The Contrarian

The Contrarian's Rockin' New Year

It feels like forever since I last posted, but it's really only been a couple of days. A couple of really busy work-filled days. But there's been a bit of end-o'-year cheer, too.

Saturday night was fun. We went to a DC house party for FMC's departing Executive Director Jenny Toomey. Drank a bit, engaged in interesting conversation with some very sharp people. Ian MacKaye was there. I so wanted to take a time machine back to 1991 or so and tell my teenage friends that I was at a intimate gathering with the leader of Minor Threat and Fugazi.

Unfortunately, I didn't really get to talk to Ian. Why not? Because I was engaged in heavy duty conversation with Sandy Pearlman. A huge deal for me. Pearlman is one of the original rock journos who got his start writing for the cardinal rock magazine, Crawdaddy. He's also credited with applying the term "heavy metal" to the harder edged sounds that emerged from the ass-end of the '60s. (This is a somewhat contentious claim, however.)

Perhaps more importantly (to me anyway), Pearlman is the mastermind behind Blue Öyster Cult. From the band's website:

"Sandy Pearlman's contributions to Blue Öyster Cult are innumerable. He was there from the beginning, groomed the formative band for label-readiness, became their manager, produced their records, supplied lyrical content and concept, and more."

Billboard once called Sandy the “Hunter Thompson of rock, a gonzo producer of searing intellect and vast vision.” Sounds about right to me. He also managed Black Sabbath and produced The Clash and The Dictators. Later, he was one of the first 25 employees of eMusic, and served as their vice president. These days, Sandy is an adjunct Professor of music theory at McGill University in Montreal, where he educates on subjects ranging from the remonetizing of digital music to the history of heavy metal.

We spent the majority of our conversation talking about the aesthetics of sound recording in rock, and I got to hear all the arcane details of BOC's studio process. Sadly, I'm not at liberty to reveal anything, lest the Agents of Fortune take me away.

How's your holiday action going?

Nothing Happening.

Seriously. Nothing.

Keep it Like a Secret.

Built to Spill are a fine band; most music fans can agree on that. Even a handful of clued-in hippies dig 'em. I don't listen to BTS often, but for some reason I had the urge to play their 1999 classic Keep it Like a Secret this morning. (Probably because Brooke and I are re-watching the entire series of Six Feet Under, and they played "You Were Right" in an episode we saw last night.)

Recently, Geoff at Blog Sothoth engaged in a "top ten of all time" exercise. In the post, he stated that these records deeply affected him at very specific points in his life, and stood for nothing beyond the fleetingly subjective. We shared a chuckle about The Doors' post-Jim Morrison cash-in An American Prayer in the comments. Fun stuff.

It got me thinking about all the bands and records I once loved, but rarely revisit. Built to Spill and Keep it Like a Secret are too often among the ignored.

Listening to the album as I type, I'm instantly transported back to the northern town in which I lived, rocked and wrote from age 19 to 33. I was working in an independent record store when Secret was released, but I never bothered to give it a spin. I'd listened to a fair amount of older BTS, back when they were a "real" indie band, and I associated them with the introspective kids with whom this overly-dramatic, experimental-leaning, dream-pop influenced, heavy metal burnished, psychedelic Lothario had little in common. So I filed the band away among the other haphazard DIY acts that cluttered the latter half of the '90s. (In my mind, that is — I put them in the right place on the racks.)

It wasn't until a wintry car ride with Ken Johnson (who had yet to claim the drum stool in Carrigan) that I was hipped to Secret's molten guitars and unassuming yet effective wordplay. Ken and I were pretty tight in those days — he lived across the street — and I generally trusted his taste in music. I often consider how important this X factor is in turning people on to new stuff; the messenger's personality, enthusiasm and righteousness are key to the proper transmission of tunes. Anyway, in Ken, I found someone with a sharp intellect, an appreciation for quality, and, most importantly, a sense of what would and wouldn't fly with a person as self-mythologizing and persnickety as myself.

