Movie Review: The Fourth Kind
For those who take the subject matter seriously, it has been a long held belief that Hollywood doesn't have a very good track record when it comes to films dealing with the subject of UFOs and alien abduction.
In fact, most, if not all of the big-screen films based on actual UFO and alien abduction case files — from Communion to Fire In The Sky — have been disasters from the perspective of those who have either investigated or actually experienced such encounters.
In the case of Communion, author and contactee Whitley Strieber is portrayed in such a way as to suggest the only "close encounter" he has experienced is one of the psychotic kind. To anyone familiar with the abduction case of Travis Walton, there are entire scenes of his story as told in Fire In The Sky that simply never happened.
Like those films, Universal's The Fourth Kind purports, and in fact goes to great lengths to convince the viewer that it too is based on actual events — except that it isn't. The only back story here is rather the result of one of those viral marketing campaigns which most recently worked so well for Paranormal Activity.
The Fourth Kind centers on a series of unexplained disappearances occurring in Nome, Alaska (that part is real) which may be tied to alien abductions (that part isn't). Milla Jovovich plays Dr. Abigail Tyler, a psychiatrist investigating the cases. The title refers to what ufologists call a close encounter of the fourth kind, which involves alien abduction. Steven Spielberg's famous film Close Encounters Of The Third Kind refers to contact. This movie should in no way be confused with Spielberg's classic though.In the opening scene, Jovovich appears as herself, and explains she will be portraying Tyler, and that the film includes actual audio and video footage from Tyler's case files. This illusion continues with director Olatunde Osunsanmi interviewing the "real" Tyler, and then throughout the film with split-screen images of Jovovich and the other Abigail Tyler often simultaneously reciting and acting the same lines and scenes.
As a storytelling device, it's a clever one and does seem to lend an air of authenticity to the story, as the events, some of which are pretty terrifying, unfold on screen. The trick is, however, revealed for the ruse it is, when some of the actors portraying the abductees are actually more convincing at expressing terror than their counterparts in the "real" footage. One scene which purports to show an abductee driven by madness to murdering his family, in particular, exposes the parlor tricks at work here.
Even so, The Fourth Kind plays this card right up until the end of the movie. It's a clever enough idea to a point, but one can only willingly suspend disbelief for so long, until it just becomes a distraction. By the time phenomena more closely resembling demonic possession than anything from classic alien abduction cases begins to manifest, the thin strings holding the plot together completely unravel.
What's left is an uneven mess that plays like one part Close Encounters multiplied by several times The Exorcist. The cast mostly gets an A for effort in a lost cause — particularly Jovovich and the actress portraying the "real" Dr. Abigail Tyler, and I'll even give director Osunsanmi credit for a noble try at something a little different as far as his storytelling method goes.
At the same time, though, The Fourth Kind loses points for trying a little too hard to push a story that simply doesn't hold up. Studio-created websites aside, a Google search for "Nome alien abductions" turns up little to support it.
While there have been some unexplained disappearances in Nome over the years, F.B.I. investigations suggest these may have been due more to bad weather, tough terrain, and close encounters of the alcoholic kind.
As escapist entertainment, The Fourth Kind is harmless enough. Even so, it fails to redeem or change Hollywood's poor track record for telling a good alien abduction story. Sadly, that record remains very much intact.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 12:28 AM,
, links to this post
Steven Tyler, the eternally young 61 year old lead vocalist for Aerosmith has apparently decided to walk his way right out of the mega-successful American rock band.
According to numerous reports published today on the internet, Tyler has left the group to pursue a career as a solo artist. Guitarist Joe Perry says Tyler quit Aerosmith following a concert in the United Arab Emirates Abu Dhabi.
"Steven quit, as far as I can tell," Perry told the Las Vegas Sun. "I don't know anymore than you do about it. I got off the plane two nights ago. I saw online that Steven said that he was going to leave the band. I don't know for how long, indefinitely or whatever."
