Peter Stampfel

Today's link to the past is my profile of Peter Stampfel for Metro Pulse, done in advance of his playing Pilot Light last June. Peter is a very interesting guy, a talker with lots of stories and music history to share. When he came to town he played three times before his Saturday night show at PL, and that one went for almost three hours.

Hypnagagme pop

Interesting collection of articles in the new Wire about various contemporary uses of past music, particularly analogue and early electro pop music of the late 70s and early 8os. The one with the most currency for me is Byron Coley's slightly curmudgeonly (natch) take down of Hypnagogic pop and contemporary synth music, in service of elevating raw American guitar rock a la The Bassholes, Siltbreeze groups, et al. He at least has a sense of humor about the whole thing sorely lacking in the other participants' entries (save Keith Moline's usual droll observations), and his paragraph on the proliferation of bygone music era simulacrum cum instant internet experts needed to be said years ago, and repeated often.

I like a decent amount of what gets lumped under the Hypnagogic pop banner, but part of what's irritating about it is it's a genre named and defined by David Keenan (the same guy (ir)responsible for "New Weird America") in the pages of The Wire about a year ago. Since then, he's used the term in almost every profile or longer article he's written. He's even gone so far in a profile as to include a quote by the guy from Rangers commenting on Keenan's use of the word, thinking aloud as to whether he's a part of a genre the author invented a name for a few months earlier. What's more, many other Wire scribes use the term excessively, so it's appearing at least a dozen times per issue, probably more. Meanwhile, if New Weird America is mentioned, which is rarely now, it's done so somewhat sheepishly, and the Noise kick they were on a few years ago has receded into the background.

This is to be expected, and The Wire of all magazines is justly respected for picking up on new trends as they continue to monitor old ones. They continue to do a remarkable job of keeping up to date as a print magazine, even staying ahead of most online music magazines and popular blogs. And Keenan does make a lengthy if somewhat sketchy case for the Hypnagogic genre and what might constitute a practitioner. However, if a Mojo or Q were to invent a name for a genre and have their writers using it excessively within months of coining it, you can imagine the snickers and tut tutting coming from The Wire's offices. As it is, I feel like the magazine has beat that particular horse to death in less than a year, and I'm sick of hearing about it.

What's more interesting to me, and this could very well be because I'm American and don't have as thorough access to information about this music and the culture it reflects and is created in, is the hauntology movement represented by Mordant Music, James Kirby's various projects and Ghost Box, among others. In fact, Mark Fisher's article in this month's survey reminds us Kirby was 10 years ahead of Oneohtrix Point Never and Justin Bieber pranksters in finding the sublime hidden in the dregs of pop music. And, yes, I know hauntology was probably appropriated from Derrida by a Wire writer, but for me its application to the music it describes is both clever and appropriate. Plus I generally like the music better.

Blue Hills

Here's my latest review for Tiny Mix Tapes, Michael Hurley's Blue Hills. I'd say it's perfect porch sitting music, but it's been so hot, humid and mosquito-ridden around here that I haven't tested that theory yet. Anyway it's good for any weather.

Bluebeard

Given the four Catherine Breillat films I'd seen, I was expecting Bluebeard to be far more intense and/or confrontational, possibly even borderline lewd given the subject manner and age of the female protagonist. The subject manner being an adaptation of Charles Perrault's infamous fairy tale, the age of the actress playing his child bride being 15. To my surprise, Bluebeard ended up being a restrained, visually imaginative, deceptively straightforward rendering of the tale.

Breillat demonstrated how a period piece can appear ornate and believable on a modest budget, via a precise eye for detail and astute decision as to what to include and exclude from the frame. Ridley Scott's excellent The Duelists also does this well, and having watched it the week prior, probably made me more aware of this aspect in Breillat's film. Most period films, especially pre-19th century European-set films, love to indulge in at least one market scene, in which the costumers, set designers and director love to show off the fruits of their meticulous research and antique shopping sprees. This can be fun, but it has become such a cliched thing to watch for, usually accompanied by jaunty music and a cacophonous mixing of "market sounds" as the protagonist strolls through the stalls, it can be distracting, a bit of a joke. Breillat forgoes any such showy exposition, the two scenes requiring more than four actors in the same frame at once being a brief funeral and a necessary dancing/gathering scene. The use of diegetic period music makes it all the more believable, and if I recall correctly, no other music was used during the film, except for opening and end credits.

