| Solar Panel Radness! |
In the wake of Al Gore’s Oscar win, the importance of environmental consciousness underwent a swift transformation in the arena of public opinion. Suddenly, “going green” had changed from a lame punchline about aging hippies to the hot new trend, quickly emerging as a marketing tool to sell everything from Saturday Night Football to Walmart. I initially feared environmental consciousness would soon be ushered out the door it had flown in, relegated to the trash heap of forgotten cultural movements like pet rocks and Beanie Babies. But the trend seems to be sticking, and there have actually been a lot of positive things to come out of this newly imbued American sense of social responsibility. For instance, convenient and (relatively) affordable applications of solar energy:  The rolled up sheet of flexible solar energy to the left is a Brunton SolarRoll, which for $479 provides 14 watts of energy– enough to re-charge most laptops in a couple of hours, and of course cell phones, digital cameras, iPods and all the rest of those fun portable toys. Also, it’s waterproof– so you can shove it in your pack and take it to the great outdoors, or blog while you’re living on a mountaintop in a tree house (assuming said treehouse is Wi-Fi enabled). The handsome backpack to the right is a Voltaic Solar Bag. At the low price of $199, it comes with 11 different adapters for easy connection to handheld electronics. Supplying you with 4 watts of solar juice, you’ll never need to come home and charge a phone again. And it’s only 2.9 lbs, including the battery and solar panels! Anyone want to get me this totally unnecessary, but absolutely rad bag for Christmas? |
Last year, Of Montreal became the subject of scrutiny when they re-recorded their song “Wraith Pinned to the Mist (And Other Games)” with cheesy corporate jingle lyrics for an Outback Steakhouse ad. It was a benign, silly affair, that caused many a scoff, but was mostly forgotten by the release of their widely-praised and chart-registering new album, Hissing Fuana, Are You the Destroyer? Now, the band has taken a starring role in a new T-Mobile spot, (video below), and sparked up a fresh debate over the meaning of independent music, selling out, and the relevance of the old school punk rock ethos. Lead singer Kevin Barnes penned a though-provoking essay about the whole fiasco for the music blog Stereogum, entitled “Selling Out Isn’t Possible“. Definitely give it a read, and check out the comments on the post too, for some interesting counterpoints. But rather than add my opinion to the debate, let’s focus instead on T-Mobile’s perspective. Why did they make this commercial in the first place? Pretty blah, huh? Marginally embarrassing, but mostly boring. It doesn’t even attempt to grab the attention of anyone unfamiliar with the band. The ad’s purpose isn’t, as it would half-heartedly have you believe, to present a humorous vignette starring a popular music group, underlining the function of the Sidekick as a tool for “the superconnected to stay connected”. No, that more explicit function of the ad is a distant second to the simple effort to draw a link, however tenuous and superficial, between T-Mobile and Of Montreal. Everything else is a thinly veiled distraction from the melding of band and machine.  Fans of the band can be “slim” and “vibrant,” just like their heroes, by simply purchasing a T-Mobile Sidekick. “I think it gave us an edge,” says a band member in the context-less first line of dialogue. Not only can the Sidekick impart upon you Of Montreal’s slimness and vibrancy, it’s a microcomputer cell phone that gives even them– a band that you thought couldn’t get any edgier– a previously unattainable “edge”. None of this is new, it’s the way celebrity endorsements have worked since the dawn of advertising– but the unusual part here is that a national commercial is catering to fans of a band like Of Montreal (an indie band) whose greatest commercial success to date is an album that peaked at #72 on the Billboard charts.  Five years ago, this commercial would never have been made. Because this ad isn’t really for television, it’s for the Internet. Pay a few bucks to air it once or twice, and in no time it’ll be uploaded to YouTube and plastered on every blog the target audience reads. It’s the Long Tail effect starting to reach Madison Avenue. Ad firms are figuring out that if you throw scraps to a niche audience, they’ll do the rest of the promoting themselves without even realizing it. T-Mobile must be thrilled with the amount of discussion their commercial has sparked… maybe bloggers should go on a strike until they get their residuals, too. |
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These kids are rad. The town they herald from– a remote Los Angeles suburb called Chino– doesn’t seem like the type of environment that could foster such talent, but they’ve somehow found inspiration in the empty space between its taupe stucco box houses. Their skill level is pretty impressive. The lead signer, Joanna, sings rhapsodically through a hair dryer– an homage to Mika Miko’s signature rotary-phone mics. Mark plays bass like an old pro, and 17-year-old Paul is a force to be reckoned with on drums. Watch a YouTube video of Frisco Dykes performing and check out the rest of the pictures from the show after the jump! |
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We begin our lucky 13th Podcast with the terrifying sounds of Judy Garland’s shattered dreams. This rare reprise of “Over The Rainbow,” which Dorothy was supposed to sing in despair after being locked up in a tower, was excised from The Wizard of Oz for its obvious creepiness. Then, from rising label Italians Do It Better, I present to you a Kate Bush cover by Chromatics. My friend Mya is obsessed with the concept of “rainbows in the dark”– a rather abstract idea to consider in terms of a musical recording– until you listen to Chromatics’ Night Drive. Holy Ghost!’s “Hold On” is one of the danciest songs of the year, and Lee Hazlewood’s “Elusive Dreams” is the centerpiece of this mix. Only Nancy and Lee could nonchalantly throw the death of their imaginary toddler into a travelin’ song and make it work. Sufjan Steven label-mate Rafter is one of my favorite new artists, and his album Sex, Death, Cassette is sure to climb the proverbial charts in January.
