Guttersnipe: Music, Movies, Comics, Books, Fashion


Five must-see’s new on DVD

Here’s your monthly roundup of some of the newest must-see movies from around the globe making their debut on the format. Don’t be a celluloid hemorrhoid! If you miss these you’ll be a sucka-chump of the highest order.

The Chick’s Ability (Brazil, 1985)
An offshoot of erotic film rarely seen in North America until now, the Brazilian “Pornochanchada” film movement was very popular in South America from 1977-1985. Blowing the lid off these rare movies, Impulse Pictures has come forward with their initial entry in their “classic Latin erotica collection”—the scandalous 1984 production The Chick’s Ability. Here, a lovely small-town teen named Cristina loses her virginity, outraging her religious father. Looking for help from her older sis Carla (a downtown Rio whore with a tough pimp named Milton), the 19-year-old also gets the boot from her hooker sibling after getting pregnant. Will she prostitute her shapely ass in order to save her sick newborn son, or are there other options available to this unfortunate girl? With a tight story line, some truly beautiful nekkid laydeez, and a notable lack of camp, The Chick’s Ability provides an interesting window into an extinct genre.

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Wendy and Lucy (USA, 2008)
Wendy is a kind-hearted young woman who doesn’t have much aside from her annoying clunker of a car, a dog named Lucy, and just enough money to get her to Alaska where some seasonal work hopefully awaits her. Things seem bleak but not hopeless— that is, until Wendy’s car breaks down and she’s arrested for breaking the law. Director Kelly Reichardt subtly underscores the unfortunately all-to-common predicament of a person living without any margin for error, and how sickeningly wrong everything can go with only a few scrotum twists of fate. Lacking the resources to bail herself out of trouble, Kelly’s heroine has to make some pretty heartbreaking choices just to survive. Get ready to fucking bawl your eyes out, pet-lovers. [Editor's note: that's why I've avoided this one!]

Cat in the Brain (Italy, 1990)
Here’s a weird one! Italian gore-master Lucio Fulci plays himself—a horror film director with an identity crisis that has been having nightmarish visions brought on by the morbid and upsetting films he’s been foisting upon the public. Ol’ Lucio sees dead people, and eventually makes an appointment with a psychologist with some strange and unusual ulterior motives. With a score by Fabio Frizzi, which is right up there with the better scores he did for Fulci. From swinging jazz numbers to scary dissonant horror warblings, Frizzi gets busy. The real reason to get excited though, is how absolutely *packed* to the rafters this movie is with creative gore, nudity, and strangeness. This is Fulci’s tribute to his fans, and the last great movie he ever made.

Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell Bastards! (Japan. 1963)
Chubby-cheeked Jo Shishido portrays Tajima, a private detective in charge of his own company, “Detective Bureau 2-3″. When criminal gangs go to war with one another and rob U.S. military bases for weapons, Tajima steps in with extreme jazzed-up, bare-knuckled, 34. calibre butt-kickery. Seijun Suzuki does it again with yet another off-kilter, pop-filtered, to-the-hilt combo of crazy ‘n’ sexy. Sure, from certain storytelling standpoints, Detective Bureau 2-3 is a total mess that utterly lacks sophistication—but if you’re hung up on that you’re missing the point, not to mention all of the fun! Go to Hell, Bastards! Trivia: star Jo Shishido got cheek implants in 1956. Seriously.

Crips and Bloods: Made in America (USA, 2008)
An operatic history and prehistory of the notorious and bloody California street-level war that has claimed the lives of over 15,000 people in 30 short years, Crips and Bloods examines the conditions that have lead to over-the-top gang violence amongst young blacks and Hispanics growing up in South Los Angeles. A talented skate boarder and an even more talented filmmaker, Stacy Peralta has Oscar-nominated actor Forrest Whitaker narrate this blend of archival footage and in-depth interviews. Peralta builds a case that the slaughter and all the associated social pathologies result from a perfect storm of toxic social ingredients. Very interesting stuff.

CatintheBrain



We’ve moved!!!!!
April 17, 2009, 6:51 pm
Filed under: art, books, comics, fake news, fashion, interviews, movies, music, news, reviews, technogeekery | Tags: , ,

Yes that’s right, we have our own domain name and we’re growing! check out www.guttersnipenews.com for better design, all our previous content in an easier-to-read format, and new content uploaded daily! And starting tomorrow, our coverage of the Coachella Music Festival.

That’s www.guttersnipenews.com, bookmark before midnight tonight!

-Management



Glory Premiani: The Doom Patrol’s original, underrated artist

—Robert Dayton

This understated artist is very underrated and has few imitators…

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Over at DC Comics in the 1950’s, time and space were distorting. Batman and Robin could hop in a time machine and visit Jules Verne. When exposed to red kryptonite, Superman would change form for 24 hours, the effects were unpredictable each time: once his head became that of an ant’s, another time he grew a very long beard. A flimsy continuity was maintained through “Imaginary Tales” that were about characters that were already imaginary. And there was a burst, a burst of parallel earths. This was The Silver Age. In this era, superheroes became more lucid, more feminized; any excess bulk was cartoon-ified. However, as personalities, the DC superheroes were rather cardboard and one-dimensional. Writer Arnold Drake was trying to convince the company to get with it and mix some drama into comics’ sense of wonder! He wanted to reach the younger generation with more realism. He noted what was going on at a rival company.