Two other famous French films it immediately recalls are Bresson's Lancelot du Lac and Rohmer's Perceval, two singular stylistic works that it would seem impossible for Breillat not to have been informed by to some extent. Specifically, Bluebeard's framing and laconic pace recall Lancelot, while the music and costumes bring to mind Perceval. In addition to being exquisitely photographed, the film features several slow, almost still shots that function as tableau vivants which recall paintings, and the red headed sister of the bride has a distinct Pre-Raphaelite appearance.

Having been so effectively reworked in a feminist vein by Angela Carter and others, the Bluebeard tale is treated in a similar, though subtler, feminist manner by Breillat. The most unexpected and radical notion is the almost sympathetic portrayal of Bluebeard as a misunderstood, lonely ogre. (Though I haven't watched any of the Shrek films in their entirety, what bits I've seen of them couldn't help but come to mind.) His child bride is most certainly an innocent, but perhaps not as much as we might expect. After the death of her father, she decides to take the risk of marrying the bad boy (or in this case, serial killer) so she won't have to live a life of deprivation, something her older sister — who seems to detest poverty and her mother's defeatism even more than her sibling — refuses to do. And I don't exactly detect sympathy from the film for the arguably pragmatic but inarguably opportunistic mothers presented here. The framing device of two small girls reading the tale in a contemporary setting is inspired, adding another layer to the film, particularly during the story's climax.

Any film that takes as it subject matter a well-known story, doesn't alter the narrative of the story in any dramatic way but still manages to surprise and cast new light on old themes is impressive. Bluebeard impresses for this reason, but anyone approaching it with little or no knowledge of its source will surely by drawn in and hypnotized by its visual beauty and near flawless execution .

Farewell, My Lovely

After reading Kent Jones' appreciation in the latest Film Comment, I watched the 1975 version of Farewell, My Lovely starring Robert Mitchum, something I've been wanting to do since I saw this as an adolescent. Not exactly a must see, it still has enough of a pessimistic streak, attention to period detail and odd but interesting casting characteristic of the 70s to make it worth a look. Mitchum as Philip Marlowe is kind of fun at first, but then it gets weird and sort of sad, particularly when he's kissing a woman half his age, diving behind cars to avoid being shot or stumbling around in a heroin daze. Part of the problem is Mitchum was 54 at the time, and I guess I never expected Marlowe to live that long. I assumed he'd eventually mouth off to the wrong person or his past would catch up with him. He was supposed to be in his mid 40s around the time of Playback, the last Chandler novel in which he appears, so I suppose mid 50s isn't that far fetched. It didn't help matters that this guy basically reinvented Marlowe for the 70s two years earlier, in a completely opposite direction that Mitchum took him. Altman's The Long Goodbye and Dick Richards' Farewell make for interesting genre contrasts, with Altman's film being very American New Wave and Richards' stuck in a more or less old fashioned studio mode. And though Jerry Goldsmith's score for Farewell seems to be a bit more successful as a self-consciously hommage than the other elements of the film, to my ears it borrows a bit too much from John Williams' excellent Long Goodbye score.
The most interesting thing in the film for me was Charlotte Rampling as the femme fatale. She does a pretty amazing Bacall impersonation early on in the film, getting Bacall's tone and inflection just right. She continues in this playful manner until it's time to start shooting people, atwhich point she gets that look in her eye and becomes the complex, emotionally troubled woman she seems to enjoy playing so much. Can't wait to see what Todd Solondz's got in store for her, Pee Wee and Omar.

