LoveStruck

Saturday Night's All Right. . . well, almost all right.

2007-01-21T00:17:00.001-08:00

snl
Originally uploaded by CBlock.

It seemed for a while there that SNL was having something of a revival. New writers were turning out great, off-the-wall sketches, older ones were hitting their stride. They were even making stuff that was genuinely. . . memorable ("Dick in a Box" anyone?). This week, I was looking forward to it enough that I actually turned it on at 11:30 on the dot, only to be reminded why you call a good episode "pleasantly surprising." They usually suck.

The best thing I can say is that instead of giving us a few unfunny and overlong sketches, they gave us lots of short unfunny sketches. So at least they're writing more. Seemed like Andy Samberg was finally getting his big break this week, with his "Lazy Sunday" and "Dick in a Box" fame finally translating to more in-studio face time. Too bad he squandered it on Nicole Richie-thin sketches about an annoying kid and a white guy who can't rap. At least he had the restraint not to make that second sketch about how "black guys dance like this, but white guys be all like this." Maybe he's saving that for next week.

Stephen Jenkins, Nostradamus of the '90s

2006-04-25T09:37:00.000-07:00

Crystal meth is much in the news these days: documentaries on PBS, extravagant and on-going reportage by some of the nation’s top newspapers, and several bills pending in congress. It’s the scourge of the new millennium, and it took us all by surprise. Right?

Actually, it’s been on our cultural radar (at least among those of us who actually listen to the lyrics of commercial radio: why we do that is still up in the air) for almost a decade. It was way, waaaay back in 1997 when diminutively-bearded chanteur Stephen Jenkins (Third Eye Blind) warned us all in their break-out hit Semi-Charmed Life:

Doing crystal meth
will lift you up until you break
it won’t stop

I took the hit that I was given
And I bumped again
And I bumped again.

How could our nation’s poor and our nation’s club goers resist what even leather-jacket sporting 90s soft-rockers were powerless against? Social Scientists would do well to examine the current Top 40 rotation to spot problems which might crop up in 2017. . . will Jesus really begin taking the wheel of hundreds of thousands of motorists? Will someone really take “what’s left” of Nick Lachey? Will someone finally rescue Rhianna and save her from Whitney Houston-style implosion, lalala lalala la-lalala-oh? We’ll just have to wait and see.

Mommy and Me. Okay, Mommy and Mommy.

2006-03-22T14:39:00.000-08:00

You know, it would be easy to draw a caricature of women who choose to give birth via artificial insemination as self-centered, career-driven type A personalities who can barely stop keeping up with the Joneses long enough to have some stranger's sperm dribbled inside of them. So, it's nice that the NY Times' cover profile of these women helps dispel this wholly unfounded rumor. To wit:

"This baby will be my baby, only my baby," Karyn told me that night at Caliente Cab. "The thing I'm afraid of is that after doing this, I might not want to get married. It seems like a lot of hard work, a lot of compromise. . .

"They got a child out of love, and the parents couldn't deal with one another," Daniela, who asked that I use only her first name, told me. "And now she lives in Germany; he lives here. He doesn't pay any money if he doesn't see the child. So there's a constant battle over it. The child is torn in between. She has to deal with the father. I won't have to deal with the father."

And that this whole thing isn't an exercise in totally shallow eugenics:

"Her solution: a 6-foot-2 Catholic, German stock on both sides, with curly blond hair and blue eyes. "He really was the typical Aryan perfect human being," she said, laughing. "He was a bodybuilder. He played the guitar and the drums, and he sang. He was captain of the rugby team in college. . ."

Oh, wait. Well, at least someone is finally helping those blond, athletic 6-2 men reproduce.

Old-Time Goodness

2006-03-20T16:27:00.000-08:00

razz
Originally uploaded by CBlock.

This may be kind of old news (as it’s literally old news), but bear with me. Last Thursday, on St. Patrick’s Day Eve, the night we all hang our pint glasses by the chimney with care, the NY Times ran a page one story about Irish immigrant groups bringing heat to the issue of immigration reform (presumably because they’re white). This is already old-timey enough, conjuring thoughts of hard-drinking, knife-fighting Irish immigrants circa 1902, wearing funny hats, dancing jigs and being mercilessly beaten by xenophobic mobs. But then comes this turn of phrase just before the point the article flies away from page one to some section no one cares about: |

"Some in the immigrant coalitions resent being passed over, and worry that the Irish are angling for a separate deal. Others welcome the clout and razzmatazz the Irish bring to a beleaguered cause.

Yes, that’s right. The much-needed commodity Irish immigrants bring to the immigration debate that’s been roiling America since. . . well, before we were ever “Americans” is “razzmatazz.” But will they have the moxie to get America off its Cross of Gold?

Seriously, though a Google News search proves this word to be less out-of-date than I thought. . . who is writing at the Times? Mr. Burns? James A. Garfield? I won't go all crazy and invite the Grey Lady into the 21st Century, but maybe the mid-20th?

Celebrity Fish Story

2006-03-16T15:42:00.000-08:00

obscured
Originally uploaded by CBlock.

I went to a certain magazine's party last night, which was supposed to feature a DJ set from a certain high-profile DJ who's only a little past his due date. Given the fanciness of the invite and the promise of two OTHER celeb DJs, my little heart was a twitter with the promise of the evening. Walking three avenue blocks in 40 MPH wind? Pshaw. Standing in line for about 30 minutes in this same pushing wind, which felt more or less like being attacked by a thousand tiny ice knives? I said nothing, as I'm not one to whine.

