No Alternative

When I first heard that Tim Burton was making Alice In Wonderland, my heart did a funny little dance. As both a long-time Alice aficionado and Burton enthusiast, I couldn’t wait to see how Burton’s dark and spindly aesthetic would apply to Lewis Carroll’s beloved work, but I also feared that the end result wouldn’t meet my expectations. Would this be a Disney-backed adventure suitable for children, or an eerie take on the tale, like Jan Svankmajer’s stop motion film? Well, suitable for children it is! And I suppose that makes sense (or, rather, cents?): if you’re going to spend 250 million dollars on a film and then some more on merchandise and you’re Disney, it better be an all ages affair. And it better be CGI and in 3D, because apparently that’s the only way kids today can enjoy movies.

Burton did provide his own unique spin on the original books, often combining aspects of both Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-glass and What Alice Found There, which is what the first Disney Alice film (the animated one) also at times did (Tweedledum and Tweedledee are from Looking-glass land, for example). Burton further delved into the second, more complex Alice book by merging the Queen of Hearts with the Red Queen, and by introducing the White Queen and the Jabberwock; the nonsense poem about the Jabberwocky only appears in Looking-glass, and Alice certainly doesn’t fight him. Burton’s blending of characters, events, and locations creates a dynamic plot more akin to children’s fantasy films than Carroll’s books, which are loaded with word-trickery, games, riddles, and conversation. In this film, Alice is more of a conventional hero, or rather heroine, and it helps that she is almost twenty years old instead of seven. Thankfully, Burton did include the most vital characters of the books (Mad Hatter, March Hare, Caterpillar, and Cheshire Cat), and also used Carrollian language and direct quotations, such as the Caterpillar’s Whooo are youuu? questions, the phrase “Much of a muchness,” and of course “Curiouser and Curiouser,” among other examples.

Now, what’s a Burton film without his favorite, long-standing actors? Johnny Depp’s performance as the Mad Hatter, complete with shocking orange hair and bulging green eyes, was not a stretch for him, since he’s done a lot of character acting: Willy Wonka, Jack Sparrow, Sweeney Todd, Ed Wood, etc. Still, he managed to give the Hatter more empathy, and played him convincingly as per his role in the adventure. Helena Bonham Carter was perfect as the big-headed, heart-lipped Red Queen, inciting the film’s few genuine laughs. Anne Hathaway was so-so as the foofy White Queen, Crispin Glover was ideal as the Knave of Hearts, and relatively unknown Mia Wasikowska was perfect for the part of Alice, guiding us through what she believes to be a dream.

Aesthetically, the misé-en-scene of the film is at its best when one can draw meaning from it, such as the chessboard landscape during the final battle, where the White chess pieces battle the Red playing cards, and Alice must confront the Jabberwock with her sword (almost becoming the White Knight). As an Alice fan, I did appreciate that Burton provided the game of flamingo croquet, talking flowers, painted roses, frogs of the court, and other small details that make Wonderland its own magical world. One especially poignant moment is when Alice remembers her first time inside of Wonderland and we see her at seven, with arms behind her back, looking up at the Cheshire Cat in a tree, which exactly represents the illustration by John Tenniel in the first book. Another wonderful, and Burton-created, moment is when the Mad Hatter hides Alice in his tea kettle and then snip-snips her a new, teeny-tiny dress for her post-“Drink Me” size.

One has to approach his/her viewing of Alice, however, knowing that they are dealing with the new Tim Burton, not Burton of Edward Scissorhands, Batman, or Beetlejuice, where special effects were mostly props, settings, costumes, and characters constructed by hand. Burton can now rely on modern technology to make his creatures and sceneries come alive, and this causes the world of Wonderland to be both astounding (we can have a “real” disappearing cat and smoking caterpillar without needing people in costumes!; and Alice can grow and shrink more naturally) and also much less fantastical and unpredictable than, say, Oz back in 1939. Watching Alice In Wonderland feels, at times, like watching a video game, only you’re helpless to make choices or discover the world on your own. Rather than draw us inside, the film actually keeps viewers at a distance…but maybe this is because I chose against the 3D version! Sorry film industry, I don’t want to wear your 3D goggles over my glasses.

So, why is a raven like a writing desk? Well, let’s see….because Poe wrote on both? Because they both stand on their legs? Because they ought to be made to shut up? Or because they can produce a few notes, though they are very flat. You decide.

As mysterious, bizarre, and imaginative as it sounds, The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus is a testament to the possibilities of cinema. Filmmaking has often been overlooked as an artistic medium and, instead, a film’s celebrities, CGI effects, box office potential, and historically significant or “true life” account is what earns it gold. But Terry Gilliam’s films (Fear and Loathing…, Brazil, The Adventures of Baron Munchausen) always remind viewers why the medium of film exists in the first place; not only to provide drama, comedy, horror, or undoubtedly important documentation, but to excite the mind and the senses, to send the optic nerves and visual cortex into a delightful frenzy, and to creatively inspire.

As is to be expected in a film that focuses most of its efforts on mise-en-scene (everything that appears before the camera, such as setting, props, lighting, actors, costumes, etc.), the actual plotline falls a bit short of complete satisfaction. But if a surreal film such as Imaginarium can bring magic back into the theater, than we might let slide its slightly loose plot and somewhat disappointing ending (sorry to say). The time and place of the film mixes the modern day world with earlier eras, adding elements of the macabre, Victorian period, and circus sideshows. Dr. Parnassus’s circus-esque act is a caravan drawn by horses with a folding stage built right into the living quarters.

The actors of Imaginarium are an absolute dream and perfectly suited to their prescribed roles. Model Lily Cole is tantalizing to watch as the beautiful, almost-sixteen-year-old Valentina, prized daughter of Dr. Parnassus. Cole is, in fact, slated to play Alice in Marilyn Manson’s version of Alice in Wonderland, if that project ever sees the light of day. With her dollish face, spindly limbs, pale skin, and pouty little lip, she seems just as unreal and ageless as the world around her. Christopher Plummer is also perfect as the often-drunk, immortal yet elderly guru who has superhuman and mystical abilities of the mind, and who has made a deal with the devil (the major conflict of the tale), expertly played by Tom Waits; his gruff voice, sassiness, and cartoonish face make quite the uncharacteristic devil.

Then, of course, there’s Heath Ledger in a performance that absolutely dazzles, further proving why he is such a loss to the film industry. He plays a joker character in a completely different way, allowing the viewers, and our dear Valentina, to truly fall for him. The scene where Ledger is found hanged, supposedly to death (his first appearance in the movie), is certainly an emotional moment. On account of Ledger’s actual death, his character, Tony, is also played by Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Collin Farrell, whose faces almost unnoticeably transform when Tony goes through the fake looking glass, into the unexpected other-world.

On the other side of this mirror is where the true secrets lie and also hide, and where one’s imagination and subconscious guide them to absolute euphoria, or to destruction. As the clock ticks down to Valentina’s sixteenth birthday, and Dr. Parnassus’ traveling show rushes to seduce five souls into the mirror (as per his deal with Mr. Nick), the question of morality comes into play, as does truth, reality, and perception. And although Gilliam does employ computerized effects, noticeable in these wild scenes, there’s a deeper reflection underneath the artistry (and mirror). At one point, Dr. Parnassus says that he believes he must continue to tell the story of the universe or else it should cease to exist; somewhere in the world, someone is always telling a story, even if he himself cannot. This film functions in much the same way. We accept the world of the film, and the possibilities of imagination and reality itself, just as we accept the other side of the mirror. We know that whenever anyone watches the film throughout time, moments and images will reoccur, and the actors will always be magical, and always alive.

The backroom of Public Assembly may not be the most glamorous of NYC venues, nor does it provide the best sound quality, but it was a fine setting for one of the city's  most awesome emerging bands, The Kissing Club. And no, I promise I'm not just saying this because I've celebrated Yom Kippur with their mom (and I'm not even Jewish). Jake and Anders Miller are West Village born and raised brothers with music in their blood; their father is a bassist, Anders is a classical pianist and just recently picked up the drumkit, and Jake has been mastering the electric guitar for as long as I've known him (eight years, what!). Jake was also a vital member of The Stevedores, who continue to receive attention and gain new listeners three years after the death of Spencer Bell, their original lead singer.   

The moral of the story is that these guys know a thing or two about music, both when it comes to music theory and to nitty-gritty rock-n-roll. They claim that they "want to make noise in your house," but the duo is destined for so much more. They graciously performed last after several other bands (including Automa and Cinema Cinema), and their set was well worth the  several hour wait.

The guys pummeled through several songs, veering from fast-paced grunge-punk to subtle Syd Barrett-esque ballads. While an electric guitar / drums combination might initially generate comparisons to White Stripes or Death From Above 1979, Kissing Club sound nothing like either of these bands. In fact, it's hard to notice the lack of other instrumentation, except for the fact that there are only two guys on stage. Jake's unique , wobbly, retro voice careens through songs such as "Locked In To Business," and "The Sand Beside The Sea," which sound delightfully 1970s in nature...somehow. Imagine a combination of The Stooges, Mudhoney, Zeppelin, Hunky Dory David Bowie, and Dead Meadow...and then dilute that mixture with pure garage rock goodies.

One of the highlights of the set was, in fact, a perfectly executed and high energy Stooges cover of "I Wanna Be Your Dog." Jake's neck was literally bulging as he belted the chorus, and Anders pounded those drums so hard I thought they might explode Who style. Another highlight was Jake ripping his fingers open while cranking out his dizzying sounds, screeches, and solos on that third, electric arm of his. How he managed this, I don't even know, but the unintended bloodshed was a beautiful ode to the Iggy Pop reinterpretation. Not a bad reason to spend several hours in a loud, dark backroom in Brooklyn.

(photo by a.dupcak)

American avant-garde composer/musician La Monte Young has a long-running sound installation called The Dream House, currently in New York City, which has provided inspiration to such bands as The Secret Machines. The Machines say: “It’s incredible…very loud and heavy…you have this weird reference point because you think it’s loud but you can’t talk, so nobody can gauge it…it’s these weird sonic frequencies, and the slightest move of your head changes the frequencies.” Young believes that, in order for a person to vibrate along with the frequencies of the environment and adjust his/her nervous system, he/she must experience the atmosphere over long periods of time. Therefore, guests can stay in the carpeted, pink-lit, sonically intense room for as long as they desire. Run around, turn cartwheels, or simply meditate! I dare you.

(photo by Jonah Korver)

When CMJ began on Tuesday, I have to admit that I was less than completely excited because, despite working for a groundbreaking music + culture mag, I felt that I'd pretty much fallen off the "hot new music" wagon and could not identify a large majority of the bands at the festival....however, I soon realized (and remembered, from my past two CMJ experiences) that a] most of the bands are pretty underground anyway, which is the whole point, right? and b] it's pretty fun to go out and see music with absolutely no expectations, or to go out and see bands according to the guidance of other more "in-the-know" pals. Thus began my third CMJ journey!

My first night of CMJ adventuring was a peculiar one. First, my co-BRM-editors Kyle, Shannon and I wanted to attend the New Zealand jamfest (I especially wanted to see Surf City and Die! Die! Die! since I have written about both of them), but, much to our dismay, this event was advertised on the CMJ badges and even on the back of the CMJ book and, needless to say, the line was around the block. We quickly decided to move on and walked to the Lower East Side where we found ourselves sitting in the back room of The Living Room. After a pit-stop in their old-school photobooth, we witnessed papercranes. Lead singer Rain Phoenix, who has the look of a woman who has lived some hell of a crazy life, was thrilling to watch. Her dreamy, mellow pop had a Lilith Fair meets bohemian lounge vibe; certainly the type of band to listen to while sitting at a candle-lit table, sipping wine in a red-tinted room.

Although papercranes was a lovely experience, I was in dire need of some real noise! After drinks and crepes, we tried to get into Cake Shop for Surf City, whom we had missed earlier, but by then they had filled the basement capacity with too many badges, so we were turned away. That's one complicated aspect of CMJ...every venue has its own rules about occupancy and costs, and therefore possessing the coveted badge does not guarantee that you'll actually get in to the show you want. Then again, I rather like the roaming-around-NYC quality of this music and film festival,  as opposed to most others that mnake it too easy, and the fact that it requires its participants to frequent grimy bars and backrooms and lofts and Brooklyn bars to scope out the music they crave. 

Case in point, we headed over to The Suffolk Back Room, which is actually a converted church. The room  had movie-theater-style seating with Christmas lights covering most of the seats, and we entered into a scene  of one guy playing acoustic guitar, and a couple of others banging some sort of instruments, while the audience sat in a circle around them, responding enthusiastically. We were hoping to catch Fool's Gold, but they never did show up; instead we watched this musician and then a hip-hop-meets-electro-clash hipster band who shouted into three microphones. FIRS and Rumspringa were listed as playing, but  those were neither of the bands I saw. In any event, the power went out temporarily, which signaled to me that maybe it was time to give up and try my luck again the next night. 

On Wednesday, I went with two friends to Mercury Lounge on Houston. We caught Javelin,  an eccentric male duo performing "tropical crunk" inspired by "endless loop tapes" (loop tapes, loop tapes, loop tapes...); in other words, the guys were playing with funky instruments, switches, samples, and beats, but also creating punk rock noise amid Kraftwerk-esque sounds. One of their songs even featured Cobain's "I'm on a plain, I can't complain" refrain, which absolutely delighted me! Next up at Mercury was The XX, an early '80s inspired band featuring male and female members. They reminded me of Blonde Redhead crossed with Jesus and Mary Chain and possibly Film School, with a hint of Cocteau Twins in the female vocals and an overall soulful melancholy. Their music and subdued, too-cool presence was refreshing in its stark difference to many of the indie rock bands at CMJ. Asymmetrical songs were melodically unpredictable, veering between quiet and loud, and I noticed a couple of bass or guitar lines comparable to Interpol. Definitely a band worth seeing again.

