A very well acted biopic of legendary songwriter Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys. A touch predictable, though. After all, (I don't think this is much of a spoiler, but) whenever you have a character split between two time periods, you go into the film knowing that at some point they'll at least metaphorically come face to face. At least the film tried to do this in a way that would almost make Alejandro Jodorowsky proud.
But the film had a tough task. How do you show the life of a rock legend with a storied half-century career in two hours? One is by using the kind of trick I just mentioned. Another is to avoid direct dramatic reinterpretations of (real or imagined) biographical events, and allude to them instead, which is a plus. (Cheeseburger, anyone?) Another involves making the delineation between the story's heroes and villains as stark and simplistic as possible. The results on this score are mixed. You get Paul Giamatti's awesome scene-chewing Dr. Evil, but you also get not very nuanced portrayals of Mike Love and Murray Wilson that serve only to make you rage against their toxicity to Brian's creative spirit.
As enjoyable as the ride was, some questions nagged me throughout the film. It's one thing to depict a person's behaviors. But part of Wilson's struggle was the fight to transfer what he heard in his head as faithfully as possible to tape. How could any movie deign to try depicting what's in his head for a moviegoing audience? Was I being a little foolish for not realizing from the outset that this ride could only take me so far? On the other hand, if Wilson himself is happy with the film, what do I know?
Now: Chicago XXXVI is probably as cohesive as you can expect an album recorded piecemeal on the road in hotel rooms and backstage green rooms can be. It's a musical experiment with interesting results. Ultimately, it's the kind of album that happens when you let the members of the band be themselves, instead of playing assigned roles. Cool things happen when you don't force Jason Scheff to sing like Peter Cetera, or Lou Pardini like Bill Champlin. Or when Keith Howland and Tris Imboden don't have to play like Terry Kath and Danny Seraphine.
They've actually tried the "be yourself" approach in fits and starts over the decades since the original lineup suffered the loss of guitarist Terry Kath. In that way, this record reminds me a lot of Hot Streets and Chicago 13--and no, that's not a slam!! Sure, if you bought those albums in the late '70s expecting Terry Kath, then Donnie Dacus was inevitably going to disappoint you. But if you listened with your nostalgia-brain instead of your ears, you wouldn't have heard the (okay fine, the admittedly few) hidden gems in those albums. Hey, I get it. I wanted to shout, "Blasphemer!" the first time I heard "Look Away" done without Bill Champlin, but I learned to live with it, but I didn't want to quickly came around.
You can read the historical context of those twoalbums elsewhere. Suffice it to say that, better or worse, those albums were where Chicago was in the "Now" 1978 and 1979. A new guitarist and a different producer with different musical backgrounds and styles that had to be absorbed by the band. Problem was, they conflated their "Now" with whatever they hoped might keep them relevant and on the radio--which weren't necessarily the same thing. But who could blame them?
The difference with Now: Chicago XXXVI is that it doesn't feel like Chicago is cramming everyone's style into a mold using a screwdriver and a plumber's helper. Of course, it helps that the individual band members (along with Hank Linderman) were "supervising producers" for different tracks--guys with, collectively (especially with the two most recent additions Lou Pardini and Walfredo Reyes, Jr.), at least as much experience in the recording industry now as Phil Ramone had in '78 and '79. But this time, the album clearly embraces everyone in the band, and you can hear the difference. It end product really sounds like work from the sort of "musical collective" Chicago always touted themselves as being.
Instead of simultaneously trying to please the jazz-rock/oldies crowd while playing disco-, synth-, or country-pop, or whatever the hell "the kids" are into this decade, you're going to hear musicians show you decades of writing and playing chops. And so you'll recognize some of the old Chicago horn vocabulary, but you'll hear new phrasings, too. You'll be reminded of those old segues in non-4/4 time signatures and maybe a bit of a multi-part suite, but no 14-minute jazz/rock jams (although I'd buy a whole Chicago album of just that). You'll hear a ballad, but no "You're the Inspiration" knock-offs. You'll hear different musical styles blended together, from hard rock to bossa, and a couple of spots with a tasteful hint of dubstep. Because a lot has gone on in music between 1969 and 2014, and they know all about it.
What you definitely won't hear is the ghost of Terry Kath or the ghosts of "...the Seventies, Eighties, Nineties, and Today". You will hear guys who lived and learned their way through all of that, musically, and they're going to tell you all about it.
You know, I almost wish they put the live version of their classic "Introduction" (a bonus download track) at the front of the album. It would've been as appropriate a setup for this album as it was for Chicago Transit Authority. Because I was definitely put through the changes. Might've cared more for some than others, but the more I listen, the more I don't feel this is an album of old guys out to show you young tone-deaf idiots with your Garage Band app how it's really done. Or, if that is the intention, that's just not my takeaway. The songs do strike me different. I do feel moved.