Once inside, I was struck by the. . .well, ordinariness of the venue. Where were the glitterati? The arty signage? The free copies of the magazine? Shit, where is there even anywhere to stand?

After about an hour of standing next to the waitress station (literally the only space big enough for my g/f and I to stand that had remotely room enough for us to move our arms to drink), we managed to make it accross the room to a tiny platform my friend had been sitting on. We knew where each other were, but 20 feet away through that sea of fabulousness might as well have been the moon.

No less than five minutes after making our bold move to new territory, a huge and sheepish-looking bouncer came around to inform us all we had to vacate the platform. Everyone. He did look genuinely sorry, as he knew he was pushing us into a packed house where crowd surfing was basically the only option to secure a spot. "Is someone important coming?" I asked. "I dunno, man. They just told me I had to get everyone out."

Fair enough, but also an obvious call for us to get the hell out. The open bar was over, anyway.

A Couple of Envelopes

2006-03-16T15:18:00.000-08:00

envel2
Originally uploaded by CBlock.

Here's two Envelopes, from the show the other night. Oh, Europeans. Also, this is THE FIRST PHOTO I HAVE EVER POSTED OMG!!

The Envelopes, Mercury Lounge, 3/14/06

2006-03-15T13:51:00.000-08:00

Saw the European Union of pop last night,The Envelopes at Mercury Lounge. They make a kind of taught and spare pop not unlike my friends Human Television, except they have a bit more europop bounce to them. Unsurprising, as they're made up of Brits, Swedes, and some other random Euros. The day a Swede makes a bad pop song is the day .. . something else unlikely happens.

I went on the recommendation of my roommate, as he's almost-probably-going to put out a single by them in the "singles club" he's about to start. Are singles clubs the "fixer-uppers" of the early 20s set, by the way? I mean, this is the vanity project a lot of my friends seem to be sinking their cash into. I personally think they just need to drink more, but if you want to "save money" so you can "do something that interests you," then you're obviously too insane to have a reasonable conversation with.

Anyway, the band was fun, is the point. And even though they're a semi-buzzed-about band making their first US appearance, the show was sparcely attended. Something I wish I would've known before I spent an hour and a half running around town so I could be there THE VERY SECOND the doors opened to make sure I got my tix. That's the last time I do that.

I've got some pics I want to put up, but my phone (yes, I took them with my cameraphone. You wanna fight about it?) is at home, so I'll have to do it later.

Let's Get This Shit Cracking

2006-03-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

Today is the day I realized I don't really need to have anything special to say to make a post on my blog. I've written something like 5 entries in the last few months, but abandonded them all about halfway through because I thought they weren't interesting enough. As true as this might be, a blog is no place for doubts about whether the gooey center of my brain is interesting enough for other people to read. Not that anyone is reading this, anyway. So, I'm going to try to up my post quotient from "once every four months" to "once a day." Let's see how this goes.

And it just keeps going

2005-12-21T09:31:00.000-08:00

Transit Strike 2005 just keeps trucking along, and I'm beginning to feel a little guilty about my telecommuting. I'm watching the people walking accross the Brookyln Bridge, and I'm seeing the crazy traffic, and it's like I'm watching Darfur or the tsunami. Or at least it's equally far removed from my very well-heated and spacious Brooklyn apartment. I live in Bed-Stuy, and as I've been telling myself (and my co-workers, and my boss), there really is no way I could walk to work. My office is in midtown (the 50's) and there basically is no way in hell I could walk in.

A big part of the Transit Strike 2005 is people having reactions. What's the reaction of those crossing the Brooklyn Bridge? People stuck in traffic? TWU members marching around wherever it is that they walk around in front of? The fact that "This sure sucks" is the unwavering answer hasn't stopped our intrepid media folk from asking. Yesterday's Daily News probes for some celebrity reactions, and turns up this from "Saturday Night Live" castmember and "comedian" Darrell Hammond, who you may better remember as the only unfunny person in Anchorman:

"I normally take the 1 and the 2 downtown to do standup, because it's much faster. Today I am doing the shared cabs, where they can stop and pick up four fares, but it's not easy to find one. I'm trying to get to the East Side, and it's a parking lot. I'm not mad at anyone. I think you'll find a more meaningful dialogue as talks continue. New York is a special place."

Wow. That's great, Darrell. Could you do me a favor, funnyman, and make a fucking joke? It's okay to laugh at it: nobody's dead. Except, obviously, your sense of humor.

STRIKE 2005!

2005-12-20T06:04:00.000-08:00

It's about 9 AM, the time I would usually be numbly stumbling the nine blocks I walk every day to get to the A train. Or, as happens pretty often, thinking "Shit! I'm running really fucking late. I've got to leave! But does this sweater match my shirt?" Not today, however, as we're all knee-deep in Transit Strike 2005.

While part of me wishes that I was out looking at all of the workaholic NYCers braving the cold just to get today's fix, a far larger part of me is happy to be in bed with my girlfriend, watching other people be cold. I'm also watching several transit-beat reporters who seem to have decided to cope with the stress of reporting from the same cramped conference room for the last 12 hours by getting coked out of their minds(I'm looking at you, NBC-twitchy-face!). All in all, it's shaping up to be a great day.

Stroke Me, Stroke Me

2005-11-21T15:10:00.000-08:00

I crossed the Rubicon, in "becoming what you hate the most" terms. This is to say, I went to a Strokes listening party. The Casablacas were not there, it's true, but it was still a bit much.

