' circlin' transpired during the sessions, and this sub-60 instro is but Exhibit the First.

"You Just May Be the One" - Mike's hale and hearty, but Pete's arterial bass refused to lean on its laurels. Giddy-up and go for the golden morning, young man.

The version that played on the show featured session musicians and a distressing lack of a MIke/Micky bird-tickling contests. Still good either way, though, since dust storms stirred 'neath star-sick skies by lean Texans incite unforgettable coughing spells.*

"Shades of Gray" - The only song on Headquarters exceeding 180 seconds is arguably the only skippable one on it as well. The presence of cello and French horn distinguish what is otherwise a dreadful, sapping Peter/Davy duet. Innocence lost? Probably just paradise misplaced.

"I Can't Get Her Off My Mind" - Cane a-twirl, fingers and toes snappin' and tappin', oh my yes the low-to-the-floor English lad is right at home (complete with butler).

Davy always sounded his comfiest when at his corniest, singing delicately and dashingly about girls whose games he couldn't wait to play. This squeaks (if and) when you scrub it, but the sound jibes tidy with that piano melody.

"For Peter's Sake" - Flip the cassette over!

Co-written by Peter and co-piloted to an island orgy by Micky, "For Peter's Sake" is most famed as the closing credits music for Season Two of the show. It is also insanely dated, an aural equivalent to the Nehru jackets and love beads they wore.

This is music with a message, all right, one of hope and unity. Such an unabashed espousal of the "kisses hugs and tons of drugs" ethos could have been a laughable disaster, but it turned out to be my favorite song on the entire album, then and now.**

The idea of a universal moral obligation is by turns intriguing and infuriating. It assumes utopia as a goal. Utopia's desirability is irrelevant; given the sheer body count, and value systems spread over countless cultures, utopia's plausibility is nil. So I don't buy (or even go halvsies) on "We were born to love one another…All we have to be is free." But, I won't snatch it off the shelf and break it into pieces and bits, either. Our world is a big world--leap how you feel.

My review of Magical Mystery Tour featured a pretty harsh takedown of "All You Need Is Love" but something about "For Peter's Sake" causes me to lower the silver-plated hammer not upon an unsuspecting noggin, but to my side, where I let it slip from my grip onto the ground. Probably blame the organ. Or, whoever spiked Mick's chocolate milk with ephedrine. Oh, who do I kid--that guitar is coming for the crown.

"Mr. Webster" - Of all the boxes Boyce and Hart placed under the tree, none was more oddly-shaped than "Mr. Webster." The eerie story of an overlooked, underpaid bank guard is a three-act play produced under the auspices of Jefferson Airplane's weed connect. The steel guitar ratchets up the tension (safety nets are for inedible pussies).

"Sunny Girlfriend" - The last (and least) of Mike's contributions, "Sunny" refuses to relinquish its shoes, drinks all the swirly pink liquid, sheds on the sofa, then skidaddles off with the host's sugar.

Oh yeah, about drugs. The song is, I mean. Showed up late to the masquerade and left early. 

"Zilch" - Tony Roche, Joe Namath, Pete Maravich, and Julius Boros step out on the diamond to…practice laying down bunts?

The family-friendly fugue known as "Zilch" is not the only Monkees song grabbed for use in a hip hop song, but it's D-E-L over DMC all day. Fitting, since the fellas themselves took from the mouths of others.

I can remember only two songs from that time in my life that left me staring at speakers in disbelief: "Zilch" and "I Am the Walrus." Apples and oranges, to be sure, but both fruits make great juices. The Beatles were determined to show a rock band could create art. The Monkees were determined to show they were a rock band that could create, period.

"No Time" - Came for the hysteria; left needing a shower; returned decades later when I noticed I'd overlooked some references.

Akita puppies chasing crabs down a newly-waxed floor are the only competition to "No Time" in the hijinks stakes.***

"Early Morning Blues and Greens" - I was convinced as a child of these things two: I would never reach the age of 30, and "Early Morning Blues and Greens" sounded similar to the "Eruga's Forest" level of Rygar on the NES.

I was an idiot as a child.

Another one from beyond the enclave, a plotless short story narrated by a hermit who lives in the tallest tree. Light on the naturalism and heavy on the scaffolding thanks to the lack of gravitas Davy Jones brought to everything. Not precisely morose, not entirely at peace. Whether your coffee or your bed--you made it, you answer for it when the circuit shorts out.

"Randy Scouse Git" - A good last--song, sentence, or push--is vital to a time well-spent.

The Monkees made their name and fame on the clean-cut, but there was always dirt on the handle. More jaunty than raunchy, "Randy" is not sophisticated baroque pop; under the harshest scope, it's a goof for the sake of, 'cause that was the MMO of the time. Timpani (yes!) and piano, angry pouts and hairy shouts, damn chorus why are you so perturbed?

Multi-tracked Micky, woooo, hide the goddamn everybody.

I cannot separate this ostensible ode to a super chick from the first time I heard it--which was also the first time I saw it, at the end of "The Picture Frame." Some call it a nightmare, some call it a day in the life, what's the difference? Micky's got questions too, from the banal to the brutal, and the answers (should they exist) are to be found beyond the limits of minds concerned with why that curly-haired buffoon is wearing a table cloth.



At only thirty minutes, you could chase the album with an episode of the show and have a kretching good time. (I recommend "Fairy Tale.") I award Headquarters six out of a possible eight buttons on a well-aged shirt.


                                         ----------------------------------------------------------


*I'd love to go back in time thirty years and tell Sloop Jenn B. that one day a member of her favorite band will cover this song at a concert in New York City and not only will she be in attendance, her boyfriend will be standing behind her shooting video on his phone. Then, I'd raise finger to lips and moonwalk over that horrible blue carpet.