I also included a rad song from John Cale’s early solo career, that I saw Final Fantasy’s Owen Pallett cover at the Troubadour not long ago. There’s a brief excerpt from the 1989 Martika hit “Toy Soldiers”– just the good part, really– and a fresh tune from rising indie rock stars Black Kids. The podcast wraps up with new tracks from Nellie McKay, Tim Kasher side project The Good Life, and Mexican sensations Café Tacuba. To bring our journey to a close, please enjoy a loving (but sorrowful) parting thought from classic Spanish pop songstress Jeanette.
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Last night I had this crazy dream: Aliens had taken over the planet– but they looked just like humans, and the only way to unveil their ghoulish faces was to put on a rad pair of huge ’80s sunglasses. Also, the aliens were in cahoots with the elite upper class, and they were controlling our brains with television waves and subliminal messages embedded in advertisements, and the only one who could stop them was blue collar drifter-slash-Canadian pro wrestler, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper! But actually, it wasn’t a dream– it was the 1988 film They Live by John Carpenter, and it was blowing my mind.
Wikipedia describes They Live as “part science fiction thriller and part black comedy” which is as good a description as any. It’s just fun and kooky and bizarre, with a lot of heavy-handed allegory about Reaganomics and capitalist excess. Basically, the story revolves around a man of humble means and huge biceps (Roddy Piper) drifting from place to place in a fruitless job search. He ends up working under the table at a construction site in Los Angeles, where he meets Keith David, who plays a musclebound worker usually seen sporting a loosely-fitted purple tank top. Roddy moves in with Keith in a shanty town/hobo camp situated across from a mysterious church. The church turns out to be the base of operations for a group of extremists who intend to distribute cases and cases of the aforementioned magical sunglasses in order to snap everyone out of the hypnosis these sneaky aliens have quietly cast upon America through the power of mass media.
When our man Rowdy Roddy accidentally discovers the power of the sunglasses, he intuitively knows what he has to do. Before anyone’s even stepped in to tell him what’s going on, Roddy quickly progresses from shock and awe at the images he’s seeing through his shades to a callous shooting rampage, killing alien body snatchers without a second thought. After kidnapping some creepy thin-lipped lady– and subsequently being shoved through the window of her hillside home– Roddy brushes himself off and decides he has to convince his purple prince Keith David to slip on the shades and have a look at the unbelievable truth.
You wouldn’t think this would be such a hard task to accomplish, but actually it requires a spectacular six minute long alley fight between the two men, rolling around on the ground for what seems like forever, slamming each other’s crotches until their collective sperm count falls below the Zac Efron level. The rest of the movie unfolds in a mostly unsurprising series of events borrowed from the 1983 alien invasion miniseries, V. This gem of a movie is full of unexplained plot nonsense, gratuitous catch phrases, superfluous action, bad acting, less-than-subtle metaphors and pretentious undertones. And it’s completely rad. Oh, and there are a bunch of silly moments of comic relief thrown in for good measure. When Roddy brings his thin-lipped hostage lady home, we see a glimpse of her hairy, shirtless gay neighbors, squinting apprehensively at the presence of Rowdy Roddy, and then turning their noses up with a huff at their distressed neighbor.
