http://blogcritics.org/ A sinister cabal of superior bloggers on music, books, film, popular culture, politics, and technology - updated continuously. en Copyright 2005-2007 by the authors Fri, 12 May 2006 14:42:32 EDT http://backend.userland.com/rss Blogcritics.org custom software http://blogcritics.org/ Phillip WinnSunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. 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Administration0@blogcritics.org Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/05/12/144232.php Roy TrakinGnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere (Downtown/Atlantic)From the very opening, where a film projector starts to unspool into a vibrant Middle European hora that sounds like Gogol Bordello doing "Hava Nagilah," only to segue into a Danger Mouse mash-up techno jam, with preacher Cee-Lo leading the charge, this hipster record of the moment makes you feel cool just listening to it.Argue all you want whether it's alternative or hip-hop; it's that rare album that straddles genres like a tightrope walker, seguing from the Marvin Gaye-like plaints of the one-listen "Crazy" to a spot-on rendition of Violent Femmes' "Gone Daddy Gone" that evokes the spirit of '80s new wave pop in all its hook-happy glory. "The Boogie Monster" is just a 21st century update of Screamin' Jay Hawkins, while the closing "The Last Time" plugs into the sheer hedonism of great dance music, abandoning the head to seize the gut with "All work and no play that's the way it is, ain't it/There's a rhythm deep inside of you and you must get reacquainted."No larger truths or big messages, just an admonition that pop music can be a comfort in an age where nothing else seems to go right. Finishing off with a flapping reel, it's all a movie of the mind, with the remarkable Cee-Lo playing as many roles as Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove, and Danger Mouse providing the musical mise en scene a la Kubrick - at once threatening, seducing, haranguing, kibbitzing and cajoling, but never less than entertaining as they summon up the Id and give it a welcome workout.The Raconteurs, Broken Boy Soldiers (V2)Be careful what you wish for. All those who wanted to hear what Jack White would sound like sans the stringent aesthetic he applies to his work with the White Stripes now have their answer, and while this is truly a collaborative effort, it lacks the visceral thrills of our man at his best... or worst, as the case may be. The album starts off promisingly enough with "Steady as She Goes," a Motown-by-way-of-Elvis-Costello bass beat, followed by the line, "Find yourself a girl and settle down/Lead a simple life in a quiet town."And if that seems to echo Jack's own current marriage to supermodel Karen Elson and subsequent move from Detroit to Nashville, it was originally written by partner Brendan Benson, who provides the McCartney to White's Lennon on several songs, including "Hands," the tender ballad "Together" and the Move-meets-"I Am the Walrus" psychedelia of "Intimate Secretary," with their voices coming out of either speaker.White is truly just a member of this band, like Eric Clapton in Derek & the Dominos, with the Zeppish title track the only nod towards his patented vocal wail and screaming guitar solos. Recorded and mixed in just three weeks, it has a shambling, laid-back feel and a comfort level brought out in Benson's seemingly shiny, happy ode to the '60s, "Yellow Sun," though it ends with White intoning, "It's not sunny anymore." Let's just hope Jack's not mellowing too much, with a wife and now a baby on the way. His neuroses are precisely what make him so fascinating in the first place.Rebel Meets Rebel (Big Vin Records)Talk about your genre mash-ups, this collaboration between outlaw country singer David Allan Coe, the late Pantera guitarist Dimebag Darrell and his brother, drummer Vinnie Paul, is a raucous good time and not as unlikely as it might seem when you consider the Akron, OH-born Coe got his start as a performer opening for Grand Funk Railroad.It's all about drinking ("No Compromise"), drugging ("Cowboys Do More Dope") and sex ("One Nite Stands"), but also loss of innocence ("Arizona Rivers") and even Native American rights ("Cherokee Cry"), where Coe belies the charges of racism that have followed him around since his notorious 1982 song "N*gger F*cker," which he always denied.The title track adds in a mean sawing fiddle and some pumping keyboards, while "Get Outta My Life" features a cameo by yet another genre-buster in Hank Williams III. It's a posthumous showcase for ace axe man Dimebag's snake-winding riffs, which wrap themselves around Coe's hell-bent persona, as the one-time Mysterious Rhinestone Cowboy is right at home with the metallic crunch at the heart of his rebel country yell, as the contemplative "N.Y.C. Streets" adds a somber expletive-laced epitaph to a left-field project that turns out to be right over the middle of the plate.Drive-By Truckers and Son Volt at House of BluesI certainly like the idea of both these bands, taking the harder end of the alt-country sound, blending the twin- (and in DBT's case, triple-) guitar interplay of southern boogie bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allmans and grafting it onto the buzzing acid-washed garage-thrash of the Byrds and Neil Young's Crazy Horse.Son Volt remain an interesting case, as many would have picked former Uncle Tupelo Jay Farrar's band to succeed before ex-partner Jeff Tweedy's Wilco, and that was the case until the latter took a left-hand stylistic turn to become America's answer to Radiohead, while the former are now seen as bearers of a No Depression neo-roots tradition that has lost momentum and cred over the last few years.In fact, Son Volt now veers perilously close to the jam-band genre, though they still work up a fine maelstrom of electrified country-blues live. Atlanta's four-men-and-one-woman bassist Truckers sport a front line featuring a trio of singer-guitarist-songwriters, the most riveting being the bearded Patterson Hood (Mike Cooley and Jason Isbell are the others), who brings a Band-style down-home Americana to the group's metier.And while the extended forays tweak the clichés of the genre and defy expectations, they bury the hooks and melodies in the process. The live shows use the songs as blueprints for the instrumental interplay, which is suitably raucous but precise in a Replacements kind of way - it's no wonder that the Mats' original mentor, New West A&R exec Peter Jesperson, signed 'em. It's hard to resist, but DBT's enthusiastic following remains a cult at a time when rock bands like this seem positively quaint. Unorthodox, What I Like About Jew (WILAJ)Mickey Katz and Allan Sherman, meet Rob Tannenbaum and Sean Altman, who drag the concept of good old-fashioned Borscht Belt shtick into the present, where it belongs, rhyming tuchus with Succos in "Hot Jewish Chicks" alongside the rocking "JDate" ("Did you know that there's a website for lonely Jews?/It's easy to remember and it's easy to use") and the finger-snapping barber shop joo-wop harmonies of "Hanukah With Monica" ("She put that age-old myth to bed/About Jewish girls not giving head").In "Jews for Jesus," they croon, "I never was the most observant Jew/After my bar mitzvah, I was through." But hidden beneath the Jackie Mason paeans to circumcision ("A Little Off the Top") and bar mitzvahs (the Beach Boys-like "Today I Am a Man") is a hebe-pop version of the B-52s ("Taller Than Jesus") with sprightly Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band melodies and hooks laced in Randy Newman irony put to the service of middle-class white Jewish pride as they tackle the goyishe majority on songs like "Reuben the Hook-Nosed Reindeer" ("It's a bitch to finagle lox and a bagel at the North Pole") and their own answer to Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby, "(It's Good To Be) a Jew at Christmas." Who said vaudeville was dead? Not these Jews.Rolling Stone 1000th IssueRather on the self-congratulatory tip, Jann Wenner's tribute to his journalistic institution sports a 3-D cover of cover subjects based on the famous Sgt. Pepper portrait - and just to illustrate the chasm between the '60s and now, neither of my teenage kids got the reference. Still, you have to admire how Stone has continuously managed to reinvent itself, just like MTV, as the Time cum Newsweek for the eternally, if self-consciously, hip, even if the sex, drugs and rock & roll credo it was built on has gone the way of patchouli oil.There's plenty to admire in this look back at how far we've come, especially Greil Marcus' reminiscence of the magazine's start and early days in San Francisco, as well as tales behind some of the most memorable covers. Sure, they've traveled a long and winding road from the revolutionary zeal of Ralph J. Gleason and Hunter Thompson -- one need only look at the 3-D Target ad on the back cover to measure the distance -- but there's nothing wrong with taking stock of where you've been.The true test comes in where you're going, and with Wenner insisting he's not retiring soon, it will be fascinating to see how Rolling Stone continues to chronicle the times as its Boomer legacy fades into mortality.ShopgirlA deadpan Steve Martin tries to reach for the quietly desperate midlife crisis angst of Bill Murray in Lost in Translation and Broken Flowers in this adaptation of his novella by Thai TV director Anand Tucker (Hilary and Jackie), but ends up merely bemused.The problem is with the nature of first-person narrative, so effective on paper in conveying a character's interior monologue, but incredibly difficult to pull off on the screen. The entire film could be read as taking place in Martin's head, which leaves the characterizations by the lovely Claire Danes and the effectively empathetic Jason Schwartzman (basically reprising his slacker role in I [Heart] Huckabies) as frustratingly opaque.That's not to say the movie fails to capture the anomie of finding a real connection in a city as diffuse as Los Angeles, nor the difference between material comfort and true need; it's just that a film like Miranda July's Me and You and Everyone We Know does it so much better. There are a number of effective moments, but they never coalesce into the transcendent experience this slight film promises, but never quite delivers.Behind the Music: Ratt (VH1)If ever there was a band made for this revived series' well-worn formula of bands coming out of nowhere to explode, burn out and fade away, it is Ratt, one of the last of the Sunset Strip hair bands to get signed - by Doug Morris to Atlantic Records, no less. The typical excesses rear their heads, given poignancy by interviews with guitarist Robbin Crosby, who died of a drug overdose in 2002 after being diagnosed with AIDS, which he contracted from using a dirty needle.Crosby holds no anger toward the group, which basically abandoned him when he was no longer able to play, while the rest of Ratt, including a non-repentant Stephen Pearcy, muse about where it all went wrong. There's remarkable live footage of a concert in Japan where Crosby picks up the wrong guitar and plays out of tune as everyone in the audience, as well as his bandmates, stare on in utter disbelief, shortly after which he splits the group.What makes BTM so fascinating is the fact that every picture tells a story, one that ends tragically more often than it does happily ever after, leaving you to wonder why anyone would take the risk in the first place. As the band's first manager Marshall Berle puts it, rock and roll's a dangerous profession, with its own trail of casualties, some of them on display here.mlb.com GamedayCrank up the live audio from your hometown station (available for the whole season for just $14.95 plus a free Sports Illustrated subscription), pull up the simulated game and it's almost as good as being at the ballpark. In some ways, it's even better as you can constantly check batting averages, ERAs, number of pitches thrown and lifetime statistics with a click of the mouse. I actually prefer the simpler GameDay to ESPN.com's more three-dimensional GameCast, which can be a tad confusing when it shows balls going into the outfield as to whether they're hits or not. I find myself sitting raptly waiting for the tell-all "In play, no out recorded," "In play, run-scoring