Year / 2005

by Edward Champion

Return of the Reluctant — Top 10 Albums of 2005

There are drafts here that you won’t see. I wrote a very long-winded post in response to recent concerns about the Silly Weekly Rag Edited by Tanenhaus Currently Masquerading as Significant Thought. But why beat a dead horse when Brother MAO has responded so well? I also composed a number of top ten lists which are utterly ridiculous and riddled with mock enmity. But you won’t see that either.

What you will see, however, is the following top ten list of music. Mr. Ewins pushed me over the edge. If anything, what motivates this list is the chance to knock Elbow’s Leaders of the Free World from its overrated perch. So in the end, there’s some fury, albeit of minor import, in place that drives the culture-craving beast.

In alphabetical order:

Kate Bush, Aerial — She came back to us, all spiffily produced with deep drum machines and vaguely Enya-like with her passive-aggressive wailing. But I enjoyed this album, in a way that suggests that I am mellowing faster than the wrinkles form on my face. Let’s face it. “Somewhere in Heaven” is applicable to Sunday morning bedroom situations involving two people and drowsy randiness just before doing the New York Times crossword, existing as a compromise point between total capitulation to Lilith Fair nausea and something that at least grooves convincingly. Kate Bush has become this decade’s answer to Sade. But I would contend that this is not as bad as it sounds.

Clap Your Hand Say Yeah Yeah, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah Yeah — The Arcade Fire of 2005. I suspect that between Clap and Arcade, we will see the end of disco-thump indie rock before the end of 2006. At the present time, however, we can enjoy “The Skin of My Country Teeth”‘s unapologetically adenoidal bounce, the Cure-inspired “Over and Over Again,” “Details of the War,” which really shouldn’t be as moving as it ends up (but strikes one of the strangest moments of poignancy seen in pop music this year at about the 2:12 mark).

Doves, Some Cities — The tunes are unapologetically percussive (“Black and White Town,” the reverberating clang of “Almost Forgot Myself”) and this time around, the lads are feeling a mite experimental (the broken sample in “The Storm,” the lonely piano rag “Shadows of Salford”), perhaps trying to maintain a little leverage over Grandaddy. In fact, if anything, Doves goes more over-the-top with the reverb (“Ambition”) than any of their previous work. But it’s a risk that works.

The Hold Steady, Separation Sunday — It was Tito who clued me into these guys. If you haven’t figured out already, I have a soft spot for eccentric vocalists. Craig Finn, no mere ruffian, is a revelation. It takes a strange sort of commitment to come across as a philosophical drunk and even greater abilities to pull off this archetype so convincingly. My favorite track is probably “Cattle and the Creeping Things,” which spells out the Hold Steady’s secret. Let Finn do his thing, however discordant it might sound, and keep the rhythm section pitch-perfect. The rest will follow.

I Am Kloot, Gods and Monsters — Vocalist/guitarist John Bramwell has a thick Manchester dialect and a vocal range that is about as flexible as a martinet-eyed bureaucrat examining an application form. The tunes are sparse and sound as if they were produced with about five mikes to spread around three people. Yet there is an undeniable earnestness to I Am Kloot, who with this album seem to want to move beyond singing about bars and sitting around, into more ambitious territory. The problem (and the great fun of listening to this album) is that they don’t seem to know where to go. But they are sure doing their damnedest to do more with what they have. Witness the jazzy “Strange Without You” and the effort at a straightforward ballad, “I Believe,” a genre that Bramwell is sadly ill-equipped to tackle.

LCD Soundsystem, LCD Soundsystem — When I first listened to Gorillaz’ Demon Days, thoroughly grooving to the droll “Kids with Guns” and the standout track “Dare,” I thought to myself that Damon Albarn had at long last atoned for the lackluster final Blur album and produced the dance album of the year. Then I dumped the two-disc LCD Soundsystem album onto the machine and realize that, unfortunately, Albarn & Company weren’t t even close. Like last year’s fantastic offering from The Go! Team (and The Avalanches from a few years ago), this is an album that tries its hand in multiple electronica genres and pulls them all off. “Tribulations” takes you back, both lyrically and stylistically, to awkward high school dances with Depeche Mode playing in the back. The fuzz of “Thrills” is strangely irresistable. As it turns out, vocalist James Murphy is both a self-deprecatory music freak (“Disco Infiltrator”‘s Fifth Dimension-style falsettos) and a cultural satirist (“Losing My Edge”). He offers not one, but two versions of a tune called “Yeah,” in which the lyrics are (loosely paraphrased) “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah hey hey hey yeah.” This is the kind of album both aware of its influences and willing to expand on its sound — the very antithesis of Madonna’s unexpectedly silly Confessions on a Dance Floor.