They Live is everything that Southland Tales tries to be and isn’t. Based on the frenetic, prententiously bonkers trailer, I had such high hopes for Richard Kelly’s follow-up to Donnie Darko. Much like They Live, Southland Tales is on the surface a retarded, campy, and excessive apocalyptic social commentary starring a former wrestler turned action star– but the difference is that while They Live is throughly entertaining on multiple levels and consistently fun, Southland Tales is just fucking boring. And embarrassing.  I regret dishing out $7.00 for a matinee screening of Kelly’s film, which has to be one of the biggest cinematic messes of all time– at least on such a grand scale. Full of superficially cryptic dialogue that starts to drill a hole in your brain around the thirty-minute mark, an endless barrage of extremely unappealing aesthetic choices, and rambling plot threads that could’ve been exciting in spite of their pointlessness– but instead become boring under the cockiness of Kelly’s delusions of grandeur– Southland Tales takes all the fun out of its shittiness. If you’re thinking of seeing Southland to witness the sheer absurdity of its existence, don’t bother. Save yourself two and a half hours of tedium and rent John Carpenter’s They Live instead. Trust me, you’ll be better off. |
Rui Tenreiro’s work was brought to my attention by uber-art blog It’s Nice That, who posted today about his upcoming graphic novel, The Celebration. The book looks to be exactly the kind of graphic novel I love: a placid, contemplative story where subtle, evocative images take the forefront over plot and dialogue. The sample pages remind me of some of my favorite illustrators: Sammy Harkham (Poor Sailor, Kramer’s Ergot), Anders Nilsen (Dogs and Water), and Carson Ellis for her super olde-thyme vibe– which, really, never wears thin. The Celebration seems to be about a couple of wandering indentical twin travelers (distinguished from each other by being scarfed and scarfless, respectively), explorating a haunted forest in medieval Japan. Ghosts, demons, wise villagers, and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry are all involved, somehow.
Sounds rad. While you wait for The Celebration to hit shelves at your local graphic novel retailer, check out the rest of Tenreiro’s site, which contains a bunch more nifty illustrations. |
To the left, you’ll find the music video for Ariel Pink’s “Are You Looking After My Boys,” directed by Eric Fensler. I’m a longtime admirer of Pink’s– how could you not feel at least a little affection for such a man? His persona embodies a certain character that we all encounter at least once in our lives: the enigmatic artist walking the line between schizoid creep and endearing savant. Like a neurotic high school burn-out, picking daisies one minute and smashing a beer bottle over your head the next, Ariel Pink exists in a world slightly beyond our own, a chemical cryptic who promises profound insights. On a lesser man, Pink’s persona would come off as an affectation, but the unsettling playfulness at work here is entirely sincere. If you need evidence, just listen to the the distant warble of his nostalgic anthems or check out his other videos, like the classic “Kate I Wait,” or any of the stray snippets of insight into Pink’s strange and beautiful world you can find floating around on YouTube. To the right, you’ll find a tight Keytar Solo. |
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I spent the last week in New York, visiting my good friend (and fellow Davis High School alumni), Herrie Son. Her boyfriend, cinematic wunderkind Kyle Komline, took us to the Explorer’s Club - a pseudo-secret society of Upper East Side geriatrics dedicated to traveling the globe and eating tea and cookies in dedadent trophy rooms. I won’t go into detail, I’ll just tell you that if you have two legs and live in New York you owe it to yourself to find your way to one of their public events. And they’re only five dollars with student I.D.! We also went to classy, intimidating men’s clothiers Turnbull and Asser and Jay Kos, and a masqued ball at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Mimi Zora took me to a WGA screening of the new Woody Allen movie (stop it Woody, just stop it) and a hilariously bad T.G.I. Friday’s in Times Square. I did all the requisite vintage shopping in Williamsburg with Herrie, and my formerly cyberspace-friend Michael took me to a crazy Chinese supermart and a Project Runway 4 party in Park Slope. I sat in on some NYU classes, including one taught by Antonio Monda. All in all, it was fun. And that’s how I spent my vacation! Would you like to look at some pictures? You can do that, after the jump. |
I finally got to see the indefatigably brilliant Jens Lekman perform at the Troubadour last night, and it was well worth the wait. Next to Patrick Wolf, this was perhaps the best show of the year. He had the help of six adorable Swedish-girl accompanists (all wearing matching white dresses, in a tasteful, non-Polyphonic Spree way) playing flutes, trumpets, saxophones, drums and violins– and a DJ for all the requisite samples. The venue had been sold out for a week and the whole audience was happy to be there– everyone sang along at the appropriate times, no one made an ass of themselves, and there the whole evening had a vibe of excitement and communion.