play" or the dreaded "In play, out(s) recorded," like a high-tech version of the old cigar stores back in the pre-TV days which used to hang up large placards with the scores every half-inning.Gripe of the WeekYeah, I know I should be concerned about third-world debt, global warming, AIDS in Africa and a cure for cancer, but this week I'm more worried about my increasing addiction to technology. I'm beginning to feel like Julie Christie in Demon Seed, with my appliances turning against me. When the Internet went down in the office last week, we all stared at one another and wondered what to do with ourselves until the boss took us out to a long lunch, prompting the thought that the Online Age is a little over 10 years old.Earlier this week, getting set to hunker down for some channel-flipping between David Blaine, 24 and the Clippers' playoff game against the Suns, my Adelphia cable went down for the night at 7 p.m. -- as it did for the entire Tarzana-Woodland Hills area -- and didn't return until the next morning, leaving us to haul out the tiny emergency TV with its 6" black-and-white screen and antenna, which needed readjusting every few minutes.Throw in the annoyance at the constant drop-offs from Sirius Satellite as I try to listen to Howard (a complaint echoed by a number of fellow subscribers I've talked to,) and you can see why our reliance on high-tech devices and modern-day conveniences has me not only frustrated but anxious. Maybe I should just unplug for awhile. Culture47666@blogcritics.org Fri, 12 May 2006 14:42:32 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/05/05/133738.php Roy TrakinAlthough it's been much maligned, and pointedly ignored by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame until now, heavy metal is a remarkably resilient genre, both commercially and artistically, its appeal spanning the ages, exemplified by these two albums, made by guys in their 40s and 20s, respectively. Although headed by the increasingly visible Sully Erna, Godsmack has been virtually faceless, flying below the radar through their almost decade-long career, despite two straight #1 album chart debuts and more Rock radio hits than anyone this side of Metallica.Their latest finds them trying to satisfy their loyal following at the same time as they attempt to tweak out the sound - the wailing harmonica on "Shine Down," the acoustic guitar, mandolin and female vocal on "Hollow," and the aural ambience of "One Rainy Day" are all unmistakable signs of a veteran band expressing its maturity, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. And while Sully explores personal demons on songs of infidelity like the first single, "Speak," "Livin' in Sin" and "Temptation," the self-proclaimed pagan isn't afraid to express his faith in both the divine father ("Shine Down") and mother ("Mama").Meanwhile, critically acclaimed Aussie power trio Wolfmother, fronted by Afro'ed vocalist/guitarist Andrew Stockdale, flex the muscles of youth, with a glorious updating of the psychedelic tradition of Zeppelin, Sabbath and Hendrix by way of Detroit grunge progenitors Grand Funk and the MC5.You could almost imagine them performing at Bill Graham's Fillmore back in the day. What makes the band so special is the songs, stupid, which are anything but, from the sensual "Stairway to Heaven" build of "Mind's Eye" and the jaunty White Stripes garage-rock exuberance of "Joker & the Thief" to the Jethro Tull flute blasts of "Witchcraft" and the Zep-meets-Doors-meets-Sabs acid flashback of "White Unicorn" and its biblical hippie refrain, "And I know it's on your mind/We've been drinking on the wine/That we drank from the serpent's vine/Now we live in another time/We could live together."Better than neo-revivalists The Darkness and Jet because their tongues aren't planted firmly in cheek, Wolfmother are serious but playful... which is why they're so much fun. It almost makes me wanna trip again.Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondents' Association DinnerThe Daily Show faux commentator's controversial performance before Dubya and the Washington press corps gets off to a promising start, as he sarcastically skewers the Prez with the unctuousness that apparently characterizes what I have to guess is his onstage persona, since I am a devout non-fan of Jon Stewart and company's brand of dry political satire.The rest of the routine peters out quickly enough, leading into what is apparently an interminable filmed comic bit about a presidential press conference presided over by Colbert featuring real-life correspondent Helen Thomas. On the ABC News footage of Colbert's bit streamed on AOL here, the camera focuses entirely on Bush watching the segment, as the President's face starts to tighten and his lips curl in an incredible display of annoyance, disgust and, then, seemingly blank incomprehension, the same look Michael Moore captured so well as George sits in front of that classroom after hearing about the World Trade Center attacks in Fahrenheit 9/11. It is at once more chilling and darkly humorous than anything in Colbert's routine could ever be.Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy" videoA remarkable song and an even more amazing video, this Rorschach blot of a clip perfectly captures the fluid, elusive soul of the music, melting and changing shape before your eyes, with Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse's visages forming in and out of the drops on the screen. Irresistibly psychedelic, watching this piece of eye candy is almost like getting high and gazing at that picture which can appear as a skull or two ladies facing each other at a table, depending on your perspective. Does that make me crazy? Possibleee... Check it out here. Ghostface Killah, Fishscale (Def Jam/IDJ)If you need any more proof as to how hip-hop has trumped rock & roll as a cultural phenomenon, look no further than this full-length epic by one Dennis Coles, better known as Wu Tang Clan's Ghostface Killah. As Christopher's movie pal tells Ben Kingsley in The Sopranos, it's all about the "specificities," and this densely packed narrative is full of them.Childhood bed-wetting ("Whip You With a Strap"), watching Larry King Live ("Crack Spot"), male-pattern baldness and the quality of the Knicks' jump shots ("Barbershop"), Fat Albert ("Big Girl") and Spongebob Squarepants ("Underwater") might not seem to fit into the gangsta rap mold, but for Ghostface, it's all part of a seamless whole with drug dealing and Glocks. Highlights include a Wu Tang reunion on "9 Milli Bros." and several classic soul samples, including Freda Payne on the Sopranos-meets-Shaft noir "Crack Spot," Marvin Gaye ("Jellyfish") and Sly & the Family Stone's "Family Affair" ("Dogs of War").And the Killah is not nearly as misogynist as many of his peers. Though he comes down on his mother for being an alcoholic and beating him on "Whip You With a Strap," he forgives her on "Momma," while also singing the praises of women on "Beauty Jackson" and "Big Girl," pausing long enough to appreciate a beauty mark, the way she smokes a cigarette and her penchant for Louis Vuitton and Versace. And you wonder why rock is dead.Peggy Lee Sings Leiber & Stoller (Hip-O Select/A&M)A reworking of the classic songwriting team's 1975 album Mirrors by sons Jed Leiber and Peter Stoller, this is the belated follow-up to their unlikely 1969 hit with the chanteuse, "Is That All There Is?," certainly one of the strangest songs ever to crack the Top 40.And if you thought that tale of ennui shot through with Brecht-Weil irony was weird, wait until you hear this collection, which has the great Miss Lee crooning her way through such unlikely choices as "Kansas City," along with hard-to-categorize nuggets as "Some Cats Know," "I'm a Woman" and "Professor Hauptmann's Performing Dogs," which has more than a passing resemblance to the under the big top theatricality of Sgt. Pepper's "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite."The album's love of Americana is reminiscent of Brian Wilson's Smile or Van Dyke Parks' Song Cycle, but the arch arrangements can't disguise the pain of Leiber's Freudian self-analysis in songs like "The Case of M.J.," an oblique reference to the time he almost fell into his father's grave when he was five. It's a far cry from the Leiber & Stoller of "Hound Dog," "Yakety Yak" and "Charlie Brown," more Broadway than the raucous R&B that fueled their best work, but no less passionate or committed to expanding the popular musical form and its ability to express our innermost fear and doubts.Lakers vs. ClippersIf you listen to conspiracy theorists, this is the match-up the NBA is hoping for when the Phoenix Suns' Steve Nash seemingly got jobbed (and fouled) trying to call a time-out at the close of Game 4, right before Kobe Bryant made like Michael Jordan with a pair of buzzer beaters that put things into overdrive. The beauty of this first-ever all-L.A. battle -- if and when the Lakes get past the Suns -- is that the entire series will be played in one arena, which has never happened before, meaning the so-called home court advantage will be reduced to whichever team's fan base has tickets for that game.As a longtime underdog Met and Jet fan from a city where those two teams are second-class citizens to the Yankees and Giants, I'll be pulling for the Clips, who should actually be favored, while my wife and son will be pulling for the Lakers, so it should be fun. At least it'll somewhat alleviate the misery from suffering with my pathetic Knicks all season.Linda Ronstadt with Ann Savoy, "Walk Away Renee" (Vanguard)A guilty pleasure back from my Top 40 days, The Left Banke's winsome ode to lost love always stood out as a sharp departure from most of the disposable fare that surrounded it, at once dark, brooding and wistful. This version, recorded by Ronstadt with Cajun music historian and performer Ann Savoy, is from the pair's upcoming Adieu False Heart album.It captures the original's romantic feel in the joined harmonies of Ronstadt's soprano and Savoy's alto, turning the song into an intimate expression of female longing only hinted at in the original, its mournful strings a stirring fusion of the American folk and Euro chamber music traditions.Death of Rock CriticismThe Voice's Chuck Eddy, L.A. Times' Robert Hilburn, Boston Globe's Steve Morse and Jim Sullivan, Cleveland Plain-Dealer's Jane Scott... And now even the self-proclaimed Dean of American Rock Critics Robert Christgau is under siege as the Voice is taken over by philistine New Times publisher Michael Lacy. Then there's the rise of bottom-up, everyone-has-an-opinion blogs like Blogcritics.org and Amazon.com, in which quantity trumps quality. And it's not just the beleaguered boomers jumping ship, but even a thirtysomething scribe like ex-Washington Post writer David Segal admits he's growing tired of judging music meant for those 10-20 years younger. Still, to look on the bright side, some of the best and smartest writing about music is taking place online at sites like the Velvet Rope and www.rockcritics.com and countless MP3 blogs that allow you to sample what's being written about, not to mention semi-autobiographical tomes by brash iconoclasts like Chuck Klosterman, Jonathan Lethem and Marc Spitz. Gripe of the WeekListening to Howard Stern on Sirius has me more pissed than ever at the FCC's ever-increasing vigilance over so-called obscenity on the airwaves, culminating in Senate Majority Leader/Tennessee Republican Bill Frist's current bill that would increase the fine for broadcasting "obscene, indecent or profane material" to a maximum of $500k from the previous $32,500.Observers think the legislation has a good chance of passing, especially with conservative and parents groups pushing for its approval. Personally, I'm sick and tired of the government telling me what I can and can't hear, and at this point, I'm willing to fork over subscriptions for satellite radio and cable TV so that I'll be treated as the consenting adult I am. I mean, isn't that what the on-off switches on your radio, television and computer terminal are for?Do you really want to relinquish your right of free speech to a political agenda? Isn't the First Amendment what America is supposed to be all about; what we're fighting for in Iraq? Thank God for Stern and The Sopranos. Culture47314@blogcritics.org