At first, Marvel Comics was barely a rival to DC. They mostly made monster and humour comics. In 1961, Jack Kirby and Stan Lee came up with a super hero team (perhaps loosely modeled after DC’s non-superhero team, the Challengers Of the Unknown, also created by Kirby in 1957) that added drama and conflict to this soft and flowing age. This team was called The Fantastic Four and comic books changed! There was still the sense of rollicking fun but these characters were tormented. They gained their powers through cosmic rays. The Thing was orange and lumpy but he didn’t want to be orange and lumpy, he wanted to be human again! He was joined by Mr. Fantastic, The Human Torch, and Invisible Girl. They would bicker and argue and love each other, they were family. Here in The Silver Age was the fresh, bright dawn of The Marvel Age!

Arnold Drake paid close attention. He created a super-team with so much pathos that they were fatalistically named The Doom Patrol. You want torment? Each member had their own literal freak-accident back-story of disfigurement: Robotman was Cliff Steele, former stock racer now a human brain housed in a metal body; Negative Man was Larry Trainor, former pilot, now a glowing skeleton completely bandaged with a strange flying being of negative energy that he can let loose for sixty seconds at a time; and Elasti-Girl was Rita Farr, former movie star, now able to shrink and expand at will. They were joined together to protect the world by The Chief, a wheelchair-bound genius (a mere three months before the wheelchair-bound genius Professor X debuted with The X-Men at Marvel). All of these characters were portrayed as so human that they rarely used their superhero names.

Drake needed an artist. In his foreword to Volume One of The Doom Patrol Archives (DC, 2001), he writes that the artists in editor Murray Boltinoff’s stable “…were all busy. That meant the DP would get some backup artist. So ‘pessimism’ was the password when Murray brought in a very lean, eagle-beaked, lantern-jawed guy with eyeglass lenses even thicker than mine: Bruno Premiani. But his superb draftmanship, anatomy and design work turned my prejudice to dust. Still, could he give the DP the unique quality it needed- a quality I couldn’t define myself?” “Bruno’s first penciled pages told me we had truly lucked out. What he had recognized was that these super-heroes must be as human as possible. He captured that spirit from page one and sustained it for 42 issues: fabulous powers and fantastic enemies notwithstanding, The Chief, Rita, Larry and Cliff remained real people.”

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Premiani’s style was in marked contrast to Jack Kirby’s work over at Marvel. Kirby exemplified the lack of confines to his imagination through pure dynamism! Premiani was much more low-key and had a much more European style. This almost certainly relates to his Italian background. Bruno Premiani started out as a political cartoonist in Italy until Mussolini wanted him dead. He fled Italy to reside in Argentina for several years until Juan Peron caused him too much trouble. After moving to America, Premiani worked on numerous romance and western comic books. Before The Doom Patrol came his way, he was by no means known as a superhero artist. In fact, in 1957, he even did a highly regarded art book on how to properly draw horses!

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It seems odd to describe the style of the original artist of The Doom Patrol as romantic. But his faces were emotive and he had a gorgeous use of blacks to illustrate shadows and mood. Premiani inked his own pencils. His use of the brush is a very strong component of his art. The artist would simplify rarely, and he had a great attention to detail unlike any other artist working in comics at the time. His art was naturalistic. He could have been at home weaving human dramas yet he did these surreal yarns and you know what? It works! It is because of Premiani’s just-too-good qualities that the realm of the fantastic seems all the more plausible. The loopiest stuff could happen and it made sense! Doom Patrol had the oddest heroes but they weren’t stiff (except for Robotman, but he seemed to get contorted and mangled every other issue) and muscle-bound. They all had relatively normal postures and expressive faces.

And the villains? The bad guys were right out of an old science-fiction movie! The Brotherhood Of Evil was led by the Brain, a literal brain encased in fluid. He was joined by a genius ape named Monsieur Mallah and an evil school teacher from Drake’s childhood memories who was given the moniker Madame Rouge. In their first appearance they even used a giant robot. There was also the prune skinned and frail General Immortus; the obese, green-skinned, kaftan-wearing Garguax; a “Meteor Man” with a flaming head cold; the shape-shifting Animal-Vegetable-Mineral Man; and the elemental shape-shifting Mr. 103. The Doom Patrol were later joined by the animal shape-shifting Beast Boy and Mento, who had a brain accelerating helmet that zapped things. These later characters defined The Doom Patrol as more of a family. Premiani perfectly realized all of these utterly wigged-out concepts and characters! He had the craft to capture numerous transformations, such as the A-V-M Man shifting mid-shape from a dinosaur to a sponge as firemen blasted him with a hose! He did not exaggerate or caricature Monsieur Mallah, the talking ape—he looked like a real ape! Premiani’s style was very refined, he was clumsy only when he was called to be, such as the story when the Doom Patrol’s powers got all switched up!

