Shake Up Your Bones

I have been feeling pangs of nostalgia recently, your patience is requested. Not too long ago, the only music that mattered in my world was generated solely from a Martin guitar owned by a South African. Now he plays a Taylor and I haven’t really listened to him in quite a while. But still, there are times when I crave an hour or two where Under the Table and Dreaming, Live at Luther College, or Crash is playing. Lie in our Graves is still, and will ever be, a pantheon of quality.

Like a genealogical tree, all of my current preferences can be traced back to the popular sounds of Dave Matthews. He held my cochleas in a vice grip, nearly nothing could penetrate the Acoustic Curtain he had established there. It took Sam Beam and The Shins' New Slang (2002: the anteBraffian era) to bring the wall a-tumbling-down, showing me there was more offered...much more. But still, remains of the wall are evident and acoustic guitar based music is inextricably in my blood. His intimate, stripped down sessions featuring two Martins and either Tim Reynolds or Trey Anastasio will always be lauded and welcomed.

I owe the man more than hours of listening enjoyment, it was his excellent chord progressions (Crush, Tripping Billies, the Stone), singular strumming patterns (Two Step, Rapunzel, Satellite), and poetic lyrics (Christmas Song, Cry Freedom, Pig) that were the primary reasons I strove to learn to play the guitar.

So though his silvery sound doesn't frequent my speakers like it used to, I will always remember two things: Dave is a hell of a musician and I am grateful for it. Hats off to the maestro.

The Immutability of Wes Anderson

I think movies labeled "Comedy" are a bit of a misnomer. The amount of comedy, in my experience and with rare but welcomed exception, actually in a Comedy is drastically, yet predictably, less than what occurs. This fundamental problem in that particular genre is why I rarely rush to see such movies, or see them at all. Besides, the few moments of actual humor will more than likely be quoted to me boisterously by Nate or they will all have been neatly condensed into one little blip of hilarity, often called a "trailer". These methods are far cheaper than actually having to rent the movie and leave more time for Guitar Hero. RAWK.

So while Wes' films are absurdly funny, I don't think his films can be encapsulated into one specific genre. They offer a more constant level of humor than mere comedies, yet still show pointed glimpses into humanity that are often seen only in the most dramatic of movies. The trailer of Anderson's latest venture, The Darjeeling Limited, has hit the web and theaters and offers a glimpse into what I am talking about. "What's wrong with you?"..."Let me think about that". I dare Blades of Glory or its ilk to tackle existentialism so poetically and do so without losing the any of the understated humor and while provoking thought. Double-dog dare.

Those movies do have their place however, and do offer a quick laugh, smile, or, if you're Joe, eye-roll. But if there is a choice (and we fought wars so there would be), I choose to spend my time and funds elsewhere. Needless to say, yet say I shall, I have been looking forward to a new Wes Anderson film for quite some time. He movies constantly deliver, and that constancy is as rare as I like my steak. If nothing else I am gifted with gorgeously detailed widescreen shots accompanied soulfully by either the brilliant score of Mark Mothersbaugh or an eclectic song so befitting the scene it would seem to have been written especially for that purpose. Refer, if you will, to the mashing of two Kink's songs in The Darjeeling Limited trailer: This Time Tomorrow and Strangers.

Wes' ability to make us laugh, think, and wonder isn't necessarily a fresh trick. We see the same thing with films like The Graduate which also seamlessly blended music, cinematography, and script. But, when heavily saturated with empty servings of canned comedy, it is gratifying to sup at a table set with nothing but impeccable entrées, all of which are deep-fried or nougat-filled.

Middle Earthlings

Rare are the friends who you can don smeared face paint, rubber weapons, and carpet/fur with while tramping around the forest looking for all kinds of tom-foolery.

Perhaps this green faced fella will realize this one day and smile back on the good times (that is unless his face sticks that way). I pity the doomed creature or village that chances across their path.


(I do wish we could see the chainmail clad redhead in the back.)

The Anglo Mage and a Satisfied Pig

My pop culture cup runneth over and my emotions have been sapped. This week I saw a fine epic come to a satisfying close and saw a film that wrenched at my core.

Indulge me as I attempt closure by opining about both.

My friend and fellow blogger Emily Gillilllilllland beat me to the review of Rescue Dawn and wrote it far more eloquently than I could. Still, the film struck a chord and I feel the need to toss two cents into the ring. Before anything else can be said, the name Steve Zahn will never again be associated with paltry rolls or a mere comic actor with one character played time and time again. Just looking at him in this movie draws and quarters your emotions in a way that would have made the Inquisition proud. It was his eyes, as Emily points out. The pain depicted in those eyes, portrayed a loss to soul and psyche that words or delineation wouldn’t have done justice; it was all Zahn. That isn’t something an average actor could have mustered. His performance is why awards ceremonies were made.