We then made our way to my area, Bleecker Street, for The Green Owl showcase at the ultra-hip Le Poisson Rouge. My friend Jake and I caught Violens, a rock band that was too polished for its own good. The guys were tight as hell, but they needed to let their hair down and move a little more to be in the true spirit of the rock n' roll they obviously admired. Next came  my friend Tris' (of Skeletonbreath) band, Grandchildren. The six male members had more energy than the whole hundred-something crowd! They switched instruments and hopped around stage like sprite musical monkeys, emphatically banging multiple drums, tooting on a trombone, banging a tambourine, playing guitars, and bass and emitting choral chants from their wide open throats. Calling to mind Animal Collective, their organic-meets-electronic, neo-tribal, schizo-psychedelic sound promoted wild dancing and joyful madness! 

On Thursday, I attended the Beyond Race Magazine CMJ Happy Hour showcase at Crash Mansion on Bowery. Jeff the Brotherhood was another male duo: brothers with a spitfire rock attitude, and leather pants to boot! Guitarist Jake and drummer Jamin (with his "Jeffro Tull" kickdrum) from Tennessee maintained a presence that was halfway between snarling and absolutely adorable (especially when Jake jumped around on nearby cushions and got up in some faces with wide, staring eyes); their music was a perfectly fun blend of fast-paced punky grunge with a slightly '70s glean. Our BRM event also featured the dancey, electro-soul Bodega Girls and the multi-dimensional, bustling Apollo Heights, who somehow fit an awful lot of people on stage.  

I then entered the cave-like, sweaty basement of Lit Lounge on Second Ave (but first, falafels on St. Marks!) for a very "math rock" showcase. The low-ceilinged Lit basement is an ideal setting for raucous "underground" (get it?) bands. I caught The Bronzed Chorus, HO-AG, Cinemechanica, and So Many Dynamos all in a three-hour period. I especially dug HO-AG's use of a megaphone/keyboard combination and the guitarist/singer's bold presence, as well as their self-stated "weird mess of sci-fi B-movie spazz-rock drama songs." Cinemechanica and So Many Dynamos leaned more toward prog-rock, with a few Mars Volta riffs in the backdrop of harder-edged anarchy. Quite an ear-blasting night!

On Friday, I gave my ears a little break and went to see Searching for Elliott Smith. This is the first visual documentary on the artist who is so near and dear to my heart; I remember the night he died and hoping it was only a rumor, listening to his music all night long and crying over a loss that was partially expected. Rather than going the route of getting famous people to appear in the film, Director Gil Reyes interviewed Elliott's closest friends, former bandmates and roommates, and independent musicians/ directors/ producers from different eras in his life (namely Portland, Brooklyn, and LA)...even his high school principal in Texas made an appearance (although none of his family members agreed to participate). A painfully honest portrayal, the film treated Elliott like a real person, with faults, talents, and a complicated yet not completely uncommon background. One of his friends discussed their mutual propensity to want to fail, even if they were nearing success. In fact, we learn that Elliott considered most of his songs to be too perfect and consciously decided to "fuck them up" before releasing them to the public. Reyes successfully included Elliott's actual music, film clips, music videos, and quirky illustrations and animations to add to his low-budget project. The most shocking aspect of the film was not only its close look into Elliott's eventual downward spiral, but the confessions made by his last girlfriend, Jennifer Chiba, who some accuse of murdering Elliott. She tearfully explains exactly what happened on Oct. 21, 2003 and even goes to the police department in an attempt to clear things up with detectives who not only ruled the death as inconclusive, but who also stated that Chiba refused to speak with them when asked to. Reyes is obviously convinced that Elliott's death was indeed a suicide, which is quite a different experience from the highly opinionated Kurt & Courtney documentary that was released in the '90s. 

Upon leaving the film, the cold rain matched my somber mood,  but I perked back up when I met my friends at the L train and headed into Brooklyn for a night at Trash Bar. We went to see Goes Cube, whom I have interviewed and written about for BRM. With a new bassist, Matt, replacing former bassist, Matt, the threesome pounded out song after song with sincerity and bravado. Seriously, they get better every time I see them! The crowd may have been on the smaller side, but everyone there was into the heavy, post-metal, grungy hardcore Goes Cube has to offer. They were even begged to play an encore! Watching them was a perfect end to the night and to CMJ...not only in terms of witnessing a band I love progress, but because they have the ability to drag me out of my own head and refuel my body! Truly amazing.

 On Saturday, I left the CMJ festival and my NYC apartment for another city I love, Philadelphia, to see Dr. Dog at the TLA on South Street. The stage design featured giant heads of tigers and a lion; fake grass, trees, and flowers; and an interweaving colorful striped backdrop that the band members' shirts perfectly matched! The magical little on-stage world was perfect for the high-spirited band, and the joint-toking, hippie-loving, all-smiles crowd seemed to love it too! Dr. Dog played for two hours, with a four-song encore, performing a good variety of simpler songs (like a slightly melancholic acoustic about West Philly) and dance-worthy tunes. And dance the audience did! The best part of the show was when Scott McMicken pretended to order pizzas for the audience on the phone, and then, after the next song, people holding pizza boxes appeared onstage! The multiples pizza boxes crowd-surfed and McMicken encouraged everyone to just hang out and eat some pizza...he even started the anthem, "Let's go Phillies! Let's go Pizza!" Such a supremely and purely fun concert experience that left a delicious taste in my mouth...even though I don't eat pizza. 

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A look back at my first CMJ experience, in 2007:

(all photos by a.dupcak)

Searching for Elliott Smith is the first visual documentary on an artist who is near and dear to my heart; I rememeber the night he died, hoping it was only a rumor, listening to his music all night long and crying over a loss that was partially expected.

Rather than taking the route of involving famous people in the film, first-time Director Gil Reyes interviewed Elliott's closest friends, former bandmates and roommates, and independent musicians/ directors/ producers from different eras in Elliott's life (namely Portland, Brooklyn, and LA)...even his high school principal in Texas made an appearance (although none of his family members agreed to participate). A painfully honest portrayal, the film treated Elliott like a real person, with faults, talents, and a complicated yet not completely uncommon background. One of his friends discussed their mutual propsensity to want to fail, even if they were nearing success. In fact, we learn that Elliott considered most of his songs to be too perfect and consciously decided to "fuck them up" before releasing them to the public.

Reyes successfully included Elliott's actual music, film clips, music videos, and quirky illustrations and animations to add to this low-budget project. In the Q&A session after the showing, he also explained that he left in the sometimes distracting sounds of wind in trees and gusts on the street, as well as the sound of nearby birds, because he felt that this was Elliott watching, listening, and hovering over those who were speaking to Reyes' camera. I always appreciate when a director's sincerity plays a role in the making of his/her film and, in this case, Reyes stated that no, he did not know Elliott personally, but much like many of the talented artist's adoring and still heartbroken fans, he felt like he did. This is the true beauty of Elliott's words and music.

As we glance into the past, we learn that Elliott felt that he needed to scream in his early-90s punk band Heatmiser, mostly because that's what all of the local bands in Portland were doing. Soon, though, he came to realize, as stated in a video interview, that it's more powerful to whisper harsh words and emanate anger delicately than it is to scream. And thus Elliott developed his own whispery sound, constructing both simple and complex songs on piano and guitar; a mellow, calming, somber air coupled with extremely dark and poetic lyrics.

We follow his rise to fame and his confusion with how to feel about it. As a shy, introverted, and inherently self-destructive person, Elliott was at odds with prying eyes and anyone looking to make him some kind of idol, generational spokesperson, or celebrity. This has obvious similarities to the issues of Kurt Cobain, except it would seem that Elliott was bothered less by how he was perceived by the masses and more by his own inner demons; he never felt settled in his own music, body, and soul, and also didn't know how to feel about major labels and corporate music, Reyes also expertly compares Elliott to the character of Will Hunting in the film that basically gave Elliott his early notoriety (after "Miss Misery"); both were genuises, both abused, and basically both struggling to use their talents in a world that they could never quite fit into.

The most shocking aspect of the film was not only its close look into Elliott's eventual downward spiral—and how his music, behavior, friendships, and lifestyle changed for the worse—but the confessions made by his last girlfriend, Jennifer Chiba, who some accuse of murdering Elliott. She tearfully explains exactly what happened on Oct. 21, 2003 and even goes to the police department in an attempt to clear things up with detectives who not only ruled the death as inconclusive, but who also stated that Chiba refused to speak with them when asked to. Reyes is obviously convinced that Elliott's death was indeed a suicide, which is quite a different experience from the highly opinionated Kurt & Courtney documentary that was released in the '90s.  He is very passionate about telling the entire story and dispensing the "mystery" surrounding Elliott's case.

Perhaps one of my favorite moments of the film was when Reyes interviewed two girls at the "Elliott Smith Wall" (the mural Elliott stands behind on the cover of Figure 8) in Silver Lake, Los Angeles. These girls discuss their connections with Elliott through his honest and emotional songs, and admit that they adamently add a "T" every time someone spells his name wrong on the wall. I would do the same.

(bottom photo by a.dupcak)

Everyone's favorite children's book, an imaginative tale of adventure and independence, has been transported from its illustrated pages to the big screen. Those involved in this process (namely Maurice Sendak, Spike Jonze, and Dave Eggers) have done a fantastic job of maintaining and even expanding upon the fantastical, and yet relatable, allure of the story about a young boy named Max who goes off to rule the land where where wild things exist.

Turning a tale that can be read in five minutes into a theatrical feature is a difficult endeavor, and this is the film's main problem; not surprisingly, the film has a very thin plot. Perhaps we can overlook this and, instead, focus on the creativity inherent in the mise-en-scene, and the sheer fun to be had while watching the partially animated creatures  dance, speak, fight, and interact. Surely everything that occurs onscreen looks spectacular, from the sprawling desert, to the enchanting architectural structures (which Max and the wild things construct), to Max's lone journey in his little boat, to the extreme attention to detail. And perhaps those viewers looking to follow a more conventional, dramatic storyline ought to just accept that this is simply not that kind of film; the emotional content and Max's projected feelings of loneliness, alienation, frustration, and ultimately pride, override the actual plot points one might expect.

But another problem thus arises: Jonze has made a film geared to adults who loved the book as children, as well as to children who may or may not have read Sendak's words (but I assume most have), and it's tough to appeal to both parties. Children might not understand the darker meanings, cruelty, and complex emotions, and they might not visually respond to the earthy color palette nearly every scene embodies. On the other hand, the adult crowd might feel that events revolve cyclically and that not enough actually happens. Watching monsters bickering like children can get kind of old.

I do feel that the film has multiple layers of meaning, which, after exiting the theater, left me feeling confused about what I was actually feeling! In the opening, we are introduced to Max's somewhat troubled home life and his feelings of isolation and anger toward his mother and older sister. This intimate peek into his mindset and behavior in the midst of his childhood was actually more compelling and palpable than meeting a bunch of freaky beings who deem him king! One thing I did appreciate about the film was that it played with symbolism and the subconscious mind, as well as a child's personal struggles, battles, and inner feelings. In this way, Jonze's film was rich, striking a balance between occurrences in the real world (such as Max's igloo being destroyed by the big kids while he was in it) and their dream counterparts (such as almost getting crushed in the monster pile). He learns many a lesson in this alternative fairy tale; as a boy who pretends to be a king to fulfill his own needs, he comes to realize that it's okay to just be Max. 

For a rather quiet and humble person, Moby put on one of the most exuberant shows I have seen in a long time. It felt like the 1990s all over again, which is perfectly fine with me! But, that being said, Moby’s music is actually timeless, pertaining not only to moods and atmospheres but to untapped places that exists deep inside. On a personal note, it was funny how, when Moby did perform slightly older songs, such as “South Side," "The Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?" and “Bodyrock,” I came to realize that his music served as a sort background to my teenage years, in a way I hadn’t noticed before.

On stage, Moby absolutely shines, especially at Irving Plaza, which he noted has a special place in his heart because he frequented the venue to see bands such as Black Flag in the ’80s. The crowd may not have been the kind you’d find at a punk show like that, or the kind that you’d find at a rave, and maybe there were less drugs than expected too...but, then again, Moby has “grown up” and so have his fans. That’s not to say the crowd didn’t show their unrelenting love for Moby; his presence (wearing a Bard Brains teeshirt, a nod to those punk rock roots) and his music forces you to check all pretensions at the door, and this audience, or Moby fans in general, were a diverse group, mutually enthusiastic about his varied set.

Moby’s incredible band consisted of a (bald!) drummer, female violinist and bassist, gospel belter Joy Malcolm, whose voice literally sent chills along the spine, and torch singer/keyboardist Kelli Scarr. It was truly inspiring to witness the proximity of songwriter with muse; the mastermind who created the music and the soul that can belt out the sounds. Moby’s stage presence was also in line with his unpretentious and thoroughly engaging personality; speaking between songs and telling stories, he even asked for a show of hands for anyone who didn’t live in the US, then stating, “It’s like a mini UN in here!” Moby unabashedly returned to his “electronica” roots, and dedicated a song for everyone who used to be raver. He also played new songs from his quieter, ethereal record, Wait for Me, which was quite a different experience from the listening party for the same album. This listening party was held in the planetarium of the Museum of National History, where celestial and planetary images perfectly accompanied the album’s glistening swells of piano, strings, and synths. Here, brought to stage, songs like “Walk With Me” and “Mistake” still maintained their haunting and delicate vibes, but were also delightfully kicked up a notch. And after "Wait For Me," Moby and Kelli Scar performed their original, bluesy version of the song.

Switching between singing, guitar, keyboards and the congas, Moby let his passionate female singers take center stage, especially during the first and second encore…although, for the second, Moby explained that, rather than walk off stage to hide in a sweaty closet, the band would just soar right into their last song. For their fifteen-minute, second to last whirlwind of a song, they squeezed in a Black Sabbath cover. And amid the myriad of fast-paced, dancey songs, with Moby running around the stage pointing at the crowd and seemingly having the time of his life, and the slower, sadder songs vocally performed by the ladies, Moby debuted a brand new tune, which he was basically “testing” in front of his crowd, telling us to applaud only if we liked it. Well, we did! I only wish I’d brought glowsticks.

Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut is literally a dream come true. Taking full responsibility for everything that happens on and off the screen, and with a screenplay by Shauna Cross who lived the roller derby drama, Barrymore delivers a female empowered (but not female limited) tale of growing up and “finding yourself” sans typical high school stereotypes or fucked-up-family clichés. Bliss, played by Ellen Page in a performance that outshines Juno, is an “alternative” seventeen-year-old who doesn’t fit into her rural Texas town; unlike quirky girls of other teen-targeted flicks, fitting in is not so much a problem for her as it is an annoyance and fact of life…in other words, she doesn’t want to be a cheerleader.

Outfitted with a best friend, Pash, the charming and independent girls want to get the hell out of their town, high school, and their jobs at a Pig-themed diner. But more than that, the rather timid Bliss is looking for something to feel passionate about, and for a place to belong. Her mother, a postal worker who was once a regional beauty queen, has pageant aspirations for pretty, young Bliss; in the opening scene, Bliss completely botches her “chance” at winning the crown of a local contest by dying her hair on a dare, which her mother takes as a personal insult.

When Bliss spots a few roller derby girls in a vintage store while buying boots, she is inspired to attend one of their events. She and Pash pretend that they’re going to a football game and, instead, drive to Austin where roller derby lives hard. All derby scenes are shot at the actual track owned by TXRD Lonestar Rollergirls; founded in 2001, the company purchased an original banked roller derby track in 2003, and has since been “providing fans with a new twist on the original style of roller derby” and adding to its national revival. Even the team The Holy Rollers in the film is an actual Austin team.

After falling in love with the hardcore sport and the tough chick players who have their own fan followings, Bliss concedes to try out. Since our main character is new to the sport, Barrymore assumes that the audience might need a schooling or refresher; and Whip It takes the time to explain the rules and engage us in the lifestyle. According to Juliette Lewis, who plays the bitchy antagonist of the Holy Rollers, the actors (including Page, Barrymore, Lewis, Kristen Wiig, Eve, and many others) practiced for weeks, incurring real-life bruises and taking on all of the challenges of the game. Barrymore stars as a member of the Hurl Scouts (the team Bliss joins), and her derby name is Smashley Simpson…meaning that she not only directed the film, but signed up for the bruises as well.

Knowing all of this, one might initially assume that Whip It exploits an underground scene in attempts to make it mainstream, but Barrymore keeps it very true-to-life and doesn’t entirely glamorize. Austin itself becomes a beloved character—tattoos, rock music, beer, marijuana, and of course the roller derby mayhem—through which Bliss comes to find herself. It's a world where grown women elbow each other in the chests during games and then sit in the hot tub together afterward at parties. Lewis, who plays Dinah Might, even throws little dorky Bliss into the hot tub, and repeatedly picks on her for being young, feeble, and the new crowd favorite (thanks to her speed). It isn’t long, though, until Bliss starts to toughen up, and chooses the derby name Babe Ruthless.

While she hides her new life from her overprotective parents, she is also beginning a romance with a slightly older “rock star” boy who completely fancies her and her Strider tee-shirt. The film could have gone the route of sappy romance or Bliss becoming badass and getting tattoos and piercings, but Whip It is all about down-to-earth reality and possibility. Bliss and Oliver have an adorable fling, culminating in a very symbolic and oddly erotic pool scene, but the result is utterly realistic…as are the fights and overall relationships between Bliss and her two parents. Although Bliss is on her way to becoming a roller derby star, she still has the reality of home life, school, and her narrow-minded mother…nevermind the fact that she’s legally too young to be in the league. According to Barrymore, Whip It is essentially a love story between mother and daughter, but with a modern and edgy spin. And by the end, Bliss really does become her own hero, which is a role that Ellen Page is just made for.

Rob Zombie knows how to make a horror film. If House of 1000 Corpses, Devil’s Rejects, and his first Halloween retelling didn’t convince you, then you probably don’t know or understand the horror genre. Zombie doesn’t make films for audience members who expect cheap scare tactics or CGI monsters; he makes his films for people in the know, people who think dark thoughts, people who can catch his references to other films, serial killers, bands, and the horror subculture. But there’s a reason why Zombie’s Halloween was the highest grossing in the Halloween franchise. It not only relied on viewers being “insiders” and their prior knowledge of John Carpenter’s original, but it proved a successful and original horror film in its own right by way of its sinister, gritty, terrifying, and also emotional qualities. This emotional element, not fully present in the Corpses/Rejects films, is perfectly executed in Halloween II, offering the viewers more connection to the characters.

Horror films expose our deepest fears, and also desires. Writer Andrew Tudor has said that while some horror viewers simply want to be visually titillated or subconsciously aroused, other, perhaps more devoted viewers, may benefit from “releasing repressed affect or indulging deep-seated sadomasochistic desires.” They discover that by taking part in continuous viewings of such films, they can connect with themselves on a level of “practical consciousness,” understanding their own fears, cravings, and fantasies, and rethinking the everyday world of social experience. Of course, there are always viewers who just want tits, guts, and uniquely gory deaths, and Zombie has certainly given us all of the above throughout his career, but Halloween II is the perfect example of a film that does more.

While Corpses was deliciously campy and somewhat supernatural, and Rejects was suprisingly brutal and humorously devilish, Zombie’s Halloweens touch on reality and also morality. In Corpses/Rejects, we sided with our sociopathic killer family because they were just so much cooler and hotter than all of their sniveling victims. In Halloween, we didn’t care much when slutty Annie and Linda or their dumb boyfriends were hacked to death because they clearly had it coming…but we always cared about Laurie. And that continues in Halloween II, which takes place one year later.

Yes, you have your senseless and grotesque murders of anonymous and uncared for victims, but nothing is overly gratuitous. Myers’ perpetual hunt for Laurie and the death of another important character are to be taken seriously; this creates not only true suspense, but also an emotional core. Of course, there’s a theory about this as well. Most filmmakers seem to consciously decide to make their final victim the character that viewers have been in contact with most throughout the film. In Carpenter’s Halloween, we sympathize with Laurie because we feel that Michael is following us when he is following her, and our moral allegiance is with this character because she is the only truly “good” character, even when considering other victims. The same is true in Zombie’s versions, except that Laurie has become even more interesting and genuine in Halloween II. Her struggles are our struggles, and her emotional pain and mental torment are just as crucial as her physical scars and blood covered arms. 

This is a Zombie film through and through, but it’s also completely different from anything Zombie has done. He reaches back into his own creative vault to his 1998 music video for “Living Dead Girl,” where Sheri Moon Zombie portrays a ghostly, half-dead girl in white, replacing Cesare the Somnambulist in the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari themed video. In Halloween II, Sheri Moon, who still plays Michael Myers’ tragic mother, appears to him in a similar costume; as a ghost all in white, always accompanied by a white horse or by younger Michael, who is, essentially, dead. Zombie evokes Caligari-esque hallucinations to create frightening and surreal dream sequences and montages; one image that stands out is of Laurie (the role expertly reprised by Scout Compton-Taylor) with bloody eyes and an upside down cross on her head.

Dreams and visions form a sort of alternate reality, or alternative way of viewing the central narrative. Unlike any of the original Halloweens, in Zombie’s creation, Laurie is actually Michael Myers’ little sister, and though we know this fact in the first movie, Laurie doesn’t find out until halfway through Halloween II. She learns that she is connected to her personal evil monster by blood, as well as through her visions. At one point, she dreams that she is wearing the Halloween costume that Michael donned as a child, and that she is preparing to murder her new family in the same manner he did.

Though the year of the film is indeterminate, Zombie gives us a mix of late ’70s and ’90s culture, with references to Alice Cooper, Black Sabbath, Frank Zappa, Rocky Horror, tattoos, Satanism, and, as always, Mr. Charlie Manson. But this film explores more than aberrant youth culture or senseless murder. Michael Myers is not only a gigantic, lumbering mute without feelings; he has goals, he has dreams, and mostly he has a past and specific reasons for being the murderous person he is. Myers is one of us, just as Laurie is, and he is bound to Laurie just as she is bound to us.

It’s the story you think you know: in a quaint suburban town during the spookiest holiday of the year, Michael Myers is loose. But you have to realize that Myers is the monster in our childhood closets because he is real, he is human, and he is here in our towns. He kills people with knives, his foot, an axe, by smashing them into glass, or by any means possible. Meanwhile, Dr. Loomis is personally profiting off his own involvement as Myers’ former psychiatrist, and the town, reporters, and victims’ families are angry. Loomis represents all of the media hype that surrounds such murder cases as he turns tragedy into dollar signs and exploits the victims. This gives the film a socially conscious and also relevant edge. Everything in Halloween II is morally intense and also somewhat morally ambiguous; nothing more so than Laurie’s personal struggle to accept herself, break free of her delusional mind, and survive this Halloween night…again.

Although I am by no means a theater junkie, I guarantee that Tearoom Tango, originating in Madison, WI and now a part of NYC’s Fringe Festival, is unlike any play you’ve ever seen. The subject matter may be taboo to the heteronormative mainstream of America, but it presents a culture that is very real and also indicates the long way America still has to go in terms of acceptance. This stark, minimalist, monologue-driven play is shocking enough to the liberally minded (like myself) and has already caught a review for being “too dark,” but I whole-heartedly disagree with such a statement because, if anything, Tearoom Tango shows that things can get ugly and dangerous when society shoves a group of people into a dark, secluded corner and legally outlaws sexual “deviations” that do not fit right-wing moral standards. 

This brutally honest play, occuring in one act without any interruptions, is about six men (a cop, an older loner, a romantic, a married guy, a self-professed “slut,” and a young street kid) stuck in the rut of gay sex in public restrooms. While each character delivers a lengthy, passionate, and sometimes even humorous monologue, the others are acting out their sexual fantasies and rituals in and around the toilet and sink. Each of the characters embodies different facets of the gay community, and yet each story is unique; the men detail their first gay experiences—some horrifying, some shameful, some blissful, and all life-altering. Though the men do feel pride in their gay identities, most are wrestling with their choices, histories, and lifestyle. Writer and actor Douglas Holtz has admitted, “This work is a deep reflection into some of the darkest places of myself" and as the characters offer  confessions, demons, and desires, Holtz presents the unbridled truths of his own life, as well as the lives of other men he has encountered in such “tearooms.”

The play seeks not only to enlighten viewers to the unknown and overlooked depths of gay culture, but also provides much social commentary on the “breeders” and the way that gay men are forced to hide in these bathrooms stinking of piss and shit, signaling to one another with scrawls on the tile wall or taps of their foot under the stall. The cop, whose presence bookends the play, talks about how he accidentally admitted to some of his cop buddies that he was gay, and afterward was forced to work in the public bathrooms in order to arrest the men getting and giving blowjobs and having anal sex. The cop knows some of the men personally and participates in the action himself; he also knows that this makes him a hypocrite. Eventually, he lashes out against the younger men there because he blames one or all of them for infecting him. Yes, AIDS inevitably enters the scene, as does a split-second positive moment when “the romantic” asks “the older guy” to leave the bathroom for the night and get a cup of coffee…something that is rarely if ever done in the world of anonymous sexual encounters. This is certainly not your grandmother’s tearoom, no sir.

This was my first All Points West experience and I didn't quite know what to expect. Certainly the thing I was least prepared for was the immense amount of mud as an after-effect of the pouring rain on Friday! And we're not talking just any mud, but stinky New Jersey mud. Yuck! Had I worn one of my many pairs of big boots this wouldn't have been nearly as much of an issue (I generally don't mind being dirty, especially in the name of rock n' roll,) but I was wearing my little Converse sneakers. Everywhere you walked - squish, squish. But let's start at the beginning.

Fellow writer Ben Apatoff and I took the PATH train to Hoboken then hopped onto the Light Rail that was free that day, crowded with obnoxious metal-heads screaming "TOOOL!!!" Yes, I was beyond excited for Tool (somehow I had never seen them before), but no need to be abrasive about it. Also, I find it funny that such an artistic, progressive, and emotive metal band collects fans that are quite literally tools. But anyway, so we finally got to Liberty State Park and walked 1.3 miles with all of the other APW attendees to the entrance, where we received our special Media bracelets.

I have to admit that, for the first couple of hours, we pretty much bummed it out by buying big pretzels and sitting on the dry part of the grass. We ended up playing phase 10 with 2 guys we randomly met. But that's one of the best things about outdoor shows, isn't it? Getting to chill out between or before sets and play cards with new people! Anyway, the Park is huge and there were very interesting art installations and sculptures that people could sit under for a bit of shade. There were also misting areas where one could get sprayed with water, craft-sellers, food vendors, strings of balloons, and some mysterious H&M geodesic dome.

The first band we went up to the mainstage to watch was The Arctic Monkeys. These rad, indie-rock British boys did an excellent job of getting the crowd excited in a sweet, non-threatening sort of way. It's nice to see a young band having fun in a moderately unpretentious way. Up next was Gogol Bordello, who was absolutely perfect for the outdoor setting. When he played, the evening sun was at its most beautiful height: angled, glowing golden and casting long shadows. By then, we were very hot and already somewhat muddy, but then we got muddier. Most people in the crowd were avoiding the muddiest of mud pits, but some embraced it a la Woodstock 94, and thus happy-go-lucky dancing/ swinging/ jumping / beach ball tossing accompanied the music. Gogol Bordello is described as a "multi-ethnic Gypsy punk band from the Lower East Side of New York City." Their funky world-music (mostly Middle Eastern, Jewish, and Russian) meets spastic punk and theatrical circus-y presence makes for quite a trippy and invigorating experiece. Lead singer/acoustic guitarist Eugene Hutz, fully mustached, was a ball of energy, as were his identically dressed dancers/ singers/ percussionists Elizabeth Sun and Pamela Racine. One of them beat a marching-band drum while the other clanged cymbals, all the while dancing like maniacs. Throw in an accordian, violin, drums, and an MC and what do you get? Utter wow.

After Gogol, Ben and I went "backstage" to roam around (and see Hutz all sweaty). I got word that Courtney Love was back there too, but I didn't have a run-in with her. Too bad. The Media tent was full of people twittering or reporting on laptops, which was unnecessary for this here music journalist, but we did score a free water. Better than the 3 bucks I already paid.