In the action scenes, Premiani’s work was pure flow. Drake never made the action scenes seem trite, anyways, due to the resourcefulness of our heroes working together as a team (much like the team of Drake and Premiani). Premiani’s panels, with their thin outlines, would shift in size and shape where appropriate to incorporate the action. God knows he needed to every time Rita Farr grew to the size of a mountain or shrunk to the size of a mouse! His eye was well trained in regards to depicting fore/mid/backgrounds without too much clutter. He evenly incorporated the silent landscapes and buildings. Even the thin panel outlines made for a sort of intimacy.

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After 42 issues together, Drake and Premiani did their final issue of Doom Patrol. And it wasn’t like any other final issue of the time. In this final issue these heroes, that the readers had come to know and love, died to save a small island of fishermen. Thus ended one of the greatest runs in super-hero comics.

This continuity was maintained in the various later incarnations of The Doom Patrol produced by other creative teams from the late 1970s onwards. Arnold Drake himself endorsed Grant Morrison’s peculiar run from the 1990s as truest to his original vision. Morrison used various experimental literary techniques in writing The Doom Patrol. The Brotherhood Of Evil was even reborn as the Brotherhood Of Dada. It is well worth a read (Doom Patrol vol. 2, issues 19-64, also available in six Vertigo trade paperbacks). John Byrne’s 2004 run is best avoided. Some may describe Byrne as a crackpot hack—he utterly ignored the careful and long-held continuity by pretending that the original team had never died! Luckily, other writers have since rectified this transgression by explaining it away as a sort of parallel earth mishap with some bad cloning thrown in. The Doom Patrol will be returning in a new series written by Keith Giffen and it has also been optioned for a movie.

The original issues of Arnold Drake and Bruno Premiani’s Doom Patrol run (My Greatest Adventure #80-85, renamed Doom Patrol with issue 86, lasting until issue #121) can be rather expensive. As are each of the five Doom Patrol DC Archives editions which reprints their entire run. Which one is the best volume to get? Drake and Premiani were consistent, so they’re all great. Volume One has their origin, Volume Five has their death. However, DC has just released Showcase Presents The Doom Patrol Volume One, an inexpensive phone book sized soft cover edition of their first twenty-two adventures on cheap newsprint! The down side is that these reprints are in black-and-white, but this does allow for affordability and to purely see Premiani’s glorious inks stand on their own.

After The Doom Patrol ended, Bruno Premiani returned to Argentina to work on comic books there. He was somewhat of a recluse and died in 1984.

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Sources:

Various issues of My Greatest Adventure and The Doom Patrol (DC Comics, 1963-1968)

The Doom Patrol Archives, Volume One, Forward by Arnold Drake (DC, 2001)

Alter Ego Issue 17 (TwoMorrows,2002)

Wikipedia



The busiest bar night in Winnipeg, pt. II: What he did do

—Eugene Osudar

Here’s what I did Thursday, the busiest bar night of the year in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

I drove. A lot. I drove to Osborne Village. Walked through wading pools on the sidewalks of Winnipeg to the Academy Food and Drinks. A band already playing. $10 cover for five bands, and asks I to the punk goddess working the door, “What time are the Marooons playing?” She pokes a guy in the maroons, ooo-la-la. And I ask him. Calculates he, “11:30.” Thank yous. And walk through puddling pools on the sidewalks to the Cavern.

Rusty from the Waking Eyes (just returned from the Waking Eyes tour and a Q appearance and tour spieling with the Weakerthans playing in the band) working the door, also does sound at the Cavern. “Hey Eugene!” beams Rusty. Explodes my smile, simply explodes, love Rusty! Cuz just like John K. Samson, We, Love, Winnipeg! I launch into convoluted explanation of what my night will be, and he just says, “Gimme your hand.” And stamps me in.

There’s Jacques, drummer of Telepathic Butterflies and the Wind Ups, sitting with a galpal. And smiles. Re/launching into my explanation of why i can’t see the Wind Ups. Upshot being, I bought a ticket to see the UK Subs when they went on sale, months ago. Before I knew that Thursday before Good Friday is the busiest, best bar night in Winnipeg. I MySpaced Fucked Up, Captain Finger (now Brixton Robbers) openers for UK Subs and have already seen the Blackout Brigade, the loca opener on the four-band show, and honestly says I, “I wish [a so very beautiful Oh My Darling song] I hadn’t bought that ticket.” The galpal chimes, “So why not drive to the [Royal] Albert [Arms] and sell it?”

Drive, she said (Stan Ridgeway song, he who penned the classic “Mexican Radio”) and so drive did I. To the Albert in the Exchange District and bumped into Natalie, and her sparkling brown eyes, and Tara, with her blue eyes, punk rock angels, and I explain my need to go loca, that is, see and dance to the local bands. Strict time, a song by Elvis Costello.