In all honesty, the crowd was a bit small, there was NOWHERE to sit, the album is mediocre at best, and my pitchfork friend was merely polite. So sad. The g/f and I lit out as soon as the free Harp stopped flowing and went to Down the Hatch, an NYU-area bar that is perhaps, the funniest place on Earth. Throngs of stripey-shirted dudes and their be-tank topped lassies played beer pong as Hootie played on the juke box and we discussed. . . i don't really remember. I was kind of drunk. As I am now, in case the rambling nature of this post and the dulling of my usually rapier-sharp wit haven't clued you in.

Look for my review of the Strokes' latest record (based on what i could hear over the din of 100 hipsters) to pop up soon on Blogcritics.

Creativity Then

2005-11-04T14:29:00.000-08:00

When I said that it would be a while before I got around to posting anything about the Tokion Conference, I was not at all kidding. A brief overview:

Saw Todd Haynes, one of my favorite filmmakers, speak. He talked a lot about the gay film scene in NYC in the early/mid 1980s, the primitive power of the image to affect human emotions, and told a story about one of his films, Poison, which I didn’t know. Apparently, it was part of the dust-up over the NEA in the 1980s: government funding smut, “I know pornography when I see it,” that whole deal. Was so involved that conservative senators actually organized screenings of it in the capitol specifically to be offended by it. He also, very proudly, recounted for us a story about “Far From Heaven” making a three-year-old cry. Was supposed to illustrate the power of the image, and the gay community’s general hatred of breeders and their dirty, wailing bellyfruit.

Other super kewl shit included the comedy panel (David Cross!!Michael Showalter!!David Wain!!!This guy who used to write Chapelle’s Show!!), which managed to be both ridiculous, hilarious, and marginally informative. I was pretty afraid that they would feel pressure to be funny and completely refuse to answer questions straight. This turned out to be more of a problem during the Q&A, when audience members trampled each other death in the rush to ask the most absurd question. “How has the photographing of a giant squid affected your comedy? Everyone should answer,” and others, which I can’t remember.

Finally, the last panel of the weekend was Mercury Prize Winner Antony (of Antony and the Johnsons, natch) leading us all in a songwriting workshop. He actually had substantial help from his good friends and perhaps the people who have said “nigger” in the most precious way ever, CocoRosie. Also a female performance artist covered in red makeup, a truly massive wig, and thigh-high boots, whose name I’ve forgotten at this late date. This workshop was really the one most truly and consistently about creativity and being creative, supposedly the theme of the entire weekend. Antony lead the audience in several wail-alongs, giving us advice like: “I like to pretend that there’s a ghost behind me, and just get out of the way and let the ghost say what it wants. Let’s all let our ghosts talk, okay?” and “So, just think about those lines shooting out of you, or like a giant spinning ball of light, and as it spins, its ego falls away, and you have to support it with your voice. Let’s all do that now, okay?” The panel was supposed to end with all of us making a song together, but the Italian phrase record they’d chosen for us to “repeat after them” turned out to have phrases that were too complicated. In true creative spirit, we all gave up and had coffee.

Swimming Pools, Soap Opera Stars

2005-10-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

Mid-October brings so many things: Halloween anticipation, rosy cheeks, ripening pumpkins, and a huge uptick in my attractiveness due to my suddenly apropos wearing of jackets (it’s much more bizarre when it’s 90 degrees outside). After tonight, I have to add “Soap-opera-star-packed charity galas.” Yes, I was at yet another work function tonight, working the red carpet at a charity fete inside the somewhat underwhelmingly beige hallway of a certain largish Times Square hotel. That is to say, the hotel is large in toto, mostly by keeping all individual parts of it shoulder-schrunchingly tiny.

I am more or less unable to describe this event outside of its affect on my self-esteem, which was overwhelmingly positive. Soap stars, young and old, were unfailingly polite to me. Ridiculously attractive young women complemented my clothes. Daringly dressed journalists touched my arm and called me “sweetie.” I was, in short, thrilled. If only I watched soap operas- - “daytime television”- - and therefore had some idea who they all were, I can only assume I would’ve more completely enjoyed myself.

After this, I checked out the Fiery Furnaces show at Town Hall, the venue immortalized in Christopher Guest’s “A Mighty Wind” (“These plants are sticking out just at eye-level”). The only problem with this (apart, of course, from the fact that my complimentary seats were as high as a rapper on Saturday afternoon) was that the audience is REQUIRED to sit during the entire performance, and is FORBIDDEN from eating or drinking during the entire set. This is, needless to say, not the best environment for the fuzzy rock of the Furnances. On the upside, an acquaintance of mine, Bob the bartender from North 6, is now their drummer! I more or less solely concentrated on the job he was doing (fabulous) before my premature exit.

Look for a post of the upcoming weekend’s Creativity Now! conference from Tokion Magazine. And by “look for” I mean some time in the coming month or so.

CMJ Dispatch #2

2005-10-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

also from Blogcritics.org

CMJ 2005: When Hipsters Dance

Can you dance with your arms folded across your chest? How much dancing is enough to show that you’re down for having fun, but not too much that you seem, you know, like a raging doofus? Will I get any free drinks?

In pursuit of the answers to these questions, I, in the spirit of pure scientific curiosity, set off to the DFA Records showcase at the finest music venue in all of Brooklyn, New York, and quite possibly the world: Williamsburg’s Northsix (full disclosure: I used to work there).

