RECYCLE, REGURGITATE, RESURRECT

Reconstituted classics and quasi-zombies.

Sometimes it’s best to just grieve and move on. When Matt Groening’s second TV progeny, Futurama, passed away quietly during a Vikings/Packers game on the Fox network five years ago, I mourned just like anyone else. Yet, as much potential as the show had, it only rarely hit the sitcom sweet spot like its overachieving older sibling, The Simpsons. So why bring it back for a series of 90-minute mega-episodes premiering on DVD? In two words: Family Guy.

Realizing that an unwarranted cancellation, followed by a well-promoted resurrection, could spell lingering success for Groening’s creation too, Fox is now on their second Futurama movie, The Beast with a Billion Backs (20^th Century Fox, 89 minutes). The original voice-cast brings their A-game and every character of significance makes an appearance, but the jokes are stretched like a bad facelift. Large chunks of Bender’s shiny metal ass have been grafted here and there in an attempt to preserve the show’s dignity. But it’s pretty clear Fry, Leela and Zoidberg should have been left to orbit the Earth in peace.

Then there’s Jack Black, who wore out his welcome as a movie star the weekend School of Rock opened and hasn’t found another role to fit him since. Odds were a Michel Gondry film (director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) wouldn’t be his best bet, either. But that’s why they play the game, my friends.

Be Kind Rewind (New Line Home Entertainment, 102 minutes) is just the sort of Godard-meets-Walt Disney experiment Gondry specializes in. Working with a Hollywood wet dream set-up (Black and Mos Def accidentally erase all the videotapes in the store where the latter’s character works and have to reshoot the movies themselves), Gondry does his best to prove the auteur theory by turning the movie into an improv-amateur-art flick, satiating the suits with scenes of a low-rent Ghostbusters but keeping his camera focused on a higher purpose. Be Kind Rewind may be too sloppy for an Oscar, but it’s the biggest open-mouth kiss the movies have had in a long time.

Meanwhile, The Signal (Magnolia Home Entertainment, 103 minutes) cashes in on the apocalypse craze, borrowing the central idea of Stephen King’s Cell but managing to improve upon it with a meager budget of around 50K. Anyone caught watching the unexplained transmission (which looks like the psychedelic visualer from iTunes) goes soft in the head and starts cracking skulls. In the midst of this rage-induced rapture, directors Jacob Gentry, David Bruckner and Dan Bush divide a love-triangle into three parts, mixing mocha-black comedy with shots of straight-up horror. Call it brainwashing, but this is the best goddamn thing I’ve seen in weeks!

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America— Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

New releases for the week of June 24 – July 1.

Here we are again with another round of new releases. The usual spate of warnings apply: purchase at your own risk, as I have not had a chance to check these out. Your mileage may vary. Not responsible for lost or stolen items. Consult your physician before undertaking any exercise program. Side effects include anal bleeding, insanity and death. If you wake up dead, contact your doctor immediately. And so on.

Rock Star Babylon: Outrageous Rumors, Legends, and Raucous True Tales of Rock and Roll Icons, by Jon Holmes (Plume, released June 24)

Looks to be something like 288 pages of Ozzy Osbourne-esque tales of gnawing the heads off small mammals, imbibing too much (of anything … food, sex, dope, Tide bleach, etc.) and then laughing about it: “Ha ha. Boy was I fucked up that time I killed a hooker and dumped her body in a ravine south of Las Vegas. The music was great, though. Good times.” Seriously, haven’t we seen and heard this kind of stuff somewhere before? Oh, yeah, on just about every washed-up-celeb reality show and VH-1 retrospective of the past decade. Still, if you can’t get enough naughty rock n’ roller material to fill your otherwise meaningless existence, this may be the book for you.

