How To Die Laughing

Stop. Stop whatever it is that you’re doing right now. Put down the Cheetos, turn off your computer, and go see this movie.

Whether you’re harboring a hidden bit of Anglophilia or have a flaming tattoo of Ricky Gervais (pre-“Night At the Museum,” of course) warmly emblazoned on your chest – this film will have you whooping. (Seriously, people in the audience were whooping.)

Director Frank Oz’s delightfully uproarious comedy of errors, “Death at a Funeral” opens as a melancholy Daniel (Matthew McFayden), alongside wife Jane (Keeley Hawes), hovers over his newly deceased father’s casket. As the undertaker opens the casket, Daniel explains that this is not his father – they seem to have grabbed the wrong box.

For Daniel, the central cog in the wheel that spins over the next hour and a half, this is just the beginning of a very long day.

Nagged by his loving wife, perturbed by his aunts and uncles, and tortured by the shadow of his accomplished-novelist brother Robert (Rupert Graves), Daniel is the passive aggressive scapegoat and reluctant hero of the film.

However, if the movie was to be stolen from him – it would be by Simon (Alan Tudyk) – the fiancé of Daniel’s cousin Martha (Daisy Donovan). After Martha gives Simon what she thinks is valium (but is actually a cocktail of drugs, including acid) Simon’s actions become completely unpredictable. Meanwhile Martha is being hunted by on-the-prowl funeral crasher Justin (Ewen Bremner), and is coming under fire from her father (who looks and acts like a sort of Gene Hackman meets Bill O’Reilly) for her poor choice of fiancé.

With numerous story lines running in parallel, Director Oz deftly switches from line to line – and when the story lines happen to intersect, it’s pure comedic paydirt. Like a slapstick-infused version of Britain’s “The Office” – Oz has taken oddly endowed characters and thrown them into a seemingly normal situation, a funeral. Add a script that is very talky, British, and heavily peppered with the F-word, throw in a handful of drugs masquerading as valium and a homosexual midget – and the result is genius.

While I cannot properly describe all of the goings on of the film, I will say that “Death at a Funeral” is (and this is not a phrase I throw around lightly) one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen.

Aren’t you glad I sent you to see it right now?

Trailer Trash

There are two times of the year where I begin to slink into cinematical depression :
1) the end of February-to-early-May post-Oscar-honeymoon period, and 2) the September-to-late-October back-to-school schlock period. It’s during these times when award-worthy brilliance and summertime laughfests lead to half-baked romantic comedies and inane pseudo-dramas.

Let’s take for instance, 2004, where “Lost In Translation” led to “Along Came Polly” and summer blockbuster “Spiderman 2” gave way to “The Forgotten.”

See what I mean? Depressing seasons.

It was with little surprise then that I watched the following (ahem, terrible) trailers and knew that the fall movie mourning period was upon us.

Exhibit A) 3:10 To Yuma
For the record, I am not saying that this is going to be a terrible movie. In fact, I’ve watched the trailer a couple of times and – well, I have no idea what is going on. See if you can figure it out:

http://www.apple.com/trailers/lions_gate/310toyuma/small.html

Tagline (which I am not making up): “Time Waits For One Man.”

Exhibit B) War

http://www.apple.com/trailers/lions_gate/war/war_qt_sml.html

There are only three words that come on the screen during the TV commercial for this film: Sex, Violence, and Action. Apparently Plot Development, Moralistic Allegory, and Analysis Of The Human Condition may not have made the final cut.

Of course, there are many other examples I might point you toward – If I have to see another trailer for “The Game Plan” starring The Rock I’m going to gag myself – but instead, let’s take a moment to think about subtlety:



Right.
November can’t come soon enough.

We Don't Speak No English

As the debate about English as the Official Language of the U.S. rages, I recently took a break from text messaging my friend (“R U 4 Reals? LOL!”), eating my chalupas, and listening to the Timbaland single “The Way I Are,” to think about the consequences of an English-only America.

That’s when it occurred to me: We’re not exactly speaking English now.

From the BRB / CU Later phenomenon to “It’s Gettin Hot in Herre” – “proper English” no longer exists. Truly, the debate at hand is not about speaking English – it’s about NOT speaking English.

And while we can butcher the language all we want with extra letters, incorrect grammar, or painful short-hand text messages, it’s all okay. As long as we don’t speak Spanish.

