Dark Water

darkwaterOne of the nice things to read about the impending remake of this Japanese horror movie is that the American company have opted for Brazilian director Walter Salles to helm the production rather than some MTV hack. This is a nice indication that they are taking it seriously and that we will be spared a “re-imagining” of this nifty little number for the vidiot MTV-generation.

Hideo Nakata also directed the original Ringu that was the basis for Gore Verbinski’s The Ring; Ringu was an effective horror gem that spawned several above-grade sequels and dozens of cheaper knock-offs. (check out http://www.teleport-city.com for a review and explanation of Ringu’s success)

Nakata made Dark Water in 2002. It’s the story of a recent divorcee, Yoshimi, who tries to make a new life with her daughter Ikuko, while finalizing her divorce and fighting her ex-husband for custody of Ikuko.

They move into a run-down old building. Things start to happen…stuff that tends to happen in horror movies*. A young girl disappeared from the building years ago. She went to the same school as Ikuko. Can there be a connection? Or is Yoshimi simply going nuts from the stress of divorce? She certainly can’t afford to lose it, as her husband is still hovering in the wings.

Nakato is, thankfully, not an Michael Bay-style director. His takes are slow and languorous; if it didn’t make me sound like some kind of perv, I’d say that he builds up the horror in an almost sensuous way; his use of relatively static cinematography, some dynamite sound engineering, as well as coaxing subtle and nuanced performances from his actor all come together to create an organic whole. There are a few instances of “kinetic” camera work, but since they are few and far between, they retain their power and ability to pack a wallop, both emotional and fright-wise.

Kudos to the actors as well: Their characters are utterly believable. Rio Kanno, who plays the 6-year old Ikuko, is wonderful: She is quick to laughter and fear and isn’t precocious or sarcastic beyond her years. Here is a 6-year old child allowed to be just that and the movie is all the better for it. Yoshimi is no less wonderful. Dealing with slowly finding out something is very wrong; that someone or something is stalking them, she remains equally convincing as the mother deathly afraid of losing her child or of not being able to make the payments.

This is another strength of the movie: Real life happens alongside the supernatural. Even if things go bump in the night, Yoshimi still needs to be at work in the morning. We find out that she, as a child, saw a therapist in order to deal with her own parents’ divorce. Juxtaposing the idea that Yoshimi may in fact be coming unglued with the more probable scenario of a haunting, Nakata deftly creates a suffocating atmosphere that just becomes more and more so. The gradual revelation of who or what our ghost is jars us further: it isn’t a faceless evil either, not really. The ghost is all too human: scared, lonely, selfish…and frightening as all hell.

Without wanting to give anything away, the climax is damn near perfect; claustrophobic and shocking, a mix of real horrors and supernatural ones: just as in Ringu, things don’t quite work out as planned for our heroes. Choices must be made, none of which are easy. The ending isn’t happy Hollywood fare and as viewers, we feel almost cheated. Nakata doesn’t let go, though, adding a coda that one at first would think anticlimactic. But revisiting our characters ten year later, we are treated to one last scare that is guaranteed to make you look twice over your shoulder (I know I did.), as well as add further pathos to an already sad conclusion.

There is no black or white here, just a lot of greys. That the ghost for a moment somehow wrings sympathy out of us makes it all scarier: We are given not only the very human horrors of Yoshimi and Ikuko, but those of the ghost at well. Dark Water is that all-too-rare thing: a proper horror movie. Not a slasher or gore movie. No blood is shed, nor are any limbs cut off; it’s a resolutely blood-free zone. The chills and the scares we experience are the work of a sound story, solid acting and atmosphere put together. Not many people can do this sort of thing nowadays. As a confessed horror fan, I hope Nakata will mine the genre for a looong time. This is the sort of exercise that goes a long way to dismiss the tag of lowbrow and stupid that is often (and often deservedly, I admit) attached to the genre. Don’t wait for the remake, just see this instead if you can. It’s worth your while, trust me.


  • Director: Hideo Nakata
23.04.2004 • Permalink

Blue Lights Shining: The Jayhawks

Rockefeller Music Hall, Oslo, 15.03.04

Hearing the Jayhawks play live is like coming in from the cold, or curling up in bed in an old oversized sweater that, with any luck, still smells like someone you used to know. Most of all, it’s like seeing an old friend who cheers you up.

Having missed the Jayhawks on several occasions during my time in the states, I was thrilled to get the chance yet again. This time, I would not be denied. Rockefeller Music Hall is one of my favourite stages in the world. (Lupo’s Heartbreak Hotel in Providence being another.) Dark and smoked-out, nicotine stains on the walls and beer stains on the ground: the decades of concerts it’s hosted have left their marks. Seeing a show there is like coming home. As it so happens, it’s become a favourite of many bands from the Big World Beyond as well. Oslo has in fact become a reasonably cool place to live, if you can afford to. I always knew that, of course, but I’m happy that you can always see the big acts here, but moreover the small acts and even the tiny acts. (In a month, Jonathan Richman swings by. He helped save my sanity in New Brunswick, NJ. I can’t wait.)

