Rudy's going to Notre Dame
While I haven't been actively trying to ignore Xmas this year, it's definitely crept up on me. No TV meant no Yuletide ads for most of the season, and just because I moved closer to Chicagoland's hugest honkin' shopping center doesn't mean I planned to spend any time there. Suddenly, it's the 20th, we're officially one day into winter and one day before the solstice. I have honestly done almost no holiday shopping at all, and I'm really not inspired because it's been so stupid cold that my coat turns as stiff as cardboard during the ten-second walk from my front door to my car - and that's in the morning.
But lo and behold, I was sitting with my buddy Andy at Applebee's last week, trying to enjoy my Oriental Chicken Rollup, when I noticed the onslaught of Xmas music piped in for our dining pleasure, chirpily reminding me that the weather outside was frightful. Even more frightful, though, was a song I could not help but hear while I was in the very quiet restroom. From the phlegmy lungs of a singer who could only be Bryan Adams - the "Cuts Like a Knife" fucker, not that overhyped, similarly-named nouveau hillbilly "rocker" - launched the most asinine holiday sentiment I've ever heard, some shit about how "there's something about Christmas that makes you wish it was Christmas every day." Not being a big fan of artists you usually hear in dentist's offices, I figured this was Bryan's recent work, maybe from that Ben Affleck movie nobody saw last year. But no, this piece of shit was apparently a hit twenty years ago. How could I have escaped it for two decades?
It's a given that most Xmas songs are so syrupy and full of fakey emotions as to render them completely null to all but the least analytical, but this one made me want to burn every Toys for Tots collection bin and Salvation Army volunteer I could find. It seriously got me riled. Why the hostility? Dunno. 2005's festivities are actually going to be tolerable. Like I said, I haven't been around much holly jolly bullshit so far. I'm not at my parents' house to see the planning/shopping/cooking hell through which my mother always puts herself in the name of Jesus' B-day. My family is only celebrating for three days rather than the usual week. As far as I know, my finances are fine. Even my infamous dream woman seems to be talking to me this Xmas, quite a change from the last two years. So why am I suddenly prone to extreme holiday bitchiness? Maybe I'm secretly pissed that I haven't had the usual stretch of time to complain?
Anyway, after hearing that putrid Adams number I got to thinking about stupid Xmas song lyrics. There are a lot of them, obviously, but the lyrics that really stuck in my craw were from the chestnut "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" - which was previously one I didn't mind too much. I think we're supposed to see this as the story of a talented underdog who gets a chance to shine when the chips are down, which makes everyone kiss his ass, and we're supposed to see Santa as the benevolent old soul who takes pity on Rudolph. But think about it: here's this reindeer who spent his whole life getting crapped on, left out and neglected because of a slight physical aberrance. All of a sudden, here comes Santa, asking Rudy to guide his sleigh when Christmas Eve turns out particularly foggy. What an opportunistic fucker! If Santa really gave a shit about Rudolph or his sleigh-guiding skills, he would have asked him to be part of his elite squad the year before, or any prior year. But no, he only mentioned it when it would be of benefit to himself.
If I were Rudolph, I would have told Santa Claus to cram his "nose so bright" pseudo-compliment and make due with Prancer and Blitzen (unless they weren't good enough for him now). Actually, Rudolph might have done just that - the song goes straight from Santa asking him to be his organic fog light to "all of the other reindeer" exalting Rudy. It doesn't say for what, though - Rudolph never gives him an answer, and the song doesn't say if he ever actually helped. Maybe he procrastinated for so long that they all missed Xmas and the other reindeer got to kick back and watch the game for a change. That would make him popular. Maybe Rudolph simply said, "No," endearing him to the other four-legged slaves whose spirits had for so long been crushed beneath the Claus family's cruel yoke. Maybe he chewed off Santa's nose and spat it back at him, hollering, "See if that shines, fatty!" That's the mental image I'm going with this holiday season: Father Xmas spurting blood from a huge hole in his face. I'll accept him holding a severed head, as well.
Apologies to those of you who for some reason like this time of year - this is revenge for your favorite holiday overshadowing mine. As penance, please accept a crapheap of recent reviews, including the Calexico/Iron & Wine collaboration EP, Testament's London reunion gig DVD and the Chicago run of "Hairspray," the musical. Oh, and a new In Flames song ("Take This Life"), which is pretty decent considering where they could have gone after their last two albums. See, I like you.