Not Another Teen Movie

When the police show up at the liquor store as you try to buy $100 of booze with a fake ID, you know you’re in trouble. But it may not be until you realize that these are the two most dunderheaded cops on the planet – willing to throw you in the middle of a bar brawl, give you cigarettes and beer, and let you fire a loaded weapon, that you know you’re really in trouble. Of course if you’re a 17-year-old super-geek, that all may just seem cool.

So it goes for Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) aka McLovin, according to his fake ID, who reluctantly signs up to provide the much lauded alcohol for friends Seth (Jonah Hill) and Evan (Michael Cera). Having promised Jules (Emma Stone) that he’d deliver the goods for her party, Seth makes it his end goal to follow through no matter what – with his real agenda being to get Jules to sleep with him. Ditto, to a lesser degree, for Evan, who also has his eyes on the prize – Becca (Martha MacIssac).

And while many a teen flick – okay, nearly every teen flick – focuses on the sexual frustrations of 17-year-olds, watching “Superbad” can often seem like watching an extended version of the male genitalia-referencing montages from the “Austin Powers” movies. It’s the quest of “Harold and Kumar Go To While Castle” peppered with the dirty language of “Clerks,” backed with the underlying friendship story of “Swingers.” Seth’s nasty sex references and foul-mouthed tirades might give Jason Mewes a run for his money.

It’s really Evan’s oblivious (and only occasional) charm and the subplot about the boys’ deep friendship that make the film worth watching. Underneath all the sexual schlock, shocking situations, blood, fistfights, vomit, and beer, is a story of needy young boys on the brink of separation into the next phases of their lives. However, having to cut through all that aforementioned stuff — and there’s a lot – “Superbad” really doesn’t seem aimed at (or, dare I say, even appropriate for) teens. “Superbad”’s sweet-spot demographic is 20-25 year old boys.

While the movie may internally redeem itself and wrap up with a hearty message, “Superbad” alternates between utter ridiculousness (every scene involving cops Slater and Michaels – played by Bill Hader and Seth Rogen) and uncomfortable repressed feelings (every scene involving Becca). The film truly shines when it catches the characters letting their guard down – in the “true friendship revealed” sleeping bag scene between the best friends – and when it takes an unexpected turn – catching Evan locked in the back room of a house party with cocaine-snorting strangers who force him into a chorus of The Who’s “These Eyes.” But these scenes may be entirely outweighed by the other sort.

In short, if you are not a 25-year-old boy, “Superbad” may push you to the brink of uncomfortability, eschewing suggestive language for in-your-face description. But if you are a 25-year-old-boy with a very cloudy memory of what high school was actually like –
get ready for a wild ride and one night of really bad decision-making.

(A Side Note: The 70s B-movie opening graphics, along with the title, and some of the music all seem to suggest that this film could be a reflection on the writers’ youth (I mean it seems like a good guess given that the leads are named Seth and Evan) – but realizing that writer Seth Rogen is 25, and Evan Goldberg doesn’t look much older than that – it seems that the 70s coating may have been an afterthought for marketing purposes.)

In the history books, this will just be a semicolon

With the recently announced impending departure of one Mr. Karl Rove, I recently reflected on the last six and a half years, and got to thinking about the now-infamous statement by Mr. Bush that "when the final history is written on Iraq, it will look like just a comma…”

A comma, really? Exactly how many hundreds of years in the future are we talking about?

It’s funny because when I think about the history books of the future, the punctuation usually looks more like this: ?!

Or perhaps: “What The %*#@!”

That’s the punctuation I usually think of.

But as Mr. Rove, the architect, and seeming horticulture enthusiast (as one can only guess from his Presidential nickname) prepares to swim swiftly to shore while the oft-turbulent political seas are unreasonably calm, I wondered – what then will be Karl Rove’s legacy?

Perhaps just a semicolon. ;(

Hollywood: "We’ve officially run out of movie titles"

For those of you keeping score at home – it’s official: there are no movie titles left.
Case in point – the forthcoming Clive Owen shoot ‘em up flick, “Shoot ‘Em Up.”


It should be noted that even “Date Movie” and “Scary Movie” were titled with tongue-in-cheek bravado – but judging by the trailer, this movie seems to want to take itself seriously.

Please, please Mr. Giamati – I long for the “Sideways” days. Don’t branch out, don’t try to prove to me that you can be an action movie villain – put down the gun and call up Paul Thomas Anderson, or Wes Anderson, or even Pamela Anderson – I’d shell out 10 bucks right now to see a dark comedy directed by Paul Thomas Anderson starring Mr. Giamati as a depressed sociology professor who is contemplating suicide when he meets the new dance instructor (played by Pam Anderson) – but as he lusts after her, he ends up falling for her roommate (played by Toni Collette). Somebody needs to write that. It would of course be called “The Old Switcheroo.”