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If you have any free time in the next four months, check out the Takashi Murakami retrospective at MOCA in Little Tokyo. Most well-known in the U.S. for lending his creative energy to posers like Kanye West and Marc Jacobs (not that I mind– I’ll take it however he wants to give it to me!), Murakami is also the mind behind the idea of “Superflat“, a concept that most immediately helps one understand the contemporary Japanese aesthetic, but also serves as a fascinating way of thinking about late capitalist culture at large. At whatever level of depth you approach Murakami’s work, it’s innately pleasing. Make sure to check out the adorable Miyazaki-esque Kaikai and Kiki short film, and gawk in righteous indignation at the crazy rich people buying shit in the fully-stocked Louis Vuitton shop that’s been plopped down in the middle of the gallery. Or just buy a cute little Shacho (as seen above, in my back yard) of your own to hold and hug and burp on your shoulder like a baby.  |
Paul Thomas Anderson is one of my favorite filmmakers. Watching Magnolia at the age of 12 was a major turning point in my adolescent development, and single-handedly inspired my desire to become a filmmaker. I was lucky enough to work as a P.A. on the set of There Will Be Blood last August, after harassing Anderson at a rare public Q&A earlier in the year. I spent a lot of time on a dusty ranch near Palmdale operating the air conditioning unit, assisting the video assistant, and lugging buckets of fake oil from place to place. It was an intense, fascinating experience, and gave me an amazing first-hand perspective of the day-to-day realities of filmmaking.
I saw the completed film for the first time in its entirety on Monday night, and I’ve been slowly processing it ever since. As one can tell from the trailer alone, Blood is a complete departure from Anderson’s signature style, in both content and form. The distancing from his earlier work is deliberate, a definite attempt to approach filmmaking with a different aesthetic and with a fresh set of talent. Leaving the comfort zone payed off in spades: Blood is a precisely crafted minimalist masterpiece. In fact, I was surprised just how minimal it was, especially for a film that runs two and a half hours long and spans thirty years of California history. There was even less dialogue than had been laid out in the already sparse script, and several scenes of zealous theatricality had been toned down or removed entirely. By taking away the frog rain, pop songs, prosthetic dicks and decadent dialogue of his earlier films, Anderson has allowed himself to focus entirely on a careful study of the film’s anti-hero, Daniel Day Lewis’ magnificently callous Daniel Plainview.  Don’t get me wrong– I absolutely love the sugary opulence of the aforementioned filmic devices in Boogie Nights, Magnolia, and Punch-Drunk Love. I can’t get enough of Anderson’s magical realism, ADD ensembles and whimsical distractions– but with Blood he proves that beneath the surface-level bustle and embellishment, there is an undeniably epic foundation of cinematic talent at work. I wouldn’t call There Will Be Blood perfect: most glaringly for me, at least on the first viewing, were a few unexpected moments of misplaced humor that dampened the impact of crucial moments. I’d also be interested to know if Anderson was satisfied with trimming the film down to a “mere” 158 minutes, or if we’ll ever see a Coppola-esque four hour director’s cut. While it may not be a masterpiece, Blood is a terrific film– undoubtedly one of the best of the year– and an important step in Anderson’s slowly blooming canon of work.  On the technical side, Robert Elswit’s photography is gorgeous, and the monumentally unnerving score by Radiohead guitarist Johnny Greenwood brings the film to a place of transcendence. Nothing needs to be said of Daniel Day-Lewis’ brilliance– I can’t imagine anyone else taking home the Oscar this year– but it’s worth mentioning that Paul Dano really turned it out in a difficult role, skillfully portraying a preacher with major delusions of grandeur. Young Dillion Freasier was impressive as Daniel Day-Lewis’ melancholy progeny, especially for a non-show biz kid– Freasier was cast on location in Marfa, Texas. The Hollywood Reporter has a well-written review that’s worth a read, and for fellow P.T. Anderson devotees, there’s always Cigarettes and Red Vines. |
