"...and the winner is?"
Last year was a pickle for my choice of 'artist of the year'; sure, M.I.A had redefined world music/ hip-hop with Kala but there was Panda Bear, who was a part of two innovative records, two feats of electronic ingenuity that I couldn't ignore. That said, M.I.A won because her ideas were bound to wreak more havoc on the music scene as well as the fact that she stands alone now--by way of usurping Bjork--as the artist critics, fans and fellow musicians now think leads the way to which we all respond. That's a heavy-enough mantle for any one person and rightfully so, no one could carry the wave around without broadside help this year.
Still, it was curious who was the defining artist of the year...many names came up, names that blogs have been clamouring to put on their year-end lists. But even if you go by that count, no one person stood out definitively. But something did.....just not any one person.
Perhaps Janelle Monae said it best in a youtube interview I watched a few days ago...now, it's ok if you are asking yourself Janelle who (her music was recycled by Bad Boy records from last year) but the point is her words. Monae reiterates that the concept album is not only en vogue but here and now. And we've seen this especially in the last couple of months...Beyonce, Kanye West and Coldplay---three of music biggest names---all tried their hands at concepts that they could have eschewed in order to cash in even bigger than they are currently. This idea of a return to art is not exactly novel but it is refreshing especially for commrecial acts as those I mentioned. It is so easy for commercial success to be met only by commercial success and not exploration of art. It's not easy: too often we as listeners and critics think artists are solely in charge of their careers but there is a direct link between commercialism and the musical effort. That is a fact and it's the rare artist that can escape that with each recorded album.
Which lead us back inexorably to the outcome of this blog entry...but by now you know where I'm going with all this. This year, I choose a concept and not an artist per se as my 'artist of the year'. The concept is, simply put, the return to art. This I feel was carried over from last year and will be brought forward to the new year. Hopefully award shows like the hopeless Grammys will FINALLY recognize the trend and go with that in mind when the nominations are announced in a few days time. I'm not terribly optimistic but we will see, won't we?
Monday, December 1, 2008
Hurricane (Grace Jones) (2008)
“Yes, I Am a Witch”
I’ll admit first up that my caption for this review is lifted from a Yoko Ono remix collection released last year but given the eccentricity involved I think it fits most appropriately. If Ono is singularly the most enigmatic woman ever in pop music then Jones is the woman mostly pigeon-holed right behind her (Bjork fans don’t despair: your favorite Icelander is no doubt third).
Hurricane, her first album of new material in nineteen years, continues the interesting juxtaposition Jones presents to pop music and art. Of course, Jones hasn’t been totally gone the past two decades: twice her return was stalled for reasons unknown but also she has done odds and ends contributions. This has only whet my appetite for her however because as interestingly poised she is globally as a pop star, not many kids are growing up knowing of her actual music even in this youtube era. Let’s face it, if Patra (remember her?) hadn’t remade Pull Up to The Bumper eons ago then Jones would be only a talking point. Hurricane is only nine tracks but these are well mapped-out funk concepts. Williams’ Blood, the stand out, breaks out in hives with each couplet. All the well-tested stylistic tricks are presented by Jones in it, like a ringmaster carefully controlling our rapt attention. One could get lost in the artistry of it but it is the seemingly biographical lyrics that are stunning. Jones isn’t the first artist to hail from our shores to have revealed so much personally on record but given her oddity status it is intriguing. I’m Crying (Mother’s Tears) pays homage to maternity but it is suffused with enough multiple vocal work to pull itself off without sounding too contrite. Sunset Sunrise follows in this vein but its effect is dependent on the strength of her pastiche and its usage.
This brings me to the main kink in the album: its production, or more precisely, its deluxe production. Lead single, Corporate Cannibal is more art than song. In fact, its deftness is in its spoken word matching pace with the minimalistic beats. The video is visually arresting and it will enhance her reputation for always being ahead of the curve but her producers are treating her with the same type of gloves that she was sparring with two decades ago. At the height of her prowess, Jones’ visual oddity was backed up with aggressive vocal work and songs like My Jamaican Guy that totally simmered within its own conviction. As good as Corporate Cannibal is, it lacks the guttural juice needed to wow listeners like her earlier stuff did. Nineteen years ago, perhaps it’d be held as exotic but times have changed. The definition of cutting-edge music is perpetually changing and it’s always a bit odd to see an artist like Jones not in total command of modernistic gimmicks. Ivor Guest and Sly & Robbie are among the main handlers of her sound here so that means a technical excellence that is as consistent as it is unimpeachable. This doesn’t take into account, however, the current state of pop music. Britney Spears’ robotic utterances on Womanizer are horrific punishment on my ears, for example, but the beat is modern and oddly challenging. My point: the beat shouldn’t just thud, it should ‘sell off’, as we say locally. Hurricane is an elegant thing but it could have thawed out more or subvert itself to a more threatening existence. The last three songs are the weakest because the fit with her vocals and the beats are not as tight. They feel slightly like filler.
Artists are expected to evolve always…their sound should be tinkered with until the right combination is found. When they pause too long then that leads to trouble or, ultimately, stagnation. This is partly why Bjork has been usurped by M.I.A in the eyes of music critics as the leading exponent of pop music. Circuitry and insulation have led Tori Amos and, of all persons, PJ Harvey away from the brilliant originality that attracted audiences to them in the first place. This is why Buju just doesn’t seem quite as vital now in spite of the occasional hit. The very reason why I no longer care what Pink has to say.
When Jones’ producers throw caution away then the result is the gorgeous This Is Life, a hybrid of different Jamaican rhythms and syntax that mutates midway into shards of feedback. When Jones yells, ‘this is me/ flying the gate…’ the entire thing collapses lusciously upon itself. I don’t need a lyric sheet to tell me that the production contribution of Tricky (himself enjoying a great comeback year) manifests itself on the title track--which has been mixed around for quite some time now and is an utter delight to hear. It builds slowly and takes off when he trickles in, giving it a nice trippy vibe.
2008 has been big on legends returning with music but in almost all those cases they’ve brought nothing new to their repertoire: Madonna’s Hard Candy sticks in one’s throat rather uneasily. Q-Tip has put out something decent but it’s a sideway thrust not a forward one and even the greatest of them all, our own Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry leaves the listener baffled more than once with his art-meet-pap/pop Repentance. Grace Jones has already earned the right to be considered one of the greatest exponents of popular music and Hurricane is a reminder of that. She succeeds where those aforementioned artists fail because the control panel of her style has never been too residual within her. That’s why team Jones rises to challenges and smoothes over the blimps that limit Hurricane but simultaneously such a PR effort reveals little if anything at all of what is to come. They have however-- to use a weird culinary term—managed to take her out of the freezer but not totally sizzling in the frying pan just yet.
I’ll admit first up that my caption for this review is lifted from a Yoko Ono remix collection released last year but given the eccentricity involved I think it fits most appropriately. If Ono is singularly the most enigmatic woman ever in pop music then Jones is the woman mostly pigeon-holed right behind her (Bjork fans don’t despair: your favorite Icelander is no doubt third).
Hurricane, her first album of new material in nineteen years, continues the interesting juxtaposition Jones presents to pop music and art. Of course, Jones hasn’t been totally gone the past two decades: twice her return was stalled for reasons unknown but also she has done odds and ends contributions. This has only whet my appetite for her however because as interestingly poised she is globally as a pop star, not many kids are growing up knowing of her actual music even in this youtube era. Let’s face it, if Patra (remember her?) hadn’t remade Pull Up to The Bumper eons ago then Jones would be only a talking point. Hurricane is only nine tracks but these are well mapped-out funk concepts. Williams’ Blood, the stand out, breaks out in hives with each couplet. All the well-tested stylistic tricks are presented by Jones in it, like a ringmaster carefully controlling our rapt attention. One could get lost in the artistry of it but it is the seemingly biographical lyrics that are stunning. Jones isn’t the first artist to hail from our shores to have revealed so much personally on record but given her oddity status it is intriguing. I’m Crying (Mother’s Tears) pays homage to maternity but it is suffused with enough multiple vocal work to pull itself off without sounding too contrite. Sunset Sunrise follows in this vein but its effect is dependent on the strength of her pastiche and its usage.
This brings me to the main kink in the album: its production, or more precisely, its deluxe production. Lead single, Corporate Cannibal is more art than song. In fact, its deftness is in its spoken word matching pace with the minimalistic beats. The video is visually arresting and it will enhance her reputation for always being ahead of the curve but her producers are treating her with the same type of gloves that she was sparring with two decades ago. At the height of her prowess, Jones’ visual oddity was backed up with aggressive vocal work and songs like My Jamaican Guy that totally simmered within its own conviction. As good as Corporate Cannibal is, it lacks the guttural juice needed to wow listeners like her earlier stuff did. Nineteen years ago, perhaps it’d be held as exotic but times have changed. The definition of cutting-edge music is perpetually changing and it’s always a bit odd to see an artist like Jones not in total command of modernistic gimmicks. Ivor Guest and Sly & Robbie are among the main handlers of her sound here so that means a technical excellence that is as consistent as it is unimpeachable. This doesn’t take into account, however, the current state of pop music. Britney Spears’ robotic utterances on Womanizer are horrific punishment on my ears, for example, but the beat is modern and oddly challenging. My point: the beat shouldn’t just thud, it should ‘sell off’, as we say locally. Hurricane is an elegant thing but it could have thawed out more or subvert itself to a more threatening existence. The last three songs are the weakest because the fit with her vocals and the beats are not as tight. They feel slightly like filler.
Artists are expected to evolve always…their sound should be tinkered with until the right combination is found. When they pause too long then that leads to trouble or, ultimately, stagnation. This is partly why Bjork has been usurped by M.I.A in the eyes of music critics as the leading exponent of pop music. Circuitry and insulation have led Tori Amos and, of all persons, PJ Harvey away from the brilliant originality that attracted audiences to them in the first place. This is why Buju just doesn’t seem quite as vital now in spite of the occasional hit. The very reason why I no longer care what Pink has to say.
When Jones’ producers throw caution away then the result is the gorgeous This Is Life, a hybrid of different Jamaican rhythms and syntax that mutates midway into shards of feedback. When Jones yells, ‘this is me/ flying the gate…’ the entire thing collapses lusciously upon itself. I don’t need a lyric sheet to tell me that the production contribution of Tricky (himself enjoying a great comeback year) manifests itself on the title track--which has been mixed around for quite some time now and is an utter delight to hear. It builds slowly and takes off when he trickles in, giving it a nice trippy vibe.
2008 has been big on legends returning with music but in almost all those cases they’ve brought nothing new to their repertoire: Madonna’s Hard Candy sticks in one’s throat rather uneasily. Q-Tip has put out something decent but it’s a sideway thrust not a forward one and even the greatest of them all, our own Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry leaves the listener baffled more than once with his art-meet-pap/pop Repentance. Grace Jones has already earned the right to be considered one of the greatest exponents of popular music and Hurricane is a reminder of that. She succeeds where those aforementioned artists fail because the control panel of her style has never been too residual within her. That’s why team Jones rises to challenges and smoothes over the blimps that limit Hurricane but simultaneously such a PR effort reveals little if anything at all of what is to come. They have however-- to use a weird culinary term—managed to take her out of the freezer but not totally sizzling in the frying pan just yet.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
2008:THE YEAR IN MUSIC
Well, well, well...it's almost here: starting December 1st I will start to be publishing what I consider the best trends of the musical year. It has been an interesting year but, hey this is only the teaser for you to come back....
see you soon...
see you soon...
Sunday, September 14, 2008
‘Hostel’ (2006)/ ‘Hostel II’ (2007)
‘When the Vacation Goes Awry’
The horror genre has been rampant of late with over the top slash-killings, enough gore to frighten even the hardest heart and impossibly corny endings that make viewers laugh rather than cringe with suspense. An hour into Hostel and I was ready to add one more film to the pile of disappointments and then the most remarkable thing happened: the killings stopped. Not totally, but, suddenly, hidden cul-de-sacs were opening up as the film careened towards what turned out to be a pulsating end.
The set up for the film is pretty standard enough. A couple of bratty, horny American college guys (Josh and Pax) and a very sexually-charged French pal (Ollie) are back-packing through Europe in search for girls. Of course, they start with the Amsterdam red-light district scene. The night is a great success but they are chased away from their hotel and have to overnight with the shady-looking Alexei whose room is more akin to a sex-shop. He tells them of the incredibly compliant girls in Bratislava and they chart a course for that location. A stranger on the train (a bit too pertinent so that was the viewer’s clue to trouble) reinforces what they were told and all minds are made up. They check into a hostel and hook up with two hot looking girls, who, as only women can, subtlety grill them for information then decide to show them around.
Sex in any film normally leads to bad tidings and in horror films it’s a sure ticket to death. Hostel picks up this well-tread motif and runs with it. A series of predictably suspicious disappearances, starting with Ollie, occur after a night of clubbing. His disappearance brings opposite reactions from both Americans. Pax decides to keep his rising terror in check by sticking to the game-plan of getting laid while Josh can’t help but think it signals some further abandonment (his girlfriend recently left him for another man). Pax’s attitude only changes once Josh goes missing. His instinct starts to kick in, even to the extent that he ignores the girls he once found irresistible.
The hedonist in him doesn’t disappear totally though but Hostel—maybe because it is set in a foreign country---veers off the cliché track once it’s down to Pax and his intuition to figure out what is wrong in Bratislava.
His suspicions never give way to paranoia nor does he take the next train in an effort to flee. Yet, unlike most films, he doesn’t see the nightmarish end even in hints. Such naïveté from an American in a foreign country gives the film a kind of reality that most Wes Craven films lack. Finally, Pax comes face to face with the horrible truth—truth that American naïveté thinking derives eventually, that the persons who at first seemed so excited and helpful to see them are actually decidedly against them. In this case, they’re players in a dangerous human-hunting game that will bring around the downfall of foreigners. After accosting the girls (high on drugs) he is taken to a museum where his friends are said to be part of the exhibition.
Pax’s face only registers the sheer horror of what he sees after the familiar countenance of the stranger in the train comes into view, carving up what is left of Josh’s body. He is then placed in a room and ‘tortured’ somewhat in a sick display of cat and mouse game. It proves to be a game that loses its edge when he renounces his patriotism to his captor. Needless to say, he escapes and rescues the girl and makes it out of the nightmare in the end but the manner in which he does so runs smoothly and with much suspense. Thankfully, Quentin Tarantino, the film’s producer, and Eli Roth (the director) decide to spare us the noise-filled gore that decked the first hour and channel Kubrick-esque camera shots, replete with appropriate silences towards the end.
What saves Pax however doesn’t translate into Hostel II. Immediately Eli Roth sets course for a map of suspenseful explanation but gets lost in the maelstrom of gore before anything can seriously unravel. Paxton may briefly appear in this installation but his death is a mere cliff-note and doesn’t serve as interlink to anything substantial other than the thought of an ever expanding human hunting network. Paxton’s thinking level is terribly mixed; after defying odds to escape, he then returns to America only to clamp up and not expose the horrors he faced. Unlike Tarantino’s 2007 smorgasbord epic Grindhouse, Roth however doesn’t spend too much time with logics in Hostel II, instead he laboriously shows us the behind the scenes excitement to collecting the human prey. I can’t recall any other horror flick making its aim and outcome so evident and not expecting to suffer for this foresight of our knowledge.
That drains what little suspense one can imagine and it makes the gore nothing but self-gratifying…which is really a shame. Hostel II does explore the wantonness of the hunters even if Roth encases them with only their depravity. Even in such shallowness, the poetry of this gore is fascinating. In one scene a female hunter sits under her hoisted prey- Heather Matarazzo (the annoying wimp, Lorna), naked and with an extended scythe. She tears at the girl’s body and immerses herself with the blood as it trickles onto her and the candles below. The camera then hones in on her hand reaching for a shorter scythe and slitting her victim’s throat. It’s devastating yet its disturbing silence is the film’s single notable achievement.
And yet, despite the hardness of that female hunter, the two main male hunters we see are poles apart in their ambition towards the killing. Todd (Richard Burgi) is the atypical alpha male and Stuart (Roger Bart) is pathetically lacking cojones. When Todd finally gets to torturing a victim, his sadistic joy is stalled by an unplugged instrument. His victim—Beth (Lauren German)—cowers in fear while he bellows at her; ‘you should see you f--king face.’ When the instrument gets unplugged a second time however, he accidentally disfigures her face. In the few seconds that follow, Hostel II swerves completely further off track and descends into a corny finale. Roth does not clarify the reason for Todd’s sudden change of heart. We are not sure if he is angry that electrical limitation is robbing him of his pleasure or the implications of his actions have caught up with him finally. Instead of probing this, Roth has the character mauled to death by dogs for reneging on his contract as a means of clouding the issue.
Roth thus misses his most valuable tool for true suspense. Hostel II salaciously proves that in such a postulation women are just as vicious as men. Indeed, the human hunting is co-coordinated by a woman. We realize also that the human hunters are not a tight-knit brotherhood, per se, but lovers of the highest price. Whitney (Bijou Phillips) escapes elimination by bargaining a price to partake in the game. She tells her captors that with a PDA she can have the money wired within minutes. It’s admittedly a clever twist amid the clichés… showing the strength of technology in the film but immediately it lets itself down with her only aim being to seek revenge not on the hunters themselves but the female that lured her to Slovakia in the first place. Ah, kids, they never learn.
RATING: "Hostel 1" 6/10 "Hostel 11" 2.5/10
‘It is Time for a Love Revolution’ (Lenny Kravitz) (2008)
‘Lost in Emotion’
Like most artists who grew up with a wide appreciation of various music forms, it is difficult to place Lenny Kravitz into exactly which specific genre he belongs. Case in point: he got shifted into alternative soul because of a constant guitar presence and that only helped him to win four consecutive Grammys for male rock vocal solo. There is another reason too; like this year’s so happening group, Vampire Weekend, he is an artist clearly with an affluent background. There ends the similarities though because while VW can push off from their upbringing and relish it on record, Kravitz always sounds too keenly aware of his privilege and the struggle to escape it is a constant hurdle of his new album, It is Time for a Love Revolution.
