I’m Not There

Over the past several years Bob Dylan has earned his place in the pantheon of American mythology. The recent, and excellent documentary by Martin Scorsese explores Dylan’s rise from Minnesota obscurity into folk icon, and his greatly controversial move to a new electrified folk-rock sound. Dylan himself has dug in to share his twentieth century adventures with his scattered, autobiographical Chronicles book. With new box-sets and biographies hitting the shelves every month it seems America still can’t get enough of the mysterious lyricist, or his chameleon like ability to morph into different figures.

Dylan’s staying power in American culture seems to have much to do with the existential bravery of his work. He has been the heir to Woody Guthrie’s throne, the mouthpiece of the civil rights movement, the mystical poet, the western story teller and even the praise singer. He’s notoriously dodged all of these titles in interviews claiming to be nothing at all, turning his back on politics and the very idea of a ‘folk revival’.

So, it seems fitting that Todd Haynes want to explore the many faces of Bob Dylan using a variety of actors playing a variety of characters in a kind of avant-homage to the shape shifter. The weight of Haynes task falls on a number of people interpreting, impersonating and enhancing a real person; and the film cracks under the weight.

The film makes no claims of linearity and so it can’t be judged on those terms. Nonetheless, the outstanding performances of Cate Blanchett as the “Don’t Look Back” era Dylan, and Ben Whishaw who’s comments fit in like a Greek chorus, can’t help the film find its own logic. The hardworking Christian Bale is tragically miscast, and his performances fall flat as an awkward parody of Dylan being torn apart for refusing a civil rights award. Both Richard Gere as the cowboy/outlaw Dylan, er Billy the Kid, and Heath Ledger as the womanizer seem like disconnected mini-dramas that make you eager to return to Blanchett’s Oscar-worthy performance. Top it off with Marcus Franklin (yet another talented actor who can’t save the picture) as the little black boy claiming to be Woody Guthrie himself, and you have what looks like an attempt at a fractured meditation on personality and the sixties, but is nothing more than a pool of post-modern muck.

Further complicating things is Haynes interest in paying film homage. Black and white captions accompanied by bullet sounds tip a hat to Godard. At one point Blanchett finds herself in a elegant garden populated by an absurd entourage of press people and a very cracked-out Beatles. The garden is decorated with stone fixtures and confusion taken directly from Fellini’s “8 1/2″. This is an irony all too rich to go unnoticed as “8 1/2″ is a movie about a director with all the funding, attention and actors and no idea what he’s shooting. Did Haynes come up for air and realize that he was Fellini’s lead, a director with no vision and so much commotion?

Luckily, Dylan’s cryptic biography and rich lyricism can survive such misguided tributes. Better still the movie has a double-disc soundtrack full of great singers (Cat Power, Jim James, Jeff Tweedy, Sonic Youth, Richie Havens and more) doing outstanding covers of his songs.

**

American Gangster

What was it about the Nixon years that America just can’t seem to finish digesting? Was it the foreign policy faux pas that cost so many American and Vietnamese lives? Maybe it was the choking economy or a new-found lack thereof?

Maybe it was none of these things, but in any event they are all prominent threads in Ridley Scott’s true-crime drama American Gangster. Scott is no stranger to real-life drama (G.I. Jane) but has historically leaned more towards the fantastical (Legend, Alien) and the epic (Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven). Maybe it’s his track record that makes his choice of translating the life of Frank Lucas-the most notoriously succesful black leader of organized crime- so suprising and the film so poignant.

Denzel Washington stars as Lucas, while Russel Crowe plays a pleasantly humble role as a Jersey cop named Detective Richard Roberts.  The two are fantastically matched as Washington displays his perennial grace and dignity that lends the drug lord a sympathetic air despite shooting a neighberhood gangster in broad daylight, and flooding the streets of New York with high quality heroin.  Crowe looks anything but grandiose as Roberts struggles to win a custody battle over his son, turns in a trunk full of bribe money and gets chased out of New York by some corrupt cops who treat him like a kid on the wrong side of the playground.

The movie plays out like a more grand update on the French Connection (the famous bust is outwardly referenced in the dialog) with all the typical, racist, stereotypes shuffled.  Instead of Gene Hackman’s Irish gumshoe, Roberts is a Jewish cop.  All of the Italian families and crooked cops marvel at the presence of a black druglord dominating their streets.  Ridley Scott doesn’t pull any punches either as both cops and criminals toss racial slurs with venomous hatred.

Nevertheless, race is not the picture’s prime concern so much as ethics. Repeatedly throught the film Detective Roberts is mocked for turning in the found cash, which was probably swiped from the evidence room by a less honest cop. Eventually Lucas himself trys to buy him off, begging the question: ‘what’s the point? The world is a screwed up place.’ Ridley Scott is not interested in wrapping the answer up with a bow. What he does give us is just violent enough, with carefully measured New York grit to give this true story an authentic sense of drama and personality.

****1/2

Scout Niblett-This Fool Can Die Now

Emma Niblett, stage name ‘Scout’ is one of a kind. Residing in Portland by way of Nottingham, Scout likes to keep her live shows spicy by wearing wigs, reflective safety vests and at points using only her rudimentary drumming as instrumentation for her eccentric songs. She waves her freak flag high, but is thoughtful and endearing enough to keep it from feeling contrived.

