As I strive for balance in being unfair, I have to give Nashville credit for one big thing - these guys.
Antiquated Bible Belt Liquor laws have forced me into wine and spirit stores to find the high-octane beer I crave. Grand Cru got me through the door with their name - while its original connotation comes from Burgundy and the highest quality wine produced there, with beer "grand cru" has come to symbolize beer on a higher strata. Jason, the manager, upon hearing where I moved from, told me he was a Portsmouth native who "learned to drive on High Street."
Braithwaite and Fiala have experienced the store during Grand Cru's legendary Nov. 2 Beer Tasting across the highway from my house. The Sisters Stacey (and my sister Jenny) got a close-up when we went hunting for wine to pair with dinner or bring for Thanksgiving.
Always ready with conversation, tips on the new beer arrivals and helping a wine novice navigate the pinot noirs, it's the closest thing to a favorite pub in my neighborhood (I've been known to pedal home with a backpack filled with $40 of beer snob treasures). There are bars with 200 beers in the cooler, but by and large, they're large and soulless.
One of the Grand Cru crew, Josh, has given me homebrews from his personal stash. His attempt to make Delirium Tremens resulted in a close relative of Saison DuPont. Giving someone homebrews is a wonderful vote of confidence in a strange land.
Since I'm not ready to belly up beneath the Busch sign at Len's Den (the closest bar to home), Grand Cru has become my home away from Bob's Bar.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
"Good news, everyone ..."
Planet Express has returned to the space lanes.
The saga of Futurama, the last of Fox's Sunday night animated step-children, picked up close to where it left viewers four years ago with a full-length feature released Tuesday. Outside of nerd circles, it barely earned a mention; the fanfare that greeted Family Guy upon its resurrection never materialized.
I needed this dose of Futurama more than ever, because animation is running its course with me. With Family Guy spewing out movie parodies week after week and the Simpson more a ritual than actual entertainment (except the movie), Futurama is my last hope.
The writers sprinkle in characters from across the run (God, the Robot Devil, Leela's parents, Robot Santa, KwanzaBot, Earth President Richard Nixon, Headless Body of Agnew and Tiny Tim-bot), including my personal favorite, HedonismBot, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Roman Emperor Nero (HedonismBot is to Futurama as Disco Stu is to The Simpsons).
Around its aggressive yet subtle shots at Fox, the plot holds up well - this feels more like a film than four episodes molded together. That was always a strength of the show; it followed an overriding plotline instead reverting to normal at the end of every episode. Some turns are obvious seem obvious, while others are genuinely surprising. The writers fully utilize sci-fi plot devices, as they did during the show's four-season run.
Beyond the film, the DVD contains some quality extras - a math lesson, animatic deleted scenes, and an animated Al Gore shilling for An Invconvenient Truth with commentary that once again reveals the candidate who never appeared during the 2000 campaign ("Bender's Big Score" also offers an answer for the Florida recounts).
Then there's the best DVD extra ever - an uncut episode of "Everybody Loves Hypnotoad" ... all hail Hypnotoad (Melville claps robotically).
The saga of Futurama, the last of Fox's Sunday night animated step-children, picked up close to where it left viewers four years ago with a full-length feature released Tuesday. Outside of nerd circles, it barely earned a mention; the fanfare that greeted Family Guy upon its resurrection never materialized.
I needed this dose of Futurama more than ever, because animation is running its course with me. With Family Guy spewing out movie parodies week after week and the Simpson more a ritual than actual entertainment (except the movie), Futurama is my last hope.
The writers sprinkle in characters from across the run (God, the Robot Devil, Leela's parents, Robot Santa, KwanzaBot, Earth President Richard Nixon, Headless Body of Agnew and Tiny Tim-bot), including my personal favorite, HedonismBot, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Roman Emperor Nero (HedonismBot is to Futurama as Disco Stu is to The Simpsons).
Around its aggressive yet subtle shots at Fox, the plot holds up well - this feels more like a film than four episodes molded together. That was always a strength of the show; it followed an overriding plotline instead reverting to normal at the end of every episode. Some turns are obvious seem obvious, while others are genuinely surprising. The writers fully utilize sci-fi plot devices, as they did during the show's four-season run.
Beyond the film, the DVD contains some quality extras - a math lesson, animatic deleted scenes, and an animated Al Gore shilling for An Invconvenient Truth with commentary that once again reveals the candidate who never appeared during the 2000 campaign ("Bender's Big Score" also offers an answer for the Florida recounts).
Then there's the best DVD extra ever - an uncut episode of "Everybody Loves Hypnotoad" ... all hail Hypnotoad (Melville claps robotically).
Monday, November 26, 2007
Six Bob Dylans Searching for One
How can anyone really write a review of I'm Not There? I could sit through this film 20 times and still struggle like the journalists trying to probe the defensice psyche of Bob Dylan.
Those thoughts pounded inside my head as Todd Haynes’ wonderfully fractured take on Dylan’s life of constant change.
Haynes selected avatars to stand in for Dylan across his phases. It’s the only machete only can take to the heavily forested world of Bob Dylan – he built up myths, and Haynes wisely goes after each through different characters. Six feels right - any more and he would risk bogging down the narrative, but any less would shortchange the difference among them.
Rightly, Kate Blanchett’s take on the asexual mid-Sixties Electric Bob garners praise and heavy attention. She gets all the well-documented moments and runs with them. Before tearing into “Maggie’s Farm” at the Newport Folk Festival, Blanchett’s Jude Quinn (Dylan’s name is never uttered in the film) and bandmaters pull Uzis from their guitar cases and open fire on the crowd. There isn’t a better metaphor for the impact of the music on that day.
However, Heath Ledger and Christian Bale both convincingly bounce between the early Sixties and mid-Seventies Ledger gets a crack at the family man behind the myths, and Bale’s take on Dylan’s conversion to Christianity trots out his versatility.
Even young Marcus Carl Franklin’s child hobo hits the myth-maker when he first left Minnesota for New York City. He tells tall tales of the Great Depression until a surrogate mother urges him to drop the facade and write about his own times.
But I think the most disregarded piece is William, the craggy outlaw played by Richard Gere. This is the latter-day Dylan, the last angry man in the wilderness. Others see it as Basement Tapes-era Dylan, but As the powers that be prepare to destroy Riddle Township, Missouri to build a highway, his sense of outrage bubbles out of dormancy. He seems to finally accept his role and his journey.
Look closely and you’ll see a world inhabited by Dylan characters – Napoleon in Rags strolls by, and the scene pivots on Pat Garrett, the blind commissioner with a hand in his pants. I didn’t see Riddle Township, as Haynes called it; I saw Desolation Row, with the apocalypse blossoms on the horizon.
Just as the real Dylan comes full circle to his folk-country roots, so does Gere’s version, riding the rails with his old acoustic.
Because of its jump between characters, I haven't really given anything away- just as Haynes’ film explores the questions swirling around Bob Dylan without arriving at answers. He has created a collage, deftly pasting these disparate characters into a portrait of one unknowable man.
And like its subject, I’m Not There is about their journeys, not destinations.
Those thoughts pounded inside my head as Todd Haynes’ wonderfully fractured take on Dylan’s life of constant change.
Haynes selected avatars to stand in for Dylan across his phases. It’s the only machete only can take to the heavily forested world of Bob Dylan – he built up myths, and Haynes wisely goes after each through different characters. Six feels right - any more and he would risk bogging down the narrative, but any less would shortchange the difference among them.
Rightly, Kate Blanchett’s take on the asexual mid-Sixties Electric Bob garners praise and heavy attention. She gets all the well-documented moments and runs with them. Before tearing into “Maggie’s Farm” at the Newport Folk Festival, Blanchett’s Jude Quinn (Dylan’s name is never uttered in the film) and bandmaters pull Uzis from their guitar cases and open fire on the crowd. There isn’t a better metaphor for the impact of the music on that day.
However, Heath Ledger and Christian Bale both convincingly bounce between the early Sixties and mid-Seventies Ledger gets a crack at the family man behind the myths, and Bale’s take on Dylan’s conversion to Christianity trots out his versatility.
Even young Marcus Carl Franklin’s child hobo hits the myth-maker when he first left Minnesota for New York City. He tells tall tales of the Great Depression until a surrogate mother urges him to drop the facade and write about his own times.