It’s a lot of hurdles but his music production isn’t a hindrance, thankfully. It’s to his credit that all his albums indicate a classically trained background and a track like Bring It On features some extended guitar licks that rock the house but, unlike his best songs like Fly Away, there is a disconnect along its way. Like many non-geniuses who attempt an alternative, urban sound (there are too many to start name-dropping) Kravitz overuses his acoustic tools to compensate for the innate vocal and dynamic tools he just doesn’t have. In short, he’s no genius and thus a part of his appeal is being able to camouflage or dress up that fact. Kravitz succeeds in this by mostly doing covers like American Woman or maintaining a hip, rocker look that appeal to both women and men. I’m also sure it’s imminent for him to take a slot of a judge on American Idol or a Miss World beauty pageant. However, if you’re like me, then you’re more interested in the music. Production value aside however there is little here to keep one interested. Lyrics have always been his Achilles heel and coupled with a desire to go beyond a facile level, the album is downright bland in that regard. The ridiculous I’ll Be Waiting is a fitting title because it sure sounds like he’s waiting for something to happen on the track but, unlike you the listener who can discern what it lacks; Kravitz seems unsure what he is waiting for. One wonders how it made it through so many demo takes and still came out as a fully-armed thing daring to pass itself off as anything but the dud it is. He fares better on A New Door but the middle section may put you to sleep.
Even with his reliable guitar-wielding base though, Kravitz settles in rather than attack. I Love the Rain is a mixture of Hendrix-esque (or in his case, Aerosmith) shards of feedback and the trip/hop vibe a-la Portishead but even as it fades out his lack of urgency costs him. Greater artistes like Prince and Terence Trent D’arby would’ve ripped it up. Kravitz though isn’t concerned about exploring beyond what has become comfortable for him. He thinks that by merely still encasing everything in guitars that it’s experimental enough, thus disregarding the entire alternative soul movement that he got caught up in by default in the first place. Like Mary J. Blige, he’s become too comfortable with what works for him and his patented sound to really want to shake things up or apply any real depth vocally anymore. There’s no fight or challenge left in him and, at forty-four, only a mid-life crisis could possibly rouse him into something new and it shows on this comfy yet too familiar record, which is odd given the harshness this decade has treated him (being racially-profiled by the police and all).
Albums like It is Time for a Love Revolution though will always be better received by soul yuppies desperate to be seen as hip on a visceral level. They’ll respond to this bummer than say a true alternative masterpiece like Trent D’arby’s Symphony or Damn or Miss Badu’s latest. I could spend the entire article writing on reasons for this but, hey; you continue to watch the Grammys struggle to remain relevant while ignoring the most exceptional talent. You lament over the nominating of the same boring line up yearly as much as I do. Kravitz does the very same thing and while it doesn’t make his stuff awful by a long shot, this is his eight album of pushing the same shtick on us and that clearly doesn’t make this a work of progress. All it does is keeps him bogged down by way too much recession and there’s no bail-out in sight.
RATING: 5.5/10
Like most artists who grew up with a wide appreciation of various music forms, it is difficult to place Lenny Kravitz into exactly which specific genre he belongs. Case in point: he got shifted into alternative soul because of a constant guitar presence and that only helped him to win four consecutive Grammys for male rock vocal solo. There is another reason too; like this year’s so happening group, Vampire Weekend, he is an artist clearly with an affluent background. There ends the similarities though because while VW can push off from their upbringing and relish it on record, Kravitz always sounds too keenly aware of his privilege and the struggle to escape it is a constant hurdle of his new album, It is Time for a Love Revolution.
It’s a lot of hurdles but his music production isn’t a hindrance, thankfully. It’s to his credit that all his albums indicate a classically trained background and a track like Bring It On features some extended guitar licks that rock the house but, unlike his best songs like Fly Away, there is a disconnect along its way. Like many non-geniuses who attempt an alternative, urban sound (there are too many to start name-dropping) Kravitz overuses his acoustic tools to compensate for the innate vocal and dynamic tools he just doesn’t have. In short, he’s no genius and thus a part of his appeal is being able to camouflage or dress up that fact. Kravitz succeeds in this by mostly doing covers like American Woman or maintaining a hip, rocker look that appeal to both women and men. I’m also sure it’s imminent for him to take a slot of a judge on American Idol or a Miss World beauty pageant. However, if you’re like me, then you’re more interested in the music. Production value aside however there is little here to keep one interested. Lyrics have always been his Achilles heel and coupled with a desire to go beyond a facile level, the album is downright bland in that regard. The ridiculous I’ll Be Waiting is a fitting title because it sure sounds like he’s waiting for something to happen on the track but, unlike you the listener who can discern what it lacks; Kravitz seems unsure what he is waiting for. One wonders how it made it through so many demo takes and still came out as a fully-armed thing daring to pass itself off as anything but the dud it is. He fares better on A New Door but the middle section may put you to sleep.
Even with his reliable guitar-wielding base though, Kravitz settles in rather than attack. I Love the Rain is a mixture of Hendrix-esque (or in his case, Aerosmith) shards of feedback and the trip/hop vibe a-la Portishead but even as it fades out his lack of urgency costs him. Greater artistes like Prince and Terence Trent D’arby would’ve ripped it up. Kravitz though isn’t concerned about exploring beyond what has become comfortable for him. He thinks that by merely still encasing everything in guitars that it’s experimental enough, thus disregarding the entire alternative soul movement that he got caught up in by default in the first place. Like Mary J. Blige, he’s become too comfortable with what works for him and his patented sound to really want to shake things up or apply any real depth vocally anymore. There’s no fight or challenge left in him and, at forty-four, only a mid-life crisis could possibly rouse him into something new and it shows on this comfy yet too familiar record, which is odd given the harshness this decade has treated him (being racially-profiled by the police and all).
Albums like It is Time for a Love Revolution though will always be better received by soul yuppies desperate to be seen as hip on a visceral level. They’ll respond to this bummer than say a true alternative masterpiece like Trent D’arby’s Symphony or Damn or Miss Badu’s latest. I could spend the entire article writing on reasons for this but, hey; you continue to watch the Grammys struggle to remain relevant while ignoring the most exceptional talent. You lament over the nominating of the same boring line up yearly as much as I do. Kravitz does the very same thing and while it doesn’t make his stuff awful by a long shot, this is his eight album of pushing the same shtick on us and that clearly doesn’t make this a work of progress. All it does is keeps him bogged down by way too much recession and there’s no bail-out in sight.
RATING: 5.5/10
Baby Mama (2008)
’Outsourcing 101’
In one of Baby Mama’s earliest scenes Kate (Tina Fey) commits the cardinal rule of dating: never come on too desperate. After confessing how badly she wants a baby, Kate calmly watches as her date bolts into an awaiting taxi then tells the waiter that she’ll have her food ‘to go’. Kate is a late-thirties success story that is incomplete in her own view by the fact that she hasn’t yet mothered a child. It reaches a point where in a boardroom meeting all the men look like babies in diapers. While director Michael McCullers (co-writer of the Austin Powers films) hits a smart point with that image, the extent of his innovation unfortunately ends there.
The film’s opening sets up nicely a mélange of issues dealing with single women trying to get pregnant. Its difficulty though is that it tries too hard to find duality in a role that is heavily monochromatic. Kate recognizes the futility of her task and even accepts that others do not feel as zealous as she does…indeed the calmness she has when her date leaves is indicative of a reality the film only hints at. In the bubble world she lives in, people offset reality at every chance because it’s equated as losing some essential part of their lifestyle. With that in mind, the fact that she hadn’t considered surrogacy is surprising. That she’d settle for Angie (Amy Poehler) just seems ridiculous especially with the clear baggage it’d involve. That she hasn’t seriously considered what a baby realistically means is also worrisome. But, even worse, that Baby Mama provides few laughs proves how the best intensions sometimes go awry as well as bore along the away.
While Fey’s balancing act of humor and seriousness is the weakest thing here, her Saturday Nite Live predecessors—Steve Martin and Sigourney Weaver—manage theirs with consummate ease. Martin (Barry) is the guru/boss whose eccentricities are regulated to limited perfection. Weaver (Chaffee Bicknell) runs the surrogacy clinic Kate ends up going to with an assured display of bluntness. It’s interesting to watch Kate maneuver around these two because both are oddly part of the ideal she aims for in spite of the conflicting rigidity within her. The film never seriously attempts to explore the juxtaposition of her inherent tension and their carefree mentalities however. Nor does it minimally even look at the issue of alternative parenting types, which is legally changing yet again globally.
It does try to bridge the gap somewhat between her and Angie but McCullers clogs endless clichés and outright boring scenarios in the way. Both women start out predictably enough superficially assessing the other. Kate however refuses to see the change of lifestyle that a baby will bring even as Angie initially acts like one. Here the film goes overboard in trying to convince us of Angie’s instability when its clear from her first line that she’s not playing with a full set of marbles. Neither is Kate who is so wrapped up in her own personal space that she doesn’t even suspect the (spoiler alert) scam going on around her. All she sees, with her well coiffed hair and power broker glasses, is another step towards her happiness.
Watching Fey, I’m struck at the parallels she runs to Charlotte Brady, Kristen Davis’ character in the series Sex & the City. Charlotte’s eternal quest for maternal happiness however is part of a bigger, more serious picture that Kate could never fit into. Kate’s delusions are deep enough that she doesn’t even have friends who keep her grounded. All she has is a mother who plays dicey race jokes and a sister who she would switch roles with in a heartbeat. Neither adds to her as an aspiring mother nor does she inject anything to them. The love interest, Rob (Greg Kinnear) is a side-bar to say the least. More deploring is Kate’s life itself, the utter emptiness of her success and the awkwardness she has with real situations. Kate is a heavy amalgamation of not just Charlotte but of other feminist types and the ditzy appeal of Diane Keaton too. With so many iconic types guiding her, Fey fails to cull just the right amount of their essences to build one whole, empowering character even with her own talents. Nor is Poehler, stuck viciously into stereotype, allowed much room to lighten things up.
It's unfortunate but for all the intuitive genius that is clearly within Fey and Poehler, the film stops dead-stock before it can gather even a smidgen of the chemistry both exude so easily on Saturday Nite Live. Both are riotous when bouncing lines off each other in that comedic outlet but here the ambitious plot weighs down and restricts them. Baby Mama, alas, to quote a line from a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song… does not cut deep but cuts most absurdly.
RATING: 5/10
In one of Baby Mama’s earliest scenes Kate (Tina Fey) commits the cardinal rule of dating: never come on too desperate. After confessing how badly she wants a baby, Kate calmly watches as her date bolts into an awaiting taxi then tells the waiter that she’ll have her food ‘to go’. Kate is a late-thirties success story that is incomplete in her own view by the fact that she hasn’t yet mothered a child. It reaches a point where in a boardroom meeting all the men look like babies in diapers. While director Michael McCullers (co-writer of the Austin Powers films) hits a smart point with that image, the extent of his innovation unfortunately ends there.
The film’s opening sets up nicely a mélange of issues dealing with single women trying to get pregnant. Its difficulty though is that it tries too hard to find duality in a role that is heavily monochromatic. Kate recognizes the futility of her task and even accepts that others do not feel as zealous as she does…indeed the calmness she has when her date leaves is indicative of a reality the film only hints at. In the bubble world she lives in, people offset reality at every chance because it’s equated as losing some essential part of their lifestyle. With that in mind, the fact that she hadn’t considered surrogacy is surprising. That she’d settle for Angie (Amy Poehler) just seems ridiculous especially with the clear baggage it’d involve. That she hasn’t seriously considered what a baby realistically means is also worrisome. But, even worse, that Baby Mama provides few laughs proves how the best intensions sometimes go awry as well as bore along the away.
While Fey’s balancing act of humor and seriousness is the weakest thing here, her Saturday Nite Live predecessors—Steve Martin and Sigourney Weaver—manage theirs with consummate ease. Martin (Barry) is the guru/boss whose eccentricities are regulated to limited perfection. Weaver (Chaffee Bicknell) runs the surrogacy clinic Kate ends up going to with an assured display of bluntness. It’s interesting to watch Kate maneuver around these two because both are oddly part of the ideal she aims for in spite of the conflicting rigidity within her. The film never seriously attempts to explore the juxtaposition of her inherent tension and their carefree mentalities however. Nor does it minimally even look at the issue of alternative parenting types, which is legally changing yet again globally.
It does try to bridge the gap somewhat between her and Angie but McCullers clogs endless clichés and outright boring scenarios in the way. Both women start out predictably enough superficially assessing the other. Kate however refuses to see the change of lifestyle that a baby will bring even as Angie initially acts like one. Here the film goes overboard in trying to convince us of Angie’s instability when its clear from her first line that she’s not playing with a full set of marbles. Neither is Kate who is so wrapped up in her own personal space that she doesn’t even suspect the (spoiler alert) scam going on around her. All she sees, with her well coiffed hair and power broker glasses, is another step towards her happiness.
Watching Fey, I’m struck at the parallels she runs to Charlotte Brady, Kristen Davis’ character in the series Sex & the City. Charlotte’s eternal quest for maternal happiness however is part of a bigger, more serious picture that Kate could never fit into. Kate’s delusions are deep enough that she doesn’t even have friends who keep her grounded. All she has is a mother who plays dicey race jokes and a sister who she would switch roles with in a heartbeat. Neither adds to her as an aspiring mother nor does she inject anything to them. The love interest, Rob (Greg Kinnear) is a side-bar to say the least. More deploring is Kate’s life itself, the utter emptiness of her success and the awkwardness she has with real situations. Kate is a heavy amalgamation of not just Charlotte but of other feminist types and the ditzy appeal of Diane Keaton too. With so many iconic types guiding her, Fey fails to cull just the right amount of their essences to build one whole, empowering character even with her own talents. Nor is Poehler, stuck viciously into stereotype, allowed much room to lighten things up.
It's unfortunate but for all the intuitive genius that is clearly within Fey and Poehler, the film stops dead-stock before it can gather even a smidgen of the chemistry both exude so easily on Saturday Nite Live. Both are riotous when bouncing lines off each other in that comedic outlet but here the ambitious plot weighs down and restricts them. Baby Mama, alas, to quote a line from a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah song… does not cut deep but cuts most absurdly.
RATING: 5/10
Monday, March 31, 2008
OUR POP CULTURE: PIRACY
This piece was done the day after the Oscars and I neglected to post it before but here it is because apparently my prediction came through; Carib is planning on showing 'No Country...' again even though its now on DVD!
It’s been quite a week for the cinema industry, both local and abroad. It should have culminated Sunday with the brilliant ‘No Country for Old Men’ winning the Oscar for best picture. Arguably, this marks the first time in a decade that the outright best film of the year actually won the award. Locally, the popular Viewer Choice film rental chain has decided to close its last store and the implication is that DVD piracy is to take the major blame. It has been on the radio especially Nationwide with its morning hosts splitting opinions (Naomi Campbell admitting she watches them and Emily Crooks vehemently against). This reminds me of the argument Palace Cineplex carries against persons who sell DVDs on the streets.
A discussion I had with two friends ended up with them siding with Palace Cineplex. One has repeatedly sent letters to that organization to find out about certain films being shown or not being shown. He outlined a detailed and irreverent reply he got back, therefore he was satisfied that Carib, for instance, was doing all it can. My other friend outlined customer loyalty schemes that he’s been able to benefit from, and so forth. However, both were clearly stumped when I posed one question: how does this affect the quality of films shown, especially come Oscar time, because it is my unwavering view that Carib has no justification for showing ‘No Country…’ only after its Oscar success. It has been guaranteed a mere two days but given how ideal this film is to our viewing choice I’m sure by the time this article comes out, it will still be at theatres. I have made no contact with any organizations for this article but if such a film isn’t available for one to watch locally (even though it was released internationally in November, 2007) and DVD rentals get it a bit later, how does a curious movie fan get to see it then?
The answer is of course through piracy. While we’re now pondering if FLOW is monopolizing the cable industry, no one is looking at Palace Cineplex trying to dictate how, when and if we watch certain films (and raising prices isn’t helping either). The price of admission for one to watch a film is as horribly high as a Whopper at Burger King now and if you add snacks then you’re bound to spend over $1,000 for yourself alone. A DVD on the street goes anywhere from $200-$300 and in a lot of cases, the quality is good and you can watch the film any amount of times you desire without extra charge.
Now, if you’re Palace Cineplex, of course this isn’t benefiting you. I’m not sure how Viewers Choice and other DVD rental stores can blame piracy as the films people mostly buy off the streets are those currently in theaters or on the way, not—and I can’t stress this enough—films released months ago. DVD rentals and going to the cinema aren’t a vital necessity for people so trying to blame an entity for doing something you do more promptly and cheaper isn’t the issue. A good marketing strategy and customer involvement is. My DVD rental store continues to have my support mainly for the great customer service I get there. I go to Carib even if I buy a pirate DVD for reasons having less to do with the actual film but for a social one. The man in the street who sells pirate DVDs will never encroach on this so, once our laws are changed to accommodate them, then they can all enjoy a slice of consumer spending. That ensures that the neglect of a film like ‘No Country…’ by Carib can go unnoticed by us movie-goers and at expense of that entity’s conscience alone. I haven’t even touched on the myriad of online sites that allow an avid watcher like myself to, for example, watch ‘Penelope’—a charming romance starring Christina Ricci—a full week before it was re-released in North America (it was viewed at a film festival in 2006) and may not even be shown locally. I believe in this system of having a choice and that is exactly what these alternatives provide.
It’s now up to Palace Cineplex to analyze why it takes them so long to get certain films locally especially when Carib has five different screens. I believe better marketing and more discounts and external customer feedback will greatly assist them in this venture.