This Fool Can Die Now oddly balances the tender and the terrifying. Opening with one of several duets with Will Oldham (often known as Bonnie Prince Billy) Scout’s voice sounds shockingly sweet as her and Oldham span the opening two tracks contemplating (gasp!) love. Their inimitable voices sound so disarming together on ballads like “The River of No Return” and “Kiss” one can almost suspend their disbelief and buy it. Niblett and Oldham are like a weirder Dylan and Baez wandering through cities dropping songs out of their pockets and making love in front of typewriters and ashtrays. The ever-presence of death is the only thematic bitterness in all of their odd, love-lorn crooning. But let’s face it, Oldham and Niblett are probably just singing and Scout still wants to rock.

“Let Thine Heart Be Warned” has all of the minimalistic power she discovered on Kidnapped By Neptune. Matching brittle rhythm guitar that would make Kurt Cobain proud with Steve Albini’s up front production, Scout really digs her nails in and climaxes in a mammoth heap of distortion and wailing. It’s all the more suprising after the album’s graceful opening.

This Fool Can Die Now has an unsettled kind of idiosyncrasy. Affecting strings on “Elizabeth (Black Hearted Queen)” and “River of No Return” are enough to make a fan out of your mom, but the drums and vocals only “Moon Lake” might weird her out. It’s hard to tell where she’s really going, but the results are always mesmerizing. “Dinosaur Egg” seems to sum it up the best “I’d much rather be a golden ball of light, but still have sex.” Maybe she can have it both ways; yearning meditations on love/mortality and kinetic explosions of monochromatic grunginess.

****

Radiohead-In Rainbows

After concealing themselves for ages in rural English recording studios with old producer favorite Nigel Goodrich, after posting cryptic messages on their popular blog using a cypher devised of characteristically clever graphic art, after releasing the album on the internet in what some call a revolutionary ‘pay what you want’ scale Radiohead In Rainbows is here. But what have those endearingly earnest British fellows come up with?

It’s clear from the opener ‘15 Steps’ that much like its predecessor Hail to the Thief, Radiohead has grown to a point where they are not preoccupied with completely redefining their sound every album. The song opens with a very familiar Aphex Twin/Plaid influenced techno beat and Thom Yorke questioning “How come I end up where I started?”. It’s fitting for an artist who has never concealed his ambivalence about his own abilities. Once again Radiohead faces an empty canvas which has always been a terrifying step for Yorke. Maybe trying to make the sixth solid album in a row is a little scary; most bands haven’t been able to make it that far. As the syncopated jazz guitar comes in its clear the answer is to use everything they’ve learned so far.

“Bodysnatchers” opens with a suprisingly playful fuzz-bass riff and only gets more kinetic as it grows. Kid A style synths slide in for atmosphere as they use Thief ‘back to the guitar’ aesthetic to an even greater end. Oft-bootlegged “Nude” plays out like a Jeff Buckley number minus the indulgent vocal histrionics plus the best rhythm section in the British isles. As Yorke hits the vocal crescendo it’s clear he has even more control of his voice than before.

The ten tracks never stumble as they weave through the Radiohead pallet of arpeggiated guitars, elliptical harmonic progressions, sweeping string arrangements and sparse, funky drumbeats. Even the pointlessly syncopated hi hat at the end of the album closer “Videotape” inspires repeat listens, if anything but to figure out its logic.

In Rainbows might very well trump its predecessor for all of its depth and diversity. The band has matured to a point where a Kid A era sound collage, or drum loop may have once been an experiment that warranted an entire song, it now is merely another texture to weave into an arrangement. The record is rich with subtle hooks that reward repeat listens.

****1/2

The Darjeeling Limited

The world of independent films always eagerly awaits a new entry into director Wes Anderson’s canon. His films have a Salinger-esque celebration of tormented eccentrics with messsed up families.  After his debut “Bottlerocket”, Anderson developed an endearing production aesthetic that often seems childlike in its wonder, yet masterful in its execution. All of these traits can be found in “The Darjeeling”, but that’s not to say that Anderson isn’t evolving.

The film’s premise is no shocker to an Anderson fan; three estranged brothers with a souring relationship plan a spiritual journey through India, ending at the church their long lost mother has taken residence in. Anderson succeeds in clearly illustrating the brother’s birth order without announcement. Owen Wilson plays Francis the condescending older brother on the mend from a motorcyle accident, Adrian Brody plays the angsty and recentful middle-sibling, and Jason Schwartzman is the obediant but secretive baby of the family.

The three are as prone to squabbling as they are to overindulging in pharmeceuticals. It instantly is clear that their sojourn by train is bound as much by disaster as Anderson’s obsessive sense of design. Indeed, the film at times seems to crack under the weight of the director’s eye for brilliant complimentary colors, vintage/kitschy props and masterfully executed slow motion passages. It’s as if knowing the characters is secondary to seeing them graphically illustrated in a way that appeals to they eye.

