3/25/2004
FRANZ FERDINAND
This is big. Franz Ferdinand streamlines the influences of popular acts like Interpol and the Strokes, adds a healthy dose of Britpop and a dash of 90s-era Manchester rock, and shoves one of the best albums of the year (yes, this year...and I’m aware that it’s only March) down the throats of the recent crop of supercool Joy Division-cribbers and garage-rock revivalists. The tongue-in-cheek opener “Jacqueline” (catchy chorus of the week: “It’s always better on holiday/ That’s why we only work when/ We need the money”), Pere Ubu-influenced “Tell Her Tonight”, and unforgettable single “Take Me Out” kick off the album with an assured proclamation of imminent greatness. “Cheating on You” is a garage-revival masterpiece and “Michael” is some kinda brilliant scathing/homoerotic rave culture satire/lust letter. If God exists and also digs Britpop, which He totally would, Franz Ferdinand will soon break through to fickle American mainstream audiences and deliver us to the Promised Land, where we will promptly bob our heads off in a slavishly rhythmic fashion. Hyperbole? Whatever, dude. This shit is nuts.
DEERHOOF- MILK MAN
The cover says it all. A childish drawing of a masked figure with fruit sticking out of his body, causing bleeding of the head, armpit, and anus...hilarious! Satomi Matsuzaki’s sweetly naïve vocals frame relatively constrained (for Deerhoof, at any rate) noise-pop experiments that alternately sound like a Japanese sunshine pop band on mushrooms and the Boredoms on Ritalin. Flashes of electric jazz, goofy classical affectation, and what could be described as post-rock lounge music—did I mention this album is hilarious?—help to define the album’s consciously eclectic but ultimately cohesive sound. Deerhoof manage to construct a satisfying concept album from a drawing of a guy with a banana sticking out of his ass.
0 comments
3/24/2004
FILM REVIEWS
Spartan, Osama, The Dreamers
[Note: These three wonderful films will probably not be playing in theaters very long, if at all. I saw them all over break, two completely by chance, and returned to school only to find that they might as well not have been released in the first place. A sad state of affairs indeed.]
SPARTAN
One of David Mamet’s most shocking and cynical thrillers will likely leave theaters as quietly as it arrived. An elaborately tangled web of plot twists and all forms of cinematic rug-pulling, Spartan follows Secret Service agent Scott (Val Kilmer) through a crisis involving the kidnapping of the President’s daughter. Mamet’s patented razor-sharp dialogue is substituted with an exhilarating series of plot revelations that should keep jaws squarely on the floor at all times. Derek Luke and William H. Macy provide solid support, and Ed O’Neil (no Al Bundy jokes, please—the man has earned his respect) delivers what is arguably his strongest film performance to date as a shadowy government figure intent on keeping the kidnapping under wraps. Just as the film begins to lose steam in its final fifteen minutes, a final surprise reveals a broader political context that is, to say the least, incredibly refreshing, especially during an era in Hollywood filmmaking decidedly lacking in political commentary. Makes a great double feature with Mamet’s The Spanish Prisoner.
OSAMA
A harrowing tale based on actual atrocities perpetrated by the Taliban in Afghanistan before the U.S. occupation. A young Afghan girl risks her life posing as a boy (her alias is “Osama”) so that she can work to support her mother and grandmother. She is forced into a Taliban training program with the other boys in her neighborhood. On its own, the film is incredibly moving and truly inspiring—especially considering the stifling environment in which it was made. Still, one can’t help but question why the film was given relatively wide release now, two years after U.S. occupation. There is no commentary on post-9/11 Afghanistan, and the film’s message, however heartfelt and evocatively conveyed, is untimely. A narrow focus on the past crimes of the Taliban detracts attention from the current state of Afghanistan, where Taliban forces regain more power with every passing day. Films like Osama should be given wide release in American theaters when the situations depicted are most pertinent (i.e. two years ago), not when name recognition will ensure the most business. How many foreign films relating urgent issues to large audiences have been released stateside before the U.S. government intervened? Perhaps we can expect The Wrath of Charles Taylor in 2006.
THE DREAMERS
If mentioning that The Dreamers is one of Bernardo Bertolucci’s greatest films isn’t enough of an incentive to go see this film by any means necessary (which at this point would probably require a trip to Canada), how about this: Three young intellectuals explore films, France, and the boundaries of their sexuality while the pressures of late-60’s French society threaten to tear their intimate bond of friendship apart—wait a minute...was that a penis??? NC-17! Whew, glad they caught that one...blink and you’d miss it. That’s right, The Dreamers, which truthfully is about as sexually explicit as an average HBO drama, has been deemed unsuitable for, well, anyone, thanks to the giggling schoolgirls that head the Motion Picture Association of America. Jack Valenti should take those dirty magazines out of his closet and then slap himself silly for depriving American filmgoers of a magical, unforgettable film experience just because the sight of a you-know-what makes him blush. Here’s an idea. This weekend, mosey on up to Canada if you’re not too busy. See a matinee of The Dreamers (five Canadian dollars, or roughly $3.75 American) and complement the experience with a bit of meditative sightseeing. Then cross the border again—bring extra identification just in case. Promptly write the MPAA a scathing letter, preferably on Russ Meyer stationery.
0 comments
Spartan, Osama, The Dreamers
[Note: These three wonderful films will probably not be playing in theaters very long, if at all. I saw them all over break, two completely by chance, and returned to school only to find that they might as well not have been released in the first place. A sad state of affairs indeed.]
SPARTAN
One of David Mamet’s most shocking and cynical thrillers will likely leave theaters as quietly as it arrived. An elaborately tangled web of plot twists and all forms of cinematic rug-pulling, Spartan follows Secret Service agent Scott (Val Kilmer) through a crisis involving the kidnapping of the President’s daughter. Mamet’s patented razor-sharp dialogue is substituted with an exhilarating series of plot revelations that should keep jaws squarely on the floor at all times. Derek Luke and William H. Macy provide solid support, and Ed O’Neil (no Al Bundy jokes, please—the man has earned his respect) delivers what is arguably his strongest film performance to date as a shadowy government figure intent on keeping the kidnapping under wraps. Just as the film begins to lose steam in its final fifteen minutes, a final surprise reveals a broader political context that is, to say the least, incredibly refreshing, especially during an era in Hollywood filmmaking decidedly lacking in political commentary. Makes a great double feature with Mamet’s The Spanish Prisoner.
OSAMA
A harrowing tale based on actual atrocities perpetrated by the Taliban in Afghanistan before the U.S. occupation. A young Afghan girl risks her life posing as a boy (her alias is “Osama”) so that she can work to support her mother and grandmother. She is forced into a Taliban training program with the other boys in her neighborhood. On its own, the film is incredibly moving and truly inspiring—especially considering the stifling environment in which it was made. Still, one can’t help but question why the film was given relatively wide release now, two years after U.S. occupation. There is no commentary on post-9/11 Afghanistan, and the film’s message, however heartfelt and evocatively conveyed, is untimely. A narrow focus on the past crimes of the Taliban detracts attention from the current state of Afghanistan, where Taliban forces regain more power with every passing day. Films like Osama should be given wide release in American theaters when the situations depicted are most pertinent (i.e. two years ago), not when name recognition will ensure the most business. How many foreign films relating urgent issues to large audiences have been released stateside before the U.S. government intervened? Perhaps we can expect The Wrath of Charles Taylor in 2006.
THE DREAMERS
If mentioning that The Dreamers is one of Bernardo Bertolucci’s greatest films isn’t enough of an incentive to go see this film by any means necessary (which at this point would probably require a trip to Canada), how about this: Three young intellectuals explore films, France, and the boundaries of their sexuality while the pressures of late-60’s French society threaten to tear their intimate bond of friendship apart—wait a minute...was that a penis??? NC-17! Whew, glad they caught that one...blink and you’d miss it. That’s right, The Dreamers, which truthfully is about as sexually explicit as an average HBO drama, has been deemed unsuitable for, well, anyone, thanks to the giggling schoolgirls that head the Motion Picture Association of America. Jack Valenti should take those dirty magazines out of his closet and then slap himself silly for depriving American filmgoers of a magical, unforgettable film experience just because the sight of a you-know-what makes him blush. Here’s an idea. This weekend, mosey on up to Canada if you’re not too busy. See a matinee of The Dreamers (five Canadian dollars, or roughly $3.75 American) and complement the experience with a bit of meditative sightseeing. Then cross the border again—bring extra identification just in case. Promptly write the MPAA a scathing letter, preferably on Russ Meyer stationery.
0 comments
3/22/2004
FILM REVIEW: ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND
The dilemma of eternal spotlessness
It is a testament to Charlie Kaufman’s genius that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is arguably his least ambitious film to date. The film spends almost the entirety of its two- hour running length inside the mind of perpetual sad-sack Joel Barish (Jim Carrey) as he eradicates every last memory of his ex-girlfriend Clementine (Kate Winslet) through the patented Lacuna memory-erasing process. Director Michel Gondry achieves new heights in the visual portrayal of the subjective human psyche with his endless supply of camera tricks, editing tricks, digital tricks, and—well, who knows where the hell this guy comes up with some of this stuff. Consider a scene in which Joel searches up and down the same street for Clementine, only to have her run from him at every turn, while his car seems to follow him at either end of the street. Can’t imagine it? It’s hard to imagine when you’re watching, too, but Gondry finds innovative ways to, you know, fuck with your head.
And therein lies the film’s fundamental limitation: at some point, we realize that any overarching message the film might convey is secondary to an elaborate system of strategic mind-fucking. The film chronicles the end of Joel and Clementine’s relationship, and the process they both undergo to erase their memories. The Lacuna Company specializes in erasing painful memories for bargain-basement prices by coming to a patient’s house while he or she is asleep and digitally zapping individual memories through what appears to be a colander attached to the patient’s head. Predictably, Joel and Clementine eventually realize the inherent pitfalls of such a process. What is fascinating is the method of presentation: the entire film is told completely in Joel’s subconscious. Imagine Being John Malkovich set entirely inside of Malkovich’s head.
However, Malkovich achieved its inspired madness by centering the story outside of Malkovich’s head. Kaufman and Jonze’s Adaptation similarly benefits by presenting The Orchid Thief—the literary inspiration for the title’s adaptation—parallel to a subjective exploration of Kaufman’s neuroses. In Sunshine, Kaufman explores the intricacies of Joel’s subconscious and, by extension, the intimate details of his relationship with Clementine, about as thoroughly as is conceivably possible. But this technique limits the film to one note, intriguing though that one note may be. Kaufman has essentially scripted a romantic comedy, one that is so convoluted by plot twists and visual abstractions that the film's genre origins are unrecognizable by the ten-minute mark. And of course events only become curiouser and curiouser as the film unfolds.