But I think the most disregarded piece is William, the craggy outlaw played by Richard Gere. This is the latter-day Dylan, the last angry man in the wilderness. Others see it as Basement Tapes-era Dylan, but As the powers that be prepare to destroy Riddle Township, Missouri to build a highway, his sense of outrage bubbles out of dormancy. He seems to finally accept his role and his journey.
Look closely and you’ll see a world inhabited by Dylan characters – Napoleon in Rags strolls by, and the scene pivots on Pat Garrett, the blind commissioner with a hand in his pants. I didn’t see Riddle Township, as Haynes called it; I saw Desolation Row, with the apocalypse blossoms on the horizon.
Just as the real Dylan comes full circle to his folk-country roots, so does Gere’s version, riding the rails with his old acoustic.
Because of its jump between characters, I haven't really given anything away- just as Haynes’ film explores the questions swirling around Bob Dylan without arriving at answers. He has created a collage, deftly pasting these disparate characters into a portrait of one unknowable man.
And like its subject, I’m Not There is about their journeys, not destinations.
How to Make Love to Mike Harden the Mike Harden Way by Mike Harden (foreword by Mike Harden)
You can leave Columbus, but sometimes its most inane courtiers still stick with you.
Exhibit A: Mike Harden.
Simply, the man is the most self-indulgent columnist of all time. I read his columns on The Three Paragraph Rule -- if he clogged them with five-dollar words by that point, I stopped reading. Like clockwork, it happened all the time.
The only exception were columns beginning with "Dear Uncle Mike" - I abandoned those travesties immediately upon seeing that opening. His columns never came with a translation key, and each had the same unwritten clever: "Mike Harden has read the entire Oxford English Dictionary and is convinced he's really fucking clever."
Harden's diction was akin to The Simpsons episode where no one can understand Homer because of his subliminal vocabulary builder tapes.
When he accepted the Dispatch's buyout for long-time employees this summer, I believed we'd seen the last of "Dear Uncle Mike."
I was wrong. Every Sunday the nonsense returns.
What did Harden offer this week? A column about Richard Nixon's father and the frostbite which drove him to leave Columbus. This is Harden's favorite Columbus trivia question. He's written this column at least two or three times between his reassignment to metro and his retirement. I'm sure it's a riveting story ... in the right hands.
I've got it in for the Bloviating One because he snuck into HBO's documentary about the Buckeye/Wolverine rivalry.
Amid old colleague Aaron Marshall's solid insights, someone invited Harden to the party, where he gives us profundities such as "Woody was our Elvis" - what the fuck does that even mean?
Does that mean in Tupelo, Mississippi, or Memphis that Elvis is their Woody Hayes? To my knowledge, Woody coached college football and never led the OSU marching band. Maybe Harden has some insight into Woody's unheralded musical moonlighting gig, but I'd never know, because of the three-paragraph rule.
He's comparing a guy with 50 million fans to someone best known nationally for getting fired after punching an opposing player during a game.
Apparently the producers didn't know the truth about "Dear Uncle Mike" or The Three Paragraph Rule. Then they could have left his insights where it belong - the cutting room floor.
Exhibit A: Mike Harden.
Simply, the man is the most self-indulgent columnist of all time. I read his columns on The Three Paragraph Rule -- if he clogged them with five-dollar words by that point, I stopped reading. Like clockwork, it happened all the time.
The only exception were columns beginning with "Dear Uncle Mike" - I abandoned those travesties immediately upon seeing that opening. His columns never came with a translation key, and each had the same unwritten clever: "Mike Harden has read the entire Oxford English Dictionary and is convinced he's really fucking clever."
Harden's diction was akin to The Simpsons episode where no one can understand Homer because of his subliminal vocabulary builder tapes.
When he accepted the Dispatch's buyout for long-time employees this summer, I believed we'd seen the last of "Dear Uncle Mike."
I was wrong. Every Sunday the nonsense returns.
What did Harden offer this week? A column about Richard Nixon's father and the frostbite which drove him to leave Columbus. This is Harden's favorite Columbus trivia question. He's written this column at least two or three times between his reassignment to metro and his retirement. I'm sure it's a riveting story ... in the right hands.
I've got it in for the Bloviating One because he snuck into HBO's documentary about the Buckeye/Wolverine rivalry.
Amid old colleague Aaron Marshall's solid insights, someone invited Harden to the party, where he gives us profundities such as "Woody was our Elvis" - what the fuck does that even mean?
Does that mean in Tupelo, Mississippi, or Memphis that Elvis is their Woody Hayes? To my knowledge, Woody coached college football and never led the OSU marching band. Maybe Harden has some insight into Woody's unheralded musical moonlighting gig, but I'd never know, because of the three-paragraph rule.
He's comparing a guy with 50 million fans to someone best known nationally for getting fired after punching an opposing player during a game.
Apparently the producers didn't know the truth about "Dear Uncle Mike" or The Three Paragraph Rule. Then they could have left his insights where it belong - the cutting room floor.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Tunes from the Eastern Time Zone
With the October's binge behind me, I have caught up on a few records that slipped away, mostly thanks to burned copies from friends (thanks Rob, Ben and Mark). These three got the most ear time this week.
More Feisty than ever
Yes, I would be arrested trying to cross the Canadian border for not owning The Reminder, Leslie Feist's latest. A May release, I delayed picking it up because of iTunes saturating the airwaves with the single "1234." At least that's what I'm telling myself.
What a mistake for me, since there's not a track I dislike on this one. The stomper's "My Moon My Man" and "Sealion" jump out, but slower fare like "Brandy Alexander" shows Feist is more than a indie rock's pretty voice, but a sharp songwriter too.
Her Broken Social Scene membership is more transparent here, as the tempo and instrumentation of several songs could have come from Scenester Kevin Drew's recent solo effort. That's no liability.
Less poppy than its predecessor, Let it Die, the arrangements on The Reminder colonize new music territory while opening her up to the mainstream - the lady did play the Ryman on Thanksgiving Eve.
Levon Helm's middle finger to throat cancer
God, I needed a dose of Levon. I don't know if he named his child Jesus, but Dirt Farmer is a great blast of bluegrass and field recording-era country. A decade after kicking the Big C, Helm harnesses his "Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" tones for these 13 songs, shouting his greatest post-Band statement.
All thirteen could have been outtakes from The Band; Helms still owns a voice from the Arkansas soil, tethered to another era yet never sounding dated.
He's farming a lot more than dirt here. The mix shoves his recovered throat out front with an excellent return; the spare instrumentation on tunes like "Little Birds" could fall flat in the wrong throat, but Helm is strong enough to power them with little accompaniment. It's a high achievement for an artist who often flailed through this solo career.
After listening bright rootsy set, I'm longing to hitch up the wagon and stake out a West Virginia mountainside not one of the strip-mined ones).
Fruit Tree, why hast thou forsaken me?
Nick Drake, meet Jeff Buckley. And that's Tupac in line behind him.
If you've not already encountered each other in the afterlife, here's a single degree of separation - you're all artists whose unreleased work has been scraped for any trace of commercial traction, resulting in albums you would not have considered releasing in life.
Family Tree proves it, packaging often bootlegged home recordings that bear little brilliance evident on the three long-players released in your lifetime. I already got burned on Made to Love Magic and its alternate tracks, and hearing this, I'm glad I did.
Apparently, the music mafia chose to release Family Tree over a 13th re-release of Grace for Braithwaite to buy. Beyond the Fruit Tree box set (recently and inexplicably released without its fourth disc), everything related to Nick Drake is extraneous.
Family Tree is just record companies and greedy relatives preying on nostalgia by digging straight through the bottom of the barrel into the ground beneath. One more Drake album and they're on a clear course to the center of the Earth.
More Feisty than ever
Yes, I would be arrested trying to cross the Canadian border for not owning The Reminder, Leslie Feist's latest. A May release, I delayed picking it up because of iTunes saturating the airwaves with the single "1234." At least that's what I'm telling myself.
What a mistake for me, since there's not a track I dislike on this one. The stomper's "My Moon My Man" and "Sealion" jump out, but slower fare like "Brandy Alexander" shows Feist is more than a indie rock's pretty voice, but a sharp songwriter too.