Aerosmith are of course no strangers to internal feuding within the band, often related to widely reported drug abuse in the past — and earning Tyler and Perry their infamous nicknames "The Toxic Twins" during the band's early to mid seventies years. Most famously, Perry left Aerosmith in the late seventies to form the Joe Perry Project, while Tyler carried on with replacement guitarists on the album Rock In A Hard Place, scoring a moderate hit with the song "Lightnin' Strikes."
Perry rejoined Aerosmith for the Done With Mirrors album, and with the newly "drug-free" incarnation of the band, went on to renewed success in the eighties and nineties with albums like Permanent Vacation and Pump. A remake of the band's "Walk This Way" with veteran rappers Run-DMC further re-established Aerosmith as one of the top bands in rock and roll.
Just this past summer, Aerosmith had to cancel a number of dates on their co-headlining tour with ZZ Top after Tyler injured himself after falling from the stage at a concert. The band also recently postponed an album planned for later this year.
In a conversation with Peter Makowski of Classic Rock magazine, guitarist Brad Whitford seemed to leave the next move for the veteran hard rockers wide open. Indicating the band would meet soon to discuss future plans, Whitford seemed to leave the door open for either packing it in, or possibly carrying on with a new lead singer.
“Nobody could replace Steven or imitate him – he’s one of a kind. But if somebody was willing to do it and the chemistry was right, why not?,” Whitford said.
It's certainly clear that Perry prefers that some form of Aerosmith will continue, with or without their lead singer and most visible member. "Right now I'm adjusting to how we're going to go on," Perry said.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 7:59 PM,
, links to this post
It's a funny thing about rock stars.
You'd think that so many of them have the world on a string, the tiger by the tail, or whatever you'd otherwise choose to call it.
Let's talk first about the lifestyle, or at least what we know about it as outsiders living vicariously through reading about it in the Random Notes section of Rolling Stone, or maybe seeing it in the nude pictures of Keith Richards lying on some beach in France we see showing up on the Internet.
And just for the record, if that particular image grosses you out, you are by no means alone.
Anyway, you'd think a life of selling millions of records, living in English countryside mansions, dating 20-something year-old super models into your 60s, and pretty much having the world as your personal oyster would be enough, right? Well, think again.
You see, for the select handful of rock royalty who have actually scaled the top of the mountain, there remains that one elusive final hill to climb, and that my friends, is artistic redemption.
It's one thing to top the charts on Billboard, but it's quite another to have the sort of pretentious types who sip wine at art galleries poring over your every word as though it were manna from heaven itself.
Even so, many have tried.
For rock stars like Mick Jagger, David Bowie, and Sting, for example, acting in films has represented the the most obvious avenue towards this type of validation, and as could be expected the results have been decidedly mixed.
Jagger, most notably, is back singing "Jumping Jack Flash" for the umpteenth time after getting mixed reviews in movies from Performance and Ned Kelly, to Freejack. Bowie did a great job playing himself in The Man Who Fell To Earth, and the less said about Sting acting in movies like David Lynch's production of Dune the better.
Of these, Sting alone refuses to give up however. He's spent the better part of the last two decades trying to reinvent himself as a solo artist dabbling in everything from jazz to Gregorian chants when all most of us want to hear is "Roxanne" with the Police one more time — and not have to pay 300 bucks a ticket for the privilege of doing so, I might add.
In so doing, Sting joins the likes of people like Peter Gabriel, Paul Simon, and especially David Byrne who seem hellbent on cramming culture down the throats of fans who would much rather hear "Burning Down The House" or "Shock The Monkey" one more time.
You know what I mean? Good.
Because rather than piss off all of the South African or Brazilian union musicians who play on records by Sting and David Byrne, I have a rather novel idea. Follow the poets.
Tribal rhythms and all aside, rock and poetry is the one combination which has worked best over the years to satisfy the need to reconcile commercial success with artistic credibility for attention starved rock stars.
Elvis Costello can record vanity projects with the Brodsky Quartet, and Paul McCartney can write his symphonies, but let's be honest here. Nothing works for rock stars quite like poetry.