There are subplots involving the staff of Lacuna, which is comprised of Kirsten Dunst as the eager receptionist, Mark Ruffalo and Elijah Wood as bumbling technicians, and Tom Wilkinson as the founder and head “doctor” of the company. But these subplots (which I will not spoil) are ultimately diversions and do not particularly enhance the primary storyline. The subplots certainly work on their own terms and are satisfying as separate lines of action, but they merely distract from Joel’s subconscious adventures rather than directly comment on the mind of the man whose memory is being erased.
At this point I should mention that the film is absolutely brilliant in the context of its limited scope. Kaufman’s labyrinthine, introspective writing style (often referred to as “meta”-something, though that critic-friendly term is not usually defined further) is matched perfectly by Gondry’s amazing proficiency in creating film effects that border on magic tricks. Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet both deliver some of their subtlest acting work (although both successfully ham it up for a section in which Joel reverts to his toddler consciousness). Effective supporting performances help to establish a world outside of Joel’s rapidly disintegrating memories.
Kaufman has, to some degree, written himself into a corner—he has produced two masterpieces that may well come to define turn-of-the-21st-century cinema (Malkovich and Adaptation) and has rarely faltered in his collaborations outside of the seemingly unstoppable Jonze/Kaufman juggernaut. The expectations for Kaufman-scripted films are so high that he may be facing the same dilemma that Jim Carrey faced about ten years ago (was it really ten years ago?). It is somewhat ironic that this film marks the first Carrey performance that, to some extent, can be gauged outside of his former celebrity baggage. Carrey wears his newfound (relative) anonymity well, probably quite comfortable out of the intense heat of the Hollywood limelight.
Likewise, it may take a few years for Kaufman to shed the weight of his early successes so that his works can be seen individually on their own terms, instead of compared to his previous projects. When that time comes, it will be much easier to reconsider excellent films such as Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Human Nature, and now Eternal Sunshine on their own terms. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind may not be a “meta-something” masterpiece, but it does offer one of most elaborate and delightfully convoluted excuses for a romantic comedy yet filmed. The fact that Kaufman can and will undoubtedly set his sights higher only emphasizes his status as one of the most challenging and extraordinary screenwriters in modern cinema.
0 comments
The dilemma of eternal spotlessness
It is a testament to Charlie Kaufman’s genius that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is arguably his least ambitious film to date. The film spends almost the entirety of its two- hour running length inside the mind of perpetual sad-sack Joel Barish (Jim Carrey) as he eradicates every last memory of his ex-girlfriend Clementine (Kate Winslet) through the patented Lacuna memory-erasing process. Director Michel Gondry achieves new heights in the visual portrayal of the subjective human psyche with his endless supply of camera tricks, editing tricks, digital tricks, and—well, who knows where the hell this guy comes up with some of this stuff. Consider a scene in which Joel searches up and down the same street for Clementine, only to have her run from him at every turn, while his car seems to follow him at either end of the street. Can’t imagine it? It’s hard to imagine when you’re watching, too, but Gondry finds innovative ways to, you know, fuck with your head.
And therein lies the film’s fundamental limitation: at some point, we realize that any overarching message the film might convey is secondary to an elaborate system of strategic mind-fucking. The film chronicles the end of Joel and Clementine’s relationship, and the process they both undergo to erase their memories. The Lacuna Company specializes in erasing painful memories for bargain-basement prices by coming to a patient’s house while he or she is asleep and digitally zapping individual memories through what appears to be a colander attached to the patient’s head. Predictably, Joel and Clementine eventually realize the inherent pitfalls of such a process. What is fascinating is the method of presentation: the entire film is told completely in Joel’s subconscious. Imagine Being John Malkovich set entirely inside of Malkovich’s head.
However, Malkovich achieved its inspired madness by centering the story outside of Malkovich’s head. Kaufman and Jonze’s Adaptation similarly benefits by presenting The Orchid Thief—the literary inspiration for the title’s adaptation—parallel to a subjective exploration of Kaufman’s neuroses. In Sunshine, Kaufman explores the intricacies of Joel’s subconscious and, by extension, the intimate details of his relationship with Clementine, about as thoroughly as is conceivably possible. But this technique limits the film to one note, intriguing though that one note may be. Kaufman has essentially scripted a romantic comedy, one that is so convoluted by plot twists and visual abstractions that the film's genre origins are unrecognizable by the ten-minute mark. And of course events only become curiouser and curiouser as the film unfolds.
There are subplots involving the staff of Lacuna, which is comprised of Kirsten Dunst as the eager receptionist, Mark Ruffalo and Elijah Wood as bumbling technicians, and Tom Wilkinson as the founder and head “doctor” of the company. But these subplots (which I will not spoil) are ultimately diversions and do not particularly enhance the primary storyline. The subplots certainly work on their own terms and are satisfying as separate lines of action, but they merely distract from Joel’s subconscious adventures rather than directly comment on the mind of the man whose memory is being erased.
At this point I should mention that the film is absolutely brilliant in the context of its limited scope. Kaufman’s labyrinthine, introspective writing style (often referred to as “meta”-something, though that critic-friendly term is not usually defined further) is matched perfectly by Gondry’s amazing proficiency in creating film effects that border on magic tricks. Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet both deliver some of their subtlest acting work (although both successfully ham it up for a section in which Joel reverts to his toddler consciousness). Effective supporting performances help to establish a world outside of Joel’s rapidly disintegrating memories.
Kaufman has, to some degree, written himself into a corner—he has produced two masterpieces that may well come to define turn-of-the-21st-century cinema (Malkovich and Adaptation) and has rarely faltered in his collaborations outside of the seemingly unstoppable Jonze/Kaufman juggernaut. The expectations for Kaufman-scripted films are so high that he may be facing the same dilemma that Jim Carrey faced about ten years ago (was it really ten years ago?). It is somewhat ironic that this film marks the first Carrey performance that, to some extent, can be gauged outside of his former celebrity baggage. Carrey wears his newfound (relative) anonymity well, probably quite comfortable out of the intense heat of the Hollywood limelight.
Likewise, it may take a few years for Kaufman to shed the weight of his early successes so that his works can be seen individually on their own terms, instead of compared to his previous projects. When that time comes, it will be much easier to reconsider excellent films such as Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Human Nature, and now Eternal Sunshine on their own terms. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind may not be a “meta-something” masterpiece, but it does offer one of most elaborate and delightfully convoluted excuses for a romantic comedy yet filmed. The fact that Kaufman can and will undoubtedly set his sights higher only emphasizes his status as one of the most challenging and extraordinary screenwriters in modern cinema.
0 comments
3/20/2004
FILM REVIEW: DAWN OF THE DEAD
Fearless Zombie Rehashers or, Pardon Me, but Your Teeth Are STILL in My Neck
Hollywood has recently put forth Herculean effort to squeeze a few bucks out of a particularly tricky beast—the remake. Usually direct comparison to the original is unavoidable, and tackling the issue directly (the most infamous example being Gus Van Sandt’s Psycho) can have even worse results than significantly diverging from the original (Mr. Deeds, Vanilla Sky, Planet of the Apes, etc.). The problem being that no one seems to want to remake the bajillion bad films swirling in the VHS ghetto at Blockbuster—OK, maybe Ocean’s Eleven. But even that one couldn’t make it through without a sequel or two already in the works.
The glut of remakes of horror classics in particular would seem to be a doomed enterprise from the get-go. Most horror films that have been recently “updated” establish a unique, gritty, often amateurish atmosphere that gains nothing from Hollywood gloss and special effects. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre achieved its renown not for its characters, plot and special effects, but for its ambience. An effectively unsettling approximation of amateur voyeurism (through cheap film stock, hand held camera work, etc.) is what keeps horror fans returning to the original. Studio sheen underlines in bold—and therefore destroys completely—the dread that was so tactfully understated the first time around.
I entered Dawn of the Dead with caution, bracing for what easily could have been a travesty of Romero’s original sequel to the landmark Night of the Living Dead. Surely the few extra million dollars would repress any social significance apparent in the original; surely high-quality sets and special effects would compromise Romero’s distinctive starkness. And I was correct—Dawn of the Dead (the remake) is nothing more than a bloody Hollywood thriller. And it is totally awesome.
How does the remake succeed in the face of what would seem to be inescapable obstacles of staying true to the original? It doesn’t stay true to the original, of course, immediately establishing different expectations for the film from the start. The first sequence informs us that this film is a thriller—complete with extreme close-ups of feet slowly sneaking through rooms, zombies aggressively breaking through doors, and an arbitrary huge explosion. This is a different film entirely, with different characters, different zombies, different motivations, different conclusions. The willful separation pays off.
The story follows the adventures of a young nurse (Sarah Polley), a tough cop (Ving Rhames) and a half dozen or so other immediately recognizable character types (the Yuppie, the Redneck, the Naïve Boy and Girl, the Sadist With a Heart of Gold, the Generic White Man, etc.) as they stave off an army of zombies while holed away in a shopping mall. If and/or how they escape and who gets zombified in the process is relatively immaterial, though there is sufficient character development to just barely allow us some genuine sympathy for most of the characters. The story moves along quickly and rarely pauses for subplots and failed attempts at humor that bog down so many similar films.
What results is a highly satisfying action horror film that finds just enough common ground with the original (basically only the mall setting) to merit its title and enough completely unrelated material to keep it from an unfavorable direct comparison. First-time director Zack Snyder makes sure that scares hit hard, fast and consistently. Many moments are genuinely shocking, in terms of both content and ingenuity—it’s hard to believe there are so many new takes on cool ways to kill a zombie. The film is a refreshing break from the current slew of nearly irredeemable remakes (thanks, Gus) and probably a rare breath of fresh air before more dreck.
Despite the promising news that Peter Jackson has taken on King Kong and Tim Burton and Johnny Depp are trying their hand at Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, terrible remakes will undoubtedly plague the film community for years to come. In case the previous titles perked you up, here’s a good one: Disney has announced plans to remake their classics in trendy 3-D animation...starting with Pinnochio. It’s a shame that “Eisner’s head on a platter!” is now an obsolete phrase. What the hell, for old times sake...EISNER’S HEAD ON A PLATTER! At the very least, Dawn of the Dead is a pleasant diversion before the imminent atrocities of Snow White: Cubed and—dare I suggest such a thing?—Star Wars: Redux Redux (3D glasses available at participating Blockbuster stores).