It’s been quite a week for the cinema industry, both local and abroad. It should have culminated Sunday with the brilliant ‘No Country for Old Men’ winning the Oscar for best picture. Arguably, this marks the first time in a decade that the outright best film of the year actually won the award. Locally, the popular Viewer Choice film rental chain has decided to close its last store and the implication is that DVD piracy is to take the major blame. It has been on the radio especially Nationwide with its morning hosts splitting opinions (Naomi Campbell admitting she watches them and Emily Crooks vehemently against). This reminds me of the argument Palace Cineplex carries against persons who sell DVDs on the streets.
A discussion I had with two friends ended up with them siding with Palace Cineplex. One has repeatedly sent letters to that organization to find out about certain films being shown or not being shown. He outlined a detailed and irreverent reply he got back, therefore he was satisfied that Carib, for instance, was doing all it can. My other friend outlined customer loyalty schemes that he’s been able to benefit from, and so forth. However, both were clearly stumped when I posed one question: how does this affect the quality of films shown, especially come Oscar time, because it is my unwavering view that Carib has no justification for showing ‘No Country…’ only after its Oscar success. It has been guaranteed a mere two days but given how ideal this film is to our viewing choice I’m sure by the time this article comes out, it will still be at theatres. I have made no contact with any organizations for this article but if such a film isn’t available for one to watch locally (even though it was released internationally in November, 2007) and DVD rentals get it a bit later, how does a curious movie fan get to see it then?
The answer is of course through piracy. While we’re now pondering if FLOW is monopolizing the cable industry, no one is looking at Palace Cineplex trying to dictate how, when and if we watch certain films (and raising prices isn’t helping either). The price of admission for one to watch a film is as horribly high as a Whopper at Burger King now and if you add snacks then you’re bound to spend over $1,000 for yourself alone. A DVD on the street goes anywhere from $200-$300 and in a lot of cases, the quality is good and you can watch the film any amount of times you desire without extra charge.
Now, if you’re Palace Cineplex, of course this isn’t benefiting you. I’m not sure how Viewers Choice and other DVD rental stores can blame piracy as the films people mostly buy off the streets are those currently in theaters or on the way, not—and I can’t stress this enough—films released months ago. DVD rentals and going to the cinema aren’t a vital necessity for people so trying to blame an entity for doing something you do more promptly and cheaper isn’t the issue. A good marketing strategy and customer involvement is. My DVD rental store continues to have my support mainly for the great customer service I get there. I go to Carib even if I buy a pirate DVD for reasons having less to do with the actual film but for a social one. The man in the street who sells pirate DVDs will never encroach on this so, once our laws are changed to accommodate them, then they can all enjoy a slice of consumer spending. That ensures that the neglect of a film like ‘No Country…’ by Carib can go unnoticed by us movie-goers and at expense of that entity’s conscience alone. I haven’t even touched on the myriad of online sites that allow an avid watcher like myself to, for example, watch ‘Penelope’—a charming romance starring Christina Ricci—a full week before it was re-released in North America (it was viewed at a film festival in 2006) and may not even be shown locally. I believe in this system of having a choice and that is exactly what these alternatives provide.
It’s now up to Palace Cineplex to analyze why it takes them so long to get certain films locally especially when Carib has five different screens. I believe better marketing and more discounts and external customer feedback will greatly assist them in this venture.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
‘No Country for Old Men’ (2007)
‘Tricksy’
‘the mousy girl screams violence, violence’ (Of Montreal)
Anton Chigurh’s (Javier Bardem) appearance screams a type of violence that will skillfully elude anyone who he comes in contact with. The only problem for them (except for a feisty receptionist, who is saved unknowingly by a flushing toilet) is that they do not survive his flipped coins or incisive cattle-gun bullets once his monstrosity manifests. What’s more, they do not see their death coming because they presume Chigurh follows the same set of conventional rules they live by. Brilliantly directed by the Coen brothers (Joel & Ethan), ‘No Country for Old Men’ is a thrilling expose on the changing value of violence and the slow realization of such.
Adapted from the Cormac McCarthy novel, the film settles into its 1980 West Texas landscape poetically and, in the form of the local sheriff, Ed Tom Bell (the ever solid Tommy Lee Jones) philosophically. Bell is an ‘old school’ lawmaker, the type of man who recognizes that his title must elevate his crime-solving techniques above that of the ordinary citizen or even his deputies. It is among these groups that his remarks come off as crisp and all-knowing. Bell though is getting older and sees the signs of a change that will leave him behind so when a series of ghastly murders take place in his town, the sheriff is understandably agitated.
He has good reason to be. Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) discovers a stash of cash ($2 million), heroin and a ton of dead Mexicans after an obvious deal gone awry and decides to take the money. This being a moral issue within itself isn’t a concern of the film and that all parties involved play along these lines mirrors the nature of change we all deal with and weigh in on a daily basis. Sheriff Bell can make the seismic shift of values in order to pursue Moss because he realizes immediately that there’s deeper trouble brewing. Petty crime is thus put on the backseat by the law but in the shape of Chigurh (a fantastic Bardem, who has crafted the best serial killer since Hannibal Lecter) it spurs on his more virulent action. Chigurh moves with the swiftness of a man assured already of victory but he is aided with a tracking device that never fails to do its job.
The two go hand in hand and even spills over towards those trapped in the path of his objection. Chigurh takes no prisoners and only a fateful flip of a coin save some. He gives the illusion of choice to those destined for execution but those who weren’t really in his path do get a real choice. Given the frugal, moralistic writing style of Cormac McCarthy (I admit freely to not liking his hyped-to-death ‘The Road’) the transformation by the Coen brothers of thought and idea to the screen is nothing short of spectacular with their writing and directing credits. The attention to detail is sheer poetic and, like the film itself, volatile: Chigurh shoots Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson) while the telephone rings and then speaks to Moss mindful to lift his legs as Wells’ blood spreads thickly on the floor.
Of course, it is the hunt and anticipated showdown of the two that make the film so gripping. The more Moss runs the quicker Chigurh tracks him down. Unlike Sheriff Bell who must piece their actions after the fact, Chigurh has the luxury of Moss knowing the extent of his violence and what he will do to get back the stolen cash. Their telephone conversation is chilling and the affect it has on Moss and his family is long-lasting. He, like Bell, underestimates the opponent initially only to regret it forever. His wife however recognizes her doom immediately. Played with great affectation by Kelly MacDonald, Carla Jean personifies innocence caught up in strife by way of association. When Chigurh finally reaches to her, she is resigned but still tells him that he has a choice in the matter. It’s a poignant moment, one that Bardem brilliantly retorts that he has promised Moss to ‘deal’ with his wife. He walks out of the house and what happens next really spins our perception of societal justice out of context.
The beauty of the film though lies in its conviction that one cannot simply repudiate violence at one’s own peril but that we have to acknowledge its presence as a way of life. Sheriff Bell realizes the enormity that faces him and has no option but to admit openly that the level of crime is beyond his handling. Chigurh is the killer of a new time, one that can walk away unscathed to fight new battles or at least pay his way out of complicity. He, not the law, is the one with his hand on the pulse of this new world. That makes ‘No Country for Old Men’ frighteningly real and a modernistic take on the evolutionary process of crime that will likely smudge our paranoid lives, one way or the other.
RATING: 10/10
‘the mousy girl screams violence, violence’ (Of Montreal)
Anton Chigurh’s (Javier Bardem) appearance screams a type of violence that will skillfully elude anyone who he comes in contact with. The only problem for them (except for a feisty receptionist, who is saved unknowingly by a flushing toilet) is that they do not survive his flipped coins or incisive cattle-gun bullets once his monstrosity manifests. What’s more, they do not see their death coming because they presume Chigurh follows the same set of conventional rules they live by. Brilliantly directed by the Coen brothers (Joel & Ethan), ‘No Country for Old Men’ is a thrilling expose on the changing value of violence and the slow realization of such.
Adapted from the Cormac McCarthy novel, the film settles into its 1980 West Texas landscape poetically and, in the form of the local sheriff, Ed Tom Bell (the ever solid Tommy Lee Jones) philosophically. Bell is an ‘old school’ lawmaker, the type of man who recognizes that his title must elevate his crime-solving techniques above that of the ordinary citizen or even his deputies. It is among these groups that his remarks come off as crisp and all-knowing. Bell though is getting older and sees the signs of a change that will leave him behind so when a series of ghastly murders take place in his town, the sheriff is understandably agitated.
He has good reason to be. Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) discovers a stash of cash ($2 million), heroin and a ton of dead Mexicans after an obvious deal gone awry and decides to take the money. This being a moral issue within itself isn’t a concern of the film and that all parties involved play along these lines mirrors the nature of change we all deal with and weigh in on a daily basis. Sheriff Bell can make the seismic shift of values in order to pursue Moss because he realizes immediately that there’s deeper trouble brewing. Petty crime is thus put on the backseat by the law but in the shape of Chigurh (a fantastic Bardem, who has crafted the best serial killer since Hannibal Lecter) it spurs on his more virulent action. Chigurh moves with the swiftness of a man assured already of victory but he is aided with a tracking device that never fails to do its job.
The two go hand in hand and even spills over towards those trapped in the path of his objection. Chigurh takes no prisoners and only a fateful flip of a coin save some. He gives the illusion of choice to those destined for execution but those who weren’t really in his path do get a real choice. Given the frugal, moralistic writing style of Cormac McCarthy (I admit freely to not liking his hyped-to-death ‘The Road’) the transformation by the Coen brothers of thought and idea to the screen is nothing short of spectacular with their writing and directing credits. The attention to detail is sheer poetic and, like the film itself, volatile: Chigurh shoots Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson) while the telephone rings and then speaks to Moss mindful to lift his legs as Wells’ blood spreads thickly on the floor.
Of course, it is the hunt and anticipated showdown of the two that make the film so gripping. The more Moss runs the quicker Chigurh tracks him down. Unlike Sheriff Bell who must piece their actions after the fact, Chigurh has the luxury of Moss knowing the extent of his violence and what he will do to get back the stolen cash. Their telephone conversation is chilling and the affect it has on Moss and his family is long-lasting. He, like Bell, underestimates the opponent initially only to regret it forever. His wife however recognizes her doom immediately. Played with great affectation by Kelly MacDonald, Carla Jean personifies innocence caught up in strife by way of association. When Chigurh finally reaches to her, she is resigned but still tells him that he has a choice in the matter. It’s a poignant moment, one that Bardem brilliantly retorts that he has promised Moss to ‘deal’ with his wife. He walks out of the house and what happens next really spins our perception of societal justice out of context.
The beauty of the film though lies in its conviction that one cannot simply repudiate violence at one’s own peril but that we have to acknowledge its presence as a way of life. Sheriff Bell realizes the enormity that faces him and has no option but to admit openly that the level of crime is beyond his handling. Chigurh is the killer of a new time, one that can walk away unscathed to fight new battles or at least pay his way out of complicity. He, not the law, is the one with his hand on the pulse of this new world. That makes ‘No Country for Old Men’ frighteningly real and a modernistic take on the evolutionary process of crime that will likely smudge our paranoid lives, one way or the other.
RATING: 10/10
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
'The Bourne Ultimatum'
'Past The Mission'
'Ah, but you can't kill me, Louis' Lestat ('Interview with a Vampire')
The C.I.A. and Jason Bourne (Matt Damon) find themselves expressing a similar sentiment to each other immediately after 'The Bourne Ultimatum' begins. Bourne is of course on the run, still trying to piece his past identity together without having to kill as much. Meanwhile, the C.I.A. pursues its aim to eliminate any trace of the program that created Bourne and once they accidentally sight him through a London surveillance camera, this intensity grows. The moment is a jolt to deputy director Noah Vosen (David Strathairn, at his icy best). Bourne's constant elusiveness shows up the department as ineffectual to take out their own and he wants to put an end to it once and for all. For him, one thing matters only and that's winning, no matter the cost.
If you have followed the previous two films in the series then the plot is pretty much familiar. Bourne runs, kills, pieces a little together only to have to run again. 'Ultimatum' treads this routine early on but director Paul Greengrass takes a suspenseful turn for the better after Bourne is revealed to the C.I.A. and stumbles across Nicky Parsons (Julia Stiles) in a Tangiers safe-house. There is some brilliantly played out tension in the ensuing phone call which functions solely as a call to arms for both factions to clearly define their chosen sides. By now Pam Landy (Joan Allen) and Parsons have tacitly aligned themselves to Bourne in order to defy C.I.A regulation. Covert operations begin to take a fascinating structural shape that will ultimately cost several traditional regulations. As they divide between themselves the unquestioned loyalty that had kept Bourne a united target to start with, both factions put their poker faces on.
The film successfully executes its divisiveness partially because of its writing. Credit then goes to Tony Gilroy, Scott Burns and George Nolfi for holding nothing back by way of faceless deception: Vosen desperately tries to trap and outwit Bourne with technological sophistry only to be one-upped by a standard telescopic devise. This nicely shows contrast of method. Landy and Parsons help Bourne fully well knowing that their lives will be jeopardized. After Bourne escapes with Parsons from the safe-house and she is turned into a target as well, the angle is thrillingly explored through a long chase sequence with her instincts finally being put to action. The assassin chases her into a dwelling (agents often think alike so it's merely kinetic) but Bourne prevents harm to her with some snappy action. He battles the assassin in full view of Parsons and she watches grimly aware that this is real; she is no longer safely viewing the action from an office. They silently clean up afterwards: words aren't needed. This is the job for which they are trained. Bourne however, amid a flash-back sequence, determines that before the C.I.A can shut both down he will take decisive action first.
That means going back to the place where it all started three years ago: the C.I.A training facility in New York. The two factions roll out to meet him but Vosen miscalculates Landy's sense of duty. She finally realizes that there is a cover-up that can only be contained with Bourne's elimination and strings Vosen along just as he has been stringing her along all the time. Her defection hits the deputy director late: he does eventually decode her plans to meet Bourne but arrives too late to prevent her from faxing unclassified and damning documents that will expose his part of the cover-up. Vosen however is not alone in getting a rude awakening. Bourne finally retraces his steps and his memory on that first day he first volunteered to be a part of the C.I.A. operation. It’s a devastating truth: he is one of a line of experimental super-agents that get eliminated once past their missions. To ensure no dual interest or conflict, the C.I.A. enforces the succession by a type of patricide.
It's uncanny but Greengrass has, for the second film running, managed to succinctly pose inherent and uncomfortable questions about the state of American intelligence and information-gathering mechanism. Though he directed the last 'Bourne' film, this new one more resembles his brilliant post-9/11 docudrama 'United 93' (in my view, the best film of 2006). That film also held a high office and its individuals under subtle scrutiny for a series of events that capitulate out of control.
'Bourne Ultimatum' offers shades of the 'Matrix' trilogy as well. The characters here too also know how and when to take precipitous action. Though the true aim of their action is to effect change, they all know nothing will change because one course of action is wholly dependent on another. Remove that conflict and the other falls away as well. This challenging attachment is what keeps the film's anticipation going as well as unresolved (no doubt keeping the door open for a possible sequel) so Greengrass merely teases then with a flurry of 'Matrix-esque' activity towards the end. Vosen may eventually come up on the wrong end of his gamble like the Architect but he does get his shot at Bourne--literally. Landy may have gotten her hands on the damning documents but, like Morpheus, it sinks her implicitly deeper into a situation which she is not in control of. Parsons receives the news of Bourne getting shot with a Trinity-like unreadable expression but this lifts to a wry smile when it's reported that his body is yet to be found. Bourne of course is the Neo figure. He pirouettes into the air and crashes into the sea, pretty much how the series began. In the last shot we see his seemingly indestructible body thrusting upward as if by instinct. The only question now is--aimed with the issue of his past fully resolved, and without an Oracle figure to guide him, will Bourne swim knowingly to shore or resolutely towards the horizon.
RATING: 9/10
'Ah, but you can't kill me, Louis' Lestat ('Interview with a Vampire')
The C.I.A. and Jason Bourne (Matt Damon) find themselves expressing a similar sentiment to each other immediately after 'The Bourne Ultimatum' begins. Bourne is of course on the run, still trying to piece his past identity together without having to kill as much. Meanwhile, the C.I.A. pursues its aim to eliminate any trace of the program that created Bourne and once they accidentally sight him through a London surveillance camera, this intensity grows. The moment is a jolt to deputy director Noah Vosen (David Strathairn, at his icy best). Bourne's constant elusiveness shows up the department as ineffectual to take out their own and he wants to put an end to it once and for all. For him, one thing matters only and that's winning, no matter the cost.
If you have followed the previous two films in the series then the plot is pretty much familiar. Bourne runs, kills, pieces a little together only to have to run again. 'Ultimatum' treads this routine early on but director Paul Greengrass takes a suspenseful turn for the better after Bourne is revealed to the C.I.A. and stumbles across Nicky Parsons (Julia Stiles) in a Tangiers safe-house. There is some brilliantly played out tension in the ensuing phone call which functions solely as a call to arms for both factions to clearly define their chosen sides. By now Pam Landy (Joan Allen) and Parsons have tacitly aligned themselves to Bourne in order to defy C.I.A regulation. Covert operations begin to take a fascinating structural shape that will ultimately cost several traditional regulations. As they divide between themselves the unquestioned loyalty that had kept Bourne a united target to start with, both factions put their poker faces on.
The film successfully executes its divisiveness partially because of its writing. Credit then goes to Tony Gilroy, Scott Burns and George Nolfi for holding nothing back by way of faceless deception: Vosen desperately tries to trap and outwit Bourne with technological sophistry only to be one-upped by a standard telescopic devise. This nicely shows contrast of method. Landy and Parsons help Bourne fully well knowing that their lives will be jeopardized. After Bourne escapes with Parsons from the safe-house and she is turned into a target as well, the angle is thrillingly explored through a long chase sequence with her instincts finally being put to action. The assassin chases her into a dwelling (agents often think alike so it's merely kinetic) but Bourne prevents harm to her with some snappy action. He battles the assassin in full view of Parsons and she watches grimly aware that this is real; she is no longer safely viewing the action from an office. They silently clean up afterwards: words aren't needed. This is the job for which they are trained. Bourne however, amid a flash-back sequence, determines that before the C.I.A can shut both down he will take decisive action first.