Even John Travolta Can’t Stop The Beat

I have a confession to make: I am obsessed with the Broadway Musical “Hairspray.” If you’ve ever passed by my bathroom at 8am (heaven help you), there’s a good chance you’ve caught me humming “Good Morning Baltimore.” So from the moment I saw the first preview for the feature film version of “Hairspray,” there was only one word that echoed in my mind: “Miscast!”

Before I slip into my tirade, let me say, to its credit, the feature film mostly stays true to the story of the theater version (with only a few minor and unnecessary plot additions) – the story is strong, the songs are ultra-catchy, and the message is light-hearted and poignant. That said, on with the miscasting critique:

Michelle Pfeiffer, bless her heart, was more believable in “Married to the Mob.” While Pfeiffer does the best she can as the impossibly self-centered station exec Velma Von Tussle, the role should have gone to someone more exuberant, with the ability to be mockingly condescending. Jane Krakowski would have been great, with her daughter, Amber, played cloyingly by Mandy Moore (which would have kept her from making “License to Wed,” and we’d all be better off). And while Amanda Bynes has certainly come into her own, the role of Penny Pingleton needs to be played by someone less self-assured, and definitely less tan – like Michelle Trachtenberg or Heather Matarazzo. And my gosh, in the final sequence, couldn’t they have given her a dress she could actually dance in?

While everyone loves Christopher Walken, the role of whoopee cushion/fake poo salesman Wilmer Turnblad needs to be played by a shorter, balder actor with an unexpectedly great voice. Did no one call Danny DeVito, Jason Alexander or Stanley Tucci? I can only imagine that the casting director saw the Fatboy Slim “Weapon of Choice” video and decided that was enough to cast Walken.

John Travolta. Where do I begin? The part of pants-pressing Edna Turnblad belongs to Harvey Firestein – or at the very least Bruce Vilanch. The whole gag is that this is a really big manly guy playing the role of Tracy’s too-protective big-boned mother. (Even Divine was a manly drag queen.) So many of the script’s jokes fall flat in the film because the character just isn’t right.

Additionally, a few songs – including “Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now” and “The Big Dollhouse” have been left out of the film completely – and “It Takes Two” and “Cooties” are merely played in the background during transitional scenes. I’d guess that these changes have been made 1) to edit for time, and 2) because the performers don’t seem quite strong enough to carry them out. Nikki Blonsky, in particular, while she looks the part, doesn’t seem to have enough personality, pizzazz, and spunk. Tracy is supposed to be a fireball, but many of Blonsky’s actions don’t relay that irrepressible flame. As this is her first film, that is to be expected, so I’ll let it slide.

My real beef with the film is that the story and the script are not played enough for laughs. It’s not quite over the top enough – and that’s a shame.

In the theatrical production, there’s a moment when Link sings “It Takes Two” and Tracy is so overcome with attraction that she hangs on his words, jumps into the song and appears to be humping his leg. Or, at the end of the Mr. and Mrs. Turnblad duet “Timeless to Me” when Wilbur hits a high note, and Edna hits her lowest note of the production (vocally showcasing she’s a man). So many of the brilliant moments from the stage production either didn’t make it into the film or were neglected.

In short – I’m still going to hum the songs in the shower, but if I get a real “Hairspray” itch – I’ll make my way to the theater. And in the meantime, I’m pretending that I’m not disturbed by Zac Efron on the forthcoming cover of Rolling Stone. (What is this TigerBeat?)

Swedish Rock and NYC Pool Parties

When it’s 90+ degrees in New York City, the last thing you want to be wearing is a furry brown Ferdinand the Bull costume. That is, unless you’re on some serious drugs – or a member of Swedish supergroup I'm From Barcelona (who may or may not also be the former).

With some 15-30 members on stage singing nonsensical lyrics and playing everything from flutes and tubas to glockenspiels and kazoos, I’m From Barcelona caused a stir with their ultra-catchy tunes on Sunday at NYC’s McCarren Park Pool Party.

While the crowd turned out in anticipation of slick indie faves Blonde Redhead, they got a nice surprise and colorful show from the Swedes as they banged tambourines, tossed mounds of confetti, and attempted (failingly) to crowd surf with an inflatable lounge chair.