**"A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You" is my favorite. Holy shit is that song brilliant.

***Although written by the band, full credit was given to recording engineer Hank Cicalo, for his hard work and patience with what was essentially a band working on their debut album.

Monday, April 4, 2016

The Peanuts Movie


Theatrical release:  11/6/2015
Director:  Steve Martino

Craig Schulz had a fine idea:  a seventeen-minute Peanuts short featuring two of his late father's greatest storylines.  Charlie Brown's obsession with the Little Red-Haired Girl and Snoopy as the World War I Flying Ace vs. the Red Baron.  Craig's own son Bryan (himself a screenwriter) told his dad that his script tried to do too much in too little time; why not work together on a full-length movie?

Eventually, the Schulz family knew, someone would come along and make the fifth Peanuts film.  Charles Schulz' beloved universe had not blessed the big screens since 1980's Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown, and while that offering didn't set the box office ablaze, the Peanuts brand had maintained a strong worldwide presence.  People know Charlie Brown and Snoopy, people trust Charlie Brown and Snoopy, people spend money on Charlie Brown and Snoopy.  Avarice often trumps artistry, and outsiders--no matter how well-intentioned and/or talented--couldn't possibly encapsulate what made Peanuts so unique.

So in 2010, Craig and Bryan (along with Cornelius Utiano) developed a treatment that they then submitted to 20th-Century Fox.  Enter Blue Sky Studios, a computer animation film studio best known for Ice Age, Rio and not being Pixar Studios.

Wait, CGI Peanuts?  Predictably, large swaths of the Internet were disgruntled.  Blasphemy at best!  Betrayal at worst!  If Charles Schulz didn't write it, it's not Peanuts!  (Quick, someone inform the This Is America miniseries!)  Nightmare scenarios of Snoopy typing the Great American Novel on an iPad and Lucy telling Charlie Brown that his neurosis game was "on fleek" abounded.

I have always been of a mind that change is neither intrinsically positive or negative.   Change, once instigated, must be permitted to play out.  My only major concern had to do with the voices.  The Peanuts kids had always been voiced by, well, kids.  I had no doubt that would continue.  But ever since Aladdin, studios sought big-name actors and actresses to bring animated characters to life.  Surely, hopefully, Blue Sky wouldn't insist on adult speaking roles to be handled by the likes of Steve Carrell or Ellen DeGeneres?

The first extended trailer sent a joyous jolt into my nervous system.  My mouth lost its moisture, my heart lost its composure, and despite the questionable soundtrack, I lost my patience.  November?  Screw that!

But, before I knew it, I was in the theater on a crisp fall afternoon with a dear sweet friend getting reacquainted with some other dear sweet friends.

STORY:  All is winter, all is well.  Then the new kid arrives.  It isn't until the next morning, though, that the kids get their first glimpse of this fresh-faced factor.  Charlie Brown is instantly smitten with this little red-haired girl, whose actual name is unimportant, as names are for tombstones, baby.

Determined to make a positive impression on this grandly-coiffed angel, Chuck enters the school talent show.  His competence as a magician is surprising, but his large heart is not.  As gratifying as it was to save his little sister's rodeo act from complete disaster, no one but the two of them knew it was him under that dopey cow costume.  Fortunately, another opportunity to prove himself worthy beckons--school dance.

Under the tutelage of the World Famous Dance Instructor, Charlie Brown develops into quite the passable mover of feet.  Self-confidence can't be taught so easily, though, and up until the moment of truth, he's a trembling mess.  Once the heat of the spotlight shines on his bowling ball dome, he transforms into a wondrous flurry, driven as much by the vision of a slower dance at evening's end as the cheers of his schoolmates.  Nothing can stop him...except for a puddle of spilled punch.  One clunky brown shoe flies upward, setting off the sprinkler system and soaking the gymnasium.

Typical loser Chuck.  But, classic steadfast Chuck as well.

A book report assignment pairs Charlie Brown with his infatuation object, seemingly the best chance for the flustered youth to come clean.  Before they can tackle page one together, however, he learns that she's temporarily out of town with family.  Another setback, another opportunity; on the unlikely advice of Peppermint Patty, Charlie Brown decides to write about that legendary literary behemoth, Leo's Toy Store, by Warren Peace.

As soon as he decides to undergo the solo mission, Chuck is waylaid with news that no one saw coming.  Results of the school-wide standardized test have been posted, and one student has achieved the first-ever perfect store.  Shermy?  Shermy, hell.  Just like that, the blockhead is Big Cheese, with his peers practically falling over themselves to praise his super-genius.  (Meanwhile, Sally proves to be as besotted with the acquisition and accumulation of "tens and twenties" as ever, hawking merchandise based on her brainy big brother.)

So when it turns out that Leo's Toy Store by Warren Peace is actually War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy, Charlie Brown refuses to "Aauuugh!" Rather, he zig-zags over the snow with a book fit to use as a sled and crafts a one-page book report.

The Little Red-Haired Girl returns just in time to attend the special school assembly awarding Charlie Brown for his unprecedented academic accomplishment.  Intensely aware of a very special pair of eyes on him as he accepts a medal, Chuck does not see the clunky brown shoe about to plummet back down to earth.  (We do, but we can't warn him.)  He's handed his legendary paper, his perfect test...and realizes that it's actually the smiley-faced crap shoot completed by Peppermint Patty.  He--and we--suddenly remember earlier in the movie, when the two of them raced to the teachers desk to hand their work in, so rushed that they had to be reminded to sign their names.  Which they did.  On the wrong sheets of paper.  A blunder that's far from mind-blowing but close to heart-breaking nevertheless.

Charlie Brown refuses the medal and leaves the auditorium.  His hopes hinge on the book report, which Linus praises for cogent insight.  There's still a chance, still a chance...yeah, still a chance for the book report to wind up airborne where it's torn to flakes by a renegade toy plane.