Fri, 5 May 2006 13:37:38 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/05/02/152507.php Roy TrakinThe Sopranos/Big Love/HuffThe three best hours on television, and a whole lot better than anything you might see in your local multiplex these days, too. HBO's bellwether series, in its sixth and final season, had its best episode yet last week, touching on such hot-button topics as Hollywood pitch meetings, celebrity entitlement, award show gift baskets and how to prepare a rabbit old-world style, featuring no less than Doogie Howser buddy Vinnie Delpino (Max Cassella) as a sleazy low-level mobster pulling credit card fraud at the expense of John Ventimiglia's hilariously put-upon restaurateur Artie Bucco.The horrified look on Ben Kingsley's face when Chris accosts him in the elevator about getting into the Luxury Lounge as the Sexy Beast realizes he's up against the real thing and Lauren Bacall cursing after getting mugged for her gift basket outside the Beverly Hilton are alone worth the price of a subscription.Big Love is also picking up steam, as its dark Twin Peaks-like secrets begin to unfold, with the much-hassled Bill Paxton admitting that things are spinning out of control, which isn't a surprise when you consider the man answers to three rather idiosyncratic wives - one of whom he's having an "affair" with. It's not quite the sexual paradise you might think, even with the ravishing Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloe Sevigny and Ginnifer Goodwin in the house(s).Some fans are complaining that Showtime's Huff has jumped the shark, but I don't agree. Oliver Platt is still a wonderfully alive character, with all his contradictions, and I'm intrigued by Hank Azaria's schizophrenic brother played by Andy Comeau, though not everyone else apparently is. It's another searing epater le bourgeois examination of upper-middle-class foibles, impeccably acted and not afraid to wear a heart on its sleeve, even if it is sometimes misplaced.Bruce Springsteen, We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions (Columbia)Everything old is new again. Reminiscent of Dylan's early-'90s covers albums Good As I Been to You and World Gone Wrong as much as Bob's work with The Band on The Basement Tapes, the Boss' tribute to traditional songs associated with Pete Seeger as well as his roots in folk, country and gospel-blues might seems like a reaction against the major philosophical statements of The Rising and Devils and Dust, or just a chance to recharge his creative batteries.Indeed, the half-hour DVD that accompanies this DualDisc features the Boss singing the praises of making good-time music with friends and family in the relaxed, Music From Big Pink-like setting of his New Jersey farmhouse. Many of these songs reflect Springsteen's own leftist political leanings, from the outlaw blues of "Old Man Tucker" and "Jesse James" and the pro-labor anthems "John Henry" and "My Oklahoma Home" to the 1815 anti-war ballad "Mrs. McGrath," whose words are startlingly similar to those of activist Cindy Sheehan.Thanks to Charles Giordano's accordion and the funereal trumpet of Mark Pender, the Dixieland music pays homage to its birthplace in the Mississippi delta and New Orleans. And while it might seem like Springsteen is catching his breath on this retro tangent, the sheer joy and commitment of the playing infuses even old warhorses like "We Shall Overcome" and "Froggie Went a Courtin'" with modern relevance.David Gilmour at Gibson Amphitheatre at Universal City WalkThe Pink Floyd guitarist manages to have his cake and eat it, too, as do fans, playing the whole of his new Columbia album On an Island in order during the first part of the show (after teasing the audience with the Dark Side of the Moon medley "Breathe in the Air/Time"). And indeed, the title track and "The Blue," with guest crooners David Crosby and Graham Nash, effortlessly evoked the languid pace and those patented elongated Gilmour leads, masterfully backed by Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright and the subtle but effective fills of woefully underrated Roxy Music guitarist Phil Manzanera. The warm response of the crowd led me to believe Columbia missed out on marketing the new album to a captive audience by pulling a Prince and including it with the price of admission, though the real pyrotechnics were saved for the 90-minute, laser-driven second act, book ended by a pair of Syd Barrett nods in "Shine On" and "Wish You Were Here."The highlights included extended versions of three early-'70s psychedelic nuggets, "Fat Old Sun" from Atom Heart Mother, "Wot's...the Deal" from Obscured by Clouds and "Echoes" from Meddle, but the true revelation was a Bowie-ish Pin-Ups take on "Arnold Layne," a '60s Britpop hit that even pre-dated Gilmour. Despite the space-age trappings, Gilmour makes you realize the music is made up basically of extended blues riffs, distorted and twisted with effects, but still pretty elemental.By the time "Comfortably Numb" hit, I was just that, the performance's lugubrious pacing approaching stasis in a haze of druggy smoke and acid flashback. And that was just the audience. I mean, who needs Roger Waters, anyway? This show once and for all answered the age-old question, which one's Pink?Matthew Sweet, Girlfriend: Legacy Edition (Volcano/Legacy)This two-disc reissue combines the classic 1991 Zoo Records album and its '92 companion piece Goodfriend -- originally A&R'd by HITS' own Grammy-nominated Bud Scoppa, who provides the new edition's very informative liner notes -- with bonus tracks thrown in. Sweet had already been through a pair of failed label deals at Columbia and A&M, when A&R exec (now poker player) Scott Byron and Scoppa convinced the label's President Lou Maglia to release the album after everyone else in the industry had passed.Sweet had enlisted New York punk guitar legends Richard Lloyd of Television and the late Bob Quine, the Void-Oids' and Lou Reed cohort, who provided their patented crunchy blues leads and gnarled arpeggios, respectively, to an album of Rubber Soul-like wistful love songs as played by Crazy Horse, recorded in the wake of the singer/songwriter's breakup with a girlfriend and subsequent meeting of his wife-to-be."Divine Intervention" and "Girlfriend" establish the palette, the latter mixing and matching Greg Leisz's bluesy lap steel guitar, '60s-styled, high-pitched harmonies and Quine's jagged, gnarled Velvets riffs. The only thing more amazing than realizing how an album this smart could be a commercial success back then is the prescience of "Holy War," written at the time of the Kuwait invasion, but uncannily relevant today. Then again, so is the rest of Girlfriend, some 15 years after the fact, an album that prefigured musical styles from alt-roots to emo, and sounds just as vital today.Little ManhattanIt's not surprising to learn this sleeper's first-time director, screenwriter Mark Levin, was once a co-producer for TV's The Wonder Years, because his idealized, first-person ode to first love in New York City is an adolescent version of Annie Hall meets Madeleine, as affecting but never too cloying leads Josh Hutcherson and Charlie Ray play the Woody Allen-Diane Keaton parts by meeting cute at karate class, only hinting at the neuroses bound to come.The film's Upper West Side turf is lovingly portrayed as a danger-free playground bounded by Central and Riverside Parks, as Hutcherson's Gabe traverses the not-so-mean streets via Razor scooter, an animated overlaid map defining his universe. Our hero's lessons in amour are a little too neatly underscored by his estranged-but-still-living-under-the-same-roof parents -- Sex and the City's Cynthia Nixon and The West Wing's Bradley Whitford -- but the depiction of class distinctions in the otherwise melting pot of Manhattan is a far more sophisticated theme than its kid-film veneer would have you believe.A fun little DVD to rent that you can watch without embarrassment alongside either your children or even just your significant other. It's sunny, modest optimism and belief in the power of romance captures the allure of the Apple as a collection of small neighborhoods exhibiting their own rituals and social castes better than films with a lot more pretension.Andrew "Dice" ClayJust as satellite radio has enabled Howard Stern second banana Artie Lange to come into his own, it's also resurrected the career of the defrocked funny man, who climbed to the top of the comedy world in the late '80s and early '90s with his raunchy nursery rhymes and cartoon misogyny, which got him a lifetime ban from MTV (for using obscenity on their New Year's Eve show) and had both Nora Dunn and Sinead O'Connor famously boycotting his May 1990 stint guest-hosting Saturday Night Live.Neither of those two incidents arguably hurt him as much as his long-running feud with his one-time pal Howard, who never ceased to badmouth the comic over some now-forgotten slight. The two made up after Stern's move to Sirius, and the Diceman has been on the show a couple of times since, each appearance showing he's a true comedy original, a foul-mouthed, truculent street version of Don Rickles, his one-beat, three-chord rants the comedic equivalent of his leather-jacketed bruddas-in-spirit da Ramones.The unrestricted satellite radio is the perfect place for Clay's brand of bawdy bravado, his rapid-fire macho man forcing even such febrile comic wise guys as Howard and Artie into stunned submission. A most welcome, if thoroughly rude, comeback... Hickery dickery dock indeed.The Friars of Beverly HillsHow could I not love a place with full-scale painted portraits of Dick Shawn, Shecky Green, Frank Sinatra, Henny Youngman and Bob Hope? And a parking garage with a permanent spot for Larry King?Not to mention an upstairs room with a floor covered in sand on which sits Milton Berle's pool table, where George Burns would smoke cigars and toss the butts while comics would spirit their girlfriends through the secret passages leading down to the valet. Thanks to old pals at Luck Media, Steve Levesque and Guy McCain, for making my own Borscht Belt dreams come true by nabbing me a membership.Last weekend, I marked my own admission to old Hollywood by getting an onstage shout-out -- along with fellow attendees Dick Van Patten and Mel Brooks -- from Kathryn Crosby, who has been appearing at the club performing a one-woman tribute to her late husband. Imagine my surprise when the demure Mrs. Crosby offered thanks for having her as a guest on what she apologized for referring to as "your 'Media Hos' radio show." Bing must be turning over in his grave.Warner Drive at the Viper RoomMy first hint was when the doorman asked if I was one of the parents. Well, close... Actually, I'm a childhood friend of drummer Matt Shapiro's father Dave, proudly beaming that his son's band could actually pack the famed Hollywood venue with a sea of female admirers, many of whom appeared far younger than the supposed 21 age limit.With all the doom and gloom going on in the record business, it's amazing that the children of the privileged would still set their sites on making it in a rock band, committing to the grueling life of the road and the lottery-like chances of success. That said, this rocking foursome proved all that hard work pays off... at least in a set of tighter-than-tight, high-energy, fun post-punk rock & roll, highlighted by mohawked bass guitarist Peter Crowner mugging up a storm, guitarist Chris Koushayan's speedball leads, Shapiro's muscular beats and bare-chested, headband-clad lead singer Jonathan Jonah's frequent dives into the moshing minions.The band intersperses memorable originals like "Life," "Livin' It Up" and "Shocker" from their soon-to-be-released album, produced by Guns N' Roses dial-twister Mike Clink, with cool covers such as Golden Earring's "Radar Love" and "Rebel Yell," featuring Crowner's perfect Elvis-meets-Billy Idol sneer. It sure looks a lot more fun than going to college, but do they have something to fall back on?Rock & roll means never having to say you're sorry, and these Valley guys are anything but... Someone sign them up while they're still burning with ambition, and supported by dad.Gripes of the WeekIf you read my "Gripe" a few weeks back, you know I've had my issues with unequal traffic enforcement, but, except for the occasional