Her Broken Social Scene membership is more transparent here, as the tempo and instrumentation of several songs could have come from Scenester Kevin Drew's recent solo effort. That's no liability.
Less poppy than its predecessor, Let it Die, the arrangements on The Reminder colonize new music territory while opening her up to the mainstream - the lady did play the Ryman on Thanksgiving Eve.
Levon Helm's middle finger to throat cancer
God, I needed a dose of Levon. I don't know if he named his child Jesus, but Dirt Farmer is a great blast of bluegrass and field recording-era country. A decade after kicking the Big C, Helm harnesses his "Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" tones for these 13 songs, shouting his greatest post-Band statement.
All thirteen could have been outtakes from The Band; Helms still owns a voice from the Arkansas soil, tethered to another era yet never sounding dated.
He's farming a lot more than dirt here. The mix shoves his recovered throat out front with an excellent return; the spare instrumentation on tunes like "Little Birds" could fall flat in the wrong throat, but Helm is strong enough to power them with little accompaniment. It's a high achievement for an artist who often flailed through this solo career.
After listening bright rootsy set, I'm longing to hitch up the wagon and stake out a West Virginia mountainside not one of the strip-mined ones).
Fruit Tree, why hast thou forsaken me?
Nick Drake, meet Jeff Buckley. And that's Tupac in line behind him.
If you've not already encountered each other in the afterlife, here's a single degree of separation - you're all artists whose unreleased work has been scraped for any trace of commercial traction, resulting in albums you would not have considered releasing in life.
Family Tree proves it, packaging often bootlegged home recordings that bear little brilliance evident on the three long-players released in your lifetime. I already got burned on Made to Love Magic and its alternate tracks, and hearing this, I'm glad I did.
Apparently, the music mafia chose to release Family Tree over a 13th re-release of Grace for Braithwaite to buy. Beyond the Fruit Tree box set (recently and inexplicably released without its fourth disc), everything related to Nick Drake is extraneous.
Family Tree is just record companies and greedy relatives preying on nostalgia by digging straight through the bottom of the barrel into the ground beneath. One more Drake album and they're on a clear course to the center of the Earth.
Joe in the flesh
There’s nothing easy in letting someone who cannot speak or write know that you miss them.
I just saw my brother Joe for the first time since day after his tribute column published. He's been walking around with a puckish grin, and just as eagerly pushing my sister and I away when he wants peace from the racket.
When the electric carving knife separated the turkey meat from its frame, Joe flung up from the couch and shuffled across the floor to push his ear close to the motor.
At night, Joe’s lights out and his Sesame Street record wrapping up, I checked him. Without a noise, an old wind-up radio jutted out at me; I wound it and Joe curled back over, serenaded by “London Bridge is Falling Down.”
His music is never foreign to me; I hear echoes of Joe all the time.
Standing at the salad bar at the Nashville Farmer’s Market, the man before me stumbled down the line in with an uneasy gait. A lunchbox jingled in his right hand. At the register, he grunted and his fingers struggled to pry open the box for a few crumpled bills and a sheet of quarters. The cashier took the quarters before handing the bills back to him; he was a regular, and they granted him a rare respect. Instead of a middle-aged black man, I saw my brother.
When handing a bundle of clothes to the attendants at Goodwill of Middle Tennessee, I noticed all the employees worked beyond handicaps that would have shut them out from other jobs. None of them resembled Joe in features or disability, yet they were only degrees apart.
I’m not the only one who misses him.
Our Thanksgiving table bore an uncommon gesture - a hand-crafted note to Joe from his program class reminding Joe that they missed him.
It has been a year of celebrations for him. When his birthday came, the fine people at Franklin County MRDD’s extension program decorated Joe’s workshop chair with streamers, other party favors and a photocopy of the column.
And brother, they sent him off style – Joe’s style. When Joe moved to Atlanta with my parents in July, he got the ultimate tribute on his last day in Franklin County MRDD. First came his favorite toys from the program – Joe owned them while he attended, and his teachers let him leave with them.
That was only the beginning.
For years during the afterschool program, Joe followed the janitors through the building while the vacuumed and shined the floors. His love of heavy machinery drew him to their daily cleaning.
As Joe walked out, the custodial corps fired up their motors and gave him one more blast of the electronic noise that delighted him.
Without a spoken or written word, he built a surrogate family. It’s nice to know that Joe earned respect and kinship in a world where very few people do.
I just saw my brother Joe for the first time since day after his tribute column published. He's been walking around with a puckish grin, and just as eagerly pushing my sister and I away when he wants peace from the racket.
When the electric carving knife separated the turkey meat from its frame, Joe flung up from the couch and shuffled across the floor to push his ear close to the motor.
At night, Joe’s lights out and his Sesame Street record wrapping up, I checked him. Without a noise, an old wind-up radio jutted out at me; I wound it and Joe curled back over, serenaded by “London Bridge is Falling Down.”
His music is never foreign to me; I hear echoes of Joe all the time.
Standing at the salad bar at the Nashville Farmer’s Market, the man before me stumbled down the line in with an uneasy gait. A lunchbox jingled in his right hand. At the register, he grunted and his fingers struggled to pry open the box for a few crumpled bills and a sheet of quarters. The cashier took the quarters before handing the bills back to him; he was a regular, and they granted him a rare respect. Instead of a middle-aged black man, I saw my brother.
When handing a bundle of clothes to the attendants at Goodwill of Middle Tennessee, I noticed all the employees worked beyond handicaps that would have shut them out from other jobs. None of them resembled Joe in features or disability, yet they were only degrees apart.
I’m not the only one who misses him.
Our Thanksgiving table bore an uncommon gesture - a hand-crafted note to Joe from his program class reminding Joe that they missed him.
It has been a year of celebrations for him. When his birthday came, the fine people at Franklin County MRDD’s extension program decorated Joe’s workshop chair with streamers, other party favors and a photocopy of the column.
And brother, they sent him off style – Joe’s style. When Joe moved to Atlanta with my parents in July, he got the ultimate tribute on his last day in Franklin County MRDD. First came his favorite toys from the program – Joe owned them while he attended, and his teachers let him leave with them.
That was only the beginning.
For years during the afterschool program, Joe followed the janitors through the building while the vacuumed and shined the floors. His love of heavy machinery drew him to their daily cleaning.
As Joe walked out, the custodial corps fired up their motors and gave him one more blast of the electronic noise that delighted him.
Without a spoken or written word, he built a surrogate family. It’s nice to know that Joe earned respect and kinship in a world where very few people do.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The comeback lasted exactly one issue
Yeah, for one shining week, I'm back, writing about OSU football of all things.
But it's a one time, "the repeditor needs a guest column" event. In case you wondered if I fled Music City, thought my lease expired or believed I'd take a giant pay cut to put with the new CIC (Cheapskates in Charge).
But it's a one time, "the repeditor needs a guest column" event. In case you wondered if I fled Music City, thought my lease expired or believed I'd take a giant pay cut to put with the new CIC (Cheapskates in Charge).
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Phantom 5K, The New Shoreline
The best laid plans for a 5K fall through when the race organizers switch to a new day.
Taking it easy on Friday night, I rose at dawn and geared up for a natural trail run along the Alum Creek Reservoir.
When I arrived, it was deserted as anywhere around Alum Creek, populated only by feeding hawks and unseen bow hunters deep in its forests. I was a day early, and no race would drag me out of bed the next day.
So I'm runless until December now --- but it was worth it, if only to see how the Southeast is the only place hit by drought.
The reservoir's waters receded heavily from its original shoreline. I walked out on the new floodplain crusted with mussel shells, tree stumps and hoofprints.
Further out, maybe a half mile from the boat launches, I stumbled onto an old access road banished to the waters when the damn spilled the creek into a reservoir. I followed it out into the lake, past the "no wake " buoy bobbing only 10 feet from the new shore.
The road eventually submerged again. But Alum Creek's new look was a surprise, and anytime reservoirs shrink to unveil their pasts, it isn't a good sign. Just ask the folks in Atlanta.
Taking it easy on Friday night, I rose at dawn and geared up for a natural trail run along the Alum Creek Reservoir.