The room was nearly sold out, and after an opening act that sounded more like acoustic California indie rock than country, the Jayhawks sauntered, if not quite swaggered, on. The band seemed in good spirits and opened with a no-nonsense Stumbling Through the Dark that set the tune nicely for the rest of the evening: Travel-weary and whisky-soaked moments of dusty beauty. Such is the sound of the Jayhawks.

The Jayhawks are not a sexy band by any measure. Tall and gangly, vocalist Gary Louris looked more like a teacher, possibly writer, in his suit than a proper rock star. But then, again, who wants to be a rock star these days? Bassist Marc Perlman looks as if he’d be just as happy pumping gas as to be on a stage, but did admittedly look damn cool with a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, the man himself facing the huge bass amplifier behind him.

It’s sad to think that a band like the Jayhawks never made it big, and at this point, probably never will. Is it their lack of rock glitz? Or is it simply bad luck? It’s certainly not due to songs or skill or enthusiasm. They’ve become one of those “almost-bigs” like Richard Thompson or Neil Finn or any of those other occupants of some little niche. I always thought they were better than fellow alt-country legends Uncle Tupelo, but I’ve actually been yelled at over this, so I’m not making any categorical statements here. In a nice fan moment, Gary Louris actually said “This is for Asbjørn; he asked on the street if we could play this…” and then What Led Me To This Town flowed from the speakers. They might not be so sexy, but they seem to like the fans and the fans love them back for it.

“So many songs…so many songs” mumbled Gary Louris at one point, as they pondered what tune to play next. So many songs indeed: I noticed that when playing 20 or so songs in one go, the songs did blend together a bit. But at the same time, their craft is so good, it doesn’t really matter. They didn’t do The Man Who Loved Life, but I did get Blue so I have no complaints. A number by the Golden Smog also popped up at one point, in case you were wondering. The Jayhawks write standards, more than anything. It’s not as easy as it looks, writing a verse and a chorus and a middle eight. But that’s what the Jayhawks do, and it’s a real feat. A few chords and endless invention.

For their final number, they played a song I didn’t recognize, but approaching the break, they took it to a rockier place…long solos, avant-garde wailing, etc. It was interesting to hear the band going beyond their expected parameters, and convincingly so. But all good things come to an end and so did this evening and the lights went up, and beers were finished and cigarettes stubbed out. After the show was over, I found it had started raining. It was a cold rain, the early spring kind that feels tired and melancholy and somehow hurried. In fact, just the kind of rain that you’d find in a song by the Jayhawks.

16.03.2004 • Permalink

Lars Trier’s Five Obstructions

Lars von Trier – take him or leave him. Love him or loathe him: Whichever way you look at him, he’s a one-off. A talented filmmaker, his stubborn refusal to play by conventional rules led him to dismiss what had been and set up a new set of rules, the Dogme manifesto – to ensure “complete film” or some such nonsense. Ironically, and most likely fully intentional, The Dogme rules were more inhibiting than anything else, but made for a few good films until the novelty wore off.

The Five Obstructions is basically about Trier challenging fellow Danish filmmaker Jørgen Leth to remake his own 1967 short film The Perfect Human – a dull-looking exercise and incidentally Trier’s favourite short film. Trier sets up a set of rules – the titular obstructions – for Leth; in one film, for example, no shot may be longer than 12 frames (Michael Bay, eat your heart out!) and it has to be shot in a place Leth has never been and so on; in other attempts, Leth must star, has to deal with no set of rules whatsoever and it goes on and on. Trier tries to come up with challenges for Leth; the purpose of this is ostensibly to expose Leth’s humanity, Leth being considered a distant observer by Trier. This distance, Trier says, hinders Leth in his work and life. He babbles on about this being therapy rather than filmmaking; he wants there to be dirt in Leth’s work, as he himself loves it when actors do a crap job within the same parameters as they do good work. This is human. (Anyone familiar with Trier’s work can attest to his films being very human.)

There are certain laughs to be had, such as when Trier calls out to his assistant and asks whether they can afford to send Leth to Cuba. “Is it in the budget? He has to go to Cuba” – as Leth sits there, looking baffled.

Leth circumnavigates Trier’s obstructions deftly; each movie looks better and more compelling than the original. I realize I am probably being seduced by window dressing here – an inexcusable sin for a graphic designer – but the simple fact is that incomprehensibility in technicolour garb is still more enjoyable than in monochromatic. Compare Last Year at Marienbad to Donnie Darko, for example.

Trier loses, of course. Leth remains unfazed and unflappable, rising to the challenge every time. And, this “distant” human comes over as a rather affable person, quick to a smile and thoroughly enthusiastic about the work. The only times he seems worried is before the first obstruction, before he really knows what he’s doing, and before the fourth – and that’s mostly because he’s pissed off at having to make a cartoon, a style of filmmaking he hates. (He eventually goes to Bob Sabiston, the man behind the animations in Richard Linklater’s Waking Life for this)

The joke, of course, is that Trier ultimately shifts the focus of the film from Leth and onto himself with his final obstruction. Leth must agree to be credited as director as well as read a voice-over text that Trier has written for him. About Leth and Trier. Thus it is that at the end of the movie, we are left with a crap joke, a visual pun based on the original short and can only wonder whether Trier planned the whole thing like that. So the joke is on Leth. Or Trier. Or us. Frankly, who cares?