DFA RECORDS SHOWCASE, NORTHSIX

DFA records (Death From Above) had their biggest hits in 2002 and 2003, releasing a string of ironically danceable noise-disco tracks that spoke straight to the hipster’s heart.
DFA has declined somewhat in the ensuing years, though. Freak Folk and Noise have been on the rise, along with a general attitudinal retreat in the college scene from, what’s the phrase? “Enjoying yourself,” I think is what I would go with. Add to this general critical ambivalence towards this year’s Juan Maclean release (it was widely dismissed as falling off the edge DFA had walked in previous releases between fuzzy, guitary dance and straight up house music), and you have an uncertain crowd and importance for this year’s showcase.

Imagine my delight, then, at the mass of tight-jeaned and white-shod masses that packed Northsix at last night’s sold out show. Did I mention that I like them? I do.

Perhaps the night’s oddest facet, aside from the fact that everyone seemed to be wearing skinny suspenders (are these back? Were they ever “in” to begin with?) was that the Juan Maclean was the only band playing who is actually signed to DFA records. Usually, a label showcase, predictably enough, showcases the talent on that label.

I arrived about halfway through Hot Chip’s set. It thumped along pleasantly enough, and brought to mind nothing as much as playing a vector video game. Where you spin the ball, you know, and it’s all crazy? They moved around the stage well, with the guitarist at one point muscling in between the two keyboardists to do a sort of Van Halen-esque instrument-playing-simultaneous-swaying kind of thing.

Next up was the night’s stand-out band, Australian imports Cut Copy . Wearing their Daft Punk influences so proudly that they actually sampled “Around the World” at one point, they vibrated through an extraordinarily long set. Not that anyone was complaining. They led the crowd through roughly 45 minutes of complete, non-self-conscious enjoyment, quite a feat here in New York City.

Occasionally, Cut Copy would let their drum machine play itself while they picked up guitars. While their guitar runs were undeniably catchy, the sort of “Weezer with an 808” sound of this portion of the show was much less successful. Please, guys, stick with the synths.

Rounding out the night was a truly bizarre and literally room-clearing performance from Delia & Gavin. Playing what a friend of mine called “sort of a freaky ‘Tubular Bells,’” Delia and Gavin both stood stock-still for their entire show, a half hour endurance test during which Delia never looked down at her keyboard and Gavin never looked up. The band is just the two of them, on dueling keyboards, producing an echo-y and expansive sound that was, yes, building towards something, albeit very very slowly. They suggest with their sparseness the impending arrival of something very ominous; imagine the soundtrack to a 1970s space horror movie and you’ll have a rough idea what they sounded like.

Despite an initial hopefulness among the 40 or so stragglers who bunched in front of the stage as they began, it seemed no one was in the mood for this after 3 hours of hedonistic dancing and frequent bathroom trips. People were soon slipping out the front door as soon as they could muster the courage. It became, for me, like watching an exceptionally tedious art film. Can I admit that I’m bored? What does this boredom say about me? As I grappled with these and other intellectual identity issues which Delia & Gavin’s set prompted, they mercifully left the stage.

More tomorrow, kids! I’m trying to see !!!, if I can get in, or perhaps current underground darlings Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! Tune in tomorrow to find out what happens. . .

CMJ Dispatch #1

2005-10-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

from Blogcritics.com. . .

CMJ 2005: So it Begins. . .

Welcome, welcome, everyone, to installment number one of what is sure to be a rollicking, rip-roaring (and several other alliterative adjectives) series of articles chronicling my (mis) adventures navigating my way through CMJ 2005. Please suffer through a brief introduction to CMJ and myself before getting to oh-so-meaty show reviews.

CMJ is an annual music festival put on by the College Music Journal, a magazine whose primary claim to fame is being the publisher and complier of the national college music charts (basically, which songs get played the most on the country’s college radio stations). These, in turn, have a big part in determining which bands break out of the underground into. . . the ground, I guess, is what’s above the underground.

For 4 nights once a year, CMJ puts on the CMJ Music Festival, wherein virtually every club in New York City gives itself over to putting on CMJ shows. Something in the neighborhood of 10,000 bands play. I don’t have the exact figures here at my fingertips. In addition, there are panel discussions, film premiers, and other assorted special events. These are mostly boring and I will be skipping virtually all of them.

Speaking of me, I am a music industry professional and this is my third time attending CMJ. I am a Brooklyn resident, and I have a white belt. So I know what I’m talking about, and don’t think I don’t. Now, on to the shows!

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15th

Queenadreena, Arlene’s Grocery

Tonight, CMJ’s inaugural evening, I was actually busy until slightly after midnight at an unbearably swanky party (where, among other things, I spotted Bully and Terminator 3’s Nick Stahl chatting with N*SYNC’s JC Chasez, Apparently, they share an agent). The first show I was able to attend, therefore, was Queenadreena's, midnight performance Arlene’s Grocery. Queenadreena is a UK-based goth-punk outfit, fronted by former Daisy Chainsaw lead singer Katie Jane Garsaw. This show marked their only US appearance in the recent past or future, a fact confirmed both by their website and their drummer Billy Feedom as he lit his ultra-Euro hand-rolled cigarette on mine after the show.

I’m a firm believer in being woefully uniformed when I see a band. Last night, for instance, all I actually knew about Queenadreena was that my former roommate and college chum, who has entered into a sort of reactionary Goth phase since moving to LA, swore to me that they were the best band ever. This was enough for, and allowed me to “purely experience their music.” Also, I didn’t have to do any research.

