Closing statements
Closed on the condo Friday, took possession yesterday, moving next Saturday. After wanting it for about eight or nine years now, it feels weird that I'm going to be living on my own. People keep asking, "Aren't you excited?" in excited voices, telling me how happy I'm going to be. They seem let down when I say it's not all that exciting, and that housing is not among the major factors in determining my own happiness.
Oh, boy! I can be "my own boss"! I can come and go "as I please"! I can invite friends over and engage in a more grown-up style of "dating"! To be honest, aside from Dad monopolizing the TV and Mom and Dad's well-meaning but hovering presence keeping friends at bay, living in my parents' home since finishing college so many years ago really hasn't been all that detrimental to my lifestyle. I already enter and exit on my own schedule. I take care of my clothes and bills and all that jazz. Even though the P's try to make me eat with them all the time, I do my best to feed myself. And honestly, it's my own damned fault I remained dateless for so long, and I don't consider any woman so superficial that she wouldn't go out with me simply because I lived with my mama as worthy of my time.
But nope, I'm really not excited. For most of my life, I've thought of self-improvement-type behavior as narcissistic and vain, and even though I've come to understand that's (sometimes) not the case, I still find it hard to get worked up over my own Major Life Events. Due to matters completely unrelated to my living arrangements, believe it or not, this past week I've been feeling rather surly and miserable. Of course, trying to relate that to a well-wishing acquaintance is fairly rude, not to mention none of their damned business. My final word is that this move is at best more of a relief than anything, especially now that the cash wrangling is pretty much done with. Numbers make my head hurt. I'm a word guy.
Saw several good new and old zombie pictures recently: the Argentinian cheapie "Plaga Zombie", the Australian sci-fi crossover "Undead" and - after many years of waiting - Mark Pirro's hilarious "Nudist Colony of the Dead". But the wackiest horror movie I've seen in a while is a direct-to-video exclusive from 1987 entitled "Epitaph". It's S-L-O-W, horrifically acted and boring to look at, but it's weird enough to mention. First of all, the actress starring as maniac matriarch Martha is named, no shit, Delores Nascar. She has a frightening hairdo and spends the film vamping and boozing around like a community players' version of the aged Liz Taylor. She's actually more of a homicidal "Mommie Dearest"; her family has to keep moving because she comes on to men and then kills them when they turn her down, claiming they were trying to rape her. Life with this psycho is obviously difficult... maybe that's why her high school-aged daughter looks at least 22. (Thanks to the IMDB, now I know that the girl who played the daughter grew up in Chicago, won a Gilette-sponsored "hot legs" contest as recently as 2003 and was the first Serbian to pilot a Mig-25 to 85,000 feet.) Martha saves her most unusual violence for a therapist with a terrifying overbite who poses as a neighbor... she puts a rat down the lady's panties, then places the varmint in a metal bucket and ties it over her victim's tummy, heating the pail and forcing the rat to eat its way through the shrink's torso. Totally out of character, and totally awesome. With the chops of a great B-actress, Delores Nascar deserved better than to have a sporting association dedicated to people who drive around in a circle real fast named after her.
As mentioned, I've been in a real crusty mood lately. Luckily, I've had the entire Skitsystem catalogue to match it, since the Swedish anarcho-crustcore favorites recently posted their entire discography for free download on their site. (That's what I call putting your money where your politics are - how come stadium rock stars never give out their catalog for free?) Have a listen if you like dirty punk with actual balls, dirty thrash metal without the pretense of impressive musicianship or dirty hardcore without the suburban jock attitude. Here you will find a triplet of recent CD reviews, including Glue, Children of Bodom and Canasta.
Oh, and sorry about that last post. I'm such a whiny weiner.