He told me I'd like the guitar action, and that some of it reminded him of my own playing. (Now that's how you win over an egotist, kids.)

Thing is, he was right: much of the axework on KILAS did reflect my guitar leanings. Problem was, I had largely abandoned writing songs, and I didn't have a Doug Martsch (or Tom Verlaine) with whom to collaborate. I'd recently wrapped up a hitch in a Brit-rock style band, featuring a fairly gifted songwriter/frontman whose style was ultimately too sunny and reductive for my tastes. I craved guitar exploration like on my fave '70s records, but I needed it to be in service of the song. (In those days I was actually shy about guitar heroism — the then-au courant indie scene equated that shit with hair metal. The fucking idiots.)

The only solution was to play in a math-rock/post-prog band, which subsequently I did. This was before The Mars Volta, mind you. (By then I'd had it with playing live, but that's another story.)

Let's get back to Secret. Like I said, the record pushed all the right buttons for me at the time. It was broadly melodic without being precious, and the guitars were bolder and more thoughtfully arranged than pretty much any other "indie" band besides Pavement, who obscured their technique by pretending it was all a shaggy lark. (But who were they fooling? I saw Pavement in '97, and they sounded exactly like the records — more Steely Dan than Superchunk.)

Besides Ken and my then-girlfriend (who thankfully "got" pretty much all good music) I really didn't have anyone to share this record with. But that was OK, 'cause I didn't have anyone to share my guitar athleticism with, either.

But now that I've got you guys, I no longer have to keep anything like a secret. Not even my nostalgia.

PS: Did I tell you we walked right past George Tenet the other day? George fuckin' Tenet!

Horror, Humanity and Meat Pies.

Sweeney Todd — The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is, hands down, the finest picture of the year.

Now, I'm not a Tim Burton freak or anything; it seems mostly coincidence that Ed Wood is among my top ten favorite pieces of cinema. But after you've sat through overblown atrocities like Sleepy Hollow, Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, Big Fish and Planet of the Apes, I don't believe the case for unmitigated genius can convincingly be made. Still, Burton's cinematic vision is unique, and, when the stars properly align (and I don't just mean Johnny Depp), he can deliver a hell of a movie.

Put Sweeney at the top of the shortlist of Tim Burton masterpieces.

Everything about it is note-perfect, from the harmonic complexity and dizzying counterpoint of the Stephen Sondheim score to the — ahem — go-for-the-throat performances. The set pieces are finely-detailed and thankfully lacking in computer-generated gratuitousness. Burton's Victorian London is realistically gritty, and the stark and desperate people that fill its alleys and thoroughfares are well depicted. There's a great deal of singing, but Oliver! this ain't.

Pretty-boy Depp is finally showing something of his age, and it suits him. Despite what the previews suggest, this film is probably about 90 percent sung, and Depp rises to the occasion admirably. His voice (which holds a hint of David Bowie) is actually quite nice. But the best part about his performance is the barely-suppressed rage he brings to this morbid little tale of vengeance. This isn't Depp on autopilot, as we've seen far too often recently. He commits to the part of Sweeney with a pitched severity that climaxes in an orgy of carnage that out-spurts any Saw sequel.

I have a soft spot for Helena Bonham Carter, and it's refreshing to see her transcend the gothcentricity she's typically employed to flaunt. It is there, make no mistake about it — raccoon eyes, Bride of Frankenstein hair. . . But the elegant pathos she brings to Mrs. Lovett's homicidal opportunism adds sincerity to what might have otherwise been a baroque cartoon. Plus she's got some of the *funniest* lines in the whole show.

Sascha Baron Cohen is pretty entertaining, too.

I suppose if you're a Sondheim purist, you might find some fault with the film, mainly in the condensing necessary to go from stage to screen. But believe me when I tell you, not a drop of blood (and there is a lot) is wasted.

