The Magic of Radio II: With The Radio On

I never much listen to the radio anymore, but there is something inherently exciting about driving around in your car with the radio on. You may be alone, but if you’re listening to the radio, you’re having a shared experience. It’s exciting to think that while you’re singing along with the Temptations, at the top of your lungs, somebody else is doing the same. You’ll never meet them, you’ll never know them, but at that moment, you’re sharing the same mental space. I was reminded of that recently when I got a text from my wife to put on 103.7. Classic rock radio. Ah yeah. Burning For You by B.O.C. Awesome. She was listening, I was listening. We were both rocking. I was reminded of that again this past Saturday night when listening to my fave radio show, JJ On The Radio. KPOO. Saturday Night. Vintage soul sounds off of the original 45 rpm records. Scratches and all. JJ has been doing it for years. It’s always good. One of my favorite things about SF. Outta site.

It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it, but that feeling of the radio connecting us all lies at the heart of American Graffiti. Maybe it’s time to watch that again. I always did love Cindy Williams.

Guided By Voices-The Club Was Open & Elves Were Kicked. Live at the Warfield.

Totally blown away by GBV last night at the Warfield. Unfrikkinbelievable. I could talk about what a kick ass live band they are. I could talk about Bob Pollard’s scissor kicks, mic twirls, and his various rock school moves. I could talk about the bad ass set list, almost exclusively culled from my 3 fave GBV records (Bee Thousand, Alien Lanes, and Propeller). I could talk about the cavalcade of hits, starting with A Salty Salute, wrapping up almost two hour later with Weed King. But I won’t.

What I will say is that the crowd was going nuts. As my buddy Jimmy G said, “The club was indeed open and on fucking fire.” The balcony (usually pretty staid) was up in full-force. Everyone was singing every lyric to every song. I remember seeing the Blues Explosion, circa Orange, and being blown away by how the crowd erupted into a dance party, the whole audience shaking their tail feathers. In the “too-cool-for-school”, indie hipster rock universe, that outburst of emotion was something rarely witnessed. Last night’s GBV show transcended in a similar way. People unabashedly singing along at top volume, strangers hugging and high-fiving. It was like being a teen again, being supercharged by rock and roll, wanting to hear it loud, needing to share it with your friends, jumping around like fools and lunatics, fists pumping in the air. Wanting to shout to the world, “This is our music, man!” The club was open and the place was indeed on fire. GBV! GBV! GBV!

The photo is Jimmy Gs. I might have stolen his line about strangers hugging as well. The movie I pulled from youtube. It's a mess, but that probably makes it perfect!

Detroit Noir

Detroit is very much in the news lately. Marginalized. A joke on late night television. It’s constantly viewed as a symbol of all that has gone wrong in the country. Its history and its present state can be read as cautionary tale. Detroit Noir is a collection of seemingly dark short stories by folks who have lived in this former boomtown.

Interestingly, even though it's a noir collection and death and decay are ever present, Detroit Noir reads like a melancholy love story. In so many stories, we see a once vibrant city; characters holding on to memories of the places they grew up, of friends and family that inhabited the city streets; characters playing out the string, because there are no other options. The stories harken back to a time of possibility. It’s a portrait of a city that is home. It may not be an idealized home, but it is home none-the-less.

There are some really great stories here. Gotta make a comment about Megan Abbott, my fave crime writer. She delivers an awesome coming of age story, about the fascination with the wrong side of the tracks.

For what it's worth, Detroit is my hometown. I haven't lived there for over 20 years, but people still ask me what I think of it. In a way, it's not for me to say, but the last couple of times I've been back, there seems to be a lot of energy around revitalizing the city. It seems like a city that is in a "now or never" situation and folks are waking up to the possibilites. There seems to be a lot of exciting and/or radical proposals on the table. Shrinking the city, creating urban farms and the like. Some bold proposals. Will the city have the money to pull any of these ideas off? Will politics as usual spoil what hope remains? Who knows? But my gut says that a vibrancy is ever present. A vibrancy that the outside world does not see or report on in all the ghost town stories told about Detroit in the media at large.

Detroit Noir serves as a more homespun view into the world of a city that has meaning to those who live there.

My Week At The Movies--Inception vs. Exit Through The Gift Shop

Inception by Christopher Nolan
I can’t begin to express how much I disliked this movie. Unnecessarily confusing, incomprehensible, and ultimately boring. Two and a half hours of monotone acting. Every line uttered with an air of hushed-tone importance. 30-40 minutes of tedious explanatory sequences, meticulously detailing the rules of the dream world, all of which I couldn’t follow. The one rule I picked up, ‘If you die in the dream, you wake up,’ gets abandoned as soon as that rule hampers the plot. Oh well, I guess rules are made to be broken…if they become inconvenient. I felt pretty bad for all the poor souls on date nights, trying to make sense of this mess on the way out of the theater. If the writing, the direction, and the acting weren’t bad enough, I was pretty bothered by Leonardo DiCaprio’s mustache. I’ve seen 16 year olds with better upper lip coverage. And how come all the actors looked like they were in a neo-noir movie while Ellen Page looked like she was in a romantic comedy? Come on people. Yuck.