Back outside by the stage, My Bloody Valentine was the next band. It was a treat for me to see these shoegaze legends, especially since they haven't played live in a long while (and they formed the year I was born). However, the sound system did not do justice to their music. With or without earplugs, their music became an all-too-loud wall of noise and it was difficult, impossible at times, to distinguish individual instruments, or especially to hear the vocals. On their records, vocals blend into the gauzy noise they conjure, but the sound for this show could have been vastly improved. Other audience members noticed too; I heard someone say, "Her lips are moving but I can't hear a thing." They also broke into a ten-minute literal noise-fest of distortion that was pretty boring, since it just sounded like schhhhkkkk and seemed out-of-place. The vibrations were pumping out of sync with my heart. Perhaps they aren't a band meant for the outdoors. It's hard enough to get great sound when you have that much space and that far to reach and you cannot control the acoustics.

Around 9:20pm, I scored my prized Tool Photo Pass. They were very strict about the rules: only the first song, no flash. But for me, it was more about being in front of the barricade than about how good my photos were (plus, I'm not rocking a fancy camera...yet). The energy from the crowd, especially those who had been waiting in one spot for hours so they would have a good view, was infectious. When the lights dimmed and the visuals kicked in, the crowd let out a sonorous roar. Of course, Maynard was the last band member to come on stage; guitarist Adam Jones was bathed in white light on one side, and bassist  Justin Chancellor was on the other., quite spread out Maynard sported a wicked, fully shaved mohawk and all-black, fierce attire. For "Jambi" and many of the other songs, he remained back by the drumkit shrouded in darkness, playing with his silhouette. His movements were mechanical yet tribal, a juxtaposition which also embodies the music and visuals. And oh, the visuals! Don't ask me who creates the animations, but quintessential Tool images and symbolism moved in exact time with the music. There were grotesque versions of the human body, a baby being born in another baby's brain, an eye leading to an eye, twitching and pulsating, the Lateralus swirl and a skull transforming. Behind the band on the stage, the 10,000 Days head was re-rendered with oscillating lights that formed obscure faces. Even the stage lights, including bright green laser-beams, moved to the music, and there were more animated projections running behind the band.

For those Tool-fans reading this, here was their breathtaking setlist:

Jambi
Stinkfist
46 & 2
Schism
Rosetta Stoned
Flood
Aenema
Lateralus
Vicarious

Quite a variety, and although it looks like too few songs, they were all long and epic, especially "Aenema," one of my absolute favorites. After "Jambi" and during "Stinkfist," I had to exit the coveted area and return to the masses of people. I was running to the crowd, Tool blasting in my ears, the Statue of Liberty, with arm-raised like a revolutionary, torch a-glow, in the distance. Everything in life felt magical, a dream and hard-worn reality all at once. I managed to weave through people to find Ben again and bask in the rest of the set. My only complaint was the choice of the song "Flood" because their guest drummer didn't really do it for me. I would have loved to hear them do "Wings for Marie" (Part 1 or 2), but I have no complaints. By the last two songs, Maynard shed some clothes and was wearing just a pair of black shorts. He stepped bare-chested into the light, giving it all he had.

The journey home was a nightmare. Picture about 15,000 muddy people all walking in the same direction. Now add to that having numb legs from standing for several hours, and also being hungry, dehydrated, achy and desperately needing to pee (at least this was the case for me). We all walked through the immense park, a mile to the Light Rail, but since everyone had the same idea for transportation, police officers were literally corralling us like cattle. Ben and I lost each other, so I walked and waited and walked and waited alone, finding getting onto a crowded train, back to Hoboken, where I waited a longer while for the PATH to 9th street. And then, after all of that madness, I went to cut through Washington Square Park to get home and was stopped by cops on a power-trip for trespassing. What an end to my day!

(photos by a.dupcak)

Grunge may be dead, but Greg Prato has successfully conducted over 130 interviews with crucial grunge icons, several who fall below the collective radar, to bring it back to life. Jeff Ament, Eddie Vedder, Bruce Pavitt (founder of Sub Pop), Slim Moon (founder of Kill Rock Stars), rock photographer Charles Peterson and even grungers like ex-Nirvana drummer Chad Channing all come together to offer criticism, praise and explanations about pivotal bands and moments in music history. Prato takes us through garage-punk of the ’60s and ’70s, to DIY punk of the ’80s, to mainstream-grunge of the early ’90s, and finally to “1994 and Beyond.” Raw and candid photos accompany interview material and further highlight the grungy scene. Between a chapter called, “That they didn’t reach a broader audience baffles me,” which pays tribute to some of Sub Pop’s lesser known bands, and conversations about Mother Love Bone and Chris Cornell, this book is essential for both those in the know, and those who seek to know more.

“I hope I get it, I hope I get” rings true as 3,000 hopefuls line up on Broadway to audition for the revival of a musical that is all about auditioning. What began with an all-night interview session between a group of performers and Michael Bennett (the creator) himself, became one of the most honest and bare bones theatrical performances. Every Little Step explores the beating heart of A Chorus Line: tears, frustration and sweat stains are all part of the game and eventual gain, and one woman equates her complex desire for a role to not wanting to fall in love too hard. Unfortunately, the film does not cover any of the auditions for the important role of Morales, and there is no mention of most of the original cast members or their real-life personae. While the film fails to completely chronologize the play’s inception, it succeeds in revealing the raw emotion and passion of those who strive to fit coveted roles, and those with the responsibility of maintaining the legacy of Bennett’s creation.

(originally appeared as the sidebar for an article on MGMT, who are inspired by Jodorowsky)

Fando Y Lis (1968) – the lanky Fando and his paralyzed lover Lis travel through mud and mountains to reach the mythical city of Tar, confronted by the horrors of their pasts, a crew of drag queens, vicious women, and other bizarre people, all the while playing a cruel game of cat and mouse that ends in violence. 

Loved by multitudes young and old, and seemingly misunderstood by nearly as many, musical visionaries Arcade Fire offer Miroir Noir as a visual compliment to Neon Bible’s lyrical themes and artistic intentions. Released in 2007, the album encompassed Christian overtones and a subtext of skeptical spirituality, further brought to life on tour, which featured Evangelists on circular screens, fluorescently lit Bible designs, megaphones and a pipe organ. Shot on grainy film, Miroir Noir (named after Bible’s first song and single) captures the multi-piece group throughout the epic Neon Bible tour, where they also played songs from Funeral, and “Cold Wind” off the Six Feet Under soundtrack.

The film’s fluid montage of on-stage, backstage, and impromptu performances is interspliced with found footage, such as a little girl dancing and a cult-like gathering, and overlain with audio messages from (866) NEON-BIBLE, the phone line intended to let fans listen to “Black Mirror” before the album’s release. People seemed confused about the point of the line and one person left a message expecting pamphlets, while another asked, “Is it a Bible that glows with neon light?” Miroir Noir also reveals the frenzy of live shows—drummer Will Butler climbs a structure, still banging a drum—while letting us peer into humbler moments, such as Régine Chassagne warming up in a back room, and the lead husband-wife duo playing “Windowsill” in a moving elevator.

Getting the chance to talk with and interview thee Nivek Ogre (front man of Skinny Puppy and ohGr, among other projects) for a long while, before his performance, was an exhilarating and enlightening opportunity. My discussions with Ogre the thinker provided quite the contrast with my later experience of watching Ogre the performer. Face to face, the man behind many masks and makeup was bare-faced and incredibly eloquent, open to speaking up about his new sobriety, the American government and media, the music industry today, and his ever-increasing creative ideas, all the while lovingly playing with the half blind dog he rescued, Batbat.

William Morrison’s American Memory Project performed as the rather elaborate opening act (Morrison has done three music videos for ohGr and has also played in the live band). According to their Myspace page: “The American Memory Project is a broadcast from the future. A digital archive of a long dead country unearthed in a distant era and broadcast back to our time. A short wave transmission bounced off the fabric of eros, washed up on the shores of the twenty first century. It is both abstract melancholy verse and a dire warning. A container filled with ghosts speaking stories so far removed from their origins that they refuse context. Or perhaps, invite it anew….We are animating ghosts...” The band played behind a curtain, on which montages of old, edited footage (haunting visuals of Native Americans and fun shots of pin-up girls and early 20th century streets) were projected, perfectly coinciding with the music, which ranged from deeply disparate to perky. The collage aspect of both music and film fully engaged my aural and visual perceptions, plunging me into my own mind. 

When the live band members of ohGr took their positions on stage, the black-clad crowd went crazy. And when the man himself emerged, boasting theatrical bravado for which he is known, fans could barely contain themselves. He was dressed in a large, complicated coat, and stood with his back to the stage and arms spread wide; on his head, he wore a mask with a face so that he appeared to be looking at the crowd, though his actual mouth spat words into the microphone as he faced the screen. Fast-paced, colorful, and hypnotic projections played upon this screen, and colors washed across the stage. Ogre had previously told me that a live band plays all of his songs during shows, unlike some of the electronics heard on his albums. The live drums and guitar definitely gave an added punch to the first song, “Shhh,” which is one of my favorites, and proved that ohGr isn’t all about studio tricks.

The band performed the new album, Devils in My Details, in its conceptual entirety, each song flowing into the next exactly as it does on record. After the first two songs, Ogre removed his bulky costume and set it nearby so that the face seemed to be watching the crowd, and a surveillance camera embedded in the jacket glowed red. Ogre donned yet another mask, until he removed this one too to reveal extensive face-paint, which made him look like the gothic anti-Joker. He also wore a white bulletproof vest. Unfortunately, horror-icon Bill Moseley couldn't be there to offer his vocals, the way he does on the album.

Although minimalist, perhaps, compared to Skinny Puppy theatrics (there were no cow guts, blood, or other unidentifiable substances), the show was definitely a visual experience. For “Feelin’ Chicken,” Ogre blew feathers into the crowd, and they swirled and fluttered about him violently in the blue light. Animated and animalistic, throwing himself around, stretching his long limbs, and even taking photos of his still-masked self with audience-cameras, the newly sober and more confident Ogre seemed to be enjoying every minute of his New York show.

After the last song of Devils, the entire band paused for a group hug. Ogre spoke for the first time, telling us that they had just done the new album and were now going to do some more songs, and they dove right into a few older tracks, such as “Cracker” and “Minus,” which got the crowd even more fired up. I was hoping for “Chemtale” in this set, or during the encore, but although it didn’t happen (I should have requested it myself!), I definitely cannot complain. True artistry meets political and poetical inspiration, with bizarre filmic accompaniment, and that grating industrial fuck-the-system edge…now that is my cup of tea. So thank you Ogre!

(photos by a. dupcak)

So they aren’t twins, but Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli are two grunge-era legends, and though they never quite made it as big as Eddie or Kurt, they each secured their own status in the grunge movement, via separate bands Screaming Trees and Afghan Wigs respectively (in addition to side projects). I was secretly hoping for a Screaming Trees song (perhaps “Shadow of the Season”) when the "super-group" Gutter Twins played Warsaw last week, but they did play “When We Two Parted” from the Afghan Wigs album, Gentleman, in addition to a healthy amount of material from their two recent projects—Adorata and Saturnalia—the latter of which is definitely one of my favorite albums of the year, and usually on constant rotation.

The opening band, Afterhours, “set to become Italy’s biggest export” on Björk’s One Little Indian, played a long and vigorous set, full of musical precision and synchronicity, especially when front man Manuel Agnelli enthusiastically rattled an egg shaker in tandem with another member beating a tambourine in perfect time. Their largely upbeat songs and professional, high-energy execution were definitely worth watching, and the crowd responded with immediate enthusiasm when Agnelli, in his thick Italian accent, said, “On behalf of Europe, we would like to thank you for electing Barack Obama.” The outstanding win still hung, like static electricity, in the Brooklyn air that night.

When The Gutter Twins stepped into the stage’s dim light, the now full crowd went absolutely wild. The band opened with the fierce, metal-esque “Idle Hands” off of Saturnalia, and Dulli and Lanegan quickly established themselves as polar opposites (or “fraternal twins”); heavyset Dulli being the talkative, more enlivened Twin, and Lanegan the enigmatic, dark cloud who was definitely there to do business. While Dulli sang, played guitar, and occasionally moved to the keyboard, Lanegan stuck to singing while standing rather still; his deep voice acting as “bass” to Dulli’s “guitar,” and his hands decorated with blue tattoos, stars up and down his fingers. He stood there in full concentration like a sedated Jim Morrison. His cover of Massive Attack’s “Live With Me” was both heartbreaking and phenomenal, this version of the song originally appearing on the EP, A Stitch on Time, by The Twilight Singers, Dulli’s post-Wigs, largely covers, side project. The guys also did the old blues song, “Hard Time Killing Floor” (also covered by The Twilight Singers) and, as the second song of the four-song encore, Lanegan performed “Methamphetamine Blues” from his solo album, Bubblegum, which came out in 2004.

One of the highlights of the show was the performance of “Down the Line” off Adorata, the opening bars of which sound surprisingly like “Turnaround” from Nirvana's Incesticide (actually a Vaselines cover), until the piano enters. The crowd was more than ecstatic to bob around to the fast-paced beat and entirely satisfying yet simplistic chord progressions, and the guys couldn’t have performed the tune more perfectly, Lanegan’s voice underlying Dulli’s dynamic vocals. The first track on Saturnalia, “The Stations,” was another show highlight, as the duo executed the heavy sadness that drips like rain, as they sang, “I hear the rapture's comin'/ They say He'll be here soon/ Right now there's demons crawling all around my room.” The backup instrumentation—bass, guitar, and drums—gave greater breadth and power to the songs, especially “The Stations” and “Idle Hands.” My only regret was that the guys didn’t play “All Misery/No Flowers,” but alas one cannot have everything they want, and the varied set list certainly kept me intrigued.