To capture the experience – get out your teeny bikini, put IFB’s “We’re From Barcelona” on full blast, and shake anything that makes noise. Oh, and you might want to do some drugs first.

Rock and Roll Over DJ

When the tambourine starts thumping and the lead singer summons a resounding “Yeeee-aaaah” from somewhere deep in his gut, it’s enough to make you want to squeal and consider throwing your panties on the stage. Given the last few shows I’ve been to (TV on The Radio, The Shins), this is not a thought that’s even remotely crossed my mind. But there’s something about the male attitude of Jet that gets the girls in the audience at the Fillmore worked up, and sets the guys into a head-nodding, air-guitar playing frenzy.

Belting out “Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is” and “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” and taking time to slow it down for “Look What You’ve Done,” and “Shine On” – the band seemed to be channeling the Rolling Stones, and the Beatles, and I’d only wished that they’d broken into a killer cover of something like The Kinks “You Really Got Me” or The Who’s “My Generation” or (gasp!) The Beatles’ “Revolution.”

Brothers Nic and Chris Cester shared a bit of vocal duties – with Nic taking lead, and Chris taking a brief break from drums to come out a belt a solo. And while “surprisingly agile” might not be a term I’d reserve for most rock bands, when Nic jumped on top of Chris’s drum set, stood on one foot, and played a loud clanging, body-thrusting guitar riff, I was definitely impressed. He must do yoga.

Jet reminds us that outside of the faux-emo (Fall Out Boy), synth-infused (The Killers), state of “rock” music – there is some real rock left. And that may be enough to cause you to loose your undergarments.

Getting Brave at PopScene

When we somehow found our way behind a crowd of rather absurdly tall people, a much shorter little trendster, bent on full-body dancing, leaned around me and said, “I have to get up to the front. The bassist is so cute.”

Admittedly, considering songs like “Tyrant,” “cute” may not be the first word that leaps to mind when thinking about The Bravery.

But as the band took the stage rather ruggedly – the lead singer clad in a full-length orange sweater, shirt and tie, which left him dripping with sweat by the second song – there was an unconscious stylishness to the NY boys.

Blasting their characteristic synth-pop, despite shoddy microphones that screeched throughout the set, the five-piece weaved crowd-faves from their first album with more subdued/generically-introspective songs from their forthcoming release.

The Bravery succeed most when they exert their more eloquent guitar-driven pop – the songs that are driven by ferocious, if not verbally simplistic, choruses, much like Franz Ferdinand. (“Fearless” could easily be a Franz song.)

But perhaps the boys are less successful when they have to ask us to listen in on what they’re really feeling deep down. The new single “Time Won’t Let Me Go,” from their forthcoming “The Sun & The Moon” seems to gasp at the edge of existentialism, but the songwriting is not quite strong enough to sustain the idea. (Plus, the chorus sounds distinctly like a Third Eye Blind song that I can’t quite place, and quite frankly, it’s driving me crazy.)

When The Bravery really get going though, hammering out “An Honest Mistake,” “Unconditional,” and “No Brakes,” it’s easy to love them.

Pop Rocks and Near-Riots

If I’d been waiting for something to blow my hair back, I did finally get my wish, and not in the place I had expected. While I might have thought that a young tenacious little upstart band might surprise me, it was actually The Stooges, that 70s outfit of now very-middle aged dudes fronted by shirtless wonder Iggy Pop, that really caught me off guard.

Almost as soon as it was announced that the venerable proprietors of punk rock would be playing at South by Southwest, in conjunction with promoting their new album “The Weirdness,” a line started forming around Stubb’s. And when I arrived, a few hours before the show, the line extended down the street and around the corner. While some concert-goers declared the line “sucktastic” and moved on to other venues, those of us who saw it through experienced The Stooges’ unmistakable fierceness as they cranked out classics like “I Wanna Be Your Dog” and “Lust For Life.”

Iggy paraded out on stage, bare-chested, running from end to end of the stage and jumping into the crowd. When he jumped into the pit of photographers in the front, every flashbulb in the house went off, and it’s a wonder a riot didn’t break out.

In comparison to the act that played before them, the Austin-based band Spoon, the Stooges were a shot of pure adrenaline. Not that Spoon didn’t put on a terrific performance, or prove their musical talent and worthiness, and not that there weren’t some die hard know-all-the-lyrics Spoon fans in the audience, but the crowd had come for Iggy.

It seems that bands of The Stooges’ era have a different mentality about what makes a great concert. It’s more than just a performance, it’s more than a lot of flashing lights and choreography, it’s more than just sounding good – it’s about being there, in the moment, with the fans. The Stooges were there, and they let you know it.