Evans

There are few activities in life I enjoy more than listening to Robert Evans read his book The Kid Stays in the Picture. (Wait, is that even considered an activity? It is if you're as lazy as I am!) I found the book on tape about 8 years ago and I've listened to it three times in its entirety, and dip into it randomly now and then, always while driving. I've only ever owned vehicles with cassette players, and The Kid has traveled with me in two different cars, one truck, at least a dozen states and God knows how many miles. Fortunately my girlfriend also finds his megalomaniacal ravings entertaining, if somewhat repellent, and Evans' nasal, coke-ravaged voice accompanied us on drives to Edisto Beach and Washington, D.C. and back. Am I obsessed? Worse — I'm addicted.
His audio book reading is the same recording used for the voiceover on the documentary of Kid, but the film is much shorter, and anyway it's better to listen to Evans' tales without the visuals the documentary offers. If you haven't read/heard/seen Kid, you might still be familiar with this brilliant parody/hommage. Patton Oswalt does a bit on him as well.
The widespread fascination with his biography, especially his reading of it, seems to lie primarily in how utter oblivious Evans is to his self-absorption. Every incident of his life is recounted with the utmost melodrama, and even if he starts out a story being self-deprecating, by anecdote's end he's in the catbird seat. His narrative is especially hysterical/cringe-worthy when he talks about his love life, marriage and the birth of his son. You expect him to be cocky and asinine when telling stories about schmoozing with Jack Nicholson, Francis Coppola and politicians, but it's as if the guy has worked in movies so long he remembers his real life as contrived as the old fashioned Hollywood pictures he used to act in. He seems to honestly think educated, adult people spoke to him with the ridiculous dialogue he assigns them.
I said I listened to his entire bio 3 times, but that's not entirely true. My copy is missing the fourth and final cassette. Tape 3 ends with him standing beside Henry Kissinger in the Oval Office, looking into President Nixon's bathroom. (I am not making this up. Who knows if he is?) His friendship with Kissinger is something he takes obvious pride in, deriving way more pleasure from it than running Paramount, his marriage to Ali McGraw or his son. He begins the book with the premiere of The Godfather, and how he convinced Kissinger to skip out on Vietnam peace talks abroad to attend. I've been tempted to purchase the missing tape on Amazon, but I like the idea of leaving Evans and Dr. K side by side there outside Nixon's crapper. I have read the book and seen the movie, but all I really remember about the end is Steve McQueen sleeps with Ali and Evans does a Scarface-sized mountain of coke. And The Cotton Club really sucked. As did The Two Jakes.

Here's Mr. Modesty himself.

Idumea

I was brought up Methodist, so I'm no stranger to the hymns of Charles Wesley. They were littered throughout the United Methodist Hymnal. But one we never sang, and one I'm not even sure was in that hymnal, was Idumea. It's more of a Sacred Harp tune, and it makes sense a modern church wouldn't want to sing a hymn so existential and fixated on death. Too bad, because it's absolutely one of the loveliest tunes there is, and all that talk of worlds unknown, deepest shade and fiery skies could really appeal to a young boy obsessed with mythology. Oh well, the hateful giant organ in the sanctuary would have probably drowned out the singing, anyway.
Little could Mr. Wesley know that about 250 after he wrote the hymn, a Christian eschatologist who practiced magick (a member of the Typhonian Ordo Templi Orientis) would construct an album around "Idumea." Nor could he imagine the song would be performed so wonderfully by a hermaphrodite, a stripper/porn actress, a faux hillbilly and the guy from Soft Cell. You have to be careful with David Tibet and Current 93, his judgment is sometimes questionable, but Black Ships Ate the Sky is definitely one of his best. Tibet got eight vocalists to sing "Idumea" and scattered their versions amidst original songs of his own. The album's about the apocalypse, more or less, continuing in the sort of Process Church-like vein of earlier works. It features some great music courtesy of Ben Chasny, John Contreras, William Basinski and lots of other folks. I can't overstate its beauty, even though I'm not always entirely sure what Tibet's going on about. (Sample lyric: "I have dug a candle as red as dung/And the dragonfly answers back/Hello monkey-paw!") He's on his own gnostic trip, and it looks like he's having a good time with it.

Baby it's slow when lights go low

This song is so great, something I was reminded of when I saw this likewise great use of it in Bronson recently. The movie can be tedious in its use of violence (I suppose that's part of its point), and it looks like some of the best scenes have been isolated and put on YouTube, including this pretty fun dance party courtesy of the Pet Shop Boys. Though I found it sort of conceptually wonky, the film's worth watching in its entirety for Tom Hardy's performance, a borderline frightening Method tour de force that includes one of the most severe physical transformations since De Niro in Raging Bull.

Sunn O)))

I'll be randomly posting links to old articles of mine, starting off with this profile on Sunn O))) I did for Metro Pulse about a year ago. Wow, it doesn't seem like it was that long ago. They played the Bijou and it was pretty amazing and even a little frightening. Attila was, at least. I saw them at the Orange Peel in Asheville the following night, at a show that wasn't quite as eerie but was louder and way bass-heavier. I love these guys.
Maximum Volume Yields Maximum Results

The Unbearable Triteness of Blogging

Nevertheless. I will finally do it.