Exit Through The Gift Shop by Banksy
Just saw this last night and I’m still digesting it, but what an awesome movie. Exit Through The Gift Shop is a doc by street art hotshot Banksy detailing the street art scene from its roots in the 90s through its rise and acceptance by the fine art world in the 2000s. The movie is in parts fun, irreverent, insightful, and at the end of the day, perhaps a big hoax. The film follows the scene through the eyes of filmmaker Thierry Guetta, an affable Frenchman who tirelessly documents the likes of Banksy, Shepard Fairey (of Andre The Giant stickerdom fame), and other street art luminaries. Over the course of the film, we see Banksy and his cohorts move from quasi-legal artists playing cat and mouse with the fuzz while trying to avoid anti-graffiti laws, to highly sought after artists, selling their pieces for huge coin.

Over the course of the film Thierry moves from someone documenting the scene to someone who becomes a major artist (aka Mr. Brainwash) within the scene, much to the mystification of his peers. The film ultimately critiques the fine art world. Banksy seems to suggest that the curators snapping up street art at exorbitant prices don’t really understand the art, its value, and the quality of what they’re bidding on.

The success of the highly derivative Mr. Brainwash is at the core of this critique. But is Mr. Brainwash even real? He could be real. He could be a fabrication for viewers of the film. He could be an elaborate hoax played on the Los Angeles art world. I couldn’t figure it out, but regardless, it's brilliant.

Best film I saw this week!

The Ladies Are Bringing It!

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work
Can’t rave enough about the Joan Rivers doc, Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work. It’s a truly revealing portrait of an artist at work. Honest, riveting, enervating, hysterical, and brutal, Rivers gives us a behind-the-scenes look at her life during a trying year. She’s 75, her career is on the downside, yet she keeps hustling. Why can’t she slow down? Why doesn’t she rest on her laurels? Why does she continue to subject herself to the trials and tribulations of the artist’s life when she’s 75? The film does a great job getting to the core of what makes Joan tick and why she’s so driven. The film deftly mixes the modern day neurosis with a look back at her seminal career, so those looking for a historical overview will not be disappointed. What’s most rewarding are the bits from her current show. Rivers is still side-splittingly hysterical. Sharp tongued, she remains current. She’s not hauling out material from 1979. She keeps it fresh and au courant. Go see this now.

Just Kids by Patti Smith
This book is awesome. It's inspiring and romantic. This is the kind of book you read when you’re fourteen that makes you want to be an artist. Smith beautifully recounts her years with Robert Mapplethorpe. Smith and Mapplethorpe are each other’s muses. They commit to a life of art and to each other. The book traces their time together, from nobodies who intensely believe in each other and what they each have to offer the world, to recognized artists. Mapplethorpe moves from collage to photography, looking to enter the Factory world and move beyond it. Smith does an amazing job tracing Mapplethorpe’s development as an artist and as a person grappling with his sexuality. She brings keen observations to his work and process and shines light on the beauty of Mapplethorpe’s “challenging” oeuvre. For her part, Smith has her beloved poetry. Watching her find a way to meld her love of Rimbaud with her love of rock and roll is truly fascinating. Over the course of the book you see the two find themselves, find their voice, and find a direction. Through it all, they have an unwavering commitment to each other, to push each other, to prod each other, to make sure their gifts find a place in the world. A beautiful story, beautifully written. Go Patti Smith.


Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings live at The Warfield, June 2010
It’s a party. It’s a throw down. Sharon Jones is on fire. The hardest working woman in showbiz. A non-stop, soul-shaking juggernaut. The band bills it as a soul revue, and they are not wrong. This is the second time I’ve seen Jones and she delivers full marks. Jones is a dynamo, bringing it full on for nearly two hours. Just goes to show, you don’t need to be young to know how to rock.

The Books On My Nightstand

I haven't posted much in the last couple of months. Life has a way of kicking your butt sometimes. So here are some quick takes on the books I've been reading.

Striptease by Carl Hiaasen
Maybe I'm all Hiaasen-ed out, but Striptease is definitely not my fave by Hiaasen. I love this guy, but all the books have the same vague story lines and vaguely the same characters. Also, Erin, the leading lady/stripper, just seemed to be spouting Hiaasen's world view, rather than being a fully fleshed out character. Kind of reminded me of the ladies in Death Proof who, for the first 50 minutes of that movie, seemed nothing more than vehicles for Tarantino's witticism and world views.

More thoughts on Hiaasen can be found here. I hear the movie starring Demi Moore was a bit of a trainwreck. I may have to watch it anyway.