Did anyone really doubt it was Trier’s project? After all, the title is Lars von Trier’s Five Obstructions. Sure, you say: the obstructions were Trier’s, but the work was Leth’s. Or was it? Trier can be an enthralling director when he stops and remembers to remove his head from his ass. Witness Zentropia for a compelling example – and downright exciting – art film; claustrophobic and mysterious. See The Kingdom for the laughs and chills that Stephen King’s insipid remake failed to provide at all; also note how it is possible to sustain a confusing storyline by having fun. (Trier lucked out with Ernst-Hugo Järegård’s death, though – now he doesn’t have to finish it) and lastly, The Idiots, a study in weirding and creeping the audience, pushing boundaries and reveling in filth and taboos. Not to mention full frontal nudity and penetration.

Trier can also be an infuriating director, weird for weird’s sake. A veritable ball of (affected?) neurotic beahaviour, Trier is apparently afraid of flying, an agoraphobic, a claustrophobic and so on. Not even Woody Allen makes so much of his state of mental health. But it’s also readily apparent that Trier also has a large, large ego, and this movie is a very effective example of that; after all, who else would challenge his own idol to remake his best effort in order to make it less perfect?

Lars von Trier’s Five Obstructions is mostly for completists and students of the medium. The movie doesn’t give enough of anything. As a documentary, it fails, providing too little insight into the creative process, the technical aspect and the incentive to create in the first place. It also gives too little of the actual finished results, leaving us with short glimpses of the movie. In my case, I can appreciate that: I thought the original short version was a bore, so seeing the same thing five times in a row…well. Perhaps the DVD will give us more, perhaps not. Either way, Trier will soon start shooting the follow-up to Dogville. In the meantime, he has reminded us that, yes, he’s still here. And Leth? Probably back in his villa in Haiti, smoking his stogie and enjoying the café life…


  • Director: Lars von Trier & Jørgen Leth
  • Cast: Jørgen Leth, Lars von Trier
01.02.2004 • Permalink

On the Wings of Song

2003 was certainly an awfully eventful year and it’s probably fair to say it has more to condemn it than not, but at the very least, Britney Spears is losing popularity, for which we can all be thankful.

So with the year winding down, and me bored and having nothing better to do, I decided to write about 2003. As a reasonably and averagely intelligent – if hopelessly immature – person, I thought I could perhaps say something enlightening and entertaining about the year that was, war(t)s and all, but I was wrong. I wrote this piece instead, for you to peruse, should you be so inclined. (Funny, isn’t it, how I actually think anybody actually reads this?) This list, like all such lists, has about as much to do with my life in 2003 as it does with music. Quel surpris. Or quelle. Whatever. You have been warned.

Anyway, dear (non-)reader, I dutifully sat down and went through my CD collection to pick and choose, but since I’ve been pretty much broke the whole damn year, there wasn’t really too much to pick from. Of the tiny handful of albums I bought, I found only a few from 2003. Thankfully, they were all pretty good. Easiest list I ever made.

(If you are from New Brunswick, NJ, and happy about that fact, you may want to skip the first paragraph, the last one and the ones in between.)

The Best Albums of 2003, In My Humble Opinion

Welcome Interstate Managers | Fountains of Wayne
The finest two popsmiths currently working in the US, Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger, do it again. After two sublime efforts, their eponymous debut and the follow-up, Utopia Parkway, comes this wonder. Both a love song and a lament to New Jersey, it deals with lives being lived in all their grey and dreary glory. I remember sitting alone in a mostly empty room in New fucking Brunswick, NJ, drinking beer and listening to this, recognizing myself in too many of the scenarios. The Fountains are always being referred to as smug and ironic, but I never found that in their music: Adding humour and/or a twist doesn’t in fact mean youre taking the piss out of anything, it just means you’re adding humour and/or a twist. Some would even call it colour. Creating characters and telling stories is becoming a lost art in contemporary music, and I can relate a lot more to the lovelorn losers and desolate deadbeats slouching in the grooves of this disc, than to the impotent fury and immaculate angst you find on most introspective modern rock albums. On Welcome…, you realize both that you know some of these people, and also that you are some of these people. This is almost tantamount to the blues: To think, just to think, that anything this sweet-sounding can be so heartbreaking. It’s like love: It might be designed for pleasure, but it can break your heart so terribly bad if and when you let it. I’ve rarely felt sadder or more lost than when I listened to this, but at least I didn’t feel so alone. Whoever would have thought New Jersey is the place the blues lives? (Well…). The Fountains are not virtuosi, but thanks to some clever orchestration, their sound is fresh and snappy; it may also help that these timeless tunes all stand out in your head. But songs without lyrics are just songs without lyrics, and these puppies are abetted by some truly well-spun lines: Not one single word is out of place and I can happily claim that almost every rhyme is sublime. (To wit: Valley Winter Song’s downright Scandinavian description of winterish melancholy: “And Late December/Can drag a man down/You feel it deep in your gut/Short days and afternoons/Spent puttering around/In a dark house with the windows painted shut”) New Jersey is a state of mind, it seems, and I dig this a lot more than I ever did Bruce Springsteen. Also, this album was one of the things that made me leave the US (New Jersey being generally helpful in that respect): I just woke up one day and realized that, frankly, I didn’t want to end up as a Fountains of Wayne B-side. (New Brunswick Nobody, anyone?) Can I just repeat how much I dig this CD? Granted, there are a few duds here and there, but considering that neither The Beatles, The Stones, or even the Bay City Rollers ever managed to release a completely dross-free album, I can cope.