Counterculture Kaleidoscope: Musical and Cultural Perspectives on Late Sixties San Francisco, by Nadya Zimmerman (University of Michigan Press, released June 28)

What the hell is going on? We’ve been hit by a spate of books analyzing the late 1960s and its music/culture, presumably because 40 years have passed since the era choked on its own vomit and died. In another 40 years, will publishers be cranking these things out because it’s the “80^th anniversary”? I’ll be too old to give a shit. Nonetheless, Zimmerman’s book is an “academic” look at the movement, with her main points being: a) the “hippie” movement of the era was, in fact, an organized rebellion; and b) contemporary critics and culture have tarnished the whole shebang by commercializing 1960s clichés to create a crass “hip consumerism.” In other words, you’re a fake and a fuckface because you’ve got that shitty tie-dye shirt you bought at Target.

’Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky: Jimi Hendrix: Voodoo Child, by David Henderson (Atria, released July 1)    

Initially published in ’78, this book is regarded as one of the best biographies of Hendrix. Henderson is an old-guard “New Journalist,” and his prose hums like a high-tension power line. This re-release reportedly includes information previously unavailable to Henderson when he was first putting the book together. Should be a good one.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

STRAIGHT TALK ABOUT BAMMY

Disinformation gives you the real deal on dope.

Let’s make a list of the greatest influences on rock music. We’ll want to throw the blues on the list, along with gospel. And teen angst—hormonal and otherwise. Oh yeah, and drugs. Can’t forget the dope.

Narcotics have been responsible for more good, bad, and indifferent rock songs than just about anything else (attention songwriters: I’m still waiting for that generation-defining song about knocking off a Walgreen’s for a handful of OxyContin). And dope has also been to blame for ushering a fair number of quality musicians into the afterlife. Add to that the United States’ complicated and contradictory relationship with the stuff and you’ve got a recipe for disaster: the U.S. “war on drugs”—a seriously misguided attempt to fix a problem by bludgeoning it to death with a tire iron.

Recently I snagged a copy of Under The Influence: The Disinformation Guide to Drugs (2004, The Disinformation Company Ltd.), edited by High Times contributor, musician, DJ, and journalist Preston Peet. Peet’s book includes an ensemble cast of cops, commentators, academics and old-fashioned rabble rousers, all writing succinctly and eloquently about the FUBAR manner in which law enforcement, the justice system, politicians and the public all approach the so-called “war on drugs.” It’s a good book to have in your arsenal for those late-night, booze fueled (my drug of choice is in liquid form, ladies and gents) arguments with the conservative Republican inbreeder who showed up at your party uninvited. Toss him a couple of toddlers to chew on (after all, they eat children, don’t they?), crack open the book, and begin your spiel. You’ll be ignored, but do it anyway.

A disclaimer: I’m in no way advocating drug use. I’m simply arguing that it’s inherently idiotic to send a 60-year-old ex-hippie to San Quentin for selling bags of bammy out of an Airstream trailer. And the government will seize the Airstream and the land it sits on as part of the bust—they’d snag the old hippie’s soul if they could figure out how to do it. It makes no sense to throw non-violent offenders into the clink for participating in an underground economy. Under the Influence lays out some pretty rational arguments along these lines—and more.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

SING-ALONGS ALL AROUND

Let’s do what John Mellencamp says and get a leg up, get a leg over, boy. Here are three upcoming releases we think you should know about.

The Hold Steady: Stay Positive (Vagrant, July 15)

“Our songs are sing-along songs,” Craig Finn sings in the very first verse of the very first song on the Hold Steady’s new album. And sure enough, almost every song here sounds specifically designed to get fists pumping, lighters flying, audiences singing. All the need is one of those cool hand signs that Van Halen used to have, the one with the thumbs and index fingers touching and the pinkies extended. Work on that, guys. Stay Positive may not live up to the impossibly high standards of the previous two albums, but that’s almost like saying the Holy Ghost needs to hold up his end of this whole Trinity bargain. Ultimately, there are enough killer choruses and urban details to compensate for non-essential songs like “Yeah Sapphire” and “One for the Cutters.” “The sing-along songs will be our scriptures,” Finn decrees on the title track before breaking into a sing-along chorus like it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.