Lost in Beerland

It was St. Patrick’s day and everyone was out in full force, celebrating their Irish pride (or at least their beer-loving pride) by wearing green, drinking beer, and stumbling from bar to bar. In an effort to avoid the maddened thousands, I attempted to explore the lesser-known options.

March 17 – Essential Listening:
Malajube – “Montreal -40 C”
Takka Takka – “Draw a Map”
The Black Lips – “Boomerang”
Kings of Leon – “The Bucket”
Spoon – “I Turn My Camera On”
The Walkmen – “Louisiana”
Classic pick: The Stooges – “I Wanna Be Your Dog”


2:45pm
On the outside patio of La Habana the guest list line for the Nylon party wandered up toward the street, and inside the gate there was a full house awaiting a set from The Fratellis. Performing on the indoor stage was Takka Takka, who gave a solid effort with their harmonica-infused melodies. Disappointingly, The Fratellis played a rather passionless sit-down acoustic set – meaning that only a few people at the very front could actually see the band, and leaving the rest of us to wonder if they were actually here on the patio, or if we were just listening to a recording. “Flathead,” was of course, the big song everyone wanted to hear, but for my time, it would have been better to just watch the iPod commercial again.

4:30pm
Emo’s was killing me with the hand stamps this week. Seriously, I’m pretty sure some of that dark purple un-washable ink has leaked into my bloodstream. I was looking for a show, so I stepped into Emo’s Main Room, and suddenly realized that I was the oldest person there. I had a good five years on anybody else in the room. Kids in all of their faux-emo 17-year-old adolescent glory packed the place to see Cute is What We Aim For – who, from what I gathered, take their place along side acts like Gym Class Heroes and Fall Out Boy. (They have a track, “There’s a Class For This” on the just-released Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie soundtrack.) The hearts of all the young girls were a-flutter as Cute’s leader remarked how hot it was with his long-sleeved shirt on, and while all the boys stood their awkwardly, I ran for the door, trying to rub the dark purple goop off my wrist.

5:15pm
I wound up in Beerland, a dark netherland of a club, just before Stubb’s, where the Black Lips were readying their set. I’d heard that Black Lips shows could get crazy, and when the trio unleashed their dirty southern sound, the crowd dug in. Both the band and fans slurred and threw beer cans and people in front of the stage jumped up and down, drenched in sweat. A photographer snapped dozens of pictures, and when he headed back into the crowd to grab some girls and start a sloppy mosh pit, I once again knew it was time to get out.

Strip Down And Unplug

It’s been a few days into the all-you-can-hear musical buffet that is South by Southwest, and I’ve managed to see some pretty great acts. I’m still waiting to be stunned and amazed, but there’s a little time left before I surely succumb to my death by second-hand smoke.

March 16 – Essential Listening:
The Apples in Stereo – “Energy”
Scissors For Lefty – “Ghetto Ways”
Honeycut – “Shadows”
Bonde do Role – “Melo do Vitiligo”
The Faint – “I disappear”
The Good the Bad and the Queen – “Herculean”

4pm
I wandered down to Habana to get a dose of snap-happy rock from The Apples in Stereo. With their feel-good tracks “Can You Feel it?” and “Energy” at the start of the set, The Apples in Stereo’s sound lies somewhere between Sister Hazel and The Flaming Lips. While the keyboardist took the stage in a silvery pseudo-space suit with cape and yellow-lensed glasses, the rest of the band seemed exceedingly normal – a bunch of middle-aged guys happily singing about the “Same Old Drag.”

5:15pm
Spiro’s hosted a special showcase of San Francisco bands – including Minipop, The Lovemakers, Audrye Sessions, Honeycut and other local faves. Scissors for Lefty opened it up outside – playing their sixth of seven gigs at South by Southwest. If the boys were spent, you wouldn’t guess it, as they piped out “Lay Down Your Weapons” and went on to “Ghetto Ways.” While The Lovemakers’ Lisa Light sucked on a cigarillo, SFL’s lead singer, Bryan Garza, oozed a merry falsetto into the CB radio attached to the microphone, and jumped into the small crowd near the front to dance with the ladies. When he unbuttoned his jeans, I feared a Jim Morrison re-enactment, and shielded my eyes at the glare of tighty-whiteys. Keep ‘em buttoned, man.