Christian Bale, not one to be out-acted, masterfully portrays Dieter Dengler with a spot on confident and proud immigrant American. There is a scene when Deiter recalls his first childhood sighting of a bomber plane during WWII in Germany. While telling the tale Bale grins and instantly channels Jim, the boy that he played 20 years ago in Empire of the Sun, a great moment. His performance is also Oscar worthy. As is the performance of the eerie whispers of Jeremy Davies playing Gene hoping for peace talks to bring him freedom. Let us just hope that Oscar’s memory is as long as the ceremony itself. Even if these actors weren’t in the movie, that it is directed and written by Werner Herzog would have been reason enough to see it. He can strip a movie genera to its essence and I was more than pleased to see him turning his Teutonic eye to Vietnam War films.

It didn't help my emotional stamina finishing the Harry Potter series just a few days before watching Herzong's film.

A heartfelt thank you to J.K. Rowling. I was going to write more, but to avoid spoiling anything I will say only that I am happily a pig satisfied. I couldn't have asked for a better denouement.

Weary Memory

Sam Beam is looking more like Jesus then I ever expected him to.

With a new album due out at the end of September, I thought I would pay a quick homage to Mr. Beam in the form of a true tale entitled: When I Met Sam Beam and His Sister; or Darren Goes to a Show.

Fact. I attended a concert at Kilby Court in SLC in the year of our Lord 2002 where Iron & Wine was the headliner. Remember this nougat of information: beforehand, I ate at Beto's. A terrible choice.

Due to the size of the venue and the relative obscurity of Mr. Beam at that time I was able to get right up next to the stage and stood in front of his sister, Sarah. Remember this also: The stage at Kilby is only a foot and a half at most, so she was within a few feet of me. After a few of the songs we bantered back and forth a bit; one instance in particular is distinctive in my memory. She played an instrument, of which the name escapes me but it required her to drag a stick over ridges of a hollowed out piece of wood. It was one of those instruments that in 3rd grade if you couldn't master the recorder you are given it to play so you could still participate. After the song I said: "Impressive", and she smiled and said: "I know, I have practiced for years". "It shows", I responded. As these words escaped my mouth the Beto's grilled chicken burrito I inhaled prior to the concert decided to join our conversation; a Beto's burp was born. I was stymied as to what to do at that point. Do I say excuse me and admit that the waft came from me even though there was no doubt of it? Hell no. My only prayer was that, as it was quite silent and seeped out with the word "shows", she didn't hear it.

She didn't.

At this point the world became slow. I saw her nose slowly crinkle, her eyes squint in disgust, and her hand instinctively raise to her face to frantically mount a defensive attack. She hadn't hear it, but she did smell it. Dammit. Dammit all. Her reaction was quite normal, actually down played from what I would have done to such a vicious olfactory assault. All she said as she looked at me was: "Nasty". I didn't have the wits to apologize, but merely to blame the burrito. Giving a face to the smell probably wasn't the best move as it probably made the smell more violent, but that is all I thought to do.

At the close of the show I was laughing a bit to myself because something like that would happen to me. Mostly I felt like a cad. As we left we saw Sam sitting behind his van. I followed my friends up to him and shook his hand while lauding his show. I contemplated apologizing for burping on his sister, but as I didn't know his demeanor and didn't feel like risking a southern style beat down from someone I admired I decided against. He looked rather spry, so I slowly backed away careful to not turn my back on him just in case he already knew and was merely tempering himself until my back was to him.

Sub pop released the single take a gander:
Boy With a Coin

Obtuse Sneaktheivery

What a superb new music Tuesday; Spoon and Interpol came out with new albums. I will have to return and report as to what I think of the opuses, though I have no doubts that they will both offer stellar tracks.

However, while perusing the digital booklet that accompanied Interpol's effort, I took a gander at page three and was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu and I could have sworn an eerie, dissonant, highly dramatic piano chord bellowed overhead. I knew that I had seen that image before........I knew it, I knew it. A very frustrating couple of hours ensued. When the brain finally decided to stop being oblique I realized that Ola Podrida had that exact image on his album cover that came out in April of this year. This issue has probably been discussed in depth via the internet already but it was new to me and slapped me silly. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Aside from Interpol's, obvious use of PhotoShop, the images are identical. To be honest, I don't know who picks the cover and album art, but I always assumed it was the artist's choice. But, perhaps this can be blamed on the thoughtless anamatrons of the large record label that Interpol is now signed under. Actually, that must be the case, I refuse to think Interpol would be that careless. Either way it reeks of the obtuseness, and is the equivalent of hiding simply by covering your eyes. It is such a blatantly poor example of sneakthieving that I hesitate to even resurrect the old-timey parlance in reference to it. However, I do recognize the impossibility of creating something purely original; every creative thought has been impressed upon and influenced by countless numbers of outside parties. Yet, this is obviously far beyond mere influence.