When I arrived, it was deserted as anywhere around Alum Creek, populated only by feeding hawks and unseen bow hunters deep in its forests. I was a day early, and no race would drag me out of bed the next day.
So I'm runless until December now --- but it was worth it, if only to see how the Southeast is the only place hit by drought.
The reservoir's waters receded heavily from its original shoreline. I walked out on the new floodplain crusted with mussel shells, tree stumps and hoofprints.
Further out, maybe a half mile from the boat launches, I stumbled onto an old access road banished to the waters when the damn spilled the creek into a reservoir. I followed it out into the lake, past the "no wake " buoy bobbing only 10 feet from the new shore.
The road eventually submerged again. But Alum Creek's new look was a surprise, and anytime reservoirs shrink to unveil their pasts, it isn't a good sign. Just ask the folks in Atlanta.
Random road jive
No wonder about the weather ...Curving through downtown Cincinnati, the sun finally battered its rays through the clouds. Aside from a few cameos, gray skies pinned down Columbus. The rain never came, but the region's autumn unfriendliness was in full swing. Shocking.
Ron Paul beat them all ... in the advertising game. Aside from a few random Kucinich signs in Nashville (I know -Kucinich in the Bible Belt), Paul had the first major campaign placard. North of Louisville, a large trailer with the libertarian's campaign logo sat atop ridge for everyone passing to see. For all I know, they line rural landscapes throughout the Lower 48 - and might net Paul a handful of new voters.
Name all the contradictions in this title ... Southwest Central Kentucky Cultural Center.
In the "Hope for Humanity Keeps Dwindling" category ... Traffic stopped dead just short of Louisville, on a narrow, bermless stretch of highway. A ambulance wails behind the bottleneck, so cars ease over a few feet to clear a path for the ambulance - and some blondie in a Volvo SUV who followed him from the back of the line.
She could have made the Guinness Book of World Records for most middle fingers raised in salute.
Ron Paul beat them all ... in the advertising game. Aside from a few random Kucinich signs in Nashville (I know -Kucinich in the Bible Belt), Paul had the first major campaign placard. North of Louisville, a large trailer with the libertarian's campaign logo sat atop ridge for everyone passing to see. For all I know, they line rural landscapes throughout the Lower 48 - and might net Paul a handful of new voters.
Name all the contradictions in this title ... Southwest Central Kentucky Cultural Center.
In the "Hope for Humanity Keeps Dwindling" category ... Traffic stopped dead just short of Louisville, on a narrow, bermless stretch of highway. A ambulance wails behind the bottleneck, so cars ease over a few feet to clear a path for the ambulance - and some blondie in a Volvo SUV who followed him from the back of the line.
She could have made the Guinness Book of World Records for most middle fingers raised in salute.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Setting sail again
November is cruel, but it's a great time to hit the road. With the car on blocks in the front yard since Labor Day, I'm anxious for highway beneath my wheels again.
By this time tomorrow, I'll be somewhere other than Middle Tennessee.
This little jaunt not about the ill Decemberists or the OSU-Michigan hoo-haw that gives meaning to so many Central Ohio lives. It's not about It's about three and a half frantic days of friends, ale in my barely used Bob's mug, running and live music. I purposely stayed away since Comfest - I wasn't going to miss that,
The Minutiae and the ennui: I'm finishing an opinion piece about a healthcare reform package shoved out of town by Hillarycare. It's alright, you don't have to hide your excitement.
Penultimate observation: A Friday afternoon lecture at Vanderbilt Law School proved revelatory. Going to a small liberal arts college, I couldn't believe the sheer wealth taken for granted in those halls, or the provost matter-of-factly mentioning his audience in the West Wing the day before. But even among this elite crowd,his Martin Sheen joke fell horribly flat.
Final observation: Street musicians in Nashville can actually sing and play guitar well. The honkeytonks on Lower Broadway might be a boulevard of shattered dreams. But it has one hell of a soundtrack.
By this time tomorrow, I'll be somewhere other than Middle Tennessee.
This little jaunt not about the ill Decemberists or the OSU-Michigan hoo-haw that gives meaning to so many Central Ohio lives. It's not about It's about three and a half frantic days of friends, ale in my barely used Bob's mug, running and live music. I purposely stayed away since Comfest - I wasn't going to miss that,
The Minutiae and the ennui: I'm finishing an opinion piece about a healthcare reform package shoved out of town by Hillarycare. It's alright, you don't have to hide your excitement.
Penultimate observation: A Friday afternoon lecture at Vanderbilt Law School proved revelatory. Going to a small liberal arts college, I couldn't believe the sheer wealth taken for granted in those halls, or the provost matter-of-factly mentioning his audience in the West Wing the day before. But even among this elite crowd,his Martin Sheen joke fell horribly flat.
Final observation: Street musicians in Nashville can actually sing and play guitar well. The honkeytonks on Lower Broadway might be a boulevard of shattered dreams. But it has one hell of a soundtrack.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
A Slew o' Reviews
With the influx of October releases finally concluded, I'm stepping
back to catch up on a few other purchases. No genre restrictions
apply.
Now that Radiohead led to me accept downloaded albums as the
wave of the future (welcome to 1999, Bill), two of the three new
releases were imported digitally. The third came from McKay's Used
Books for $5.99. So I'm still ahead on this deal, whether the music
kicks or deserves to be kicked.
Dinosaur-free Barlow
You might know him as the original bass player in Dinosaur Jr. Or the chief cog in Sebadoh. Or half of The Folk Implosion. Or just plain Lou Barlow, low-fi troubadour.
Two years after he dropped the sublime Emoh, Barlow's back to his acoustic guitar, writing the fragile folk he strums best. He returned to the bass for the Dinosaur Jr. reunion, so a peek at his first solo work in a while is refreshing.
But this five song, 12-minute EP doesn't exactly hit the mark – I
mean, come on, 12 feckin' minutes? "Yawning Blue Messiah" is vintage
Barlow; the title track is one of those 90-second gems only he can
produce. The moody "You're A Goat" is an unexpected blast of lo-fi air. The others feel like the home recordings Barlow spit out between band outings, with moments of bliss punctuated by chaff.
Essential only for Barlow junkies, Mirror the Eye will only force the
casual fan to long for Emoh's delinquent follow-up.
Still Furry After All These Years
Radiohead can release a digital-only album to fanfare and overwhelming
press. The Super Furry Animals went the MP3-exclusive route for their
eighth full-length set in August. Nobody outside of Wales noticed.
SFA go the succinct route for once, with Hey Venus! Weighing in at a vinyl–ready length of 37 minutes, they waste little time, getting to the meat with tracks like first single "Show Your Hand" and the
jarring metal of "Into the Night."
Unfortunately, the rampant experimentation of Guerrilla and Rings Around the World is nowhere in sight. Judged in a vacuum, Hey Venus! is a decent slab of Welsh alt-rock – it has more pep than Love Kraft, and its shorter running time means it doesn't sputter at the end. "Let the Wolves Howl at the Moon" is a mellow closer that doesn't stray too far from the SFA formula.
Originally meant as a concept album, Hey Venus! is a laudable efforts, trimming the excess of its predecessor and bearing down on songwriting. However, I still miss the SFA that were playfully unpredictable from track to track.
Third round of Down
Three years ago Phil Anselmo disappeared following the massacre of his former Pantera bandmate Dimebag Darrell Abbott in 2004. Anselmo practically preached for their comeuppance before one crazed fan took it as more than just trash-talk.
Anselmo resurfaces with his original side project, with Corrosion of Conformity's Pepper Keenan, Crowbar and Pantera bassist Rex Brown. Over the Under is another slab of doom-laden stoner rock, sludgy, relentless and relentlessly sludgy.
Anselmo is no longer the vitriolic screamer of those Pantera albums;
his voice almost dips into a (gasp) melodic side that he hasn't
embraced since "Hollow" This is southern metal par excellence, with
the destruction of New Orleans running beneath every track (moreso on
"N.O.D." and "On March the Saints").
The Down boys turn out another mature effort, with swampy riffing and memorable tracks like "I Scream" and "Nothing in Return (Walk Away)." Anselmo and Keenan need to hit the studio more often.