Charlie Brown trudges home.  The very model of perseverance has apparently been thwarted one time too many.

The last day of school arrives, and all I can say, I wish any of my school years flew by so quickly.  Chuck is still desultory, but not so defeated that he isn't prepared to eschew all fanciful effort and just be upfront.  He still has the Little Red-Haired Girl's pencil, so he walks over to her house, only to discover that she's set to leave for summer camp.  She's not gone just yet, so cue frantic run through the school carnival and fortuitous entanglement with a kite.

Finally face-to-face with the sainted lass just before she boards the bus, he hands over the she-bitten writing implement and receives a wonderful gift in return.  The gift of self-realization.  Instead of just saying "thank you" and taking her seat, the Little Red-Haired Girl proceeds to tell Charlie Brown that she wants to keep in touch over the summer and then explains why:  his selfless nature, his honesty, his solicitude.  She departs; he regenerates.

The other kids--even Lucy and Violet--have to admit, Charlie Brown is pretty good ol' after all, and give him a victory ride.

The Peanuts Movie quelled fears and surpassed expectations.  Certain viewers expressed disappointment at a perceived lack of innovation and felt the supporting cast had been given short shrift.  Two charges that had been levied at the strip during the last two decades of its five decade run, in fact, with blame falling primarily on the shoulders of an adorable beagle with a dazzling imagination.

And wouldn't you know, the B story of The Peanuts Movie involves Snoopy's Flying Ace reveries.  Snoopy really wants to join the others in school, to see this new kid up close, to laugh as the toy Fokker DR.1 plane that Linus brought for Show and Tell goes haywire and flies out of the school, but instead he's caught, deposited into a dumpster, and winds up with a typewriter.  (Classic writer metaphor lurking in there.)  Atop his doghouse, seeking inspiration, the plane buzzes the beagle.  Wait, Fokker DR.1?  Wasn't that the plane piloted by...

CURSE YOU RED BARON!

The Flying Ace must stop the bloody Baron before he can close his creepy clutches around the pretty pink poodle pilot Fifi.  Throughout the film, Snoopy uses the follies and foibles of his owner as inspiration for this tale of romance, intrigue and danger.  It proves a super counterpoint to the A story, keeping the viewer engaged while showing off what Blue Sky technology is capable of.

The Peanuts Movie was never going to delve too deep into the bleaker side of the original strip.  When trying to win new fans while keeping old ones satisfied, "Happiness is a warm puppy" will win out over "Even my anxieties have anxieties" in the slogan contest.  Those who bemoan the happy ending would do well to remember that Charles Schulz did, every once in a blue moon, allow his plain-faced hero to succeed.  10

ANIMATION

The film begins with...white.  Then, four black lines frame the nothingness.  It's about to be something.

The classic pen-and-paper world fades into a computer-generated one.  That was then, this is now, all in all is same as it ever was.

No, this is not the 2-D world of Bill Melendez, but a magnificent step forward.  The textures on display are so rich they're addicting.  Kudos to the hardworking folks at Blue Sky for embracing the expressive power of Schulz' work and further, for achieving a feat I believed impossible--to make Snoopy appear even more huggable and skritchable.

The flight sequences are gorgeously frantic.  The character movements are crisp, clean and lively; above all, they are familiar.  Watching them is akin to sipping hot cocoa from a shiny new mug.  10.

MUSIC

Christophe Beck's score is bright and emotional.  In other words, pretty perfect.  Of course, a few choice Vince Guaraldi originals pop up ("Skating" is the very first song, fittingly).  The concessions to modern sound are Flo Rida's "That's What I Like About You" and Meghan Trainor's "Better When I'm Dancin'."  Both songs fit their respective montages, which helps minimize the damage.  But make no mistake; these are not songs I would listen to otherwise.  9

VOICES

In order to make The Peanuts Movie a true success, the filmmakers needed to hit several key targets.  One of the most crucial:  a top-notch voice actor for Charlie Brown.  Noah Schnapp delivers.  He's such a blockhead he goes from 11/8 to 4/4 before winding up 10/10.  Instantly likable, relentlessly human.

Not much is asked of Francesca Angelucci Capaldi until film's end, when she gives a great "the reasons why you don't suck" speech to Charlie Brown, so she also handles the lightweight duty of voicing Frieda.  7.5

Alex Garfin scored an Annie nomination for his performance as Linus.  The sweet sagacity associated with the character ever since Chris Shea's monumental work in A Charlie Brown Christmas is difficult to replicate, and while I don't put Garfin in that rarefied air, he definitely did a bang-up job--and, honestly, deserved some more screen time.  9

Hadley Belle Miller voiced the other Van Pelt (and also earned the honor of losing to Phyllis Smith last February), and she damn near steals the show with one of the most versatile and least-alienating takes on the irascible girl in the blue dress.  10

A great Sally Brown needs to be utterly juvenile.  A dollop of sweet, a squirt of sour, a splash of silly, and an unearned, hysterical severity.  She also must be good for one or two laugh out loud moments in a world that is more keen on producing chuckles.  Mariel Sheets, nice job.  9

Venus Omega Schultheis must be saluted.  The most resplendent name of any Peanuts voice actor yet.  The first five letters of her last name.  The most outstanding Peppermint Patty since Linda Ercoli in the Seventies.  A good Pep Pat sounds more mature than she actually is.  This is a great Pep Pat.  10

Marcie (Rebecca Bloom) and Franklin (Marleik Walker) are both sweet 8's, if underused.  Patty, Violet, Pig-Pen, Shermy and Schroeder are also featured, yet I don't feel their parts were substantial enough for grading.  No one strikes a false note, let it be said.