But lo and behold, I was sitting with my buddy Andy at Applebee's last week, trying to enjoy my Oriental Chicken Rollup, when I noticed the onslaught of Xmas music piped in for our dining pleasure, chirpily reminding me that the weather outside was frightful. Even more frightful, though, was a song I could not help but hear while I was in the very quiet restroom. From the phlegmy lungs of a singer who could only be Bryan Adams - the "Cuts Like a Knife" fucker, not that overhyped, similarly-named nouveau hillbilly "rocker" - launched the most asinine holiday sentiment I've ever heard, some shit about how "there's something about Christmas that makes you wish it was Christmas every day." Not being a big fan of artists you usually hear in dentist's offices, I figured this was Bryan's recent work, maybe from that Ben Affleck movie nobody saw last year. But no, this piece of shit was apparently a hit twenty years ago. How could I have escaped it for two decades?
It's a given that most Xmas songs are so syrupy and full of fakey emotions as to render them completely null to all but the least analytical, but this one made me want to burn every Toys for Tots collection bin and Salvation Army volunteer I could find. It seriously got me riled. Why the hostility? Dunno. 2005's festivities are actually going to be tolerable. Like I said, I haven't been around much holly jolly bullshit so far. I'm not at my parents' house to see the planning/shopping/cooking hell through which my mother always puts herself in the name of Jesus' B-day. My family is only celebrating for three days rather than the usual week. As far as I know, my finances are fine. Even my infamous dream woman seems to be talking to me this Xmas, quite a change from the last two years. So why am I suddenly prone to extreme holiday bitchiness? Maybe I'm secretly pissed that I haven't had the usual stretch of time to complain?
Anyway, after hearing that putrid Adams number I got to thinking about stupid Xmas song lyrics. There are a lot of them, obviously, but the lyrics that really stuck in my craw were from the chestnut "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" - which was previously one I didn't mind too much. I think we're supposed to see this as the story of a talented underdog who gets a chance to shine when the chips are down, which makes everyone kiss his ass, and we're supposed to see Santa as the benevolent old soul who takes pity on Rudolph. But think about it: here's this reindeer who spent his whole life getting crapped on, left out and neglected because of a slight physical aberrance. All of a sudden, here comes Santa, asking Rudy to guide his sleigh when Christmas Eve turns out particularly foggy. What an opportunistic fucker! If Santa really gave a shit about Rudolph or his sleigh-guiding skills, he would have asked him to be part of his elite squad the year before, or any prior year. But no, he only mentioned it when it would be of benefit to himself.
If I were Rudolph, I would have told Santa Claus to cram his "nose so bright" pseudo-compliment and make due with Prancer and Blitzen (unless they weren't good enough for him now). Actually, Rudolph might have done just that - the song goes straight from Santa asking him to be his organic fog light to "all of the other reindeer" exalting Rudy. It doesn't say for what, though - Rudolph never gives him an answer, and the song doesn't say if he ever actually helped. Maybe he procrastinated for so long that they all missed Xmas and the other reindeer got to kick back and watch the game for a change. That would make him popular. Maybe Rudolph simply said, "No," endearing him to the other four-legged slaves whose spirits had for so long been crushed beneath the Claus family's cruel yoke. Maybe he chewed off Santa's nose and spat it back at him, hollering, "See if that shines, fatty!" That's the mental image I'm going with this holiday season: Father Xmas spurting blood from a huge hole in his face. I'll accept him holding a severed head, as well.
Apologies to those of you who for some reason like this time of year - this is revenge for your favorite holiday overshadowing mine. As penance, please accept a crapheap of recent reviews, including the Calexico/Iron & Wine collaboration EP, Testament's London reunion gig DVD and the Chicago run of "Hairspray," the musical. Oh, and a new In Flames song ("Take This Life"), which is pretty decent considering where they could have gone after their last two albums. See, I like you.
posted by SoulReaper at 7:51 PM
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"Hairspray" not a drag
NOTE: The show's Chicago run ended on Dec. 18.
Dance moves and gigantic hairdos dominated youth culture during the early 1960s. But through the lens of nostalgia, that which was once considered rebellious now seems tame, even a little square.
So it is lucky that "Hairspray," the Broadway musical paying tribute to the bygone days of hair hoppers and "race music," works to remind audiences that a girl could once get detention for wearing an elaborate beehive on her head.
The musical’s story comes from the 1988 movie by John Waters, who became a midnight movie sensation during the 1970s with underground satires which pushed the boundaries of taste to their limit. His best-known film, 1972’s "Pink Flamingos," can still gross out audiences raised on "Jackass" and "South Park."