California roll through a stop sign, I generally obey these laws to the letter, always erring on the side of caution. I'm not one who is prone to road rage, either, but I do get pissed off when a car jumps the so-called "right of way" protocol at a four-way stop sign.I also don't like it when a car in the lane I'm trying to merge into speeds up rather than slows down to let me in. And when an automobile not making a right turn ends up in the right-hand lane at a red light. Also, when somebody is tailing me too closely. It's enough to make you flip the bird. Culture47175@blogcritics.org Tue, 2 May 2006 15:25:07 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/04/25/173143.php Roy TrakinVillage VoiceAll things must change, sooner or later, and this venerable granddaddy of alt-weeklies, founded in the mid-'50s by no less than novelist Norman Mailer, has consistently managed to reinvent itself through the years. As a teen growing up on un-hip Long Island, I read and devoured critics like Andrew Sarris -- whom I ended up having as a professor at Columbia Film School -- Richard Goldstein and, of course, the so-called Dean of American Rock Critics Robert Christgau himself, whose painfully twisted boho-leftist analyses of pop music practically defined the genre.My first full-time journalism gig was at the old Soho Weekly News, the feisty Avis to the Voice's Hertz back then, championing the emerging New York new wave of Patti Smith, the Ramones, Talking Heads, Blondie, Television, et al. So, it's with no small degree of irony that I view the current tumult, as the New Times begins cleaning house after acquiring controlling interest in both the Voice and its L.A. counterpart, the Weekly.I've never been a huge Chuck Eddy fan -- whom I've often viewed as contrary for contrary's sake -- but there should always be a place for Christgau's ravings. Maybe the N.Y. Observer, current home of a doddering, but still absorbing Sarris, may have room for him.New editorial chief Michael Lacey has made it clear he wants "investigative reporting" and local stories, not "think" pieces or national coverage, which still doesn't explain him getting rid of James Ridgeway. Still, the place for "analysis" and "opinion" may well be the traditional mainstream hard-copy dailies, whose breaking news function has basically been co-opted by the Net-driven 24/7 information cycle. Still, it's a sad day indeed when both rock critic Bobs -- Christgau and Hilburn -- are deemed expendable.XM vs. SiriusSo I made the switch and I've been listening to Howard Stern around the clock - that is when I can hear him between the alarmingly frequent drop-offs, a lot more than XM, which is troubling.As I've said, Stern's new unfettered-by-the-FCC show takes a while to get used to, though Artie Lange, for one, has been let loose without the constraints, and the other Howard-related programming, which includes a surprisingly straight-forward news department, a daily round-up and an intern show, is pretty good, even if a mite heavy on the self-indulgent naval-gazing. Haven't quite cottoned to either Bubba the Love Sponge or Scott Farrell, both of whom seem to have died and gone to heaven on satellite, but Howard's also been given new life, and that's enough for me.I just don't understand how CBS could've let the King get away, even as a beleaguered Joel Hollander tweaks his ex-meal ticket by picking up a simulcast of Opie & Anthony from XM to replace Stern's short-lived successor David Lee Roth.That said, I was a big fan of XM's music channels, particularly the alternative stations Ethel and Fred, Mike Marrone's The Loft and even the prog-rocking Music Lab, which was just dropped in a curious move considering programmer Lee Abrams was the original avatar of the genre as producer of Gentle Giant, a man Christgau once said "was to the '70s what Mitch Miller was to the '50s." My prediction? Ultimately, you will be able to get both satellite services from one receiver, and traditional radio, with its HD options, will also be part of the mix. In other words, I don't think we've heard the last of Howard Stern for "free."David Gilmour, On an Island (Columbia)As Donald Fagen's recent solo effort is to Steely Dan, Gilmour's new album is a Pink Floyd album in all but name, his characteristic languid blues guitar and mournful vocals attached to songs of domestic bliss instead of anomie and alienation, which could be all the difference.Still, since last summer's Live 8 reunion in London, there's renewed interest in the legendary psychedelic space cowboys, with Gilmour's recent solo concerts divided into two parts, the first featuring songs from this album, the second a virtual Floyd show that goes back to early, rarely performed material, complete with laser pyrotechnics.With the likes of guitarist Phil Manzanera, Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright and legendary producer Chris Thomas on board, the result is state-of-the-art-rock, with the title track evoking the atmosphere of Dark Side of the Moon's "Speak to Me/Breathe In the Air" and "This Heaven" recalling the sardonic "Money," where Gilmour makes even his marital idyll sound ominous. The problem is the lyrics, half of them written with wife Polly Samson, which come off more like the sentiments from a Hallmark greeting card, while the music veers perilously close to the empty shell of The Division Bell. That means the album's most effective tracks are instrumentals like "Then I Close My Eyes," which segues from a Stephen Foster-style "Dixie" ode to an Erik Satie-like chamber orchestra into an Eno-esque Oriental flavor that crystallizes Floyd's unique ability to turn avant-garde designs into mass-appeal pop music.The Hold Steady, Separation Sunday (French Kiss/Vagrant)These indie-rockers from Brooklyn-by-way-of-Boston-and-Minneapolis, led by singer/songwriter/guitarist Craig Finn, was a left-field surprise, landing at #8 in this year's prestigious Village Voice Pazz & Jop poll, though they have encountered more than their share of detractors for their throwback populist rock, equally parts Born to Run and Street Hassle. Finn's Catholic background informs his blend of sex, drugs and religion, filled with mythologized Springsteen-esque characters like Charlemagne and the Hoodrat Girl, recurring places like Penetration Park and literary references to Nabokov, Nelson Algren and Yeats."Hornets! Hornets!" starts off like Black Crowes fronted by Suicidal Tendencies' Mike Muir crossed with the late, lamented Screaming Blue Messiahs' Bill Carter, while "Stevie Nix" intersperses a piano part before ending with a double-guitar solo straight out of the Allmans or Lynyrd Skynyrd. It's a postmodern view of classic-rock, juxtaposing the sacred and the profane, summed up in a single line from "Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night": "And if you don't get born again/Then at least you'll be high as hell."Vito SpataforeAs played by Joseph Gannascoli, this Sopranos character has taken on an amazing depth after we catch him in a gay bar, along with a pair of goombahs, dressed like the cowboy from the Village People, and now on the lam from the mob. As last week's episode closed, he was praised by the sexually ambiguous proprietor of a New Hampshire antique shop for admiring a particular vase after briefly contemplating suicide by a waterfall.This intriguing subplot has given us a chance to reflect upon our own homophobia, or as a gradually mellowing Tony reflects, "It's 2006. There's pillow biters in the Special Forces." Gannascoli mines the pathos in the role to the hilt, indulging in a secret passion fully aware it will bring his real life crumbling down around him, or as Michael Imperioli's Chris puts it disgustedly: "Human frailty ... makes me sick sometimes." What more can you say?Kathryn Crosby, My First Years With Bing (Collage Books, Inc.)First of a two-book set penned by Bing Crosby's second wife Kathryn, whom the singer met on the Paramount lot in Hollywood when he was 50 and she was but 19 years old straight out of a small town in Texas as a contract player for the studio.The pair spent 24 years together before Bing passed away in 1977, but more than half of that saw him on the road, golfing, fishing and hunting, his exploits revealed in long, handwritten letters home to his wife, busy raising three children, including his only daughter, Mary Frances, the woman who shot J.R. in Dallas.The May-December marriage was a strange one from the start, a three-year courtship filled with plenty of frustration and misunderstandings, exacerbated by the author's lack of self-confidence and experience. And while she expresses jealousy over Bing's various co-stars, including Grace Kelly and Inger Stevens, she won't come right out and say he was unfaithful, though he was often quite distant and could be rather biting in his comments to his young wife.But, as befits a woman who spent her entire adult life with one husband, she remains devoted to the end, using the nursing skills she went to school for to take care of her man. Ironically, the book reveals very little of Bing as a performer and artist, and not a whole lot as a mate, either. It's an inside view of an intensely private man, who at the end, remains just as elusive in print as in life.When Do We Eat?Advertised with the tagline, "Sex, drugs and matzoh ball soup," marvelously named director Salvatore Litvak's ethnic indie comedy might well be dubbed My Big Fat Psychedelic Passover, as it brings together several generations and Jewish stereotypes under one tent roof to celebrate the holiday. There's the overbearing patriarch (veteran character actor Michael Lerner), his befuddled second wife (Lesley Ann Warren), his survivor father (a painfully hoarse Jack Klugman), a nymphomaniac celebrity publicist cousin, a pair of daughters, one a sexual surrogate, the other lesbian and two sons, a born-again Hasid and a drug-addled teenager who doses dad with a hit of Ecstasy in his Maalox.The film veers uneasily between broad belly laughs and cosmically trippy philosophical revelations, with plenty of shtick along the way. The soundtrack, which is being released by David McLeese's Jewish Music Group, features some great updated music, many written by the legendary Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach , along with tracks from Emmy-winning composer Mark Adler and novelties like the Latin-Hebro Hip-Hop Hoodios. Just another sign of a proud Judaism rearing its head in a popular culture that has finally found room for the likes of Matisyahu and Larry David, if not M.O.T.Buckcherry, Fifteen (Eleven Seven/ADA)There must've been a lot of people doing double takes when this band of regenerate Sunset Strip rockers entered the HITS Top 50 at #44, outselling the Beatles. That had to be an eye-opener for the rest of the industry, most of whom turned down the chance to release the L.A. band's third album after a pair on DreamWorks, including their debut, which went platinum, thanks to the ode to the joys of cocaine, "Lit Up."Songs like the salacious first single, the Stone-sy "Crazy Bitch" and their raison d'etre "So Far" ("I didn't do it for money, I did it all for free/I did it all to fill the fucking hole inside of me") prove that sleazy, blues-pumping rock & roll will always have an audience, as long as there are testosterone-driven teenage boys and hormonal teen girls, though the acoustic "Brooklyn" and the Marti Frederickson co-written power ballad "Sorry" show a softer side. A true triumph of grassroots and Internet marketing.Gripe of the WeekWith gas up to $3 a goddamn gallon, maybe 24's evil President Logan has the right idea. Certainly Dubya's plan to invade Iraq hasn't yielded any returns at the pump, and isn't that why we're there in the first place? Or is it merely to line Haliburton's pockets? I'm sensing the American public is getting just as sick of George W. as Al Franken and Michael Moore are, and it's not going to be improved by him firing his press secretary or stripping Karl Rove of his duties. All that's left is to find a Democratic candidate who can defeat whatever the GOPs put up next time, and that's a lot easier said than done, if, as most people believe, Hillary Clinton isn't capable of being elected. Culture46860@blogcritics.org Tue, 25 Apr 2006 17:31:43 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/04/17/162608.php