I wasn't sure Burton had the stomach to go as far as this film does, but I was happily mistaken. Macabre and disturbing, Sweeney Todd cuts as sharp and quick as the barber's bloody blade. It's been a long time since I've wanted to see a film more than once while it's still in theaters, but I definitely plan on another viewing before it joins my DVD collection.

PS: Brooke and I strolled right past George Tenet on the way to the cinema. We were walking down the wrong side of the street, past fenced-off construction with cars whizzing by. George shuffled past in the opposite direction, against traffic. He looked slightly troubled and sad, which is why neither of us had the heart to yell "slam dunk!"

Hard Cox to Swallow.

Walk Hard: the Dewey Cox Story had a potentially hilarious premise, inspired casting and Judd Apatow's imprimatur. But they somehow forgot the jokes. And keep in mind I saw it in one of those theaters where they serve booze. I haven't sat through any of the "Scary" or "Epic" "Movie" series, but this wet turd of a faux-biopic can't be terribly far off. However, I will concede that Paul Rudd makes a fabulously funny John Lennon.

Shh, listen: is that the Apatow bubble bursting?

Gonna see Sweeny Todd today; I'm thinking it'll be pretty good.

Biz Blitz.

Did anyone see the article in the new Rolling Stone about how consumer preference for MP3s is changing the way music is being recorded, mixed and mastered? If you're not a studio/tech person, it's actually a pretty good primer on dynamic compression and sonic "maximization." The overall gist of the piece is that music is getting louder, and consequently lamer. I wrote a bit more in depth about it over at the Future of Music Coalition blog. I'd link to the RS piece, but Jann Wenner is all about content control. Maybe we can call that Text Rights Management, or TRM.

Hypebot takes a look at how the music pundits did in predicting '07. I think weird old Bob Lefsetz wins. (That dude LOVES ALL CAPS!) 

So what can we expect, industry-wise, in '08? To quote Mr. T as Clubber Lang, "pain." Well, if you're a major label or CD retailer, anyway. The oracle that is David Byrne suggests the rest of us will probably be OK.

I personally predict that Rhapsody will start picking up a lot more users in the next year. Imeem? Qloud? Social networking? Who cares? I'm too old/lazy to want to re-enter all my superficial personal data at another new site every six months. Someone should design an app that handles the migration for you. Damn, I better get to the copyright office!

There's a rumor that Apple is gonna add lossless downloads to iTunes. It's about FLAC'n time!

Here's a good one from Huffington Post: The Ten Worst Telco Moments of 2007. They certainly had some doozies.

What else? Well, I have a lot of music to review. And an album to finish (hopefully this week). And some crazy work stuff. But that won't stop me from wishing Happy Holidays to all my fellow Contrarians.

Too Much Fun. . . By Jebson Interlandi

"The 5,000-capacity park will be the first of its kind in Britain, but not in the world. In Orlando, Florida, hundreds of thousands of visitors make pilgrimages to the Holy Land Experience, where they can see a bloodied Jesus forced to carry his cross by snarling Roman soldiers."

This is, without doubt, my favorite planet. Perusing the Guardian today, I came across Big News. To challenge Darwin's theory of evolution, the AH Trust (Christian Businessmen) have tactfully decided to erect a Creationist Theme Park somewhere in Northwest England. Brilliant.

3.5 million dollars spent, in true Christian fashion, on things people need. I immediately wondered if this Genesis-based fantasyland was in response to an existing Evolution Theme Park. Turns out, this is not the case. [ED - too bad; we could've taken a staff field trip!]

Now, I don't care whether a person bases their understanding of the world on evolution or creationist theory, but come on. . . let's at least be fair. The major problem I have with creationists is their blatant pro-Genesis bias. If you want to teach creationism, go for it. Just keep in mind there's a plethora of creation myths, each one deserving equal attention. If the Apaches exist, surely they were created as they say they were. A valid creationist curriculum should contain origin legends for EVERYBODY — Babylonian, Egyptian, Chinese, Maori, Hopi, Aztec, Norse and so forth. The list is long and remarkably detailed: in the beginning there were blood clots, clay, dust, ribs, eggs, the Big Sneeze, water, chaos, the sky raining semen into the vaginal seas. . .