Some rock stars are in fact naturals at it. For that you can reference Lennon, Dylan, Springsteen, and even Bono (at least on a good day). Others? Well they fake it really well.
The most obvious example here is Jim Morrison. By all accounts, the one-time Lizard King spent his final years wandering the streets of Paris in a boozed-out haze trying to connect with his inner Rimbaud, and left us with An American Prayer.
Drunken ramblings about a "Lament For My Cock" aside, that album actually has an oddly haunting, hypnotic quality to it too, played as it is to the surviving members of the Doors providing a lounge-jazz music backing soundtrack.
Of those rock stars who are still among us though, I would point towards Patti Smith and Tom Waits as the two greatest living examples of artists who combine the thought of poetry with the thump of rock and roll with any degree of success.
Patti Smith's landmark debut album Horses alone stands as something which qualifies her for goddess status. Nowhere in all of rock and roll will you find something that combines the raw punk rock urgency of her take on "Gloria" with the gorgeous stream of consciousness poetry of the amazing nine or so minutes of "Birdland" (a tonal poem, which to best I can figure has something to do with being taken up in a UFO). It is an absolutely spellbinding album.
Patti's work has been spotty since coming back in the '90s, but Horses is a masterpiece that on its own qualifies her as one of the true greats.
And then there's Tom Waits.
Waits is a different animal entirely. After writing songs that became hits for people like Linda Ronstadt in the '70s, Tom Waits has spent the better part of the last three decades traveling down the darkest streets and alleyways of the world, and singing about them in a voice choked with cigarettes, whiskey, and God only knows what else.
Over the years, Waits has taken on the character of everything from vagabond drifter to carnival barker, to create a persona that is truly unique in all of music. Even someone as mighty as Bob Dylan has been compared to him in the voice he has taken on in his most recent albums.
If there is any guy alive who sings about the seedy underbelly of society with legitimate street cred, it is Tom Waits. Sometimes, I even find myself praying for the guy, he makes it all seem so real. An advance listen to Waits' forthcoming Glitter And Doom Live (review forthcoming) is in fact what inspired this article.
The second disc — which consists entirely of "Tom's Tales" is particularly good.
If true artistic credibility means the ability of the listener to live vicariously through the words of the artist, then I defy anyone to find an artist more credible than Tom Waits.
It's all about putting it into words.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 4:54 PM,
, links to this post
Bring Lawyers, Guns, And Money...
Before I get started here, I need to preface this article by qualifying a few quick things.
First and foremost, I have been gainfully unemployed for nearly a year now. I won't explain the circumstances, other than that they are related to the recession, which is far from being over, no matter what they tell you. Thank you, Mr. Bush.
Needless to say, I'm also not real happy about it. Just ask my landlord. Better yet, ask my fellow editors at Blogcritics.
I'm not sleeping well. I'm not eating right. I'm downright irritable. I live in a dump, I drink more than I should, and my feet probably stink to boot. I'm generally a pretty agreeable fellow and all, but these days even my loyal cat Smokey knows when to get the hell out of my way.
But I'm not a complainer by nature (well okay, not on most days anyway).
I understand why most employers require background checks, and I've also become more than accustomed to filling out very lengthy job applications. Even so, these are often quite invasive on a personal level, and require an accounting of one's personal life that is, well...extensive to say the least.
In the interest of rooting out all the sex offenders, the alcoholics, the terrorists, and the criminals, corporate America is doing a fine job of providing a template worthy of what, I'm quite sure, God Himself will use, come Judgment Day. Beware all ye sinners, because even God knows how to Google search your past.
But the thing is, somewhere along the line we, as a society, surrendered our rights to information that, in a decent world anyway, is supposed to be kept private. Even though I don't necessarily agree with it, I've learned to accept it.
But secondly, I just want to work, dammit.
Honestly, I do. Some folks on the government dole would prefer to stay there for as long as Obama grants those unemployment extensions. Much as they have thankfully sustained me for the past year, I'm not one of them. 300 bucks a week just doesn't cut it in an economy where filling the tank for an interview costs the same as the grocery bill. Never mind the smokes and the beer.
