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Saturday, April 27, 2002 ( 4/27/2002 07:50:00 AM ) Bill S. BLUES IN THE NIGHT – Last night my wife Becky and I spent three hours as phone volunteers for our local university-based NPR station (WGLT) pledge drive. We’ve done this twice a year for the last decade, typically on weekends. GLT’s standing tagline has been, “News, Blue and All That Jazz,” and weekends are primarily devoted to blues. Presented by a mix of local professional and student deejays, the station devotes more hours to this music than any other station that I know in the Midwest. To my ears this makes it something to be cherished. (The Jazz & News components are a bit less central to our lives – though I will note that during September 11, I spent a lot of time at work relying on NPR news for updates. Many conservatives bemoan NPR’s so-called “liberal bias,” but it’s never seemed all that strong to me, at least on its two main news progs, Morning Edition and All things Considered. The sense I’ve generally had, listening to both, is of left-leaning journalists working hard to keep close to that objective ideal.) Listening to the Delta Doctor (a crusty geezer named Frank Black with an affinity for swamp blues) on Friday and Saturday nights, you can’t help but mourn the fact that blues, with the occasional VH1-aimed exception, is no longer the commercial power that it once was. I tend to favor blues that comes from the forties and fifties – or sounds like it does – over the refried-Hendrix of SRV and his clones. But that’s me just being a futsy purist. Still, any time I have the opportunity to hear Howlin’ Wolf, Etta James or Big Joe Turner over the airwaves, I’m up for it. Doing the phone volunteer thing on Friday nights can be deadening or frantic. One spring pledge week, we did it during a thunderstorm and tornado warning. The station’s big transmitter was down, so the show had a broadcast range of, maybe, fifteen feet. Only calls we got that night were from disgruntled listeners, asking where the hell the blues were. Last night, however, we were busy: three volunteers, and we only had time for a single game of Pigmania between calls. The blues fans were out pledgin’ in force. Friday night is drunk’s night, of course, and over the years we’ve all had our share of inebriated callers. A year back, I took a call from a listener asking who’d done the song that had just been aired. When phones are ringing big time, you can’t always tell what’s being played, but on this particular occasion I’d heard it. “It’s Little Feat,” I told her. “No, it’s not,” she replied, and she proceeded to lambast me for promulgating this falsehood. A few minutes later, she called again to ask another volunteer who the artist had been. The answer hadn’t changed, though. I’m guessing she had a bar bet going. It’s possible that with satellite services growing in power and popularity, stations like GLT will eventually become obsolete. But I like radio with living, breathing deejays where you can still phone in requests or be reassured that the music you’re hearing has been put on the air by a fan – not some ear-less shmoe more in tune with demographics than music. (One of my favorite non-blues shows on GLT is an hour-long local treat called the “Hillbilly Surf Hour,” which focuses on heavily reverbed rock instrumentals and rockabilly.) As long as the folks at GLT keep doin’ what they’re doin’, I know we’ll keep volunteering . . . # | Friday, April 26, 2002 ( 4/26/2002 11:31:00 AM ) Bill S. “I LOVE YOU JUST AS MUCH AS I HATE YOUR GUTS” – I was leery when I started reading advanced word on Elvis Costello’s newest elpee. I’d been down this path before: some pop critic recalls EC’s early surly work and pronounces that this newest outing (Blood & Chocolate, Brutal Youth, whatever) is a Return to Form. So I approached the man’s new Island disc, When I Was Cruel, with justifiable skepticism. Old School Elvis is important to pop nerds: powerfully catchy bursts of piss-offedness couched in wordplay that was sometimes too clever for hardcore meaning (c.f. Blond on Blond Dylan). At his best, EC spoke for the emotionally stunted adolescent who lurks in every adult male. I don’t blame him for wanting to grow beyond that stance, but to my ears the more the man tried to artistically “mature,” the less interesting he