On repeat: “Stay Positive”

David Vandervelde: Waiting for the Sunrise (Secretly Canadian, Aug 5)

David Vandervelde is obsessed with styles much older than him. On his full-length debut last year, he filtered English glam (specifically Marc Bolan) through Midwestern power pop (specifically Cheap Trick). From there he widens his range to take in very different ‘70s sources, namely Peter Frampton and Seals & Croft. As a whole, Waiting for the Sunrise is a better soft-rock exegesis than Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky, with much less noodling to boot. Like The Moonstation House Band, it’s a bit more re-creative than interpretive, and despite its August release date, it’s actually a pretty good summer album, perfect for lounging on the porch and letting the summer breeze blow through the jasmine in your mind.

On repeat: “I Will Be Fine”

Perhapst: Perhapst (In Music We Trust, Aug 19)

The promise of a solo album from Decemberist John Moen prompts a thousand drummer jokes, including the one with the punchline “Hey guys, why don’t we try one of my songs?” None of the other Decemberists took the bait, but Stephen Malkmus did (Moen is a former Jick). I didn’t know a guitar could arch its eyebrows. Despite a weak falsetto, Moen proves just as playful as his former bandleader, whether he’s putting extra quote marks on opener ““Quote,"” cribbing from the Traveling Wilburys on “Maryanne,” or singing sha-dooo ahhh over and over on “Incense Cone.” The results aren’t as bad as the joke predicts: Moen writes strong indie-pop hooks like they’re punchlines to his own in-jokes.

On repeat: “Harbour”

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

A POST MORTEM ON TWO PRE-FAB COMEDIES

Fool’s Gold lives up to its name; The Bucket List actually kicks a little booty.

Since it’s a slow week in the world of independent/underground/alternative cinema, let’s dissect that particular brand of Hollywood product known as the “pre-fab comedy.” Epitomized by the likes of Wild Hogs and anything starring Matthew McConaughey, the pre-fab comedy is a cheap slut dressed up like a high-class whore. There may be some curb appeal, but you get what you pay for. In the case of a Fool’s Gold (PG-13, Warner Home Video, 112 minutes), you’re lucky if that’s not some sort of cinematic STD.  

The pitch probably sounded good: Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey are a pair of bickering tropical treasure hunters whose marriage is rekindled by their wacky exploits in pursuit of a fabled shipwreck. Check that—it still sounds like the ass end of a late-night run for the border. But Hudson is hot in a flat-chested sort of way. And McConaughey specializes in this sort of “himbo” horseshit. Yet the very definition of the pre-fab  comedy is that all the work was done before the cameras even rolled. It’s all in the packaging; details are for critics and auteurs.

Still, it’s hardly worth mocking a movie that’s this intent on embarrassing itself. From McConaughey’s record-setting shirtless performance (honestly, even porn actors don’t find this many excuses to go bare-chested) to ex-Cosby kid Malcolm Jamal-Warner’s brilliant career makeover as a Rastafarian gangster, Fool’s Gold is a treasure map of potential Razzie Award moments. That being said, while the comedy is about as fresh as a Jeff Foxworthy HBO special, the action scenes are shot with more realistic verve than the new Geriatric Jones adventure. So, pat yourself on the back boys.

But just as a double-wide can make the perfect home for a new family and their Bob Seger-series Hummel figurines collection, a pre-fab comedy can hit the spot if the conditions are right. The Bucket List (PG-13, Warner Home Video, 97 minutes), bottomed-out for me before it even hit theaters, with its cutsey ad campaign pitching the idea of two terminally ill buddies (played by two terminally overexposed actors, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) who hit the road to live out their dreams before they die. You’d think that Nicholson setting off on this philosophical journey would resonate with the Easy Rider generation who watched him do the same thing on the back of a motorcycle 40 years earlier. But those selfish bastards sold their children for Humvees and hi-definition TVs. Don’t trust anyone over 60, man.