It used to be that applying for work was a simple matter of filling out a basic application, which for the fortunate was followed by an interview where the employer basically sized you up to figure out if a.) you were qualified, and b.) whether or not they liked you.
Not so, these days.
Having been out of meaningful full-time work for some eleven months now (side gig doing what I love most at Blogcritics for that precious beer money aside of course), I have applied for hundreds of jobs (most of which I am eminently qualified for). What I have found is that looking for work is the hardest full-time job I have ever had. Hands down.
There has to be a balance somewhere.
For those fortunate enough to get to that coveted first interview, what used to be a get-acquainted process of getting sized-up has become something more akin to a very hostile Roman arena where you are the Christian and they are the lions. These days a job interview is more about why they shouldn't hire you than why they should.
Meet the new boss, or maybe not. In today's reality, it's more like you better, you bet (God bless you, Pete Townshend).
But that isn't even what I want to talk about here. I want to talk about the application that is supposed to get you that ticket to the lion's den.
Quick question here:
How many of you keep a record of everything you have ever done for the past ten years, including names, dates, addresses, zip codes, and phone numbers handy? Well you had best start doing so, just in case of the event you should ever find yourself laid off.
Most of the pre-screening process these days takes place online. And where it used to be about the easy task of securing accounts at Monster, Career Builder, and the rest, and just clicking your mouse to apply for a job — these days that single click increasingly just redirects you to an employer website. Once there, nothing less than a complete accounting of your last ten years on this earth will suffice. That means names, dates, addresses, e-mails, and phone numbers of everyone you have ever known or ever will. The Social Security and drivers license number invasions into your private life are now simply a warm-up to the real inquisition.
I don't know about you, but when I leave a job (and I've left many), I usually want to just put it behind me (at least outside of keeping the most basic record). Not possible anymore. Anything less than the sort of full accounting worthy of a courtroom scene from Law And Order will result in a mistrial — or at least get you booted off the corporate website application process.
Somewhere, someplace out there, there is a genius lying in wait who will one day make a killing off of the next great innovation in our increasingly litigious society — defense attorney insurance for the unemployed.
Which leaves the scams.
Membership on sites like Monster and Career Builder virtually guarantees it — as well as all the accompanying spyware, malware, and viruses that are a given for anyone foolish or naive enough to sign up for them in the misguided hopes of actually landing a job. Talk about a screening process.
Trust me. I've had to wipe my computer more times in the past four months than I've had to wipe my ass. I wish I could say it was because I was busy pleasuring myself to porn or downloading suspect bootlegs. The sad truth is I've been unwittingly downloading job porn.
To those of you who have recently joined the ranks of the unemployed, all I can say is prepare for the adventure of a lifetime, and for the toughest full-time job you will ever have. And know that I feel your pain.
Buyer Beware.
To the rest of you out there in corporate America, despite my protests about your methods and all, I can absolutely assure you that I'm your guy, and that you won't be sorry if you sign me up for a lifetime of servitude to, well whatever you would have me do.
Just bring Lawyers, Guns, And Money.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 4:59 PM,
, links to this post
Music Review: Al Stewart - Uncorked (Live With Dave Nachmanoff)
Al Stewart's first all-acoustic live recording since 1992's Rhymes In Rooms is a little like reconnecting with an old friend.
Although not entirely unexpected, it's still a welcome reminder of just how fine a talent the one-time "Year Of The Cat" hitmaker really is. Especially when left alone in a room to do his thing unadorned by the strings and over-production of some of those records made back when Stewart filled arenas, rather than the smaller, folkier venues where he was recorded here.
On Uncorked, Stewart and his musical counterpart Dave Nachmanoff are simply two guys with their acoustic guitars — but together they create a surprisingly big noise. The smaller arrangements sound every bit as rich and full here, in a small setting, as on their studio counterparts, thanks to both a marvelously clear and crisp recording, and even more to just how well the two jell together as guitarists.