Before too long the ticket is sold at par. I say my goodbyes to these angels of the Royal Albert Arms. (I’m listening to the new AC Newman song, “Like a Hitman, Like a Dancer”, it’s brilliant, I’m dancing in my chair.) I drive to Hooligan’s to pay cover because I know the Wind Ups, the Sweet Nothings and American Flamewhip will sell the place out by 11 p.m.

And drive back to Osborne Village. All that driving! At the Cavern, it’s all taking shape to perfection, 10:30 and the Telepathic Butterflies are ready to play when a 50something bloke steps on stage, takes the mike and who the f is this guy. Rob doesn’t know. No one in the band knows him. He thanks the bar for allowing him to come on stage and play his harmonica!!! Hhe thanks “the Telescopic Butterflies”! The guys in the Telepathic Butterflies laugh. And he launches into a blues number, then suddenly stops. Asks the Telepathic Butterflies, who haven’t a clue who he is, to join in! And they just, do, it. They give this guy perfect blues accompaniment. It’s a five-minute song and now I know my plans are screwed. I’m cursing under my breath. When the song ends, the polite applause subsides, he asks to do another song!!!!! and goes into it and the Butterflies play along. Now, I’m f’ed.

He gets off and the Butterflies launch into their ’60s, Kinks-inspired originals (the Kinks, Shawn Conner, your favourite band!) and I’m in dancing heaven and I move, man, I Move. (I love the first four songs of the new AC Newman CD, Get Guilty, get it!). And I’m joined for a few songs by two dancing angels and then some couples. But mostly, it’s me and the band and the watchers. A nearly brilliant set, a mediocre song concluded the otherwise wonderful set. I soak my first T-shirt of the night. And change in the bathroom. I always carry spares.

When I return to dash off to the Academy, Joey Penner, another of those Waking Eyes, comes over and says, “I love your dancing,” and that he always sees me dancing during their gigs and he thanks me. Says he loves dancing and asks where I’m going. I tell him. He says next time, he’ll dance with me. That’s all I want. Dancers. “Dance With Me”, Old 97s, a beautiful song. A wonderful band.

Academy. I can hear a Ramones song as I approach. Rush inside. 10$. “How many songs have they played?” “This is their fourth.” Hurry to the dance floor. A few people are moving. Stripping my layers and then I begin. Moving. “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”. “Beat On the Brat”. “Rock ‘n’ Roll High School”. “Blitzkrieg Bop”. “I Don’t Know”. Six songs. A blur. Ten bucks. By the time that first song is done, I have another 20 people on the floor. That’s what I do. I get the dancers moving. Sometimes. Second shirt soaked. Six songs. 15 minutes? Two-minute Ramones wonders!

All done too fast. Need to keep moving. Driving again to Hooligan’s. The last song of the Sweet Nothings. That Replacements song that I don’t recognize. I dance to it. It’s ‘Mats-sloppy. The way they played live. Punk. Pure punk sloppy. Thank you Westerberg, Mars, Stinsons, and you too Slim, I saw you when I saw the Mats in Vancouver, two nights in a row at the 86th Street. Brilliant. The way those sucky songs from Don’t Tell a Soul really rock when you brought them to whomever destroyed them as the producer. Wad! “Talent Show”!

And then it was the Wind Ups. “In the City”! The Jam. Fer/o/cious audience. “Cretin Hop”, Ramones! Imagine, the video for Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. We crowded, we pressed, we danced into the Wind Ups, some yahoo drunk kept grabbing the mike from Andy whenever there was a musical bit. “I’m The Man”, Joe Jackson! Finally he had to ask for a bouncer to bounce the drunk. And he was bounced. “I’m So Bored With the USA”, the Clash! And then the woman with luscious cleavage doused Rob with beer. And all I saw was him shoving her full force back into the crowd. She didn’t go down because there were too many behind her. “So Lonely”, the Police! The Wind Ups kept backing closer to the drum stand. By the end of the intense 600minute set, the perfect set length nearly reached! (65 minutes is perfection!), I was dancing beside Jacques, against the wall. “Ready Steady Go”! Gen X! Toss in Angel City, the Rolling Stones, “Street Fighting Man”! Alice Cooper! and so many more and that these guys can Play!!!! and you know why the Wind Ups are my fave local band. Of the sixty Winnipeg bands that I love.

That’s what I did. Three sets, three venues. Thursday before Good Friday. I danced. Soaked three T-shirts. Danced two plus hours. I drove. Dumped the UK Subs and went local. Went underground. To the Cavern.I love the local boys and local girls who rock and bop, who gimme gimme shock treatment (Ramones!). I love my Winnipeg. I love you! Kisses and hugs. Always. Winnipeg. My heart. My heart.