That means going back to the place where it all started three years ago: the C.I.A training facility in New York. The two factions roll out to meet him but Vosen miscalculates Landy's sense of duty. She finally realizes that there is a cover-up that can only be contained with Bourne's elimination and strings Vosen along just as he has been stringing her along all the time. Her defection hits the deputy director late: he does eventually decode her plans to meet Bourne but arrives too late to prevent her from faxing unclassified and damning documents that will expose his part of the cover-up. Vosen however is not alone in getting a rude awakening. Bourne finally retraces his steps and his memory on that first day he first volunteered to be a part of the C.I.A. operation. It’s a devastating truth: he is one of a line of experimental super-agents that get eliminated once past their missions. To ensure no dual interest or conflict, the C.I.A. enforces the succession by a type of patricide.
It's uncanny but Greengrass has, for the second film running, managed to succinctly pose inherent and uncomfortable questions about the state of American intelligence and information-gathering mechanism. Though he directed the last 'Bourne' film, this new one more resembles his brilliant post-9/11 docudrama 'United 93' (in my view, the best film of 2006). That film also held a high office and its individuals under subtle scrutiny for a series of events that capitulate out of control.
'Bourne Ultimatum' offers shades of the 'Matrix' trilogy as well. The characters here too also know how and when to take precipitous action. Though the true aim of their action is to effect change, they all know nothing will change because one course of action is wholly dependent on another. Remove that conflict and the other falls away as well. This challenging attachment is what keeps the film's anticipation going as well as unresolved (no doubt keeping the door open for a possible sequel) so Greengrass merely teases then with a flurry of 'Matrix-esque' activity towards the end. Vosen may eventually come up on the wrong end of his gamble like the Architect but he does get his shot at Bourne--literally. Landy may have gotten her hands on the damning documents but, like Morpheus, it sinks her implicitly deeper into a situation which she is not in control of. Parsons receives the news of Bourne getting shot with a Trinity-like unreadable expression but this lifts to a wry smile when it's reported that his body is yet to be found. Bourne of course is the Neo figure. He pirouettes into the air and crashes into the sea, pretty much how the series began. In the last shot we see his seemingly indestructible body thrusting upward as if by instinct. The only question now is--aimed with the issue of his past fully resolved, and without an Oracle figure to guide him, will Bourne swim knowingly to shore or resolutely towards the horizon.
RATING: 9/10
Sunday, January 20, 2008
THE BEST SONGS OF 2007 (#1-#20)
The final installation nearly swings totally to M.I.A. She has the best album of 2007 and for good reason (as will be outlined on my album list). For giving us an alternative to hip/hop alone and as well as clearly defining the sharpest sound currently on the planet. That said, here are the final 20 songs...
20. ‘Brianstorm’ (Artic Monkeys): finally delivering the punk good that they’ve been promising, when they rip into the line ‘see you later, innovator’ it’s like a kiss off to fallen idols like Oasis.
19. ‘Boyz’ (M.I.A): picking up from where ‘Arular’ left off, MIA has harmonized her tight sound into something more insidiously attractive yet harder to figure out. It’s a sign of maturity, as ‘Boyz’ succinctly proves—her stock sure is hardy and fruitful on all fronts. And with our own Sample 6 dancers enmeshed on it I wonder for how much longer local radio stations can continue to ignore her.
18. ‘Like A Boy’ (Ciara): what a difference the years make as they go by. Ciara would’ve sunk under the weight of such a challenge couple years ago but now—coming off the equally challenging ‘Promise’ she touches on tender gender-bender and comes out swinging in the major leagues.
17. ‘LES Artistes’ (Santogold): the future is here now; Santi White is the American version of M.I.A (you heard it here first) and is the direct result of the Diplo split. The album drops in ’08 but this advanced track will more than whet appetites with its thumping beats and raw attitude she dishes in spades. If Maya ever hoped to do an ‘Umbrella’ then too late, Santi has beaten her to it.
16. ‘Everything’s just Wonderful’ (Lilly Allen): Allen has finally unearthed a better take on sweet sarcasm of ‘Smile’ and this time the bitter-sweet lyrics really bite deep.
15. ‘For the Pier (and Dead Shimmering)’ (Sunset Rubdown): a swirling, Wolf Parade-esque masterpiece that cries out of its void for help.
14. ‘We Were Born the Mutants Again With Leafling’ (Of Montreal): draped over a lush, crunching sound, Barnes lets loose feelings of despair and its effect is simple yet stunning.
13. ‘Stop Me’ (Mark Ronson feat. Daniel Merriweather): the best blue-eyed pop ballad in quite a long time, Ronson grabs Merriweather along for a smart, street-tough look at love.
12 ‘Blue Honey’ (Pop Levi): proves that not only MIA is digging Eastern culture, disco Levi, replete with some brilliant faux vocals. The way the song builds slowly then Levi blows it breathlessly apart with the chorus.
11. ‘Cuckoo, Cuckoo’ (Animal Collective): the uber experiment of Avery Tare with its harsh drumming skimming the ends of raw vocals. It’s an impressive last stand, slightly off putting baptism of sound and that makes it one hell of a punk model.
10.‘Mama, Won’t You Keep Them Castles in the Air Burning’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): though abandoned by critics for burrowing themselves deeper into a stoned vibe that seemed obscure at best, it takes songs like this one—the type of unabashed beauty that grows more towards end—that prove CYHSY will win out eventually.
9. ‘Peacebone’ (Animal Collective): the first blast of cool magic from ‘Strawberry Jam’—imagines itself as interlink between reality and fantastic lyrical longings. Thank goodness for overt ambition from these rock geeks.
8. ‘Umbrella’ (Rihanna): without doubt one of the best ideas all year. It’s a bit stalled by repetition yet remains quite fantastic with its flourish of attitude.
7. ‘Jimmy’ (M.I.A): no one twirls so many trends into one solid hip/hop outfit so fantastically like Maya. ‘Jimmy’ incorporates Bollywood, Cyndi Lauper and biting social commentary into one sweet delivery. Quite a knock out punch this rambling commentary rolled into a wrapping that eludes a riot grrrl tag.
6. ‘$20” (M.I.A): stunning use of raw fissures subduing each other, all under her conscious lyrics flowing just as impressively, Maya borrows a famous Pixies line and runs viciously with it.
5. ‘Bros’ (Panda Bear): The ghost of Brian Wilson rummages through this sunny song’s disposition and it’s absolute acceptance of things lost while one sheds innocence, sheds skin. 'Bros' starts with an owl hooting and by the end a collage of folk influences take deep root. The spaces between them are populated with the type of ingenuity that prove how much other mix and matchers just aren't thinking enough.
4. ‘The Sloganeer: Paradise’ (Meshell NdegeOcello): Fantastic jazz imprint. NdegeOcello continues to merge her expanded sense of melody with her forceful lyrical input and such a result is gorgeous as well as groovy.
3. ‘Back to Black’ (Amy Winehouse): This warbled vocal style reveals the devastation of Winehouse’s emotion as she reveals everything. Whereas other songs from the opus felt just short of epic, the title track is, to paraphrase another artirst, 'big time sensuality'.
2. Bamboo Banga’ (M.I.A): when Maya yells, ‘MIA coming back with power, power’ overdubbing on a sample of ‘Roadrunner’, then we know she’s a serious badass. The technical aspect of the song is as immaculately crafted as anything Prince was able to conjure over two decades ago.
1. ‘Sugar Assault Me Now’ (Pop Levi): astonishing homage to the past funk grooves, Levi contorted the heck out of himself with this funk track that constantly pushes itself. It's a trick not many funkmasters can maintain nor can they level out a plain line like 'right now' without sounding forced. Hats off Levi, you've given us the best song of the year!
20. ‘Brianstorm’ (Artic Monkeys): finally delivering the punk good that they’ve been promising, when they rip into the line ‘see you later, innovator’ it’s like a kiss off to fallen idols like Oasis.
19. ‘Boyz’ (M.I.A): picking up from where ‘Arular’ left off, MIA has harmonized her tight sound into something more insidiously attractive yet harder to figure out. It’s a sign of maturity, as ‘Boyz’ succinctly proves—her stock sure is hardy and fruitful on all fronts. And with our own Sample 6 dancers enmeshed on it I wonder for how much longer local radio stations can continue to ignore her.
18. ‘Like A Boy’ (Ciara): what a difference the years make as they go by. Ciara would’ve sunk under the weight of such a challenge couple years ago but now—coming off the equally challenging ‘Promise’ she touches on tender gender-bender and comes out swinging in the major leagues.
17. ‘LES Artistes’ (Santogold): the future is here now; Santi White is the American version of M.I.A (you heard it here first) and is the direct result of the Diplo split. The album drops in ’08 but this advanced track will more than whet appetites with its thumping beats and raw attitude she dishes in spades. If Maya ever hoped to do an ‘Umbrella’ then too late, Santi has beaten her to it.
16. ‘Everything’s just Wonderful’ (Lilly Allen): Allen has finally unearthed a better take on sweet sarcasm of ‘Smile’ and this time the bitter-sweet lyrics really bite deep.
15. ‘For the Pier (and Dead Shimmering)’ (Sunset Rubdown): a swirling, Wolf Parade-esque masterpiece that cries out of its void for help.
14. ‘We Were Born the Mutants Again With Leafling’ (Of Montreal): draped over a lush, crunching sound, Barnes lets loose feelings of despair and its effect is simple yet stunning.
13. ‘Stop Me’ (Mark Ronson feat. Daniel Merriweather): the best blue-eyed pop ballad in quite a long time, Ronson grabs Merriweather along for a smart, street-tough look at love.
12 ‘Blue Honey’ (Pop Levi): proves that not only MIA is digging Eastern culture, disco Levi, replete with some brilliant faux vocals. The way the song builds slowly then Levi blows it breathlessly apart with the chorus.
11. ‘Cuckoo, Cuckoo’ (Animal Collective): the uber experiment of Avery Tare with its harsh drumming skimming the ends of raw vocals. It’s an impressive last stand, slightly off putting baptism of sound and that makes it one hell of a punk model.
10.‘Mama, Won’t You Keep Them Castles in the Air Burning’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): though abandoned by critics for burrowing themselves deeper into a stoned vibe that seemed obscure at best, it takes songs like this one—the type of unabashed beauty that grows more towards end—that prove CYHSY will win out eventually.
9. ‘Peacebone’ (Animal Collective): the first blast of cool magic from ‘Strawberry Jam’—imagines itself as interlink between reality and fantastic lyrical longings. Thank goodness for overt ambition from these rock geeks.
8. ‘Umbrella’ (Rihanna): without doubt one of the best ideas all year. It’s a bit stalled by repetition yet remains quite fantastic with its flourish of attitude.
7. ‘Jimmy’ (M.I.A): no one twirls so many trends into one solid hip/hop outfit so fantastically like Maya. ‘Jimmy’ incorporates Bollywood, Cyndi Lauper and biting social commentary into one sweet delivery. Quite a knock out punch this rambling commentary rolled into a wrapping that eludes a riot grrrl tag.
6. ‘$20” (M.I.A): stunning use of raw fissures subduing each other, all under her conscious lyrics flowing just as impressively, Maya borrows a famous Pixies line and runs viciously with it.
5. ‘Bros’ (Panda Bear): The ghost of Brian Wilson rummages through this sunny song’s disposition and it’s absolute acceptance of things lost while one sheds innocence, sheds skin. 'Bros' starts with an owl hooting and by the end a collage of folk influences take deep root. The spaces between them are populated with the type of ingenuity that prove how much other mix and matchers just aren't thinking enough.
4. ‘The Sloganeer: Paradise’ (Meshell NdegeOcello): Fantastic jazz imprint. NdegeOcello continues to merge her expanded sense of melody with her forceful lyrical input and such a result is gorgeous as well as groovy.
3. ‘Back to Black’ (Amy Winehouse): This warbled vocal style reveals the devastation of Winehouse’s emotion as she reveals everything. Whereas other songs from the opus felt just short of epic, the title track is, to paraphrase another artirst, 'big time sensuality'.
2. Bamboo Banga’ (M.I.A): when Maya yells, ‘MIA coming back with power, power’ overdubbing on a sample of ‘Roadrunner’, then we know she’s a serious badass. The technical aspect of the song is as immaculately crafted as anything Prince was able to conjure over two decades ago.
1. ‘Sugar Assault Me Now’ (Pop Levi): astonishing homage to the past funk grooves, Levi contorted the heck out of himself with this funk track that constantly pushes itself. It's a trick not many funkmasters can maintain nor can they level out a plain line like 'right now' without sounding forced. Hats off Levi, you've given us the best song of the year!
Thursday, January 3, 2008
THE TOP 100 SONGS OF 2007: #21--40 (PART 4)
Without doubt, this penultimate section of my song list is the most varied. The styles featured here swing from extreme to extreme but all belie a cohesion that was only topped by the twenty songs ahead of them. One group comes to mind; Of Montreal. Releasing the most Prince-aping disc of the year, Kevin Barnes' glam determination underlines the doggedness with which these other artists stuck into the raison d'etre of these songs.
Here they are...
40. ‘I Need You’ (Alicia Keys): I could wax lyrical about the many, many faults of Alicia Keys but 'I Need You' is the result of what she does right in spite of her earnest self. When she coos her lyrics and allows the music to shape the direction of the song and not her vocal affirmations, its rthe most sensual thing she's done.
39. ‘Indestructible Life’ (Old Time Religion): a collage of bad dialogue, chaotic music rushing wildly around…what the hell is happening here never becomes clear or resolves itself and while it’s scary, it’s also monumentally engrossing.
38. ’Yankee Go Home’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): every list should make room for a little indulgence so we arrive now to CYHSY. When Ounsworth tears into the chorus it’s the most infectious thing ever and the socio-political context is pleasing yet unmistakably sad at the same time. It wasn't supposed to work but somehow it does.
37. ‘I’d like To’ (Corrine Bailey Rae): pitch perfect range finally found.
36. ‘Roc Boys (And the Winner Is…)’ (Jay Z): Jigga is back doing what he does best and though only white critics have been praising what is essentially just a plain good disc, everyone can agree on this track's greatness.
35.‘The Fragile Army’ (Polyphonic Spree): showing My Chemical Romance how it’s really done.
34. ‘Gronlandic Edit’ (Of Montreal): swiftly proving to be band of the year, Of Montreal treats us to some suave faux vocals and stunning textures. A real smooth triumph.
33. ‘Violet Stars Happy Hunting’ (Janelle Monae): Outkast’s best kept secret steps out with a totally rocking single that recalls the ephemeral danger of Grace Jones.
32. ‘Wild Mountain Nation’ (Blitzen Trapper): sweet retro rock tune.
31.Map of the Problematique’ (Muse): treads a constant and sublime line.
30.‘Hot Wuk’ (Mr. Vegas & Opal): wicked rhythm coalescing with devious intent as only Jamaican music can.
29. ‘Delirium’ (Rahsaan Patterson): bridges both funk and blues camps with its high-voltage of funk, making Patterson the most exciting R&B find this year.
28. ‘Art Bitch’ (Cansei de ser sexy): though CSS meander always somewhere between slight and swift variations of fun, ‘Art Bitch’ mixes enough MIA and Bjork-esque aesthetics to concoct an impressive hybrid of abstraction and attitude. Besides how do you top a line like, ‘I sell my crap/ and people ask for more’!
27. ‘Cobra style’ (Robyn): the stuff of which Pink can only dream to produce.
26.‘Faberge Falls for Shuggie’ (Of Montreal): the best Prince rave up since Beck’s ‘Sex Laws’.
25.‘Relax, Take It Easy’ (Mika): a smooth, retro romp that updates George Michael’s ‘Fast Love’ stoned vibe.
24. ‘Skip Ghetto’ (Pop Levi): even when softening his stance and delivery, Levi is still miles ahead of the pop batch.
23. ‘A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger’ (Of Montreal): astonishing sampling technique used in this track that teaches others how it’s done and so heartbreakingly too.
22. ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ (Justice): the strongest song with vocals on their debut, the Paris duo show their North American funk rivals how it’s done.
21. ‘Kidz Are So Small’ (Deerhoof): a blissful collage of Bjork-like childish admissions that work in an off-beat, simplistic manner. Witness how Satomi’s vocals concede ground to the bare essentials driving the tune and one realizes how nuanced her work has become.
Here they are...
40. ‘I Need You’ (Alicia Keys): I could wax lyrical about the many, many faults of Alicia Keys but 'I Need You' is the result of what she does right in spite of her earnest self. When she coos her lyrics and allows the music to shape the direction of the song and not her vocal affirmations, its rthe most sensual thing she's done.
39. ‘Indestructible Life’ (Old Time Religion): a collage of bad dialogue, chaotic music rushing wildly around…what the hell is happening here never becomes clear or resolves itself and while it’s scary, it’s also monumentally engrossing.
38. ’Yankee Go Home’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): every list should make room for a little indulgence so we arrive now to CYHSY. When Ounsworth tears into the chorus it’s the most infectious thing ever and the socio-political context is pleasing yet unmistakably sad at the same time. It wasn't supposed to work but somehow it does.
37. ‘I’d like To’ (Corrine Bailey Rae): pitch perfect range finally found.
36. ‘Roc Boys (And the Winner Is…)’ (Jay Z): Jigga is back doing what he does best and though only white critics have been praising what is essentially just a plain good disc, everyone can agree on this track's greatness.
35.‘The Fragile Army’ (Polyphonic Spree): showing My Chemical Romance how it’s really done.
34. ‘Gronlandic Edit’ (Of Montreal): swiftly proving to be band of the year, Of Montreal treats us to some suave faux vocals and stunning textures. A real smooth triumph.
33. ‘Violet Stars Happy Hunting’ (Janelle Monae): Outkast’s best kept secret steps out with a totally rocking single that recalls the ephemeral danger of Grace Jones.
32. ‘Wild Mountain Nation’ (Blitzen Trapper): sweet retro rock tune.