Poetry & Airplanes | Teitur
Danish singer-songwriter, sounding as sweet and sad as Elliot Smith (R.I.P.), although his melancholy bent is of a more Scandinavian nature. Not quite as druggy as Smith, and with fewer self-inflicted scars, this is oftentimes lonely and fragile music from a cold place where winter nights are long and attempted suicide is an option when there’s nothing on TV and you have nothing better to do. It’s also often sweetly orchestrated and performed, lush and warm, like a kiss before a fireplace when the snow lays heavy outside. Poetry & Airplanes contains one of the most intimate and plaintive childhood portraits set to music in Sweet Josephine (imagine Nick Drake channeling Ray Bradbury, circaa Dandelion Vine); furthermore, one of the loneliest musical postcards I’ve heard in a while is quietly strummed out on I Was Just Thinking. (I had that song on repeat for a week or so and it still breaks my heart to the tiniest fractions of atoms.) Being the soft sounds of a sensitive soul, Lester Bangs would really, truly, absolutely, completely, utterly and indiscriminately hate this album with a total, furious passion and complete conviction. But then again, Lester’s dead.

Scandinavian Leather | Turbonegro

Announcing the triumphant return of the world’s greatest homoerotic death punk band, this effort sees the Norwegian yahoos take to the airwaves yet again with ditties like Fuck the World, Sell Your Body (To The Night) and Wipe It ‘Till It Bleeds. Losing vocalist Hank von Helvete to mental instability and heroin addiction in Italy a few years back, they regrouped after he was released from the psych ward (I swear I’m not even making this up) and invoked the Denim Demon once again. Scandinavian Leather may lack an insta-anthem like Erection, but makes up for it with a fuller, beefier sound and better songs overall. The sound of chunder in the distance.

Absolution | Muse
Queen meets Metallica. Bombastic and histrionic, bordering on hysterical, but never over the top. Absolution may best be described as a Punk Metal Opera, all jagged guitars and high-pitched vocals, but that would be selling it short. Is to 2003 what Songs For the Deaf was to 2002, but better.

So Much For The City | The Thrills
Dublin band makes Wish-This-Were-California album. Warm and timeless; think Teenage Fanclub, the Byrds (country years) and the Wondermints.

Runner-Up

Let It Be…Naked | The Beatles

Not really sure why I put this on here: It’s not that great. Paul McCartney finally –Finally!– gets to redo Let It Be in his image and thus show the world what a good songwriter he is. This sounds a bit like the Let It Be outtakes on the Anthology 3 set. No huge surprises, then. To be honest, Let It Be was always a bit of a clunker and changing arrangements on the songs doesn’t change that too much. If Margaret Cho took her clothes off, she would still be funny, but she’d also be stark naked, and I’m not sure there’s really much call for that.

Honourable Mention

Genius: The Best of Warren Zevon| Warren Zevon
Having been a passionate Zevon fan for at least several months since he was first diagnosed with terminal cancer, this should be on here. His last release, the posthumous The Wind, may be more appropriate, but I haven’t had the guts to listen to it yet: A friend described that album with tears in his eyes, and I don’t think I can deal with it yet. It’s stupid to let oneself be so easily manipulated by music, but since it took me months to listen to Queen’s The Show Must Go On without hiding in a cupboard and covering my ears with bagels, I figure I may as well be on the safe side. Still, I really do want to send a shout-out to Warren, but I’ll do it by putting down Genius, Rhino’s 2002 compilation instead. A good career overview of the laconic smart-ass, it mixes oddness, beauty and wit in equal doses. Affectionate farewells like Hasten Down the Wind or weird war tale Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner, stand side by side, making Genius consistently entertaining. To me, though, it’s the sound of going from New fucking Brunswick, NJ, to Cooperstown, NY, to visit my close friend Kris. It will be the sound of that for a long time, and it’s a pretty good sound to me.

Songs That Meant A Lot


Valley Winter Song | Fountains of Wayne

Warm, wistful and wonderful, like candy canes for your ears, and unbearably sad, like getting a toothache from a kiss. Sounds like being lost at sea, sinking, and hearing something in the distance that can maybe –and maybe not– save you. It’s not much, it’s everything, but at the very least, there”s a brief comfort to be had there. Perhaps I’m trying too hard to be clever here. Either way, it’s my favourite track from my favourite album this year.