Roy TrakinThe "Page Six" ScandalFor anyone who saw Sweet Smell of Success, with Tony Curtis as sniveling flack Sidney Falco trying to curry favor with Burt Lancaster's curmudgeonly J. J. Hunsecker, it's no secret that there's a fascinatingly symbiotic relationship between gossip columnists and their sources.All sorts of "scratch and be scratched" deals go on behind closed doors, and in this day of "fair and balanced" journalism, one realizes there's no such thing as objective reporting, up to and including the great gray lady, The New York Times itself. William Hearst may have coined the phrase "yellow journalism," but there's a long and less-than-noble tradition of press barons using their vehicles to promote their own self-interest.The N.Y. Post's Jared Paul Stern did nothing wrong telling Ron Burkle he could help him with his coverage at "Page Six," and while he appeared rather unseemly asking for $100k upfront and $10k a month for a year to do it, it seems to me a clear case of a sting. Certainly, if Burkle is offering the money, you wouldn't expect a freelance gossip journalist to turn it down, would you? Especially when publicists-turned-high-priced "media consultants" command about the same monthly stipend to do something very similar. It's no wonder that the case hasn't raised any eyebrows out here in L.A., where this sort of quid pro quo is considered the price of doing business.The Streets, The Hardest Way to Make An Easy Living (Vice/Atlantic)This long-awaited third album from the Cockney version of Eminem starts off with Mike Skinner on the verge of a nervous breakdown, chanting, "I'm about to do something stupid," but the jam-packed confessional that follows offers more insight, advice, observations, and confessions in its 37 minutes than a week's worth of Dr. Phil or Oprah.Skinner tackles a variety of issues prompted by his incipient pop stardom, including a nasty gambling habit ("Pranging Out"), relationships in the post-feminist world ("War of the Sexes"), the no-win finances of the music business (the title track), his fixation with materialism ("Memento Mori"), the British tabloids ("When You Wasn't Famous"), the death of his father ("Never Went to Church"), the loneliness of the road ("Hotel Expressionism"), the difference between England and America ("Two Nations"), and being alienated from your own fans ("Fake Street Hats").It's all accompanied by a characteristic sing-song storytelling, equal parts Johnny Rotten and My Fair Lady's Stanley Holloway ("With a Little Bit of Luck"), containing elements of soulful divas ("Pranging"), nursery rhymes ("Hardest Way..."), gospel-soul choirs ("Never Went to Church"), and even a Latin American samba ("Famous"). And while The Streets' parochial viewpoint might remain too narrow for the kind of American breakthrough Skinner wishes for in lamenting, "Two nations divided by a common language/And 200 years of new songs and dances," when he sings "If you don't like what's going down/You need to change something' round" in "Fake Street Hats," you realize, by describing a very particular state of music biz anomie, he also manages to touch on the universal.Pete WentzSay what you will about Fall Out Boy -- and to my mind, "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" is the best pop-punk song on the radio this side of Green Day -- its bassist leader is a savvy businessman with an impressively encyclopedic knowledge of rock history and a healthy respect for elders like Neil Young, Bob Marley, and U2.Toss in the fact Wentz signed Panic! at the Disco to his own label Decaydance (an imprint on the influential Chicago indie Fueled by Ramen) after hearing just three songs on the Internet, and you begin to realize rock & roll is in pretty good hands if he's any indication of the new post-emo generation. After having him participate with me and Scoppa for our Sony Connect Music Snobs chat (shameless plug), we came away carrying a newfound respect and mind-blown admiration. If any band is capable of an American Idiot move with their next album, I'd put my money on FOB, even if Wentz insists their Insomniac is next.Taylor HicksI'm not an American Idol fanatic, but I do sneak a peek every now and then just to see what some 30 million weekly viewers find riveting... and to be able to carry on a water cooler conversation. What has attracts my attention are the oddball contestants who end up capturing the public's attention. Not the William Hungs, but the ones who actually think they have a shot at the top prize, even with images that go against the usual notions of stardom.I'm talking Clay Aiken, whose ruffle-haired, sexually ambiguous "nice guy" crooner was something I spotted early on as being different enough to grab attention. This year, there was Kevin Covais, the so-called Chicken Little from Long Island whose feisty, pugnacious spirit (he famously told off Simon Cowell during one critique) and self-deprecating shtick led him into the final dozen or so before his lack of vocal chops in comparison to the competition led to him being voted off.The latest anomaly is 29-year-old Taylor Hicks, one of the seven remaining finalists, whose premature gray hair has turned into the show's newest fixation. Hicks' specialty is a Tom Jones-style blues rant that Cowell has compared to someone getting drunk at a wedding and grabbing the microphone. Could he be the Next Big Thing? In a time when Barry Manilow can top the album chart, anything is possible...as long as the stix don't nix Hicks' lix.The Ice HarvestThrough films like Caddyshack, Groundhog Day, and Analyze This, actor/director Harold Ramis is one of the more underrated comic auteurs, and his latest, which came and went in the blink of an eye last Christmas, was obviously his attempt to duplicate the anti-holiday, feel-bad success of Bad Santa, which also starred Billy Bob Thornton.This faux noir tries to duplicate the black comedy of Coen Brothers films like Blood Simple and Fargo, but never manages to strike the right balance between slapstick and violence, despite effective performances by John Cusack as a mob lawyer who tries to embezzle $2 million from his boss (Randy Quaid), who runs a bunch of strip joints and a massage parlor in Wichita, of all places, and Oliver Platt, basically doing a less lovable version of his Huff character, as a wise-cracking, obnoxious drunk.Like John Landis' Into the Night and Martin Scorsese's After Hours, though not as good, the movie takes place over the course of a single night, in this case Christmas Eve, and while there are some laughs, especially during a family dinner crashed by Cusack and Platt, who has married the former's ex-wife, the enforced whimsy and potential mayhem never quite gel into a coherent whole, despite the sometimes-witty repartee.The Dying GaulCall it Brokeback Screenplay. I'm not quite sure if this rather strange indie film ever got a theatrical release, though I did see the trailers several times at my local art theater. Written and directed by Craig Lucas in his theatrical debut after making his mark as a playwright of dramas with gay themes, the movie starts promisingly enough, with Peter Sarsgaard as a struggling screenwriter who sells his film about the death of his lover from AIDS to predatory studio exec Campbell Scott for a cool $1 million, but only after agreeing to change the protagonists into heterosexuals.Scott then begins a torrid affair with Sarsgaard, which he tries to hide from his wife, the always-wonderful Patricia Clarkson, and two children. Sarsgaard's moral dilemma about changing the screenplay is soon diverted into a series of explicit couplings with Scott, which he inadvertently exposes to Clarkson via an online chat room. With the film set in 1995, the Internet angle seems a little prescient, and the plot merely a homosexual twist on the old melodramatic clichés, which seems a lot less groundbreaking in the wake of Brokeback Mountain.The tragic ending is also a little jarring and doesn't really follow what came before, but as an acting exercise, you can't beat seeing Sarsgaard, Scott, and Clarkson go through their strangely attenuated, ultimately fatal, roundelay, with Steve Reich's pulsating minimalist score providing the tension.Luther Campbell, Uncle Luke - My Life and Freaky Times (Urban Box Office)2 Live Crew founder and original rap entrepreneur Luther Campbell has gone up against some mighty large targets in his day, from George Lucas and Florida attorney Jack Thompson to Tipper Gore and Acuff-Rose, all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. The originator of the Miami bass sound that continues to reign in today's Dirty South hip-hop and the first to start his own rap indie label back in 1983 with Luke Records, Campbell is an enigmatic figure in the genre's history, with his profanity-laden music and groundbreaking videos heir to a noble tradition that includes the likes of bawdy adult-only African-American performers like Redd Foxx and Moms Mabley.His latest release is a three-CD set including an audio book that names names and details wild experiences with athletes Mike Tyson, Ray Lewis, and LaVar Arrington, Hollywood icons like Robert DeNiro and his own notorious Luke dancers. It's pretty obscene, but Campbell's blatant guile and upfront honesty make him a trailblazing hero in battling for sexual liberation and free speech, and a much-overlooked icon in modern-day hip-hop.Being Mick (A&E)This 2001 documentary, filmed during the recording of Mick Jagger's solo album, Goddess in the Doorway, was originally aired on ABC in prime-time, if I remember correctly, and is now being shown as part of an ongoing series of entertainment biographies on A&E. Jagger flits between his various families while recording with a series of superstars such as Bono, Wyclef Jean, Lenny Kravitz, and Pete Townshend, pausing just long enough to exchange some intimate small talk with his children and a rather touching moment with his dad, reminiscing at a father-and-daughter track day.His various girlfriends and wives are nowhere to be seen, except for a brief glimpse of Jerry Hall, but given the private nature of Mick, even this carefully controlled doc offers more insight into the Jagger personality than any of his music or by-rote interviews do. And as we watch people fawn over him like royalty, we get insight into how fame can almost, but not completely, isolate you from the rest of humanity - even, to an extent, your own family.downwithtyranny.comEx-Sire/Reprise President Howie Klein's unabashedly leftist political blog cum website this week deals with President Bush's attempt to stir up a war with Iran, his disenchantment with Illinois Senator Barack Obama, the San Diego recall election to replace convicted Republic congressman Randy "Duke" Cunningham, the defeat of Italian Premier and nose-picker Silvio Berlusconi (a staunch Bush ally), Newt Gingrich waffling on Iraq, and lots more. Klein has replaced his passion for the Ramones with one for politics, and his takes on the day's news betray his belief in activist engagement. Who needs Huffington when you've got Klein?Gripe of the WeekWith the advent of ATMs, you rarely have to wait in line at the bank anymore, but when you do, it can be a painful experience, even with the overhead monitors playing CNN without the sound. So there I was, waiting at my local Wells Fargo to cash a check, eyeing each of the individual stations and trying to figure out how long before it was my turn when, all of a sudden, an opening comes up, only to have the teller decide it was time for their break, putting up that frustrating "go to next teller" sign. I mean, can't they just finish working the rest of the line, which was only about three-deep at the time, before taking off? Just asking. Culture46494@blogcritics.org Mon, 17 Apr 2006 16:26:08 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/04/10/092743.php Roy TrakinHuff (Showtime)Don't overlook the second season debut of this dramedy that up to now has fallen through the cracks of more publicized cable fare like The Sopranos and Big Love. When we last left troubled shrink Hank Azaria, his marriage to Paget Brewster was on the rocks, he'd just discovered his best friend (Oliver Platt) sleeping with his mother (Blythe Danner), his schizophrenic brother (Andy Comeau) had driven off in his car, his bright teenage son (Anton Yelchin) was becoming increasingly troubled and his mother-in-law (Swoosie Kurtz) was dying of cancer in his living room.This year's cast additions include Sharon Stone as an alcoholic lawyer, redeeming herself from the Basic Instinct 2 bomb with a hilariously over-the-top sexy performance as the always-marvelous Platt's latest client/love interest, with Anjelica Huston on deck as Huff's new therapist. The outrageous situations are always tempered by completely believable acting, focusing on issues like dying with dignity, balancing work and pleasure, how to keep passion alive in a relationship, the demands of family and even how we treat people vs. how we treat our pets, that you don't see anyplace else. There are all sorts of cross-references and allusions that make it a dense tableaux, but above all, there is a belief in the healing power of humor and faith that makes Huff TiVo-worthy.Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Show Your Bones (Interscope)Call me a philistine or a hopeless industry hack, but I kind of appreciate when a band is forced to find artistic solutions to its commercial situation. Like Woody Allen said in Annie Hall, love is like a shark - it dies when it's not moving forward voraciously, and this post-post-punk downtown Noo Yawk trio takes the challenge and delivers in a way its peers The Strokes failed to do on their Xeroxed soph effort.The opening song, "Gold Lion," shows the way, a glistening piece of pop-funk that recalls the glory days of Athens, GA's Pylon and the B-52s, with lead singer Karen O all sensuous ooze and animal lust over guitarist Nick Zinner's sculpted metallic soundscapes and drummer Brian Chase's tribal stomp. There are also stylistic forays into other genres, like the "campfire song" allusion to the folk standard "Mockingbird" interpolated into "Dudley" and the left-field moves into country rockabilly ("Mysteries") and acoustic blues ("The Sweets")."You're something like a phenomena," chants Ms. O in the song of the same name, then "Well sometimes/I think that/I'm bigger than the sound" in "Cheated Hearts," taking the piss out of their Next Big Thing status, but when she closes with "Hope I do/Turn into you" in the closer, it doubles as both a love song and an embrace of her fans. If rock indeed peaked in the 20th century, Karen O and the YYYs prove there's still some life yet in the primordial beast.Simon Reynolds, Rip it Up and Start Again (Postpunk 1978-1984) (Penguin)A lively history of what the London-born rockcrit feels is one of the most creative and revolutionary eras in popular music, right after the implosion of the Sex Pistols, starting with the formation of John Lydon's Public Image Ltd. and taking us through a variety of scenes, including Akron/Cleveland (Pere Ubu, Devo), Manchester Factory (Joy Division, the Fall), New York No Wave (Lydia Lunch, the Contortions, DNA), Athens, GA (R.E.M., B-52s, Pylon), the early rise of visual pop on MTV (Duran Duran, Culture Club, Human League) up to the final shudders of Trevor Horn's art/political collective ZTT (Art of Noise, Frankie Goes to Hollywood).While Reynolds' encyclopedic view understandably leans more to bands from his native U.K., the author's take on their U.S. counterparts, which were, for the most part, nowhere near as commercially successful, is well-researched and authoritatively delivered. What remains is a time that seems long ago and far away, when art and commerce set out on a collision course we're still feeling the effects of today.New York Dolls @Spaceland, L.A.Maybe they should be called the "New Dolls" because all that's left from the original line-up is David Johansen and Syl Sylvain, but you won't hear me complaining. You gotta understand, the Dolls were the first group I could consider my own, and it's still a treat to hear songs like "Looking for a Kiss," "Pills," "Jet Boy," "Personality Crisis" and "Human Being," even if guitarist Steve Conte doesn't flub nearly as many notes as his late predecessor, the immortal Johnny Thunders, and former Hanoi Rocks bassist Sam Yaffa actually plays his instrument, something the late Arthur "Killer" Kane only did sporadically.It's hard to know if the club date ostensibly promoting the July release of their first new album in more than 30 years for Roadrunner, is a triumph or a bittersweet reminder of the band's still-cult status, but the rabid fans don't seem to mind, and the new songs -- "Beauty School" and "Plenty of Music" are soaked in the band's girl group/primitive R&B roots -- seem to fit seamlessly into the old ones.At one point, with dropper in hand, Johansen explains he's taking St. John's Wort because "I'm so depressed," but he belies that with a nod and a wink as he sashays around the stage, holding out the mic so the crowd can fill in the words. With the trans-gender outrage long gone, it's time to concentrate on what the New York Dolls have always been - a kickass garage band with a sense of humor and history, nothing less than the Lower East Side's version of the Rolling Stones by way of the outer boroughs. Long may they rawk.New York MetsIt may well be a sport of the last century -- after all, it's not nearly as effective on TV or as a video game as football or basketball -- but I still get a thrill every time "hope springs eternal" on opening day. This year's start of the season has been marred by the ongoing steroid scandal and the specter of a juiced-up Barry Bonds challenging Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron for the all-time home run record, but there are still enough subplots for several Dostoevsky novels. That, and the fact there's a game almost everyday for six months makes baseball truly a marathon rather than a sprint, even if my Mets traditionally end up falling hopelessly out of contention by mid-July.This year, things are already off to an ominous start with ace Pedro Martinez's toe injury and our $43 million reliever Billy Wagner already blowing a save on the second day of the season, but things have got to be better with such young talent as David Wright, Jose Reyes and newcomer Brian Bannister, let alone imports Carlos Delgado, the wonderfully named Xavier Nady and last year's bust, $120 million man Carlos Beltran. Native New Yorkers GM Omar Minaya and manager Willie Randolph bring some hometown enthusiasm to the mix, but it still all comes down to an aging pitching staff and the always-looming specter of the crosstown Yankees.After several Mets seasons that began with great expectations only to crash and burn on top of the worst years in memory for my Jets, Knicks and Islanders, I'm a little gunshy, tempering my optimism with a healthy dose of caution. As a longtime Met fan conditioned to the unexpected -- both good and bad -- that's about as positive as I can get.The Real Housewives of Orange County(Bravo)I'm not a big fan of reality TV, but this series, set behind the gates of several upscale OC communities, is a guilty pleasure that quickly turns into an insatiable addiction. In this case, truth is stranger than fiction, as five "typical" families are profiled, warts and all. In fact, some of the portrayals are so heinous as to have elicited severe protests leveled at the participants by their fellow Orange County denizens, but the emphasis on material goods, gaudy displays of wealth and eternal youth rings pretty true.It's all pretty damning until you realize these are all fellow human beings just looking to get by, support their families and find some fulfillment, even if it is in keeping up with the next-door neighbors. We watch one clan, headed by ex-L.A. Angel pitcher Matt Keough, as they arrange for their oldest son to follow in his dad's footsteps as a baseball player at junior college. Meanwhile, a pair of single moms try to maintain their upscale lifestyle in the insurance game, as the downwardly mobile one copes with a troubled son in juvenile detention hall. There's the frustrated young Peruvian fiancée of a divorced husband who wants to work, only to be thwarted by her would-be mate's desire that she stay home and take care of the household. It's hard not to feel superior to the quest for botox, the perfect SUV or the ultimate manse, but there's also an existential longing that ties us all together as fellow travelers hoping to make the most of the time we fret and strut. Reality TV is ultimate proof of Shakespeare's adage that all the world's a stage... and we're just players in it.Howard Stern on Sirius Satellite RadioI'm finally listening to Howard where he's best -- in the car -- where you can fully concentrate on the evolving and often convoluted path the show often takes, and I finally realize that the restrictions put on him by the FCC were completely derailing his momentum and ability to follow a thought to its often hilariously logical conclusion. It's time we took the sting out of words and taboos, and stop insisting we're trying to protect "the kids."The segment featuring a woman who gives advice on anal sex alone was enough to convince me that full disclosure is the only way to defeat small-mindedness, prejudice and repression, and while it's not for anyone, $13 a month seems a small price to pay for freedom of speech... and hearing. And if even Howard admits he's temporarily traded the bully pulpit of terrestrial radio for the cult minions, it's at least a loyal audience that knows what it wants, even if he is preaching to the converted. With his move to satellite, Stern's so-called revolution is already busting through more barriers than Lenny Bruce ever did, and if he's not as angry anymore, at least he'll never be complacent. He sure sounds liberated... and by extension, he's freed us from his sins, as well as ours.The SopranosThis past week was the best yet, featuring existential issues of life and death, heaven and hell, the hilarious preoccupation with dinosaurs and Tony's wacky argument with the Christian fundamentalist. Still, the highlight was the breakdown of Tony Sirico's magnificent Paulie Walnuts as Hamlet, a gray-winged angel of death who discovers his aunt is really his mother and his mother his aunt, which prompts him to toss the latter's $2,000 plasma screen TV out the window, vowing never to return.After hearing a mother beg Tony S. for mercy on her son, Paulie weeps for the mom he now realizes he never had, then proceeds, in the very next scene, to beat the same kid to a pulp, a remarkable display of twisted maternal love turned to viciously jealous hate. This show remains the standard for series television as it hurtles to its conclusion like a Jacobean tragedy.Under the Influence of GiantsThis suburban L.A. band features ex-members of Hometown Hero (lead singer Aaron Bruno) and Audiovent (drummer Jamin Wilcox, son of Utopia drummer Willie), but their falsetto harmonies and blue-eyed soul melodies betray their roots in Prince, Michael Jackson and Hall and Oates as much as they do the Beatles and Bee Gees, not to mention the smooth, decidedly unhip pop-jazz of Bob James.Their debut Island Def Jam album doesn't come out until later this summer, but check out "Mama's Room" and the lovely acoustic ballad "Lay Me Down" from their MySpace page for a preview of their eclectic, decidedly un-trendy sound that defies current fashion and more than lives up to its name.Gripe of the WeekNot exactly a complaint; more like an observation, or a Larry David-style ethical conundrum. Last week, I was in the elevator at my doctor's office with a couple other people, closest to the door and about to push the button for my floor, when I saw someone with a walker about 20 yards away slowly making their way towards us.My dilemma: should I hold the door for what appeared to be, given the progress already made, another 30-45 painful seconds, and risk the ire of my fellow passengers, who seemed oblivious to the situation, or simply let the individual in question wait for the next elevator to arrive? Before I could even decide, the doors closed, leading me to a momentary musing about whether I'd done the right thing... and whether I would've waited if I was alone. Culture46203@blogcritics.org Mon, 10 Apr 2006 09:27:43 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/03/31/154851.php Roy TrakinThe Howard Stern Show on Sirius Satellite RadioI've been listening to Howard on Sirius for around a week now, and I'm wondering whether all that much-ballyhooed freedom from the