31.Map of the Problematique’ (Muse): treads a constant and sublime line.
30.‘Hot Wuk’ (Mr. Vegas & Opal): wicked rhythm coalescing with devious intent as only Jamaican music can.
29. ‘Delirium’ (Rahsaan Patterson): bridges both funk and blues camps with its high-voltage of funk, making Patterson the most exciting R&B find this year.
28. ‘Art Bitch’ (Cansei de ser sexy): though CSS meander always somewhere between slight and swift variations of fun, ‘Art Bitch’ mixes enough MIA and Bjork-esque aesthetics to concoct an impressive hybrid of abstraction and attitude. Besides how do you top a line like, ‘I sell my crap/ and people ask for more’!
27. ‘Cobra style’ (Robyn): the stuff of which Pink can only dream to produce.
26.‘Faberge Falls for Shuggie’ (Of Montreal): the best Prince rave up since Beck’s ‘Sex Laws’.
25.‘Relax, Take It Easy’ (Mika): a smooth, retro romp that updates George Michael’s ‘Fast Love’ stoned vibe.
24. ‘Skip Ghetto’ (Pop Levi): even when softening his stance and delivery, Levi is still miles ahead of the pop batch.
23. ‘A Sentence of Sorts in Kongsvinger’ (Of Montreal): astonishing sampling technique used in this track that teaches others how it’s done and so heartbreakingly too.
22. ‘D.A.N.C.E.’ (Justice): the strongest song with vocals on their debut, the Paris duo show their North American funk rivals how it’s done.
21. ‘Kidz Are So Small’ (Deerhoof): a blissful collage of Bjork-like childish admissions that work in an off-beat, simplistic manner. Witness how Satomi’s vocals concede ground to the bare essentials driving the tune and one realizes how nuanced her work has become.
Monday, December 31, 2007
RE: THE BEST SONGS OF 2007: PART 3 (#41-60)
Part three of my list is indicative of what Interpol culled on their last album as 'pace is the trick'. These songs you either totally love or hate for their concepts and the execution. While I favour experimental wall of sound over traditional song structure, some of these songs borrow, steal or simple collate different standards all in the name of fun. Such daredevil action should be rewarded at all cost.
60.‘Paris is Burning’ (St. Vincent): while we wait new words from Portishead, here is the pop base trip/hop now operates from: a creepy bordering on slow-mo rave that utilizes a smart trick by under-funding itself both vocally and musically to heighten its full psychotic message.
59. ‘Goody’ (Cecile): kitty kat perfection.
58. ‘Antichrist Television Blues’ (Arcade Fire): fantastic Springsteen-induced rave.
57. ‘Flightless Bird, American Mouth’ (Iron & Wine): nice and touching.
56. ‘1234’ (Feist): almost Bjork-like in its unabashed joy, Feist lets her tightly coiled folk-leanings down and around her shoulders with such grace.
55. ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Place’ (Radiohead): though it’s not as vicious as ‘2+2=5’, the track rushes about, jittery in aim and pace but glorious to witness.
54. ‘World Town’ (M.I.A): if this doesn’t convert you then nothing else ever will. Pure pop bliss with its catchy yet frantic chorus, Maya hurls on the ‘third world democracy’ our direction whether we’re ready for it or not.
53. ‘Melody Day’ (Caribou): a straight up psychedelic wonder, with its sinewy layers of sound, Caribou have crafted a sophisticated sound that strikes red hot too.
52.‘Flex’ (Dizzee Rascal): street flexing from his grime eminence.
51.‘Rehab’ (Amy Winehouse): brilliant, funk jam that nary tries to patch up a bruising, jaded soul.
50. ‘None Shall Pass’ (Aesop Rock): though his current opus couldn’t maintain the pace this scatter-heart single sets, one need not look too much away from its mélange brilliance: minimalist beats juxtaposed with bizarre vocals and it works stunningly.
49.‘Never Seen Your Face’ (Bishi): only the London underground could have produced both Bishi and this lead single from her upcoming album. Steeped in Eastern vocal styling and ornate production, the track unfurls with ‘Moulin Rogue’-like madness and culls any pretensions.
48. ‘Four Horsemen of 2012’ (Klaxons): chaotic but simply cool.
47. ‘Diss’ (Cat Call): another M.I.A sister spirit about to blow up big in ’08.
46.‘Handle Me’ (Robyn): no one does the Bjork/Pink divide better nor espouses so much pop attitude as well.
45. ‘Kiss Kiss Kiss’ (Yoko Ono): oldie but goodie with as wicked remix.
44. ‘She’s A Rejecter’ (Of Montreal): pure mania every time they rip the line, ‘oh, no/ she’s a rejecter’, then crash it all around them with chaotic noise. Lovely mess this!
43. ‘The Equestrian’ (Les Savy Fav): once again, their punk attitude hits you hard like a slap in the face.
42.‘Beautiful Girls’ (Sean Kingston): it’s hard to pin down the original version now given its many remixes but no matter, they’re all effective in showcasing Kingston’s nice contrast of grating vocals to so many spastic bursts of pop, reggae, steel pan and ska.
41. ‘Tame the Savage’ (Celebration): spins so gorgeously out of
hand.
60.‘Paris is Burning’ (St. Vincent): while we wait new words from Portishead, here is the pop base trip/hop now operates from: a creepy bordering on slow-mo rave that utilizes a smart trick by under-funding itself both vocally and musically to heighten its full psychotic message.
59. ‘Goody’ (Cecile): kitty kat perfection.
58. ‘Antichrist Television Blues’ (Arcade Fire): fantastic Springsteen-induced rave.
57. ‘Flightless Bird, American Mouth’ (Iron & Wine): nice and touching.
56. ‘1234’ (Feist): almost Bjork-like in its unabashed joy, Feist lets her tightly coiled folk-leanings down and around her shoulders with such grace.
55. ‘Jigsaw Falling Into Place’ (Radiohead): though it’s not as vicious as ‘2+2=5’, the track rushes about, jittery in aim and pace but glorious to witness.
54. ‘World Town’ (M.I.A): if this doesn’t convert you then nothing else ever will. Pure pop bliss with its catchy yet frantic chorus, Maya hurls on the ‘third world democracy’ our direction whether we’re ready for it or not.
53. ‘Melody Day’ (Caribou): a straight up psychedelic wonder, with its sinewy layers of sound, Caribou have crafted a sophisticated sound that strikes red hot too.
52.‘Flex’ (Dizzee Rascal): street flexing from his grime eminence.
51.‘Rehab’ (Amy Winehouse): brilliant, funk jam that nary tries to patch up a bruising, jaded soul.
50. ‘None Shall Pass’ (Aesop Rock): though his current opus couldn’t maintain the pace this scatter-heart single sets, one need not look too much away from its mélange brilliance: minimalist beats juxtaposed with bizarre vocals and it works stunningly.
49.‘Never Seen Your Face’ (Bishi): only the London underground could have produced both Bishi and this lead single from her upcoming album. Steeped in Eastern vocal styling and ornate production, the track unfurls with ‘Moulin Rogue’-like madness and culls any pretensions.
48. ‘Four Horsemen of 2012’ (Klaxons): chaotic but simply cool.
47. ‘Diss’ (Cat Call): another M.I.A sister spirit about to blow up big in ’08.
46.‘Handle Me’ (Robyn): no one does the Bjork/Pink divide better nor espouses so much pop attitude as well.
45. ‘Kiss Kiss Kiss’ (Yoko Ono): oldie but goodie with as wicked remix.
44. ‘She’s A Rejecter’ (Of Montreal): pure mania every time they rip the line, ‘oh, no/ she’s a rejecter’, then crash it all around them with chaotic noise. Lovely mess this!
43. ‘The Equestrian’ (Les Savy Fav): once again, their punk attitude hits you hard like a slap in the face.
42.‘Beautiful Girls’ (Sean Kingston): it’s hard to pin down the original version now given its many remixes but no matter, they’re all effective in showcasing Kingston’s nice contrast of grating vocals to so many spastic bursts of pop, reggae, steel pan and ska.
41. ‘Tame the Savage’ (Celebration): spins so gorgeously out of
hand.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
THE TOP 100 SONGS OF 2007: #61--80 (PART 2)
Part two of my list is the unquestionably pop section. Almost every strain of pop is captured here:the heavy '80s frost of 'Catch You' to the blue-eyed refrain of 'Candyman'. It's as if serious artists have taken back the turf from the teeny-boppers that grabbed the spotlight just before the start of the decade. The genre also mixed itself with other genres too, to further blend the line of what can be considered pop in a natural state but when the results are this good then who cares....
80. ‘Yummy’ (Gwen Stefani): slinking further and further into a maze of uncertainty, Stefani ups the thug-girl shtick while the Neptunes keep her out of trouble with a minimalist beat. It shouldn’t have worked (Fergie would have tanked after the first couplet) but somehow Gwen crashes into the wall and walks away with hardly a bruise.
79. ‘Listening Man’ (The Bees): slow horns juxtaposed with a post-ska vibe, the track breezes through its sedate yet unreal aesthetics.
78. ‘How Come You Don’t Hold Me No More’ (Hot Puppies): excellent update of Sleater-Kinney’s ‘Milkshake n Honey’.
77. ‘Candyman’ (Christina Aguilera): credit Aguilera for plugging away until the ideal sugar comes along. It’s shameful fun without the trappings of intensity but somehow this adaptation works.
76. ‘Road to Recovery’ (Midnight Juggernauts): subdued pop gloss.
75. ‘Barracuda’ (Miho Hatori): a surreal piece of force.
74. ‘Earth Intruders’ (Bjork): I’ve always felt The Knife’s brilliant ‘We Share Our Mother’s Health’ was a challenging swipe at Bjork. For so long she has directed how electronica can be listened to but last year the pack behind her gained much ground. Bjork’s reply –‘Earth Intruders’—I view as the last stand to push herself further away again, as if indignant that she’s being overhauled. Timbaland provides the blissful funk and Bjork mouthing the shuffling feet sounds of her taking to flight. Another battle won.
73. 'Not Yet’ (The Veils): builds like a slow fire burning everything in sight.
72. ‘Bluebells’ (Patrick Wolf): wondrously touching and ever so deliciously ambiguous.
71. ‘Publisher’ (Blonde Redhead): lulls into a new dub haze by thankfully incorporating all three band members on vocals.
70. ‘O Katrina’ (Black Lips): nice, tight jam fitted into a critique on American Homeland response to the hurricane.
69. ‘Behave’ (Charlotte Hatherley): brilliantly balances nuance and subtlety to posit a psychedelic punch…and that lovely guitar strumming allows the song a blissful climax, swaying the whole thing into the cosmos.
68. ‘Evergreen’ (Celebration): unwinds like a psychedelic wonder, especially towards the end when they croon ‘sun down’ alongside the subtle yet insistent drums.
67. ‘Dancing on Our Graves’ (The Cave Singers): brilliant rock lullaby.
66. ‘Satan Said Dance’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): loopy pianos give way to stoned vocals reminiscent of the Rolling Stones plus creepy right through.
65. ‘Catch You’ (Sophie Ellis Bextor): it’s taken a while but Annie Lennox influence has finally hit mainstream. ‘Catch You’ rekindles Lennox’s strident attack on pop with its currents of 80’s style synths. Pure and simply enjoyable.
64. ‘The Coolest’ (Lupe Fiasco): straight up rap that other people would kill for, the other rappers will witness his greatness in ’08.
63. ‘To the Dogs or Whoever’ (Josh Ritter): in a year when rock moved away from simplicity, Ritter hung tough by Dylan-esque word power. His aim is the personal though, like a stern parent directing the lives of others.
62. ‘Patty Lee’ (Les Savy Lee): on its attitude alone, this is an outstanding winner.
61. ‘Not The Way That I Do’/ ‘Baby Makin’ Hips’ (Fantasia): proving to be more than a one trick pony usually entails doing things totally different but Fantasia struts the same groove with the same attitude and its better, classy and gutsy enough to succeed. This is beyond even Beyonce in full flight.
80. ‘Yummy’ (Gwen Stefani): slinking further and further into a maze of uncertainty, Stefani ups the thug-girl shtick while the Neptunes keep her out of trouble with a minimalist beat. It shouldn’t have worked (Fergie would have tanked after the first couplet) but somehow Gwen crashes into the wall and walks away with hardly a bruise.
79. ‘Listening Man’ (The Bees): slow horns juxtaposed with a post-ska vibe, the track breezes through its sedate yet unreal aesthetics.
78. ‘How Come You Don’t Hold Me No More’ (Hot Puppies): excellent update of Sleater-Kinney’s ‘Milkshake n Honey’.
77. ‘Candyman’ (Christina Aguilera): credit Aguilera for plugging away until the ideal sugar comes along. It’s shameful fun without the trappings of intensity but somehow this adaptation works.
76. ‘Road to Recovery’ (Midnight Juggernauts): subdued pop gloss.
75. ‘Barracuda’ (Miho Hatori): a surreal piece of force.
74. ‘Earth Intruders’ (Bjork): I’ve always felt The Knife’s brilliant ‘We Share Our Mother’s Health’ was a challenging swipe at Bjork. For so long she has directed how electronica can be listened to but last year the pack behind her gained much ground. Bjork’s reply –‘Earth Intruders’—I view as the last stand to push herself further away again, as if indignant that she’s being overhauled. Timbaland provides the blissful funk and Bjork mouthing the shuffling feet sounds of her taking to flight. Another battle won.
73. 'Not Yet’ (The Veils): builds like a slow fire burning everything in sight.
72. ‘Bluebells’ (Patrick Wolf): wondrously touching and ever so deliciously ambiguous.
71. ‘Publisher’ (Blonde Redhead): lulls into a new dub haze by thankfully incorporating all three band members on vocals.
70. ‘O Katrina’ (Black Lips): nice, tight jam fitted into a critique on American Homeland response to the hurricane.
69. ‘Behave’ (Charlotte Hatherley): brilliantly balances nuance and subtlety to posit a psychedelic punch…and that lovely guitar strumming allows the song a blissful climax, swaying the whole thing into the cosmos.
68. ‘Evergreen’ (Celebration): unwinds like a psychedelic wonder, especially towards the end when they croon ‘sun down’ alongside the subtle yet insistent drums.
67. ‘Dancing on Our Graves’ (The Cave Singers): brilliant rock lullaby.
66. ‘Satan Said Dance’ (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah): loopy pianos give way to stoned vocals reminiscent of the Rolling Stones plus creepy right through.
65. ‘Catch You’ (Sophie Ellis Bextor): it’s taken a while but Annie Lennox influence has finally hit mainstream. ‘Catch You’ rekindles Lennox’s strident attack on pop with its currents of 80’s style synths. Pure and simply enjoyable.
64. ‘The Coolest’ (Lupe Fiasco): straight up rap that other people would kill for, the other rappers will witness his greatness in ’08.
63. ‘To the Dogs or Whoever’ (Josh Ritter): in a year when rock moved away from simplicity, Ritter hung tough by Dylan-esque word power. His aim is the personal though, like a stern parent directing the lives of others.
62. ‘Patty Lee’ (Les Savy Lee): on its attitude alone, this is an outstanding winner.
61. ‘Not The Way That I Do’/ ‘Baby Makin’ Hips’ (Fantasia): proving to be more than a one trick pony usually entails doing things totally different but Fantasia struts the same groove with the same attitude and its better, classy and gutsy enough to succeed. This is beyond even Beyonce in full flight.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Part One: THE BEST SONGS OF 2007 (#81--#100)
As this is a five (5) part series, I'll just use the different issues to sum up the theme of the songs. 2007 had probably the most wide assortment of noise-makers than any other year. The fact that these songs are at the end of my top 100 songs shouldn't distract from their significance...it just means that the tracks ahead of them were even more radical. The sound merchants are represented through the likes of Dan Deacon and Battles, both who tinkle with electronic urges. In Deacon's case, he suffuses more vocals and comical gaffes. R&B sees the new-comer Estelle about to blow up Stateside surely with the release of a track that is subtle but irresistable. Even more established acts but less than revolutionary offering found a nice range to espouse their egos further (Kanye, Beyonce). Enough talk, here's the first batch of twenty songs.
100. ‘The Chills’ (Peter, Bjorn & John): creepy, but nice creepy, PB&J captured hearts with the strange 'Young Folk' last year (well, not mine...the song didn't make my list year and isn't on this one either). Believe me when I say it's probably the weakest thing on their fine 'Writer's Block' disc whereas 'The Chills' arguably is the best. As the title suggests, this is a blast of icy maturity wrapped in warm vocal work.
99. ‘Esmeralda’ (Speech): all but vanquished from the music scene but the prodigal son returned to the fold along with his band to deliver what is a standard funk exercise.
98. ‘Sugar Mama’ (Beyonce): in a totally new approach, Miss Knowles caressed our thoughts instead of ramming down our throats (as in the case of the equally yummy 'Upgrade U') and behold the sultry result.
97. ‘Atlas’ (Battles): in many ways, ‘Atlas’ highlights the highs and lows of Battles: in its initial segments it proves wildly exciting but it subsides towards it end, leaving us on a high but wishing for more. In a sense though, I'm sure the band and those who gush effusively about them, will say this is precisely the intended effect.
96. ‘Debbie’ (Architects in Helsinki): noisy, loud yet irrepressibly with momentum. This from a group that still wildly grafts any noise they can imagine themselves funking to then recycling it our way.
95. ‘Dumb Animal’ (TV on the Radio): last year’s champions return with an electric EP and this was the most wowing moment. Notice the gleeful shards of electronic feedback towards the end. A year one from the monumental 'Wolf Like Me' and still no group rocks the house like them.
94. ‘Innocence’ (Bjork): it’s been a long time since Bjork has left herself so vocally open to the sheer nuance that it evokes, juxtaposed with Timbaland’s insistent beats. The many different remixes I've heard are way more fun but even in such a natural state, the two titans of pop have balanced out each other's egos and haven't disappointed (which is more than I can say for both solo disc).