0 comments
Fearless Zombie Rehashers or, Pardon Me, but Your Teeth Are STILL in My Neck
Hollywood has recently put forth Herculean effort to squeeze a few bucks out of a particularly tricky beast—the remake. Usually direct comparison to the original is unavoidable, and tackling the issue directly (the most infamous example being Gus Van Sandt’s Psycho) can have even worse results than significantly diverging from the original (Mr. Deeds, Vanilla Sky, Planet of the Apes, etc.). The problem being that no one seems to want to remake the bajillion bad films swirling in the VHS ghetto at Blockbuster—OK, maybe Ocean’s Eleven. But even that one couldn’t make it through without a sequel or two already in the works.
The glut of remakes of horror classics in particular would seem to be a doomed enterprise from the get-go. Most horror films that have been recently “updated” establish a unique, gritty, often amateurish atmosphere that gains nothing from Hollywood gloss and special effects. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre achieved its renown not for its characters, plot and special effects, but for its ambience. An effectively unsettling approximation of amateur voyeurism (through cheap film stock, hand held camera work, etc.) is what keeps horror fans returning to the original. Studio sheen underlines in bold—and therefore destroys completely—the dread that was so tactfully understated the first time around.
I entered Dawn of the Dead with caution, bracing for what easily could have been a travesty of Romero’s original sequel to the landmark Night of the Living Dead. Surely the few extra million dollars would repress any social significance apparent in the original; surely high-quality sets and special effects would compromise Romero’s distinctive starkness. And I was correct—Dawn of the Dead (the remake) is nothing more than a bloody Hollywood thriller. And it is totally awesome.
How does the remake succeed in the face of what would seem to be inescapable obstacles of staying true to the original? It doesn’t stay true to the original, of course, immediately establishing different expectations for the film from the start. The first sequence informs us that this film is a thriller—complete with extreme close-ups of feet slowly sneaking through rooms, zombies aggressively breaking through doors, and an arbitrary huge explosion. This is a different film entirely, with different characters, different zombies, different motivations, different conclusions. The willful separation pays off.
The story follows the adventures of a young nurse (Sarah Polley), a tough cop (Ving Rhames) and a half dozen or so other immediately recognizable character types (the Yuppie, the Redneck, the Naïve Boy and Girl, the Sadist With a Heart of Gold, the Generic White Man, etc.) as they stave off an army of zombies while holed away in a shopping mall. If and/or how they escape and who gets zombified in the process is relatively immaterial, though there is sufficient character development to just barely allow us some genuine sympathy for most of the characters. The story moves along quickly and rarely pauses for subplots and failed attempts at humor that bog down so many similar films.
What results is a highly satisfying action horror film that finds just enough common ground with the original (basically only the mall setting) to merit its title and enough completely unrelated material to keep it from an unfavorable direct comparison. First-time director Zack Snyder makes sure that scares hit hard, fast and consistently. Many moments are genuinely shocking, in terms of both content and ingenuity—it’s hard to believe there are so many new takes on cool ways to kill a zombie. The film is a refreshing break from the current slew of nearly irredeemable remakes (thanks, Gus) and probably a rare breath of fresh air before more dreck.
Despite the promising news that Peter Jackson has taken on King Kong and Tim Burton and Johnny Depp are trying their hand at Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, terrible remakes will undoubtedly plague the film community for years to come. In case the previous titles perked you up, here’s a good one: Disney has announced plans to remake their classics in trendy 3-D animation...starting with Pinnochio. It’s a shame that “Eisner’s head on a platter!” is now an obsolete phrase. What the hell, for old times sake...EISNER’S HEAD ON A PLATTER! At the very least, Dawn of the Dead is a pleasant diversion before the imminent atrocities of Snow White: Cubed and—dare I suggest such a thing?—Star Wars: Redux Redux (3D glasses available at participating Blockbuster stores).
0 comments
3/18/2004
[Note: This is the first of what may well be many CD review blurbs resulting from...promos! Yes, I contacted a few labels and they were more than happy to fulfill my insatiable craving for real-life, artwork-laden releases via the wonderful people over at Buzzsaw Haircut. By the way, I reviewed this album before Pitchfork did and am quite giddy at the prospect. I predict they give it an 8.3. Any takers on a wager?]
Iron and Wine- Our Endless Numbered Days
Samuel Beam, appropriately, looks like a cross between Grizzly Adams and Kieran Culkin. As the man behind Iron & Wine, Beam has found an excellent balance between the gritty blues roots of his music and the sweetness of his throaty vocal intonation. Our Endless Numbered Days expands upon the Lou-Barlow-in-the-Delta sound established on I&W’s debut and stands as an early peak in his career. Several tracks, such as the striking opener “On Your Wings,” utilize dense acoustic/steel guitar multi-tracking and unique percussion in the vein of Sufjan Stevens. Others, like the gorgeous “Fever Dream”, benefit from Beam’s characteristic stripped-down lo-fi production. A must own for fans of I&W’s debut or indie/neo-folk in general.
0 comments
Iron and Wine- Our Endless Numbered Days
Samuel Beam, appropriately, looks like a cross between Grizzly Adams and Kieran Culkin. As the man behind Iron & Wine, Beam has found an excellent balance between the gritty blues roots of his music and the sweetness of his throaty vocal intonation. Our Endless Numbered Days expands upon the Lou-Barlow-in-the-Delta sound established on I&W’s debut and stands as an early peak in his career. Several tracks, such as the striking opener “On Your Wings,” utilize dense acoustic/steel guitar multi-tracking and unique percussion in the vein of Sufjan Stevens. Others, like the gorgeous “Fever Dream”, benefit from Beam’s characteristic stripped-down lo-fi production. A must own for fans of I&W’s debut or indie/neo-folk in general.
0 comments
3/11/2004
FILM REVIEW: MASTER AND COMMANDER: THE FAR SIDE OF THE WORLD
White guys’ eyes on the prize
Master and Commander is a roaring, swashbuckling, high seas adventure—OK, enough of that. If you’ve seen the previews for Master and Commander and are familiar with Peter Weir’s diverse body of work (Picnic at Hanging Rock, Witness, The Truman Show) you can probably guess that this film is beautifully photographed, perfectly cast, and approaches its source material from a more engaging perspective than the average Hollywood film (compare The Truman Show to EdTV, or Witness to almost any other thriller starring Harrison Ford). There isn’t a lot to say about set design, costuming, cinematography, editing, etc., etc. that 1) hasn’t already been honored with an Academy Award nomination and 2) isn’t about on par with the whole of Weir’s generally stunning oeuvre. In fact, the film surpasses any film Weir has made in terms of production value and general epic-ness.
Instead, I’ll focus on the universal dilemma of “period” war films and how this genre almost invariably undermines any earnest intentions of accurately representing history. The story chronicles the mission of the crew of a British naval warship, the HMS Surprise, who in 1805 were ordered to locate and destroy, or “take as a prize”, a ship from Napoleon’s fleet. Russell Crowe plays the stoic Captain “Lucky” Jack Aubrey, who must, er, master and command his hundred or so men in battle. The fundamental flaw in the presentation of the film's history is apparent in the immediate conflict, stated in a brief opening title. The mission of the film's protagonists is to find and destroy a French warship. There is no context for the mission—such as, for instance, what might be gained from destroying this ship and its hundred or so men—and there is no depiction of the opposing side until the final scenes of the film, which predictably do not seek to evoke sympathy for the French.
But what is the point? Why do we need “historical dramatizations” in which there is no questioning of generally (and often inaccurately) disseminated knowledge and, more importantly, no perceivable outlet for further discourse? Weir’s film, though admittedly subtler in its “dramatization” conceits than, say, The Patriot, is still falling back on the standard language of Hollywood film to essentially tell us whom to support. The British are certainly a more accessible entry point for American audiences, but what makes “Lucky” Jack and his motley crew any more respectable or worthy of sympathy than the French? The film can only offer immaterial support for its seemingly arbitrary choice in protagonists: the British ship is slower and more old-fashioned than the French and Napoleon is an easier figure to despise on name recognition alone than King George III—though not by much, if one were to quickly peruse the ol’ Declaration of Independence. Plus, French accents are pretty annoying, as is evidenced by a spokesman for the French ship who bears more than a slight resemblance to John Cleese’s snotty Frenchman in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Like many “historical” films, it is difficult to sympathize with many of the characters when context is considered. Just as Black Hawk Down’s message of “sticking together” seems narrow and even inappropriate within the complex political context of the actual event, actual historical context jeopardizes a gateway for direct sympathy toward the characters of Weir’s film. Consider one prominent character, a young deckhand who, throughout the film, becomes leftenant through his hard work on the ship. We are meant to “root for” the boy to succeed—he is obviously a skilled shipmate and has leadership potential. (Spoiler) The boy is killed in hand-to-hand combat with the French in the final battle of the film, and a series of poignant scenes lead the audience to mourn the boy along with the other men killed in battle. But what about the crew of the “antagonist” French ship, which suffers far more casualties than the British? Should we excuse the obvious bloodlust of the young British boy apparent in an intense sequence of sword-fighting because…he’s British? Or because we’re “supposed” to?
There are many specific questions that could be posed against the film’s purported “accuracy” of early nineteenth century ship life: Why do soldiers’ rations look like Salisbury steak smothered in gravy instead of the rotting dried meat lower crew members were more likely served? Why are there only two black sailors on the ship, and how are they treated by the white crew members? There are many more questions regarding the film’s system of ethics: Why is the audience asked to cheer on a group of soldiers on an express mission to kill without being given any context as to what exactly they’re fighting for? What is the inherent value of a film that supports white colonialists as benevolent “heroes” who are somehow “noble” just because they live at sea and speak in eloquent British accents?
The key problem that hinders a genuine appreciation of the film is precisely its failure to question its own alleged history. A more challenging film might explore the motives these men have for going to war (and the response “because they’re following orders” is not a compelling argument, despite popular belief), or even the motives of the opposing side for going to war. It might have dealt with more important issues than “finding courage” or “performing one’s duty at all costs”, like race relations, gender relations (the only women in the film are “natives” who are delighted by the arrival of a ship full of British sailors), or the inherently abusive relationship between the “master and commander” and his inferiors. All of these issues are hinted at expressly but never dealt with in any context greater than peripheral set dressing.