FCC has been a good or bad thing. Rather than artfully skirting around the boundaries of bad taste, like some '30s movie avoiding the Hayes Code, all hell has broken loose, and while it makes for a freewheeling, unfettered, bawdy atmosphere, it also begs the question as to when art ends and self-indulgence begins, always an issue with Stern and company.Aside from losing some 10-odd million listeners, Howard seems to have further marginalized himself from the mainstream, which can't be what he had in mind. Since I first discovered him over 15 years ago, ironically for a New Yorker like me, out here in L.A., where automobile culture reigns supreme, I always found the 30 minutes or so he entertained me driving to work indispensable. Or so I thought. Since he's moved over to satellite, I've hesitated making the commitment to Sirius, since I already have XM and was quite happy with it. In fact, I even began to find myself listening to Adam Carolla and not missing Howard as much as I thought I would.My morning show fickleness surprised even me, since I regard Stern as nothing less than the Lenny Bruce of our era, even more important because he was able to reach a mass audience and now has more outlets than the beleaguered Bruce was ever allowed. Of course, Howard's traded in the masses for cult subscribers, who seem even more delighted to hear him without language and content constraints or commercials, in a sorta expanded way that I have yet to get used to. He certainly seems happier and looser in his new environment, but a satisfied Stern isn't quite as entertaining as a kvetching one. Still, I thought he'd lose his outsider edge without the constant complaints of being married when he got divorced years ago, but that didn't seem to stop him.In fact, he simply got into another monogamous relationship, albeit with a shapely blonde model type he never could have hoped to score starting out as a DJ all those years ago, but his audience paid that no mind. It is clear Stern's move to satellite has paid off in the short term for him, and may well pay off in the long run for Sirius, especially when every new car comes equipped with a satellite receiver. But his days as the unabashed King of all Media are over. With only those who pay for the privilege of hearing him, that water-cooler factor is way diminished, and even when we all have Sirius in our cars, he'll still be competing with 200 some-odd channels rather than the dozen or so pre-sets on your old dashboard radio.At any rate, it's a brand-new media world. I'm just not sure my man Howard's gonna rule over it like he did the old one. Indeed, no one will.Prince, 3121 (Universal)Along with Michael Jackson, Prince helped drag R&B, funk and disco kicking and screaming into the rock era of the late '70s and early-to-mid-'80s, climaxed, naturally, by his 1984 triumph, Purple Rain. Since then, the Purple One has struggled to regain the pop epicenter, overshadowed by the explicit rawness of rap, much like his predecessor James Brown's career was temporarily waylaid by synths and the drum machine.Returning to the major label fold, albeit on a series of one-off arrangements, has been a boon for The Artist's prolific nature and reluctance to edit himself, and like Musicology, his latest at least returns him to song structure and some of the things we've come to love about the mighty tyke - his melding of sensuality and spirituality ("Satisfied"), minimalist techno funk ("Love") and widescreen guitar epics ("The Dance").While "Te Amo Corazon," his flaccid attempt to win over the Latin market, literally peters out, "Black Sweat" is a welcome return to Brown's "It's Too Funky in Here" territory, and "Fury" is introduced with an organ chord progression that evokes everyone-on-the-dance-floor classics like "1999" and "Let's Go Crazy." This time, though, our man Prince seems to have abandoned dalliance for devotion, as in "Lolita," where he vows to his under-aged temptress, "U're sweeter but U'll never make a cheater out of me." And when he asks, "Don't U wanna come?" up to his hotel room in the title track, it's more about transcendence than titillation. Even for a non-believer, devotion never sounded so tempting.Gnarls Barkley, "Crazy" (Downtown/Atlantic)After his groundbreaking The Grey Album and Grammy-nominated turn on the Gorillaz' Demon Days, Danger Mouse (Brian Burton) is the producer of the moment, and he doesn't let down on this remarkable collaboration with Atlanta soul singer Cee-Lo Green (Thomas DeCarlo Callaway) that takes the ache of classic soul and grafts onto it a bouncy backbeat teased with silky strings. The first single from their upcoming album, St. Elsewhere, it's already #1 at the Apple U.K. iTunes Music Store. "I remember when I lost my mind," croons Green, and guaranteed you will, too.A second track, "Go Go Gospel," has a speeded-up Eastern European, vaguely klezmer flavor, featuring bleating horns and a surging church choir, proving that the mash-up is a malleable concept with infinite possibilities.V for VendettaCall it the Phantom of the Revolution. Like The Matrix, the Wachowski brothers' latest is about a near-future fascist empire, in this case England, is intent on quashing any sign of rebellion, as a masked figure known simply as V, who fancies himself a latter-day Guy Fawkes crossed with the Count of Monte Cristo, seeks to liberate the oppressed people by blowing up buildings like the criminal court of the famed Old Bailey and the Parliament, with its iconic Big Ben watchtower.For a movie that purports to be about ideas, V for Vendetta seems to pinch its most lucid bits from other places: "A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having" is nicked from feminist radical Emma Goldman, while "There is no such thing as coincidence, only the illusion of coincidence," could come from a primer on western theology. Still, this is one of the most politically radical films to come from mainstream Hollywood since Christopher Jones sent his own mother, Shelley Winters, to a concentration camp for everyone over the age of 30 in Wild in the Streets.A closely cropped Natalie Portman gets to do her Joan of Arc martyrdom thing, but Hugo Weaving's performance is effectively stymied by his frozen rictus grin mask, reminiscent of Batman's Joker. The 9/11 references are fairly obvious in its depiction of the government being behind the outbreak of germ warfare that precipitated its crackdown on civil liberties, while the famed Wachowski set pieces are saved mostly for the beginning and the end, with Stephen Rea's dogged search to uncover the conspiracy taking up the Crime and Punishment-like middle, though there is a wonderful spoof of a Tonight-style talk show that first-time director (and longtime assistant) James McTeigue gives Oliver Stone-like energy.There is a wonderfully moving pas de deux between Weaving and Portman to Julie London's aching "Cry Me a River," coming from a vintage Wurlitzer, and a final credit blast of the Rolling Stones' "Street Fighing Man" to send the viewer out on a violence high, but for a movie that takes pride in words and theories, it's a little fuzzy around the edges. V for Vendetta aims for A Clockwork Orange meets 1984 (whose John Hurt is also the dastardly dictator here), but ends up somewhere in between.NCAA Final FourNot since 1980, when it was still a 48-team field, have all four #1 seeds failed to make it to the final round, which means such perennials as Duke, Connecticut, Memphis, Villanova, Michigan State, North Carolina, Texas, Oklahoma State and Arizona are all gone, and 11th seeded Cinderella George Mason, from Fairfax, VA, is still in it to win it.The one-and-done format makes the NCAA basketball tournament perhaps the greatest of all sporting events, and this year has been particularly thrilling, filled with more upsets, buzzer-beating baskets and improbable comebacks than ever before. Still, after all is said and done, you can't really beat height, and both LSU, with its newly crowned Round Mound of Rebound Redux, Big Baby Glen Davis, at its center, and Florida, with the all-arms-and-legs sheer athletic skill of tennis great Yannick Noah's gangly but powerful pony-tailed son Joakim, would appear to be the favorites to meet in Monday night's championship.But you can never count out either the Tenacious D of coach Ben Howland's UCLA team, with stifling guards Arron Afflalo and homegrown Jordan Farmar, or the sheer heart of Jim Larranaga's GMU, with its aptly named guard Tony Skinn and heretofore underrated big men Jai Lewis and Will Thomas. You gotta figure their magic ride to the Final Four is about to end, but then again, Michigan State, North Carolina, Wichita State and Connecticut all probably thought the same thing.That said, the clock strikes midnight for Mason, and UCLA's time is yet to come, so expect the expected for once, with LSU striking one for the heart of beleaguered Bayou country and topping Florida for their first-ever NCAA b-ball title. It's only fair, right?Teddy Geiger, Underage Thinking (Columbia):Man, they grow up fast these days, and as the father of an emo-leaning, straight-edge 15-year-old daughter and a gangly, laid-back teenage son two years older, I should know. So when this barely legal 17-year-old Rochester, NY, pop phenom declares: "I'm 16, my world just opened wide," in the title track, it rings pretty true. And if this is the state of teenpop in the year 2006, that's not too bad, either.By positioning Teddy as the new John Mayer, the label must be sending chills up the spine of the old one, now parading as a snarky stand-up blues slinger. Actually, on a song like "Air Dry," Geiger proves closer to the next Elton John, who has seemingly replaced Bob Dylan as the singer/songwriter of choice for today's neo-classic rocker youth.Elsewhere, Geiger shows he can pull off Jackson Browne/James Taylor-style folk-rock in "A Million Years" and even some Van Morrison scat with the Claptonesque wah-wah of "Possibilities." By the time he gets to the closing "Love Is a Marathon," which he sang on the short-lived TV series Love Monkey -- where his charmingly awkward innocence struck a note of reality amid the sitcom yuppie sarcasm -- it's clear that Geiger has a good chance to last a lot longer than the show.ArcLight Cinemas, HollywoodWith the likes of everyone from Peter Bogdanovich to L.A. Times film pundit Patrick Goldstein lamenting the loss of the luxurious movie palaces of their youth in favor of high-tech home entertainment systems, this deluxe theater chain, featuring on-site dining areas, reserved seating and a $14 ticket, is a reasonable alternative to your local multiplex, with state-of-the-art picture and often digital sound.I mean, it's almost worth the extra $5 a ticket to see a movie in this kind of setting, where not only do you get a pristine screening, but you can avoid the riff-raff at the same time. Of course, you still can't block out the guy sitting in the next row loudly munching on his popcorn, but that's life.What's for Breakfast?In which Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi is seen probing his proboscis and striking paydirt, discretely slipping the excavation between his lips after making sure no one is watching, then washing the whole thing down with a sip of espresso. Mmmm good. Just one more sign that a public figure is never safe in this age of ubiquitous surveillance. Wonder if his excellence would survive a recall election tomorrow if this were aired on Italian national TV. See it here.Gripe of the WeekIn a recent two-week period, I was hit with a $97 ticket for driving without a seat-belt (the CHP officer wouldn't let me off with a warning, and practically barked at me as he handed it to me), a $45 penalty for parking in East Hollywood at a meter, which I paid for but failed to see the sign down the block indicating a street cleaning during that three-hour period and $380 (plus additional for Traffic School) after getting photographed going through a red light at the corner of La Brea and Fountain. (I swear it was yellow, but I guess the evidence doesn't lie.)Now, I realize it's just the price of driving, but still, isn't it a little Big Brother creepy to be nabbed by remote surveillance? And don't the cops have anything better to do than to chase down usually law-abiding citizens like myself? I have enough trouble slowing down when I spot a