Anderson’s appreciation of the comdedically absurd seems to be mediated by a newfound interest in subtlety that often makes it difficult to gain a sense of the character’s emotional cores through all the fancy cinematography.  Maybe the elusiveness is a conscious thematic addition as the brothers bounce from one spiritual site to the next, completely unable to sit still without fighting over a belt long enough to think, let alone meditate or pray. The absence of subtitles is almost unnoticeable as we watch the characters fail to understand each other, or the places they’re visiting.

The movie only starts to hold emotional ground as the events that caused the familial split are revealed. The funeral of a stranger in a small Indian village gives the brothers cause for a much needed flashback to the death of their father and the disappearance of their mother. Only then does their trainride to reconciliation seem warranted.

***

New Toys: the American Ecstasy/Conundrum

After months of patience I am going to be a proud owner of one of these babies. I told myself I would cease the purchasing of additional guitar effects, as it is a humerously dorky addiction that usually results in loss of income, pimples, and hilariousy prog rock guitar tones. Nonetheless, I could not resist this New Zealand made overdrive that adds odd harmonics on top of your original signal. It makes guitars sound frantic and as much as I try I can’t get over agitated guitar rock.

Characteristically, I can’t merely purchase a new toy and enjoy it. Instead I see it as part of the frame work of my cultural heritage for better and worse. Do I need this piece of gadgetry? Obviously not, but I feel prompted to buy it with the sudden presence of income after a summer of poverty. Nonetheless, buying things I don’t need feels like it is essentially wasteful, and if unchecked can become a frivilous and shallow habit that coincidentally 85% of the world can’t participate in. USA!/Materialism……

Here is where it gets interesting. If materialism means an intense preoccupation with objects, America’s recent model for consumerism is anything but. Rapidly evolving fashion and technology, coupled with an almost Tokyo-like ominpresence of product placement seems to have left our cultural reflex in a state that can’t buy new things and get rid of old ones fast enough.

A true materialist would be saddened by this state of affairs. You can find them still, but most of them are a bit older. Like the guy that lovingly polishes his Firebird every weekend and drives it with one ear cocked to monitor every idiocincracy in its timing. Or, a wine enthusiast who instists you will taste the oak if you try hard enough. A Japanese tea ceremony is far more attentive to the presence of physical things then I am in any trip to Target.

So where does that leave a gear head? I suppose, when it arrives I better engage my senses to every nuance of my odd little fuzz pedal and use it attentively to agitate for many years.

PJ Harvey White Chalk

The autumnal, eerie piano march that opens PJ Harvey’s White Chalk is anything but expected. When she last left us with Uh Huh Her the Harvey model was gritty, bluesy and tough. But she’s grown a knack for dodging expectations morphing from minimal guitar rock, to electonic experimentation, to slick ethereal pop ( Rid of Me, This is Desire, Stories from…).

How then, did she dissapear and re-emerge a figure of anachronistic Victorian desperation? Polly Jean might not be able to tell herself, but the results are nontheless hypnotic. Sparse piano, autoharp and percussion adorn somber tracks rich with haunting, Dickinsonian meditations on death and isolation.

Producer Flood (U2, Smashing Pumpkins) shows an unprecedented interest in keeping things simple to fascinating results. “When Under Ether” chugs along steadily like a Radiohead Kid A track in the 19th century. The title track is concerned with the landscape and not a body outline, “These chalk hills will rot my bones.” The closest she gets to optimism is “Grow Grow Grow”, which imagines boots stamping seeds into the ground, before the ghostly waltz erupts into cathedral-high falsetto. Just in time for the harvest.

****

Oblio Duo. Nuclear War EP

I joined in as an extra pair of ears as Oblio Duo and the Archers polished off the final mix for their EP last night at the Yellow Bordello’s own Room 9 studios. They outsourced their mastering to me and I plan on going through the 7 odd tracks in the Furnace Room this weekend.

The songs are outstanding, they have all the dynamics and diversity of The Flag, with a new found continuity thanks to the Archers giving the ensemble a consistency as opposed to the collective/ guest-musician approach. I am particularly fond of the opening track which starts off as a Crazy Horse jam and somehow tansforms into a Krautrock groove similar to Tago Mago era Can.

The biggest challenge to the mastering end of the project will be getting enough sonic consistency between tracks that were played live in a variety of ensemble styles. There is the regular guitar rock plus Fender Rhodes sound that they have grown to master, but several songs feature some of the Oblio’s new pet instruments such as accordion, clarinet and stand up bass. Two of the songs drummer Will Duncan sang were cut live with vocals behind the drumset. The whole thing has a kind of spontaneous-’just toss an Sm 58 on there’ kind of sound which is refreshing, but may challenge my limited experience as a mastering engineer.

Modern man in search of publishing.

I have arrived at the opinion that blogging, while frightening has some irresistable appeal. It seems that we live in a shrinking world that can be digitally customized to express an individual who is left wanting space and quiet, and knows not what to do with either. I figure this digital island will be home to my erratic journal habits, my intense love of music/movie criticism, documenting musical experience and sharing a teacher/studio engineers anecdotes.