And that is really the most delightful surprise here. Although Stewart is known primarily for his songwriting talents, this is as much of a showcase for the guitar as it is for the rich wordplay of his songs. The main disappointment is that once Stewart and Nachmanoff really get going, it's not often clear just who is playing which part because they blend so well together.
"Last Days of The Century," for example, is at first propelled by what I presume to be Nachmanoff playing the bass part, with Stewart (again presumably) playing lead. Before long though, the two of them are ferociously trading solos in a blinding blur with all the deftness of Beck and Page in the Yardbirds, causing the audience to break into spontaneous applause at various points.
On "News from Spain," Nachmanoff plays Rick Wakeman's piano solo from the studio version — an "unenviable task" Stewart jokes — on guitar, and totally nails it.
But lest we forget his songwriting talents, this album also provides a worthy reminder that Al Stewart is one of music's more literate historical storytellers. Song titles from his catalog like "Palace of Versailles" and "Old Admirals" only hint at the rich escape lying within.
At their best, Stewart's songs are like rich tapestries originating from such places as 16th Century European battlefields ("Coldest Winter"). The stories are mostly told in the first person, and in such ways as to actually transport you there. Stewart's voice has also never sounded better.
Many of the songs here will be unfamiliar to more casual fans — an intentional decision by the artists, so there would be no overlap between this and the previous live album. So there's no "Year Of The Cat," "Nostradamus," or "Roads To Moscow". However, for the more devoted fans, Stewart does dig deep enough into the well to pull out chestnuts like "Bedsitter Images" and "Carol."
Whether you are already a fan, or you just love great songs, rich storytelling, and some unexpectedly wicked guitar playing, Uncorked is a wonderful new album from an old friend.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 11:15 PM,
, links to this post
Is it just me, or has basic cable been completely taken over by ghosts lately? No, I don't mean those fuzzy double images that show up during a rainstorm for those of you with rabbit ears or satellite.
I'm talking about the real thing here, as in things that go bump in the night. Disembodied spirits. The undead. You know, ghosts...
I'm not sure exactly where the trend of all these geeks running around with thermal cameras and electro-magnetic field measuring devices started, but lately it seems you can't turn on the TV without seeing a bunch of guys sitting in a dark room someplace — usually captured in glorious black and white — checking out such paranormal activity as shadows, creaking floors and headlights outside in the driveway.
Okay, I'll admit I'm not being completely fair here.
Some of what you see and hear on these shows is mildly interesting, and occasionally even somewhat compelling. More often however, you see these "investigators" jumping out of their skins and screaming "paranormal" pretty much whenever their equipment picks up a fly on the window.
The bottom line is reality TV is out, and unreality TV is in. These shows are freaking everywhere these days — it doesn't even have to be Halloween.
But the grandaddy of the bunch has to be the Ghost Hunters franchise on the SyFy channel. Before these guys spawned this lucrative enterprise, head honchos Jason and Grant were a couple of schmoes working for Roto Rooter. These days, the SyFy channel has become home to an empire that in addition to the original Ghost Hunters show, now includes Ghost Hunters International and the soon-to-be-launched Ghost Hunters Academy.
For my money though, Ghost Hunters also rides head and shoulders above the rest of this increasingly crowded paranormal pack on basic cable. As head investigators of T.A.P.S. (The Atlantic Paranormal Society), Jason and Grant largely approach their investigations both scientifically and with an open and even semi-skeptical mind. I like that.
These guys basically know their stuff, and using their nuts and bolts knowledge of things like pipes and drains gained through working their day jobs at Roto Rooter, they are actually able to quickly debunk a lot of the creaking floors and such they encounter while investigating alleged haunted houses.
The other thing that impresses me about these guys is the way their team of investigators painstakingly go through hours of everything their assorted video and audio gadgetry catches on these investigations. If it were me, I'd be bored stiff. So if nothing else, sifting through all of this "evidence" the way these guys do demonstrates both a dedication and a seriousness towards what they do that I have to yet to see from any of the other para-wannabes that have followed in their wake.