Despite the remarkable cinematography, superb individual performances and exhilarating effects and editing, Master and Commander finally emerges as a film with no intention other than superficially dazzling its audience. The harsh realities of ship life, though thoroughly re-created, are romanticized—it is telling that the film spends more time in the lush captain’s quarters than the stuffy crew quarters that house a hundred men in makeshift hammocks. Battles are edited in true Hollywood fashion, emphasizing spectacle and intentionally overlooking political context. Motivations are left unquestioned, historical preconceptions are, for the most part, left unchallenged (remember: Napoleon was bad), and character development hinges on the audience’s blind acceptance of militaristic ideals of “honor”, “duty”, and “courage”. Despite its subtle pacing, immaculate attention to period detail, excellent performances and breathtaking technical achievements, Master and Commander only succeeds on the level of an action film. The film’s narrow presentation of “history” irresponsibly reinforces a violent, totalitarian, imperialist value system in which the “prize” of an arbitrary victory—no matter the cost or theoretical implications of such a notion—is both master and commander. Which, for the record, is redundant.
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White guys’ eyes on the prize
Master and Commander is a roaring, swashbuckling, high seas adventure—OK, enough of that. If you’ve seen the previews for Master and Commander and are familiar with Peter Weir’s diverse body of work (Picnic at Hanging Rock, Witness, The Truman Show) you can probably guess that this film is beautifully photographed, perfectly cast, and approaches its source material from a more engaging perspective than the average Hollywood film (compare The Truman Show to EdTV, or Witness to almost any other thriller starring Harrison Ford). There isn’t a lot to say about set design, costuming, cinematography, editing, etc., etc. that 1) hasn’t already been honored with an Academy Award nomination and 2) isn’t about on par with the whole of Weir’s generally stunning oeuvre. In fact, the film surpasses any film Weir has made in terms of production value and general epic-ness.
Instead, I’ll focus on the universal dilemma of “period” war films and how this genre almost invariably undermines any earnest intentions of accurately representing history. The story chronicles the mission of the crew of a British naval warship, the HMS Surprise, who in 1805 were ordered to locate and destroy, or “take as a prize”, a ship from Napoleon’s fleet. Russell Crowe plays the stoic Captain “Lucky” Jack Aubrey, who must, er, master and command his hundred or so men in battle. The fundamental flaw in the presentation of the film's history is apparent in the immediate conflict, stated in a brief opening title. The mission of the film's protagonists is to find and destroy a French warship. There is no context for the mission—such as, for instance, what might be gained from destroying this ship and its hundred or so men—and there is no depiction of the opposing side until the final scenes of the film, which predictably do not seek to evoke sympathy for the French.
But what is the point? Why do we need “historical dramatizations” in which there is no questioning of generally (and often inaccurately) disseminated knowledge and, more importantly, no perceivable outlet for further discourse? Weir’s film, though admittedly subtler in its “dramatization” conceits than, say, The Patriot, is still falling back on the standard language of Hollywood film to essentially tell us whom to support. The British are certainly a more accessible entry point for American audiences, but what makes “Lucky” Jack and his motley crew any more respectable or worthy of sympathy than the French? The film can only offer immaterial support for its seemingly arbitrary choice in protagonists: the British ship is slower and more old-fashioned than the French and Napoleon is an easier figure to despise on name recognition alone than King George III—though not by much, if one were to quickly peruse the ol’ Declaration of Independence. Plus, French accents are pretty annoying, as is evidenced by a spokesman for the French ship who bears more than a slight resemblance to John Cleese’s snotty Frenchman in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Like many “historical” films, it is difficult to sympathize with many of the characters when context is considered. Just as Black Hawk Down’s message of “sticking together” seems narrow and even inappropriate within the complex political context of the actual event, actual historical context jeopardizes a gateway for direct sympathy toward the characters of Weir’s film. Consider one prominent character, a young deckhand who, throughout the film, becomes leftenant through his hard work on the ship. We are meant to “root for” the boy to succeed—he is obviously a skilled shipmate and has leadership potential. (Spoiler) The boy is killed in hand-to-hand combat with the French in the final battle of the film, and a series of poignant scenes lead the audience to mourn the boy along with the other men killed in battle. But what about the crew of the “antagonist” French ship, which suffers far more casualties than the British? Should we excuse the obvious bloodlust of the young British boy apparent in an intense sequence of sword-fighting because…he’s British? Or because we’re “supposed” to?
There are many specific questions that could be posed against the film’s purported “accuracy” of early nineteenth century ship life: Why do soldiers’ rations look like Salisbury steak smothered in gravy instead of the rotting dried meat lower crew members were more likely served? Why are there only two black sailors on the ship, and how are they treated by the white crew members? There are many more questions regarding the film’s system of ethics: Why is the audience asked to cheer on a group of soldiers on an express mission to kill without being given any context as to what exactly they’re fighting for? What is the inherent value of a film that supports white colonialists as benevolent “heroes” who are somehow “noble” just because they live at sea and speak in eloquent British accents?
The key problem that hinders a genuine appreciation of the film is precisely its failure to question its own alleged history. A more challenging film might explore the motives these men have for going to war (and the response “because they’re following orders” is not a compelling argument, despite popular belief), or even the motives of the opposing side for going to war. It might have dealt with more important issues than “finding courage” or “performing one’s duty at all costs”, like race relations, gender relations (the only women in the film are “natives” who are delighted by the arrival of a ship full of British sailors), or the inherently abusive relationship between the “master and commander” and his inferiors. All of these issues are hinted at expressly but never dealt with in any context greater than peripheral set dressing.
Despite the remarkable cinematography, superb individual performances and exhilarating effects and editing, Master and Commander finally emerges as a film with no intention other than superficially dazzling its audience. The harsh realities of ship life, though thoroughly re-created, are romanticized—it is telling that the film spends more time in the lush captain’s quarters than the stuffy crew quarters that house a hundred men in makeshift hammocks. Battles are edited in true Hollywood fashion, emphasizing spectacle and intentionally overlooking political context. Motivations are left unquestioned, historical preconceptions are, for the most part, left unchallenged (remember: Napoleon was bad), and character development hinges on the audience’s blind acceptance of militaristic ideals of “honor”, “duty”, and “courage”. Despite its subtle pacing, immaculate attention to period detail, excellent performances and breathtaking technical achievements, Master and Commander only succeeds on the level of an action film. The film’s narrow presentation of “history” irresponsibly reinforces a violent, totalitarian, imperialist value system in which the “prize” of an arbitrary victory—no matter the cost or theoretical implications of such a notion—is both master and commander. Which, for the record, is redundant.
0 comments
3/08/2004
I LOVE THE 90’S!
Dr. Octagon: Oh, shit—there’s a horse in the hospital!
Albums on the Top 100: Dr. Octagonecologyst (1996)
Dr. Octagon, one of the short-lived aliases of rapper “Kool” Keith Thornton, is certainly not the most influential hip-hop figure of the decade. Dr. Dre, Notorious B.I.G, Tupac Shakur, and the Wu-Tang Clan easily trump Octagon in terms of influence on the hip-hop community in the 90’s. Nor is he necessarily the “best”—A Tribe Called Quest, Outkast and The Roots generally hold higher critical standing and are more popular with hip-hop audiences. But in retrospect, the Dr. Octagon project has had wider ranging effects on underground hip-hop than many of the most popular or directly influential acts of the decade. It is also primarily responsible for introducing to the musical community Dan the Automator, who has since become one of hip-hop's preeminent producers.
Keith’s past is littered with mythology that has conveniently supported the shortsighted “mad genius” persona he is often tagged with—he is reported to have spent time in Bellevue undergoing extensive psychiatric examination—but whatever mental problems he may have had are not readily apparent in his music, which is diverse, provocative, and above all else, difficult to pigeonhole. “Crazy” is not an evident or sufficient link between projects as varied as Dr. Octagon, Dr. Dooom, Black Elvis, Kool Keith’s solo efforts, and his early Ultramagnetic MC’s material.
As a member of the Ultramagnetic MC’s, Kool Keith, along with DJ Moe Love and rapper Ced Gee, provided a crucial alternative sound to the uplifting sample collages of De La Soul and the enraged ghetto caricatures of NWA in the late 80’s. Ultramagnetic MC’s debut, ’88’s Critical Beatdown, is a funky, irreverent hip-hop landmark with an edge missing from the “positive” hip-hop of early De La Soul and Jungle Brothers, and a distinct playfulness absent from developing gangsta rap. Gangsta rap would quickly eclipse efforts in 90’s mainstream hip-hop to embrace social optimism, but the alternative blueprint that the Ultramagnetic MC’s in part helped create largely steered the hip-hop underground away from blatant thug posturing and toward intelligent, articulate, and complex rap music utilizing eccentric samples.
Kool Keith released two more albums with the MC’s before the group finally broke up in ’93. After a brief absence from the underground rap scene, Keith finally resurfaced as one of the first of several alter-egos in a long career of pseudonym projects. Keith collaborated with up-and-coming mix-master Dan Nakamura—a.k.a. Dan the Automator—and turntable mastermind DJ Q-Bert on a concept album about a gynecologist from Jupiter with fetishes for fetuses in jars, exposed rectums, and nitrous oxide. Though Keith’s flow was impressive on his MC’s material, nothing could have prepared the hip-hop community for the warp-speed free association that was to follow. On his one and only album as Dr. Octagon, Keith didn’t break through the ceiling of acceptable rap style so much as warp to a parallel universe where rhyme, meter, structure, and coherent content were not a constraint.
“Earth People”, the first single from Dr. Octagonecologyst, was released in late ’95 and quickly attracted praise in the underground hip-hop community for its bizarre lyrical scheme and delivery and deceptively intricate “minimal” production. The album was released in the UK in ’96 on DJ Shadow’s label Mo’ Wax—Shadow is said to have had some influence on the production as well, though he is not officially credited. It was released stateside soon after on 75 Ark Records and, after gaining momentum in the underground press was picked up by DreamWorks and given wider distribution.
Dr. Octagonecologyst flourished in a particularly awkward period of rap history, when gangsta rap still dominated an increasingly hip-hop-friendly mainstream market but had been whitewashed enough for mass consumption and, for the most part, had been relegated to a few big names who spoke for their “community”. Two of these big names, Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, were murdered in late ’96 and early ’97, respectively, drawing attention to the extremes to which the “gangsta” culture had elevated. It is appropriate, I think, to view Octagonecologyst not just as accomplished absurdism, but as a flat-out satire of the mainstream rap culture surrounding it in the mid-90’s, taking the gender politics and sadistic undertones of popular gangsta rap to their (scato)logical extreme.