The busiest bar night in Winnipeg: what he didn’t do

-Eugene Osudar

I’m told the Thursday before Good Friday is the busiest bar day in Winnipeg. Is this true of everywhere, North America? I’ve been reading music biographies, trudging through Joe Strummer and Redemption Song and now Paul Weller: The Changing Man. The Writer (Paolo Hewitt) gives The Reader the thesis in the intro and there, it’s done. Wad! Leave some mystery. I like that chapters are given song titles, like “Going Underground”, a fave Paul Weller song, or “Walls Come Tumbling Down” (Style Council), another fave, like the Jam’s “In The City” (that the Wind Ups nearly always open their sets with). The Writer gives context to songs and where Mr. Paul Weller’s head/heart/space was in the time of writing and recording and the source of the song’s inspiration and/or piracy. Thievery is the act of loving music. And a form of flattery or flatulence. Depending on the point of view of them that were stolen from and those that benefit from the theft of riffs and ideas.

So, Winnipeg was insane on Thursdy night. I didn’t see the free show at Shannon’s Irish Pub with Dan Mangan and Hey Rosetta! I Love Hey Rosetta! And i didn’t go see Brock Zenam with Dan Walsh playing original Tom Waits carnival songs (okay, i’m an OM, OxyMoron) opening for Sask’s Deep Dark Woods at the Times Change(d). I love the Times Change(d), this love is shared by so many musicians who have played the high and lonesome club. In conversations here and there are some of the Times lovers: Geoff Berner, Elliott Brood, United Steel Workers of Montreal, Nathan, well, list all Wpg. bands who have ever played there, like the powerfully sensuous Oh My Darling, the Undesirables, on and on and on.

I didn’t see the Paul Stanleys at the Academy Food and Drinks. The Kiss tribute band (does that sound better than Kiss cover band? They are a cover band and I love bands who cover great songs, my favorite band in Wpg., The Wind Ups are a cover band, I love them! Whole Lotta Angus cover strict time Bon Scott AC/DC, I love them!  The Braggarts, who sadly are no more, cover Irish songs and punk it up, I love(d) them!!!!) (Love! That’s what music is, it’s a passion and a lust and a desire to fire and dance and move and dream that you are the The Lead Singer, the Joey Ramone, the Bon Scott, dead in a car, vomit lodged firmly in the inner pipes, yeah! rock ‘n’ roll death!). The Paul Stanleys up the cover band ante, they all dress like Paul Stanley! Oh, Whole Lotta Angus all dress like Angus Young. Who stole from whom? Who was inspired by whom? See, it’s flattery or flatulence…

I didn’t see Walkie Talkie, who played after a brilliant set by a band that I did dance to at the Cavern. And I am told, by an angel, that they are waaaaay better than the brilliant band that I danced to. Another loca(l) band that i gotta see, and dance to. Adding to my list of 60, sixty, bands that are awesome in My Winnipeg/Uptown Magazine’s John Kendle sings the praises of Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg. On John’s Facebook, something about holding back the tears. Holding back the years, in my Winnipeg. I love you Winnipeg. Suck that Vancouver, suck that Toronto. We rock! You wads simply suck!

I didn’t see loca(l) indie musicians (Flying Fox and the Hunter Gatherers, Liptonians, Chic Gamine) performing the songs of Jesus Christ Superstar at the Park Theater. i still don’t know how that went. Good Friday coming, Easter long weekend. Jesus Christ Superstar! Had to be, hot/hot/hot!

I didn’t really get to see the Sweet Nothings and American Flamewhip at Hooligan’s because I was dancing elsewhere. I love those bands. I did catch the Sweet Nothings’ last song, a Replacements cover that i couldn’t (re)place(meant) (does that qualify as a pissing/poor word pun/play?) in my spinning, swirling brain. I danced.



Singers who act, actors who sing—why, and what can be done about it?

—Shawn Conner

The recent interview between CBC Radio’s Jian Ghomeshi and actor/musician Billy Bob Thornton generated headlines across the continent (North America, that is). For some reason, actors are awfully prickly when it comes to questions about their day jobs, as though musical ability, or the sincerity behind their desire for yet more attention, was suspect.

I was reminded of my own fateful encounter with Jared Leto many moons ago. Leto had just come off the success of My So-Called Life (a show, I hasten to add, I quite liked, even if Claire Danes never returned my letters and went out with Ben Lee) and was on his first tour with 30 Seconds to Mars. (And let’s not even get into how hack that band is/was….)

“Whatever you do, don’t ask him about My So-Called Life,” the record label rep told me. Well, that was a red flag to a bull, but in true yellow journalism fashion I waited ’til the end of the interview. “Uhm, so what was the name of that band you fronted in My So-Called Life?”

“It was called, ‘Fuck you, this interview’s over.’” Leto stood up, and he and his band made a move towards the door of the restaurant (it was mid-day, just after lunch). Then his brother (if I recall correctly) Shannon Leto came over and demanded my recording device, whatever it was back then—a reel-to-reel maybe. Foolishly I gave it up—the dude was in construction, or at least that’s what Leto had said. (“Sure, I have another career, but these guys, this band is all they have, they work fuckin’ construction!” or some such.)

Maybe I deserved it (I got the recorder back, by the way—Leto’s flunky had tried erasing the interview but hadn’t done a thorough job at all). After all, I’d been told in no uncertain terms not to bait the dude. But I just couldn’t help it—and besides, I felt I’d be remiss in my journalistic duties if I didn’t ask him about THE WHOLE FUCKING REASON ANYONE WOULD WANT TO TALK TO THE BOZO IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Ahem.