(photo by a.dupcak)

Legendary Pink Dots proved themselves undeniably legendary last week at Knitting Factory. Not in need of an opening band to get the crowd pumped, darkly clad fans, of all ages, packed into the Main Space to eagerly await their beloved Dots, who formed twenty-eight years ago in 1980. In the same league as Syd Barrett, with whom he is often compared, Dots vocalist Edward Ka-Spel (also known as Prophet Qa-Spel, Qa'Sepel, Che Banana, and D'Archangel) guided his band’s spacey, goth-folkloric sound to concoct  a neo-mythology, lulling the crowd into a hypnotic trance. Wearing a long black tunic, purple scarf, and round sunglasses, Ka-Spel performed like an avant-garde Ozzy Osbourne, uttering ghostly lyrics during moments of eerie calm, and emitting a scream or a whimper during those of wild intensity.

The band itself was furiously alive and entertaining, and together the five-piece created a sort of time warp⎯we were back in the artsy Liquid Sky eighties, or on a spaceship miles away, or inside of a surreal painting or new wave film, or in a cemetery awaking the dead, conducting a séance, or taking part in a Pagan ceremony à la Wickerman. But the show was not a total pre-Hallow’s Eve spookfest; it was also full of light-hearted fun! Niels Van Hoorn, who joined the band in 1988, performed all wind instruments (sax, flute, clarinet, some other gadgets) and was the most dynamic Dot. Wearing a funky diamond-patterned suit, he affixed a light beam onto his saxophone, which brightened as he blew into the instrument. He meandered through the crowd during two songs, aiming his sax at fans, illuminating faces, and getting the girls to seductively sway.

The Dots played for over two hours, performing two encores of older songs, and incorporating songs from the new album, Plutonium Blonde, into their main set. The highlight of the show was the performance of “Torchsong,” the first track on Plutonium, which they played as the last song before the encore. The extended live version of this  7-minute song was all the more mind-blowing; revolving noises, synths, and samples swelled into the small room, overwhelming the senses and divulging a dark psychedelic landscape, Ka-Spel half-whispering sinister lyrics and gesturing like Dr. Caligari. At the merch table, which offered an insanely large selection of CDs (they have released more than 40, not counting solo work), records, t-shirts, pins, and artwork, the Dots signed for free and mingled with fans. What could have been a distant experience fully turned into a friendly gathering, until it was time to button up and catch the subway.

The French are known for romance, sexual freedom, and indulging in the pleasures of alcohol. The Girl Cut in Two displays plenty of these commodities throughout the lovesick story of naïve Gabrielle Snow (Ludivine Sagnier), torn between her passion for married writer Charles Saint-Denis, thirty years her senior, and bothersome rich boy Paul Gaudens, who demands her hand in marriage and vehemently hates Charles. The beautiful Sagnier has played many sexual roles involving extensive nude scenes (the English-language Swimming Pool, for one), but Director Claude Chabrol’s depiction of sexuality is far subtler. The racy sex scenes one might expect from such a drama are nonexistent; rather, viewers are teased and lead on during scenes of Gabrielle’s “corruption” in Charles’ Paris apartment, where Chabrol makes quick cuts before the lovers get to it. 

The narrative is rife with heartbreak, vengefulness, deceit, and lewdness, all of which befall Gabrielle through her obvious lack of good decision-making skills. While none of the characters are exceptionally likeable (except for Gabrielle’s empathetic mother), viewers are emotionally dragged into the mess, as the rivalry between spoiled and mentally unstable Paul and wise yet “bastard” Charles (with a wife that assumedly knows nothing of his affairs) comes to a shocking conclusion, despite its possible predictability. The magic trick at the film’s end reveals the symbolism of Chabrol’s title and leaves viewers to ponder the strong emotions that propelled these characters to forever change their perceptions of love.

This promising documentary rambles on in a disjointed manner, attempting to summarize the Beach Boys’ maturation from squeaky-clean champions of surf culture to partakers of the psychedelic experience. Without voice-over narration or overall direction, we bounce between recent interviews of unknown musicians, with the exception of Brian Wilson at his piano, excerpts of songs and retro footage. It’s all rather redundant (yes, we know there was “no ethic of rebellion in the early ’60s”) until we arrive at Pet Sounds and the lost Smile album, for which Brian Wilson speaks of his creative process. We also learn that Brian was, ironically, deeply afraid of the ocean and that Dennis, the self-destructive brother, drowned.

When the Charles Manson connection eventually comes into play, we’re shown scenes of Manson Family member and murderer Bobby Beausoleil (who befriended Dennis) in a Kenneth Anger film entitled Lucifer Rising. Without many details, we learn how Manson selected the house of producer Terry Melcher (on Cielo Drive), who worked with Dennis and the Boys in addition to Manson at Spahn Ranch, as the location for a massacre that would kill Sharon Tate. This “countercultural killing” exposed the sinister underbelly of the sunshiny California scene, as well as the hippie movement, but what exactly it reveals about the Beach Boys is not properly put forth.    

A drama like Savage Grace won’t sit well with everyone. The film, directed by Tom Talin, provides one of the strangest and most disturbing mother-son relationships ever to grace the silver screen, all the more so because the story is based on reality. Barbara Daly Baekeland, excellently portrayed by Julianne Moore, is a model and wannabe Hollywood starlet, as well as a wealthy socialite, who becomes an heiress to the Baekelite plastic fortune when she marries Leo Baekeland, grandson of Baekelite’s founder. The film opens in the couple’s luxurious Manhattan apartment when their son Antony (or Tony) is an infant. An elder Tony provides a voice-over to expose us to his early perceptiveness of Leo’s cold and distant nature, as well as Barbara’s warmth and love, despite her propensity for frequently attending fancy parties and leaving little Tony with her mother, Nini.

Throughout Savage Grace, orchestral music by Fernando Velasquez is stirring, but somewhat over-the-top, producing a melodramatic effect. The film’s dramatic content is  compelling on its own, and rather delicately revealed over the course of many years. Though it allows for post-screening discourse, Savage Grace is far from an ideal date movie, unless your date wouldn’t mind watching dysfunctional, incestuous relationships. Yes, incest does occur, after a rather slow and psychologically revelatory buildup. The mental and emotional states of interconnected, and intimately related, characters are handled with care and precision by Talin, as well as achieved through incredible acting on the parts of Moore, Stephen Dillane, and Eddie Redmayne, who gives Tony his unnerving, yet compassionate edge.

Tony is connected to Barbara in ways that reach beyond the typical mother-only son attachment. As they live throughout Europe, the family of artistic mother, distant father, and introverted son exist as if on an island apart from the rest of the world. With their wealth and prestige, the family seems to have too much free time on their hands and they don’t quite know what to do with the beauty of Greece or France. Even as a child, Barbara treats loyal and inquisitive Tony as an adult, and she relies on him for affection, emotional support, and as a cure for her loneliness. Barbara’s marriage to Leo is rocky and at times even borders on violent, as revealed through a rough sex scene in a hotel room, which Leo retreats to after an argument.

Tony begins to assert his independence in his late teen years, and he hangs out on the rocky coast with his attractive friend, Jake, to play music, dance, and smoke cigarettes. Leo is concerned with Tony’s aberrant sexuality from the time he invited his male friend to sleep over while his parents were out and, when Tony meets a beautiful Spanish girl, his parents take them out in hopes that they will fall in love. As Leo tells Blanca about his famous grandfather, Tony and Barbara bond over a consistent lack of love from Leo. Although Tony does sleep with Blanca that night, Barbara later finds Leo at an airport with the young girl, whom he has taken on his mistress. Barbara confronts the two of them and says, “How could you do this to Tony? You’re breaking his heart,” to which Blanca calmly replies, “No, we’re not.” Tony has become lovers with Jake, and though his homosexuality is known (Tony is not afraid to be affectionate with Jake in front of his mother), it is not quite accepted.

After Leo and Barbara separate, and Leo continues to live with Blanca, Barbara is shattered. She invites her bisexual friend, Sam, to live with her for a few weeks and reintegrate her, as single and fabulous, into the socialite scene. Unfortunately, Sam’s helpfulness soon becomes rather perverse, as he and Tony end up in bed together. Within the next few days, he and the sexually hungry Barbara also become intimate, and Tony finds them curled up in his her bed. Just when you expect him to leave and become upset, Tony, instead, takes off his shorts and curls around Sam. Talin provides an astonishing overhead shot of Sam sandwiched between mother and son, perfectly cast with their reddish hair, pale skin, and ample scattering of freckles, as if opposite halves of the same person. When Barbara wakes up and discovers her son in the bed, she laughs and the three of them become innocently hysterical, which soon leads to some sort of ménage-à-trois without many boundaries or hesitation. The characters here are infallible, shrouded in emotional ambiguity, and certainly complex.

Within the next few years, Barbara attempts suicide by slitting her wrist and taking suppository laxatives. Tony cares for her out of love and loyalty; one particularly eerie, yet touching scene involves Barbara in the bathtub eating ice cream as Tony delicately strokes ointment onto her stitches, after which Barbara remarks, “That was lovely.” Tony is playing the male role Barbara always wished Leo could perform, yet Tony wrestles with his now-nonexistent relationship with his father, who refuses to see him.

Partially to cure him of his homosexuality and partially because Barbara, who is obviously suffering from some type of manic depression, wants to be as close as she can to Tony, she begins to pleasure him. Initiated by Barbara, the two have intercourse, though we are not sure if this is their first time. Afterward, Tony appears to be in a heightened state of anxiety, and he yells at Barbara for misplacing his dead dog’s collar, which he has brought from house to house and country to country, without misplacing, for almost his entire life. As he continues to scream at her in the kitchen for hiding it, it becomes apparent that he is also suffering from a mental disorder, most likely schizophrenia. Talin could have made this more apparent earlier on in the film, as it only comes to light in the last scene or two, but, in any event, Tony’s love-hate feelings for Barbara are enough to push him over the edge. Tony has been tied to his mother by an invisible, ever-stretching umbilical cord and, finally, it needs to be cut. Tony stabs Barbara, calls for an ambulance, and then orders Chinese food, completely unmoved by the murder.

Shown at the Sundance Institute at BAM, director Clark Gregg has perfectly captured the black humor and twisted scenarios in one of Chuck Palahniuk’s most evocative novels. By remaining both absolutely true to the plotlines and also adapting bits and pieces, such as the ending, this actor-turned-director has achieved a fluid narrative that touches the viewer without veering off into kitschy territory. Choke can potentially offend, hopefully disturb, emotionally affect, and outlandishly amuse, true to Palahniuk form, with scenes like an anal bead getting lost inside Victor’s body (don’t worry, it eventually comes out!).

Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell) is a “recovering” sex addict who never makes it through a whole meeting without sneaking off to get some action from one of the female addicts. By day, he works as a reenactor at a colonial park with his best friend Denny, who constantly gets in trouble for not sticking to historical limitations. By night, Victor and Denny (a chronic masturbator who takes the Steps more seriously than Victor) attend the sex meetings, go to strip clubs, and eat dinner in upscale restaurants so that Victor can choke. A flashback reveals that, in Victor’s childhood, he pretended to choke on a piece of food in order to receive affection from his fraudulent mother (Anjelica Huston), and also to alert the restaurant staff to his “missing child” face on the milk carton. In adulthood, Victor chokes to give other people a sense of having saved someone, or of having done something worthy, but he’s also in it for the free dinners and the cash his “saviors” provide in cards and letters after the ordeal.

Having dropped out of medical school to pay the bills for his ailing mother’s fancy psychiatric hospital, given that her Alzheimer’s disease (due, in part, to years of drug abuse) has worsened to the point where she refuses to eat, Victor routinely visits her, but only by posing as other people. Ida Mancini doesn’t recognize Victor, and he uses this to his advantage in order to glean from her the secrets of his tumultuous past, all the while getting it on with every available staff member. That is, until he meets Dr. Paige Marshall, who at first turns down his sexual advances, and then comes up with the scheme of having sex with him (in the hospital church!) so that he may impregnate her and use the embryonic stem cells for fixing Ida’s brain and saving her life. The only problem is that Victor can’t keep it up with Paige…certainly a first for him. Expressing his feelings for a woman is an entirely new experience for the guy who has only had detached, largely anonymous and purely physical sexual exploits throughout his mature life. His inability to bang Paige senseless puts his mind and sexual identity in a tailspin, while Denny, who is now collecting one rock for every day he doesn’t masturbate (and will eventually create a large structure with them), sees this as a positive change for his friend.

As if all of this didn’t have enough potential to be hysterical, Victor finds out, from having Paige translate his mother’s Italian diary, that he is supposedly a descendant of Jesus Christ after Ida was implanted with cells from the preserved foreskin of our Lord and Savior. Here’s where Choke becomes thematic, associating the quest for personal identity with spirituality, and exploring issues of truth and self-discovery. But however dramatic the film occasionally gets, it never loses its darkly humorous edge. One particularly hilarious scene, lifted straight from the pages, has Victor pretending to rape a woman who has very specific and neurotic sexual demands. Hint: the safe word is “poodle.”

Although some critics might not appreciate Gregg’s more literal interpretations of Palahniuk-style cynicism, or they might find the film shocking for shocking’s sake (certainly, sex and nudity are abundant), deeper issues of morality, friendship and romance, honesty, healing and self-exploration come to light in Gregg’s dramatic version of the tale. The film possesses the ability to please Palahniuk fans excited for the adaptation (though it’s quite a far cry from the likes of Fight Club) and also to entertain those who haven’t (yet) read the book.

An emotive Spanish documentary that questions human nature, consciousness, and the will to live, Stranded  was brewing in the mind of Uruguayan/French director Gonzalo Arijón for 35 years. It took this long for him to appropriately delve into the effects of the catastrophic and life-altering plane crash on the young men who were forced to perform otherwise unimaginable acts in order to survive.

On October 12, 1972, a small plane took off from Uruguay for Chile with 40 passengers and 5 crewmembers. Many of the passengers were members of the Old Christians rugby team, well-to-do college students flying for the first time, while others were family members and friends. When traveling over the Andes Mountains through the border of Argentina and Chile, heavy snowstorms racked the plane, destroying the jovial mood inside. As the pilot flew blindly, the plane hit the jagged peak of a mountain and crashed into a snow-filled valley. Some passengers died on impact or shortly after (such as survivor Nando’s mother, and nine days later his sister), while others lived (or at least initially), surrounded by the bodies of friends or relatives.