Sober and prolific
Ryan Adams might have kicked his drug habit, but his addiction to
releasing new music goes on with the Follow the Lights EP. After the vanilla Easy Tiger, these seven tracks unleash some hidden aces
that Adams desperately needed to play.
His cover of Alice in Chains' "Down in a Hole" comes off as poignant
and Adams makes the track his own. Equally interesting is a remake of
"This is it" with the Cardinals. The lead-off track from Adams'
biggest failure, Rock and Roll, never sounded better. A few studio live tracks with the Cards keep up the pace, which is mainly slow. But that's fine – the newer soft pace "If I Am a Stranger" suits the song
well.
The Love is Hell EPs didn't reflect well on Adams' prodigious capabilities. But Follow the Lights does an amiable job of following a subpar full-length record.
back to catch up on a few other purchases. No genre restrictions
apply.
Now that Radiohead led to me accept downloaded albums as the
wave of the future (welcome to 1999, Bill), two of the three new
releases were imported digitally. The third came from McKay's Used
Books for $5.99. So I'm still ahead on this deal, whether the music
kicks or deserves to be kicked.
Dinosaur-free Barlow
You might know him as the original bass player in Dinosaur Jr. Or the chief cog in Sebadoh. Or half of The Folk Implosion. Or just plain Lou Barlow, low-fi troubadour.
Two years after he dropped the sublime Emoh, Barlow's back to his acoustic guitar, writing the fragile folk he strums best. He returned to the bass for the Dinosaur Jr. reunion, so a peek at his first solo work in a while is refreshing.
But this five song, 12-minute EP doesn't exactly hit the mark – I
mean, come on, 12 feckin' minutes? "Yawning Blue Messiah" is vintage
Barlow; the title track is one of those 90-second gems only he can
produce. The moody "You're A Goat" is an unexpected blast of lo-fi air. The others feel like the home recordings Barlow spit out between band outings, with moments of bliss punctuated by chaff.
Essential only for Barlow junkies, Mirror the Eye will only force the
casual fan to long for Emoh's delinquent follow-up.
Still Furry After All These Years
Radiohead can release a digital-only album to fanfare and overwhelming
press. The Super Furry Animals went the MP3-exclusive route for their
eighth full-length set in August. Nobody outside of Wales noticed.
SFA go the succinct route for once, with Hey Venus! Weighing in at a vinyl–ready length of 37 minutes, they waste little time, getting to the meat with tracks like first single "Show Your Hand" and the
jarring metal of "Into the Night."
Unfortunately, the rampant experimentation of Guerrilla and Rings Around the World is nowhere in sight. Judged in a vacuum, Hey Venus! is a decent slab of Welsh alt-rock – it has more pep than Love Kraft, and its shorter running time means it doesn't sputter at the end. "Let the Wolves Howl at the Moon" is a mellow closer that doesn't stray too far from the SFA formula.
Originally meant as a concept album, Hey Venus! is a laudable efforts, trimming the excess of its predecessor and bearing down on songwriting. However, I still miss the SFA that were playfully unpredictable from track to track.
Third round of Down
Three years ago Phil Anselmo disappeared following the massacre of his former Pantera bandmate Dimebag Darrell Abbott in 2004. Anselmo practically preached for their comeuppance before one crazed fan took it as more than just trash-talk.
Anselmo resurfaces with his original side project, with Corrosion of Conformity's Pepper Keenan, Crowbar and Pantera bassist Rex Brown. Over the Under is another slab of doom-laden stoner rock, sludgy, relentless and relentlessly sludgy.
Anselmo is no longer the vitriolic screamer of those Pantera albums;
his voice almost dips into a (gasp) melodic side that he hasn't
embraced since "Hollow" This is southern metal par excellence, with
the destruction of New Orleans running beneath every track (moreso on
"N.O.D." and "On March the Saints").
The Down boys turn out another mature effort, with swampy riffing and memorable tracks like "I Scream" and "Nothing in Return (Walk Away)." Anselmo and Keenan need to hit the studio more often.
Sober and prolific
Ryan Adams might have kicked his drug habit, but his addiction to
releasing new music goes on with the Follow the Lights EP. After the vanilla Easy Tiger, these seven tracks unleash some hidden aces
that Adams desperately needed to play.
His cover of Alice in Chains' "Down in a Hole" comes off as poignant
and Adams makes the track his own. Equally interesting is a remake of
"This is it" with the Cardinals. The lead-off track from Adams'
biggest failure, Rock and Roll, never sounded better. A few studio live tracks with the Cards keep up the pace, which is mainly slow. But that's fine – the newer soft pace "If I Am a Stranger" suits the song
well.
The Love is Hell EPs didn't reflect well on Adams' prodigious capabilities. But Follow the Lights does an amiable job of following a subpar full-length record.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
No wiser beneath the columns
Maybe it's from substituting concrete for marble, but I still the illusive wisdom that should come with any Greek temple replica (you know from where I blog). But at this hour on Sunday, it's significantly more interesting than an unfriendly coffeehouse. Soccer cheers echo across the damp green common.
Random notes from a weekend where no real plans aside from the Saturday Race Ritual yielded dividends.
American Gangster - see it. Russell Crowe, Denzel and Josh Brolin turn in award winners in this crime drama that deftly sidesteps the stereotypes.
My father called four times during the film to talk Buckeyes. I expected to hear someone died and mentally prepared to spend my week in transit for a funeral.
Weather saves the 5K: Nashvile finally dips into the fall temperatures, and I regain 3 minutes on my 5K speed in the Father Ryan Irish Pride 5K (back in the low 28-minute range, I smell blood and know another minute increase lies close). I owe it to the soundtrack, built on the Foo Fighters, Peter Bjorn and John and The National's "Mr. November." The hills failed to faze me, and what an advantage it is to not start a race already misted in sweat. And this week, I join the Y and start my winter training --I wil not sputter in the Country Music Half-Marathon this spring.
I get my next attempt Saturday in Columbus at Alum Creek - last year, most Columbusites had beers in hand when the race gun fired. I came home with my first award that day, then started on the beer. The lost shot at a national championship will probably inspire more drinking than running. Sorry, red and gray faithful, but the national pundits awaited an excuse to boot Ohio State from championship contention. Losing to an unranked team is their ammunition. This was the Buckeyes' Appalachian State. Luckily, as all Buckeye Nation knows, winning the Michigan Game salves all other wounds.
The cat's temperament continues its deterioration. He bites at leisure, and scorns play time. He's going to love his weekends alone for the next two weeks.
Random notes from a weekend where no real plans aside from the Saturday Race Ritual yielded dividends.
American Gangster - see it. Russell Crowe, Denzel and Josh Brolin turn in award winners in this crime drama that deftly sidesteps the stereotypes.
My father called four times during the film to talk Buckeyes. I expected to hear someone died and mentally prepared to spend my week in transit for a funeral.
Weather saves the 5K: Nashvile finally dips into the fall temperatures, and I regain 3 minutes on my 5K speed in the Father Ryan Irish Pride 5K (back in the low 28-minute range, I smell blood and know another minute increase lies close). I owe it to the soundtrack, built on the Foo Fighters, Peter Bjorn and John and The National's "Mr. November." The hills failed to faze me, and what an advantage it is to not start a race already misted in sweat. And this week, I join the Y and start my winter training --I wil not sputter in the Country Music Half-Marathon this spring.
I get my next attempt Saturday in Columbus at Alum Creek - last year, most Columbusites had beers in hand when the race gun fired. I came home with my first award that day, then started on the beer. The lost shot at a national championship will probably inspire more drinking than running. Sorry, red and gray faithful, but the national pundits awaited an excuse to boot Ohio State from championship contention. Losing to an unranked team is their ammunition. This was the Buckeyes' Appalachian State. Luckily, as all Buckeye Nation knows, winning the Michigan Game salves all other wounds.
The cat's temperament continues its deterioration. He bites at leisure, and scorns play time. He's going to love his weekends alone for the next two weeks.
Friday, November 09, 2007
A Tie By Any Other Name is Just a Colorful Noose
Epochs ago, while covering Columbus City Council for Suburban News, I started breaking into my neckware stockpile on Council Meeting Mondays. Until I started wearing them 3-5 days a week, the ties always merited attention.
During my closing days in print, the dreaded ACN handbook brought down the fashion hammer, mandating ties for all men.