Dr. Octagon doesn’t simply glorify violence and the sexual abuse of women; he approaches those same misogynistic tendencies from the removed standpoint of a crackpot physician, eschewing euphemism and instead indulging in the most graphic and technical aspects of sexual domination. The image of a sadistic gynecologist is certainly disturbing, but it serves as an outright expression of the twisted ideals of many mainstream gangsta rap artists—with a healthy dose of sophomoric humor to distance the artist (Keith) from the idea (Octagon). This separation through exaggeration and humor is a factor missing from much of the gangsta rap of the period, and helps to deflate an era full of glorified misogyny.
Of course, Octagonecologyst also works simply as a great album. Keith’s lyrical skills are nothing short of astounding on every track, finding endless inventive uses for variations on the word “rectum” and surprising lyrical cohesion in the seemingly random listing of numbers and colors. Dan the Automator creates some of his most haunting and effective sample pastiches, drenching tracks in horror movie strings, menacing synth bass lines, eerie bell tones, and cheesy sci-fi effects to perfectly complement Keith’s often grotesque freeform imagery. Nakamura went on to greater fame in his collaborations with Del tha Funkee Homosapien and Blur’s Damon Albarn on the Deltron 3030 and Gorillaz projects, but his productions have yet to tap into the foreboding ambience apparent on the Octagon album. DJ Q-Bert is masterful on the turntable, turning orgasmic moans, shrill screams, and schlock horror effects into veritable symphonies.
Even the inter-track skits all work—unlike so many hip-hop artists who seem to invariably clutter up their albums with in-jokes and long stretches of boring studio chatter, each of the skits on Octagonecologyst heighten the atmosphere of the project as a whole. Horror movie soundtracks, multiple cases of blatant malpractice, and even a strange introduction from Doc Ock himself that smacks of late night cable TV advertising all contribute to the album's theatricality and overt weirdness. It is a testament to Keith’s wicked humor that “Blue Flowers”—one of the strongest stand-alone tracks on the album—somehow seems incomplete without the hilarious “General Hospital” interlude preceding it.
Keith has complained in interviews that he regrets doing the Dr. Octagon album, believing it didn’t turn out as “funky” as he knew it could have been. Though it can be argued that the album actually benefits from discarding the rigid funk that characterized much of Ultramagnetic MC’s material and most of Keith’s work under his “Kool Keith” alias, the album does in fact project a futuristic, dystopian intimation of funk. While sonically progressive singles “3000” and “Blue Flowers” rely heavily on intimidating atmosphere instead of straight funk, “Bear Witness” and “Girl Let Me Touch You” have relatively traditional funk backing tracks. “Halfsharkalligatorhalfman” and “Earth People” go a step further, embodying funk, or at least a demented variation of funk, without superficially copying it. It is telling that Keith has expressed dissatisfaction about the Octagon project being too stiff, because the one thing that his subsequent releases as Dr. Dooom and Kool Keith have lacked is the kind of freedom and flexibility, both lyrically and musically, that make Dr. Octagonecologyst so enduring.
Kool Keith will likely never return to the Dr. Octagon alias (Keith actually kills Dr. Octagon on the first track of the Dr. Dooom album First Come, First Served) but the impact the Octagon album has had on hip-hop is irreversible. The album was essentially an oasis in mid-90’s hip-hop, opening the genre up to wild new interpretations radically removed from former constraints of rhyme, meter, and subject matter. Company Flow, Jedi Mind Tricks, Aesop Rock and countless other implacable artists utilizing a complex, intelligent rap style and dense, brooding production are in debt to Keith for making such a seemingly inaccessible, bizarre style of hip-hop palatable to a wider audience. We may never again meet someone with the credentials and experience necessary to identify a bad case of chimpanzee acne, moosebumps, or cirrhosis of the eye, but the legacy of Dr. Octagon will surely—fuck it, he’s dead.
0 comments
Dr. Octagon: Oh, shit—there’s a horse in the hospital!
Albums on the Top 100: Dr. Octagonecologyst (1996)
Dr. Octagon, one of the short-lived aliases of rapper “Kool” Keith Thornton, is certainly not the most influential hip-hop figure of the decade. Dr. Dre, Notorious B.I.G, Tupac Shakur, and the Wu-Tang Clan easily trump Octagon in terms of influence on the hip-hop community in the 90’s. Nor is he necessarily the “best”—A Tribe Called Quest, Outkast and The Roots generally hold higher critical standing and are more popular with hip-hop audiences. But in retrospect, the Dr. Octagon project has had wider ranging effects on underground hip-hop than many of the most popular or directly influential acts of the decade. It is also primarily responsible for introducing to the musical community Dan the Automator, who has since become one of hip-hop's preeminent producers.
Keith’s past is littered with mythology that has conveniently supported the shortsighted “mad genius” persona he is often tagged with—he is reported to have spent time in Bellevue undergoing extensive psychiatric examination—but whatever mental problems he may have had are not readily apparent in his music, which is diverse, provocative, and above all else, difficult to pigeonhole. “Crazy” is not an evident or sufficient link between projects as varied as Dr. Octagon, Dr. Dooom, Black Elvis, Kool Keith’s solo efforts, and his early Ultramagnetic MC’s material.
As a member of the Ultramagnetic MC’s, Kool Keith, along with DJ Moe Love and rapper Ced Gee, provided a crucial alternative sound to the uplifting sample collages of De La Soul and the enraged ghetto caricatures of NWA in the late 80’s. Ultramagnetic MC’s debut, ’88’s Critical Beatdown, is a funky, irreverent hip-hop landmark with an edge missing from the “positive” hip-hop of early De La Soul and Jungle Brothers, and a distinct playfulness absent from developing gangsta rap. Gangsta rap would quickly eclipse efforts in 90’s mainstream hip-hop to embrace social optimism, but the alternative blueprint that the Ultramagnetic MC’s in part helped create largely steered the hip-hop underground away from blatant thug posturing and toward intelligent, articulate, and complex rap music utilizing eccentric samples.
Kool Keith released two more albums with the MC’s before the group finally broke up in ’93. After a brief absence from the underground rap scene, Keith finally resurfaced as one of the first of several alter-egos in a long career of pseudonym projects. Keith collaborated with up-and-coming mix-master Dan Nakamura—a.k.a. Dan the Automator—and turntable mastermind DJ Q-Bert on a concept album about a gynecologist from Jupiter with fetishes for fetuses in jars, exposed rectums, and nitrous oxide. Though Keith’s flow was impressive on his MC’s material, nothing could have prepared the hip-hop community for the warp-speed free association that was to follow. On his one and only album as Dr. Octagon, Keith didn’t break through the ceiling of acceptable rap style so much as warp to a parallel universe where rhyme, meter, structure, and coherent content were not a constraint.
“Earth People”, the first single from Dr. Octagonecologyst, was released in late ’95 and quickly attracted praise in the underground hip-hop community for its bizarre lyrical scheme and delivery and deceptively intricate “minimal” production. The album was released in the UK in ’96 on DJ Shadow’s label Mo’ Wax—Shadow is said to have had some influence on the production as well, though he is not officially credited. It was released stateside soon after on 75 Ark Records and, after gaining momentum in the underground press was picked up by DreamWorks and given wider distribution.
Dr. Octagonecologyst flourished in a particularly awkward period of rap history, when gangsta rap still dominated an increasingly hip-hop-friendly mainstream market but had been whitewashed enough for mass consumption and, for the most part, had been relegated to a few big names who spoke for their “community”. Two of these big names, Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, were murdered in late ’96 and early ’97, respectively, drawing attention to the extremes to which the “gangsta” culture had elevated. It is appropriate, I think, to view Octagonecologyst not just as accomplished absurdism, but as a flat-out satire of the mainstream rap culture surrounding it in the mid-90’s, taking the gender politics and sadistic undertones of popular gangsta rap to their (scato)logical extreme.
Dr. Octagon doesn’t simply glorify violence and the sexual abuse of women; he approaches those same misogynistic tendencies from the removed standpoint of a crackpot physician, eschewing euphemism and instead indulging in the most graphic and technical aspects of sexual domination. The image of a sadistic gynecologist is certainly disturbing, but it serves as an outright expression of the twisted ideals of many mainstream gangsta rap artists—with a healthy dose of sophomoric humor to distance the artist (Keith) from the idea (Octagon). This separation through exaggeration and humor is a factor missing from much of the gangsta rap of the period, and helps to deflate an era full of glorified misogyny.
Of course, Octagonecologyst also works simply as a great album. Keith’s lyrical skills are nothing short of astounding on every track, finding endless inventive uses for variations on the word “rectum” and surprising lyrical cohesion in the seemingly random listing of numbers and colors. Dan the Automator creates some of his most haunting and effective sample pastiches, drenching tracks in horror movie strings, menacing synth bass lines, eerie bell tones, and cheesy sci-fi effects to perfectly complement Keith’s often grotesque freeform imagery. Nakamura went on to greater fame in his collaborations with Del tha Funkee Homosapien and Blur’s Damon Albarn on the Deltron 3030 and Gorillaz projects, but his productions have yet to tap into the foreboding ambience apparent on the Octagon album. DJ Q-Bert is masterful on the turntable, turning orgasmic moans, shrill screams, and schlock horror effects into veritable symphonies.
Even the inter-track skits all work—unlike so many hip-hop artists who seem to invariably clutter up their albums with in-jokes and long stretches of boring studio chatter, each of the skits on Octagonecologyst heighten the atmosphere of the project as a whole. Horror movie soundtracks, multiple cases of blatant malpractice, and even a strange introduction from Doc Ock himself that smacks of late night cable TV advertising all contribute to the album's theatricality and overt weirdness. It is a testament to Keith’s wicked humor that “Blue Flowers”—one of the strongest stand-alone tracks on the album—somehow seems incomplete without the hilarious “General Hospital” interlude preceding it.