As for the actual show, Queenadreena seem to be a band more focused on evoking feelings through their mishmash of sound, as opposed to, say, their lyrics. This is a huge positive, as far as I’m concerned. Assaulting the audience with long waves of sound, the band seemed to be dying for us to grope each other, throw chairs, and obsessively scratch each other, as they were. I applaud their willingness to actually perform, something sorely missing from most popular music. I don’t applaud, however, the general immobility of the stupefied audience, a very strange hodgepodge of hardcore, mid-to-late 30s Goth-types and completely clueless CMJers in checkered shirts and baseball caps.

In short, this show was highly enjoyable.

Big Boi, Sleepy Brown, Killer Mike, et al. Knitting Factory

As the wait for this show proved to be longer than the show itself, I would like to present excerpts from a diary I kept while waiting.

2:14 AM
Despite a listed 1:30 AM start time, we’ve all been herded into the Knitting Factory’s Tap Bar while we wait for them to open the main space. The UN-AIR CONDITIONED Tap Bar. There’s not even a fan in here. When will the show start? The polite staff promises that they’ll let us know.

2:18
Despite being listed in the “Wednesday’s Shows” section of the CMJ website, the staff here informs us all that this is, in fact, NOT a CMJ show. We are encouraged to buy tickers. Luckily, I am sort of on the list and am able to talk my way in.

2:20
The website that listed this show (again, this show is TOTALLY UNAFILLIATED with that organization) lists about 6 or 7 performers, all playing at 1:30 AM. I assumed that they would all crowd the stage in vintage hip-hop, style. I am suddenly seized with the fear that they may organize themselves into “openers” and “headliners.” I make a silent promise to leave if this is the case.

2:48 AM
We’re finally in!

3:30
So, this show is actually to promote a new group/CD fronted by Big Boi, called The Purple Ribbon All-Stars. Their logo looks unnervingly like the Pabst Blue Ribbon logo. I am therefore worried that they will mostly perform new “hits” from their impending record. Luckily, there’s only one or two of these before they delve into Outkast’s back catalogue. They do “A.D.I.D.A.S.,” “The Whole World,” and 2004’s ubiquitous booty jam “I Like the Way You Move.” How do they handle the absence of half of Outkast, Andre 3000? They alternate between letting his parts play as if they were samples, rapping over them, and encouraging the audience to sing over them. This works surprisingly well.

The crew on stage is highly energetic and you would have no idea it was after 3 AM unless you looked at the crowd: sweaty hipsters lazily “putting their hands up” when ordered to. As a side note, after roughly six years of hip-hop shows, I still feel awkward when “putting my hands up” or “waving my hands in the air.” When will this get easier?

Must fly to more shows, more from me later on tonight!

Just a quick note

2005-08-31T11:49:00.000-07:00

To let you know that your intrepid correspondant (that would be me, assholes) has scored himself some press passes to CMJ! I'll be writing a kind of "CMJ Diary" for Blogcritics, the site through which I managed to claim to be a "member of the press." Thanks internet, for lowering all of our standards of what it means to be a journalist.

Any suggestions what shows i should see?

Let me know. Or die. Of syphilis. Which if you don't know, is a bad way to die. Read Breakfast of Champions for more info!

Hop into the Wayback Machine. . .

2005-08-17T19:46:00.000-07:00

...and remember with me, if you will, July 11th, 2005. Yes, those were crazy days. A war in Iraq seemed destined to drag on indefinitely, gas prices were on the rise, and Jessica Simpson ruled our hearts and minds. Also, it was 7-11. Seriously, that is hilarious.

On this day, I just happened to be at the New York premiere of what has turned out to be one of the most success-challenged movies of the summer, Michael Bay's "The Island." Yes, expectations were high and hearts were a-twitter at the premiere of what Defamer.com would go on to call a "domestic box office bed-shitter." Producers and stars play the blame game, but no one has blamed the beautiful young starlet I was there with that night, a woman who I think I'm better leaving nameless. Let's call her LG. She's really quite a lovely young woman, and does a great job in the movie, but is not terribly well known. So, like any good PR pro, I'm on the lookout for ways to get her pictures more placements.

Towards the end of the red carpet, there's a tiny little double bank of photographers, sort of facing opposite from each other. LG and I have to wait as there's a traffic jam in front of us, being caused by someone who's having kind of a lot of pictures taken. As I'm taking all of this in, Mickey Dolenz (of the Monkees, but you knew that, of course) walks by behind me, and I think "Is that Mickey Dolenz? What the Hell is he doing here?"

I look in front of me, and see that the source of the problem is Jeff Goldblum, who for some reason is being photograpped as if Lindsay Lohan were doing a line off of him. A tiny evil lightbulb goes off over my head as I realize that getting him together with LG would be great for her (placements?) and for him (getting to touch a young woman). I walk up to him, blinded with evil PR adrenile, and totally forget to care that this is the first time I'm ever getting to talk to Jeff Goldblum (Jeff Goldblum! Jeff Goldblum! Jeff Goldblum!)

"Hey, Jeff," I say nonchalantly. "How ya doin? Listen, can I get ya to take a picture with LG, she's in the movie, and she's a new actress..." I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up as Jeff finally, and slowly, turns his head to look at LG. He is mesmerized. He sort of makes a noise like he's being blown, or his just had a lobotomy. At the same time, he extends his fingers in front of him and begins to slowly wiggle them, as if he is playing an invisible keyboard, or perhaps casting a spell on me.

"Aaaaaaa. . . LG. . . Statuesque. . . Beauty. . . " he breathes, taking, I swear to God, 20 minutes to get it out. His publicist rushes over, sensing that I am tricking him into something, perhaps having violent flashbacks about all of the magic beans he has bought. She is okay with it though, the pictures get taken, and we all go out for pie and cocaine!