became. The title of Cruel is plainly calculated to recall those early “I’m not angry, anymore” days. EC is back with two-thirds of The Attractions (keyboardist Steve Nieve and drummer Pete Thomas) – the dynamos who gave This Year’s Model and Armed Forces so much drive – but the album doesn’t possess the strong group feel of those two new wave landmarks. For all the pop-rock raucousness that’s a part of this album, there’s also a strongly meditative core of quietness (not as overdone as current Nick Lowe, say, but still present) that’s exemplified in the disc’s tautly piercing economical guitarwork and tamped-down vocals. So is Cruel any good then? Yup – better than the overrated Imperial Bedroom, in my opinion. Songs like “Tear Off Your Own Head (It’s A Doll Revolution)” and “Daddy Can I Turn This?” serve to remind guitar-pop loyalists why we love listening to this stuff. While witty word riffs like “Episode of Blonde” will likely have fans parsing the lyric sheets for months to come. For a singer/songwriter who appeared to be descending into progressively more baroque musical conceits, this disc constitutes a refreshing retreat: lots of vigorous tunework, plenty of strong vocalizing. It may not be the second coming of My Man Elvis, but for now it’ll definitely do. Now if only someone'd kick Nick Lowe off his complacent ass. . . STUCK IN THE 80’S - And while I’m on the subject of ass-kicking, could someone please give a good drubbing to the entire cast of That Eighties Show - quite easily the most unlikable crew of pestilent types since the ignoble days of prime-time soaps? Just viewing Fox's promos for that jokeless blight, I can’t help thinking, “No wonder Elvis C. rediscovered his Angry Voice!” # | Thursday, April 25, 2002 ( 4/25/2002 08:00:00 PM ) Bill S. REAL LIFE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT - Watched West Wing's special docu-show last night . . . grudgingly. While it was briefly fun to see the series' real life counterparts (including former prezes Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton) reflecting on their own experiences inside the White House, in the end none of 'em told us much that the show hasn't better shown on a weekly basis:
Perhaps I'd have taken all this better if the hour was done in adjunct to an actual story ep, but, frankly, it just looked like bait-and-switch in a TV season that's been jam-packed with non-events. I want writing & acting & real stories, dammit! Docu-shows like this are little more than glorified promos for Sweeps Month End-o'-the-Season eps. It was kinda scary to see Henry Kissinger being interviewed, though. Here I thought the guy'd died years ago. And after watching his cadaverous on-camera interview, I still have to wonder. # | Wednesday, April 24, 2002 ( 4/24/2002 02:27:00 PM ) Bill S. MAGPIES AND PHOENIXES – There are popular writers I consider Remainder Table Guys: prolific professionals who can be counted on to produce regular fictions and who consequently have something fresh in the bookstore bargain bins yearly. Big-league sellers like Stephen King; solid genre folk like Lawrence Block or Marcia Muller – folks like that. British s-f humorist Terry Pratchett fits on this list. Sitting in the tub this a.m. (one of my favorite reading spots), I finished one of Pratchett’s confections: Carpe Jugulum (HarperPrism, 1998) It’s a DiscWorld novel, and like all of the books in this series that I’ve read, it’s a brisk blend of fantastic whimsy and satire. Pratchett can excessively arch, always a risk with this kind of stuff (call it the Douglas Adams Affect). But at his best, he can be sly and winning. I’m not a fanatic when it comes to DiscWorld: couldn’t tell ya if the books adhere to any kind of strict continuity, and I haven’t even paid enough attention to the characters to know if the writer’s made any grand plans for ‘em. (I suspect he hasn’t, though.) I take each book on its own goofy terms, and particularly enjoy ‘em when the writer uses his rococo comic set-ups to tweak pomposity. Jugulum isn’t prime Pratchett – its plot, which involves a family of modernized vampires who’ve taken over one of the DiscWorld realms, is too straightforward by half. I liked its ostensible heroine, the plus-sized witch Agnes (whose hectoring alter ego, Perdita, provides a nicely snide counter-voice), along with the hapless Not Quite