Keith has complained in interviews that he regrets doing the Dr. Octagon album, believing it didn’t turn out as “funky” as he knew it could have been. Though it can be argued that the album actually benefits from discarding the rigid funk that characterized much of Ultramagnetic MC’s material and most of Keith’s work under his “Kool Keith” alias, the album does in fact project a futuristic, dystopian intimation of funk. While sonically progressive singles “3000” and “Blue Flowers” rely heavily on intimidating atmosphere instead of straight funk, “Bear Witness” and “Girl Let Me Touch You” have relatively traditional funk backing tracks. “Halfsharkalligatorhalfman” and “Earth People” go a step further, embodying funk, or at least a demented variation of funk, without superficially copying it. It is telling that Keith has expressed dissatisfaction about the Octagon project being too stiff, because the one thing that his subsequent releases as Dr. Dooom and Kool Keith have lacked is the kind of freedom and flexibility, both lyrically and musically, that make Dr. Octagonecologyst so enduring.
Kool Keith will likely never return to the Dr. Octagon alias (Keith actually kills Dr. Octagon on the first track of the Dr. Dooom album First Come, First Served) but the impact the Octagon album has had on hip-hop is irreversible. The album was essentially an oasis in mid-90’s hip-hop, opening the genre up to wild new interpretations radically removed from former constraints of rhyme, meter, and subject matter. Company Flow, Jedi Mind Tricks, Aesop Rock and countless other implacable artists utilizing a complex, intelligent rap style and dense, brooding production are in debt to Keith for making such a seemingly inaccessible, bizarre style of hip-hop palatable to a wider audience. We may never again meet someone with the credentials and experience necessary to identify a bad case of chimpanzee acne, moosebumps, or cirrhosis of the eye, but the legacy of Dr. Octagon will surely—fuck it, he’s dead.
0 comments
3/04/2004
I LOVE THE 90’s!
Mike Patton: CHAK! CHAK! CHAK! TAKA-TAKA-TAKA!
Albums on the Top 100: Mr. Bungle (1991), Disco Volante (1995), California (1999)
I’ve chosen Mike Patton as the first subject of what I hope will be a fairly regular series on that most wonderfulest of decades, the 90’s, for several reasons. First of all, I just reviewed the new Fantômas album, which is totally boss, if a tad meandering. Secondly, I thought it would be appropriate to open up this project with a solid genealogy to contradict the standard Nirvana/Radiohead historical spotlight (don’t worry, I’ll get to them, too). No underdog was as distinguished, prolific, or just plain ubiquitous in the margins of the 1990’s as Mike Patton.
Patton formed his first band in high school with a few friends; they called themselves “Mr. Bungle” after a character in a children’s educational program about good manners that was featured on “Peewee’s Playhouse”. In case you couldn’t guess, Mr. Bungle was the one whose manners were not exactly up to snuff. In ’88, the members of then relatively unknown group Faith No More hired Patton as their new lead singer based on a demo tape of Mr. Bungle material. Until Patton’s arrival, the band had awkwardly tried to fuse rap vocals with metal music yielding limited success, despite a diverse roster of vocalists that at one point included Courtney Love. But the new versatile frontman—who, coincidentally, possessed one of the most impressive vocal ranges in rock music since Captain Beefheart—blew the lid off of one of the most enduring and popular genres in the 1990’s: “rap metal”.
It’s interesting to consider how important Faith No More was on the popular music scene after unleashing their hit single “Epic” on the first Patton-fronted album The Real Thing in 1990. Patton was clearly being sarcastic: the vague “it” that serves as the ultimate object of desire and subject of the song (Drugs? Knowledge? Fame?) is described as “dark”, “moist”, and “a bitter pain” that makes one “feel so good it’s like walking on glass”—and beyond all of the bleak imagery, “you want it all but you can’t have it”, as the insanely catchy chorus reminds us.
In creating what has to be one of the most sardonic popular songs of the decade (and lacking the kind of crusty intonation that made the slant of Beck’s “Loser” fairly obvious from even a casual listen) Faith No More unintentionally opened the floodgates for about a bajillion rap-rock groups to flourish on mainstream radio. Perhaps it was all an inexorable shitstorm from there as far as “rap metal” is concerned, but for one shining moment, one of the great nihilistic pop tunes of our time simultaneously encapsulated, spawned, and mocked a revolution, or at least evolution, in popular music.
It was all pretty much downhill for Faith No More, too, in terms of mainstream popularity—which probably suited Patton just fine. Though what is arguably their best album, Angel Dust, was still to come two years later, Faith No More essentially spent the rest of its existence striving to become Mr. Bungle’s more lighthearted but equally “inaccessible” doppelganger. It’s just as well, perhaps—“Epic” wasn’t a fluke, per se, but it was clearly intended as satire. Just as Blur’s “Song No. 2” was gobbled up by audiences who for the most part failed to get the joke, the song quickly made its way through the oblivious digestive tract of a mass listening audience, who were never again graced with a Faith No More "hit". After all, that was sort of the whole point to begin with.
Mr. Bungle has often been described as a “Faith No More side project”, which is inaccurate. Mr. Bungle predated Patton’s incarnation of Faith No More by at least five years, and the appearance of Bungle’s self-titled debut LP a full year after Faith No More’s rise to fame was merely a matter of logistics—touting the band as a “side project” hooked in those casual Faith No More fans that might not have been actively seeking a jumbled amalgam of jazz, metal, pop, and rap, with some truly unsettling samples (everything from Blue Velvet to retro porn) and about ten minutes of quietly disturbing studio chatter thrown in intermittently for good measure.
Far from the “circus metal” and “novelty” descriptions that have consistently hounded the band, Mr. Bungle’s debut album is one of the most challenging and rewarding artifacts of 1991, an epochal year that introduced to wider audiences decade-defining bands like Nirvana and My Bloody Valentine. The album opens with twenty seconds of silence broken by the sound of a bottle being shattered. Then comes a foreboding, slightly sarcastic doom metal riff leading to a bizarre funk section, a jazzy breakdown, an eerie bridge that mocks the theme from “Grease”, and some straightforward sludgy Sabbath metal. And that’s only half of the song. To describe a Mr. Bungle song completely often requires a full paragraph, and listening to their songs can often induce attention deficit disorder. Yet each piece is strangely unified by its own musical convulsions, perhaps because changes in tempo, chord structure, and general style are incredibly consistent in their relentlessness.
The frenetic, ska-inflected “Squeeze Me Macaroni” is more impressive as a funkier take on “rap metal” than most of Faith No More’s output, while the epic “Egg” remains fascinating for its full ten minutes, only stopping its hyperdrive momentum for an extended punchline coda that drags on so long that even Patton cracks up maniacally when he finally gets sick of it. “Stubb a Dubb” is a meticulously arranged carnival freakout that gleefully doubles back on itself like a painting by Escher channeling Salvador Dali and P.T. Barnum. The title message of “My Ass is On Fire” comes across as oddly heartfelt through Patton’s impassioned delivery. “Love is a Fist” and “Dead Goon” close the album with a brutal hard rock assault and a circus performance emceed by Elvis, respectively.
Mr. Bungle deviated even further from Patton’s previous material on their next release, Disco Volante , in 1995. The album consists mostly of atmospheric instrumental numbers that frequently break into hard-edged dance music and noise experimentation. “Everyone I Went to High School With is Dead” opens the album with a dose of menacing sarcasm—a nearly indiscernible group chant about the importance of keeping your yearbook to stay “informed” of how many of your adolescent pals are dead. The following few numbers rely heavily on instrumental breakdowns that at times approach flat-out incoherency. If Mr. Bungle is afflicted with attention deficit disorder, Disco Volante seems to suffer from manic depression.
“After School Special”, one of Mr. Bungle’s most understated gems, shines brilliantly through the willfully alienating sonic experiments surrounding it and stands victorious as an album high point. “My mom is better than your mom,” sings Patton in a quiet childlike whine, as a superb organ line and subtle rock accompaniment drown the track in melancholy before the unexpected tango bridge. “Special” can be seen as the quiet before the storm, as the band dives right back into thick, multi-layered jazz/rock/noise experiments. Overall, the album is more scattered than most of Patton’s work, but its distinct brand of frenzied mutant dance and pop is arguably the most admirable of all three Bungle albums in terms of raw power and insane proficiency.
The final downfall of Faith No More, culminating with the lackluster King for a Day, Fool for a Lifetime in ’95 and moderately successful swan song Album of the Year in ’97, led to some truly bizarre Patton solo efforts and the beginnings of what would soon become a stunning series of off-kilter collaborations. ’96 brought his first solo album, an extended sound collage of Patton going nuts sans accompaniment in a hotel room during a Faith No More tour. His first real stab at “serious” experimental composition followed a year later on Pranzo Oltranzista, which featured John Zorn on alto sax and prominent members of his ensemble on cello, guitar, and percussion.
Patton finally returned to Mr. Bungle for one final album, California, in ’99. California is a markedly focused, at times unabashedly accessible, eccentric homage to West Coast pop music. “Sweet Charity” lazily goes through the motions of faux doo-wop. The death metal intro to “None of Them Knew They Were Robots” unexpectedly transforms into fairly straightforward rockabilly littered with cartoon sound effects. “Ars Morendi” employs a klezmer band in a manner that can only be described as “Bungle-esque”, “Pink Cigarette” is Patton’s take on 50’s style crooning, and “Golem II: The Bionic Vapor Boy” turns on a dime from a creepy music box theme into, er, disco. The band saves the best for last, delivering what is arguably their best song yet recorded, “Goodbye Sober Day”. The phenomenal closing track somehow finds cohesion in a breakneck Latin beat, a truly bad-ass metal breakdown, a bunch of electronic junk noise, and, of course, an Indonesian “monkey chant”. TAK! CHAK CHAK CHAK TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA!
But I digress. Patton finished off the decade with Amenaza Al Mundo, the debut of his most stable working side project, Fantômas. The album consists of 30 tracks of instrumental hardcore—full of syllabic utterances, grunts, shrieks, and moans, but not a single discernable word in the lot—with a nonexistent comic book as the theme. Fantômas has since delivered an entire album of film score covers and a one-track album of horror ambience. Patton has recently collaborated with Dillinger Escape Plan, Boredoms leader Yamatsuka Eye, Prince Paul, and Dan the Automator, along with fronting no less than three side projects simultaneously.
Oh, Mike. You’ve grown so predictable in old age.
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Mike Patton: CHAK! CHAK! CHAK! TAKA-TAKA-TAKA!