Finally, the adults.  Bill Melendez is away, not gone.  Thanks to archival audio recordings, he's Snoopy forever.  Kristin Chenoweth is the token celebrity, but she's perfect; she did, after all, win a Tony Award in 1999 for her portrayal of Sally in You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.  And what's the harm?  None.  She "voices" Fifi, by which I mean she makes some feminine dog noises.

But wait, those are just adult voices for animal characters.  What about the actual adults?  You know, the legendary "wah-wah"?  Oh, that.  That is courtesy of New Orleans' own Troy Andrews.  Or, as you may know him, "Trombone Shorty."  Trombone.  Mother.  Fucking.  Short.  Y.  Jimmy Onishi Golden Infinite 10 Award to you, sir.

CHARLIE: BOLD AS LOVE

--Initially I felt bemusement when Linus showed off his toy Fokker and explained the Red Baron.  Likewise at Snoopy and Woodstock's comical awe at the typewriter in action.  Then I remembered, The Peanuts Movie is not just for the long-timer fans.  The studio knew--hoped--that many of those fans would go to the theater with one or two (or more) children in tow, youngsters who would be utterly clue-free about both the Baron and typewriters.

--This is a true "G" movie.  No innuendo, no pop-culture references for the adults.  I read a few reviews that recommended TPM as the ideal first film for a child, and beyond my bias, I have to agree.  It's pure entertainment.

--The list of student test scores gives some goodies:  a shout-out for the unsung 5, another non-canon last name for Marcie, and best, the full name of the LRHG.  Her first name, Heather, was already given in 1977's It's Your First Kiss, Charlie Brown.  Her last name, Wold, is the same as her real-life counterpart.

--So many callbacks:  dog germs, strip baseball, the talking wall, the psychiatrists booth, a War and Peace book report, and of course, Snoopy personas a-poppin'.  In addition to the Aces (Flying and Literary), he shows off Joe Cool, Snoopcopter, Snoopmarine and my new favorite--Shhoopy.

--On the run from the Red Baron, Snoopy crashes a gathering of Christmas carolers and begins warbling along to "Christmastime is Here."  This makes me laugh like a maniac, but I cannot recall that audio appearing in any Peanuts special.  Was it a Melendez outtake?  Audio manipulation?  Someone who knows Steve Martino tell him a blogger broad wants to know.

--No iStuff, no Internet...the only modern additions to the neighborhood are blue recycle bins, and even those share curbside space with good ol' aluminum cans.

--Only Charles Schulz' friends could call him "Sparky."  That's how he liked it.  When son Craig met with people from the studio to hash out the movie, he told them to refer to his late father as "Sparky."  Not "Charles," not "Mr. Schulz," not "your father."

--The Flying Ace scenes are just brilliantly animated.  I can't praise them enough.

--Yeah yeah, the football gag gets animated during the end credits, but ahem, Snoopy sibling party!  I damn near cheered in the theater.

--The best ending in the history of film.  I've watched The Peanuts Movie nine times now, and I tear up every single time.

#ADORKABLE

--Thankfully, pandering was limited to this poster.

--Charlie Brown wins today, but you know some fresh hell is in store for that boy tomorrow.

--"I saw him first!"  You sure did, Shermy.

--Snoopy's filler?  Sure.  Like the creme between two chocolate wafers.

--"That's not a real horse!"  "That's not a real cow!"  Thanks, budding Internet reviewer!

--Cameo by Woodstock's little-seen brother, Malarchuk.

--War and Peace is 1,440 pages long.  Charlie Brown wrote his book report on a single sheet of paper.

--Craig Schulz claims John Hughes was hired to write a Peanuts script.  "It never worked."  I don't wonder.



As Charlie Brown himself says in the film, "You can't go wrong sticking to the classics."

Bringing in over $100 million domestic and in excess of $250 million worldwide, The Peanuts Movie proved the enduring allure of neurotic children and the dog who tolerates them.  Critics (outside of Toronto) responded positively.  The Golden Globes, the Producers Guild, Nick Kids Choice, and critics groups in Chicago, San Diego and San Francisco all recognized it as one of 2015's best animated features.  (Note, no Academy Award nod.  The temerity of those bastards.)  The drive to succeed, to feel intensely and have those feelings not only acknowledged but reciprocated, powered the makers of the movie as surely as it powered Charles Schulz, as surely as it powered Charlie Brown, as surely as it powers millions of people.  It shows.  It tells.

Peanuts has always been there for me.  This film proved it will always be there for me.  A book, a film, a t-shirt, a CD, a figurine, an interactive toy--any of it, all of it.  When the world and the people within it let me down, I have an instant pick-up.   The Peanuts Movie is another stimulating influence, a warm embrace, a moment of connection and comfort that is recalled with ease and pleasure. 




Sunday, March 13, 2016

Snap and Crackle's Groovy Revenge, Pt. V

MEN OF THE '70s

"Sad Eyes"--Robert John
Bobby first hit the Billboard in 1958, as 12-year-old Bobby Pedrick singing about "White Bucks and Saddle Shoes."  Then his cover of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" hit No. 3.  Third time proved the narm when this so-long to a side-piece became one of the few #1 songs of 1979 that wasn't a booty-shaking good time.
        Am I supposed to feel bad that Bobby and his jumpoff have to sever sex ties with the imminent return of his wife/girlfriend?  Aww, monogamy?  I'll admit, the build to the chorus is so glorious though, like a million angels exploding in a glitter storm.