The Sound of 400 Hipsters Clapping. . .

2005-08-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
South Street Seaport, 8-10-05

Saw Clap Your Hands last night. They were playing as part of some outdoor music fest, and were opening for some Gypsy-fusion band (when did Gypsy-fusion become the new Electoclash, by the way?) called DeVotchKa. Flavorpill can tell you all of this.

What it can't tell you is that due to its prompt 7:30 start time and the unnerving mallishness of the South Street Seaport, the show was as glutted with blue-shirted i banker types as with sweaty hipsters in clothes they pretend not to have bought at Urban Outfitters. Even stranger was that the blue shirts seemed to be enjoying themselves more, possibly because they were just coming off their third post-work coctail as the show started. In any event, watching several of them who were clogging the stairway to the Pizzeria Uno that overlooked the stage thrash around and scream the ENTIRE show was virtually as entertaining as the show itself. Unless you were actually trying to get in or out of said Pizzeria Uno, in which case I'm sure it was horribly annoying. Or if you don't like screaming pudgy men, which I developed an affinity for while at a state university.

The band themselves were pretty great. I was a lot more familiar with their buzz than their music, but was pleasantly surprised. The singer sounds like some bastard child of Behar, Bowie, and Byrne. "Daniel Byrne Bowiehar?" "David Behrne?" I'm not sure on the nomenclature. But, I enjoyed it, is the point.

Mind the Gap

2005-08-11T09:04:00.000-07:00

Sorry 'bout all that time where there was time passing but I wasn't writing anything. I'm going to try to make that happen less. By stopping the passage of time. I'll keep you updated. . .

Oh, the Nerve

2005-06-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

Did you know that you have to pay for the personals on Nerve.com? Well, actually, they're smarter than that. You can get your profile and whatnot for free, but you have to pay to actually talk to anyone.

I couldn't believe it either. Just because they're providing me with a service does not mean that they have any right to charge me for it. I encourage someone to get an epledge together to put a stop to this. Who the fuck do they think they are, those shitty-assed dickbags?

"TV Party"- 2005, Danny Vinik

2005-04-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

First of all, before I say anything else, let me just say that if you want to read a horribly uncreative vomiting up of this documentary, visit
here.

Thank you, Village Voice. I mean, I guess, from a sort of informational standpoint, this is an adequate piece. But honestly, it doesn't even have any descriptive verbs that weren't actually used in the movie, as far as I can remember.

Just in case you didn't read the above, let me briefly say that "TV Party" is a documentary about "Glen O'Brien's TV Party," a NYC cable-access show that ran from 1978 to 1982. The show was notable mostly because of the wide variety of artists that came through its studios, virtually every figure in the fabled "Downtown Art Scene" of the early 80s. Basquiat, Debbie Harry, Chris Stein, and Fab 5 Freddie were just the luminaries who graced virtually every episode. Guests included David Bowie, George Clinton, Iggy Pop (the tape of his single appearance is lost, a fact much cried over in the film), Klaus Nomi, the Talking Heads, the B-52s, and the Clash, just to name a few. And I'm not using a rhetorical cop-out; there are actually lots more, but I don't want this to read like a hipster Iliad.

Despite a heavy attempt made by the grayed and mortgage-ridden ex-hipsters in the present-day interviews to claim the show's real significance was the amazingly relaxed attitude they all shared, or the intense exchange among different kinds of artists, or that,like, wow, they were actually smoking pot on TV (!) the guests are the true attraction to this show. This is perhaps unsurprising, as O'Brien wrote and produced the similarly difficult "Downtown 81." That film, another chronicle of the downtown scene, was ironically enough the distraction that killed "TV Party." It occupied the show's staff so completely that they simply never got around to making another episode.

While I could write about the film's subject all day, the sad truth is that Vinick's documentary is by and large a sad jumble. The wipes are repetitive and the editing is often clumsy, with non-artistic jump-cuts not unheard of. There are 20 minute stretches with absolutely no new footage or commentary, simply one musical guest after another ad infinitum. Even the title, "TV Party" is simply a re-presentation of the original show's name. This fact alone should let the audience know they're in for more of a nostalgia/wank fest than any kind of serious film.

This is also ursuprising. Vinick, who has virtually no prior feature experience aside from "Pornstar Pets" (a fairly self-explanitory project), was actually hired by O'Brien to help archive his old tapes. The film came about as an extreme afterthought. It's worth noting, as well, that Vinick's main claim to fame is as the co-founder of the internet film collective TriggerStreet.com, a project funded by Kevin Spacey and a major sponsor of the Tribecca Film Festival, where it premiered this week.

Hey, let's not kid around. I was at that premier, dammit! So, let's figure out some boldface HTML, MR SEGUE MAN. O'Brien was there, of course, along with the director and most everyone from his original show, including Blondie's Chris Stein, The B-52's Fred Schneider, and Fab 5 Freddie. Also, it turned out that the frumpy old man sitting behind me in the History Channel baseball cap was Jerry Stiller. He went unnoticed by most everyone until he shouted "Are you going to put this in the Smithsonian?" during the Q&A after the film. This got a mild chuckle from everyone milling nervously around the theatre's single microphone. "I'm not kidding!" he implored, before embarking on a five-minute harangue about what an important document of an truly special time in American Life this film is. Kind of like season 8 of "Everybody Loves Raymond," huh Mr. Dodgeball's Dad?

Boy Howdy.