9pm
Scurrying into the back of Antone’s I joined the crowd in front of the stage for Margot And the Nuclear So and So’s. They played a few new tunes, all working in their sound of mellow non-diagnosed depression, and then onto “Paper Kitten Nightmare” and (my fave) “Skeleton Key” from “The Dust of Retreat.”

10pm
When I heard that Sufjan Stevens’s collaborator My Brightest Diamond was performing, I was intrigued enough to lend an ear, and what I got was the pure vocal prowess of Shara Worden. While she surely can’t be more than five feet tall, her voice is huge, best evidenced when she covered Roy Orbison’s “It’s Over” toward the end of the set.

10:50pm
There was a line around Beauty Bar extending up past the next venue, as concert-goers turned out to catch Brazilian sensation Bonde do Role, and avert-your-eyes topless rap divas Yo Majesty. Go figure.

11:10pm
Licensing, schmicensing. Sao Paulo group Bonde do Role mix Portuguese rap over often-recognizable tracks like AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” and selections from the “Grease” soundtrack with such flair that it’s a wonder ASCAP doesn’t just waive the normal constraints. Like the better-known CSS, Bonde do Role gives an edgy sound to highly danceable tracks, best exemplified on “Marina Gasolina.”

12:10pm
Squeezing into the Eternal just before The Faint took the stage, the venue was hot and about to get hotter, as groovy kids and older groovy kids danced to “Call Call” and “I Disappear.” The show was good and energetic – the right mix of psychedelic imagery in moving lights and pictures and reflective synth beats. And seriously, only a handful of men can get away with wearing eye liner after age 25 – David Bowie, the dudes from Depeche Mode, and Todd Fink from The Faint.

Elvis's Cold War Bloc Party

After the hot day in the sun yesterday, I took it easy last night and mellowed out to Elvis Perkins – the sort of rockabilly-meets-Belle and Sebastian son of late-actor Anthony Perkins. Perkins was all non-fuss and simplicity, crooning on the mic and breaking out the harmonica while his right-hand man played the stand-up bass and the rest of his band, Deerland, jammed on electric guitars and trumpets, finally parading out a big drum and trombone for their finale.

Perkins and Deerland also made a special guest appearance, bedecked in ‘80s sunglasses, for the finale of Cold War Kids, as they wailed and covered Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Going to Come.” Cold War Kids knocked it out of the park with the opening of their set – a bluesy, boozy rendition of “We Used to Vacation.” They slipped into more tired ground, but reinvigorated the crowd with “Hang Me Up to Dry" (Nathan Willett's protruding vocals are simply fantastic), and brought out the saxophones and Elvis for the last number.

I slipped off to catch the second half of The Dears at Stubb’s, a fairly fulfilling appetizer before the main course, Bloc Party. This being my third Bloc Party show in the last 6 months, I’m a bit worried about gaining stalker status. Opening with “Song for Clay” – the first song on their sophomore album, lead singer Kele Okereke hit all the high notes – literally. Putting the more vocally challenging songs at the beginning of the set, Bloc Party was able to mix up tracks from both albums and keep the fans happy, without straining their voices. The set didn’t blow anybody away, but Bloc Party is always a delight. (And yes, I am biased.)

Cedar Street Afternoon

“There’s nothing like being ridiculed by hipsters at 3 in the afternoon.” – Zach Galifianakis, cracking non-received jokes at Cedar Street’s day party

March 15 – Essential Listening:
Kenna – “Out of Control (State of Emotion)”
Youth Group – “Sorry”
Cold War Kids – “We Used to Vacation”
Bloc Party – “Song For Clay”
Maritime – “Parade of Punk Rock T-shirts”
The Fratellis – “Flathead”


3pm
It was a hot, sweaty day, especially if you happened to be a band member exiled to a day stage. So when I got the invite to check out Maritime at the indoor stage at Emo’s, I happily obliged. Despite being indoors, Maritime’s lead guitarist worked up quite a sweat letting loose on the guitar and cranking out some solid tunes.

4:45pm
In a little below ground stone patio, the Filter party strummed along happily – the party-goers in their faux-hip brightly colored finery. I must admit that I was lured to the party to see Kenna – the unlikely pseudo-star of Malcolm Gladwell’s thin-slicing treatise “Blink.” With the attitude of a hip-hop performer but with echoes of electronica and strong rock references, Kenna might not fall into any “category,” but delivers an impressive performance. If I was an agent, I’d do everything in my power to get him a slot as a Bloc Party opener – he has the right mix of energy and dancey-ness (if I can make up a word here) to pull it off.