Waters has noted that "Hairspray," his first (and only) mainstream film success, was the single moment where his personal obsessions happened to be accessible for audiences of most ages and tastes. It marked a turning point for the filmmaker, who has since struggled to bring the same anarchic sense of transgression to his comedy.
The accessibility of "Hairspray," still Waters’ most good-natured story, translates well tot he format. With a book by Mark O’Donnell and Thomas Meehan and music by Marc Shaiman, this stage musical production delivers a good time through energetic performances and eye-popping visuals.
Keala Settle dances her heart out as Tracy Turnblad, a chubby Baltimore teen who religiously watches "The Corny Collins Show," a local TV dance program. She dreams of joining Corny’s elite crew of dazzling young hoofers and pines for dashing boy singer Link Larkin (an affable Aaron Tveit).
As Tracy’s mother Edna, a role exclusively performed by men, J.P. Dougherty channels Waters’ late star Divine in both voice and world-weary demeanor. Although concerned that Tracy will be ridiculed for her weight, she and her husband (Jim J. Bullock of "Too Close for Comfort" fame) support their daughter, who rises to local fame after she gets her shot through a combination of determination, talent and luck.
The feel-good story extends to Tracy’s efforts to end racial segregation on the TV program after she befriends black student and slick dancer Seaweed (an electric Alan Mingo, Jr.). Seaweed’s mom, Motormouth Maybelle (Charlotte Crossley), is a rhyme-slinger who happens to sell all the cool R&B dance records at her shop and who welcomes the news when Seaweed falls for Tracy’s white friend Penny (Caissie Levy).
It seems the only disagreeable people around are Amber Von Tussle (Tara Macri), Link’s blonde girlfriend and reigning teenie meanie, and her elitist mother Velma, played by Susan Henley with villainous verve. By keeping the "wrong" sorts off the program - non-thin people like Tracy and non-white people like Seaweed - Velma hopes the path will be clear for her daughter to follow in her beauty queen footsteps.
As in all of Waters’ stories, the self-confident triumph while the scheming jerks get their comeuppance. It follows a fairly simple and predictable path, but with Shaiman’s onslaught of tunes resembling a marathon of forgotten oldies, "Hairspray" moves briskly among its colorful setpieces.
Dougherty and Bullock have a ball with the second-half duet "Timeless To Me," playing with the casting’s gender ambiguities without winking too hard. Likewise, Crossley’s powerful lungs bring down the house in the gospel-style anthem "I Know Where I’ve Been," and while the finale "You Can’t Stop the Beat" goes on a bit too long, it sure is catchy.
But as tenacious Tracy, Settle rules the show with irrepressible spunk. She proves that no matter the era, believing in yourself despite popular convention remains one of youth’s most rebellious acts.
Doomriders, "Black Thunder" (Deathwish Inc.) **1/2
Nate Newton of Converge and Old Man Gloom fame adds another side project to his plate with this debut by Doomriders. Described as "Entombed meets Thin Lizzy," that's not too far off from what you'll get here: strutting hard rock, engulfed in punky crust and the occasional triumphant harmony, along with some stoner and Southern rock vibes.
The quartet makes a good, sweaty racket and (aside from Ryan Patterson's van-worthy cover art) avoids the smarmy, kitschy attitude you usually get from punk musicians playing hard rock. "The Chase" is the best cut here, starting slow and smoky, then building into an irate stomp. Newton's filthy, fuzzy bass tone beefs up the speedy "Worthless," while the sludgy "Sirens" is a turbulent and powerful closer.
The only drawback is that Doomriders borrow a lot from their precursors. "The Long Walk" sounds like Mastodon on a lazy day, "Midnight Eye" is pure Danzig worship, and the drum/bass opening of "Listen Up!" is lifted directly from Iron Maiden's "Running Free."
If you're looking for something harsher or more innovative, stick with Newton's work in Converge. However, fans of dirty rawk/metal/punk in the tradition of Motorhead, Eyehategod or Doomriders' labelmates Cursed should enjoy tossing back a few domestics with these blue-collar bruisers.
Twilight, "Twilight" (Southern Lord) ***
It seems that today's most revered American black metal proponents largely operate as one-man bedroom recording projects. Theoretically, that's all for the better when focusing on themes of isolation and misanthropy. But what would happen if some of these guys made a record together?
The answer is Twilight, populated by five already-legendary hermits of modern American black metal. Their debut joins Californians Wrest (Leviathan), Malefic (Xasthur) and Hildolf (Draugar), Chicagoan Azentrius (Nachtmystium) and New Jersey's Lord Imperial of the recently discontinued Krieg.