Occasionally they catch some pretty wild shit too, such as EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomena) of voices that aren't supposed to be there, and video of things going beyond the dust in the air so often misindentified as "orbs" by some of the other shows out there. It also doesn't hurt that one of the Ghost Hunters is a pretty hot chick named Kris Williams. That girl can haunt my house anytime.
As always with anything on the tube, success breeds imitation, and the ratings of Ghost Hunters has spawned a whole slew of imitators and paranormal pretenders — some of them are good, some not so much, but none are as good as the original.
The Biography Channel practically turns into a paranormal channel of its own on Saturday nights, running a slate of shows including Ghost Stories, A Haunting, Psychic Investigators, and the inevitable latest entry into the paranormal sweepstakes, Celebrity Ghost Stories.
None of these are particularly compelling — unless your idea of goosebumps involves people like Sammy Hagar and Tom Arnold sitting in a darkened room and talking about the things they thought were under the bed as children.
A&E's Paranormal State is a bit more likable, and easily the best of the lot.
It revolves around a painfully earnest Penn State student named Ryan who investigates hauntings and the like in an effort to make sense of what seems to be some rather fucked up things he experienced as a child. His team includes a spacey chick named Elfie, a Russian guy named Sergey, and a revolving door of various psychics and professional exorcists who mix traditional religion and the occult to root out spirits during something they call "dead time."
Pretty spooky stuff, kiddies.
Over at the Travel Channel, they mix historical travelogues like Haunted History, with yet another team of would-be paranormal investiagtors on their Ghost Adventurers. I'd probably like this show more if the main protagonists acted more like the pros on Ghost Hunters, and less like macho assholes when confronting the spirits at such locations as haunted prisons and graveyards.
Speaking of macho assholes, they seem to be cropping up everywhere on these shows. Of the newer entries into the field, The Discovery Channel's Ghost Lab follows a pair of brothers who travel around the country in a van filled with all of the latest ghost-hunting gadgets in search of the undead.
I really wanted to like this team, except that they lacked both the professionalism and the healthy skepticism of Ghost Hunters vets Jason and Grant. On a recent episode, I admired the way they "phoned a friend" (in the form of a scientist) to get the straight scoop on Electro-Magnetic-Fields. But they lost me just as quick when they wanted to ascribe such fields to paranormal activity, rather than the discomfort that occurs naturally when lots of wires cause high levels of EMFs.
In General Electric terms, these guys were dim bulbs. Jason and Grant would've known better.
Worse yet however are the trio of nerds and jocks comprising the team on the A&E Channel's Extreme Paranormal. These guys actually scare me, but not in a good way. It's not just the way they are willing to label any shadow seen in a supposedly haunted prison as a ghost (and use electric drills to kill the undead bastard again), but also the way they do really dumb shit like diving into haunted lakes during thunder storms.
Led by the sort of big dumb jock you might remember from high school (and who has populated every B-grade horror movie since the dawn of time), these guys strike me as the very definition of people who have no clue of what they are doing, and who I fear will actually one day end up in a premature grave of their own.
But at least the cameras will be rolling, right? Note to the fat nerdy guy here — get out while you still can.
Between shows like these and all of the UFO and Nostradamus stuff on the History Channel, I see no signs of the proliferation of these paranormal TV shows slowing down anytime soon. The good news here is, at least you'll have something to watch when the trick or treaters show up tonight.
Better yet though, just rent that Dawn Of The Dead DVD. Yes, again.
Happy Halloween everybody.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 1:36 AM,
, links to this post
Book Review: Bowie: A Biography By Marc Spitz
Normally, I like to read books front to back much like everyone else, but Marc Spitz's new Bowie: A Biography is something else entirely.
I've found myself going back over it again and again, and placing those kind of little bookmarks all over it for reference the way you normally do with things like Shakespeare, the Bible, or Mad Magazine.
Okay, I was just kidding about the Mad Magazine part...
Like Spitz, I grew up on David Bowie and remain a huge fan to this day. As you might expect, reading and re-reading through Spitz's exhaustively researched book — which is easily the most thorough Bowie bio I have come across to date — has also brought back a ton of memories.