The Magic Numbers, The Magic Numbers: Don’t be deceived by the sunny indie pop that opens the album “Mornings Eleven.” The Magic Numbers don’t take themselves entirely seriously (“Long Legs”) and their optimism soon shifts into jangly snark (“Love Me Like You”). “I See You, You See Me” suggests a Paul Heaton-led band that hasn’t yet stooped to put out a desperate album of cover tunes to resuscitate a flagging career. “Don’t Give Up the Fight” would be a tune I’d probably hate if it were anyone else, but it demonstrates that singer Romeo is a strange centrifugal force for this band. Granted, there’s nothing more than cheery pop tunes here. But I suspect that the band will pull the rug out from under us with the next one.

Maximo Park, A Certain Trigger — An interesting mix of psuedo-emo and British pop, with undeniable energy and nice mid-song shifts (“Postcards of a Painting” is a standout track), all anchored by Paul Smith’s distinctive vocals. “I Want You to Stay” starts off sounding like a Bloc Party knockoff, but the minute that the synths come in at the second verse, you know you’re in an almost unplaceable territory. (In fact, who knew that “Limassol”‘s obnoxious opening synths yielded a rocking tune, let alone the punky refrain?)

My Morning Jacket, Z — Everyone and his mother has ranked this album at the top. And, hell, I’ll do likewise. Because every tune got stuck in my head at some point. Comparisons to Radiohead have been made. And, yes, Jim James isn’t Neil Young. Really. Before hearing this album, I had genuinely thought My Morning Jacket were a bunch of wusses. But what works here so well is the tone. The crazed obsession with the snare on “It Beats 4 U” to suggest not only the palpitations of James’ heart, but the uncertainty of his convictions. In fact (and you can call bullshit on me if you want), it might almost serve as a metaphor for expressing pure emotion in contemporary art. Think about it. We’ve been riddled with irony and rage and My Bloody Valentine-style noise which must serve as some kind of distinction. But beauty in and of itself is often declared war on. “What a Wonderful Man” is certainly an ironic tale about blindly following a leader, but here’s the kicker: it is utterly sincere in its convictions. “Into the Woods,” with its dreamy timbre and its baby in the blender, represents a kind of savage purity that represents the firm commitment of the subconscious. Oh fuck the deconstructionism here. It’s a good album, this. Give it a whirl.

Sufjan Stevens, Illinois — That Stevens. He writes some longass songs with longass titles and hits various moments of lunacy and poignance. But then you knew that. What you didn’t know is that every music geek worth his salt will put this album on their best of the year list, because Apollo told him to. There is no other explanation, except “You came to take us /All things go all things go / To recreate us / All things go all things go / We had our mindset / All things go all things go / You had to find it / All things go all things go.”

Honorable Mention: M.I.A., Arular; Antony and the Johnsons, I Am a Bird; Okkervil River, Black Sheep Boy; Gorillaz, Demon Days; The Decemberists, Picaresque; Wolf Parade, Apologies to the Queen Mary; Architecture in Helsinki, In Case We Die; The National, Alligator; Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine; Buck 65, This Right Here is Buck 65; Beck, Guero; Of Montreal, Sunlandic Twins.

Sorry, But I Just Don’t See What the Fuss is About: The Editors, The Back Room; Elbow, Leaders of the Free World; Isolee, Wearemonster; Andrew Bird, The Magnificent Production of Eggs; Eels, Blinking Lights and Other Revelations; The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema; Neil Diamond, 12 Songs; Franz Ferdinand, You Could Have It So Much Better.

by Edward Champion

Oedipus the Chat King

[EDITOR’S NOTE: A team of archeologists have unearthed an unfinished work from Sophocles entitled Oedipus the Chat King. What is particularly amazing about this excerpt is that it seems to closely match recent, but by no means confirmed, events. Return of the Reluctant has obtained an exclusive translation of Sophocles’ one act play. Please bear in mind that this is very rough and by no means a complete portrayal of Sophocles’ text. But we offer the rough translation in an effort to promote the humanities and give scholars a first look at this astonishing discovery.]

OEDIPUS

Here too my dialup has often lagged, for twice
At Creon’s instance have I called tech support
When losing a flirtatious email

CHORUS:

My liege, beware! The prophecy! The prophecy!

OEDIPUS

These warnings I disregard, for she is sensuous
Well prepared to wear a hot pink tank top
To match the noble lips, two sets I’ll kiss upon the beach.
Her name: the beautiful Jocasta, jumpy and jocose
Willing to hole up in a Ramada Inn with room service
A fan of reenacting scenes from pornographic pay-per-view
With the nimblest fingers and a malleable mouth
How can I, Oedipus the Great Chat King, lose in the deal?
I know not her age, but she says she’s older
Experience, let us not forget, is a virtue.