"Sentimental Lady"--Bob Welch
Welch was a member of Fleetwood Mac in the relatively brief period between Peter Green's incarnation of the band and the blockbuster line-up with Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham.  When Welch made his solo debut three years after quitting the Mac, his first single was a revisit of a song that had originally appeared on the group's 1972 LP Bare Trees.  He took "Sentimental Lady," threw her in something low-cut and velvet, guided her onto a yacht, and they spent the weekend together on a record industry pal's friend's island.
        Without fail, this record grabs my shoulders and promises to stop swaying me to and fro only if I state my unshakable belief in romantic love.  I swear I mean it when I say I will, really I do.

"Montego Bay"--Bobby Bloom
Welcome to wherever you want.  The cares costs nothing, but happy hour is actually only twenty minutes.

"I Go Crazy"--Paul Davis
Maudlin acid rain.  Such a blatant attempt a tearjerker radio hit, crassly composed and barely performed.

"Hot Child in the City"--Nick Gilder
In 1976, Elton John was arguably the biggest rock star in the world.  Then he came out as "bisexual" in a Rolling Stone interview and saw his popularity take a massive hit.  Things got better, of course, but for awhile, Reg must have wondered why he opened his mouth.  See, for all the hoopla surrounding the 70s as a time of personal exploration and bold self-expression, there were things the population at large were not prepared to handle.  Illusions and delusions die hard, and they rarely go out alone.
        Nick Gilder, neither bisexual or the biggest rock star in the world, was just one example of the "Bowie-lite" acts (generally one-hit wonders) that the record-buying public supported because an androgynous image was just that, an image, and could be worn with the ease of a tube top or a denim jacket.  Did the artist really mean it?  Don't ask, don't tell, just look and act the part out accordingly.  It was, as account after account will attest, a naive time at best.  These were people who looked at Freddie Mercury and marveled at the amount of pussy a superstar like that must get.
        I don't have a larger point to make here.  I just write out whatever the songs make me think, and this is what you get.

"I'm In You"--Peter Frampton
"When I cry, you don't laugh."  Why is that noteworthy, if you don't mind my asking?  What were his relationships like before?  "Your mum's in hospital?  Cheers!"  If this is something you have to tell the girl, well, she clearly does not feel like you do.

"Do You Wanna Make Love"--Peter McCann
To you, sir?  No.  Maybe not to anyone else ever again, if this sudden vaginal paralysis doesn't pass.
        MTV destroyed schlubs like Peter McCann.  Him, Robert John, Rupert Holmes, all these sweaty bastards had a Zero shirt's chance in a Lamb of God mosh pit of surviving once visuals became a vital promotional tool.   And you know my thoughts on that?  Good.  Nothing of value was lost.  World somehow kept spinning without balding four-eyed jackholes trespassing in the waves.

"Seasons In the Sun"--Terry Jacks
A reinterpretation of Jacque Brel's "Le Moribond."  More accurately, a bastardization of a sardonic suicide note into a mawkish see-ya.  Even without foreknowledge, the song is imminently despicable.  Jacks doesn't even sing, he auditions.

"Feelings"--Morris Albert
If the popular music of the 1970s were represented as a salad, "Feelings" would be the lettuce:  bland and ubiquitous.  Ladies and gentlemen, what we-uh have hee-uh is trash.  Garbage.  Trash-garbage.  But what's funny?  The first handful of listens weren't bad. Albert's vulnerability, his desperate yearning for emotional respite, had definite appeal.  Then, listen six happened, and things went ass over teakettle.  And I've been a coffee gal ever since.

"Baby Don't Get Hooked On Me"--Mac Davis
Mac D. is rugged, what with the unkempt hairs, loose buttons and hard eyes.  Understand, he ain't no street corner rapper.  He's gonna give it to a gal straight, so don't you dare come at him sideways.  Don't be no fabric sheet, girl.  Pardon me, mister drummer sir, could you please stop being somewhat interesting back there?  I'm trying to wrap this up.
        The sole joy this song brings me is the memory of its mention in the Roseanne episode "The Getaway, Almost" (AKA, That Time Riot Grrl Got Mentioned On a Hit Sitcom):
        "Remember 'Baby Baby Don't Get Hooked On Me'?  'I'll just use you then I'll set you free. Use me and I'll set you on fire, you bastard."

"Show and Tell"--Al Wilson
Adult music for adult times.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I score "Show and Tell" a positive pregnancy test.  Who loves ya, baby, indeed.

"Rock Me Gently"--Andy Kim
Nothing here a spoonful of caramel syrup can't galvanize.  If and when Adam Driver gets casts in a Neil Diamond biopic, he'll look a lot like Andy Kim did when he captivated soft American ears with his only hit (well, only one he recorded; this is the man who co-wrote "Sugar, Sugar" after all).
        Wisely, Andy talk-sings more than he sing-sings.  Things are at a decent heat, then--that breakdown.  Where in the hell did did that come from, and where did it get those shoes?

"Sunshine"--Jonathan Edwards
Anti-authority or just anti-routine?  Why didn't Uncle Sam's mama tell her boy that it's rude to point?

"Undercover Angel"--Alan O'Day
From possibly tolerable to definitely tossable in fifty seconds.
        "So this fantasy girl got in the sheets with me last night, right?" is admittedly a unique way to begin a pick-up attempt.  Like whaaat?  Imagine being told that you're not only dead, but your only ticket out of purgatory is to seduce Alan O'Day so that he can get up the gumption to one night fuck a real live human broad.

"I Can See Clearly Now"--Johnny Nash
Inflation and unemployment and war and political corruption and "it's gonna be a briiight..."  Hey, I like my lies incandescent.

"You Make Me Feel Like Dancing"--Leo Sayer
The Simpsons and J Dilla both mined comedy silver from "You Make Me Feel Dancing."  Laughter counts!  I give this song considerable slack, since it extended the same courtesy to me.