The biggest problem has been absorbing it all.
In his research for the book, Spitz conducted hundreds of interviews with those closest to Bowie — ranging from ex-wife Angie, to one-time sideman Peter Frampton, to Dick Cavett of all people. Spitz doesn't miss a trick here.
In the book, Spitz meticulously traces the history of the ever-mercurial chameleon Bowie through all of his various career phases. We follow the former David Jones from his evolution from young R&B loving mod and later beat-influenced hippie, all the way through his career periods and artistic incarnations as Ziggy Stardust and the Thin White Duke, to the Plastic Soul Review, the Berlin trilogy, and beyond.
In doing so, Spitz makes the most effective case yet as to just how major an influence Bowie has been over the years. Particularly in the post-modern era which began in the late eighties with bands like Nine Inch Nails — but which can really be traced back further to the kraut-rock of Kraftwerk, and of course, finally to Bowie himself.
Reading through this amazing book, we also discover just how much Bowie's influence lives on today through bands ranging from Arcade Fire to the Killers (yes, the Killers).
Along the way, we follow Bowie's amazing journey as he moved through labels, managers (Tony DeFries), sidemen (the late, great guitarist Mick Ronson), rivals (most notably Marc Bolan), and addictions and identities (Ziggy Stardust, the Thin White Duke), to become the icon and legend he is recognized as today.
The funnest part about reading this for me was going back to Bowie records I haven't listened to in years, and reliving my own memories as a teenaged fan.
From my earliest exposure to Bowie on the song "Moonage Daydream" (which I first heard on a promotional 4-song E.P. I got as a sixteen year old intern at Seattle rock station KOL), to witnessing Bowie's sparsely attended 1972 Ziggy Stardust show in the orchestra pit at Seattle's Paramount with my high school buddy Kim Murrell, the memories came flooding back.
Bowie and Kim had a rather spirited exchange back then, when, in a rare moment of getting up close and personal with his audience, "Ziggy" offered my fifteen year old friend the microphone. Remind me to tell you about it one of these days...because it's a great story.
I don't necessarily agree with all of of Spitz's critical assessments of Bowie's work here — I would definitely call comparing latter-day Bowie albums like Outside to the Berlin trilogy (reunion with Eno aside), somewhat misguided.
But for the most part Spitz gets it right here like no Bowie biography has to date.
Most importantly, he reveals just how much David Bowie is truly missed. I suspect I'll be re-reading and discovering new things here for weeks and months to come.
Come back David. All is forgiven.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 4:31 AM,
, links to this post
Book Review: Corn Flakes with John Lennon: And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life by Robert Hilburn
One of the things you hear most often from guys my age is our pissing and moaning about the death of rock and roll.
Truth be told, a pretty good case can be made for it too. Certainly the most common complaints — the lack of any true megabands since U2, the decline of record sales, and the increasingly disposable pop of the Disney teen acts and American Idol — ring true enough.
The fact is, in today's musical landscape, the chances of a true game-changing phenomenon — one that affects not just the musical, but also the cultural landscape of America and the world in ways that the Beatles, Dylan, or even Nirvana did — just isn't that likely to happen. This probably has as much to do with how music is distributed to the masses these days as anything else. But that's another subject...
What I miss nearly as much as rock's golden age of the sixties, seventies, and eighties, however, is the brand of rock journalism which often went side by side with it — the type of writing I soaked up like a sponge in magazines like Creem and Rolling Stone as a kid, written with a fan's passion by guys like the late, great Lester Bangs.
Since I didn't grow up in Los Angeles (and therefore was unable read the music coverage of the L.A. Times), I was never that familiar with the work of Robert Hilburn, although I certainly knew of his reputation.
Reading his new book, however, it's certainly clear that he was, and still is, cut from that same old-school cloth of rock criticism that I miss so much. In fact, Hilburn's Corn Flakes with John Lennon: And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life is one of the best books on the subject of rock and roll I have read in a good long while.