Fuglen | DeLillos

This number got me through the odd bad day. Frankly, the world needs more songs with bears (that aren’t Vinnie the Pooh or Fozzie) and sparrows in them. And fish. (Dave McKean could do the cover.) Pepe the Rabbit approves of this song.

American Jesus | Bad Religion

“I don’t need to be a global citizen/’cuz I got my nationality/I’m a member of a growing populace/We enforce our popularity” American Jesus was written in 1993, but you’d never know it. Sounds pretty relevant right about now.

Don’t Let It Bring You Down | Annie Lennox

The album itself, Medusa, isn’t up to much, but I kept cranking this song during my not-nearly-brief-enough stint in New fucking Brunswick, NJ.

I left My Heart In San Francisco | Tony Bennett

…and my liver in New Jersey. Not entirely sure which side of the Bay; I may even have lost it on the BART somewhere. Stupidly, I tend to carry it on my sleeve. If you see it, please try not to step on it.

Ain’t That Enough | Teenage Fanclub

“Here is a sunrise” goes the chorus of this charmer, in harmonies almost too sweet for words, “ain’t that enough?” Not if you live in New Brunswick, no.

Album Most Needed To be Reborn In 2003

Never Mind The Bollocks | Sex Pistols

Nevermind Y2K: Set your clocks to 1984! In a few paltry years, George Bush steals an election, fucks the environment gleefully, pisses on the concept of privacy and invades Iraq, causing Rage Against The Machine to go into sulk overload and BREAK UP, reforming as Audioslave with the former Soundgarden vocalist and a hitherto unknown Grand Funk fetish. As for Bollocks; back in ’77, Queen Elisabeth got this for her anniversary: I could honestly give a shit about the Brit class system, but no matter: Despite the protestations of Korn and Limp Bizkit fans, this is what angry music sounds like. (It’s also a total pose, but that’s besides the point. Or maybe it is the point.) That nobody has recorded anything that even attempts a sociopopcultural catharrsis like Bollocks in this day and age, is almost too sad a thought to contemplate. Michael Moore’s everlasting crusade against the Republicans can frankly get grating at times, but I think it’s high time he put the camera down and bought himself a guitar and a Marshall stack. If Tom Morello can’t get time out from remaking Vanishing Point for MTV, I’ll even show Mike a few chords myself. Then all he’ll need is a shocking name, like The Gay Socialists and The Limited Oil Supply (too psychedelic?) or maybe something really outrageous like The Welfare State.
Still, with Saddam’s capture by US troops, the somewhat surreal thought of US gunships in the Baghdad sunset, blasting We Are The Champions or possibly The Yellow Rose Of Texas is oddly amusing, in a Stanley Kubrick sort of way.

Best Live Performance

A tie, sorta: It’s either Justin taking me to see M. Ward in San Francisco this August, or walking into the Court Tavern in New fucking Brunswick, NJ, for a beer or six to anaesthesise the pain of living in New fucking Brunswick, NJ and then finding Jonathan Richman playing a gig downstairs. Both gigs were great, but as Richman alleviated the trauma of having to wake up for two consecutive months in New fucking Brunswick, NJ, he wins this one hands down. Neil Finn at the Warfield and Richard Thompson at the Fillmore were both pretty damn good too. Tom Paxton, that old fixture from the Gaslight and Cafe Wha?, is still going strong, and dropped by the Freight & Salvage in late January. Suffering under the yoke of a Republican administration must obviously agree with him: He was funny as hell, warm and wise in the way we want our elders to be and put on a really smoking show, but since I also missed out on Jessica’s birthday and seeing Oakland Raiders fans torch cars because of him, I am forced to subtract some points. Still, I got to pretend I was in the 60s and that the Man was still a force that could be opposed, or even that the Man actually gave two shits about us. I’d also say Ween put on a pretty awesome show in Oslo in early December, but as I was seeing double by the time they got around to performing, I’m not entirely certain.


Best Live Performance featuring Yours Truly

After enjoying the Starry Plough Irish Session most Sundays of the year, Christina held me to my cocksure promise of singing before BRT’s 2002-03 season was over. I held my word as the good boy I mostly am, and, after a feeble, near inaudible intro that had the MC looking worried (“He’ll be goin’ down in flames”, said his eyes), I belted out a Norwegian folk tune that they could most likely hear well across the street. (Thanks to the Speech and Voice class at the Berkeley Rep School of Theatre: You rock, Domenique!) The tune was short and sweet and also a far more personal choice than I let on to my friends. For my troubles, I received a big round of applause and was actually asked to sing again the week after. (I declined) Much to everybody’s surprise, I didn’t touch a drop before singing.

Best Compilation Album 0f 2003

Again, like the best gig, it’s sort of a tie: It’s either the freebie that came with the November ish of Q, which has Thoughts of A Dying Atheist by Muse (“It scares the hell out of meeeee/The end is all I can seeeee”), or the birthday disc somone burned for us spring chickens. I’d probably go with the latter, as much for sentimental reasons as for containing the punk version of Cabaret, but since I lost the damn thing in New fucking Brunswick, NJ, it doesn’t much matter.