"I Just Wanna Stop"--Gino Vannelli
Montreal memories taste sweet, but life's vicissitudes can't keep the melancholy dogs at bay. Gino's the Canadian-Italian George Benson if I'm being generous; the Canadian-Italian Barry Manilow if I'm being realistic.  Blow and tickle.

"Magnet and Steel"--Walter Egan 
Sensitive dude; the album on which this appeared is called Not Shy, for Chrissake.  Alan Alda couldn't sing this sweetly, though.

"Just When I Needed You Most"--Randy VanWarmer
Nothing is forever, so why does the end still hurt so badly?  Here's how a man in the '70s could sound lovelorn and deserving of sympathy.  I believe Randy is suffering, but I also believe in Randy.  Chin up, sir.  See, the thing about us womenfolk, we be exchanging currency for goods.  So just ease up your mind, pay a visit to the nearest mall and find you a new woman.

"Welcome Back"--John Sebastian
The other TV theme on the comp.  A man leaves his much-derided hometown behind to pursue his dreams, only to return, mouth full of crow.  I never liked this song too tough in my best days, and I loathe it with the power of a million shiny Macintosh apples now.

"You Take My Breath Away"--Rex Smith
What's so sexy Rexy about layered hair and a vest?  Gross, man.  Is that an ocarina I hear?  Was this a demo?  People of the Seventies, did y'all top-ten a demo?

"She's a Lady"--Tom Jones
Delicates-dodger extraordinaire Tom Jones works his magic, and I don't have to tell you what he's stirring the potion with.  Of course she's a hell of a woman; she'd have to be, to handle Tsunami Tom.
        Paul Anka wrote this?  How in the...?  Oh, right.  Broken clock.

"Drift Away"-- Dobie Grey
Ever get out of the shower and just collapse on your bed?  Wake up an hour later and momentarily forget why your hair's wet?   That doesn't happen if you have music playing.  Try it sometime.

"Oh Babe, What Would You Say?"--Hurricane Smith
Guy in the industry pushing 50 takes one of his wife's songs and scores a surprise hit.  Less shocking is how forgettable the track itself is.  A name goes a long way, especially  meteorological ones (see also:  "Something In the Air" by Thunderclap Newman).

"Sometimes When We Touch"--Dan Hill
"You ask me if I love you, and I choke on my reply."  Dan should have taken a cue from the 10cc guy.  Record some session musicians blowing raspberries into the mic, manipulate the speeds on each individual track, layer them like a Smith Island Cake and pow--instant rhythm track.  Then, instead of going the introspective and tormented route, say the opposite of what you truly think and feel about her.
        Look, I've no beef with the sensitive man, but a guy can be perceptive and solicitous while still having balls.  But Dan Hill?  He sings like he's one strong cough away from weeping, not to mention he looks like a cross between the GEICO caveman and Harley from Epic Meal Time.  I'd rather choke down a mouthful of glass-filled cow heart then hear this one more time.

"Please Come To Boston"--Dave Loggins
Man goes cross-country in search of success, and at each stop he beseeches his down South lady love to join him, but each time she shoots him down with reminders of what a fool he's currently being.  Not even finally striking gold in L.A., house with a hella view and all, can sway her.  Easily the least compelling love story since Dax and Deral on Deep Space Nine.

"Wildfire"--Michael Murphey
A gauzy, depressing tale of untimely death and unseemly obsession, beloved by the same people whose lives were changed by Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  I can't even make it to the vocals before my eyes go all Spirograph.  The world is a worse place for this song having been recorded.

"It Never Rains In Southern California"--Albert Hammond
Under the lights, dreamers either wither or expand.  Well done, Al; crushing disappointment has rarely sounded so catchy.

"I'd Love You To Want Me"--Lobo
"I feel the blood go to my feet."  Hmm, that could be neurocardiogenic syncope.  Or love. Only tests will tell.

"Rock On"--David Essex
A good way of coping with unanswerable questions?  Ask some of your very own.
        The twin illusions of space and time command the stage.  Less polyester, more polyrhythms.  Speed limits exist to be broken and reassembled.  When someone's down and out, they have only one way to go--bullshit.

"Escape (The Pina Colada Song)"--Rupert Holmes
The final #1 of the 1970s.  Sure, "I was tired of my lady" is a pretty harsh line, but turns out she was tired of him too!  Oh, Rod Serling, eat your heart out.  Who can begrudge anyone their need to feel wanted?  Maybe this couple reconnected and learned to appreciate trees.  Maybe they ditched the square life and took to the roads, committing themselves to a life of spontaneity.  Maybe they got real bold and tried some bourbon!  Speaking of which, I could really use some to wash my blood clean.
        The footage used in the infomercial is taken from this clip.   Behold that man.  That showmanship.  Air guitar.  Perpetual smile, 'cause he knows he is defying the odds of nature just being at that place in that time doing that thing.  Hand gestures so frequent that KRS-One would have told them to scale back.  Get a load of  "stair mode"!  There was around the same time another, lesser Time Life compilation being hawked after hours, Yacht Rock-Soft Pop whatever it was called, and "Escape" appeared on that one as well.  The footage used there was from an entirely different performance, some talk show it looked like, with Rupert decked out in a blue and white track suit (I think), lip-syncing in front of some curtains and looking inexplicably over to his right.  It took a bit before my friend and I made the connection.  Obviously the talk show performance took place after the "stairs" one, and Rupert was still dealing with some displacement issues. 

"Bad, Bad Leroy Brown"--Jim Croce
A straight boss hog MF'er, quick with the silver, luster of the gold, answers to no one since Sylvester Ritter left town.  All the pants he left bunny-eared, the flesh he left open, the guy just needed himself a nice girlfriend.  That he no doubt would cheat on habitually but still.  Let's see some effort, Leroy.
       