Okay, so maybe this review wasn't so quick. Sorry. Might as well go song by song at this point...
I knew this week was going to be bad. It's started off even worse. But I'm getting by. My coping mechanism of the day has been playing this video on a loop. It's Joe Walsh playing "Funk #49" with Daryl Hall.
Yes, you read that right. And your brain is short-circuiting at the cognitive dissonance, isn't it? It's that short-circuit that keeps me from falling into a black hole of depression, because who can not get fired up hearing that guitar riff?
I'm only getting around to putting this up now, since I've been busy with the edits, and with preparing for my first trumpet-playing gig in 8 years. This is related, trust me...
I'm not complaining, but I'm just stating the fact that 2011 hasn't been a very productive year. Oh, I've produced things. I pulled off my first academic presentation and am still awaiting word of what could be a huge publication score. I have things coming down the pike in the next couple of months. But you know, I think part of my damage is that for a couple of years now, I've been writing "made-to-order" stuff. I think I need to write something for me. But what?
I don't know a lot about the Brill Building. I have a sense about its place in musical history. I have a vague notion of what they talk about when they talk about the "Brill Building Sound" (and of the controversy behind that term). I kinda know some of the big names involved.
But here's the thing: I know is that it's the place where I want to set my next short story.
Once again, I've let the good and the not-so-good (okay, mostly not-so-good) pummel me into radio silence. It's all kept me from Tweeting, blogging, and yes, even writing. And I have deadlines, too! Anyway, if I owe you a tweet or an email or (gulp!) a story, it's on its way.
I've at least worked my way up to "fake it 'til you make it" mode. One way or another, though, you all knew I couldn't shut up for long. :)
I was doing research down a line similar to this--I guess you could call it music video anthropology--and I stumbled on some live performances from the Tower of Power of their classic song "So Very Hard To Go," performed by various line-ups of the band over 35 or so years.
Now, I'm not saying anything about quality. Just that one of these is not like the others.
I'd been looking forward to seeing Sharon Jones and The Dap-Kings since they were here two years ago. It was less of a straight-up concert than it was a real soul/R&B revue. It was a party!
Two nights ago, my evening started a bit early in a new(-ish) bar and on Facebook with my new "friend," Binky Griptite...
I've had a bit of trouble getting a handle on my current work-in-progress. It had such a promising start, judging from the critiques the firsttwo acts have received. But I struggled with the third act, so I took some time away from it to write other things.
This story's for a closed anthology, and it's due in about a month. Time to get cracking again! So after doing another round of hack-and-slash copyedits, I decided the piece needed a soundtrack. So I picked some songs to mirror the sort of mood evoked from the picture above, and a couple of songs for different characters' motivations.
My current short story in progress is headed (Elder Gods willing) to Cthulhurotica - An Anthology of Lovecraftian Lust, which will be published by Dagan Books. I worked out its soundtrack, just like I do for most of my stories, to help me figure out which emotional pulses I want to hit in different scenes.
Manic Street Preachers, "Your Love Alone Is Not Enough"
Arcade Fire, "Ocean of Noise"
Air, "The Word 'Hurricane'"
Cassandra Wilson, "A Little Warm Death"
The Blue Nile, "Body and Soul"
Genesis, "Domino, Pt. 1 - In the Glow of the Night/Pt. 2 - The Last Domino"
The lyrics to "Domino" are about as Lovecraftian as I've ever heard Phil Collins sing, which should be proof that anyone who thought Genesis just plain sucked post-Peter Gabriel wasn't paying enough attention.
I like song lyrics. Sometimes, they get me thinking and then I like to dissect those thoughts like the Zapruder film.
I don't wanna wait For our lives to be over. Will it be yes, or will it be Sorry?
Let me tell you something about my Muse, the little shit.
My relationship to it is best expressed on the Tumblr I use as a notebook of the things I feed it. I call it the place...
Where I strap my muse to a chair like Alex in A Clockwork Orange, pin its eyes open, and force-feed its brain until it does what it's fucking told.
Yes, I brainwash my Muse, typically by waterboarding it every so often. Not too much, though. Like Nice Guy Eddie says in Reservoir Dogs, "If you fucking beat this prick long enough, he'll tell you he started the goddamn Chicago fire, now that don't necessarily make it fucking so!"
Some might say that's harsh. I know there are folks who feed and care for and cradle their precious Muse. They are not wrong to do so. And if it works for them, I'm very glad! But call me as delusional as the folks who think the "enhanced interrogation" techniques at Gitmo actually work--I'll be damned if they don't work on my Muse, at least as well as cradling it ever did!