93. ‘St. John’ (Cold War Kids): odd flow works nicely.
92. ’Bound’ (Suzanne Vega): even in this current resirrection of her career, 'Bound' proves that no one can parry pop more fecklessly than this woman and unlike others, she can spread it delicately on an entire album too.
91. ‘Crystal Cat’ (Dan Deacon): boldly going further than others like Battles dared to, Deacon fuses electronic sparks on ‘Crystal Cat’ endlessly and, more crucially, successfully. That a pudgy Caucasian can make this type of record and get critical praise for it is really scary.
90. ‘Minaret’ (John Vanderslice): brilliant piano-laced track that drapes its sentiment post 9/11 rememberance. A line like, ‘same name, same war’ is more than a cheeky political reference too.
89. ‘Wait a Minute (Just a Touch)’ (Estelle): ah, the new funk/blues leading lady!
88. ‘Rock Number One’ (Cassius): sheer funk bliss and somehow I get this more than the over-hyped Burial disc.
87. ‘Electrik Boogie’ (Ursula 1000): the influence of Prince crops up all over this one...so much so that one is tempted to remember that the Purple One actually did solo work this year.
86. ‘Stronger’ (Kanye West): though it points to a departure (or is it demise?) of sorts, the Daft Punk sample absolutely rocks here. One of the few forward-thinking tracks on his otherwise dull album.
85. ‘Plaster Casts of Everything’ (Liars): frizzled jam that scoops its insides without copping out. Takes guts to dare put out a record like this and let people love it.
84. ‘North American Scum’ (LCD Soundsystem): cohesively impressive blast of funk from one of the milestone albums of the year.
83. ‘Take My Time’ (Junior Senior): white boy geek pop isn’t supposed to be this fun and formidable and it many ways this group has surely evolved by now: this is from their 2005 album that is only now swimming Southside.
82. ‘Don’t You Evah’ (Spoon): a blissful soul whooping.
81. ‘Art of Story Telling Pt. 4’ (Outkast feat. Floetry): even with a suspect Floetry crooning the chorus, Outkast fizzes the freshest rhymes exquisitely.
100. ‘The Chills’ (Peter, Bjorn & John): creepy, but nice creepy, PB&J captured hearts with the strange 'Young Folk' last year (well, not mine...the song didn't make my list year and isn't on this one either). Believe me when I say it's probably the weakest thing on their fine 'Writer's Block' disc whereas 'The Chills' arguably is the best. As the title suggests, this is a blast of icy maturity wrapped in warm vocal work.
99. ‘Esmeralda’ (Speech): all but vanquished from the music scene but the prodigal son returned to the fold along with his band to deliver what is a standard funk exercise.
98. ‘Sugar Mama’ (Beyonce): in a totally new approach, Miss Knowles caressed our thoughts instead of ramming down our throats (as in the case of the equally yummy 'Upgrade U') and behold the sultry result.
97. ‘Atlas’ (Battles): in many ways, ‘Atlas’ highlights the highs and lows of Battles: in its initial segments it proves wildly exciting but it subsides towards it end, leaving us on a high but wishing for more. In a sense though, I'm sure the band and those who gush effusively about them, will say this is precisely the intended effect.
96. ‘Debbie’ (Architects in Helsinki): noisy, loud yet irrepressibly with momentum. This from a group that still wildly grafts any noise they can imagine themselves funking to then recycling it our way.
95. ‘Dumb Animal’ (TV on the Radio): last year’s champions return with an electric EP and this was the most wowing moment. Notice the gleeful shards of electronic feedback towards the end. A year one from the monumental 'Wolf Like Me' and still no group rocks the house like them.
94. ‘Innocence’ (Bjork): it’s been a long time since Bjork has left herself so vocally open to the sheer nuance that it evokes, juxtaposed with Timbaland’s insistent beats. The many different remixes I've heard are way more fun but even in such a natural state, the two titans of pop have balanced out each other's egos and haven't disappointed (which is more than I can say for both solo disc).
93. ‘St. John’ (Cold War Kids): odd flow works nicely.
92. ’Bound’ (Suzanne Vega): even in this current resirrection of her career, 'Bound' proves that no one can parry pop more fecklessly than this woman and unlike others, she can spread it delicately on an entire album too.
91. ‘Crystal Cat’ (Dan Deacon): boldly going further than others like Battles dared to, Deacon fuses electronic sparks on ‘Crystal Cat’ endlessly and, more crucially, successfully. That a pudgy Caucasian can make this type of record and get critical praise for it is really scary.
90. ‘Minaret’ (John Vanderslice): brilliant piano-laced track that drapes its sentiment post 9/11 rememberance. A line like, ‘same name, same war’ is more than a cheeky political reference too.
89. ‘Wait a Minute (Just a Touch)’ (Estelle): ah, the new funk/blues leading lady!
88. ‘Rock Number One’ (Cassius): sheer funk bliss and somehow I get this more than the over-hyped Burial disc.
87. ‘Electrik Boogie’ (Ursula 1000): the influence of Prince crops up all over this one...so much so that one is tempted to remember that the Purple One actually did solo work this year.
86. ‘Stronger’ (Kanye West): though it points to a departure (or is it demise?) of sorts, the Daft Punk sample absolutely rocks here. One of the few forward-thinking tracks on his otherwise dull album.
85. ‘Plaster Casts of Everything’ (Liars): frizzled jam that scoops its insides without copping out. Takes guts to dare put out a record like this and let people love it.
84. ‘North American Scum’ (LCD Soundsystem): cohesively impressive blast of funk from one of the milestone albums of the year.
83. ‘Take My Time’ (Junior Senior): white boy geek pop isn’t supposed to be this fun and formidable and it many ways this group has surely evolved by now: this is from their 2005 album that is only now swimming Southside.
82. ‘Don’t You Evah’ (Spoon): a blissful soul whooping.
81. ‘Art of Story Telling Pt. 4’ (Outkast feat. Floetry): even with a suspect Floetry crooning the chorus, Outkast fizzes the freshest rhymes exquisitely.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
2007: THE WORST SINGLES
As it's the festive season, I've decided not to rank the songs this time around. In fact, as with the case of my impending top 100 songs list., the uniformity of 2007 meant that all lists proved hard to pin point the utmost best or worst (except my album list). All of these twenty songs are so horrible and in some cases disappointing that you can decide the order in which you want to decipher them. No surprises that hip/hop had more than 50% of the list given its current malaise. Reunions by two 1990s powerhouses proved comical at best and as for the rest, a big 'UGH'.
Here they are...
1. ‘The Way I Live’ (Baby Boy Da Prince feat. P. Town): ridiculous and horrible.
2. ‘Taking Chances’ (Celine Dion): really Celine, all those years in Vegas run contrary to this song's title.
3. ‘This Is Why I’m Hot’ (MIMS): shameless and self-effacing and he has Jamaican ties.
4. ‘Doe Boy Fresh’ (Three 6 Mafia): totally horrible.
5. ‘On The Hotline’ (Pretty Ricky): redundant and juvenile.
6. ‘Headlines (Friendship Never Ends)’ (The Spice Girls): they came back together for the purpose of this crap?!
7. ‘Girlfriend’/ ‘Hot’ (Avril Lavigne): the sound of a sell-out, Lavigne embarrasses herself with this generic answer to Stefani’s ‘Hollaback Girl’. Come to think of it Lavigne hasn't produced a single track worthy of anything but damnation on her current CD.
8. ‘Joe Grine’ (Kiprich feat. Delicious): terribly wooden.
9. ‘Lip-gloss’ (Lil Mama): are you serious with this!
10. ‘Same Girl’ (R. Kelly & Usher): depressingly retrograde.
11. ‘A Bay Bay’ (Hurricane Chris): so bad that it’s laughable.
12. ‘You Know What It Is’ (T.I): totally boring with Wyclef proving how annoying he can be.
13. ‘Wanna Love You Girl’ (Robin Thicke feat. Snoop & Pharrel): the flattest vocal work ever.
14. ‘I Fell In Love with a DJ’ (Che’Nelle featuring Babycham): ugh and trite.
15. ‘Wake Up Call’ (Maroon 5): totally drags its feet on its own concept.
16. ‘Ayo Technology’ (50 Cent feat. Justin Timbaland & Timbaland): a trite effort with the least effective Tim beat ever produced. All three are stretched beyond relevancy.
17. ‘Crank That’ (Solja Boy Tell ‘Em): like a slow painful death.
18. ‘I Got It From My Mama’ (Will I Am): totally ridiculous.
19.‘Rockstar’ (Nickelback): ugh.
20. ‘(I Wanna See You) Push It Baby’ (Pretty Ricky feat. Sean Paul): vapid
Here they are...
1. ‘The Way I Live’ (Baby Boy Da Prince feat. P. Town): ridiculous and horrible.
2. ‘Taking Chances’ (Celine Dion): really Celine, all those years in Vegas run contrary to this song's title.
3. ‘This Is Why I’m Hot’ (MIMS): shameless and self-effacing and he has Jamaican ties.
4. ‘Doe Boy Fresh’ (Three 6 Mafia): totally horrible.
5. ‘On The Hotline’ (Pretty Ricky): redundant and juvenile.
6. ‘Headlines (Friendship Never Ends)’ (The Spice Girls): they came back together for the purpose of this crap?!
7. ‘Girlfriend’/ ‘Hot’ (Avril Lavigne): the sound of a sell-out, Lavigne embarrasses herself with this generic answer to Stefani’s ‘Hollaback Girl’. Come to think of it Lavigne hasn't produced a single track worthy of anything but damnation on her current CD.
8. ‘Joe Grine’ (Kiprich feat. Delicious): terribly wooden.
9. ‘Lip-gloss’ (Lil Mama): are you serious with this!
10. ‘Same Girl’ (R. Kelly & Usher): depressingly retrograde.
11. ‘A Bay Bay’ (Hurricane Chris): so bad that it’s laughable.
12. ‘You Know What It Is’ (T.I): totally boring with Wyclef proving how annoying he can be.
13. ‘Wanna Love You Girl’ (Robin Thicke feat. Snoop & Pharrel): the flattest vocal work ever.
14. ‘I Fell In Love with a DJ’ (Che’Nelle featuring Babycham): ugh and trite.
15. ‘Wake Up Call’ (Maroon 5): totally drags its feet on its own concept.
16. ‘Ayo Technology’ (50 Cent feat. Justin Timbaland & Timbaland): a trite effort with the least effective Tim beat ever produced. All three are stretched beyond relevancy.
17. ‘Crank That’ (Solja Boy Tell ‘Em): like a slow painful death.
18. ‘I Got It From My Mama’ (Will I Am): totally ridiculous.
19.‘Rockstar’ (Nickelback): ugh.
20. ‘(I Wanna See You) Push It Baby’ (Pretty Ricky feat. Sean Paul): vapid
Thursday, December 13, 2007
THE WORST FILMS OF 2007
In a way, it's a real pity that I'm only posting the absolutely ten worst films I saw this year when in fact 2007 has had such a bumper crop of bad, inane films. These films have no 'technicalities' attached to them, they're just awful. Other films like 'Premonition' and 'Balls of Fury' just narrowly avoid the list because these ten were even worse but even 'Spiderman 3' deserves a bad rap. The most worrying trend is the fixation directors have when it comes especially to sequels: trying out new character plots that sink the film and make 'wrap up' difficult to achieve. Or, there's the start of a trilogy like 'The Golden Compass' for example that uses its time (and, alas! ours too) toexplain what we already know in a most laborious manner. Then there are films like '300' and 'The Last Legion' that parade as a historical account of something but what they omit is as disastorous as what they put in.
That said, here are the worst films of the year:
1. ‘Hannibal: Rising’: for a film that chronicles the upbringing of a brilliant serial killer this film lacks everything except its unending boredom. Dr. Lecter is stripped of any personality, sexual overtone or any real conviction of his cannibalism. Add an Oriental relative that figures more of an Electra-complex figure and the word ‘twisted’ doesn’t even begin to explain this hash.
2. ‘Wild Hogs’: The generic plot is the main offender here: four friends—a portly Martin Lawrence is thrown in for racial harmony—decide to rediscover their machismo on an outback road trip. What ensues is one cliché-ridden romp to another and a lot of really disappointing slapstick humor.
3. ‘The Number 23’: Jim Carey plays a man obsessed with mathematical equations that all add up to the number 23. If the film actually trued to revert everything from that figure, like, with a plot for example, then maybe the straws it grasps for would’ve allowed it to breathe easier, instead it sucks up the life out of this hollow, absurdity that tries to pass itself off as horror.
4. ‘Vacancy’: As ‘Vacancy’ ascribes to be a type of thriller, what occurs after each scene is supposed to induce paranoia but, even though the motel manager (a creepy bordering on annoying Frank Whaley) is confirmation that the night will be hell to survive, it never successfully manages to unearth much after this set up because it relies too much on the obvious and what not needed to have been hidden. Excruciatingly bad
5. ‘Mr. Brooks’: If the notion of Kevin Costner playing a serial killer disturbs you because you know there’s no way he’s edgy enough to pull it off then skip ‘Mr. Brooks’, a dull film that tries to carp out intricate thrills from performances that are laden with rigor mortis. Not even the presence of the usually wild-ride William Hurt can sustain interest because his imaginary character is held in check. Still, if the plot hadn’t cornered itself so deep in etching mystery then maybe it’d breathe better. Oh, by the way, if the notion of Demi Moore playing a serial cop disturb you…
6. ‘Hostel II’: Roth doesn’t spend too much time with logics in ‘Hostel II’, instead he laboriously shows us the behind the scenes excitement to collecting the human prey. I can’t recall any other horror flick making its aim and outcome so evident and not expecting to suffer for this foresight of our knowledge. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
7. ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End’: over long, over wretched with its plot and over the edge tipping towards south in terms of everything else except actually trying to balance its messy equations.
8. ‘Blood and Chocolate’: A film that pretends to chronicle the lives of were-wolves then stops and turns to an impossibly trite love affair with a human involved. ‘Blood and Chocolate’ uses every conceivable cliché and still ends up chewing its leg off.
9. ‘Transformers’: ‘Transformers’ readily embraces the summer’s worst trend of tacking on multiple characters and plots to give the illusion of strength to an already burgeoning script. Here we are kept tediously updated with the happenings of the Defense Secretary (Jon Voight) and soldiers fighting unknown technology near Qatar. In addition, Agent Simmons (John Turturro) of the unclassified Sector Seven and our hero, Sam (Shia LaBeouf, in the reprisal of his ‘Disturbia’ role, but downright uninteresting here) become tied to the plot as well. Four continuous and drab story-lines that not only go nowhere in the end but keep the time of the first attack by a Decepticon to the next way too long to sustain much interest in the ground-breaking CGI technology that we’ve glimpsed in trailers for the film.
10. ‘The Brave One’: While she struggles mentally to decide what to coherently follow, ‘The Brave One’ tethers with a look back to Erica’s (Jodie Foster) past and sees nothing to offer her or us real or imagined. Because the principle of exacting revenge is never fully explored to or by her at any point ‘The Brave One’ ends up toothless despite arming itself for the long haul. Like her other recent films, Foster carries this one viciously overboard by integrating all her previous ebullient roles into this persona and the necrophilia is utterly wooden.
That said, here are the worst films of the year:
1. ‘Hannibal: Rising’: for a film that chronicles the upbringing of a brilliant serial killer this film lacks everything except its unending boredom. Dr. Lecter is stripped of any personality, sexual overtone or any real conviction of his cannibalism. Add an Oriental relative that figures more of an Electra-complex figure and the word ‘twisted’ doesn’t even begin to explain this hash.
2. ‘Wild Hogs’: The generic plot is the main offender here: four friends—a portly Martin Lawrence is thrown in for racial harmony—decide to rediscover their machismo on an outback road trip. What ensues is one cliché-ridden romp to another and a lot of really disappointing slapstick humor.
3. ‘The Number 23’: Jim Carey plays a man obsessed with mathematical equations that all add up to the number 23. If the film actually trued to revert everything from that figure, like, with a plot for example, then maybe the straws it grasps for would’ve allowed it to breathe easier, instead it sucks up the life out of this hollow, absurdity that tries to pass itself off as horror.
4. ‘Vacancy’: As ‘Vacancy’ ascribes to be a type of thriller, what occurs after each scene is supposed to induce paranoia but, even though the motel manager (a creepy bordering on annoying Frank Whaley) is confirmation that the night will be hell to survive, it never successfully manages to unearth much after this set up because it relies too much on the obvious and what not needed to have been hidden. Excruciatingly bad
5. ‘Mr. Brooks’: If the notion of Kevin Costner playing a serial killer disturbs you because you know there’s no way he’s edgy enough to pull it off then skip ‘Mr. Brooks’, a dull film that tries to carp out intricate thrills from performances that are laden with rigor mortis. Not even the presence of the usually wild-ride William Hurt can sustain interest because his imaginary character is held in check. Still, if the plot hadn’t cornered itself so deep in etching mystery then maybe it’d breathe better. Oh, by the way, if the notion of Demi Moore playing a serial cop disturb you…
6. ‘Hostel II’: Roth doesn’t spend too much time with logics in ‘Hostel II’, instead he laboriously shows us the behind the scenes excitement to collecting the human prey. I can’t recall any other horror flick making its aim and outcome so evident and not expecting to suffer for this foresight of our knowledge. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
7. ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End’: over long, over wretched with its plot and over the edge tipping towards south in terms of everything else except actually trying to balance its messy equations.
8. ‘Blood and Chocolate’: A film that pretends to chronicle the lives of were-wolves then stops and turns to an impossibly trite love affair with a human involved. ‘Blood and Chocolate’ uses every conceivable cliché and still ends up chewing its leg off.