Morgan Freeman lays down a foundation of reassuring voice-overs while Nicholson paints the whole thing his usual shade of crazy. But there’s some meat left on the bones of Justin Zackham’s script, even after director Rob Reiner got done picking it clean. Amidst the sap and sentiment, both actors find a couple of moments to escape the blueprints and play someone other than themselves for the first time in a few movies. And in Hollywood’s pre-fab subdivision, that’s like putting pink flamingos in your fucking front yard.

Straight outta the third most dangerous city in America— Saginaw, Michigan—Greg Walton writes from a basement bunker. His only window to the outside world is a sweet surround sound set-up and 65" inches of hi-def glory.

YOU WOULDN’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M ANG LEE

As with Ang Lee’s Hulk, Louis Letemier’s The Incredible Hulk relies heavily on CGI—but it doesn’t suck.

As a theater filled with moviegoers applaud after the end of Universal’s The Incredible Hulk, I think they were just grateful that they didn’t have to sit through Ang Lee’s awful 2003 version. By that standard, this green-eyed Hulk is definitely a better experience. Gone is the Oscar-winning director, replaced by French filmmaker Louis Letemier (Transporter, Transporter 2), also gone are actors Eric Bana (so brilliant and yet he couldn’t save Hulk) and eye-candy Jennifer Connelly, replaced with Edward Norton and Liv Tyler.

Picking up 158 days after the last film ended (that’s the number of days Ed Norton’s Dr. Bruce Banner has gone without “incident”), the scientist with major anger-control problems finds himself hiding out in Rio de Janeiro’s abounding favelas. Considered property of the U.S. military by General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross (played stiffly by William Hurt), the film’s first act includes a blistering, action-packed chase through the streets of Rio as the soldiers, led by Emil Blonsky (Tim Roth), on loan from Britain’s Royal Marines, get their first look at the not-so-jolly green monster.

From there, I guess you’re supposed to ignore plot holes and simply enjoy the rollercoaster ride. Cool cameos and a not-so-serious approach help this Hulk movie come across as a better fit than the last feeble attempt. This, being a superhero-filled summer, I suppose were just expected to gorge on popcorn and candy and not ask any questions.

Roth, hardly an intimidating force at 5’7” does a great job playing Blonsky, an English mofo determined to kick some green ass. Willing to do whatever it takes; Blonsky eventually transforms into the “Abomination” mutant to take on the Hulk. But that’s where the film falters a bit as the climatic ending comes across as no more than a CGI-fest. Sure, CGI effects have come a long way from Jurassic Park, yet most of these action films never quite seem to measure up to the presence of those scary onscreen raptors. But if all you crave out of your summer blockbusters is over-the-top action, then you’re in luck.

Oh, and there’s a surprise cameo appearance by Iron Man himself, Tony Stark, a/k/a Robert Downey Jr., at the end. Actually, the surprise was blown in the Incredible Hulk trailer, which made all the fanboys wet themselves at the hint of a possible Avengers movie. Always leave them wanting more.

Jose Martinez is a Los Angeles-based journalist with more than a dozen years experience covering news, film, music and sports. Out and about every night, he's at home in dark clubs and theaters, and shuns the daylight when possible.

POP. FOR REAL.

There is such a thing as good pop.

When the June issue of Real Simple arrived, I tore through it, my inner (and hopefully hipper and better dressed) Martha Stewart unfettered by the wistful yet impractical thoughts that such [read more…]

A Triple-A radio programming veteran, Kate has served as Music Director of the Loft at XM, Midday Host at WYEP, Evening Host at both WNCS and WUIN, as well as Content Supervisor for Pump Audio. Currently, she's the CEO of Outlandos Music, a new music discovery service for grown-ups. Kate has been nationally recognized for her ardent presentation of music and her ability to champion talented, compelling artists.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

Today we’ll take a look at some upcoming books you may want to check out. Keep in mind that some of these may not be worth a quart of lukewarm monkey jizz, but they have the potential to be pretty good reads. Emphasis on potential. Consider yourself warned: Don’t blame me if these things turn out to be ossified dog turds between covers.