So that’s my point. As my colleague Mike Usinger has pointed out, the only reason anyone wants to talk to most of these actors-turned-musicians is because they have some kind of fame outside of their music. Let’s face it: with a few exceptions—see list below—most actors who step into the music arena would be better off devoting that energy to meditation or yoga, or learning a second language.

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But no; if I’m successful in one glory-seeking profession, goes the thinking, why not another? Blame Frank Sinatra, the Blues Brothers, whomever you want, it’s a disease that’s unlikely to be cured any time soon.

And then there are the musicians who turn to acting—I’m talking to you, Jennifer Hudson and Queen Latifah and Ice Cube and Willie Nelson. Every actor wants to be a rock star, every rock star wants to be an actor. the other night I was watching Thief (1981), with James Caan and Tuesday Weld. Being a Michael Mann flick, it’s a moody, highly stylized piece of work, with a terminally ’80s synth soundtrack by Tangerine Dream and a script adapted from a novel by Frank Hohimer, a real-life jewel thief. Willie Nelson, playing an incarcerated former mentor to Caan, is easily the weakest link—and that’s in a movie with James freakin’ Belushi! Seeing the wizened old pothead trying to play a convict is bad enough, but when Caan pulls out his vision board—yep, they had those back then, too—and up in the corner is a picture of Nelson’s scraggly mug, there’s no taking the movie seriously.

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But getting back to actors making music, and their reluctance to discuss anything but: I recently interviewed Sam Bradley, a North Vancouver-based musician whose stuff is not bad, if you like John Mayer. But Bradley’s claim to fame is co-writing the song “Never Think” with actor Robert Pattinson, a tune which ended up on soundtrack to the blockbuster movie Twilight. To his credit, perhaps, Bradley was reluctant to talk about his friendship with his celebrity friend, or the possibility of another of his songs ending up on the soundtrack to the sequel. But it was, I admit, the reason that I’d reached out to talk to him in the first place. I mean, you don’t walk up to the neighbour of the person whose house just burned down to ask them about theirinsurance, do you?

Okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy. Maybe I should just get into acting.

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Six albums by actors that don’t suck:

She & Him, Volume 1-I admit I’ve only heard one song from this collaboration between actor Zooey Deschanel and Portland guitarist M. Ward, but that song is pretty damn good, and the album got excellent reviews. Too bad Zooey went and did a Jim Carrey movie, but ya gotta pay the bills I guess.

Scarlett Johansson, Anywhere I Lay My Head—Am I the only person who liked Scarlett Johansson’s album of Tom Waits covers? Oh, I am? Maybe it’s ‘cos I don’t revere Waits as much as everyone else seems to.

Rilo Kiley—Formed by two former child actors, Jenny Lewis (Troop Beverley Hills) and Blake Sennett (Boy Meets World), Rilo Kiley has become a respected fixture on the indie-rock scene. Lewis’s solo album, Rabbit Fur Coat, is pretty good too.

William Shatner, Has Been—With Ben Folds’ help, Captain Kirk/TJ Hooker washes away the weird taste left by his earlier recorded efforts like The Transformed Man (for those who have heard Shatner’s version of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”, the memory can be erased only by death) and records a smart, self-reflective and, dare we say, post-modern pop record.

Steve Martin, The Steve Martin Brothers—True, he’s a comedian first, and actor second… or is that banjo player second, and actor third? On this record, Martin recorded one side of comedy and the other of bluegrass tunes. Not only is he technically adept, but the comic also recorded one of the best stupid songs of all time: “King Tut”.

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Various Artists, Nashville (soundtrack)—In no small thanks to director Robert Altman, a number of actors rose to the occasion, perhaps most notably Keith Carradine and his tune “I’m Easy”, a soft-rock favourite around the guttersnipe offices to this day.



Rock’s new values: the 30-city cleanse
April 12, 2009, 9:31 pm
Filed under: music | Tags: , , , ,

—Rachel Demy (written while eating organic breakfast tacos and drinking organic Earl Grey tea in Dallas, TX)

Staying up late, sleeping for four hours, and then driving 400 miles is not exactly a banner of healthy living. But the idea that balance is elusive simply is not true anymore. We have so many tools in this day and age to combat the bad habits, malaise, and hedonistic gluttony that used to plague rock ‘n’ roll. The prevalence of local co-ops, vegan restaurants, ethnic fare, and Whole Foods has made the business of touring feel like an extension of home (without the juicer—I find it too bulky to fit into your carry-on).

In the last few years, working as a tour manager, I have noticed a movement evolving simply beyond maintaining one’s healthy status quo on the road—a feat in and of itself if you ask me. By and large, healthy eating is strictly reserved for the individual who makes the choice to set boundaries and then stick to them in the throes of such a manic lifestyle. The model of healthy individual has evolved into the model of healthy band; to elaborate, bands set rules and goals for healthy living before they even begin a tour, to be enforced mutually while on the road together.