9. ‘Transformers’: ‘Transformers’ readily embraces the summer’s worst trend of tacking on multiple characters and plots to give the illusion of strength to an already burgeoning script. Here we are kept tediously updated with the happenings of the Defense Secretary (Jon Voight) and soldiers fighting unknown technology near Qatar. In addition, Agent Simmons (John Turturro) of the unclassified Sector Seven and our hero, Sam (Shia LaBeouf, in the reprisal of his ‘Disturbia’ role, but downright uninteresting here) become tied to the plot as well. Four continuous and drab story-lines that not only go nowhere in the end but keep the time of the first attack by a Decepticon to the next way too long to sustain much interest in the ground-breaking CGI technology that we’ve glimpsed in trailers for the film.
10. ‘The Brave One’: While she struggles mentally to decide what to coherently follow, ‘The Brave One’ tethers with a look back to Erica’s (Jodie Foster) past and sees nothing to offer her or us real or imagined. Because the principle of exacting revenge is never fully explored to or by her at any point ‘The Brave One’ ends up toothless despite arming itself for the long haul. Like her other recent films, Foster carries this one viciously overboard by integrating all her previous ebullient roles into this persona and the necrophilia is utterly wooden.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
MUSIC REVIEW: "Blackout' (Britney Spears)
‘Growing Pains’
Given the annus horribilis that this year is turning out to be for her so far, Britney Spears surely realizes that a new album now potentially adds to it and, as a result, can curtail what remains of her very high profile career. The word ‘career’ never seems as fitting to any other pop act besides her because that is what Spears is: a RIAA certifiable money-maker. She is at the fount of crass American obsession with artistic youthfulness, harnessing a pop persona that is as utterly disposable and interchangeable as the songs she spews out. Nowhere in the mix is actual talent and, more crucially, one never expects otherwise. As I go through her back catalogue of songs, I can scarcely believe how robotic a singer Spears is. Its one thing to hear her with different singles but it becomes downright unbearable in one sitting. She isn’t the only teeny-bop product that was unleashed on an unsuspecting public in 1999 but at the very least one never doubts Christina Aguilera’s pipes or Justin Timberlake’s insistence of bringing sexy back but Britney’s first two albums are total hogwash, with only ‘Born To Make You Happy’ hinting at something genuine or at least innate.
The glorious ‘Toxic’ did however signal a change, achieving critical praise and looking back on it now, ‘In the Zone’ isn’t a bad product, with its untested sense of rebellion. That
album features a variety of dance loops and beats that sass with experimental production. While critics didn’t pay attention long enough to care, Britney’s intent to break her pop princess mould is slowly becoming evident. When her marital issues spilled out into the open earlier this year though and was quickly followed by car accidents, a shaved head and her lost child custody appeal, it seemed a sort of karma had caught up with her finally. News of the finished album had critics out with pens ready to write about the final chapter of her career and exact a sort of triumphantly upturned nose at her. I am not one of them though I must admit my indifference to her is deliberate. Unlike, say, Popmatters, which gave ‘Blackout’ 4/10 and proclaimed it ‘forgettable’, I have actually listened to it without willing myself to damn it before hand.
That said, ‘Blackout’ isn’t the horrific vanity product many think it is. In fact, one clunker aside, the disc is fairly solid ground for pop music and is a natural growth for Spears who is settling into an artistic maturity that adds elements of the calculated critical backlash into the mix for her own purposes. Stunning to think she can craft ideas this exacting but there it is full blown in the bittersweet lyrics. If ‘In the Zone’ tinkered with a multitude of sounds but didn’t dedicate itself to one, then ‘Blackout’ chooses from the same domain and wraps its intent into one coat full of many colors. It is her upturning her nose to the naysayer who dares to write her off without at least hearing what she has to say.
And, make no mistake, this is twenty-first century pop music: a hybrid that assimilates dance and hip/hop, eagerly filtering them through a vocoder that distorts Spears’ vocals to the point of non- recognition from where she once was. While there’s nothing as instantly gratifying as ‘Toxic’ on the disc, the songs here take on new relevance given the current turmoil in her life, especial lyrically. So, the yummy ‘Piece of Me’ unfurls layers of defiant pop hooks while slamming her detractors (‘guess I can’t see the harm/ I’m working and being a mama’). Even more startling is the closer, ‘Why Should I Be Sad’ that actually attempts to overdub on hip/hop sounds while shooting poison at her ex-husband, Kevin Federline (‘Why should I be sad, heaven knows/ From the stupid fre-kin’ things that you do’). ‘Radar’ and ‘Break the Ice’ trample afoot the notion that her artifice cannot be harnessed to good use. Even ‘Freak Show’ is a slick rap effort that never embarrasses itself. In short, this is Britney assaulting the perception of herself as a person.
This is not to say she has come fully to terms with her past or, like, a totally relevant, soul-searching artiste now. It’s more like she’s at least acknowledging its dubiousness finally and re-arranging it before it’s too late. Britney has made enough cash for Jive to be able to afford anyone she chooses to work with and the money is well spent here because the various producers bring juicy sounds even if she hedges her bet. Of course, hedging a bet means working with what worked in the past, so in come Bloodshy & Avant (‘Toxic’) to the rescue. As far as the hip/hop beats go, it seems Timbaland was too busy to assist so he sends protégé Nate ‘Danja’ Hills instead. This proves the litmus test for Britney, trying to assimilate such fluidity on a continuous basis. To her credit, she doesn’t sink but the tracks are geared towards wild abandon and, like her idol Madonna, she shares a nauseating vocal consciousness, a lack of daring to sound too vulnerable on record. She comes close on ‘Ooh Ooh Baby’ is dew-eyed pop but for once cuts the manipulation for proclamations that seemingly ring trough. ‘Toy Soldier’, arguably the best track, powers up its groove with tight drumming and Spears bites into the bits decisively. Mostly though what prevents these songs from being total slamming is her concern with structure. She’s spent her career so defined by it that she cannot retain spontaneity for more than three minutes. Dance/pop gets stretched out more than any other genre so the effect these songs have is nothing compared to when club deejays start remixing the heck out of them.
The only really bad stuff, the embarrassing ‘Get Naked (I Got a Plan)’, fails because it stubbornly tries to cling to her robotic past. Not only is it shameless but it illustrates that for Britney growth isn’t going to come as readily as it should because she’s still so much of a product . Listening to the tracks that were left off (the American version anyway) prove that this hesitancy is one that is grounded in the market within which she is a major player still. ‘Blackout’ is a start towards a direction that she has no choice but to follow. Pop icons have a hard time growing up to the realization that they’re not fabulously endearing anymore (hello Michael Jackson!); life gets in the way and your fans either move on with or without you. Whether this disc tilts her career to a full blossoming of centralized ideas and getting her sh-t together is anyone’s guess but, thanks to the paparazzi, we’ll be able to track her every move. With the Madonna example as her motive, we await her next move to prove either her determination or cowardice.
RATING: 7/10
Given the annus horribilis that this year is turning out to be for her so far, Britney Spears surely realizes that a new album now potentially adds to it and, as a result, can curtail what remains of her very high profile career. The word ‘career’ never seems as fitting to any other pop act besides her because that is what Spears is: a RIAA certifiable money-maker. She is at the fount of crass American obsession with artistic youthfulness, harnessing a pop persona that is as utterly disposable and interchangeable as the songs she spews out. Nowhere in the mix is actual talent and, more crucially, one never expects otherwise. As I go through her back catalogue of songs, I can scarcely believe how robotic a singer Spears is. Its one thing to hear her with different singles but it becomes downright unbearable in one sitting. She isn’t the only teeny-bop product that was unleashed on an unsuspecting public in 1999 but at the very least one never doubts Christina Aguilera’s pipes or Justin Timberlake’s insistence of bringing sexy back but Britney’s first two albums are total hogwash, with only ‘Born To Make You Happy’ hinting at something genuine or at least innate.
The glorious ‘Toxic’ did however signal a change, achieving critical praise and looking back on it now, ‘In the Zone’ isn’t a bad product, with its untested sense of rebellion. That
album features a variety of dance loops and beats that sass with experimental production. While critics didn’t pay attention long enough to care, Britney’s intent to break her pop princess mould is slowly becoming evident. When her marital issues spilled out into the open earlier this year though and was quickly followed by car accidents, a shaved head and her lost child custody appeal, it seemed a sort of karma had caught up with her finally. News of the finished album had critics out with pens ready to write about the final chapter of her career and exact a sort of triumphantly upturned nose at her. I am not one of them though I must admit my indifference to her is deliberate. Unlike, say, Popmatters, which gave ‘Blackout’ 4/10 and proclaimed it ‘forgettable’, I have actually listened to it without willing myself to damn it before hand.
That said, ‘Blackout’ isn’t the horrific vanity product many think it is. In fact, one clunker aside, the disc is fairly solid ground for pop music and is a natural growth for Spears who is settling into an artistic maturity that adds elements of the calculated critical backlash into the mix for her own purposes. Stunning to think she can craft ideas this exacting but there it is full blown in the bittersweet lyrics. If ‘In the Zone’ tinkered with a multitude of sounds but didn’t dedicate itself to one, then ‘Blackout’ chooses from the same domain and wraps its intent into one coat full of many colors. It is her upturning her nose to the naysayer who dares to write her off without at least hearing what she has to say.
And, make no mistake, this is twenty-first century pop music: a hybrid that assimilates dance and hip/hop, eagerly filtering them through a vocoder that distorts Spears’ vocals to the point of non- recognition from where she once was. While there’s nothing as instantly gratifying as ‘Toxic’ on the disc, the songs here take on new relevance given the current turmoil in her life, especial lyrically. So, the yummy ‘Piece of Me’ unfurls layers of defiant pop hooks while slamming her detractors (‘guess I can’t see the harm/ I’m working and being a mama’). Even more startling is the closer, ‘Why Should I Be Sad’ that actually attempts to overdub on hip/hop sounds while shooting poison at her ex-husband, Kevin Federline (‘Why should I be sad, heaven knows/ From the stupid fre-kin’ things that you do’). ‘Radar’ and ‘Break the Ice’ trample afoot the notion that her artifice cannot be harnessed to good use. Even ‘Freak Show’ is a slick rap effort that never embarrasses itself. In short, this is Britney assaulting the perception of herself as a person.
This is not to say she has come fully to terms with her past or, like, a totally relevant, soul-searching artiste now. It’s more like she’s at least acknowledging its dubiousness finally and re-arranging it before it’s too late. Britney has made enough cash for Jive to be able to afford anyone she chooses to work with and the money is well spent here because the various producers bring juicy sounds even if she hedges her bet. Of course, hedging a bet means working with what worked in the past, so in come Bloodshy & Avant (‘Toxic’) to the rescue. As far as the hip/hop beats go, it seems Timbaland was too busy to assist so he sends protégé Nate ‘Danja’ Hills instead. This proves the litmus test for Britney, trying to assimilate such fluidity on a continuous basis. To her credit, she doesn’t sink but the tracks are geared towards wild abandon and, like her idol Madonna, she shares a nauseating vocal consciousness, a lack of daring to sound too vulnerable on record. She comes close on ‘Ooh Ooh Baby’ is dew-eyed pop but for once cuts the manipulation for proclamations that seemingly ring trough. ‘Toy Soldier’, arguably the best track, powers up its groove with tight drumming and Spears bites into the bits decisively. Mostly though what prevents these songs from being total slamming is her concern with structure. She’s spent her career so defined by it that she cannot retain spontaneity for more than three minutes. Dance/pop gets stretched out more than any other genre so the effect these songs have is nothing compared to when club deejays start remixing the heck out of them.
The only really bad stuff, the embarrassing ‘Get Naked (I Got a Plan)’, fails because it stubbornly tries to cling to her robotic past. Not only is it shameless but it illustrates that for Britney growth isn’t going to come as readily as it should because she’s still so much of a product . Listening to the tracks that were left off (the American version anyway) prove that this hesitancy is one that is grounded in the market within which she is a major player still. ‘Blackout’ is a start towards a direction that she has no choice but to follow. Pop icons have a hard time growing up to the realization that they’re not fabulously endearing anymore (hello Michael Jackson!); life gets in the way and your fans either move on with or without you. Whether this disc tilts her career to a full blossoming of centralized ideas and getting her sh-t together is anyone’s guess but, thanks to the paparazzi, we’ll be able to track her every move. With the Madonna example as her motive, we await her next move to prove either her determination or cowardice.
RATING: 7/10
MUSIC REVIEW: "Overpowered" (Roisin Murphy)
‘Dubliner, Go Home!’
The chance you’ve heard of Roisin Murphy is as slim as you knowing of soul hipster Joi. Both women have advanced greatly underground pop music slanted through jazz and rhythm & blues respectively to critical acclaim but with little financial success to show for it. Record labels either fold before putting their stuff out or pass them on to others, exasperated as to what to do with them. Murphy, formerly of the duo Moloko, released a stunning solo debut, ‘Ruby Blue’, two years ago and no one paid attention. That disc, a natural successor to Bjork’s ‘Post’, showed clueless media darlings like Norah Jones and Joss Stone just how enthralling pop-jazz can be without having famous names associated with a project. Songs like ‘Ramalama (Bang Bang)’ and ‘Night of the Dancing Flame’ groove for days with pop hooks that feed on restless energy.
‘Overpowered’ was always going to have a hard time matching its predecessor but I never expected the end result to be so stymied. Just like Interpol, Murphy has found out that a move to a major label sometimes only succeeds to regulate what makes one interesting in the first place and to try regurgitating it on every record to maximize profits. As she reminds them of Robbie Williams (ugh!), her new bosses (EMI) have clearly decided to reinvent her into a dance diva. Indeed, reps have already been quoted as saying that her ‘indulgence’ is something she’s now over and her ‘true potential’ is now ready to be harnessed. Her fans won’t buy such spiel for a second but fake fans will no doubt welcome her into club land and won’t hesitate to ditch her once the next big thing comes along.
Which leads me back to Joi because no one outside of club divas runs the underground with as much funk, yet it’d be true to say that you’re never going to hear her. Well, to be honest, she has put in vocals on several brilliant Outkast tracks like ‘Ghetto Musick’ and the single ‘Lick’ from her oh-so-rarely-heard ‘Star Kitty’s Revenge’ somehow managed to leak long enough for even me to download it. This is the world Murphy must now penetrate in order to build a fan base. Of course, EMI doesn’t realize that the underground already listens to Roisin and will be insulted by their heavy meddling into her already brilliant sound.
‘Overpowered’ goes about its business calculatingly. When such a powder keg of an artiste is forced to tread cautiously, it can be frustrating to hear. Songs like ‘You Know Me Better’ and ‘Let Me Know’ are tame head bangers and only the titles suggest any form of intrigue. There is even a track called ‘Primitive’ that is, um, well, primitive coming from the woman who gave us ‘Ramalama (Bang Bang)’ just over two years ago. ‘Ruby Blue’ worked so well because her eccentricities were in collaboration with pal Matthew Herbert but there’s no sign of him here. EMI paired her up with producers like Seiji, Andy Cato and Ill Factor, persons totally unfamiliar with her vision. The result is a kind of strained, retro 80’s vibe that tries to channel Brit acts of that decade like The Eurhythmics but ‘Overpowered’ misses Annie Lennox’s wry and ambiguous relevance and dubs down Murphy’s own obvious star shine for cogency. Yes, EMI is hoping she’ll be another Kylie Minogue. Don’t believe me; well they even sourced one of Kylie’s regular writers to pen a track for the album but Murphy didn’t like it.
Ironically, while EMI wishes her to have such a high profile following, I wonder if they’re prepared to spend as long a time that it took an artiste like Minogue to reach such a level. Kylie isn’t nearly half as talented as Murphy nor is her song catalogue as impressive (although, I must admit ‘Red Blooded Woman’ is fantastic) but she’s durable and pretty harmless. Murphy does try to juxtapose this newly fitted outlook along with her quirky personality and these are the songs that feel most alive. ‘Checkin’ On Me’ has a relaxed, up tempo groove. ‘Movie Star’ actually works within the cloying restriction with a slinky reverb. ‘Dear Miami’, an ode to club land, sputters to life mostly although it patters out towards the end. Better yet are ‘Cry Baby’ and ‘Tell Everybody’ which manage to break free and rock out while sporting some bluesy riffs.
As long as she stays with EMI then I’m afraid it’ll be all downhill for her and that would be a shame given her immense talent. It’s a huge compromise most women in the recording industry have to face: being marketed any way the label sees fit to move big bucks or, like Joi, face the prospect of getting lost in the shuffle while retaining street props. Murphy may have to soon choose which path to follow and one only hopes she chooses the one that leads her back home…the sooner to leave EMI the hell alone.
RATING: 6/10
The chance you’ve heard of Roisin Murphy is as slim as you knowing of soul hipster Joi. Both women have advanced greatly underground pop music slanted through jazz and rhythm & blues respectively to critical acclaim but with little financial success to show for it. Record labels either fold before putting their stuff out or pass them on to others, exasperated as to what to do with them. Murphy, formerly of the duo Moloko, released a stunning solo debut, ‘Ruby Blue’, two years ago and no one paid attention. That disc, a natural successor to Bjork’s ‘Post’, showed clueless media darlings like Norah Jones and Joss Stone just how enthralling pop-jazz can be without having famous names associated with a project. Songs like ‘Ramalama (Bang Bang)’ and ‘Night of the Dancing Flame’ groove for days with pop hooks that feed on restless energy.
‘Overpowered’ was always going to have a hard time matching its predecessor but I never expected the end result to be so stymied. Just like Interpol, Murphy has found out that a move to a major label sometimes only succeeds to regulate what makes one interesting in the first place and to try regurgitating it on every record to maximize profits. As she reminds them of Robbie Williams (ugh!), her new bosses (EMI) have clearly decided to reinvent her into a dance diva. Indeed, reps have already been quoted as saying that her ‘indulgence’ is something she’s now over and her ‘true potential’ is now ready to be harnessed. Her fans won’t buy such spiel for a second but fake fans will no doubt welcome her into club land and won’t hesitate to ditch her once the next big thing comes along.