I've made a lot of progress with my Muse over the past few years. It does need a bit of "encouraging" every now and again, but it seems to be spitting out ideas when I want them, and a lot of times, even when I don't want them! The important thing though is that I do not wait for my Muse to give it up before I write. That'd be stupid.
As Octavia Butler noted, "...habit is more dependable than inspiration." I've learned that ideas really are a dime a dozen and that what my Muse will not do most times is form those ideas into actual stories for me. Once in awhile, maybe. But the hard truth is, my little bastard of a Muse really doesn't care if I finish my stories or not! No, that's squarely up to me, and the only way that's done is by sitting down day after day and writing, with my Muse's waterboard right next to me, pouring and writing, whether it gives me reliable and actionable intel or not!
Because I absolutely do not want to be one of those writers who bitches and moans about being uninspired and who get no writing done because of it.
I like song lyrics. Sometimes, they get me thinking and then I like to dissect them like the Zapruder film. Just something I'm going to try in 2010 to give me something to talk about here. Should've thought of this years ago :). Call this a field test.
Many reasons that hold you back That tell you no Make you fall short of what you want to say Too many voices in my head Where's the boy who used to take chances Used to say when I grow up to be a man someday True to my heart in every way Seems so simple Why's it so hard I'll never know
This isn't going to be a story of how I suddenly found myself or an epiphany about my purpose on earth which I'm dedicating myself to living out in 2010. It's not a manifesto or a mission statement. This is about struggle--I guess you could say The Struggle. And I mean that in a positive way.
Inspiration is all well and good. I certainly couldn't get by without it. And for the longest time, this song did inspire me. But it didn't really do anything for me until I pondered what Robert Lamm was talking about when he asked, Why is it so hard?
I dunno. Lamm asked that question for his own reasons. Me, all I need to know is that it is hard, and that's just the way it is. I look back at every success I've had in 2009, in the two main areas of my life--Writing and Everything else--and I've come to accept that inspiration and luck only ever got me so far.
The rest of it really was work. Nose-to-the-grindstone, ass-in-the-chair, bite-the-bullet fucking work!
I'm jealous of the folks who find joy in the process of writing, I really do. I read their thoughts on their blogs and I'm very happy for them. But their words never resonated with me. No, I'm definitely one of those writers who finds joy in having written. When a piece is done and submitted, I'm happy. (I say this knowing I have no control over whether it's published--if it is, it's gravy.) But I'll be damned if it's not like pulling teeth.
I've noticed that the writers I like the most, the ones whose stuff I like to read, make no bones about how hard the writing life is. They don't complain how The Evil Publishing Illuminati are keeping them from getting their work out. They don't blog excessively about the source of their writer's block--they bitch for two seconds, pull up their big boy/big girl pants and attack the writing life like Chow Yun-Fat in a John Woo Hong Kong action film. They just get to it!
The only way to success, I've found, really is through the struggle--The Struggle--and to be sure, that's hard to face. I have to re-teach myself that lesson over and over, and I don't expect it to be different in 2010. I can only resolve to make the lesson stick for longer and longer periods of time.
The alternative is too horrible to contemplate, namely a life of sitting around pondering Lamm's song lyric up there and never coming to a satisfactory answer.
So, what Struggle are you going to walk into, with glocks in both hands, in order to get to where you want to be in 2010?
I can see the mystery in your eyes Your voodoo just may fool the other guys You can write your destiny But between the lines I read It's all in what your victims will believe
-Bill Champlin, "Tuggin' On Your Sleeve"
All the energy we spend on motion All the circuitry and time Is there any way to feel a body Through fiber optic lines
...will return in two weeks. Because it's been hellish at the dayjob and I think I deserve to enjoy the holiday weekend, such as it is--I don't get a third day off.
So instead of busting my ass to get something done to get vivisected, I'm chilling out, watching US Open tennis, and a little later, I'm gonna drive out to a cookout with some friends to have, what Laura Nyro calls, a "Stoned Soul Picnic."
Speaking of, Nyro's a singer/songwriter I'm discovering again for the first time. Apparently, I've been listening to her songs for years, as covered by Blood, Sweat & Tears and other bands on rotation in my playlists. I kept seeing the name "Laura Nyro" come up as the composer--it's a kind of name that jumps out at you. So I looked her up and now I'm binging on her music!
But I digress. You'll have to excuse me. I got very little sleep last night and I'm finding myself struggling to gather the energy to get to the cookout that I'm blowing off crit group to go to.
[Edited to add] The day after I wrote this, I found out that I've been living in the same town as Nyro's brother and have seen the group he conducts, Vitamin L, perform several times!