CHORUS

Methinks he walks into the Venus Flytrap of anonymity
Whom thou art be careful with, given trannies
Sad sacks, stalkers, DSM-IV exemplars and liars
But this, O Noble Chat King, is not worth your while
Do not be blinded by a titilating faceless JPEG
Thou hath not seen her visage nor engaged in real-world chitchat
Beware, your highness! You’ll never live this down!

OEDIPUS

The chorus, despite my many bribes, is stentorian
Have they no respect for royalty?
It took me five years and many X-rays
To become the Great Chat King
This woman then, who hopes to shift in the sands
Is the most flawless type I have come across
But no more! Hark! She comes near now

JOCASTA

Yoohoo! Chat King? Come closer so we might liplock
And take our sandy tangos to a hotel suite

OEDIPUS

The girl of my dreams! See her white shorts
Her trim legs. I cannot wait to sink my teeth
Into her bosom. Come nearer, Jocasta!
Let me taste your saliva and stroke your thighs

JOCASTA

O Chat King! Your talk pumps the blood
In my varicose veins. I want you, Chat King.
I want to smell you and feel you close to my —
Dear lord!

OEDIPUS

But what is this astonishment, my love?
My — oh fuck! I wanted pizzazz, but —
Mom, could it be you? Ewwwwwwwwwww.

JOCASTA

Let us speak nothing of this, son. It never happened.
It can never be uttered by —

OEDIPUS

The lights! The black and whites on the beach!
We’re done for!

JOCASTA

Now, son, before you were born, I did many things
To talk my way out of a ticket. Indeed, talking was
The least of my worries.

OEDIPUS

Mother! Stop! They’re leading us away!
This terrible tale, foretold by the soothsayers,
Will be spread across the Internet!
I’ll never date again!

JOCASTA

Hush hush, dear son. One-time Prince of Pleasure.
You trusted my poetry. Now trust my gift of gab.

[Here, the text ends. We leave our audience to judge what any of this means.]

by Edward Champion

Jackson’s King Kong

Peter Jackson is out of control. The Jackson who gave us the Freudian overtimes in Dead Alive, the intricate psychology of Heavenly Creatures and a sweet love story in the highly disturbing Muppets satire Meet the Feebles, in short the Jackson who once took chances, is no longer around. The filmmaker who once dared to instill subtext and nuance into disrespectful genres, has been replaced by an overgrown adolescent who has run amuck, a fortysomething toddler whose storytelling abilities have been occluded by a need to fling random computer-generated bodies around and spend countless dollars on special effects.

This is not to suggest that King Kong is without its merits. It is enjoyable in a ridiculous over-the-top way at times. It can be viewed, after its insufferable opening 75 minutes (written with dialogue so hackneyed and didactic it could have been lifted from an old ABC afterschool special and an aw-shucks savant named Jimmy reading Heart of Darkness and an Asian servant stereotype to boot), as an exercise in seeing just how far Jackson will push his Barnum-style showmanship (for this is, after all, an expensive and sensationalist circus). For my money, the fun started at the dinosaur run, which operates as a methed up Jurassic Park, although without that sense of wonder that greeted Spielberg’s film. But when one is watching a movie just to see what a filmmaker will throw in next, that’s hardly a suitable motivation for experiencing film, even when it wears its exhibitionism on its sleeve.

Jack Black is woefully miscast. Robert Armstrong’s Denham wasn’t an eyebrow-raising scenery chewer, but a man fully committed to his hucksterism. The great Naomi Watts is wasted, reduced to a doe-eyed cartoon offering us the most cliched idealism in the first hour and a sense of Kong-centric solicitude in the last two hours that isn’t particularly convincing. She’s also not much of a screamer. Adrien Brody is better, but he is given nothing other than a Clifford Odets/Barton Fink-style stereotype.

It’s worth pointing out that any film which has its heroine wearing high heels while climbing up a ladder to the top of the Empire State Building is highly suspect. If one considers this homage, then I suppose it works in the way that Jackson’s cameras flying over skylines represent an improvement in technology that Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack didn’t have. But I was never really convinced of this Skull Island or New York the way I was the 1933 original. I never cared for the characters or had a reference point for where the story was heading. I’m curious what gives Jackson a fair pass and Lucas, who is similarly inept, a fail. Are the film geeks so caught up with experiencing anything Jackson does or his frequent courting of folks like Harry Knowles that criticism of his overwrought tendencies is no longer welcomed?