I began to notice this trend a few years ago, as a passive fly-on-the-wall on a Ted Leo tour. Many of them vegetarians and vegans already, I thought it impressive that every week they collectively withheld one new item from their diet aside from the obvious meat and dairy—one week, wheat; the next, sugar; lather, rinse repeat. All the while, they drank a handle of Jameson every single night. The first time I heard of the Canadian protein source, Vega, was on that tour—vegan, allergen-free protein powder, meal supplement/replacement. Vega has many titles and is a multi-faceted food staple for a band with the discipline to give up vices on tour (while clearly keeping their favorite). I admired their dedication.

I also remember seeing pictures of Stars outside their bus doing yoga together on the side of the road—clearly something that might not happen at home but is definitely at home on the road. The advantages of finding self-discipline through others seem pretty clear in every day life but in the ever-individualized life on tour, it is incredibly easy to isolate, starting a domino effect of erratic, unhealthy behavior. Strength in numbers is a better way to find longevity and stamina in long-term touring and bands are definitely capitalizing on it.

As was further explained by members of Leslie & the LY’s, tours are the perfect length for changing habits and engaging in overall self-improvement. Sticking to their 100 per cent vegetarian-and-no-alcohol pacts, a one-to-two month-long tour allows one to draw his or her own Lent-like boundaries and realistically uphold them. While sometimes the only option for vegetarians on a budget is Subway (the American Interstate Highway System is an exercise in subjectivism), it can be a lot worse.

Rock ‘n’ roll just ain’t what it used to be with regards to health and balance—that is to say, there is now a regard for both—and I can’t say I’m sad about it.



Review: The Ting Tings at the Commodore, April 11 09

-Shawn Conner, photos by Melissa Skoda

So the Ting Tings returned to Vancouver last night, and after all I’d heard about the live show I wasn’t going to miss the duo a second time (third, if you count the misfire at CMW in Toronto). This goes against my innate indie-rock snobbery, which states that if I miss a band the first time, and it gets more popular by its second go-round, I am beholden to dismiss the act as overrated. Especially if, as in the case of the Ting Tings, the show had been sold out months in advance.

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The Ting Tings are not, however, overrated. What the Manchester band (most likely) is, is a flash-in-the-pan, but a great one. I can’t imagine a second album from these guys (drummer/guitarist Jules De Martino and singer/guitarist/fashion plate Katie White) living up to the charm and energy of We Started Nothing, their debut, but there’s nothing wrong with enjoying the ride while we can.

The Ting Tings circa 2009 is a lean, mean dance machine, with barely enough material to fill an hour but almost all of it first rate. Needless to say, the highlights were what anyone who’s heard the singles would expect—the title track, “Great DJ” and, for a roof-raising encore, “That’s Not My Name”. Surprises were few, but the Goth-tinged “We Walk”—one of the album tracks that demonstrates there may be more to this band than catchy pop tunes and dance beats—was a great set-opener: disarmingly dark yet punchy.

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And at a show where the girls outnumbered the guys, White—in blue tights, red shoes, and funky hat pulled down over her eyes —was the evening’s hero, posing for photos to satisfy cellphone shutterbugs and bounding onto De Martino’s drum riser to play guitar in a rock-star fashion that brought cheers from the crowd. It won’t last forever, but right now at least, the Ting Tings are deservedly at the top of the indie-pop/dance heap.

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Review: The Softpack, White Lies & Friendly Fires at Richard’s on Richards, April 8 09

—Kate “Pirate Eye” Reid, text & pics

I don’t read NME, so feel free to hate me when I say that most arena rock bands from across the pond sound exactly the same. I exempt Bloc Party from this list because “Banquet” reminds me of an ex-boyfriend, but if a plane carrying White Lies, Maximo Park, Franz Ferdinand, Glasvegas, and the Killers were to suddenly change trajectory and fly directly into the sun, I wouldn’t waste 140 characters Tweeting about it, so imagine how it pains me to dedicate an entire paragraph to those doodieheads. And yeah, I know the Killers are from Vegas, but for them I’ll make an exception.

When Fear of Flying changed its name to White Lies, the West London band jettisoned a moderately tolerable party sound in exchange for a somber, lumbering dirge—imagine the Killers without the glam and amusing androgyny of that knob, Brandon Flowers—now imagine he’s dead. Sorry, I’m feeling a little stabby after the White Lies wind machine left me with a crusty eye patch. Yarrr. Gusts of recycled air blew the drummer’s mop of hair into a rock star tousle, but irritated my contact lens to the point where my right eye sealed shut with a mucous-lined squinch. The feeling was familiar though—the Bloc Party-loving ex-boyfriend liked to serve up the old pirate eye in bed. I only mention this bit of overshare because it fits in so well with lead singer Harry McVeigh’s extended guitar fellatio. Even my crusted-over eye was sexier than his yawning onstage masturbation. I didn’t mind forfeiting some of my vision when it meant blurring the sight of four pompous twats in matching v-necks. Seriously, matching v-necks. Christ.