5:40
A skinny balding man with a big backpack and a strange accent told me he was here to see Youth Group. He looked like a European mathematics grad student, and in a crowd that became mostly female toward the front of the stage, he definitely stood out. The girls were here to see the messily-cute Australian boys, who first scored big in the US with their remake of the Alphaville classic “Forever Young.” Youth Group seem to have two speeds: dreamily awake (“Daisy Chains,” “Start Today Tomorrow”) and surprisingly peppy (“Sorry”). I prefer the peppy.

7pm
Rounding out Filter’s afternoon was sleeper-sensation Badly Drawn Boy, who are out promoting “Born in the UK.”

Inside Austin City Limits

Since I’m at South by Southwest all week – I thought I’d provide some snippets from the fest, as well as a couple of tracks of “essential listening” each day – tracks you should download from artists you’ll be hearing much more from. So without further ado...

March 14 – Essential Listening:

Scanners – “In My Dreams”
The Needles – “Diane”
Beirut – “Scenic World”
The Mountain Goats – “This Year”
Smoking Popes – “I Know You Love Me”

3pm
Scanners at the day stage in the convention center – The lead singer belted out “Lowlife” to round out their set, rolling her eyes back and screaming gently before bursting into the popish happy melody and crooning with her charming English accent.

4:30pm
Screening of “Truth in Terms of Beauty” – a biographical portrait of photographer Herman Leonard who discovered how much he could like photography after glimpsing some artful nude photos of his sister-in-law.

He went on to be a successful fashion, catalogue, and yes, occasional Playboy pin-up photographer, travel the world, have children with beautiful women, and then wind up penniless at 67 years old. When he rediscovered some photos he’d taken in his youth of Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis – now American icons – he made a come-back, and a bigger name for himself. Leonard always had another trick up his sleeve.

10pm
As Beirut started their 40-minute set, the band leader, a 21-year-old with a big voice from Albuquerque, New Mexico, apologized that they hadn’t been able to bring more ukuleles.

With seven band members - playing instruments ranging from drums to trumpet to violin and accordion – Beirut is a uniquely talented outfit. You get the sense that you could probably wheel out a pipe organ and at least one of the band members would know how to play it.

Part “Amelie” soundtrack, part Frank Sinatra, Beirut’s sound is nothing if not distinctive. Commonly labeled as “folk” or “gypsy,” when the band leader breaks out the bullhorn which he points toward the microphone and sings into, the truth may be that Beirut defies labeling.

Plus, that 21-year-old can really blow a trumpet.

11:20pm
Excited fans called out song titles, and the Mountain Goats artfully put some power behind “Going to Georgia,” from 2005’s Zopilote Machine, and “Half Dead,” from their 2006 release “Get Lonely.” But as excited as the fans were, the Goats themselves were most delighted at the finale of the show – they brought out the female Canadian quartet Pony Up!, who shimmied together on stage as the Goats covered Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back In Town.” Best moment of the day.

The Death Of The Pointed Toe Shoe

It's the last season for the pointed toe shoe, and with this in mind, I've been trying to maximize the wear of my current pairs. Not quite to the extreme that I wear them with everything ("Hey nice argyle leotard and pointy pumps!"), but as much as possible.

This morning, as I hastily pulled on my pointed toe boots, nervously dragging my duffle suitcase, laptop bag, and oversize purse down the two flights of stairs from my apartment to the street, an unexpected thing happened. My pointed toe slipped through one of the long straps of my duffle, just as I stepped forward, thrusting me down the second flight of stairs, onto my knee and hip and finally landing on my back, duffle bag straddled between my legs.

It must have looked like one of those slapstick banana-peel-slipping scenes from an old movie, but it felt like my guts were going to drip out my side. I didn't bust anything, but the side I landed on was tender, red, and bleeding, and will surely turn a brilliant blue and black.

While it might seem easy to blame any number of factors for this fall -- carrying too many things, hurrying while running late, being preoccupied with the parking ticket I knew I was going to get, gravity... personally, I blame the pointy toed shoe.

Had I been wearing, say, a rounded toe, a flat sandal, or (heaven forbid!) a clog -- this never would have happened.

In a seemingly generic plot twist, stolen from the likes of J. Lo flick "The Wedding Planner," this rather attractive man came sprinting down my street -- he'd jumped out of his car, which he was parking, to see if I was okay. Let's face it, pausing during the moment when you've found a parking spot in San Francisco is a heroic act indeed.