High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
Maybe it will surprise you, or maybe it won’t, but I’ve never read High Fidelity (even though my beloved Motrobooty made a magazine rack cameo in the film). I must say I’m thoroughly enjoying it, though I’m finding it quite depressing. The stunning revelation for me is that Rob, the lead guy in the book, is the prototype for the Mark character in Peep Show. Take out the rock and pop culture references and what your left with is a deeply flawed character, both sanctimonious and smug, yet someone who is a totally unfulfilled basket case teeming with neurosis and plagued by doubts, especially when it comes to the ladies. In other words, MARK. I’m sure no one can back me up on this since you all probably read this book years before ever seeing Peep Show. But go to a bookstore, pick up High Fidelity, go to any section from the middle of the book and tell me you don’t hear Mark’s voice. And for that matter, I suppose you could pencil Jez in as the Barry character.

The Last Picture Show & Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
I have a new favorite author and he is Larry McMurtry. I loved the movie of The Last Picture Show, and I can not begin to tell you how blown away I was by the book. Simply unbelievable. Simultaneously so sad, angsty, moody and full of life. Every character so fully realized. An incredible portrait of a place and a group of people aching for something more out of life. One of the greatest coming of age novels ever. And there's a lot of mid-life crisis happening as well. So it's a great read for the whole family. Interestingly, I watched the movie again after reading the book, and you know what, the book blows it out of the water. The movie is faithful, perhaps to a fault. It's just like the book, but with sections cut out. Read this book.

I was so energized, I decided to tackle the epic Lonesome Dove. A couple of Texas Rangers no longer needed as the West has already been settled. They head off on one last adventure--a brutal cattle drive from Texas to Montana. It's so cliched at it's core, yet unbelievable as it plays out. Captain Call and Augustus Mcrae are two fantastic characters. So different, yet totally co-dependent. 900+ pages, but page turners, all of them. Death comes quickly on the plains, so be prepared. Can't wait to watch the 6 hour mini-series.

The Sound & The Fury by William Faulkner
After Lonesome Dove, I wanted something classic and satisfying. A good piece of writing with epic scope and grandeur. I decided to revisit Faulkner whom I hadn't read since high school--with mixed feelings, I might add. Here's my facebook status update that was inspired by my feeble attempt at reading this classic. "Could someone explain The Sound and the Fury to me. Why do people like that thing? It's insufferable and seems needlessly confusing. Am I wrong? When it does make sense, I find the characters irritating. I bailed after 100 pages. Is that so wrong? Help me, people. I wanted to sink my teeth into a classic, but yukkie poo poo." Well there you have it. A modern American classic dismissed so callously on Facebook. I've sunk to new lows.

The Magic of Radio: RIP Ernie Harwell

I never really listen to the radio anymore. As a kid I listened to it all the time. The AM oldies stations, the FM top 40 stations, the Canadian stations floating in from north of the boarder and, of course, Tigers’ baseball on WJR. If you were a sports fan in the 70s, you listened to the radio. Sports didn’t dominate tv like it does today. Maybe there were 1 or 2 games on tv a week, but if you were a fan, you got the skinny from the radio. And was there ever a better radio broadcaster than the great Ernie Harwell? I doubt it. Harwell passed away yesterday after a year-long battle with cancer.

Harwell’s southern tinged drawl was part of the fabric of childhood. Graceful and engaging, Harwell brought life to one of the most moribund teams in the 70s. The Tigers were perennial losers, but Harwell breathed life into guys like Tom Veryzer, Gary Sutherland, Ron Leflore, and Joe Coleman. And he made great calls. When watching a game today, if someone takes a called 3rd strike, I still hear Harwell’s classic call, “He stood there like a house by the side of the road and watched that one go by.” Whenever a fan would catch a foul ball, Harwell would offer up, “A young man from Muskegon takes home a souvenir.” Every foul ball featured a fan from a different city. As a 10 year old, I couldn’t wait for someone from Southfield (my town) to catch one. I was fascinated and wondered how Harwell could know where everyone was from. The 12 year old in me knew that he couldn’t know where everyone was from and that he had to be making it up. But to this day there’s that sliver of doubt. Maybe he did know. He had that magical voice coming out of the radio. He was at every Tiger game, the place you wanted to be as a kid. He was such a commanding and compassionate presence, someone who all fans were connected to, that perhaps he could know something so unknowable.

I never listen to the radio anymore. But were there any better childhood moments than being tucked into bed, listening to the West Coast games on my clock radio? Ten-thirty pm start times. Hiding under the covers. Trying to stay awake as long as possible. The crackle of the AM lulling you to sleep sometime in the 3rd or 4th inning.

When Jonathan Richman sings “With the radio on!” in Roadrunner, I think of the AM, I think of the lazy Midwest summertime, I think of listening to Tiger baseball on the radio. I hear the hum of the radio as the signal fades and then gets stronger.

RIP Ernie Harwell.