Then on the first day in Nashville, the outgoing CEO laughed at my tie. They went away after the mockery, never leaving the shoebox in which they made the move.
Having not worn one since the runoff victory party for Nashville Mayor Mayor Karl Dean, I felt a healthcare lecture at Vanderbilt might do the trick.
In the office, I was ambushed with "Do you have a job interview?" A little deviation from my jeans and button down routine turned drew more notice than anything I've done in months. The lesson was simple: wear a tie, cause a commotion.
I guess I'll have to trot them out more regularly to smooth the reaction. I won't be denied my ties.
During my closing days in print, the dreaded ACN handbook brought down the fashion hammer, mandating ties for all men.
Then on the first day in Nashville, the outgoing CEO laughed at my tie. They went away after the mockery, never leaving the shoebox in which they made the move.
Having not worn one since the runoff victory party for Nashville Mayor Mayor Karl Dean, I felt a healthcare lecture at Vanderbilt might do the trick.
In the office, I was ambushed with "Do you have a job interview?" A little deviation from my jeans and button down routine turned drew more notice than anything I've done in months. The lesson was simple: wear a tie, cause a commotion.
I guess I'll have to trot them out more regularly to smooth the reaction. I won't be denied my ties.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
You could see this coming from $100 barrels away (semi-annual gas rant)
America is within reach of an ugly milestone
As 2007 slouches to a finish, $4/gallon gas suddenly sounds possible, as in possibly next summer it will await every American driver. Since I have about 1,800 miles to drive in the next 2-plus weeks, the price jump makes total sense. Crude prices have pushed beyond all records, and the weak American dollar buffered motorists from those surging costs.
But no more. I’ve always maintained that by raising the prices slowly then establishing a new price plateau, the oil companies could lead Americans to accept higher prices. It’s the equivalent of slowly bringing water to a boil – if your hand is in it, the temperature will rise so gradually that you feel the scalding. And brother, you don’t want near that rolling boil. When crude costs plummeted at the year’s beginning, retailers fought to keep the price above two bucks per gallon. If it fell further, those prices might dust off our collective memory for gas prices starting with “1.” They held on until demand jumped with fairer weather and hit motorists back into the $3 range
Sabers rattle in Iran. Our great friend in Pakistan declared martial law, ending his long lip-service to democracy. The Russians, even with our president able to see into the soul of theirs, threaten a new arms race in reaction to a proposed missile shield in Europe.
Provided we get to January 2009 without GWB launching WWIII. He called it WWIII, but he can’t pin it on the Iranians. Sorry, but if we start shooting cruises missiles or push troops across the Iranian border, it’s on him – no one else wants an overstretched military opening another front on this neverending war. The Russians will step in, and with a nuclear Pakistan a few steps from chaos … I don’t want to ponder it. At that point, $5 or $6 gallon gas will be the least or worries. That’s my sole hope for the last 14 months of this administration – just don’t make it worse.
OK, back to the gas. I live within three miles of oil facilities for the big names. The supply of trucks throughout the night has not relented. There are no shuttered gas stations around Music City, nor has traffic eased. We’ve experienced the opposite – even my back route commute now clogs up prior to rush hour. The metro bus fleet runs half-empty as always.
The other thing refuses to change? Americans still show an unwillingness to abandon their giant vehicles, complaining about gas prices, yet never doing anything about it. (I only drive to work during the week – even with dropping temperatures, I go out under my own power).
Perhaps our love of fruitless gripes has to do with a word that’s become ugly in almost context – sacrifice.
As 2007 slouches to a finish, $4/gallon gas suddenly sounds possible, as in possibly next summer it will await every American driver. Since I have about 1,800 miles to drive in the next 2-plus weeks, the price jump makes total sense. Crude prices have pushed beyond all records, and the weak American dollar buffered motorists from those surging costs.
But no more. I’ve always maintained that by raising the prices slowly then establishing a new price plateau, the oil companies could lead Americans to accept higher prices. It’s the equivalent of slowly bringing water to a boil – if your hand is in it, the temperature will rise so gradually that you feel the scalding. And brother, you don’t want near that rolling boil. When crude costs plummeted at the year’s beginning, retailers fought to keep the price above two bucks per gallon. If it fell further, those prices might dust off our collective memory for gas prices starting with “1.” They held on until demand jumped with fairer weather and hit motorists back into the $3 range
Sabers rattle in Iran. Our great friend in Pakistan declared martial law, ending his long lip-service to democracy. The Russians, even with our president able to see into the soul of theirs, threaten a new arms race in reaction to a proposed missile shield in Europe.
Provided we get to January 2009 without GWB launching WWIII. He called it WWIII, but he can’t pin it on the Iranians. Sorry, but if we start shooting cruises missiles or push troops across the Iranian border, it’s on him – no one else wants an overstretched military opening another front on this neverending war. The Russians will step in, and with a nuclear Pakistan a few steps from chaos … I don’t want to ponder it. At that point, $5 or $6 gallon gas will be the least or worries. That’s my sole hope for the last 14 months of this administration – just don’t make it worse.
OK, back to the gas. I live within three miles of oil facilities for the big names. The supply of trucks throughout the night has not relented. There are no shuttered gas stations around Music City, nor has traffic eased. We’ve experienced the opposite – even my back route commute now clogs up prior to rush hour. The metro bus fleet runs half-empty as always.
The other thing refuses to change? Americans still show an unwillingness to abandon their giant vehicles, complaining about gas prices, yet never doing anything about it. (I only drive to work during the week – even with dropping temperatures, I go out under my own power).
Perhaps our love of fruitless gripes has to do with a word that’s become ugly in almost context – sacrifice.
Stubborn Furnaces 3, Bill 0
5100 Delaware Avenue mocks me from all angles - the attic croaks as the house settles, orgasms resonate from the other apartments, cat scratch fever has infect the hardwood floors.
But none are worse than the sealed fireplace in my cold, cold bedroom.
This is the third straight apartment where the heater is an antique beast that roars from the depths of the earth as its gasps for anything close to hot. Sit near a vent, you might feel some warmth.
The cold I attempted to leave in Ohio didn't stay away long. Less than a month after Middle Tennessee's last 90-degree days, we hit 29 overnight. Daylight savings ends, a single storm ushers in a cold front and frost layers the grass. Twelve pounds of tightly curled cat pinned me to the sheets.
Some of the cold I brought on myself - it's dark by 4:30 here, and I'll be damned if that will preempt my favorite exercise. So I hopped on the bike, weaving through some deadlocked traffic on Charlotte Pike and White Bridge Road to run errands at Target.
On the way home, I decided to try the greenway trail that has a branch starting behind Target. It was akin to the crazed drunken driving scene in North by Northwest, my dim headlight only illuminating 15-20 feet of coming pavement. The wind whined. Light pollution was not enough to outline the unmarked asphalt.
I passed only one biker, but the rustling past treeline led me to believe highwaymen laid in wait everywhere.
Of course, when I escaped unscathed and returned home, I was warm for the first and only time all evening.
But none are worse than the sealed fireplace in my cold, cold bedroom.
This is the third straight apartment where the heater is an antique beast that roars from the depths of the earth as its gasps for anything close to hot. Sit near a vent, you might feel some warmth.
The cold I attempted to leave in Ohio didn't stay away long. Less than a month after Middle Tennessee's last 90-degree days, we hit 29 overnight. Daylight savings ends, a single storm ushers in a cold front and frost layers the grass. Twelve pounds of tightly curled cat pinned me to the sheets.
Some of the cold I brought on myself - it's dark by 4:30 here, and I'll be damned if that will preempt my favorite exercise. So I hopped on the bike, weaving through some deadlocked traffic on Charlotte Pike and White Bridge Road to run errands at Target.
On the way home, I decided to try the greenway trail that has a branch starting behind Target. It was akin to the crazed drunken driving scene in North by Northwest, my dim headlight only illuminating 15-20 feet of coming pavement. The wind whined. Light pollution was not enough to outline the unmarked asphalt.
I passed only one biker, but the rustling past treeline led me to believe highwaymen laid in wait everywhere.