Carmen Electra and the Battle of the Bulge

Lately I have been distractedly tormented by the ex-Prince muse, ex-Jenny McCarthy replacement, ex-Dave Navarro’s wife, Carmen Electra.

Earning her keep by hawking a multitude of products on television (seriously, Joan Rivers may be getting jealous) – Electra is featured in a series of Taco Bell advertisements downing burritos. Simultaneously, Electra also stars in new commercials for NV – a weight loss pill that helps Electra once again feel good about her body.

Hmmm… let me put two and two together…

It seems that Taco Bell should be up in arms about this. For all we know, Electra could need to use NV because of 4th meal.

Or, perhaps the two could team up. Buy $100 worth of ½ pound burritos, and you’ve earned yourself a free 7-day NV supply.

Believe me, you have earned it.

Seven minutes to midnight

Seven Minutes

In 1947 the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists (which would be a great name for a band, by the way) created a clock to keep symbolic track of how close we are to the end of the world. Getting their jollies from the countdown to apocalypse (c’mon, who doesn’t?), the B.A.S. set this clock at seven minutes to midnight – with midnight marking the end of life as we know it.

While varying nuclear and climate threats have changed the position of the clock’s hands over the years, the “Doomsday Clock” currently sits where it was originally, at seven minutes. Scientists are, however, getting ready to change this – and it’s not getting further away.

What may be most irksome about this project is that scientists have yet to reveal the year in which the clock will strike midnight. My guess: 2649. Go ahead, call me when I’m wrong.

I’m hoping for an alternate group of scientists to spring up and start a “Count Down to Residing in Paradise” clock – which is what we all know will definitely happen after this world ends. I mean, if you’ve been good.

All I want for Christmas is a water buffalo

It seems to me that Christmas used to be about something more than shopping.

Long ago, I believe, it used to be a religious celebration – a time when people talked about love and redemption and forgiveness.

Now, it seems, Christmas is labeled an “American Holiday,” and licensed to malls and car dealers and department stores. We’re no longer celebrating the birth of a religious leader – we’re celebrating Shopping. Shopping is the true national holiday.

“Christmas” has become a driver of the national economy, and whether or not you believe in the “reason for the season” – if you’re an American, you feel that you must participate.

There are those who would even prefer to leave religion out of the holiday season. After all, why should religious beliefs hamper our ability to spend money?

Among those who seem to have a real vested interest in the Christmas/Shopping season, is, of course, Mr. Bill O’Reilly. In recent years, O’Reilly has taken it upon himself to lead a “War on Christmas” – because nothing’s more fun than invoking feelings of religious war during the season of joy.

O’Reilly makes it his business to call out companies that refrain from using the phrase “Merry Christmas” – and subtly encourages people not to shop at these locations. The scary thing here is not whether retailers use the phrase “Merry Christmas” – it’s that Bill O’Reilly can convince you not to shop somewhere just because they don’t say it.*

Thanks Bill, for really bringing a sense of compassion and togetherness back to a season that’s gotten to be too much about commercialization and the almighty Dollar.

Christmas, after all, is not about buying things. It’s about celebrating our ultimate redemption with people that we love. It’s about giving the deepest love that you know.

This is why personally, I plan to order my gifts from the Heifer Project catalog:
http://www.heifer.org/

This is an organization that helps families in developing nations gain access to food and farming supplies. These are individuals who learn to lead sustainable, independent and productive lives through the gifts of farm animals such as pigs, cows, and yes, water buffalo.

Christmas is not about buying or not buying things at Costco. It’s not about wars on Christmas, or selling books about wars on Christmas. It’s about showing others kindness through giving.

This season, remember, nothing says love like water buffalo.




*This is a testament to O’Reilly’s brilliant ability to ludicrously twist facts and corroborate unrelated truths. It’s not that what he says is entirely false, it’s just that he often combines stories in a way that makes them untrue.
For instance, (from December 7th, 2005):

O’Reilly: “Our pal Harry Belafonte got his award from the AARP yesterday here in New York City, an impact award for Harry. Apparently at the ceremony, he said one reason he's pleased with the award is that it tees off Bill O'Reilly.
“Not so, Mr. Belafonte. I could not care less if the AARP thinks you're swell. My job is to inform the folks that, based on your own words, you don't think very much of your country and that the AARP apparently approves of that stance.”

Somehow O’Reilly takes the fact that Harry Belafonte received an award, combines it with an opinion that Belafonte doesn’t “think very much of” the United States, and thus says that, by association, the AARP doesn’t seem to care about the U.S.