Best Music Writing


Mainlines, Blood Feasts And Bad Taste | Lester Bangs

Since Bangs died in in 1982, before MTV ruled the Earth, this is hardly current stuff. Still, the re-release of Psychotic Reactions And Carburetor Dung a few years ago found enough interest to justify yet another anthology. Like Reactions, Mainlines is chock full of acerbic wit and opinionated bile, funny as all hell. Some of it rings true, even if it’s a joke, such as his claim that I Will Survive will hold up better than anything by Throbbing Gristle, which is true (Unless Fatboy Slim gets around to some remixing), and some is so wrong it’s funny anyway. Some longer pieces, like his travelogue from Jamaica, shows what a fine writer he really was. It’s not as good as Reactions, which has more of his mature writing, and more Lou Reed rants, thus making it better, but it’s still a hell of a read. Like for most amateur critics and writers, Bangs holds a special place in my heart. He’s not the best American writer of the century by far, no matter what Greil Marcus might claim, (My money’s on V.A. Andrews) but he’s damn good and often even great, and should have done far more than just music reviews (Frankly, his writing is better than the subject often deserves), had he gotten his act together. And those are words to live by, aren’t they?

Most Useless Single To Get Needlessly Pissed Off About

Changes | Kelly & Ozzy Osbourne

I don’t much like Christina Aguilera, but at least she can sing. And when an annoying, no-talent brat like Kelly Osbourne disses her, well, I must concede Ms. Aguilera some grudging kudos. Changes is an old Black Sabbath number, from Vol. 4, a monster album (just listen to opener Wheels Of Confusion) in its own right. I never thought Changes quite fit in on it, but many people think it’s a rather loveley piece of fluff. However twee the original Changes seemed, it doesn’t hold a candle to this insipid remake. Kelly (Kellie? Who gives a shit anyway?) warbles away in her tuneless moan, Ozzy following suit, his vocals echoing the guitar/piano lines as they have since the dawn of time. The difference is that Ozzy’s vocals, limited that they may be, still have soul. Now that Ozzy lies in the hospital, banged up after pulling a Zimmermann 66 on his motorcycle, this has become his very first number one single in the UK. If anyone deserves one of those, it’s him. But what price, Ozzy, what price? If this single were a place, it’d be New Brunswick, NJ.

Bonus

Worst Gig That Never Even Happened
The one other time I was going to risk performing in public this year was at a BBQ; The idea was to pleasantly surprise the hostess; In the end, we were in fact both surprised, but not in a good way, by any kind of measure. I never even got my hands on her guitar, succumbing instead to stress, anxiety and confusion, some of my own making, some not. I drank too much, got even more depressed, tried unsuccessfully to compose myself in a corner, and expertly and rather deftly scared the one person I was supposed to cheer up, out of my life entirely. It’s pretty safe to say it was the shittiest gig of my life. Not quite up there with Bob Marley literally dying on stage, but not much better either.

14.01.2004 • Permalink

Until it Sleeps

When Metallica finally recorded and released the follow-up to Metallica (aka “the black album”), it was deemed a disappointment by many. Some cried sell-out and it’s almost easy to understand why when you hear the finished result.

The Metallica of Master of Puppets, one of — if not the — best metal albums ever, had taken their leave. In their wake they left slower songs, discernible lyrics, not to mention a beefed-up production and a cry went out into the land and it was that producer Bob Rock hath made Metallica sound like ye olde Bon Jovi! Far from it. But as the opening riff pounds you to the wall and Hetfield shrieks “Outta my way!”, you find that you’ll do well to obey.

The runaway success of Metallica must have left the band in a quandary. Many long-time fans felt they had sold out when they streamlined their sound; some of us, newer to the scene, welcomed the advent of heavier music to the mainstream. But when the dust settled, it’s difficult to see Metallica as the pinnacle of the second part of their career. Yes, it’s a good metal record overall, containing a few classic tracks, ie. the singles Enter SandmanThe Unforgiven and the balls-out monster track Wherever I may roam.

Load is the album Metallica could have been. It’s a logical progression. It must have been a difficult choice for them: what direction to pursue? The trash metal that made their name or the slower grind that broke them to the masses? I for one can’t help but be pleased that they decided to go for broke and try on a new sound.

The simple fact is that while Load doesn’t measure up to the brutal, velocity-crazed brilliance of Master of Puppets, it really shouldn’t have to: They are two entirely different kinds of beasts. Make no mistake about it: Load is a gem. It is the sound of a band growing up; Metallica are in fact facing middle age; is it such a surprise that their outlook on things would change or that their sound would mellow somewhat with the advent of children and families?

Image-wise, they took the make-over too far; the Anton Korbijn Gen X photos that adorn the cover grate. Especially since the music contained on the disc is far removed from designer angst in vogue then as now. (Still, Lars Ulrich getting a haircut was surely not so bad: It looked pretty thin on top.)

Load shows a more melodic Metallica than before: Slower, and even “groove-oriented”, many simply felt this was an excuse for the band to play sloppily. They’re wrong. Load is the sound of a tight, confident band open to change. They even introduce pedal steel guitar, for the love of Gawd. This momentary lapse of heaviosity aside, I dare you not to be blown away by the rest: The riffs to Ain’t my bitch and 2×4 are gleefully malevolent and überheavy. Hetfield’s growl has never contained more malice, nor more authority, than here; He sounds more confident than ever, barking and spitting forth the lyrics with the confident swagger of a man on top of the world.