Of course, when I escaped unscathed and returned home, I was warm for the first and only time all evening.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Thunder 1, Percy 0
The beat finally overcame his fear of bread popping from the toaster, then the worst storm of our co-existence produced a new adversary.
With every streak scorching a plot of earth and its subsequent rumble, his back tightened, his legs arched defensively to pounce at the predator beyond his understanding. Thunder wore him down - not the tornado sirens or emergency vehicles blazing across a flooded Delaware Avenue. Even with the rain gone, he spent hours on the kitchen table, half-asleep yet ready to scurry at a thunderclap's notice.
The loudest boom brought down the lights for 30 seconds. Twenty minutes later, he warily from his unknown hiding place ...
... OK, enough cat melodrama. Fun as it was to watch, it's a bit like describing your dreams - no matter how vivid, majestic or humorous, it never translates to anything but boredom.
With every streak scorching a plot of earth and its subsequent rumble, his back tightened, his legs arched defensively to pounce at the predator beyond his understanding. Thunder wore him down - not the tornado sirens or emergency vehicles blazing across a flooded Delaware Avenue. Even with the rain gone, he spent hours on the kitchen table, half-asleep yet ready to scurry at a thunderclap's notice.
The loudest boom brought down the lights for 30 seconds. Twenty minutes later, he warily from his unknown hiding place ...
... OK, enough cat melodrama. Fun as it was to watch, it's a bit like describing your dreams - no matter how vivid, majestic or humorous, it never translates to anything but boredom.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Buffered from the early twilight
Sunday afternoons are never easy when friends from elsewhere depart for home. For the third time since August, a pair of good ones dropped into town to visit --- Jeff and Melissa arrived in time finish off the night. After giving the nickel tour of Nashville, stopping at the Greenhouse and filling every inch of dead space, I usually collapse for a few hours.
I can't rationalize it today, not one the worst day the year has to offer, the end of daylight savings time. I already went through a summer of 5 a.m. sunrises, but it's time for a fall and winter of dark at 4 p.m. So I can't squander the daylight remaining, a breezy afternoon chronicling my life among the columns of the Parthenon was in order.
I have to mention the beer event --- I've become friends with the staff at Grand Cru Wine & Spirits, a rare wine/strong beer/liquor store with a friendly crew that revels with strong brew. They occupied the patio at the Italian Market, home of the best panini sandwiches ever, and with a fine patio far from Nashville's tourist mobs. Forty beers later (each a 2-3 ounce sample, mind you), it was among the highlights of Nashville thus far. Capped off with the first mingling of my Nashville and Columus friends - I always love mixing friends from different eras and seeing how they interact -these two old hands performed admirably among the new crowd. With perfect weather dashed in, it was sobering triumph, in spite of all the ale.
Most days, I would settle for an exotic brew from the taps at Bob's. I can't even find a loose facsimile. But in purposely staying away from Columbus for a long term, a little taste of the life I exited soothes a weathered soul.
I can't rationalize it today, not one the worst day the year has to offer, the end of daylight savings time. I already went through a summer of 5 a.m. sunrises, but it's time for a fall and winter of dark at 4 p.m. So I can't squander the daylight remaining, a breezy afternoon chronicling my life among the columns of the Parthenon was in order.
I have to mention the beer event --- I've become friends with the staff at Grand Cru Wine & Spirits, a rare wine/strong beer/liquor store with a friendly crew that revels with strong brew. They occupied the patio at the Italian Market, home of the best panini sandwiches ever, and with a fine patio far from Nashville's tourist mobs. Forty beers later (each a 2-3 ounce sample, mind you), it was among the highlights of Nashville thus far. Capped off with the first mingling of my Nashville and Columus friends - I always love mixing friends from different eras and seeing how they interact -these two old hands performed admirably among the new crowd. With perfect weather dashed in, it was sobering triumph, in spite of all the ale.
Most days, I would settle for an exotic brew from the taps at Bob's. I can't even find a loose facsimile. But in purposely staying away from Columbus for a long term, a little taste of the life I exited soothes a weathered soul.
Friday, November 02, 2007
A barrel full of Dylan interpreters
Another collection of Bob Dylan covers -- I'll guess your heart rate didn't spike at that proclamation.
A who's who of artists have rattled off whole albums of Dylan songs - Brian Ferry, The Byrds, Joan Baez, the Grateful Dead, a 30th Anniversary concert. Legions more have tried their luck reimagining his songs, with few scraping the heights of Jimi Hendrix and "All Along the Watchtower" (Dylan change the arrangement in homage to Hendrix's version).
Dylan's songs have a timeless malleability, but covering them is sometimes akin to jumping into a lake three times as deep as you expected. If the music fails to rise to the material, it will sink like lead.
With the soundtrack to Dylan biopic I'm Not There, the mix of contemporary artists and older dogs creates a strong dynamic, even if some artist choices are astonishingly ill-conceived.
Some of them are there
As with most Dylan covers, the more obscure, the better. Eighties-era Dylan shines on the first disc with stunners from Mark Lanegan ("Man in the Dark Black Coat"), Los Lobos ("Billy 1"), and Iron & Wine/Calexico ("Dark Eyes"). Jeff Tweedy and anything from Blood on the Tracks is a natural team - he went with "Simple Twist of Fate" and half of Wilco backing him.
Chan Marshall plays it straight on "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again" to great effect, as does Mira Billotte on "As I Went Out One Morning." Sonic Youth noisily amble through the title song; the original with Dylan & The Band, a long-lost Basement Tapes bootleg gem, also gets its first official release.
Eddie Vedder even ears a pass for yet another version of "All Along the Watchtower"
With few exceptions, anything featuring the two backing (the all-star Million Dollar Bashers and Mexican-tinged indie rockers Calexico) succeeds. Roger McGuinn, Tom Verlain and Stephem Malkmus would not respect the songs so well without them.
But no track strikes harder than the Willie Nelson/Calexico take on "Senor (Tales of Yankee Power)." Nelson achieves best result of any cover - he inhabits the song and makes it his own. As much as I don't want to admit a Pitchfork's reviewer got it right, but Stephen Deusner said this version of "Senor" is Exhibit A for Nelson and Calexico trip to the studio.
... others are not
Throw together two discs of Dylan covers, and duds are unavoidable. Mason Jennings uninspired delivery strips the emotion from classics "The Times They Are A Changin'" and "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." Jack Johnson proves he should never be allowed within 100 yards of a Dylan song, butchering "Mama, You've Been on Mind" and Dylan poem "Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie" with surf-rock melodies.
Some clunkers came from artists capable of superior work. Karen O tries to snarl her way through "Highway 61 Revisited" - the end result is closer to mockery than tribute. Rather than go for a straight cover, The Hold Steady inexplicably go for a slow burn on the normally raucous "Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?"
Through 34 songs and 33 covers, the cream generally rises, making those stupefying lows easy to ignore. The well of Dylan interpretations has been plumbed many times; I'm Not There proves it's still far from running dry.
A who's who of artists have rattled off whole albums of Dylan songs - Brian Ferry, The Byrds, Joan Baez, the Grateful Dead, a 30th Anniversary concert. Legions more have tried their luck reimagining his songs, with few scraping the heights of Jimi Hendrix and "All Along the Watchtower" (Dylan change the arrangement in homage to Hendrix's version).
Dylan's songs have a timeless malleability, but covering them is sometimes akin to jumping into a lake three times as deep as you expected. If the music fails to rise to the material, it will sink like lead.
With the soundtrack to Dylan biopic I'm Not There, the mix of contemporary artists and older dogs creates a strong dynamic, even if some artist choices are astonishingly ill-conceived.
Some of them are there
As with most Dylan covers, the more obscure, the better. Eighties-era Dylan shines on the first disc with stunners from Mark Lanegan ("Man in the Dark Black Coat"), Los Lobos ("Billy 1"), and Iron & Wine/Calexico ("Dark Eyes"). Jeff Tweedy and anything from Blood on the Tracks is a natural team - he went with "Simple Twist of Fate" and half of Wilco backing him.
Chan Marshall plays it straight on "Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again" to great effect, as does Mira Billotte on "As I Went Out One Morning." Sonic Youth noisily amble through the title song; the original with Dylan & The Band, a long-lost Basement Tapes bootleg gem, also gets its first official release.