Many of the survivors talk about not knowing why they were spared while others died, and they openly wonder who decides such fates and why this had to happen. One man remarks that it seemed like a test from God or nature to see what would happen to a group of privileged, healthy and athletic men if they were forced to combat the elements at their most severe without any of the luxuries they had become accustomed to in society. Search parties were unsuccessful due to the harsh weather and the fact that the white plane was like “a worm in the snow” and therefore undetectable. For 72 days until rescue, the men (and one woman who eventually died) formed a separate society inside and outside of the mutilated plane, sharing every source of food, material, and clothing they could find or create, and living together as one “organism” whose survival depended upon the overall cooperation of the group.

Though the story has been told before in the book and film Alive, starring Ethan Hawke, Arijón’s film includes face-to-camera interviews with all 16 survivors, with whom he gained and maintained a level of trust and friendship necessary for full participation and unbridled honesty. Stranded achieves what many documentaries cannot: a sense of collective unconscious and an eerily mutual experience of death’s close proximity. According to Arijón, “The idea of the film is to show what they felt then and what they feel now.” As the men reveal intricate details and candid emotions (of both sorrow and joy), they fully allow the past to reenter their present lives. By taking their children to visit the site, it’s almost as if the men’s souls and bodies never left the snow-covered mountains. They and their children (as well as the children of some who died there) breathe the dust of ever-existing spirits as they pray over the Andes ground. The dead remain inside of the living…quite literally in fact, as it was the material bodies of the dead that offered the others enough strength to keep going.

Viewers of Stranded must be patient. The film is long and at times redundant, but we need this time and repetition for the story to properly unfold, and so that we may process the sensitive information. Moving chronologically, but also occasionally drifting into the present, we are given hints until the full story is gradually revealed through interviews and reenactments. The two most emotionally disturbing and affective aspects of the ordeal are the acts of cannibalism and the avalanche that nearly buried their stationary plane, killing several more people. Both situations are discussed in depth.

The survivors recall how they eventually made the mutual decision, despite the taboos of the outside world and the emotional pain of using their friends as meat, to cut up the bodies in the snow. They ate tiny slivers of muscle fiber, and even bone powder, to sustain their own bodies. As for the avalanche, this second catastrophe hit them unsuspected in the dead of night, covering every single person in a sheet of snow from which they had to dig themselves out. Each survivor speaks of feeling death come over him. As their breath slipped away, they were each momentarily pulled out of this world. They speak of stepping on the heads of their friends while trying to dig them free, and of taking a big gulp of air, as if rising from a swimming pool, only to realize that the peacefulness of death was actually a reward, one they themselves have not been granted.

Despite the depressing nature of this film, a bit of humor and enjoyment is thrown in. The men certainly seemed to have an overabundance of cigarettes, which they would use to warm their hands, and they ate specks of toothpaste for dessert. On one expedition, they found a camera in the tail end of the plane and used it to take photographs. They also listened to broadcasts, on a one-way radio, about their own crash, and they always retained their youthful spirit. During the last of many brave expeditions, two of the passengers finally reached a ranch, which would lead to their rescue. Footage from press conferences held soon after show the men being asked about their acts of cannibalism. As they explain how some viewed the act as Holy Communion, and how they made pacts with one another that their own bodies should be used for food, our eyes are opened to the natural human will, and to the incredible endurance of these particular men.

German director Tom Tykwer (of Run Lola Run notoriety) has done what other directors deemed cinematically impossible. He’s successfully adapted Patrick Süskind’s novel of torturous internal romance and beautiful horror by remaining almost entirely faithful to its symbolism and dark storyline. In 18th century France, where olfactory sensations abound, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with an extraordinary scent of smell unlike that of even famed perfumers. During his young adulthood, he begins a search for women whose scents inspire feelings of love, as he himself has been ubiquitously unloved—a sort of monstrous creature with no personal scent of his own. Though “there were no real things at all in Grenouille’s innermost universe, only the odors of things,” he cannot sense his own scent and, for this reason, appears nearly invisible to those around him…that is, until the (literally) climactic near-finale, when his perfect perfume incites city-dwellers to lose all rationality and wildly make love in orgy bliss.

The true difficulty in creating Perfume the film lies in visually depicting that which can only be smelt. More to the point, how does one tell a “love story” certain to simultaneously offend and entice, without relating our outwardly unemotional and introspective Grenouille to the stereotypical serial killer? Tykwer manages to portray Grenouille in nearly as complex a manner (both human and subhuman) as he appears in the book, though he chooses to reveal Grenouille’s shocking lack of personal scent during his time as a cave hermit; Süskind, here,  divulges pure euphoria (“He was the only human being in the world!), and readers grasp his scentlessness from Chapter One. To invite our noses in, Tykwer displays rich colors and detailed close-ups, especially when Grenouille is born in a malodorous fish market. Though he lingers too long on the scene where Grenouille “accidentally” murders the first victim, cupping his hands to her skin to fully infuse his nostrils, this act eventually changes him from passive observer of the world to active collector of human scent.

In keeping with today’s greener ambitions, vegetarians and animal-friendly consumers can walk, skip, and jump without panic. The vegan-owned and operated Moo Shoes maintains that “one cannot have fashion without compassion.” It’s hard to argue that donning the skin of poor defenseless cows for the sake of durable fashion is not only avoidable, but also completely unnecessary. Located on Orchard Street in NYC’s Lower East Side, Moo Shoes (www.mooshoes.com) was founded, in 2001, by two sisters who also support local no-kill animal shelters. With styles for both men and women, the store offers various brands of leather-free boots (my favorite being the 14-eye boot by the UK’s Vegetarian Shoes), sandals, sneakers, and dress shoes, in addition to wallets, belts, and purses that fool the naked eye into believing they’re “real” (as if this should matter). They also provide cruelty-free cosmetics, vegan cookbooks, and “cow hugger” or “herbivore bunny” hoodies and shirts.  

Similarly, Nomadic State of Mind accommodates the needs of our environmentally conscious generation. While Moo Shoes caters to the chic and mindful city-gal, Nomadic State (http://nomadicstateofmind.com) globally outfits nature-loving hippies whose feet demand to be as free as their souls. The grassroots company started out of a ’69 VW van (you can’t get more authentic than that) and traveled from festival and festival offering “the world’s best handmade sandals.” These comfortable sandals are crafted out of rope and can be used in “any environmental condition;” be it water, mountaintop, or desert (how Biblical!). Nomadic State also offers such essential accessories as hammocks, Frisbees, and recycled poly/cotton tee-shirts, with slogans like “think peace” and “these are the good old days.”

(photo by Amy Dupcak)

Tattoo Culture in Williamsburg recently celebrated their 2-year anniversary. More than your standard tattoo parlor, the space is used as an ever-changing art gallery. Showing collective works or featured artists, the colorful, racy, and bizarre paintings that currently don the walls are by twenty-five local artists. Clean and incredibly spacious, Japanese screens provide privacy for tattooing sessions, while tall front windows allow light into the already bright room. The polished floor, red walls, and leather couch only add to the hip and relaxed ambience. A glass case displays archaic tattoo instruments, while shelves and racks hold a wide array of T-shirts, jewelry, books (like Mommy Has A Tattoo !), illustrated pillows and bedsheets, hats, accessories, and other oddly charming items. One also gets a real sense of community from the many local business cards and fliers for volunteering and events. With excellent music playlists, talented artists, and friendly service, this place is culturally and creatively top-notch.

(photo by Amy Dupcak) 

When Sub Pop, Jon Poneman and Bruce Pavitt’s Seattle-based indie record label, released Green River’s Dry As a Bone EP in 1987, "grunge" peeked its head from the depths of the underground. After Green River/Mudhoney's Mark Arm apparently coined the term in 1981, Everett True, a journalist writing for the UK music magazine Melody Maker, picked out the word “grunge” from Sub Pop’s description of the album’s sound as being “ultra-loose grunge that destroyed the morals of a generation” and, at once, an emerging genre of music was named. A year later, in 1988, the label came out with Sub Pop 200, two years after their first release, Sub Pop 100. 200 was a three-EP box set with a twenty-page booklet of photographs and was raved about by one radio DJ as being “a testament to regional music." Through such a marketing strategies, Pavitt and Poneman made a cultural statement and created an identity for Sub Pop itself. As stated by Rocket managing editor Grant Alden, Sub Pop wanted to “create [the] trust that if it’s on Sub Pop, it’s worth owning, even if you haven’t heard the band."

Although Sub Pop, like all record companies, was trying to earn money and, at one point, began selling T-shirts that read “What part of ‘we have no money’ don’t you understand?,” they seemed to establish, from the very start, a relationship with music buyers in which one might come to feel respected, appreciated, and excited about each new band Sub Pop provided. This was certainly a fresh approach for the music industry. The photographs that accompanied album releases or magazine articles were calibrated to establish the look of Sub Pop, which was an important aspect to the label. Photographer Charles Peterson was hired to shoot trademark “hair shots” of the musicians as they head-banged while performing live. Since a good deal of mainstream rock music during the late '80s involved spandex, leather, and Aqua Net, Pavitt was intentionally “trying to create something that was the polar opposite to that, something that [he] felt people could relate to.” The indie Sub Pop wanted to divulge the fact that their musicians were “real” people, which marked a separation in terms of ideals and aesthetics between what was happening musically outside the realm of Seattle and what was happening within.

Subsequently, many of their original grunge bands went mainstream, like Nirvana; following grunge's eventual death, Sub Pop formed a joint venture with Warner Music and originator Pavitt left the company. Meanwhile, the staff grew and "The Difficult Years" set in. These years were tricky for independent rock music labels in general, since major label pop music and watered-down rock took center stage and dominated MTV and radio waves. After Sub Pop was forced to relocate from their original residence, they began to re-establish themselves as the premiere indie label by signing up-and-coming rock bands from the Northwest and beyond. In the past several years, Sub Pop has definitely made a comeback, as they were already firmly situated in the midst of this century's indie rock takeover. Sub Pop has put out seminal records by The Postal Service, Mudhoney, The Shins, and Iron & Wine, and continues to release new records by The Helio Sequence, The Rapture, The Album Leaf, Comets on Fire, and Wolf Eyes, among many others.

For 2 decades, they've been offering the world raw, attention-worthy rock n' roll records and this year Sub Pop turns twenty. To celebrate, the label is reissuing Mudhoney's Superfuz Bigmuff Deluxe Edition and will throw a series of "over-the-top birthday parties" for itself in the form of an all-weekend outdoor festival called SP20. on July 11, Sub Pop hosts a comedy show and on July 12, at Marymoor Park in Washington, such Sub Pop musicians as Mudhoney, The Vaselines, Fleet Foxes, Iron & Wine, Flight of the Concords and Low will play at the all-day event. The next day, performances at the park include Grand Archives, The Ruby Suns, Foals, No Age, Wolf Parade, and even Green River. The Gutter Twins will also play on July 12 at the Showbox, which is likewise presented by Sub Pop. Single day tickets as well as dual passes are both available here....that is, if you can spring it to the Pacific Northwest. Don't forget your party hat!

Mindless Self Indulgence has come a long way in the past few years...in terms of popularity that is. In terms of their songwriting, it's pretty much the same as ever, except that their tracks, which once had that wham-bam appeal and maxed out at nearly 2 minutes, are now a smidge longer and have a tendency toward repetitiveness. That’s not to say the band is no longer interesting or original, nor to say that their metals meets punk meets industrial meets who-knows-what formula no longer works in their favor because, with recently increasing notoriety, MSI has legions of new fans and appeared on a plethora of alternative magazine covers. They've also been selling out bigger venues, such as the all-ages, discothèque-inspired Terminal 5 where I saw them.

The only real problem with all of this, for me at least, is that their shows have become a bit watered down. Since newer teenage fans weren't around for the shows they played in barns and CBGB's years ago, they don't know the difference between MSI now and MSI then, but older fans who have been into the band since Tight and Frankenstein Girls Seem Strangely Sexy can't help but feel a tad disappointed. Again, that's not to say that the performance itself was disappointing, and certainly Jimmy Urine was full of energy, antics, and curse-ridden rants directed at his adoring fans, but it just wasn't as wild as I've seen...no heads shaved, penises revealed, sloppy kisses, and no hanging from the rafters. Then again, he did seem to have a hell of a time throwing proverbial punches at the largely underage crowd and dissing them with such statements as, "Your mom is picking you up from the show later, while we go backstage to do crack." The decked out Lin Z dove into the crowd amid darkly-clad moshers and spiky-haired crowd surfers, while Jimmy Urine tore off his shirt and asked fans to throw him new clothes; wearing a bra, tiara, and leopard print shirt as a skirt, he exclaimed, "You dressed me like Amy Winehouse!"

Last week, I braved the G train to see one of the best Brooklyn bands around; Goes Cube (featured in the Winter 2008 issue of Beyond Race) played a set at Europa in Greenpoint, which was the perfect fit for the triple dose of hard rock bands to grace the stage that night. Red-lighted chandeliers hung from hollowed out holes in the ceiling, and the dim ambience, lounge seating, and hip décor were ideal for the menagerie of metal kids, hipsters, and general music fans filling the space.

First up was the rather unknown band Naam. In today’s world, not having a music Myspace page means that you must be authentically underground, or at least that you’re not in it for the online fame! Naam certainly isn’t; the rather heavily bearded post-metal doom (plus keyboards) band tore through their set with fierce, well-constructed aggression and nearly deafening noise. Next up was The Pax Cecilia from Rochester, NY, who are currently racking up online reviews. The lead singer/cellist/keyboard player was unassuming in a nice blazer and tie, but when the multi-instrumental sound started to swell, he grabbed the mic, opened up his throat, and let out some blood-curdling screams, his entire face beaming red. The band sustained their prog-rock, avant-metal take on classical (with both violin and cello accompaniment, along with the keys, bass, drums, and guitar) through a riveting set, with almost painfully evocative soft-to-loud moments and richly textured effusion (such as in “the Water Song”) that seemed to endlessly reverberate.