Reverend Mightily Oats, whose crisis of faith in the midst of vampire infestation provides the basis for some funny reflections on the pitfalls of regimented belief. (Insert "Oh, how relevant!" statement here.) But some of the book’s threads – a Universal Pictures throwback/hunchback who had me missing Marty Feldman, a dimly obsessive falconer whose prominence in the book’s opening pages falsely led me to believe that he’d play a larger role in the book’s climax, an oddly flat mob scene – are less satisfying. If I’d paid full price for this ‘un, I know I’d really be peeved. Thank Om for Remainder Tables. # | ( 4/24/2002 08:17:00 AM ) Bill S. SHARKS TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT - James Lileks, in a caustic review of its lazy plotting, notes that the Lone Gunmen ep which followed The Simpsons clip show was entitled, “Jump the Shark.” Two teevee references in one night: I guess the phrase is now officially passé. # | Tuesday, April 23, 2002 ( 4/23/2002 08:29:00 AM ) Bill S. NO FUTURAMA – Almost forgot to have a moment of silence for Futurama, which saw its last episode on Fox last Sunday. If I’ve been lax on this front, it’s partially because I don’t consider the series quite over: in my neck of the woods, it was pre-empted so often by football games that I’m certain there are eps I haven’t seen yet. The show’s “official” finale (which even included a joke about sci-fi shows that get cancelled before their time) was a choice one: Fry and friends rescue the cast of the original Star Trek (Shatner, Nimoy et al, playing themselves) from a gaseous alien fanboy. Jam-packed with in-jokes (like the red-shirted expendable crew member who is repeatedly brutalized, even after his death), the ep may not have had the dark vigor of its Mom entries – or the Christmas outing with that killer robot Santa – but it’s clear the show’s ended while it’s still on top of its game. (Unlike The Simpsons – to name the obvious contrasting example.) I’ll miss it, but, y’know, The Jetsons never lasted as long as The Flintstones either. # | Monday, April 22, 2002 ( 4/22/2002 02:31:00 PM ) Bill S. A LITTLE BIT OF DEPRESSION – Living in the part of Illinois that isn’t Cook County, I’ve long followed the travails of alterna-country icons Uncle Tupelo. Belleville Illinois’ finest was one of those cult bands whose later influence has surpassed any success it may’ve had when it was still an intact unit. But with the exception of its one major label release (Anodyne, Sire Records), the bulk of the band’s catalog has been out of print for some time. Now Columbia/Legacy has announced it will be reissuing the band’s early Rockville releases (No Depression, Still Feel Gone and the all-acoustic March 16-20, 1992) with bonus tracks. To whet the appetites of cow-punks-come-lately a best-of set, 89/93: An Anthology, has just hit the music stores. It’s a nicely representative collection, but I’m not sure if it’ll grab that many new listeners. Tupelo may’ve helped to re-open a lot of doors with its blend of folkish, garage band country, but on too many tracks the band’s integrity got in the way of the music. (All those quick “live” studio takes didn’t do much for the music’s energy, I suspect.) When it comes down to it, I prefer offshoot band, Wilco: pushed to the forefront from his secondary position in Tupelo, bassist Jeff Tweedy has developed a surprising degree of pop smarts. The other night, though, I was listening to this disc in bed, and I was surprised to hear how in sync I was with it. On a warmish spring night with the bedroom window open, songs like the acoustic “Screen Door” or the band’s apposite updating of CCR’s “Effigy” made all the sense in the world. Maybe it’s a midwestern thing. . . # | ( 4/22/2002 08:07:00 AM ) Bill S. FAR FROM THE GRASSY KNOLL – I won’t be the last (and am certainly not the first) to do so – but let me express my displeasure over the Lone Gunmen’s swan song on The X-Files, anyway. As secondary characters, the LG have long been one of the series’ best: the geeky triad of conspiracy buffsters (Bruce Harwood, Dean Haglund & Tom Braidwood) provided good comic foils to Fox Mulder’s more paranoid imaginings – the lighter side of magic bullet tracking. But when the trio spun off into their own mercifully brief series, the misses were far more frequent than the hits. Too often played