"Crocodile Rock"--Elton John 
The man born Reg Dwight has notched a total of nine #1 singles in the U.S., the first six coming in the Seventies (placing him second behind the Bee Gees, who you will notice are missing from here, at least nominally).  "Crocodile Rock" kicked it all off, a semi-classic Farfisa-palooza celebrating the joys of good love and great music.  The lyric "Suzie went and left us for some foreign guy" left me confused as a wee lass--what other guy is he talking about?  Ah, the days when I had yet to appreciate the many ways a speaker of English could wield the language (especially the English)!

"Will It Go Round In Circles"--Billy Preston
My dad's favorite song was "Nothing From Nothing."  I much preferred Mr. Preston's other #1.  Occasionally I entertained the idea of starting a nice debate, but I could never muster the necessary bravery.  My dad was the sort that you not only needed to step on eggshells around, you would also be advised to check the size and color of the fragments.
        The last year of his life he was confined to a bed in the living room, entirely dependent on my mother.  The stereo/CD player sat in the kitchen some twelve feet away, but rather than have it relocated, Dad would yell for Mom to put in The Best of Billy Preston, a disc which kicked off with my song.  His song was all the way at number seven.  Sometimes, Dad would let my song play; most times, he'd yell again, telling Mom to skip ahead.  I'd clench my teeth and remind myself that I could just buy my own The Best of Billy Preston to avoid this angst.
        I don't know the reason(s) my father so loved "Nothing From Nothing."  It was difficult for me to fathom that he was capable of enjoying something so simple as a song.  If I could have ten more minutes with him, I would ask.  Then I'd tell him why I love "Will It Go Round In Circles," because I'd finally know for sure he cared.
        This bites down and locks on.  This lets the bad guy win, but only sometimes.  The chorus makes the center of my chest all Grinch-y.  It doesn't tell me; it asks.  It makes me wonder.  Great feat for a song to pull off; for a person, a parent, maybe not so much. 

"Cat's in the Cradle"--Harry Chapin
Mrs. Chapin cobbled "CITC" together shortly after pushing out their first kid, worried as she was that her husband's workaholic ways would prevent him from being the best father.  Points for effectiveness, but as a staunch non-breeder, the song's moral will forever be seen and never felt.

"American Pie"--Don McLean
A bold, ambitious look at a turbulent era in the nation's history.  From the cold milk comfort of the 1950s to the scorching chaos of the 1960s, "American Pie" hit people square in their chests.  Was it really such a long, long time ago?  Anyone who claimed pop music and poetry were mutually exclusive had to eat humble pie when McLean's melancholic masterpiece hit the top of the charts in the winter of 1972.
        Fuck all the way off.
        McLean's legacy is as a sideline reporter.  The fucking Jim Lampley of rock.  He's not a poet, he's a peanut.  He's not a seer, he's a sucker.  All the artists McLean referenced were his superiors beyond debate, and yes that includes the Big Bopper.  Beginning with the Day the Music Died and concluding in Altamont, Donny Boy manages to grow even more grating and self-righteous with every overthought, overwrought line, until he actually attenuates his ultimate message.
        Well, I wasn't there, so I guess I don't get it.  Except there's nothing to get.  "American Pie" is not a social movement, or a philosophy, it's a song.  And it's not enjoyable on any level.  Even criticizing it makes my legs restless.  The only tragedy that took place on a football field in 1969 was Super Bowl IV.  Okay?
        "American Pie" makes me hate North America, South America, pie, men named Don, and former Vancouver Canucks goalie Kirk McLean.  On those rare occasions I have made it to minute four, "American Pie" has even made me hate music.

Of the 150 songs on Pop Goes the 70s, none won the Grammy for Song of the Year, and only one earned Record of the Year honors: "Love Will Keep Us Together."
        67 hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100, and all 150 made the top ten.
        For various reasons, there are no songs by the Bee Gees, Carole King, the former members of the Beatles,  Elvis (whose biggest hit of the decade, "Burning Love," is my personal favorite of his), and many many others.  But to lament what wasn't included is to miss the point.  As an amusing time capsule of a legendary era is where Pop Goes the 70s finds enduring value.
         I leave you with my top 10 and bottom 10 songs from the entire shebang.

TOP 10
1.  "Will It Go Round In Circles"
2.  "Miracles"
3.  "Right Back Where We Started From"
4.  "I'm Not In Love"
5.  "Go All the Way"
6.  "If I Can't Have You"
7.  "A Horse With No Name"
8.  "Jackie Blue"
9.  "Rock On"
10. "Le Freak"

BOTTOM 10
1.  "American Pie"
2.  "(You're) Having My Baby"
3.  "Afternoon Delight"
4.  Hooked On a Feeling"
5.  "Wildfire"
6.  "I Go Crazy"
7.  "How Do You Do?"
8.  "Do You Wanna Make Love"
9.  "Higher and Higher"
10. "Puppy Love"/"Shannon"

Saturday, March 12, 2016

Snap and Crackle's Groovy Revenge, Pt. IV

POP/ROCK GROUPS

The frilly, spineless pop of the era wasn't all that punk rock was rebelling against.  There was also arena rock.  Led Zeppelin, Queen, the Eagles, et. al, hedonistic millionaires who redefined what it meant to be considered a "rock star."  But one thing those groups had in common with the Ramones and Sex Pistols?  None of them landed a track on Pop Goes the 70s. 

"Go All the Way"--The Raspberries
Take a guy younger than many, smarter than most, and more full of himself than some.  Give him a guitar.  You know those songs that burst onto the scene and end as many incipient bands as they inspire?  This is one of those songs. 

"Magic"--Pilot
Between Pilot and the Bay City Rollers, Scotland threatened to take over, I tell ya.  Happier than a smiley face eating chocolate-covered vanilla fudge.  Love indeed is magic, all tricks and sleights and cutting a woman in half.  You can believe in love; I prefer to believe in tacos.  Love will break you, but only you can break tacos.  Unless you go soft shell, which you should.