Join Together: Forty Years of the Rock Music Festival, by Marley Brant (Backbeat Books, released June 15)

If the sum total of your knowledge of rock festivals begins and ends with Lollapalooza, it’s time for a little history lesson. And a swift kick in the ass. Author Marley Brant provides the former, and I’ll provide the latter (just shoot me an e-mail and we’ll line that up). Yes, Altamont and the Woodstocks (the original and the pale imitators) are here—along with the lesser-known music fests. This book is touted to put the festivals in their proper social context. Now you’ll know why Altamont was such a glorious fuckfest of fists and felony arrests.

Goodbye 20^th Century: A Biography of Sonic Youth, by David Browne (Da Capo Press, released June 14)

Worshipers at the altar of Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon should get a kick out of this bio, complete with never-before-seen pics and a slew of interviews with Sonic Youth bandmates, hangers-on, and friends of friends tangentially connected to the band. The book will reportedly be a fairly exhaustive account of SY from the early days on the Lower East Side to today.

The Gospel According to Bruce Springsteen: Rock and Redemption, from Asbury Park to Magic, by Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz (Westminster John Knox Press, released June 16)

Uh, make that the Reverend Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz, pastor of the First Parish Universalist Church of Stoughton, Mass. This book joins similar titles by Westminster John Knox—part of the publishing arm of the Presbyterian Church (USA)—examining the roles of pop culture icons in shaping faith in America. Or something. Previous titles in The Gospel According to … series focused on the Beatles and (wait for it … wait …) Oprah Winfrey. But you have to admit that the blue collar ballads of The Boss have a certain spiritual appeal, and are far more interesting than another reading of Leviticus. The good Rev. Symynkywicz analyzes this intersection of faith and music—so if you’re a militant atheist of the Christopher Hitchens mold, you probably won’t dig it. Otherwise, it may just fill a gap in your collection of Saint Springsteen scripture.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

ILL PENICILL’

Sometimes a moldy oldie is the best medicine.

Generally, this Blurt blog (Blurg? Shoot me.) will look months ahead to get a sense of highly anticipated albums, but every once in a while, I’ll look back at an older album that I’ve recently discovered or rediscovered. Or, hell, just something I found in the $1 bin. Don’t hold me to this, but I’m going to try to keep it older than a decade and fairly obscure. Nothing like “Hey, remember Funeral?”

Team Dresch

Personal Best

(Chainsaw Records, 1995)

I went through a riot grrrl phase for a few weeks last year, trying to get my head around a genre I didn’t countenance too much the first time around. So I dipped into Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and early Sleater-Kinney (that self-titled album… not so hot), but Personal Best stuck with me beyond that early burst of interest. It’s one of those albums that could inspire a dissertation on queer identity and feminist politics. There’s even a line that goes “Half of this is me and I’m not sure who the other is,” “other” being an academically loaded word. But who wants to read a dissertation on a Friday? These songs wouldn’t have stuck with me—and I wouldn’t be writing about them now—if Team Dresch hadn’t given them so much emotional heft and desperate viscerality. Opener “Fagetarian & Dyke” admits early to career misgivings, wondering if ten years of little sleep and Smiths rip-offs was worth it; the verses are urgent, melodic, almost diaristic, but the choruses abruptly loud, messy, cathartic. There’s fury in their populism, as they lace those excoriating guitars with pop-song ba-ba-ba’s on “She’s Crushing My Mind” or Breeders-style B-side jangle on “Freewheel.” Only “#1 Chance Pirate TV” doesn’t survive the 13-year interval between then and now, but it was designed to be topical: Referring to an event three years earlier, the lyrics imagine a television station that shows Sinead O’Connor ripping up the Pope instead of lame late-night skits. Personal Best ultimately lived up to its name, a rock album that looms large over its genre (if not, sadly, over the ‘90s in general). Even removed from that context, though, it still rages eloquently.