Hilburn certainly writes from a perspective that is more informed than most — at times this book reads as much as a history of rock as it does as his own personal memoir.
But more importantly, Hilburn writes about the music he so clearly loves with all the passion of the most hardcore fan. This, more than anything else, is what separates Corn Flakes with John Lennon: And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life from the rest of the rock books you'll find in the music section at your nearest Borders, and also what makes it such a great read.
Although this is largely a personal memoir of Hilburn's career as pop music critic for the L.A. Times, it is also a fascinating journey through the history of rock and roll itself — dotted with Hilburn's personal memories of rubbing shoulders with such greats as Elvis, Lennon, Dylan, Springsteen and Bono.
Tracing his own history of discovering the music through listening to his uncle's records by artists like Hank Williams, and then later discovering R&B and of course Elvis, Hilburn goes on to describe how he liked the attention he got from the other kids in school through his writing, beginning a journey which finally landed him a gig with the L.A. Times, first as a stringer, then eventually as full-time pop music critic.
That part of Hilburn's story will primarily be of interest to writing geeks like myself. What gives Corn Flakes With John Lennon its more universal appeal, though, are the stories of how Hilburn endeared himself to some of the greatest musical icons of this generation — often to the point of becoming a personal confidant.
The common thread running through nearly all of them is how Hilburn was able to cut through the barriers surrounding musicians who were treated more like Gods — particularly during the sixties when rock was impacting culture like it hasn't at any time before or since. In story after amazing story here, we learn how Hilburn perfected this art mainly by first being honest, and then by connecting with them as fans.
And what stories.
In Corn Flakes With John Lennon, we travel with Hilburn to Folsom Prison on the occasion of Johnny Cash's historic concerts there. We go backstage and discover the shy, insecure person lying beneath the dynamo that was Janis Joplin, and are there on the night of Elton John's career-making shows at L.A.'s Troubadour club.
We meet John Lennon during his infamous alcohol-fueled "lost weekend" in seventies L.A., and later during the "house-husband" period of his album Double Fantasy, where we find Lennon's biggest vice to be the chocolate bars he sneaks when Yoko (who he refers to as "Mother") isn't around.
Sadly, we are also there for the funerals of Elvis, John Lennon, and Kurt Cobain. Hilburn's bedside interview with a grief-stricken Yoko Ono and later with Courtney Love in particular reveal a side of these rock and roll widows which clashes profoundly with their public images.
Most telling though is the way this book reveals the unique relationship between rock critics like Hilburn and the artists they write about.
Hilburn's various conversations with Bob Dylan over the years are particularly revealing — ranging from Dylan's changing his setlists at the writer's suggestion (and how he later chided him about it by asking if he brought a setlist with him), to the way the notoriously interview reluctant Dylan uncharacteristically opened up to Hilburn about subjects ranging from his "born-again" conversion to his songcraft over the years.
Hilburn also takes no less than Bruce Springsteen — an artist he clearly loves — to task for compromising his art by playing his old hits on the early nineties tour just after "The Boss" enraged many fans by disbanding the E Street Band. At another point in the book, Hilburn urges a young Bono, then known for scaling 30-foot high scaffolds and throwing himself into audiences, to scale down the "antics" and let the music do the talking. Bono, who was said to be haunted by Hilburn's stern lecture for years, nonetheless took the critic's advice to heart. It's no coincidence he wrote the intro to this book.
Corn Flakes With John Lennon ends on a somewhat depressing note however.
Although Hilburn tries his best to cover his glum appraisal of the present and future state of rock and roll with signs of optimism — pinning most of his hopes on people like Jack White and Conor Oberst — it's pretty clear that the wise old critic can see the writing on the wall. There is a tone of resignation in the final chapter here that perhaps rock music's time as a true life altering cultural force has indeed passed.
Corn Flakes With John Lennon is a must read for anyone who loves writing, but especially for anyone who loves rock and roll. It is also one of the best books on rock music I have read in a good long while. I cannot recommend it highly enough.
posted by Glen Boyd @ 12:57 AM,
, links to this post