Oh, boy! I can be "my own boss"! I can come and go "as I please"! I can invite friends over and engage in a more grown-up style of "dating"! To be honest, aside from Dad monopolizing the TV and Mom and Dad's well-meaning but hovering presence keeping friends at bay, living in my parents' home since finishing college so many years ago really hasn't been all that detrimental to my lifestyle. I already enter and exit on my own schedule. I take care of my clothes and bills and all that jazz. Even though the P's try to make me eat with them all the time, I do my best to feed myself. And honestly, it's my own damned fault I remained dateless for so long, and I don't consider any woman so superficial that she wouldn't go out with me simply because I lived with my mama as worthy of my time.
But nope, I'm really not excited. For most of my life, I've thought of self-improvement-type behavior as narcissistic and vain, and even though I've come to understand that's (sometimes) not the case, I still find it hard to get worked up over my own Major Life Events. Due to matters completely unrelated to my living arrangements, believe it or not, this past week I've been feeling rather surly and miserable. Of course, trying to relate that to a well-wishing acquaintance is fairly rude, not to mention none of their damned business. My final word is that this move is at best more of a relief than anything, especially now that the cash wrangling is pretty much done with. Numbers make my head hurt. I'm a word guy.
Saw several good new and old zombie pictures recently: the Argentinian cheapie "Plaga Zombie", the Australian sci-fi crossover "Undead" and - after many years of waiting - Mark Pirro's hilarious "Nudist Colony of the Dead". But the wackiest horror movie I've seen in a while is a direct-to-video exclusive from 1987 entitled "Epitaph". It's S-L-O-W, horrifically acted and boring to look at, but it's weird enough to mention. First of all, the actress starring as maniac matriarch Martha is named, no shit, Delores Nascar. She has a frightening hairdo and spends the film vamping and boozing around like a community players' version of the aged Liz Taylor. She's actually more of a homicidal "Mommie Dearest"; her family has to keep moving because she comes on to men and then kills them when they turn her down, claiming they were trying to rape her. Life with this psycho is obviously difficult... maybe that's why her high school-aged daughter looks at least 22. (Thanks to the IMDB, now I know that the girl who played the daughter grew up in Chicago, won a Gilette-sponsored "hot legs" contest as recently as 2003 and was the first Serbian to pilot a Mig-25 to 85,000 feet.) Martha saves her most unusual violence for a therapist with a terrifying overbite who poses as a neighbor... she puts a rat down the lady's panties, then places the varmint in a metal bucket and ties it over her victim's tummy, heating the pail and forcing the rat to eat its way through the shrink's torso. Totally out of character, and totally awesome. With the chops of a great B-actress, Delores Nascar deserved better than to have a sporting association dedicated to people who drive around in a circle real fast named after her.
As mentioned, I've been in a real crusty mood lately. Luckily, I've had the entire Skitsystem catalogue to match it, since the Swedish anarcho-crustcore favorites recently posted their entire discography for free download on their site. (That's what I call putting your money where your politics are - how come stadium rock stars never give out their catalog for free?) Have a listen if you like dirty punk with actual balls, dirty thrash metal without the pretense of impressive musicianship or dirty hardcore without the suburban jock attitude. Here you will find a triplet of recent CD reviews, including Glue, Children of Bodom and Canasta.
Oh, and sorry about that last post. I'm such a whiny weiner.
posted by SoulReaper at 1:26 PM
3 Comments:
Glue, “Sunset Lodge” (Shake It) ** ½
Indie hip-hop, for all of its emphasis on the individual experience, is usually a fairly predictable beast. Don’t tell that to trio Glue, though. While not breaking any barriers, this EP has enough variety to keep listeners guessing.
At the top, “Steal the Crown” features rapper Adeem railing against typical villains like thug MCs, corporate media and the Christian right. He follows up with a funky shout-out to jailed American Indian activist Leonard Peltier in “We Need AIM,” and you’re assured this isn’t going to be some crass crunk party record.
Then the mellow “Early Morning Silence” and break-up anthem “Holiday Horizon Hostage” invoke the touchy-feely side of Atmosphere, leading Glue into a more introspective realm. Closing the disc, “Ain’t Nothing Promised About Tomorrow” is a long, relaxed funk/blues jam built on hopeful religious references.