patrol car in my rearview mirror, let alone being aware of the invisible long arm of the law. I just thank my lucky stars I wasn't snapped in mid-bong hit. Culture45782@blogcritics.org Fri, 31 Mar 2006 15:48:51 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2006/03/24/095613.php Roy Trakin2006 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Ceremony (VH1)To his credit, ace producer/director Joel Gallen didn't smooth out any of the rough edges, so we get Blondie's Frankie Infante practically begging Debbie Harry to perform with the group, as she coolly informed him her band was already on-stage, while he muttered, "They're not the ones being inducted." And then Rolling Stone's Jann Wenner stumbling through a reading of the Sex Pistols' diatribe as to why they weren't there to collective snickers, though Blondie offered their own take when they closed their set with a snippet from "Anarchy in the U.K."Otherwise, the only thing missing was most of the inductees, including the late Miles Davis, several members of Lynyrd Skynyrd, including lead singer Ronnie Van Zant, and a performance by Black Sabbath, who were more than glad to cede the spotlight to Metallica, whose James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich inducted the heavy metal legends with witty, reverential speeches before taking the stage for a blistering rendition of "Iron Man."The opening Wilson Pickett tribute was a hoot, as the humongous Solomon Burke, glued to his large throne, urged everyone else to their feet, with soul singer Leela James and singer-songwriter Marc Broussard paying spirited homage. The Skynyrd set, featuring Kid Rock, launched into a 10-minute "Freebird," which brought out Kirk Hammett's Bic, with Hetfield playing air guitar and Ulrich miming the drums.The closing New Orleans tribute, with Elvis Costello, Crescent City legend Allen Toussaint and Robbie Robertson, turned out to be an extended promo for Costello and Toussaint's upcoming collaborative album, though Buckwheat Zydeco on squeezebox and the colorfully festooned Wild Magnolias brought the festivities to a climax with an extended "Iko Iko." And while the evening was short of star power, the feeling of honoring musical roots, and torches being passed, was hard to shake, let alone rattle and roll.Of course, as '80s bands start to become eligible, the pickings are going to get rather slim, which means it's time to start honoring those who've been overlooked, including heavy metal acts Alice Cooper, Van Halen and Kiss, cult legends like the Stooges, Patti Smith, New York Dolls and Roxy Music, prog-rock bands such as Genesis, Yes and ELP, and pop icons Neil Diamond and Hall & Oates.The New CarsIt was rather ironic that manager Allen Kovac took the occasion of the Hall of Fame ceremony to introduce the new lineup, which matches original members Elliott Easton and Greg Hawkes with Todd Rundgren, ex-Utopia bassist Kasim Sulton and sometime Tubes drummer Prairie Prince, and a summer jaunt featuring management stablemates Blondie on their final tour.The announcement seemed to inspire a slew of online playa-hating bloggers, who ridiculed the combination, with several comparing it to one of those old a cappella and soul outfits that tour with one or two original members, billing themselves under their old names. What about groups like Fleetwood Mac, AC/DC, Van Halen, INXS, Alice in Chains, Journey, The Doors, Judas Priest or Motley Crue, all of whom changed lead singers in midstream, with various degrees of success.The HOF ceremony offered its own example in Lynyrd Skynyrd, with kid brother Johnny Van Zant ably filling in, spiritually as well as artistically, for his late brother Ronnie, and that hasn't seemed to bother anybody. And let me add the disclaimer right now, while I worked on this project for a while at 10th Street, I have no interest, financial or otherwise, in its success, only the desire to see these musicians, who have become friends, reinvent themselves, continue their careers and care for their families.Before you kvetch, take a listen. With Rundgren as front man replacing the dour, uncommunicative Ric Ocasek, The New Cars are a much better live band than the original, and the new song, "Not Tonight," is a reasonable facsimile, a chance for Easton and Hawkes, so influential in creating a sound that has been aped by everyone from The Killers and Franz Ferdinand to Panic! at the Disco, Hot Hot Heat, the Strokes and the Bravery, to reclaim their material for old and new fans alike.The Arctic Monkeys, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not (Domino)Speaking of the Sex Pistols, and the Clash, for that matter, this might be the best debut by a U.K. band since those halcyon punk-rock daze. While it sounded a bit brittle and thin at first, after seeing the live show, the album opened up like a blooming flower, at once solid and beefy, with hooks galore coming fast and furious underneath the hairpin turns.Lead singer/guitarist Alex Turner is the center of attention, but the rest of the band are no slouches, either. "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" captures your attention at the outset, but the other tracks begin to kick in big time, including the brilliant, vituperative "Fake Tales of San Francisco," the emotive "Still Take You Home" and "When the Sun Goes Down," the biting "Perhaps Vampires is a Bit Strong, But..." and the moving closer, "A Certain Romance." It may not be Meet the Beatles, but then again, the times are different. One thing's for sure - these Monkeys should be hanging around for awhile.Art Brut, Bang Bang Rock & Roll (Banana Recordings/Fierce Panda), live at the Troubadour, L.A.Yet another product of the new British Invasion, this five-piece outfit from the south coastal U.K. town of Bournemouth (home of King Crimson) has the ragged feel of a hastily assembled art project, but the unmistakable commercial clout of catchy songs and a scrappy, dynamic stage presence similar to Bloc Party and The Go! Team.The album starts with the memorable "Formed a Band," with its line about "writing a song that makes Israel and Palestine get along" and the other songs are equally self-explanatory in a Jonathan Richman sort of way, with the highlights the very Kinks-like "Emily Kane," the wham bam thank you ma'am title track and "Bad Weekend," which claims, "Haven't read the NME in so long, don't know what genre we belong... Popular culture no longer applies to me." Floppy-haired lead vocalist Eddie Argos has the same sort of un-rock star appeal as Ray Davies or Richman, and the band even pays tribute to its influences by interpolating "You Really Got Me" into their closing number, the bookend, "Good Weekend." Add in a superb rhythm section in female bassist Freddy Feedback and stand-up drummer Mikey B, and two complementary guitarists in the nimble leads of Ian Catskilkin and the slashing rhythm of spread-eagled beanpole Jasper Future, and you have a formula for the kind of dance-rock that brings to mind other groundbreakers such as Gang of Four and The Fall. The album title says it all.Big Love (HBO)Like Six Feet Under, this series from creators Mark V. Olsen and Will Scheffer offers an unorthodox view of heterosexual family life from a gay perspective, in this case, focusing on a polygamous Mormon family living in Utah in a three-house compound headed by patriarch Bill Paxton, with Jeanne Tripplehorn, Chloe Sevigny and Ginnifer Goodwin as the rotating concubines. Even though an end credit claims there are anywhere from 20,000-40,000 families living in this sort of arrangement in Utah and Northern Arizona, it's hard to believe they'd be this upscale, as the logistics of satisfying the unending demands of three families drives Paxton to continuously gulp Viagra to "keep up" with his husbandly duties. The three wives are wonderful, especially the child-like Goodwin, who played Johnny Cash's first wife Vivian in Walk the Line, and the sex is both more erotic and explicit than anything you'll see in a theatrical feature.Paxton's modern family is juxtaposed with the more traditional, backward one he left behind, including the marvelous Harry Dean Stanton as the sinister polygamy cult leader (complete with a new teenage wife) and father to Sevigny along with Bruce Dern and Twin Peaks' marvelously loopy Grace Zabriskie as his rather addled parents. The effects of the arrangement on their teenage children is also pretty telling, as they struggle to reconcile their family's strange beliefs with growing up in the outside world of fast-food restaurants, drive-in movies and sleepovers.The premise may be weird, but again, like Six Feet Under, the family dynamic remains the constant, as Father Knows Best turns into Father Has To Satisfy Three Wives. Don't quite know where this one is going, but I will be TiVo'ing it for now.Tim Burton's Corpse BrideNot quite as groundbreaking as The Nightmare Before Christmas, Burton's Oscar-nominated animated feature is a retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, with Johnny Depp's lead Scissorhands-like Victor inadvertently proposing to the skeletal remains of the title character (voiced by Burton's significant other Helena Bonham-Carter) on the eve of his arranged marriage to the lovely Victoria (Emily Watson).There's plenty of rattling skeleton bones and popping eyeballs, as well as a squiggly maggot with the voice of Peter Lorre who lives in the Corpse Bride's eye socket. It's all very Beetlejuice, but there's always some kinetic piece of eye candy going on to keep you engaged. Unfortunately, frequent collaborator Danny Elfman's songs aren't his strongest, which hurts the film's momentum. But when you step back and realize the plot is based on a man attracted to a dead woman, the subversive quality of Burton's vision becomes that much clearer.The Sopranos, "Join the Club" (HBO)After getting off to a rousing start, David Chase turns all arty in episode two, with a strange, elongated Tony-in-a-coma dream sequence introducing an alternative reality in which the powerful Mob boss is a mild-mannered medical supply salesman who even gets slapped around by a Zen Buddhist monk, giving James Gandolfini a chance to explore other sides of his larger-than-life character.The interlude also enables Edie Falco to put on a sure-to-be-Emmy-nominated performance as she frantically hovers, sans make-up, over a heavily breathing Tony, while heir apparent son Robert Iler grows nastier and more rebellious, mirroring his father's bull-in-a-china-shop persona and grasping materialism, proving the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Of course, the absence of Tony will set the wheels in motion for a power struggle that promises to close out the season with a Shakespearian bloodbath.World Baseball ClassicFor all you disgruntled USA baseball fans scratching your heads about how we're losing ground in another sport we invented, don't be surprised. After all, when Japan pummeled Cuba 10-6 to win the whole thing, long after the U.S. team was eliminated, it took place in the very same week General Motors announced it was offering 35,000 employees early retirement in an attempt to stave off its own collapse. Where once we reigned supreme in car manufacturing and baseball, the Japanese have taken over by producing efficient, long-lasting vehicles, just as their stoic manager, the great Sadaharu Oh, and his expertly coached team turned an almost robot-like commitment to the sport's fundamentals to whip us at our own game.Gripe of the WeekThe record business is hard enough without people standing on the sidelines hoping for the participants to fall on their faces. I'm tired of the bloggers and so-called pundits, the Monday morning quarterbacks who wouldn't know how to break a record with a hammer -- and you know who you are -- making their snarky comments and huffy predictions, often without the benefit of facts or knowledge of how something actually comes together. Can't we encourage instead of belittle, help instead of deride? Aren't we all in this together? And shouldn't all comments be labeled for what they are -- opinions -- which, along with an asshole, everyone has. Guess some people just aren't team players, especially in this business, where your own success isn't anywhere near as satisfying as someone else's failure. Culture45455@blogcritics.org Fri, 24 Mar 2006 09:56:13 EST