2005-04-28T22:59:00.000-07:00

So, there's been lots of action lately that I've been too stressed and tired and just outrageously drunk to write about. Due to the top-down temporal nature of blog posting, though, this post is going to be below the posts I'm about to write, which is strange, but let's see what I can get through.

"Prisioner of Paradise"

2005-04-13T19:27:00.000-07:00

So, I just saw the most amazing documentary on PBS about Kurt Gerron. He was a famous actor and director working around the early 1920s in Germany. He worked with Marlena Deitrich and Peter Lorre, among others. He was also a Jew. He was such a cigar-chomping caricature of a Jew to the Nazis, as a matter of fact, that it is his image that immediately follows the famous shot of stampeding rats in "The Eternal Jew," one of the most famous Nazi propaganda films. "The Jew is the rat!" the narrator screams, before moving on to vicisiously and personally villify Gerron as an excessive and morally corrupt example of Jewish inferiority.

Gerron left Germany early on in the Nazi era, but ended up at a concentration camp following a series of moves, first to Paris, and then to Holland. Highlights (lowlights) of that part of his life include refusing an offer from Deitrich and Lorre to come to Hollywood and direct a film because they wouldn't send him to America first class. Also, failing to plan an escape as he worked at a seaside resort in Holland, where he could have easily hired a boat.

He lived, or was a prisioner, in the "best" concentration camp, Theresienstadt. While there, he put on Cabaret shows with the encouragement of the SS; they were so good they helped convince a representative of the International Red Cross that Theresienstadt was a thriving and healthy community. Gerron also directed a propaganda movie for the Nazis about the camp, shot extremely late in the war, after the Allied invasion of Normandy. After the movie wrapped, the Nazis began shipping off Theresienstadt's prisioners in earnest. Get this shit: Gerron is on the VERY LAST train out of Theresienstadt to Auschwitz, and is killed on the VERY LAST day before the concentrations camps are closed. DAMN! That is some shit, to say the least.

Aquaduct: NorthSix, April 1

2005-04-07T20:12:00.000-07:00

A fresh-faced Midwesterner's exhortation ("Hip hop beats!" he screamed.
"Hip-hip beats!") set off one of several bouts of intensely homo-erotic
jamming. The bass player and drummer stared deeply into each other's eyes,
jammed as if their orgasms depended on it, then giggled and clapped for each
other when it was all over, wiping the cum off of their chests. Well,
almost.

At their best, Aquaduct invoke a Jason Gardner-fronted Postal Service- a
description that will admittedly send plenty of people scurrying for the
indie hills. Almost unbelievably, this isn't intended as an
insult: they've got the cloyingly sincere lyrics, cascading digibeats, and
simple, joyous keyboard riffs that invoke nothing but dancing happiness.
The crowd, unsurprisingly, did lots of gentle swaying and hugging.

Yes, there is something shallow and "fun-loving" about Auqaduct. When did
"fun" become a dirty word in indie circles, though? Some of indie's best
bands were conceived and run on the principal of having as much fun as
possible: musical and otherwise. Bands whose names I can't think of, granted, but I'm sure that I'm right anyway.

The defining moments of this fun as enjoyable/deplorable dichotomy bookended
the show. On one end was Aquaduct's opening song, a cover of the Geto Boys'
"Damn it Feels Good to be Gansta," perhaps better known as "That Song From
Office Space Where They Beat Up the Computer." Severely digi and RATATAT-ed
out, yes, but still feeling more like Dynamite Hack's version of N.W.A.'s
"Boyz N Tha Hood" than anything else. More successful were the songs from
their obligatory encore. After abashedly assuring the audience they "just
want them to have fun," the band performed a largely doo-wop verson of R Kelly's
sexcapade smash "Remix:Ignition" followed by an just-barely-different take on
"Don't Stop Beliving." Everyone sang along, if only during the chorus, and
it was definitely the high/low point of the evening.

Melinda and Melinda

2005-03-26T17:36:00.000-08:00

Woody Allen, 2005

This year is somewhat of a milestone for Woody Allen. Not only does it see the release of his 40^th film, more or less, as well as his 70^th birthday, but it puts us within spitting distance of the 30^th anniversary of what most people consider his all-time classic, “Annie Hall.” So it's unsurprising that many critics have looked at this film compared to that 1977 opus, variously praising it as a (near) return to form or deriding it for showcasing Allen as hopelessly stymied in a bygone age, focusing his films on characters who haven't existed for at least 30 years, if they ever did at all.

The truth, of course, is somewhere in between. Yes, this movie does continue in the vein of “Anything Else,” fitting in to Allen's return to neurotic romantic comedies set in present-day New York after various formalist experiments like “Bullets Over Broadway,” “Everyone Says I Love You” and “The Curse of the Jade Scorpion.” True as well that his characters, screenwriters, filmmakers, and actors who philosophize and wax poetic about Checkhov and Freud, are a dying breed, if not altogether vanished. “Melinda and Melinda” is at once more and less than this though.

It begins with playwrights having coffee in Manhattan, and debating the essence of life; more specifically, whether said essence is comic or tragic. Someone at the table tells an anecdote which the audience is not privy to, and invites the quarreling parties to decide if it is comic or tragic. This is all accomplished in about five minutes, and the movie is off and running.