Perhaps Jackson’s Kong is best represented by its titular character, who really isn’t much of a character this time around because not only does Jackson edit his Kong sequences with a paucity of master shots, but, despite the who knows how many dollars that have gone into making Kong’s fur bristle convincingly in the wind or to tranpose Andy Serkis’s facial expressions onto Kong’s face, this Kong does not have a soul. His movement is slightly off during all FX moments, even during the telltale beatings of the chest (which should be Kong’s ultimate personal signature). And I suspect it is because the film has been rushed for its holiday release or the visual effects team didn’t bother to base their modeling on real gorilla movement. This is a Kong that has been thrown together with buttons and expensive machines. One can clearly see with this Kong that not a single human hand touched it. And this is problematic, given that the whole arc of the picture focuses on Kong.

But more troubling than this is (to my eye) poor attention to detail with some of the visual effects. The blue-screen effects have been rendered without an attempt to match depth of field. Meaning that when one sees an actor in front of such obvious projetion, the disparity between what the camera has set focus at and what the CG people have set focus at seems notably off by large degrees at nearly every moment. Even Kubrick understood how important this was with 2001. Kubrick’s opening ape scenes, for example, were shot on a soundstage with rear projection. But you’d never know it from looking at it because Kubrick was anal about lighting schemes and focus for all corresponding images. No such luck with Jackson, who is clearly too happy to let his anarchy loose without justification.

If we judge this film on the script, we see that it fails. The best dialogue in this picture is extremely self-evident irony or elementary satire. We have Denham explaining, after a fellow crew member has been masticated upon, that he’s making the film and that “all proceeds will go to the family.” (Again, the Barnum tone here, too easily parsed and spelled out for the audience, is suspect.) We have a character mentioning that every B-movie needs a monster. The like. Hardy har. Yes, we’re clued in, Jackson. No need to hit us over the head with the irony mallet. And the gratuitous slow-motion strobe effects don’t help either.

I enjoyed this film in spots, but I had absolutely no stake in the characters. I could not care about this Kong. It is the most soulless movie that Jackson has ever made. It doesn’t strike me as innovative. It doesn’t strike me as particularly trusting. And as much as I bemoan Spielberg’s blatant manipulative devices, I think that Jackson (with Kong, at least) might have outfoxed Spielberg in the shameless manner he’s worked off the roller-coaster ride impulse.

Kong is a film which takes no chances. With a $200 million budget, it seems too expensive for a movie with a barebones plot. (The 90 minutes of the 1933 original, which doesn’t appear to have been dramatically altered outside of the gushing ape pathos given to Watts, has been stretched out to 3 hours and 7 minutes.) And I suspect that Jackson’s megalomania here is what led to the eleventh hour replacement of composer Howard Shore with James Newton Howard.

Turns out that the real out-of-control ape here is Jackson.

[UPDATE: Gwenda went crazy over it. Ron Silliman digs it. Matthew Cheney didn’t care for it.]

by Edward Champion

Stranger Than Fiction

Bus ride home. An ordinary route going through fairly safe neighborhoods. The 7. Kids sitting in the front seats laughing. Me reading book as usual.

Long-haired man with smoky colored hair, flannel shirt. Suddenly, there’s a pungent smell. Man has crack pipe, smoking it. Smiles at adjacent kids and offers pipe. “Hey, you kids wants some?” Mothers horrified. Fantastic shouting. Demands for crackhead to get off bus. “Driver, this man is doing drugs!” Bus packed, tired people at end of workweek provoked with fury. Lacking tar and feather, they let man loose. Not even a third of the way through ride.

Me, back to book. Interrupted by strange moisture against my left hand. Look to left. Solar plexus tightens. One of those dogs popping its head out of the bag. I meet its gaze and it starts barking loudly. A little thing full of piss and vinegar. Owner placates it with hand. The dog likes to be scratched behind the ears. I get the sense that it’s spoiled to death at home, even when it pisses on the carpet in a moment of weakness.

Me, book now fully out of the question. Now hypervigilant. Waiting for bus to explode. What Fellini film am I in?

Man gets on dressed in bright clown bowtie, denim jacket, white pants with stains, in short a fashion statement, standing up without holding onto the rail, actually arching his back back as the bus moves uphill. Does he know the Alexander technique? How the hell does he manage this while the bus is in motion?

Dog looks at me as if nothing happened, stretching head out of bag, tongue dangling to lick my hand again, which is no longer there seeing as how I’m no longer holding a book. In fact, my arms are crossed. Dog cants his head and, to me, it looks likely that he might have a second head.

Couple get on board. There’s three stops to go. Man is early twenties, dressed in what looks like a cheap Brook Brothers suit, hasn’t yet learned how to tie a necktie properly. Woman is considerably older, perhaps forty-seven, makeup caked over her face. They start making out like teenagers. Woman actually reaches for man’s crotch and starts petting his cock beneath his trousers. The kids, thankfully, are gone.

Arrive home. Lock the door. Push chair against it just to be sure. Maybe it’s a night in for me after all.