Albums on the Top 100: Mr. Bungle (1991), Disco Volante (1995), California (1999)
I’ve chosen Mike Patton as the first subject of what I hope will be a fairly regular series on that most wonderfulest of decades, the 90’s, for several reasons. First of all, I just reviewed the new Fantômas album, which is totally boss, if a tad meandering. Secondly, I thought it would be appropriate to open up this project with a solid genealogy to contradict the standard Nirvana/Radiohead historical spotlight (don’t worry, I’ll get to them, too). No underdog was as distinguished, prolific, or just plain ubiquitous in the margins of the 1990’s as Mike Patton.
Patton formed his first band in high school with a few friends; they called themselves “Mr. Bungle” after a character in a children’s educational program about good manners that was featured on “Peewee’s Playhouse”. In case you couldn’t guess, Mr. Bungle was the one whose manners were not exactly up to snuff. In ’88, the members of then relatively unknown group Faith No More hired Patton as their new lead singer based on a demo tape of Mr. Bungle material. Until Patton’s arrival, the band had awkwardly tried to fuse rap vocals with metal music yielding limited success, despite a diverse roster of vocalists that at one point included Courtney Love. But the new versatile frontman—who, coincidentally, possessed one of the most impressive vocal ranges in rock music since Captain Beefheart—blew the lid off of one of the most enduring and popular genres in the 1990’s: “rap metal”.
It’s interesting to consider how important Faith No More was on the popular music scene after unleashing their hit single “Epic” on the first Patton-fronted album The Real Thing in 1990. Patton was clearly being sarcastic: the vague “it” that serves as the ultimate object of desire and subject of the song (Drugs? Knowledge? Fame?) is described as “dark”, “moist”, and “a bitter pain” that makes one “feel so good it’s like walking on glass”—and beyond all of the bleak imagery, “you want it all but you can’t have it”, as the insanely catchy chorus reminds us.
In creating what has to be one of the most sardonic popular songs of the decade (and lacking the kind of crusty intonation that made the slant of Beck’s “Loser” fairly obvious from even a casual listen) Faith No More unintentionally opened the floodgates for about a bajillion rap-rock groups to flourish on mainstream radio. Perhaps it was all an inexorable shitstorm from there as far as “rap metal” is concerned, but for one shining moment, one of the great nihilistic pop tunes of our time simultaneously encapsulated, spawned, and mocked a revolution, or at least evolution, in popular music.
It was all pretty much downhill for Faith No More, too, in terms of mainstream popularity—which probably suited Patton just fine. Though what is arguably their best album, Angel Dust, was still to come two years later, Faith No More essentially spent the rest of its existence striving to become Mr. Bungle’s more lighthearted but equally “inaccessible” doppelganger. It’s just as well, perhaps—“Epic” wasn’t a fluke, per se, but it was clearly intended as satire. Just as Blur’s “Song No. 2” was gobbled up by audiences who for the most part failed to get the joke, the song quickly made its way through the oblivious digestive tract of a mass listening audience, who were never again graced with a Faith No More "hit". After all, that was sort of the whole point to begin with.
Mr. Bungle has often been described as a “Faith No More side project”, which is inaccurate. Mr. Bungle predated Patton’s incarnation of Faith No More by at least five years, and the appearance of Bungle’s self-titled debut LP a full year after Faith No More’s rise to fame was merely a matter of logistics—touting the band as a “side project” hooked in those casual Faith No More fans that might not have been actively seeking a jumbled amalgam of jazz, metal, pop, and rap, with some truly unsettling samples (everything from Blue Velvet to retro porn) and about ten minutes of quietly disturbing studio chatter thrown in intermittently for good measure.
Far from the “circus metal” and “novelty” descriptions that have consistently hounded the band, Mr. Bungle’s debut album is one of the most challenging and rewarding artifacts of 1991, an epochal year that introduced to wider audiences decade-defining bands like Nirvana and My Bloody Valentine. The album opens with twenty seconds of silence broken by the sound of a bottle being shattered. Then comes a foreboding, slightly sarcastic doom metal riff leading to a bizarre funk section, a jazzy breakdown, an eerie bridge that mocks the theme from “Grease”, and some straightforward sludgy Sabbath metal. And that’s only half of the song. To describe a Mr. Bungle song completely often requires a full paragraph, and listening to their songs can often induce attention deficit disorder. Yet each piece is strangely unified by its own musical convulsions, perhaps because changes in tempo, chord structure, and general style are incredibly consistent in their relentlessness.
The frenetic, ska-inflected “Squeeze Me Macaroni” is more impressive as a funkier take on “rap metal” than most of Faith No More’s output, while the epic “Egg” remains fascinating for its full ten minutes, only stopping its hyperdrive momentum for an extended punchline coda that drags on so long that even Patton cracks up maniacally when he finally gets sick of it. “Stubb a Dubb” is a meticulously arranged carnival freakout that gleefully doubles back on itself like a painting by Escher channeling Salvador Dali and P.T. Barnum. The title message of “My Ass is On Fire” comes across as oddly heartfelt through Patton’s impassioned delivery. “Love is a Fist” and “Dead Goon” close the album with a brutal hard rock assault and a circus performance emceed by Elvis, respectively.
Mr. Bungle deviated even further from Patton’s previous material on their next release, Disco Volante , in 1995. The album consists mostly of atmospheric instrumental numbers that frequently break into hard-edged dance music and noise experimentation. “Everyone I Went to High School With is Dead” opens the album with a dose of menacing sarcasm—a nearly indiscernible group chant about the importance of keeping your yearbook to stay “informed” of how many of your adolescent pals are dead. The following few numbers rely heavily on instrumental breakdowns that at times approach flat-out incoherency. If Mr. Bungle is afflicted with attention deficit disorder, Disco Volante seems to suffer from manic depression.
“After School Special”, one of Mr. Bungle’s most understated gems, shines brilliantly through the willfully alienating sonic experiments surrounding it and stands victorious as an album high point. “My mom is better than your mom,” sings Patton in a quiet childlike whine, as a superb organ line and subtle rock accompaniment drown the track in melancholy before the unexpected tango bridge. “Special” can be seen as the quiet before the storm, as the band dives right back into thick, multi-layered jazz/rock/noise experiments. Overall, the album is more scattered than most of Patton’s work, but its distinct brand of frenzied mutant dance and pop is arguably the most admirable of all three Bungle albums in terms of raw power and insane proficiency.
The final downfall of Faith No More, culminating with the lackluster King for a Day, Fool for a Lifetime in ’95 and moderately successful swan song Album of the Year in ’97, led to some truly bizarre Patton solo efforts and the beginnings of what would soon become a stunning series of off-kilter collaborations. ’96 brought his first solo album, an extended sound collage of Patton going nuts sans accompaniment in a hotel room during a Faith No More tour. His first real stab at “serious” experimental composition followed a year later on Pranzo Oltranzista, which featured John Zorn on alto sax and prominent members of his ensemble on cello, guitar, and percussion.
Patton finally returned to Mr. Bungle for one final album, California, in ’99. California is a markedly focused, at times unabashedly accessible, eccentric homage to West Coast pop music. “Sweet Charity” lazily goes through the motions of faux doo-wop. The death metal intro to “None of Them Knew They Were Robots” unexpectedly transforms into fairly straightforward rockabilly littered with cartoon sound effects. “Ars Morendi” employs a klezmer band in a manner that can only be described as “Bungle-esque”, “Pink Cigarette” is Patton’s take on 50’s style crooning, and “Golem II: The Bionic Vapor Boy” turns on a dime from a creepy music box theme into, er, disco. The band saves the best for last, delivering what is arguably their best song yet recorded, “Goodbye Sober Day”. The phenomenal closing track somehow finds cohesion in a breakneck Latin beat, a truly bad-ass metal breakdown, a bunch of electronic junk noise, and, of course, an Indonesian “monkey chant”. TAK! CHAK CHAK CHAK TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA-TAKA!
But I digress. Patton finished off the decade with Amenaza Al Mundo, the debut of his most stable working side project, Fantômas. The album consists of 30 tracks of instrumental hardcore—full of syllabic utterances, grunts, shrieks, and moans, but not a single discernable word in the lot—with a nonexistent comic book as the theme. Fantômas has since delivered an entire album of film score covers and a one-track album of horror ambience. Patton has recently collaborated with Dillinger Escape Plan, Boredoms leader Yamatsuka Eye, Prince Paul, and Dan the Automator, along with fronting no less than three side projects simultaneously.
Oh, Mike. You’ve grown so predictable in old age.
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I LOVE THE 90’S!
Introduction
Two recent developments have led me to begin a “retrospective” column in which albums from my Top 100 of the 90’s (which I will print later) and artists from said albums will be recognized for their brilliance and relative importance. The first development: I’m broke. After an expensive glut of 2003 purchases that coincided nicely with the holiday season and the birth of this wonderful site, I just can’t buy so many of these fucking things. I’m apprehensive toward burning—out of difficulty, not morals, since Kazaa has been institutionally stifled—so most of my reviews come from real live copies of the source material.
The second development, of course, is VH1’s despicable bastardization of the “popular” culture of the 70’s and 80’s. Pardon me if I don’t wax nostalgic for The Breakfast Club, “Hungry Hungry Hippos”, Flock of Seagulls, and Ectoplasm® (OK, maybe Ectoplasm®...), but the focus of these hugely popular shows is as narrow as the material is boring. More importantly, such a restricted perception is harmful to a meaningful retrospective analysis of American pop culture. I think the innovative music of countless 80’s indie bands have had substantially more far-reaching and enduring effects on today’s popular culture than the goddamn “safety dance”. And don’t get me started with the marginalization of punk music in “I Love the 70’s”.
Anyway, I have accordingly named this column “I Love the 90’s!” before VH1 takes it and subsequently fucks up the decade in which I can actually claim to have been alive (by the way, to my fellow peers who adore “80's flashback” events: you are stealing your older siblings’ nostalgia) through corporatized revisionist history. Hey, remember the jingle to that popular product? Wow, it’s like I bought it yesterday! Oh, and if VH1 has already taken the name, I urge them not to sue, because every last penny I have is still going toward CDs. (I apologize to my girlfriend, who foolishly thinks I’m taking her on a vacation. Sorry, dear.)
The only real requirement to make my 90’s list is that the album was released in the 90’s. And even that isn’t a requirement, because I’m also including disputable borderline albums like Fugazi’s 13 Songs collection (a compilation of EPs from ‘89 released in ‘90). The Top 100 is constantly shifting, so I’ll omit the rankings until I post the list whenever that actually happens. This isn’t really about best or worst, anyway, but preservation.