Eddie Vedder even ears a pass for yet another version of "All Along the Watchtower"
With few exceptions, anything featuring the two backing (the all-star Million Dollar Bashers and Mexican-tinged indie rockers Calexico) succeeds. Roger McGuinn, Tom Verlain and Stephem Malkmus would not respect the songs so well without them.
But no track strikes harder than the Willie Nelson/Calexico take on "Senor (Tales of Yankee Power)." Nelson achieves best result of any cover - he inhabits the song and makes it his own. As much as I don't want to admit a Pitchfork's reviewer got it right, but Stephen Deusner said this version of "Senor" is Exhibit A for Nelson and Calexico trip to the studio.
... others are not
Throw together two discs of Dylan covers, and duds are unavoidable. Mason Jennings uninspired delivery strips the emotion from classics "The Times They Are A Changin'" and "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." Jack Johnson proves he should never be allowed within 100 yards of a Dylan song, butchering "Mama, You've Been on Mind" and Dylan poem "Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie" with surf-rock melodies.
Some clunkers came from artists capable of superior work. Karen O tries to snarl her way through "Highway 61 Revisited" - the end result is closer to mockery than tribute. Rather than go for a straight cover, The Hold Steady inexplicably go for a slow burn on the normally raucous "Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?"
Through 34 songs and 33 covers, the cream generally rises, making those stupefying lows easy to ignore. The well of Dylan interpretations has been plumbed many times; I'm Not There proves it's still far from running dry.
What about me?
I has come to my attention that personal grips have been strangely absent from this blog lately - it's all music and commentary.
So let's catch up.
Two weeks before my long weekend in Columbus for The Decemberists' Long and Short of It Tour, they cancel the remaining dates.
Their timing could not have been better - earlier Thursday, I signed up to run the Conquer the Creek 5K, which is non-refundable. If that announcement drops a few hours earlier, I'm saving those vacation days for a long-delayed trip to SoCal to run around with my old driving buddy Alicia.
So like it or not, I'm headed to Columbus ... on a Michigan game weekend in Ann Arbor, ensuring every barstool in my favorite haunts will sag under some yahoo swilling Bud Light and shouting "Fuck Lloyd Carr" every time the Buckeyes gain a yard (long sigh).
Now I need to figure out how to get my money back from Ticketmaster, or whether it will deduct a "refund convenience fee" for their lack of trouble.
So let's catch up.
Two weeks before my long weekend in Columbus for The Decemberists' Long and Short of It Tour, they cancel the remaining dates.
Their timing could not have been better - earlier Thursday, I signed up to run the Conquer the Creek 5K, which is non-refundable. If that announcement drops a few hours earlier, I'm saving those vacation days for a long-delayed trip to SoCal to run around with my old driving buddy Alicia.
So like it or not, I'm headed to Columbus ... on a Michigan game weekend in Ann Arbor, ensuring every barstool in my favorite haunts will sag under some yahoo swilling Bud Light and shouting "Fuck Lloyd Carr" every time the Buckeyes gain a yard (long sigh).
Now I need to figure out how to get my money back from Ticketmaster, or whether it will deduct a "refund convenience fee" for their lack of trouble.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
The new problem with Wes Anderson
Call it Tarantino Syndrome. In wake of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, suddenly every hitman recited pop culture tidbits and anyone could take a Faulker-esque trip through time on big screen.
Others co-opt their style, and the originator cannot successfully return to it. To his credit, Tarantino never tried. To his detriment, every subsequent film has been a stylistic homage - blaxploitation
(Jackie Brown), kung-fu westerns (Kill Bill) and of course,
Grindhouse. While their quality is debatable, none touch the genius exhibited in the earlier two films. He's stuck in homage-land and shows no signs of exiting.
Wes Anderson is the latest to suffer from that affliction, also through
no fault of his own. I'm not calling him a titan of cinema, but he developed a style easily nicked by other directors. Garden State and a dozen others wouldn't exist without the pathos of the Tenenbaum family or teenage control freak Max Fisher.
Now the Whitman brothers of The Darjeeling Limited almost come off as formulaic. Every dash for the train recalls the jump-started van in
Little Miss Sunshine, and the slow-motion music cues to obscure rock songs feel stale. The heavy-handed luggage symbolism also feels hackneyed.
But those sticking points shouldn't suggest it's a bad film, and Anderson deserves applause for sticking to his style as others cherrypicked its trademarks.
His thematic structures and vivid color palettes remain largely intact. India often feels more than a set of exotic storyboards for a shattered family's journey toward understanding. Once again, the audience lands in Anderson's fictional world, chasing an impossible train on track to self-discovery. Darjeeling replaces the almost-real
environments in previous films with an India remote and rare for Western eyes.
We follow the trajectories of the father's son Peter (Adrian Brody), the mama's boy Francis (Owen Wilson), and the emotionally disconnected youngest child Jack (Jason Schwartzman, made more three-dimensional Hotel Chevalier, a short preceding the main film).
Good critical reaction to Darjeeling owes a debt to Anderson pursuing an intimate journey with three brothers. Rather than the extended family ensembles of his previous two films, the Whitman brothers dominate screen time and the audience can sink their teeth into what pains them.
The scope is a retreat for Anderson, making Darjeeling for a third of The Life Aquatic's tab, containing much of the action to a train compartment. This claustrophobic setting drives the story. In it, and the train's other cars, they real-politick each other, infuriate the head steward in true Marx Brothers fashion, and chafe under the leadership of Francis, who never gives them too much rope.
The film also suffers from events too close to the real world. Wilson's bandaged brother wears the scars of a motorcycle crash, a subtle suicide attempt hard to separate from Wilson's own this summer.
Anyone expecting a great leap forward from Anderson will be disappointed. But for a small character-driven film, he succeeds in fleshing out the demons of the Whitman brothers.
Others co-opt their style, and the originator cannot successfully return to it. To his credit, Tarantino never tried. To his detriment, every subsequent film has been a stylistic homage - blaxploitation
(Jackie Brown), kung-fu westerns (Kill Bill) and of course,
Grindhouse. While their quality is debatable, none touch the genius exhibited in the earlier two films. He's stuck in homage-land and shows no signs of exiting.
Wes Anderson is the latest to suffer from that affliction, also through
no fault of his own. I'm not calling him a titan of cinema, but he developed a style easily nicked by other directors. Garden State and a dozen others wouldn't exist without the pathos of the Tenenbaum family or teenage control freak Max Fisher.
Now the Whitman brothers of The Darjeeling Limited almost come off as formulaic. Every dash for the train recalls the jump-started van in
Little Miss Sunshine, and the slow-motion music cues to obscure rock songs feel stale. The heavy-handed luggage symbolism also feels hackneyed.
But those sticking points shouldn't suggest it's a bad film, and Anderson deserves applause for sticking to his style as others cherrypicked its trademarks.
His thematic structures and vivid color palettes remain largely intact. India often feels more than a set of exotic storyboards for a shattered family's journey toward understanding. Once again, the audience lands in Anderson's fictional world, chasing an impossible train on track to self-discovery. Darjeeling replaces the almost-real
environments in previous films with an India remote and rare for Western eyes.
We follow the trajectories of the father's son Peter (Adrian Brody), the mama's boy Francis (Owen Wilson), and the emotionally disconnected youngest child Jack (Jason Schwartzman, made more three-dimensional Hotel Chevalier, a short preceding the main film).
Good critical reaction to Darjeeling owes a debt to Anderson pursuing an intimate journey with three brothers. Rather than the extended family ensembles of his previous two films, the Whitman brothers dominate screen time and the audience can sink their teeth into what pains them.
The scope is a retreat for Anderson, making Darjeeling for a third of The Life Aquatic's tab, containing much of the action to a train compartment. This claustrophobic setting drives the story. In it, and the train's other cars, they real-politick each other, infuriate the head steward in true Marx Brothers fashion, and chafe under the leadership of Francis, who never gives them too much rope.
The film also suffers from events too close to the real world. Wilson's bandaged brother wears the scars of a motorcycle crash, a subtle suicide attempt hard to separate from Wilson's own this summer.
Anyone expecting a great leap forward from Anderson will be disappointed. But for a small character-driven film, he succeeds in fleshing out the demons of the Whitman brothers.
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