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It’s too bad the White Lies are such humourless stiffs. Maybe they had a little drollery in them back in the day—otherwise I can’t understand why their dismal funeral march would be on the same bill as two lighthearted bands like the Soft Pack and Friendly Fires.

I only caught three songs from the Soft Pack, but I liked what I heard—Shawn, your reno guy was right, they’re good. Matt Lamkin sung his lyrics in a talky twang reminiscent of Pavement and the band sounded like Black Lips with less punk flavour and more straight up, garage-rock crunch.

The Soft Pack used to be called the Muslims, but after encountering a deluge of racist remarks, they changed their name. A statement from the band read: “I guess there was some confusion as to whether we are ‘fucking gay, corporate sell outs.’ Don’t fret! We are still broke as ever and paying for the band out of our own pockets.” That’s good to hear? Apparently James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem liked the Soft Pack when he caught them in New York, so that’s definitely good to hear.

The last act for the night was Friendly Fires. I’d thought the nu rave band was French because of their “Paris”* song and because the Air France (!) remix of “Skeleton Boy” reminds me of Phoenix’s “1901″. Phoenix is French but Friendly Fires are definitely British—I couldn’t understand a word out of Ed Macfarlane’s mouth. He probably mentioned something about dancing since dude was all about gyrating onstage and down in the pit with the sweaty masses.

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It’s impossible to keep from giggling when you watch that skinny man move, pumping his arms and wobbling his hips in teetering half circles—my Portuguese grandpa dances the same way to accordion music. In the end, Macfarlane’s frantic bopping persevered and beat my apathy into the ground—I danced it up in the pit for the duration of the Friendly Fires set. If I wasn’t so broke I might’ve bought a shirt, since I sweated through the one I was wearing.

*For a better song about the City of Lights check out “Oh, Paris” by Dent May & His Magnificent Ukulele. Dent was my fake Internet boyfriend back when we were both 16 and hung out on a Weezer messageboard instead of going out and getting real relationships. Dent’s always been a down to earth dude—now he looks like Elton John and makes rad music on Animal Collective’s label, Paw Tracks. Go, Dent, go.

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Weird, wonderful and mine: La Dolce Vita after 50 Years

—Kaitlin Fontana

In The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel about the early days of the comics industry, there is a moment of realization between the titular characters upon seeing  Citizen Kane for the first time. They realize that the film is a) a stunning piece of art; and b) laid out like a comic book. This has the effect of both elevating their own art form—the comic—which has, up until this point, been regarded by them as lesser, and also elevating them as artists, to want to achieve something better and more meaningful in their art of the comic book.

It doesn’t matter that no one else in the world might have viewed Citizen Kane the same way—as a comic book set to film—it only matters that they stay up half the night coming up with new ideas for their art because of what they just saw. They have an intensely personal experience with the film, one that can never be duplicated by anyone else.

Watching Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, which I first did in 2002, alone, in the middle of the day, in a theatre, had the same effect on me. I have always rejoiced in my Italian-ness, even though it’s a genetically scant part of my whole (25 per cent) and I have only visited the country twice, briefly. What makes up my “-ness” or makes it legitimate has never troubled me. I know I am connected to the country, and I feel that connection, however mysterious, distant and difficult to qualify it may be.

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La Dolce Vita somehow manages to set the complexity of these feelings to film. Watching it, I thrilled in the weirdness, the dreamlike sequences, the poetic chaos of crowd scenes. The stark bizarreness—which gives way to comedy—of the two children who, giggling away, claim to see the Virgin Mary in a tree.

The eeriness of Steiner’s apartment the morning after the murders.

The clash of Marcello Matroianni and his lovers, over and over in different ways (to the surprise of my Italian studies teacher, I noticed and commented on the fact that Yvonne Furneaux’s lips seemed out of sync with her angry, spurned woman dialogue; in fact, she spoke English and was dubbed over in Italian… and then subtitled back to English).

The paparazzi.

The giant fish.

The personal butting up against the public.

The religious butting up against the bacchanal.

The weirdness. The weirdness! So much weirdness.

I got it all. I get it all. It’s all clear to me, in its madness. Watching that first time, I had that moment of realization. I recognized the movie like you’d recognize a long-lost relative in the street. Marcello—oh god, Marcello, what a wonder—aside from being a perfect foil for Fellini, the essential eye for this storm, he also looks remarkably like photos of my grandfather, the mysterious (100%) Italian man who I never met (he died before I was born), and who I feel so strongly, inexplicably bound to. It’s hard not to watch Mastroianni and feel some sort of paternal longing, for the film as well as the man.

No one I know who likes La Dolce Vita, really likes it as a film. It’s far too long and too weird for most, and explaining it is like explaining the intricacies and machinations of my own family, or myself. No one will really get it, because to get it you have to have lived it. Only Italians seem to understand, but even so, not in exactly the same way each to each. And while I was not there in 1959, the film in all its bizarre glory is in me, leading a long, weird parade through narrow streets and wading into la fontana that is 25 per cent of my heart. Buon cumpleano, La Dolce Vita.

La Dolce Vita plays until April 13 at Pacific Cinematheque in Vancouver.