Goes Cube had a large fanbase present for the show and many fans came from lands much further than Manhattan. With immense distortion, ferocious percussion, and David Obuchowski’s raw screams, the trio is somewhat of a throwback to the grunge era and the bare-bones creativity of the early ’90s. Inherently DIY and influenced by such bands as Isis, Torche, and Helmet, they define themselves merely as “heavy rock,” or “post-hardcore,” but with “nothing kitschy.” They offered the crowd several new songs (and David made up names for each, since all of their song titles are numbered), along with better-known tracks such as “Goes Cube Song 30,” (from their EP Beckon the Dagger God) which really got the crowd going! Their energy was consistent and also refreshing because it was apparent how much they simply enjoyed playing, and they thanked the audience numerous times for coming out in support. All in all, taking the V to the G was worth it.

(photo by Amy Dupcak) 

Mercury Landing played to a crowd of dancing, adoring, and probably drunk fans at Sullivan Hall this month. Comprised of 5 members, plus a female guest singer who joined them for 2 songs, New York's Mercury Landing performs their own blend of music inspired by funk and classic rock. Like a mature jam-band vibe minus the Birkenstocks or dreadlocks, their distinctive poppy flavor is sprinkled with jazz, ska, and reggae to create danceable rock n' roll that puts you in a spectacular mood. The rather long songs are clear and vivid, dynamic and catchy, with various progressions and instrumental soloing, such as Corey J. Feldman's guitar trickery.

As evidenced by the completely jovial crowd, Mercury Landing's musical style feels free and unrestrained, as the songs take off like little birds. Classically trained, these young yet highly experienced musicians approach their collective sound from a technically proficient standpoint, bringing a wide range of talent to the table, or rather, stage. In particular, keyboardist and singer Richie Brownstein was often the central focus of the show, as he darted back and forth between the mic and the keys. He impressively demanded his keyboard with exceptionally fast and agile playing. Between their positive energy and enthusiastic stage presence, Mercury Landing lit up the room and most likely gained a few new fans.

For more, check them out at: http://www.mercurylanding.com/

Henry Rollins knows what he’s talking about, no matter what he’s talking about. He’s been through all of it: from hanging with rockstars to actually becoming one, not to mention movies, radio, television, poetry, and traveling the world twice over. It’s traveling and his various experiences and encounters with everyday people in different nations that seems to ignite the fire within him. Though Rollins is probably the least preachy person I can think of, his words, and their emphatic delivery, definitely have a motivating effect, and purposefully so. As much as the man can incite wrath for the current administration, his spoken performances are also rife with wildly humorous anecdotes, appreciation for his country and others, excitement about the possibility of political change, which he believes we will someday achieve as we continue to “evolve,” and deep respect for humanity.

On stage alone, Rollins glows. How he manages to talk for nearly 3 and a half hours is beyond me, but the man never once slowed down, never once tripped over his words, and didn’t give off the impression of being rehearsed. He was modest and sincere, personally revealing and also relatable. He webbed numerous stories together, went on long tangents, and then pulled it back together. Through these stories, he revealed his underlying rebellion and overwhelming curiosity, which continuously collide to keep the hardworking Henry ever busy, and to place him in the most interesting of situations. He spoke of “vacationing” in Palestine and taking part in an activist gathering for an assassinated figure; he spoke of meeting a man in South Africa named Africa, who spends his life trying to get people tested for HIV; he spoke of an Iraqi cabdriver in Lebanon who couldn’t obtain a Visa for his wife in Iraq because the centers for doing so were beyond destroyed, and he spoke…to David Lee Roth.

Of course, his stories were riddled with political topics: the Iraqi invasion, Bush’s trouble with words, Katrina victims, poverty, the death penalty, Saddam Hussein’s hanging, police brutality, Christmas consumerism, and who or what the American people really are, both the good and the bad and the scarily precious (as in Van Halen fans!), yet through and through, Rollins professed the beauty of democracy and respect for all educated opinions. His goal, one of many, is to urge everyone to make the most our world, to travel and converse with people who look, live, talk, and act differently than we do. By doing so, we can become conscious of other ways other than the American way; we will also realize that, essentially, we are all the same. We need to take advantage of our freedom, for which Rollins is pretty damn grateful, in order to visit these other worlds and then return to America to share our experiences and feel a renewed appreciation for our own personal freedoms. There aren’t many public speakers I would watch until my entire lower half went numb, but Rollins is certainly one of them; his charismatic approach to storytelling provided so much inspiration and introspection that I left in chills…and not just because it was 10 degrees out. Brr!

The quirky hit Juno, set perfectly to the melody of indie-star Kimya Dawson, is enjoying much critical admiration, commercial success, and may even receive an Oscar nomination (if the show goes on). The plot, about a pregnant teenager who finds adoptive parents for her unborn child, speaks to our times and concerns, and the quick-witted, spunky characters are both relatable and lovable. The significance of individual choice and lifestyles shines through excellent performances by Ellen Page, Michael Cera, Jennifer Garner, J.K. Simmons, and others.

Though I adore Reitman's attention to character details, such as the stepmother's obsession with cutting out pictures of dogs or Bleeker's with orange Tic Tacs, as well as the fact that Juno is a smart and somewhat self-sufficient teen who is neither a full-fledged outcast nor overtly rebellious, I find her reactions, expressions, and dialogue to be too dead-pan. And though I appreciate her eventual emotional breakdown, and the obvious pain of the delivery itself, her sobs seem to come out a bit late.

I'm sorry, but no matter how emotionally distant, witty, non-conformist, apathetic, or drama-free a girl like Juno (or any other outside-of-the-box teenager) acts, the fact remains that casualness and blatant dark humor while dealing with her little problem are not highly believable. It's all a bit over-the-top: the hamburger phone, her snarky comments about the fetus, and her somewhat rudely impulsive behavior when visiting Vanessa and Mark, not to mention her nearly out-of-nowhere longing and love for Bleeker, who isn't given enough on-screen action. I appreciate the relationship and mutual respect between Juno and her father, as well as the modernized aspects of her home life, and the brief discussions of and references to "true" punk music, but I'm not sure if the film is trying to show the lives of teenagers as they "really" are, or if it's attempting to provide a pro-life message, or if it simply strives to stand as an alternative-indie classic among the likes of Ghost World. Whatever Diablo Cody and Jason Reitman's intentions may be, Juno is undoubtedly uplifting and, while perhaps unrealistic, certainly sweet and enjoyable.

1.    The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974); Tobe Hooper
A blaringly bright sun bleaches the rural Texas landscape of slaughterhouses, run-down gas stations, and decaying corpses. Tobe Hooper’s grimy classic is a film theorist’s dream. You’ve got parallel families—one to represent social norms and the other to represent, well, abnormality—and the Freudian concept of “Otherness,” exemplified by our primitive “monster,” Leatherface. Mainly credited as the be all and end all of slasher flicks, Texas Chain Saw was also one of the first films (perhaps Spider Baby before this) to portray its victims in a negative light, thereby blurring the boundaries between good and evil. With scenes like Sally’s chase through the woods, and the subsequent dinner table fiasco (“Hit her Grandpa!”), where she screams like a tortured animal, Texas Chain Saw successfully turned American upside down.

2.    House of 1000 Corpses; Rob Zombie
Quite possibly the most kick-ass film I’ve ever encountered (seriously). Rob Zombie borrows Texas Chain Saw’s narrative, modernizes and expands its cast of freaky, redneck cannibals, and introduces the sexiest and most outrageous killer-clan to ever grace the screen. Throughout the film, and in his other projects, Zombie continually pays homage to the tradition of American horror by playing with conventions of the genre and truly challenging the expectations of knowledgeable viewers. With Charles Manson references, super-8 film montages, cave-dwelling zombies, and some of cinema’s most creatively gory scenes (Fish Boy!), Zombie bridges the gap between reality and fantasy to present the legend of “Dr. Satan.”  

3.    Lolita (1997); Adrian Lyne
Lyne’s filmic adaptation is true to the mood, symbolism, and complex narrative of Vladimir Nabokov’s heart-wrenching novel. After his first love tragically dies, Humbert Humbert’s sexual development becomes trapped in adolescence. Upon arriving in American, he covets and becomes intricately involved with young Dolores Haze, a.k.a. Lolita, convincingly portrayed by Dominique Swain. Bratty and feisty, but also alarmingly seductive, and eventually manipulative, she is not your typical sex kitten, but a troubled creature seen only through the eyes of our obsessive protagonist. An airy score provides the backdrop for tender, and somewhat awkward moments between our “lovers.”

4.    Neco z Alenky (Alice); Jan Švankmajer
The most imaginative rendition of Lewis Carroll’s classic tale. Czech director Jan Švankmajer incorporates surrealist stop-motion and visceral live action to create a naturalistic and childlike Wonderland that is at times pleasant (populated with small animals and living-room furniture) and other times absolutely terrifying. Švankmajer employs his trademark symbolism, using objects such as rocks, clay, nails, keys, and wood, and reinterprets essential Wonderland characters; a sewn-up White Rabbit, for example, keeps re-stuffing his artificial body with sawdust.

5.    The Shining; Stanley Kubrick
The Overlook Hotel, settled in the snow-ridden mountains of Colorado, is cut off from humanity and seemingly from time itself. Whether it’s due to hauntings by the murderous former caretaker, to “cabin fever,” or to his own maddening writer mind, Jack hunts his family with an ax and chases young Danny in an outdoor maze. Film auteur Kubrick introduces the Steadycam, where the camera is worn on the body, allowing for precise movement and dynamism. His visionary directing also involves low-to-the-ground shots of Danny traversing the halls on his two-wheeler, revealing the Overlook’s eerily empty space. Kubrick uses patterns (like those of the carpets, or the text on Jack’s pages) to situate his characters within a stunning, grand symmetry. Abrupt, shocking scenes, like the infamous sisters in the doorway (“Come play with us”) or the bathtub-lady’s sudden decay, serve to create an overall sense of “uncanny horror.”

6.    Donnie Darko; Richard Kelly
Serious and cynical, with loads of social commentary on upper-middle-class suburbia, its inherent close-mindedness and the need to place blame, Donnie Darko combines a multitude of cinematic genres. As a science fiction film, it involves parallel dimensions, time travel, and theoretical physics, as a mystery drama, predestined events play out like a good read, and, as a psychological horror, a frightening rabbit makes hallucinatory appearances to the fatalistic Donnie. This film is unlike any other.

7.    Léon: The Professional; Luc Besson
The fearless Mathilda’s got her sights on avenging the death of her little brother, after her family is gunned down. Natalie Portman expertly plays the 12-year-old hitman trainee, semi in love with her new assassin guardian and adapting to his corrupt and eccentric lifestyle. Léon’s complicated relationship to the girl is neither perverse nor parental, as he slowly allows his hermitic and solitary self to open up and enjoy her company. Scenes of innocent playfulness and momentary joy offset the monotony of their training, with seemingly endless glasses of milk.

8.    Buffalo ’66; Vincent Gallo
When Billy Brown, recently released from prison, kidnaps Layla to impress his unsupportive, football-fanatical parents, in his hometown of Buffalo, he doesn’t expect “Stockholm Syndrome” to kick in, and for Layla’s devotion to force him to admit his insecurities, and thus face personal demons. It may sound cheesy as hell, but this twisted “love story” (so to speak) of two strange, skeptical, wholly imperfect people provides one of the most realistic and fleshed-out portrayals of multi-dimensional characters. Within this stripped-down, subtle, semi-autobiographical film, Gallo experiments with storytelling, from both a cinematic and narrative perspective. He includes odd musical numbers, and a very long opening scene where an agitated Billy just needs to take a leak.

9.    Sedmikrasky (Daisies); Ivana Karbanová
Another Czech film graces my list, this one of a vastly different nature. Directed by “feminist” Karbanová, the only reoccurring characters are two silly, somewhat naïve, and adventuresome young girls (“Marie I” and “Marie II”), who live alone in their shared bedroom. Anti-society and anti-reality, they choose to play games, mock social conventions, and eat food (a rarity in Czechoslovakia at the time, as food was rationed and scarce) all day long with no regard to anyone else. Rather than submit to the expectations of their Communist country, the girls exploit their suitors for expensive, fancy feasts. In the final scene, they completely destroy a banquet hall by running along the table, eating or smashing every bit of food, and swinging from the chandelier. The avant-garde nature of this (banned) film, with its bright colors, illogical dialogue, and non-narrative format, was, for 1966, ahead of its time.

10.    Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari); Robert Wiene
Released in 1920 and instantly recognized for its stylized mise-en-scène and theatrical choreography, this German Expressionist silent film (along with Nosferatu) was responsible for influencing a wide range of movies, music, and attire (think the ’80s Goth movement). Through the use of symmetry and patterns, abnormally large proportions, sharp angles, artificial shadows, slanted walls, and painted backdrops, Wiene expressed characters’ extreme psychological states and created a heightened or maddened take on reality. My favorite character is Cesare the Somnambulist, creepily unveiled upright in his coffin after sleeping for twenty-five years.

Runners Up:  Blue Velvet, Taxi Driver, The Holy Mountain, Fando Y Lis, Alien, Pi, 28 Days Later, Dead Ringers, Dog Day Afternoon, Empire Records, Clue, My Girl, Lola Rennt (Run Lola Run), The Exorcist, The Crow, Ghost World, Return to Oz, Battle Royale, Dancer in the Dark, Edward Scissorhands, Suburbia, Gattaca, Repulsion, American Beauty, Planet of the Apes (1968), The Wickerman (1973), 24 Hour Party People, Them!, Nói Albínói, 4 Months 3 Weeks 2 Days, The Science of Sleep (etc!)

Short Films: More, Anémic Cinéma, Un Chien Andalou, Dumplings, Rejected, Dimensions of Dialogue

1.    Lolita; Vladimir Nabokov
Everyone knows the general storyline, but one can only appreciate the complexity of this controversial relationship between Dolores “Lolita” Haze and her step-father/lover, Humbert Humbert (our obsessive protagonist), by reading Nabokov’s hauntingly beautiful prose, which reveals his expert awareness of the English language (though it wasn’t even his first!). This dangerously romantic, mysterious, violent and highly emotive novel foraged ahead into new territory, and has yet to meet its literary match.