Together we will fight the corporate powers bent on marginalizing the 70's as bad disco and bad hair, the 80's as bad new wave and bad hair, and, soon, the 90's as Hanson, flannel, whiny bullshit “alternative” rock, VirtuaPets®, the Spice Girls, AOL, the “Macarena”, and....BAD HAIR!!!!! Youth of America, let’s take back our decade!
0 comments
Introduction
Two recent developments have led me to begin a “retrospective” column in which albums from my Top 100 of the 90’s (which I will print later) and artists from said albums will be recognized for their brilliance and relative importance. The first development: I’m broke. After an expensive glut of 2003 purchases that coincided nicely with the holiday season and the birth of this wonderful site, I just can’t buy so many of these fucking things. I’m apprehensive toward burning—out of difficulty, not morals, since Kazaa has been institutionally stifled—so most of my reviews come from real live copies of the source material.
The second development, of course, is VH1’s despicable bastardization of the “popular” culture of the 70’s and 80’s. Pardon me if I don’t wax nostalgic for The Breakfast Club, “Hungry Hungry Hippos”, Flock of Seagulls, and Ectoplasm® (OK, maybe Ectoplasm®...), but the focus of these hugely popular shows is as narrow as the material is boring. More importantly, such a restricted perception is harmful to a meaningful retrospective analysis of American pop culture. I think the innovative music of countless 80’s indie bands have had substantially more far-reaching and enduring effects on today’s popular culture than the goddamn “safety dance”. And don’t get me started with the marginalization of punk music in “I Love the 70’s”.
Anyway, I have accordingly named this column “I Love the 90’s!” before VH1 takes it and subsequently fucks up the decade in which I can actually claim to have been alive (by the way, to my fellow peers who adore “80's flashback” events: you are stealing your older siblings’ nostalgia) through corporatized revisionist history. Hey, remember the jingle to that popular product? Wow, it’s like I bought it yesterday! Oh, and if VH1 has already taken the name, I urge them not to sue, because every last penny I have is still going toward CDs. (I apologize to my girlfriend, who foolishly thinks I’m taking her on a vacation. Sorry, dear.)
The only real requirement to make my 90’s list is that the album was released in the 90’s. And even that isn’t a requirement, because I’m also including disputable borderline albums like Fugazi’s 13 Songs collection (a compilation of EPs from ‘89 released in ‘90). The Top 100 is constantly shifting, so I’ll omit the rankings until I post the list whenever that actually happens. This isn’t really about best or worst, anyway, but preservation.
Together we will fight the corporate powers bent on marginalizing the 70's as bad disco and bad hair, the 80's as bad new wave and bad hair, and, soon, the 90's as Hanson, flannel, whiny bullshit “alternative” rock, VirtuaPets®, the Spice Girls, AOL, the “Macarena”, and....BAD HAIR!!!!! Youth of America, let’s take back our decade!
0 comments
3/03/2004
FANTÔMAS- DELIRIUM CORDIA
Sounds of Surgery
Mike Patton has got to be one of the busiest misanthropic Dadaists in the music industry. After fronting one moderately popular band (Faith No More) and one exceptionally good one (Mr. Bungle) in the nineties, Patton has recently turned his focus to a mind-boggling array of side projects, including collaborations with jazz experimentalist John Zorn, “mathcore” thrashers the Dillinger Escape Plan, and even hip-hop wunderkind Dan the Automator. Fantômas is Patton’s most stable working side project and arguably his most successful because the band fully utilizes the surrealist noise experimentation, intricate instrumentation, and twisted horror soundscapes that are characteristic of Patton’s best work.
The latest Fantômas creation Delirium Cordia is a typically audacious sonic experiment. The entire album consists of a single uninterrupted track that ebbs and flows much like the soundtrack to a 74-minute psychological horror film. “Cinematic” is a word often applied to Fantômas’ output—this is, after all, a band that recorded an album consisting entirely of famous film scores (2001’s Director’s Cut) and an album containing thirty tracks, or “pages”, of instrumental hardcore snippets acting as the backdrop of a non-existent comic book (1999’s Amenaza al Mundo).
However, most of Patton’s previous works have merely suggested film influences, while this album incorporates those influences into a format that could literally serve as a cinematic soundscape. The album often directly alludes to the images of psychological horror film masters. Sporadic, unsettling interludes of organ drone hint at the “Lady in the Radiator” song from David Lynch’s film Eraserhead. Patton’s patented carnival-esque “circus metal” is employed frequently throughout, calling to mind Alejandro Jodorowsky’s twisted masterpiece Santa Sangre. The image system that the band provides as a backdrop to their music could be best described as “theatrical medical experimentation”, exemplified in the liner notes as staged photographs of grotesque medical surgeries.
The visual, or “cinematic”, theme of surgery serves as a unifying subject connecting many disparate musical threads. To give a sense of the album’s eclecticism, Delirium Cordia opens with one of Patton’s distinctive forays into creepy music box atmospherics before delving into a few minutes of Gothic ambience. A section of catchy gibberish chanting melts into a poppy calypso rhythm accompanied by Patton’s trademark spastic shrieks. After some more dabbling in surgery-themed ambient noise, an intense choral build up leads to an unexpected somber piano melody. And on and on, until the album finally sputters to a jagged cacophony of a finish, followed by an “encore” of twenty minutes of static.
Conspicuously absent is the full-throttle thrash metal for which Fantômas is renowned. Former Slayer drummer Dave Lombardo, Melvins guitarist Buzz Osbourne, and Mr. Bungle bassist Trevor Dunn make their most notable appearances in instances of sudden bursts of hardcore taking a form similar to free jazz, while Patton switches his voice between shrill yelp and disquieting croon at a moments notice, sonically texturing the album with remarkably varied vocal intonations.
The album essentially repeats a simple pattern — ambient/hook/ambient, etc. — in different variations for its entirety, which admittedly grows somewhat tedious over the course of nearly eighty minutes. However, Patton has plenty of surprises to liven up the formula, including Gothic flourishes like an intimidating choir and pipe organ, electronically altered bagpipes and didgeridoos, and a plethora of authentic clicks and beeps from medical equipment. “Organic” instruments such as acoustic guitars, pianos, and mandolins are also prominent, counterbalancing the more jarring aspects of the rest of the album.
Though the album as a whole lacks a definitive focus, there are enough intriguingly disturbing and inspired moments to make Delirium Cordia ultimately worthwhile with major replay value. The album is not exactly the most accessible introduction to the demented world of Mike Patton (Patton neophytes should probably start with the self-titled Mr. Bungle debut or, more recently, the previous Fantômas album Director’s Cut) but offers plenty of rewards for both enlightened Patton fanatics and anyone who cherishes music that is bold, challenging, and, of course, incredibly bizarre.
0 comments
Sounds of Surgery
Mike Patton has got to be one of the busiest misanthropic Dadaists in the music industry. After fronting one moderately popular band (Faith No More) and one exceptionally good one (Mr. Bungle) in the nineties, Patton has recently turned his focus to a mind-boggling array of side projects, including collaborations with jazz experimentalist John Zorn, “mathcore” thrashers the Dillinger Escape Plan, and even hip-hop wunderkind Dan the Automator. Fantômas is Patton’s most stable working side project and arguably his most successful because the band fully utilizes the surrealist noise experimentation, intricate instrumentation, and twisted horror soundscapes that are characteristic of Patton’s best work.
The latest Fantômas creation Delirium Cordia is a typically audacious sonic experiment. The entire album consists of a single uninterrupted track that ebbs and flows much like the soundtrack to a 74-minute psychological horror film. “Cinematic” is a word often applied to Fantômas’ output—this is, after all, a band that recorded an album consisting entirely of famous film scores (2001’s Director’s Cut) and an album containing thirty tracks, or “pages”, of instrumental hardcore snippets acting as the backdrop of a non-existent comic book (1999’s Amenaza al Mundo).
However, most of Patton’s previous works have merely suggested film influences, while this album incorporates those influences into a format that could literally serve as a cinematic soundscape. The album often directly alludes to the images of psychological horror film masters. Sporadic, unsettling interludes of organ drone hint at the “Lady in the Radiator” song from David Lynch’s film Eraserhead. Patton’s patented carnival-esque “circus metal” is employed frequently throughout, calling to mind Alejandro Jodorowsky’s twisted masterpiece Santa Sangre. The image system that the band provides as a backdrop to their music could be best described as “theatrical medical experimentation”, exemplified in the liner notes as staged photographs of grotesque medical surgeries.
The visual, or “cinematic”, theme of surgery serves as a unifying subject connecting many disparate musical threads. To give a sense of the album’s eclecticism, Delirium Cordia opens with one of Patton’s distinctive forays into creepy music box atmospherics before delving into a few minutes of Gothic ambience. A section of catchy gibberish chanting melts into a poppy calypso rhythm accompanied by Patton’s trademark spastic shrieks. After some more dabbling in surgery-themed ambient noise, an intense choral build up leads to an unexpected somber piano melody. And on and on, until the album finally sputters to a jagged cacophony of a finish, followed by an “encore” of twenty minutes of static.
Conspicuously absent is the full-throttle thrash metal for which Fantômas is renowned. Former Slayer drummer Dave Lombardo, Melvins guitarist Buzz Osbourne, and Mr. Bungle bassist Trevor Dunn make their most notable appearances in instances of sudden bursts of hardcore taking a form similar to free jazz, while Patton switches his voice between shrill yelp and disquieting croon at a moments notice, sonically texturing the album with remarkably varied vocal intonations.
The album essentially repeats a simple pattern — ambient/hook/ambient, etc. — in different variations for its entirety, which admittedly grows somewhat tedious over the course of nearly eighty minutes. However, Patton has plenty of surprises to liven up the formula, including Gothic flourishes like an intimidating choir and pipe organ, electronically altered bagpipes and didgeridoos, and a plethora of authentic clicks and beeps from medical equipment. “Organic” instruments such as acoustic guitars, pianos, and mandolins are also prominent, counterbalancing the more jarring aspects of the rest of the album.
Though the album as a whole lacks a definitive focus, there are enough intriguingly disturbing and inspired moments to make Delirium Cordia ultimately worthwhile with major replay value. The album is not exactly the most accessible introduction to the demented world of Mike Patton (Patton neophytes should probably start with the self-titled Mr. Bungle debut or, more recently, the previous Fantômas album Director’s Cut) but offers plenty of rewards for both enlightened Patton fanatics and anyone who cherishes music that is bold, challenging, and, of course, incredibly bizarre.
0 comments