Like most albums these days, Load outstays its welcome, being simply too long. It could easily be trimmed by a few tracks with no major loss of quality. Some songs don’t really gel either: Poor Twisted Me feels more like a parody of Metallica than the real thing. But whatever…

Looking back, now given the perspective of a few more years, it’s far easier to look at Load as its own entity and simply listen to the music. In short, Load rocks like a motherfucker. And it’s certainly the only album of theirs that can be described as “groovy”. The Bon Jovi charges sound particularly groundless when Metallica even in mellower moments sound as if they could rip the New Jerseyites in half with little effort.

By way of a final complaint, or perhaps lament, I must admit I find it unfortunate that opening track of the following year’s Reload, Fuel, was not included here: It certainly would have done a bit to silence the album’s detractors. It is classic Metallica, balls, attitude and muscles: the sound of a 747 landing right on your nose.

They should have called it Loaded

12.10.2003 • Permalink

Autumn Sonata

The Creative Process
He sat with his journals in front of him, trying to find the opening line, trying to find the elusive words that would somehow catapult him into story. But nothing manifested itself. It seemed the pages laughed at him. What’s the matter? they would say, in their smug and complacent voices, Cat got your tongue? It went on for days. Then weeks. Every day a new sequence of letters, words, none that moved him, none that made him smile or frown or anything. The hell with it, he finally thought and snapped the journal shut. It’s just not time yet, he thought glumly. I suppose, he told himself, that one could use the brewing of beer as a metaphor, the fermenting process that needs to take place before the product is ready. (He also supposed that it might be too apt a metaphor, but shushed himself.) He went out for coffee. He had the street mostly to himself: Other people worked.

Religion
That evening found him screaming. He hadn’t meant to, but now it was necessary, had in fact gone beyond necessary, to simply primal. They were not screams of pain. They were screams of frustration, and powerlessness. Screams of despair. They were the screams of a man watching his brother drown. His retarded brother, true, but his brother nonetheless. But it was useless, like trying to stop an approaching tidal wave by pissing at it. What the fuck were they thinking? Playing 4-5-1 against Luxembourg? Playing Luxembourg with only a sole striker? The referee’s whistle sounded and the game was over. The room was hushed and funereal. Another round? said someone. Hell, yeah! muttered another. It was two beers before the hush left the room. After a few more, it was more like a wake.

Contemplation
After he went to bed, he tossed and turned. At long last, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, carried on wings of sighs. He woke with a start, something he thought only happened in movies. He’d been awakened by a familiar voice, his bleary eyes making out a face in the dark. Happy, and not yet rid of the dream logic that told him the impossible was not only possible but highly probable, he reached out for her, waking himself up completely in the process. The remnants of the dream went the same way as his whispered I’ve missed you; into night and silence. Falling asleep the second time was even harder.

The Passing of Time
One morning, he peeked outside. There was ice on the ground. Ice! It was only mid-October. But the sun set early and the nights were longer than days and had been for weeks already. Where had time gone? Wasn’t he supposed to move somewhere? No, he had moved already. And returned. Time had passed. A whole year. Jesus, he thought, as the magnitude of it hit him. (Too dramatic, wasn’t it, to think of mortality over something as simple as frozen water and some dead leaves, but then again, wasn’t that just like him? And hell, it was the season for it. Who was he to deny his cultural heritage?) Jesus, he thought again. Fucking ice.

01.10.2003 • Permalink

The Sugarland Express

Nevermind Duel; The Sugarland Express is Steven Spielberg’s actual cinematic debut. (Duel was a TV movie, remember?) It was released in 1974 and was well received, although I don’t know about box offic performance. Later, I read in Empire how one critic commented that “watching (Malick’s) Badlands vs. Sugarland Express was seeing the difference between the artist and the smartass” or words to that effect. But Terence Malick has made three movies in 25 years (he’s currently working on a new project; its estimated opening should be no later than autumn of 2017) and Steven Spielberg is…well, Steven Spielberg.

Interestingly, few people I know have ever seen Sugarland Express, or are at all aware that it exists. A shame, as it’s quite a little corker. But then, it did well upon its release, I understand, so what do I know? I wasn’t even born then!

Goldie Hawn stars as Luann and Willam Atherton as her hubby, Clovis; Clovis is in jail. Luann has just been in jail (we don’t know what for) but has been released. The movie opens with her visiting Clovis in prison to tell him that she considers their marriage over. Unless he’s willing to escape with her; Their baby has been placed in a foster home and custody’s about to become permanent. Luann wants Clovis to come with and convince the foster parents to let them keep the baby. They escape (it’s a very minimum security prison, it seems) and catch a ride with a fellow inmate’s parents. At first Clovis doesn’t want to – quite reasonably, too: he only has four months left to serve; he only comes along because of Luann. As we learn throughout the movie, he is willing to let the baby go, as long as he can be with Luann. They get pulled over and before you can say “Hal Needham”, a chase ensues, cars are wrecked and they have kidnapped officer Slide, a highway patrolman. The race is on.

