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BOOMERANGSTAuthor: Roy Trakin
March 4, 2009 @ 10:27 pm
BOOMERANGST: Three Dots and a Cloud of Dust by Roy Trakin If I were President, I’d immediately pass three laws: make marijuana legal and tax it, give the terminally ill the right to die with dignity and allow everyone guilt-free adultery one weekend every year, a single concession each for the young, the old and those suffering from midlife crisis… Beck‘s audacious, industrial reworking of Bob Dylan‘s “Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat,” which was heard over the closing 2009 film preview segment of this year’s Oscar telecast is the highlight of the current War Child Presents Heroes album on Astralwerks, which benefits the humanitarian organization providing assistance to children affected by war, but it’s not the only one. The gimmick here finds today’s generation of alterna-icons performing covers of their own seminal influences, with some of the more inspired match-ups featuring The Kooks doing justice to The Kinks‘ “Victoria,” The Hold Steady‘s inevitable homage to Bruce Springsteen‘s “Atlantic City,” Lily Allen and Mick Jones‘ transformation of The Clash‘s “Straight to Hell” into a tinker toy nursery rhyme, Karen O and Yeah Yeah Yeahs‘ faithful take on The Ramones‘ “Sheena is a Punk Rocker,” Franz Ferdinand‘s deadpan version of Blondie‘s “Call Me,” Rufus Wainwright‘s miniaturist medley from Brian Wilson‘s Smile, Scissor Sisters‘ campy Bee Gees-like disco rave-up on Roxy Music‘s “Do the Strand,” Elbow stripping down U2‘s “Running to Stand Still” to its lilting melody, before building a dramatic coda and TV on the Radio‘s tribal, trip-hop deconstruction of David Bowie‘s “Heroes”… Best viral YouTube video of the week is the hilarious “Meshugene Men,” a take-off on Mad Men, with perfect casting and a plot about the Sterling-Kugel ad agency developing a campaign to market mayonnaise to Jews, here… Shunting aside fears of salmonella, my current late-night snack includes a spoonful of peanut butter mixed with jelly. Hey, at least I’m not eating any bread… Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist is a charming, likable rock & roll fable and valentine to New York City in which the nice Jewish girl captures the geeky mixtape freak, an updated version of Martin Scorsese‘s After Hours, with Michael Cera and Kat Dennings almost getting upstaged by Ari Graynor‘s lovable drunk girl and a way-hip soundtrack that boasts Devendra Banhart, Vampire Weekend, Band of Horses, We Are Scientists and Richard Hawley. Actually made me miss Manhattan… This week’s Flight of the Conchords is the best yet, as Murray convinces Brett and Jemaine to dress up as a Simon & Garfunkel tribute band, only to have a Garfunkel groupie played by Mary Lynn Rajskub seduce Jemaine before the real Art shows up at the end to reclaim her. Comic Patton Oswalt, so good in United States of Tara as John Corbett‘s partner in his landscaping business, is a scream as an Elton John impersonator. There are also Bono and Barack Obama clones… Speaking of Rajskub, her scenes with Janeane Garofalo as dueling computer wonks in 24 are classic… Ruth’s Chris Steak House is the best meat and potatoes place this side of Peter Luger in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (take that, Larry King). In fact, I remember when Luger was the only thing in that neighborhood… I never appreciated Conan O’Brien as much as I did in his final Late Night before moving to the 11:30 slot… Look out for The Decemberists. The band’s new Capitol album, The Hazards of Love, could be the one to put the Portland folk-rock group led by singer-songwriter Colin Meloy, into the big leagues. Their Hollywood Bowl show with the L.A. Philharmonic two summers ago was one of the year’s best concerts… BoomerangstAuthor: Roy Trakin
March 3, 2009 @ 10:00 pm
EVERYTHING WE KNOW IS WRONG BY Roy Trakin Imagine a world in which, even if you’re still lucky enough to hold a job, your workplace is like an episode of Survivor, with every day someone getting eliminated, and no million-dollar payoff at the end, either. The stock market continues to plummet, and the content-based media industries you’ve made a living in for the past 30-plus years start to dry up like a desert… newspapers, music, radio, TV, etc. Where the N.Y. Times reports that colleges, now strapped themselves, the path your parents always told you would lead to a better life, drastically cut liberal arts programs and become breeding grounds for professionals-lawyers, doctors, scientists, engineers and, god help us all, accountants. A time when that age-old middle-class standby, owning your own home, becomes not a gateway to security, but a rapidly declining in value albatross, with many owing more than it’s worth. Last week’s L.A. Times had one of the more depressing stories I’ve read recently, about 90-year-old Edwin Schneidman, a man who has written some 20 books about death and suicide, facing his own demise with a mixture of wistfulness and sorrow. He describes the end as follows: “You’re driving down a road in the desert, and the engine suddenly stops, no Pep Boys, no Auto Club to help. Whether the road continues is of no consequence. It has ended for you.” He points out that dying isn’t to be feared, it’s living that’s the hard part, as he puts it, “to weather the sleeplessness and worry, the relinquishing of pride, the dependency upon strangers, the plea for respect and the struggle to remember.” It’s a somber piece, which you can read here, and on my own recent leapyear birthday of 14 ¼, it gave me something to ponder. How will I be remembered? Have I achieved my goals? What kind of world will my children and grandchildren inhabit? Will we pull out of this rut, or is there just a quickening decline into Mad Max territory? Can I get buried with my flat-screen TV? Feeling thoroughly bummed out, I pulled up Leonard Cohen‘s recent concert at the Beacon Theatre in New York on www.npr.org, and darn if the 74-year-old poet/songwriter and sometime singer didn’t cheer me up with his funereal, almost sepulchral delivery of some of the songs made famous by others, like “Dance Me to the End of Love,” “The Future,” “Chelsea Hotel,” “Suzanne,” “Hallelujah.” Still humble, and sartorially dapper, the Zen Jew-dhist looks death in the eye and comes to terms with it, even welcomes its spectre. His voice is gravelly, almost too low to hear, a vibrating rumble, but his message is clear. if you’re still breathing, you can make a difference. “First We Take Manhattan,” then “democracy is coming to the U.S.A.” “It’s coming through a crack in the wall/on a visionary flood of alcohol/from the staggering account/of the Sermon on the Mount/which I don’t pretend to understand at all/It’s coming from the silence/on the dock of the bay/from the brave, the bold, the battered/heart of Chevrolet.” Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It was only a song, sung by a weathered old gentleman who still believes in dressing up in a formal suit and tie. He’s ready to meet his maker… I hope, one day, I will be, too. Just not yet. |
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