for unfunny slapstick, their trademark distrust of all things institutional frequently muted, the boys were unsuccessfully rebooted as American Heroes. Since the demise of their series, the Lone Gunmen have made a few brief appearances on their show of origin, but no mention was made of the supporting characters who’d been created for their own series: doofus intern Jimmy Bond and sexy femme fatale Yves Adele Harlow. Last night’s X-Files valiantly attempted to wrap up the threads that had been left dangling from its spin-off, but the entire episode was too full of special pleading to be successful. Repeatedly, the writers kept hitting us over the head with the theme that these feckless journalistas were to be admired because they keep fightin' for something they believe in. (As if to shoehorn their characters into the current political clime, their deaths occurred foiling the suicide mission of a bio-terrorist.) When Dana Scully – who didn’t even have a role in the episode – appeared in the end to make a final elegiac statement, I was feeling pretty weary. Damn it, the guys deserved better than this: passively dying while hermetically sealed from the rest of the world is one thing. Getting your whole character life rewritten to support some muddled patriotic message is another. Now that I consider it, I've gotta wonder if sinister forces aren't at work here! # | Sunday, April 21, 2002 ( 4/21/2002 07:21:00 PM ) Bill S. “ANOTHER CRUMMY CLIP SHOW . . .” - Sure, the fact that The Simpsons resorted to another clip show tonight is disappointing. But you’ve gotta admire their chutzpah for ending it with a single shot of Homer jumping the shark. Talk about second guessing your fan base . . . # | ( 4/21/2002 08:25:00 AM ) Bill S. “DIDN’T I ‘DEFEAT’ THIS LUNATIC LAST WEEK?” - Within a pile of Spider Product released to piggyback on the upcoming Sam Raimi movie, Peter Bagge’s Megalomaniacal Spider-Man has to be the most surprising. A “Startling Stories” entry, the Hate artist’s one-shot takes a comically jaundiced look at the original Lee/Ditko creation. Bagge’s sardonic quasi-libertarian world-view provides an apt tool for de-constructing the character, and he seizes on the irony imbedded in the contradiction between artist Steve Ditko’s notorious Objectivist crankiness and the Altruist message that’s a key element in his hero’s origin (“With great power comes great responsibility.”) Thus, we get to see Peter Parker morph (thanx, in part, to a reading of Atlas Shrugged) from a guilt-ridden adolescent to a bullying Reagan Era capitalist to an isolated Crazy Old Man typing manifestoes in his apartment. He gets the girl, though: Gwen Stacy – who lives presumably because Spider-Man’s early retirement from the business of superheroing keeps her safe. Lest any hard-core continuity freaks get too bent out of shape, Bagge covers himself early by referencing to Marvel Comic’s seventies era alternative universe title, What If? That book specialized in “Imaginary Stories” (“What If – Gwen Stacy Had Lived?”), so it’s a smart gambit. But the book I kept flashing on as I read this was Not Brand Ecch, the line’s attempt at recapturing the comic book satire of Harvey Kurtzman’s Mad. That title was only modestly successful in its approach – Marvel’s writers and artists were too close to the material they were parodying to bite the hand that fed ‘em – but Bagge, as an outsider, is more up to the task. When put-upon newsman J. Jonah Jameson is assassinated in this book while impersonating Spider-Man, I couldn’t help recalling Kurtzman’s fifties era Shadow parody: Lamont Shadowskeedeeboomboom setting up his girlfriend because she’s the only one who knows his secret identity. According to reports, Bagge approached the assignment of tackling Spider-Man cold: having not read the book as a kid, he had to borrow Marvel Masterwork reprints of Lee and Ditko’s work to get background for his story. For some fans, this fact works against their appreciation of the work (“How can someone who didn’t grow up swallowing the Spider-Man Mythos really appreciate it enough to ridicule it properly?”) but that’s just fannish possessiveness at play. Me, I hope the one-shot is successful enough to spur more left field (or is that right field?) takes on the line’s established characters. # | |
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