I’ve been interested in seeing this movie for a long time, and I wasn’t disapppointed, even if my roomate said “blah” after it was over. Like Badlands, the movie also looks at the American cult of outlaws; as they get closer to Sugarland, more and more people show up to cheer them on; one town even has a parade for them, and the fugitives find themselves as heroes, almost. Spielberg is, no matter what one says, not a stupid director. Yes, he’s fucked up along the way, and he’s boringly PC these days (although Minority Report, for all its obvious flaws, was the best future noir since Blade Runner, in my humble opinion), but when he’s on, he’s on. Sugarland Express is obviously a smaller movie than what we’re used to from him now: He was just a hungry young director then, Jaws and superstardom yet to happen. But his trademwarks are there: The sheer technical skill and the obvious confidence on display, the swift direction and expert pacing. And, like in so many of Spielberg’s movies, the protagonists are not really adults. They are (both are 25), but they are cut from the same cloth as Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters. Luann is somewhat child-like and doesn’t quite fathom that jailbreak and kidnapping probably won’t be points in their favour to get their baby back. Clovis knows this, but can’t quite bring himself to stop Luann either; he loves her. The point is rammed home by the captain himself: “Dammit, they’re just kids”, he says at one point. I have a thought that Luann’s child-mind might be further caused from the stress of having lost her baby –that in fact, she’s on the border of LaLa-land the whole time. It would explain some things about her behaviour and somewhat tenuous grip on reality.

The tentative friendship they strike up with their hostage, officer Slide, is handled very believingly. Moments such as when Clovis asks Slide if he could get a job as a patrolman and Slide stutters “With a record, you can’t. I think it’s againt the law” are genuine and often moving. In another scene, for example, Slide is handcuffed in the back seat of the car while they sleep: listening to the police radio, he hears Luann’s father (he’s been brought in to try and talk her out of it) putting her down and calling her names. When Luann returns, Slide asks her if she could turn off the radio, in order to spare her feelings. Their friendship, such as it is, is driven part by getting to know each other, part from pitying them. These are fine moments that show Spielberg is, in fact, not just a smartass hack, but a fine director fully capable of real emotion, rather than ersatz ones. Seen opposite Malick’s Badlands, its immediate parallel, I frankly like the characters in Sugarland Express better. Martin Sheen was a psycho, pure and simple, and it’s difficult to sympathise with that, no matter is he has a James Dean fixation or no. I’m not saying Badlands isn’t a terrific movie which everyone should run and see pronto, because it is. It’s just that Clovis and Luann are a lot more likable.

I also like the fact that the police for once are sympathetic: They do their damndest to stop the fugitives, but also don’t really want to hurt them. (“I’ve been on the force for 18 years, and I haven’t killed anyone yet…I aim to keep it that way” says the captain) This is one of the things that give the movies its emotional impact: we like all the main players and we want them to just get along; to sit down and have a drink in the end. The fact that we know there must be the inevitable showdown makes it all the more tense. And isn’t it weird that once upon a time, policemen were portrayed as dedicated and honest, you know, as good guys? In the end, Clovis has his gun returned to him by his captain: “I expect you’ll want this back” says the captain and walks away. Slide calls after him “They weren’t ever going to use it” but gets no reply. It’s a sad moment, and we all know that nobody really won. I dowish the media/fame aspect had been developed a bit more, but at the same time, I see why it wasn’t. This is a character study, not a media satire, so it’s wisely kept in the background.

Goldie Hawn liked the script enough to break her sabbatical following her Academy Award nomination. It was based on a real event, though I don’t know how much of it has been altered. Still, in real life, Luann served 15 months, but convinced the state that she was a fit mother and was granted custody after she was released. William Atherton, probably most known as the creep who tried to shut down Ghostbusters and the smarmy reporter in the first two Die Hard movies, plays Clovis very well; he’s the perfect mix of nervous and reckless. Kudos also to John Williams (of course) for a different musical score: no huge symphonic movements, just some twangy and dusty harmonica tones with some oddly modern-sounding backbeats; a bit like Ry Cooder, but not as familiarly dull, if that makes sense.

Spielberg went on to make Jaws after this; nothing else needs to be said about his career, except that it would be wonderful to see him do another movie like this, where people are the special effects. Barring his two amazing war movies, this (and I guess Jaws) might just be his most human movie. There are none of the overwrought and often misplaced histrionics that mars even his best work, such as Schindler’s List. (Partly, I think, because he doesn’t quite trust the audience to be moved sufficiently on their own –strange, given his skill, but perhaps stemming from the belated artistic recognition.) It’s not perfect, but it’s the sort of movie rarely seen these days; an action drama with actual heart and real characters. It’s also very ’70s American auteur, kissing cousins with Badlands and Bonnie and Clyde et al. So give it a spin.


  • Director: Steven Spielberg
  • Cast: Goldie Hawn, William Atherton,
22.09.2003 • Permalink