Which leads me back to Joi because no one outside of club divas runs the underground with as much funk, yet it’d be true to say that you’re never going to hear her. Well, to be honest, she has put in vocals on several brilliant Outkast tracks like ‘Ghetto Musick’ and the single ‘Lick’ from her oh-so-rarely-heard ‘Star Kitty’s Revenge’ somehow managed to leak long enough for even me to download it. This is the world Murphy must now penetrate in order to build a fan base. Of course, EMI doesn’t realize that the underground already listens to Roisin and will be insulted by their heavy meddling into her already brilliant sound.
‘Overpowered’ goes about its business calculatingly. When such a powder keg of an artiste is forced to tread cautiously, it can be frustrating to hear. Songs like ‘You Know Me Better’ and ‘Let Me Know’ are tame head bangers and only the titles suggest any form of intrigue. There is even a track called ‘Primitive’ that is, um, well, primitive coming from the woman who gave us ‘Ramalama (Bang Bang)’ just over two years ago. ‘Ruby Blue’ worked so well because her eccentricities were in collaboration with pal Matthew Herbert but there’s no sign of him here. EMI paired her up with producers like Seiji, Andy Cato and Ill Factor, persons totally unfamiliar with her vision. The result is a kind of strained, retro 80’s vibe that tries to channel Brit acts of that decade like The Eurhythmics but ‘Overpowered’ misses Annie Lennox’s wry and ambiguous relevance and dubs down Murphy’s own obvious star shine for cogency. Yes, EMI is hoping she’ll be another Kylie Minogue. Don’t believe me; well they even sourced one of Kylie’s regular writers to pen a track for the album but Murphy didn’t like it.
Ironically, while EMI wishes her to have such a high profile following, I wonder if they’re prepared to spend as long a time that it took an artiste like Minogue to reach such a level. Kylie isn’t nearly half as talented as Murphy nor is her song catalogue as impressive (although, I must admit ‘Red Blooded Woman’ is fantastic) but she’s durable and pretty harmless. Murphy does try to juxtapose this newly fitted outlook along with her quirky personality and these are the songs that feel most alive. ‘Checkin’ On Me’ has a relaxed, up tempo groove. ‘Movie Star’ actually works within the cloying restriction with a slinky reverb. ‘Dear Miami’, an ode to club land, sputters to life mostly although it patters out towards the end. Better yet are ‘Cry Baby’ and ‘Tell Everybody’ which manage to break free and rock out while sporting some bluesy riffs.
As long as she stays with EMI then I’m afraid it’ll be all downhill for her and that would be a shame given her immense talent. It’s a huge compromise most women in the recording industry have to face: being marketed any way the label sees fit to move big bucks or, like Joi, face the prospect of getting lost in the shuffle while retaining street props. Murphy may have to soon choose which path to follow and one only hopes she chooses the one that leads her back home…the sooner to leave EMI the hell alone.
RATING: 6/10
Friday, October 26, 2007
MUSIC REVIEW: Of Montreal "Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? "
Every critic has a method by which they compile year-end lists. I include non-released album cuts for consideration because quality product is sometimes neglected for marketability. A good example of this is Nelly Furtardo's 'Loose'. Good pop record yet it behooves me as to why she's hell bent on releasing every track except the best one ('Glow'). With year-end lists one can reasonably expect one act to have multiple entries, say, three or four but surely not more. This year I felt could have changed that but as Bjork didn't unveil the Second Coming with 'Volta' and M.I.A yet to release hers (at the time of this being published), I presumed I was safe. Then an unusual thing happened. Online in the blogs, word spread of the latest release by Athens, Georgia band Of Montreal. As I'm a fan of blog hype, I quickly did a search on You tube and it took a mere twenty minutes to catapult me into the biggest Of Montreal fan this side of the Pacific.
The man behind this masterpiece is lead singer Kevin Barnes and the album is a journal of his feelings after the break-up of a relationship which scurried him to Norway to clear his head. The air there must be very conducive because 'Hissing Fauna...'-- the band's eight effort--s a giant leap from their previous material. Ever since their 1997 debut 'Cherry Peel', Of Montreal have toed the line of trying to sound original and imitating their heroes so self-consciously that it's hard to decipher where the divergence takes place. In other words, they were a good band but not a great one because the element of originality was lacking. 'Hissing Fauna' parodies its many influences and sometimes shamelessly so but when Barnes suffuses the songs with his queer and wry sensibility it really unearths a deeper and more truthful meaning to them.
It is a break-up record as well and this is where the residual personality of the album is based. Barnes infuses a lot of catty glam-rock to shield his hurt but the lyrics belie the truth. On 'She's a Rejecter' he shrieks viciously, 'oh no/ she's a rejecter/ I must protect myself/ there's the girl that left me bitter', yet remains gleeful right until the end. It is one hell of poison penmanship. This open-endedness is a permanence that heightens the listening experience. With his heart on his sleeve, Barnes pens his emotions and produces the brilliant songs with this structure. Most break-up records depress while addressing the other party (i.e. Beck's tedious 'Sea Change'). 'Hissing Fauna' however acts as self-therapy to Barnes even though it's such an accessible record.
Including the aforementioned 'She's a Rejecter' there are six more immediate contenders for best song of the year. 'Grolandic Edit' slows the tempo down to a whisper but its brilliance is in its haunting lyrics and faux vocal usage (I guess it would be nice to give my heart to a God/ but which one/ which one do I choose'. 'Cato as a Pun' is even slower and more pensive with its cry out for help ('what has happened to you my friend/ and don't say that I have changed/ I guess you'd rather lock yourself in and be alone'). 'Labyrinthian Pomp'is dead-on the Bowie vibe that is increasingly becoming a dime-a-dozen for male pop fabulists. 'A Sentence of sorts in Kongsvinger' (I spent the winter on the verge of a total breakdown/ while living in Norway) and 'We Were Born the Mutants again with Leafling' (we love to view unfortunate passions...) rotate their fabulousness with swirling multi-vocal work. 'Faberge Falls for Shuggie' is the best white boy Prince impersonation since Beck dropped 'Sex Laws'.
The influence of David Bowie is evident enough but strains of Pink Floyd and even the flowery vibe of 'Sgt. Pepper' can be heard being tossed around deliciously. This retro pop funk is all the rage this year. What makes Of Montreal the best is the consistency which they achieve. It's fairly easy to get one hit record with this kitsch (Mika's brilliant 'Relax, Take it Easy' is a good example) but seven is phenomenal for any musician. Of Montreal hails from the same city that gave us R.E.M and can now claim to be able to stand on the experience of their previous work not just that of other artistes. It’s a true testament to their growth then that the other songs and ideas are just as fascinating. 'Snk the Seine'would be epic if it weren' so short. 'Suffer for Fashion' doesn't loosen long enough to truly take a magnificent shape and 'Like a Promethean Curse'comes close to breaking out into mayhem but catches itself too early too often. The one oddity is 'The Past is a Grotesque Animal'. It's a ballad thus out of place on an album full of grooves being jettisoned around. It's the one obligatory track where Barnes addresses directly his break-up. It's an ungainly sound but then again resolving one's issues tends to be but it is not a commercial compromise, more like a personal one. As it is smack right in the center of the opus, it can be viewed as a farewell because he presses on immediately after to party heartily with a relieved conscience. Though they'll be ignored by most award shows because of the early release date (including the hopelessly outdated Grammys) Of Montreal have simply constructed one of the best albums of 2007.
RATING: 9/10
The man behind this masterpiece is lead singer Kevin Barnes and the album is a journal of his feelings after the break-up of a relationship which scurried him to Norway to clear his head. The air there must be very conducive because 'Hissing Fauna...'-- the band's eight effort--s a giant leap from their previous material. Ever since their 1997 debut 'Cherry Peel', Of Montreal have toed the line of trying to sound original and imitating their heroes so self-consciously that it's hard to decipher where the divergence takes place. In other words, they were a good band but not a great one because the element of originality was lacking. 'Hissing Fauna' parodies its many influences and sometimes shamelessly so but when Barnes suffuses the songs with his queer and wry sensibility it really unearths a deeper and more truthful meaning to them.
It is a break-up record as well and this is where the residual personality of the album is based. Barnes infuses a lot of catty glam-rock to shield his hurt but the lyrics belie the truth. On 'She's a Rejecter' he shrieks viciously, 'oh no/ she's a rejecter/ I must protect myself/ there's the girl that left me bitter', yet remains gleeful right until the end. It is one hell of poison penmanship. This open-endedness is a permanence that heightens the listening experience. With his heart on his sleeve, Barnes pens his emotions and produces the brilliant songs with this structure. Most break-up records depress while addressing the other party (i.e. Beck's tedious 'Sea Change'). 'Hissing Fauna' however acts as self-therapy to Barnes even though it's such an accessible record.
Including the aforementioned 'She's a Rejecter' there are six more immediate contenders for best song of the year. 'Grolandic Edit' slows the tempo down to a whisper but its brilliance is in its haunting lyrics and faux vocal usage (I guess it would be nice to give my heart to a God/ but which one/ which one do I choose'. 'Cato as a Pun' is even slower and more pensive with its cry out for help ('what has happened to you my friend/ and don't say that I have changed/ I guess you'd rather lock yourself in and be alone'). 'Labyrinthian Pomp'is dead-on the Bowie vibe that is increasingly becoming a dime-a-dozen for male pop fabulists. 'A Sentence of sorts in Kongsvinger' (I spent the winter on the verge of a total breakdown/ while living in Norway) and 'We Were Born the Mutants again with Leafling' (we love to view unfortunate passions...) rotate their fabulousness with swirling multi-vocal work. 'Faberge Falls for Shuggie' is the best white boy Prince impersonation since Beck dropped 'Sex Laws'.
The influence of David Bowie is evident enough but strains of Pink Floyd and even the flowery vibe of 'Sgt. Pepper' can be heard being tossed around deliciously. This retro pop funk is all the rage this year. What makes Of Montreal the best is the consistency which they achieve. It's fairly easy to get one hit record with this kitsch (Mika's brilliant 'Relax, Take it Easy' is a good example) but seven is phenomenal for any musician. Of Montreal hails from the same city that gave us R.E.M and can now claim to be able to stand on the experience of their previous work not just that of other artistes. It’s a true testament to their growth then that the other songs and ideas are just as fascinating. 'Snk the Seine'would be epic if it weren' so short. 'Suffer for Fashion' doesn't loosen long enough to truly take a magnificent shape and 'Like a Promethean Curse'comes close to breaking out into mayhem but catches itself too early too often. The one oddity is 'The Past is a Grotesque Animal'. It's a ballad thus out of place on an album full of grooves being jettisoned around. It's the one obligatory track where Barnes addresses directly his break-up. It's an ungainly sound but then again resolving one's issues tends to be but it is not a commercial compromise, more like a personal one. As it is smack right in the center of the opus, it can be viewed as a farewell because he presses on immediately after to party heartily with a relieved conscience. Though they'll be ignored by most award shows because of the early release date (including the hopelessly outdated Grammys) Of Montreal have simply constructed one of the best albums of 2007.
RATING: 9/10
MOVIE REVIEW: 'Hostel II"
The first sign of redundancy in 'Hostel II' comes with its very first scene. Paxton (Jay Hernandez), the sole survivor of the previous adventure, is discovered on a train then taken to the hospital. There the police ask a series of questions which skewer towards them revealing their special human hunter tattoos and killing him. It is a dream however but one that will soon become reality for him as he is formally beheaded, ironically back some presumably safe in America. This dry execution is made dryer by his girlfriend discovering her cat licking away at the blood where his head once stood.
Immediately, director Eli Roth sets course for a map of suspense and explanations but gets lost in the maelstrom of gore before anything can seriously unravel. Paxton may briefly appear in this installation but his death is a mere cliff-note and doesn't serve as interlink to anything substantial other than the fleeting thought of an ever expanding human hunting network. Paxton's thinking level is terribly mixed: after defying odds to escape from Bratislava, he then returns home only to clamp up and not expose the horrors he faced. Unlike 'Grindhouse', Tarantino's recent epic smorgasboard, Roth doesn't spend much time splattering through the gore to find logic, instead he labouriously shows us the behind-the-scenes excitement to collecting of the human prey. I can't recall any other horror flick making its aim and outcome so evident and not expecting to suffer for this foresight of our knowledge.
The film is similar to the first installation except that its girls that are lured away this time with the promise of Slovakian warm springs and we're already familiar with the sequence of terror. That drains what little suspense one can imagine and it makes the gore nothing but self-gratifying...which really is a shame. 'Hostel II' does explore the wantonness of the hunters even if Roth encases them with only their depravity. Even in such shallowness, the poetry of the gore is fascinating. In one scene, a female hunter sits underneath her hoisted prey--Heather Matarazzo (the annoying wimp, Lorna)--naked and with an extended scythe. She tears at the girl's body and immerses herself with the blood as it trickles onto her and the candles alongside. The camera then hones in on her hand reaching for a shorter scythe and slitting her victim's throat. It's devastating yet its disturbing silence is the single achievement in the film.
And yet, despite the hardiness of that female hunter, the two main male hunters we see are poles apart in their earnesty towards the hunt. Todd (Richard Burgi) is the atypical alpha male and Stuart (Roger Bart) is pathetically lacking in cojones. In one scene, Todd is getting some head as his beeper lights up. He tosses the girl aside like a paperweight because his mind really is on his American prey--that he's paid top dollar for and travelled many miles just for the luxury to torture her to death. When he finally gets to torturing her, his sadistic joy is stalled by an unplugged instrument. His victim--Beth (Lauren German)--cowers in fear while he bellows at her, 'you should see you f__king face.' When the instrument gets unplugged a second time however, he accidentally disfigures her face. In the few seconds that follow 'Hostel II' swerves completely further off track and descends into a corny finale. Roth doesn't clarify the reason for Todd's sudden change of heart. We are not sure if he is angry that the electrical limitation is robbing him of his pleasure or if the implications of his actions have suddenly caught up with him. Instead of probing this, Roth has the character mauled to death by dogs for reneging on his contract as a means of further clouding the issue.
Roth thus misses his most valuable tool for true suspense. 'Hostel II' salaciously proves the ambiguity of violence and its standard acceptance. It also confirms that in such a postulation, women are equally as vicious as men. Indeed, we witness that the hunting network is co-coordinated by a white-hair female. Most clearly though is the point that the network is not a tight brotherhood, per se, but lovers of the highest price. Whitney (Bijou Phillips) escapes elimination by bargaining her way out of sure death by buying her way as a hunter. She tells her captors that with a PDA she can have the money wired within minutes. It's admittedly a clever twist by Roth but one that is too late to spark real interest other than financial. The film further degrades this strength in technology when Whitney's sole purpose after regaining her freedom is not to expose the hunter network that ensnared her but the female that lured her to Slovakia in the first place. Ah, kids, they never learn.
RATING: 3.5/10
Immediately, director Eli Roth sets course for a map of suspense and explanations but gets lost in the maelstrom of gore before anything can seriously unravel. Paxton may briefly appear in this installation but his death is a mere cliff-note and doesn't serve as interlink to anything substantial other than the fleeting thought of an ever expanding human hunting network. Paxton's thinking level is terribly mixed: after defying odds to escape from Bratislava, he then returns home only to clamp up and not expose the horrors he faced. Unlike 'Grindhouse', Tarantino's recent epic smorgasboard, Roth doesn't spend much time splattering through the gore to find logic, instead he labouriously shows us the behind-the-scenes excitement to collecting of the human prey. I can't recall any other horror flick making its aim and outcome so evident and not expecting to suffer for this foresight of our knowledge.
The film is similar to the first installation except that its girls that are lured away this time with the promise of Slovakian warm springs and we're already familiar with the sequence of terror. That drains what little suspense one can imagine and it makes the gore nothing but self-gratifying...which really is a shame. 'Hostel II' does explore the wantonness of the hunters even if Roth encases them with only their depravity. Even in such shallowness, the poetry of the gore is fascinating. In one scene, a female hunter sits underneath her hoisted prey--Heather Matarazzo (the annoying wimp, Lorna)--naked and with an extended scythe. She tears at the girl's body and immerses herself with the blood as it trickles onto her and the candles alongside. The camera then hones in on her hand reaching for a shorter scythe and slitting her victim's throat. It's devastating yet its disturbing silence is the single achievement in the film.
And yet, despite the hardiness of that female hunter, the two main male hunters we see are poles apart in their earnesty towards the hunt. Todd (Richard Burgi) is the atypical alpha male and Stuart (Roger Bart) is pathetically lacking in cojones. In one scene, Todd is getting some head as his beeper lights up. He tosses the girl aside like a paperweight because his mind really is on his American prey--that he's paid top dollar for and travelled many miles just for the luxury to torture her to death. When he finally gets to torturing her, his sadistic joy is stalled by an unplugged instrument. His victim--Beth (Lauren German)--cowers in fear while he bellows at her, 'you should see you f__king face.' When the instrument gets unplugged a second time however, he accidentally disfigures her face. In the few seconds that follow 'Hostel II' swerves completely further off track and descends into a corny finale. Roth doesn't clarify the reason for Todd's sudden change of heart. We are not sure if he is angry that the electrical limitation is robbing him of his pleasure or if the implications of his actions have suddenly caught up with him. Instead of probing this, Roth has the character mauled to death by dogs for reneging on his contract as a means of further clouding the issue.
Roth thus misses his most valuable tool for true suspense. 'Hostel II' salaciously proves the ambiguity of violence and its standard acceptance. It also confirms that in such a postulation, women are equally as vicious as men. Indeed, we witness that the hunting network is co-coordinated by a white-hair female. Most clearly though is the point that the network is not a tight brotherhood, per se, but lovers of the highest price. Whitney (Bijou Phillips) escapes elimination by bargaining her way out of sure death by buying her way as a hunter. She tells her captors that with a PDA she can have the money wired within minutes. It's admittedly a clever twist by Roth but one that is too late to spark real interest other than financial. The film further degrades this strength in technology when Whitney's sole purpose after regaining her freedom is not to expose the hunter network that ensnared her but the female that lured her to Slovakia in the first place. Ah, kids, they never learn.
RATING: 3.5/10
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