"Reminiscing"--Little River Band
Weekends are for winding down, not winding up.  The street lights reveal puddles on the road, and the moon takes care of the rest. 

"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)"--Looking Glass
Hard luck broad surrounded by open shirts and closed hearts.  The working woman can't win.  Or, I'm never around when they do.  Heh.

"Little Willy"--Sweet
A glam rock snot rocket.  Sing along, dance along, make up phallic parody lyrics...above all, have a below-the-belt blast.

"Brother Louie"--Stories
A gritty song about an important social topic.  You immediately thought of Louis C.K., right?

"Precious and Few"--Climax
Are the seconds my ears can stand.  This shit would lose a pillow fight with a baby chipmunk.

"Miracles"--Jefferson Starship
The post-coital yak of hippies shouldn't sound so pretty.  Especially when it mentions cunnilingus and a fox-trotting penis.  Again, shouldn't be a rapturous classic--yet it is.

"Jackie Blue"--Ozark Mountain Daredevils
Veruca Salt grew up and hit the hallucinogens heavy after her dad died of a massive inevitability and her mother retreated to the woods.  She moved to NYC, hooked up with a chick named Karen, and the rest is all crashing waves that make the pills go down easier. 
        "Singing drummer" finally scores a win!  Larry Lee, cool job.  You make Leo Sayer sound like Barry White!  Not even Smashing Pumpkins could ruin this lysergic noodle soup. 

"Saturday Night"--Bay City Rollers
As punk as Pop Goes the 70s dares to get.  Amateurish all the way 'round, yet still incredibly likable.  These kids didn't even comprehend the inhibitions they lacked.  The chanting escalates, till visions of wind-up toys shuffling towards the table's edge dance in my head.  More fuzz on the guitar than on any band member at the time of recording. 

"Baby Come Back"--Player
Exposure makes the brain grow sharper, so after two weekends, my then-BF and I knew the infomercial by heart like we were a pair of lungs.  We anticipated certain songs, certain visuals.  When "Baby Come Back" hit?  Forget it.  We celebrated like the people of Vatican City at the sight of white smoke.  (I would've felt bad for our neighbors had they been anything other than obnoxious, Bush-the-band-probably-also-the-President-loving white trash.)
        "Baby come back!"  BOOM went the kryptonite. 

"Signs"--Five Man Electrical Band
Some great lines here.  Some killer alliteration near the end of the final verse.  The right to own property vs. the right of Earth to exist sans violation.  No rights, no wrongs, just thoughts, just words.

"Sky High"--Jigsaw
Another singing drummer.  The most striking aspect of the infomercial was how often the men looked prettier than the women.  The hair, mostly.  The key is always in the hair.

"Saturday in the Park"--Chicago
The sights and smells of nature clash with the sights and smells of humanity.  Infectious, yes...but so is yawning.

"Play That Funky Music"--Wild Cherry
Tight on top, loose on the bottom. 

"I'm Not In Love"--10CC
Ultra sound.  He is in love, actually, see, because his wife wondered why he never told her more frequently and he was all, well if I say it every day it's a meaningless phrase, innit?  So, right, listen--I don't love you!
        What seems upon initial impression to be a misted-over glow from a ramshackle light source is one of the most inventive tracks of the decade, and also one of the very best.

"In the Summertime"--Mungo Jerry
I thought it was just the one guy, and can you blame me?  (Were the mutton chops considered the other band members?)  Singer Ray Dorset not only had resembled an eight-year-old Andre the Giant, he was one of drunk driving's most fervent champions.  A body doesn't need money--much less a car--to drink from a sweaty pitcher of lemonade or inhale a freshly mown lawn.

"Come and Get Your Love"--Redbone
Jerky smash from a rare flock.  Chris Pratt dances like a doofy.

"Black and White"--Three Dog Night
Songs stressing the need for social equality can sound so cringey because the very idea that social equality is something that needs to be stressed and sold is itself cringey.

"Sweet Mary"--Wadsworth Mansion
I'd love to be all, "Yeah, this sounds like a couple wads worth!" but nah.  A little saucy, a little crusty, "Sweet Mary" sounds like a relic of the prior decade.  Send 'em back to Christmas 1967, present them their stockings stuffed with effects pedals, and a spot on a Nuggets compilation would have been theirs.

"Last Song"--Edward Bear
Leave it to Canadians to name their racket-gang after Winnie the Pooh's real name.  "Last Song" is pure Eeyore, and yet another Sixties sound-a-like. 

"Nice To Be With You"--Gallery
Micro pave RNR.  Forever in burlap sack.  You guys, the punks were really unfair to arena rock.

"Baby I'm-A Want You"--Bread
Baby I'm-a vomit.  Wallace and a-Gromit.  It's simple mathematics, you gotta love it:  three Tylenol for one Bread song.  I can't imagine the number of overdoses these guys were responsible for.  Soft rock?  More like soft fat.

"Moonlight Feels Right"--Starbuck
There are four reasons to remember "Moonlight Feels Right".

        1) Coffee
        2) Marimba solo
        3) Singer fond of wearing a flapjack on his noggin
        4) Chesapeake Bay!

        These guys weren't even from Maryland.  Crazed.  Crabs.  Let's get crackin', hon.

"My Sharona"--The Knack
Critically derided as inauthentic, The Knack scored their first (and biggest) hit a mere year after playing their first live gig.  The lyrical content is ick-fest, but perhaps the fact that the real Sharona remained friends with singer Doug Fieger until his death mollifies that somewhat.  Nothing more than huge drums, huge chords, and huge hook, but honestly?  Still one of the most overrated things I'll ever hear.