2.    The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton; Anne Sexton
Her work reveals the strength of poetry: its ability to turn a reader inside out. Her voice is consciously female—daring, brutally honest (to the point of feeling we know too much), and also wildly surreal—and her words hit you like jabs of a hammer. She edits the work to its core, until every poem is structurally perfect and every word precise. In this way, Sexton reveals the importance of choice: never clichéd or overused, every line is itself quotable. Some of my favorites include: “The Fury of Sunsets,” “Her Kind,” “Hurry Up Please It’s Time,” “Live,” “The Room of My Life,” and “Baby Picture.”

3.    Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Looking-glass and What Alice Found There; Lewis Carroll
What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, written, or theatrically expressed about these classic books by mathematical mastermind and child-like Lewis Carroll? I will say that the latter is my preferred book because I find it ever more complex—the entire story can be played out as a game of chess! I suggest finding Wonderland with Carroll’s original illustrations (as opposed to Tenniel’s), and also reading Martin Gardner’s annotated versions.

4.    Perfume; Patrick Süskind
This novel of torturous internal romance and beautiful horror reveals Süskind’s mastery of prose; he is able to evoke scent through words. Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with an extraordinary scent of smell unlike that of even famed perfumers. During his young adulthood, he begins a search for women whose scents inspire feelings of love, as he himself has been ubiquitously unloved—a sort of monstrous creature with no personal scent of his own. Though “there were no real things at all in Grenouille’s innermost universe, only the odors of things,” he cannot sense his own scent and, for this reason, appears nearly invisible. Kurt Cobain, perhaps relating to Grenouille, wrote In Utero’s “Scentless Apprentice” based on the tale.

5.    The Giver; Lois Lowry
So much more than your average “young adult” book, Lowry’s bleak prediction for our future is nothing like the majority of sci-fi or fantasy stories you’ll ever find. The fact that a book can convincingly take place in black and white tells you how much trust and authority Lowry commands in her delicately crafted prose: follow the descriptions, believe in what you read, and your mind will be opened.

6.    To The Lighthouse; Virginia Woolf
Woolf’s language and complexly simple, philosophically driven, and asymmetric storyline are truly triumphant. The language is water-like: flowing long sentences create a feeling of rushing towards something concrete, yet somehow indefinite and undefined. Woolf allows clear and unadulterated insight into the minds of interconnecting characters, who experience multiple layers of thought. Inner monologues juxtapose spoken dialogue, as Woolf writes of  her characters in as humanly and accurately a manner as I have perhaps ever read. The overlapping stories play out over the course of time, which, like the title’s lighthouse, is a character in and of itself.

7.    Junky; William S. Burroughs
Junky is Burroughs’ first book and, in my opinion, his very best. Though Naked Lunch may be his most often quoted, and certainly an essential work of art, it’s Junky that truly stirs one’s emotional core. Straight and to-the-point, grotesquely descriptive and leaving nothing to the imaginative, this is Burroughs offering a candid account of his addictions and all of the wild, and wildly destructive, corresponding experiences. Junky is the authority on personalized fiction.  

8.    Geek Love; Katherine Dunn
The world created by Katherine Dunn in Geek Love is bizarre, intense, and disturbing. The novel chronicles a morally ambiguous circus sideshow family who prides itself on being “freaks.” Our protagonist is a bald midget (and her eventual daughter has a tail), with Siamese twin sisters, an older brother who has flippers for limbs, and a younger brother with telekinetic powers. One especially powerful scene involves a woman graphically operating on her own arm.

9.    The Eden Express; Mark Vonnegut
This is Mark Vonnegut’s account of his beautiful yet nightmarish descent into schizophrenia. Obviously inspired by his own prolific father, Mark’s language is descriptive, his tone humorous (in a black humor kind of way), and his tale bold and, at times, very funny. Mark was a hippie in the sixties and lived on a “farm” in Canada with his girlfriend, dog, and a few close friends, when he used LSD and unknowingly ignited his dormant schizophrenia. His experiences offer clear insight to the “abnormal” mind, and his human will to live without medication is inspiring. 

10.    How to Breathe Underwater; Julie Orringer
Orringer’s language, in this short story collection, is fresh, and the dual simplicity and complexity of her themes create magnificent and complete stories. All of the protagonists are female, and their experiences expose various ages of development (from childhood to adulthood); the narratives are presented in realistic yet symbolic manners that are never over-dramatized.


Honorable Mentions:
White Noise (Don DeLillo), I Remember (Joe Brainard), A Personal Matter (Kenzaburo Oë), The Pigeon (Patrick Süskind), Howl and Other Poems (Allen Ginsberg), Ariel (Sylvia Plath), Johnny Got His Gun (Dalton Trumbo), Lord of the Flies (William Golding), Cat’s Cradle (Kurt Vonnegut), Choke (Chuck Palahniuk), Genie; A Scientific Tragedy (Russ Rymer), The Elegant Universe (Brian Greene), Truth & Beauty (Ann Patchett), Housekeeping (Marilynne Robinson) 

1.    Neon Bible – Arcade Fire
The world couldn’t have asked for a better follow-up to Funeral. Neon Bible encompasses poetic lyrics, choral backing vocals, and a vast and mighty array of musical instruments—from organs and pianos, to strings and brass, to a hurdy-gurdy and xylophones Like an early 20th-century novel, the album is replete with musical motifs and lyrical imagery; each song (or chapter) tells its own little tale of struggle, hope, and personal triumph. This album is truly epic!

2.    Hideout – Film School
An all-out escape, perfectly balancing instrumental ambience with humming vocals that fade in and out. The entire album brims with reverberation as textured pedal effects underlie melodies. As an added bonus, their live performances are incredible.

3.    The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust – Saul Williams
Produced by Trent Reznor and mixed by Alan Moulder, this album is the result of impressive collaboration. In this concept album, Saul Williams pits hard-edged spoken poetry against Reznor’s industrial backdrops to create multi-part musical hybrids that unite urban funk with dark rock. Overtly and insistently political, the fierce percussion, ’80s synths, mechanized noises, and wide range of sung and spoken vocals from Williams create one of the most cutthroat albums out there.

4.    Tress Outside the Academy – Thurston Moore
Achingly beautiful, poetic, and brilliantly composed, Moore enters newly imagined and inspired territory, placing his familiarly fragile vocals amidst cellos, guitar, and precise noise. In particular, the clunky and somber "American Coffin,” which is largely a piano instrumental, pulls at the soul.

5.    Year Zero – Nine Inch Nails
The entirely conceptual Year Zero reveals Reznor’s newly evolved self, in terms of emphasizing the oncoming destruction of the world rather than his own self-destruction. Year Zero embodies his poppy brand of modern-industrial, with harsh mechanic synths, thick drum machine beats, grating bass-and-guitar, alternating hushed and punchy vocals, and distorted sound. And while it isn't as evocative, varied, or abstract as The Fragile, which Reznor certainly spent more time perfecting, Year Zero is solid and anarchically inspiring.

6.    V is for Vagina – Puscifer
Definitely weird, definitely quirky, and definitely a James Maynard Keenan project. This album is dark and bizarre, with very low vocals, even lower baselines, and an array of kinetic percussive elements. Surprisingly melodic, V combines acoustics with electric, twang with hard rock, and the profound with the absurd.  

7.    In Rainbows – Radiohead
Though the album lacks the sort of experimentation of Kid A (my very favorite), I have truly embraced In Rainbows' emotionally restrained context and richly instrumental landscapes. “Bodysnatchers” is fuzzy and loud, “Reckoner” is simply beautiful, and “Videotape” is painfully haunting and sincerely melancholic.  

8.    Volta – Björk
As daring and impassioned as ever, Björk's unique voice is the instrument that carries every song, on every album, to its climax. Here, an ebb and flow of eccentric percussion, natural sound effects, and a bustling array of brass courtesy of an Icelandic female ensemble indicate Björk's evolution from the spunky and sparse to Volta's spitfire, nature-oriented, and classic fluidity.
 
9.    23 – Blonde Redhead
Another great album from Blonde Redhead, with shining keyboards and layers of instruments hovering around Kazu Makino’s lovely voice. “Publisher,” with its sexy beats and sensitive vocals by one of the Italian twins, possesses just the right mixture of emotion and charm.  

10.    † – Justice
One of the year’s most fun! Heavily influenced by Daft Punk, this debut LP mixes old school beats and disco melody with modern technology to create mechanically harmonious treasures for any break-dance party.  

Honorable Mentions:
New Moon – Elliott Smith
The Con – Tegan and Sara
Hvarf–Heim – Sigur Rós
Ire Works – Dillinger Escape Plan
Strawberry Jam – Animal Collective

1.    The Eraser – Thom Yorke  (XL Recordings)
As electrically soulful and quixotically introspective as expected from the creative genius of Radiohead’s Thom Yorke. In particular, “And it Rained All Night” clicks and clacks with synthetic melancholia that crawls under your skin.

2.    10,000 Days – Tool  (Volcano)
Viciously mesmerizing, the masterpiece of Tool’s epic new album (in my opinion) is “Wings for Marie” parts 1 and 2. Listen alone in a darkened room.

3.    In the Absence of Truth – Isis  (Ipecac)
Painfully emotive, heart wrenching and heavy, this new record is every bit as powerful as Isis’ previous releases. Each long and complex song (like “Not in Rivers, But in Drops”) will tug at the depths of you.

4.    Saturday Night Wrist – Deftones  (Maverick)
I’ve been absolutely addicted to this album…both melodic and atmospheric, every song is intense. Exceptionally beautiful is the murky instrumental track 6, where a lonesome guitar bends and coils.

5.    Mr. Beast – Mogwai  (Matador)
Known for their superfluous use of guitar pedals and mechanic noises, Mogwai’s droning and distorted barrage of sound saturates the melody of “Travel is Dangerous,” while piano-driven “Friend of the Night” is fragile and haunting.

6.    Ampecheture – The Mars Volta  (Umvd Labels)
One of the most gratifying albums I’ve recently encountered; The Mars Volta’s frenzied use of raw vocals and melodic Spanish singing over a torrent of instruments  (from horns to electric guitar à la King Crimson) creates a rarely captured anarchic yet emotional ambiance. Standout track: “Meccamputechure.”

7.    Black Holes and Revelations – Muse  (Warner Bros/WEA)
Muse’s classically inspired dark pop is alive and well on the catchy “Assassin,” yet gorgeously sad on “Hoodoo.”

8.    The Obliterati  – Mission of Burma  (Matador)
The energetic and carefree Mission of Burma reinstates their punk-rock power with riff-ridden tracks like “Donna Sumeria” and “Good, Not Great.”

9.    Rather Ripped – Sonic Youth  (Geffen)
With catchy tunes “Reena” and “Incinerate,” and more delicate, whimsical “Turquoise Boy” and “Jams Run Free,” Sonic Youth reveals their Velvet-Underground-influenced wisdom and also their steadfast youthfulness.

10.    Begin to Hope – Regina Spektor  (Sire)
Delightful and spunky, Regina’s crafty songs, including a rerecorded version of “Samson,” retain the unpolished charm and simplicity of earlier albums.


Top 5 Films of 2006:

1.    Science of Sleep
Michel Gondry’s Science of Sleep contains nearly every key ingredient required to create the perfect Amy-film: elements of surrealism, vivid dream scenes, quirky/childlike characters, Claymation, and a good amount of unpredictability. Additionally, the film’s self-reflexivity, well-acted awkwardness, off-kilter puppetry and kooky inventions, intermittent French, and ambiguous narrative that isn’t entirely linear (because some of it exists entirely within Stéphane’s head) only reinforce my total enjoyment. It makes me wish I could film my own dreams.

2.    Inland Empire
I consider David Lynch one of my top five favorite directors and his new 3-hour film doesn’t disappoint. As crazy, chaotic and confusing as anticipated from the likes of Lynch, Inland Empire is also spooky (even frightening!). Lynch employs new filming and editing techniques—mainly by stripping them down and using a hand-held digital camera. With a phenomenal performance by Laura Dern (mildly reminiscent of Catherine Deneuve in Polanski’s Repulsion), ridiculous dance scenes featuring gorgeous prostitutes, a host of oddball characters (including a family of human-like rabbits), a movie-within-a-movie paradox, and mind-boggling lapses in memory and time, Inland Empire had me glued to my seat, yet still left me scratching my head.

3.    The Fountain
Absolutely breathtaking, The Fountain has benefited from an obviously higher budget than that of Darren Aronofsky’s previous films, π and Requiem for a Dream. Also, rather than utilizing CGI effects to create scenes within nebulous bubbles drifting and bursting in space, Aronofsky and team used macro photography of deep-sea microorganisms and reactions between bacteria and chemicals, which I find incredibly innovative. Like a good short story where every word is essential, The Fountain’s three interweaving story lines (each of which takes place in entirely separate realms), involving the drama of one scientist-husband and his cancer-ridden-wife, are replete with symbolism and connect to the film’s core—Aronofsky asks his audience to consider death as a form of creation.  

4.     Shortbus
John Cameron Mitchell (of Hedwig fame) has definitely achieved something remarkable with his long awaited Shortbus. Rarely experienced in cinema, it features real-life on-screen sex that is in no ways gratuitous and, for the most part, not even overtly erotic. The interconnected cast of characters, including a sex therapist searching for her first orgasm, a gay couple who bring another boy into their relationship, and a lonely dominatrix, meet at Shortbus—an underground salon that’s become a haven for freaky, free-love, sexually-ambiguous New Yorkers (drag queens, lesbians, tattooed couples, etc). Bluntly kinky and incredibly eye opening, the movie’s dialogue is on-point comical, but Shortbus also contains serious and intimate moments, giving it more breadth and depth than found in Hedwig.

5.     Little Miss Sunshine
It’s hard to recall another film as hilarious and heart-warming (and not at all cheesy) as Little Miss Sunshine. A dysfunctional family, including young Olive’s perfectionist father, suicidal Proust-scholar uncle, purposefully mute brother, and sex-drugs-and-rock-n-roll loving grandfather, embark on a journey to her beauty pageant in California, which is way out of her league. From problems with their busted van to the father’s imminent bankruptcy, every character seems to learn valid life lessons and, in some ways, transform themselves and one another.

Honorable Mention: Pan’s Labyrinth