With all that going on in just over a half-hour, producer Maker (an Aurora native) and Cincinnati-bred turntablist djdq keep the flow steady and the music warm, populated with acoustic guitars, flutes and scratchy soul samples. They make a big deal about doing it all in 16-track analog which, at least in the case of djdq’s instrumentals, are intended as an “act of war against technology.” While there’s not enough here to get a real sense of what the trio can do, Glue’s humane attack on slick, assembly line hip-hop puts up a valiant fight.
Children of Bodom, “Are You Dead Yet?” (Spinefarm) **
Album No. 5 for Children of Bodom sees the Finnish shredders angling for stateside stardom. After flirting with trendy chugga-chugga rhythms on 2003’s “Hate Crew Deathroll,” they lift a lot of this follow-up straight from the American metalcore playbook, which also handily accepts their love of guitar harmonies and petulant vocal scowls.
Mascaraed frontman Alexi “Wildchild” Laiho gets the praise for his deft guitar wrangling, but it’s keyboardist Janne Warman that sets today’s CoB apart from the dominant modern U.S. sound. His tinkling arpeggios are more in tune with Finnish power metal acts than with your average East Coast stompers. Yet while the entire band, including debuting second guitarist Roope Latvala, still show their skills, the material here sounds lazier and glammier than ever.
Opening with two midtempo tracks and almost grinding to a halt with the pseudo-ballad “Punch Me I Bleed,” the record’s first half lowers expectations immensely. While the second half picks up with the profanity-laden cheese of “In Your Face” (why do these guys keep trying to sound “hard”?), peppy single “Trashed, Lost & Strungout” and the jaunty “Bastards of Bodom” provide the only truly successful meldings of the old CoB “Malmsteen in a tornado” sound with their current commercial lean.
It’s only a disappointment if you’ve followed Children of Bodom for a long time, though. The band’s first couple of albums, particularly their 1997 debut “Something Wild,” seethed with youthful energy that has gradually given way to sounding like a “normal” band. Laiho’s toned down his onslaught of neoclassical thrash riffs and stopped hollering “Wow!” and “Ooh!” to punctuate the tempo changes.
What’s left is a pile of beer commercial chants and hop-along riffs, which admittedly should thrill radio rock fans looking for a meaningless chorus. But those seeking metal with more class and ambition should move on to one-time Bodom acolytes Kalmah.
Canasta, "We Were Set Up" (Broken Middle C) ***
Canasta's full-length debut is a nice slice of Chicago indie pop. Not power pop, mind you; no red-hot riffs or teenage sex lyrics here. Nor is Canasta one of those self-important outfits who smothers pretty melodies under thick layers of treacly orchestration or experimental trickery. These songs aim to highlight strong melodies, not build shrines to them, sounding at once simple and meticulously plotted.
Megan O'Connor's piano often speaks louder than Ben Imdieke's guitar, especially on quieter numbers like "Just A Star" or the sad, lovely "Shadowcat." When Imdieke swells to rare prominence in "Heads Hurt Better," Elizabeth Lindau's violin weaving around him and O'Connor, the result is transcendent. Vocalist Matt Priest has the perfect tone for this sort of erudite pop: earnest, literate and lonely in all the right spots.
But even when the pace picks up, Canasta never goes for wild, sweaty abandon. "Microphone Song" opens the disc with Colin Sheaff's drums rocking a railroad rhythm and John Cunningham's moody organ dominating even the shout-along chorus. "An Apology" mostly bops along like The Supremes' "You Can't Hurry Love" until the bright horn crescendo at the end.
With six full-time members and an army of guests from local favorites like The Coctails, Poi Dog Pondering and Freakwater, Canasta manages to avoid the "too many cooks" slop served by many multi-instrumentalist bands. Aside from its rather flat production, "We Were Set Up" is exemplary gentle pop, never cloying and almost always catchy as heck.
Congrats on the new place! Make sure to steal that "art" out of you parents living room. HA!
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