This makes me miss the now archaic days of holding the actual artifact in my hands. Taking it home and spinning the disk in a bulky CD player while perusing the album art and reading lyrics. In those more tangible days, this probably wouldn't have occurred.

I hope more care was put into the quality of music.

Here are a few Ola Podrida songs:

Cindy

Photo Booth

A Northern Bound Cavalcade

One compulsion. One trip. One gear. One flat constant drone for 8.5-hours; and another 8.5 back. One vindictive gravel patch. One wreck. One iPod shaped bruise. One set of road-rashed hands. One meal at Chiplote. One wrong turn. One great push. One northern expansion by scooter. One long trip home. One too many accidental jaunts on the freeway. One set of directions ignored. One secret road found.

No map. No A/C. No ass-less chaps. No sense. No point. No villages pillaged or plundered. No better way to spend a weekend.

Huzzah boys. The beast was bested. The road is ours.

I Made A Pilgrimage to Save This Human's Race

"Don’t worry, it’s Robert Smith from the Cure....he’ll get me there in no time".

That is the only line I remember from the dream that completely robbed me from deep, restless, sleep last night. As though Robert Smith and punctuality were one and the same.

The actual plot of the dream is hazy. However, I do remember that the world was in peril and needed to saved by me. I also remember the most psychedelic part, aside from when I could sling web from my wrists, was the pending world devastation took place at the same time...throughout time. Not only was my ass-kicking prowess put to the test, but my time traveling abilities. Very similar to Quantum Leap but with a slice of X-Men and a quaff from the A-Team.

Dreams like this cause reflection. I wonder why I was born without the ability to shoot webs from my wrists. I then instantly wondered if I could choose, is that the super power I would want? I don’t think I will ever be able to truthfully answer that most elusive of questions. I wonder if my mutant powers lay dormant and I am merely a late bloomer (as evident from my size 8 feet).

Mostly I wonder if my world were in the grips of a mad man, what I would do.

I would like to think that my steed and sidekick and sidecar and utility belt and costume and canned grin and lightsaber and kung fu grip and steel jaw, were all ready for even the slightest altercation. But reality and honesty dictate that all I actually have at hand are soft muscles, a smarmy grin, and a sardonic personality. With this meager skill set all I am qualified for is slinging biting words that may or may not have the attacker feeling dumb enough about himself to abort his quest for filthy lucre.

"Mother of pearl handled pistol huh? ....Too bad you’re not supposed to wear white after Labor Day".

That doesn't even make sense. It wouldn't do much.

I am not asking for an apocalyptic event, or even a slight scuffle, I just wonder what would happen to me when placed in a situation like those. All my favorite books and movies feature predominately the archetypal hero's quest. This idea makes me start to wonder again: is a quest necessary to act heroic, or to merely be a hero? Is Robert Smith, in his streamlined convertible Rabbit of Justice transporting me to my destination in 1959 because he recognized a need and jumped to fill it....and because his car is ideally suited for the adventure...or is it because he has been through the proverbial ringer and was baptized in the waters of hard core bad-assness?

I think I might just roll my eyes and roll over. I want to think that I would rise up to thwart injustice. I may never know...and that is probably a good thing.

Awkwardian

Despite my continuous attempts to shed the mighty shroud of awkwardness that I so magnificently donned as a whelp, it seems that it is a battle fought in vain. Some may feel that I never fully stepped from beneath its dark shadow.  And while that may be true, I had thought perhaps, just perhaps, that it had gone the way of my Umbro shorts. However, a recent occurrence proves that though the wave in my hair is gone, my awkwardness remains, and is more cunning and powerful than ever.

For your consideration:

I flew to Denver last month for a nerd-fueled weekend. A wise man could have predicted that the sheer nerdery of the trip would tempt Fate to set into motion the long avoided clash of nerd and jock.  I foolishly thought those situations were long past and was apparently in need of a reminder of my place in the universe.

While in line at security, I was playing a rousing game of chess on my cellular telephone.  Pleased with my successful attempt at a Queen's Gambit, I looked up (as if to accept applause)  and noticed a team of lacrosse players from a college up north were in the line ahead of me looking all jockish and as cool as hell. So cool in fact were these young players that one wore sunglasses, as to shield his eyes from the pasty plainness of those around him. It was these sunglasses that would ultimately prove to be my bane. As the serpentine Tensabarrier drove us to and fro like cattle through the security line, 'Sunglasses' and I passed each other. He looked right at me and said "What's up". I, a bit bewildered and not wanting to be rude, responded back with an ambivalent "Hey" and then thought: "how very odd, the super-cool never acknowledged me before.  Perhaps he happened to observe my impressive chess skills and wishes to discuss how to improve his game play". It was during this delusion that it happened. Mere moments after my initial retort, I heard from behind me the shout of an articulate "What-up Dawwg"......Sunglasses was speaking to someone behind me.