So why the explicit need for a Genesis Theme Park? Well, according to the AH Trust's website, this "revolutionary scheme" is crucial because:

"On television today there is so much sex and violence, it is no wonder our youth are binge drinking. . . This is a revolutionary scheme requiring innovative people with the vision to bring about change and a new direction."

I have a better solution for culture warriors intent on edifying art and entertainment: Eunuch Camp.  Sexual temptation ceases to be a problem, and the vulnerable children can peacefully surrender to the lukewarm allure of Audio Adrenaline and Sonicflood. Believe me, I'm tired of the corrupting influence secular-progressives have on our culture. I believe in preserving tradition. Whose tradition?  Which tradition?  Uh. . . whichever one worked out for the best. Take your pick.

I'm off to the carnival in two days.  Brussels, Germany, then New Years in London. I wish you all happy holidays.  Please feast and drink. Be excessive. Remember, merrymaking isn't a hobby: it's a way of life.

The New Yorker's Sasha Frere Jones: "My Affection for Led Zeppelin is Limitless and Somewhat Irrational."

I hear, ya, buddy.

SFJ weighs in on last week's still-gushed about Led Zeppelin reunion at London's O2 Stadium.

It's a well-written piece with which I can find no fault. Choice line:

"For Led Zeppelin, whose music is so rhythmic, hard, and loud, the perils of undertaking a reunion in late middle age are greater than they might be for, say, Bob Dylan or Neil Young, who began their careers sounding like old men."

True as it may be, that sentence is bound to piss a few folks off 'round Greenwich Village.

Year-Enders.

Have a look at my '07 overview at Dusted. 'Cause I'm not gonna post 'em here. 

It's always tough for me to compile my yearly faves. Oftentimes, the stuff I was initially blown away by fails to hold up, while the hobgoblins of distraction keep me from luxuriating in the most worthy releases. Then there's the fact that, while I mostly write for journals of underground and experimental music, my tastes seem increasingly pedestrian. Is it time to retire?

Hell no. But maybe I should start writing for classic rock mags. Lord knows I can't shut up about that Led Zeppelin reunion.

Gotta run, but I wanted to give a huge shout out to Undead Molly and her brilliant beau for sending us a totally excellent Christmas package. Perhaps I'll post photos of the loot a little later.

At the Movies.

We took in a fair bit of cinema this weekend.

Juno was pretty great, apart from an annoyingly precious introduction that lasted nearly 20 minutes. The girl star reminded me of one of my old friends from high school, minus the whole accidental pregnancy bit. Michael Cera is the Lawrence Olivier of awkward. I could watch that kid all damn day.

At home, we checked out that there Jesus-lovin,' holocaust denyin' Mel Gibson's Apocalypto, which was surprisingly good. But I'm into Mayans, so I'm probably biased.

Also finally saw Cars, 'cause it was on cable. Cute.

The Golden Compass was a major disappointment. Not surprised. However, my musical tribute to His Dark Materials will surely rule you.

Last weekend, we managed to take in the Cohen Bros.' No Country for Old Men. It was a lot darker than I expected, and very much a "film-as-novel." Adaptations are fine when handled this gracefully, but I still hope the Cohens will get back to producing original screenplays. There's something about their oddball logic and blackly comedic worldview that you just can't get anywhere else.

I'm looking forward to Friday, when Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story opens. The previews aren't as straight-up funny as I expected, but the idea of John C. Reilly as a troubled music icon is impossible to resist. Check out this article about Dewey Cox's lengthy career, written as though he were a real performer.

So yeah, movies. What else are you gonna do when the weather in DC is as gray as the sets from Breach?