Raw, blasting opener "Woe Is the Contagion" reeks of Kreig's claustrophobic wreckage, while the longer tracks "Winter Before" and "Beyond Light (Beautiful and Malignant)" draw from Xasthur's droning, Katatonia-style doomscapes and the trembling guitars of "White Fire Under Black Text" are in Nachtmystium's heritage. This is one of few black metal records where the bass is both audible and intricate, definitely a Leviathan trait. Although the liner notes obscure who's doing what where, Hildolf and Imperial both contribute harrowing, miserable vocal performances.
The style, recording quality and mixing varies from track to track, in the end making the record seem more like a glorified demo - which it probably is. While those looking for the more avant-garde aspects of Draugar's and Leviathan's work will not find them here, fans of all these acts should find something to pique their interest. If nothing else, Twilight's debut is further proof that Scandinavians no longer hold the monopoly on dank, eerie black metal.
Calexico/Iron & Wine, "In the Reins" (Overcoat) ***
Here's a collaborative EP that succeeds from two like-minded entities. Indie folkie Sam Beam, aka Iron & Wine, teams up with expansive Southwestern/post-rock collective Calexico for seven tunes that evoke a sweltering Tucson sunset.
Beam's soft, sweet voice and picturesque lyrics nestle into the twangy musical bed. The steel guitar, brushed drums and swelling melody of opener "He Lays In the Reins" conjure a genuine spaghetti western atmosphere made all the more grandiose in a Spanish verse by flamenco singer Salvador Duran. "A History of Lovers," with Beam's lilting pop vocal, relatively upbeat rhythm and bright mariachi horns, brings to mind CSN&Y gone Tex-Mex.
"Burn that Broken Bed" has a jazzy, late-night vibe that's pure Calexico, while "Dead Man's Will" closes the brief set with what sounds like the world's saddest '70s soft rock hit. It's on this latter track that Beam's lyrical prowess really shines, detailing regret from beyond the grave with poignant detail.
Before recording I&W's lauded debut, 2002's "The Creek Drank the Cradle," Beam had wanted Calexico mainmen Joey Burns and John Convertino in his backing band. Now that they've finally collaborated, the emotionally rich result makes one hope these individuals make more time for collective experiences.
Testament, "Live In London" (Eagle Rock/Spitfire) ***
While superstars like Metallica and Megadeth spent the '90s growing tamer and lamer for the airwaves, it was up to "second-tier" acts like New York's Overkill, Germany's Kreator and especially Oakland's Testament to sate '80s thrash metal fans. As their lineup changed, Testament got heavier, culminating in 1999's "The Gathering." That all-star veteran beatdown remains as bracing and vital as anything Lamb of God or The Haunted have delivered, to name two who have "borrowed" from Testament's riff warehouse.
But since then, they've only put out compilations, rerecordings and a ton of live bootlegs. Now, hot on the heels of the "classic" Anthrax's return, the original Testament lineup is doing shows, having taped this official release (available on DVD and CD) at London's Camden KOKO on May 8.
Their chemistry is shockingly strong, with lead guitarist Alex Skolnick, who spent his time away playing in jazz fusion groups and Trans-Siberian Orchestra tours, tearing finessed troughs through "Sins of Omission" and "The Haunting." Greg Christian's thick, burbling bass tone makes a welcome intro to "Practice What You Preach," and drummer Louie Clemente, stepping in for John Tempesta (on loan from Rob Zombie) halfway through the set, retains his chops during over-the-top speedfests like "Raging Waters."
Raging happily during the proceedings are the two who kept the Testament name alive. Rhythm guitarist Eric Peterson keeps a low profile throughout, while vocalist Chuck Billy, the Native American man-mountain who beat throat cancer a few years ago, sings and roars with the same control and power he had two decades ago, with a world-weary timbre adding extra grit.
These guys hadn't played together in about a decade, and the most revelatory part of the well-recorded set is not how well they crank out staples like "Into the Pit" and "Over the Wall." It's in how well lesser-known songs from this lineup's later albums (the anthemic "Electric Crown," poignant pseudo-ballad "The Legacy") have stood up. "Second-tier"? Phooey. Hopefully, we'll soon see a reappraisal of the band's underrated catalog.
Sure, some new songs would have been nice. But for thrash fans of any age, this Testament reunion belongs with the recent Kreator and Exodus albums - on the keeper pile.
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