Damn those sunglasses, damn them to live with its fellow minions of the Dark Lord in the fiery furnace of hell where its plastic composition will melt and become a puddle of useless nothing. And damn those who aren't blind and still wear sunglasses inside so people can't see where they're looking to the same fate.

I began instantly mentally kicking myself. The self loathing of my youth erupted in my esophagus. I am an adult, fully confident in who I am, and yet there I was feeling sheepish and completely, utterly, all-encompassingly, and totally lame.

It gets worse.

Recall, if you will, that I was in a Tensabarrier line winding back and forth.........PAST THE SAME PEOPLE. I had to see his snide face another half-dozen times before we parted paths at the end of security. I felt him each time looking, pointing, and laughing (none of that actually happened, but in my mind, it was, and more). Was that to be all? Perhaps for an average life, yes,  and at this point the gods of cruel Fate would have felt satiated and gone to bed. But not for me and my role as the Fate's toy.  That awkward moment, with the following Tensa-weave, was to be just the beginning; the gods were hungry and needed to feed and I was the main course.  

Walking away to my gate I start to feel better as the situation is done and over. My confidence begins to grow back as I think: "you will never see that yahoo again". I sit down at the terminal and begin to forget about the awkward exchange, when I start to notice that there sure are a lot of people wearing matching lacrosse jackets around me talking about their upcoming game in Colorado. Sweet cheetah...they're on my flight. He arrives and (this is not made up) the only seat open is right across from me. Damn.  Our flight is announced and I board before him hoping that will finally be the end and cry inside and a little outside as he finds his assigned seat and sits in the row next to me.  Not in front or behind where I wouldn't have to see him, but in the same cursed row.  I felt like I was in a horror film where no matter how far or fast I ran, 'Sunglasses' would somehow catch up.

The trip in Colorado was nerderiffic.

I get back on the plane to fly home three days later, and he is sitting in the row next to me.

WHY MOCK ME O CRUEL GODS OF FATE...WHYYYYY?

Seriously.  Why?

Got You Covered

Nothing has more potential to amaze and infuriate like a cover song. No matter what is done, someone will be upset that a lesser band desecrated their beloved tune. Yet, on the heads side of the cover-song-coin there are those lauding the tune as better than the original. I have felt both. I have also felt a happy mean. It is a discriminating task to qualify why some covers are so utterly delectable, while others are far better left unearthed. Personally, I enjoy a cover that serves up something new to the table. I am a glutton that enjoys a savory and eclectic feast. But, I know what I like, and unless you are offering a seasoned steak to my salted pork, I would rather just stick with what I know I like. While this alone isn't quite enough to make a determination, it is a quality that all the songs listed below offer. This list is not definitive.



Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley originally by Leonard Cohen.

No one has made a cover more their own since people thought Dylan was covering Hendrix.


Speaking of:

All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix originally by Bob Dylan








Ocean Breathes Salty by Sun Kil Moon originally by Modest Mouse.

The guitar tone in this song is perfect...just perfect.



Wonderwall by Ryan Adams originally by Oasis

A sad song made sadder.




Hurt by Johnny Cash originally by Nine Inch Nails

Here's to Johnny...






Mad World by Gary Jules originally by Tears For Fears

I was minding my own business watching Donnie Darko...when WHAM (a la Batman) this song smacked me in my face. Be careful, it is too good.




Such Great Heights by Iron and Wine originally by Postal Service

Simplicity incarnate. Bastardized by Zach Braff



Life on Mars by Seu Jorge originally by David Bowie

Bowie in acoustic Portuguese...timeless.




Twist and Shout by The Beatles originally by Top Notes

They can do no wrong. Lennon's vocals are stellar.



Hearbeats by Jose Gonzalez originally by The Knife

Hot damn...





Covers I Loathe:
American Pie by Madonna originally by Don Mclean
Smooth Criminal by Alien Ant Farm originally by Micheal Jackson
Faith by Limp Bizkit originally by George Michael
Behind Blue Eyes by Limp Bizkit originally by The Who
Sweet Child O' Mine by Sheryl Crow originally by Guns 'N Roses
Papa Don't Preach by Kelly Osbourne originally by Madonna
My Prerogative by Brittney Spears originally by Bobby Brown
Take My Breath Away by Jessica Simpson originally by Berlin
Downtown Train by Rod Stewart originally by Tom Waits
Video Killed the Radio Star by The Presidents of the United States of America
I'm A Believer by Smash Mouth originally by Neil Diamond

Et al...