Stephen M. Deusner is a freelance music journalist based in Washington, DC. Don't ask him about Norwegian pop or house rabbits, unless you have a few hours.

A VOMIT-LIKE VIBE

What's in a name? Everything and nothing.

In the first installment of Hamell on Trial's YAP video blog, Ed Hamell riffs on King Riff: scruffy, venerated, dearly departed music scribe Lester Bangs.

BLURT knew a Hamell blog—initially meant to be text-only—would be something special: his own brand of blurt. His raucously intelligent songs and stage banter are uncommon, to be perfectly plain, and we knew he’d fit us like a new pair of socks. This was even clearer in our initial discussions about the blog, where Hamell inferred from the BLURT name that we’re going for a more honest, immediate take on the music magazine format. 

In the clip, Hamell characterizes this as a “vomit-like vibe.” We like that, ‘cause it’s what we aim to give you, chunks and all.

Isn’t that where quote-unquote music journalism is headed, into the hands of any chimp with a keyboard and the wherewithal to start a blog? It’s a return to the purest form, the junction of word-of-mouth and “influence.”

But what is influence, and what’s it worth? Back in Lester’s day, it was still pretty much (albeit decreasingly so) about that one guy in your circle of friends who had his ear to the ground, listening for the big sound. Lately, the “form” has devolved to something slightly better than catalog copy. Record reviews in some publications are as short as 40-50 words. What, really, can be said about the music in that much space? You can’t even read between the lines when reviews are reduced to “it sucks or it don’t.” (Either a record label’s wet dream or nightmare.) And frankly, some of it seems bought and paid for.

But then, should we be persuaded by long-stemmed, flowery prose like on some music blogs? Or the petulant, douchey ravings of one who thinks he’s fit to be a sweat stain on Lester Bangs’s T-shirt? Different strokes—you decide.

For our part, we’re gonna shoot for the sweet spot, split the difference between the two, and give you intelligent spew. Which, one supposes, is what Lester did—just on a plain that will forever remain just out of our reach, but thankfully not our comprehension. But while BLURT holds the Bangs canon in high esteem, and acknowledge his influence on music writers everywhere, we're not trying to cop his dope-ness. Who can?

Nobody. Lester Bangs was one of a kind, hatched from a broken mold.

And he sure wasn't Donald Trump. That is to say, we're pretty sure he'd be outraged at any attempt to copyright a word or phrase, even for his own use. Nor would he see a need to do so. Neither do we.

We’re just gonna be here doing our thing and hoping you dig it. And what, exactly, is our “thing?” Here’s a portion of a discussion we had with Hamell, where he explained his intended direction with this video blog, and it became clear that he gets BLURT.

“Why isn't there a rock mag that appeals to my demographic? Why were Creem, Uncut and Grand Royal “special,” at least initially? How [do we] not insult the readership's intellect? How do we differentiate the mag from the nine million other mags out there with a foot in the past, present and future? So... I've come up with something that appeals to me both on a creative and aesthetic level.”

Blurting is intrinsically human and non-exclusive. You are BLURT.

(BLURT lovingly dedicates this to Jeffrey Morgan and Steven Wells. Mwah!)

Ed Hamell picked up the guitar at age 7 and started writing songs not long after. In his early 20s, Mr. Hamell was the front man and writer for an original band, but local bands were a dime a dozen in the tough, working class neighborhoods in Syracuse, NY. So he launched a one-man act called Hamell on Trial. Six albums (plus a live one) and countless shows later, Hamell himself is one of a kind. Catch him on tour this summer in the U.S., Canada and Europe.