It is a dual story, with one playwright giving the story a tragic edge, the other a comic one. The two are intercut, with occasional returns to our storytellers thrown in. Like many Allen films, this one follows creative Upper-West Siders as they have artistic and romantic breakdowns and hook-ups, with things more or less working out in the end. The casts for the two films differ almost completely, with only Rhada Mitchell as the titular Melinda and some bit players featured in both. Will Ferrell and Amanda Peet star in the comedy, while Chloe Sevigny and Johnny Lee Miller (child hacker-turned hero Zero Cool from “Hackers”) star in the tragedy.

The unfortunate thing about “Melinda and Melinda,” however, is that its “tragic” segments are almost as hilarious as its comedy ones, although for different reasons. While the comedy soars thanks to Will Ferrel's extraterrestrial likability and comic timing, the drama lags due to its extremely poor acting and almost total failure to generate sympathy for its protagonists.

Sevigny is consistently laughable as she tries to pass herself off as a Manhattan socialite and piano virtuoso, using words she wouldn't have seen since the SATs, if she had ever actually taken them. She's a blank slate, totally failing to communicate emotion as she stares around herself, desperately hoping for a freak of some kind to take the heat off of her. Sevingy is no good as a romantic lead, working much better as a sympathetic infusion of normality in an insane world, the cute one among cat killers and albinos in “Gummo,” or the cute one among shallow killers in “American Psycho.” Even her role in 2003's “Shattered Glass” as a young political genius/magazine writer was a stretch, despite having the relatively easy job of playing opposite a robotic Hayden Christnesen.

The comedy sections are brilliant, however, and Woody Allen has found in Will Ferrel a comedian who grasps how to speak his lines to get laughs. Virtually every Allen line is amusing, if you only know how to say it, which Ferrel does.

This is all aside from the visually hateful look of the film. If you're to believe the lighting, the entire movie takes place at about 5:20 PM in the summertime, which is to say every scene is overflowing with improbably golden lighting. This would be excusable if he was photographing something interesting. Instead, these effects serve merely to illuminated the interiors of multi million-dollar Manhattan lofts which none of his characters could afford. Allen's trademark New York exteriors are all but nonexistent in this film, with a sequence at a horse race being virtually the only EVA his characters embark on.

All told, “Melinda and Melinda” is not good viewing. The drama portions are so drearily turgid that they drag the comedy parts down with them, constantly killing any sense of urgency or consistency they'd managed to generate. One hopes that Allen has gotten whatever statement he was trying to communicate out of his system with this film. Like a friend who's constantly pontificating, I enjoy many, but not all, of Allen's artistic statements. I applaud him for taking chances, but I just didn't really enjoy this one. Hopefully, we'll be more in sync for “Match Point,” his next film (already in post-production), and his first shot entirely in England. If not, I'm willing to try again with his next one, whatever it may be or whenever it comes along.

Paper Magazine's Beautiful People Party

2005-03-26T16:04:00.000-08:00

3-22-05

Paper Magazine's Beautiful People Party

LAME!

This party was a lot less likely to have Lindsay Lohan
snorting coke in the bathroom and a lot more likely to
have a bunch of assholes in dark-colored dress shirts
standing in an IMPOSSIBLY long line for the "open bar,"
which,as almost always, had a sad asterisk next to it. 
Only wine and Svedka brand vodka drinks were free, I
assume because Svedka was trying to push this disgusting
line of flavored vodkas.  There was single-serving bottle
in the gift bag, buried under the Paris Hilton coasters
and Claudia Schiffer playing cards Guess thought we'd all
LOVE, which I have yet to try.  The only one I had was the
 vanilla vodka, which tasted like pennies.

Celebrity sightings?  Bubble Pop Electric was the only one
I noticed, not counting What'sHisName, the late-40s gay
writer who's constantly on those "I Love the 80s, 90s, 70s"
shows, also any Madonna retrospective.  No one was quipping
about Studio 54 or talking about the sociological impact of
"She Bop," so he was leaning against the wall very near the
front door, looking bored out of his mind.  I didn't see him
again. In case you're not familiar with Bubble, by the way,
(and why would you be?) she's one of those fame holdovers;
someone's who's a "downtown sensation" because they're such
an "individual."  Which basically means she wears a blond
wig even though she's Asian and tight clothes even though
she's fat.  Amazing.

And where were the Scissor Sisters?  Their DJ was there,
spinning remixes of Big Country and wearing the exact same
white shirt with the avant single diagonal black stripe
(oh my God!  All my bourgeois ideas about dress have
been called into question!) that he wore the LAST TIME I
saw the Scissor Sisters.  But where were they?  The only 
clue that they might have ever been anywhere near the club
were two empty overstuffed chairs sitting on a dias in front
 of the DJ booth and their pics staring down at us from the
endless loop of Paper's "Beautiful People" being projected
on the ceiling.  I left early to smoke pot and watch "Curb
Your Enthusiasm."

I knew this was a bad idea when I started.

2005-03-21T23:57:00.000-08:00

It's about midnight on a Monday and I'm almost positive I went deaf in my left ear some time last week. I was on my couch, alone, and had my finger stuck in my ear, attempting to fill that yawning chasm in my evening between playing video games and masturbating. As I pulled it out, I heard a "-pop-" that was unusual. Since then, I've felt like I've got some kind of something stuck in there. Saltwater? Earwax? My conscience? No clue.

Ultra-swanky NYC scene blog starts tomorrow, with reports from Paper Magazine's Beautiful People Party. It's hosted by the Scissor Sisters, whom I've been assured will merely be hosting and not, I repeat, not performing. Will they be offering me drinks and making me comfortable? Letting me hold the remote and pick where we order dinner from? Doing a monologue? If not, I may find their "hosting" duties somewhat lacking. More tomorrow. . .