Category: Text

Four Films for 2017

This is when people make up “best of” lists. I am disinclined. I am about three years behind with music and comfortable with a delay that helps to sort out the truly terrible stuff from the bands that are a little bit steadier, deeper, more interesting. Call me old fashioned.

But this year has presented me with a chance to see a lot of films, and curated at that by a knowledgeable practitioner. So here’s a list of four I liked (I am not going to stretch it out to ten just for form’s sake).

It’s hard to describe The Florida Project because there really aren’t any films like it. The story is told from the perspective of a couple of seven year olds who live in an Orlando motel that has been converted into a housing project. Their lives are really really fun: little adult supervision, plenty of playmates and a playground-like environment of bright colors, weirdly decorated fast food restos, tourist hotels and abandoned housing developments. The actors playing the kids (Brooklyn Prince and Christopher Rivera) are riveting as is their mother (Bria Vinaite): Willem Dafoe as the manager lends a contrast, but even he plays along with the kids pranks and games. But as the film goes on, we can’t help but have a different understanding of what’s going on, and those other parts become more consequential even as we retain the kids’ perspective. The film works at so many levels, seductive, fun, colorful, playful, bratty, deep, disturbing and emotionally powerful: it’s one you’ll still be thinking about weeks after you see it.

Mudbound is set in the Jim Crow south of the forties. The “invisible lines” we think we’re familiar with are drawn in a little more darkly, a little more specifically, more dramatically. Director Dee Rees drew on family stories for details and they are telling. It’s about farm life: I kept thinking of the Drive By Trucker’s lyric, “There ain’t much to country living, sweat, piss, jizz, blood.” Add mud, which abounds. It opens on two white men digging a grave in a downpour who are stopped when they hit shackles and a skull.

It’s a film about parallels and contrasts: middle class white newlyweds move onto a farm where a family of black share croppers already lives. Characters share a life, a space, but not a society and crises have differential effects. Support cannot be offered or accepted, neighbors are not neighbors. Then WWII takes two sons of that mud—one black one white; parallel, contrasting—and when they return, damaged and liberated by their experience of the European war—parallel, contrasting—they are forced to play old roles that no longer fit. The bond they form is dangerous for both of them. You can see it on Netflix, but try to see it in a theater, the film is cinematic.

13th is from last year but I saw it this year and it really moved me. Ava DuVernay’s polished film analyzes the history of African-American incarceration since the Civil War as an extension of slavery based on the Thirteenth Amendment’s exception for convicts. The superlative use of images and news clips and the interviews with academics and public intellectuals (Angela Davis!) are pointed and clear. A fine film on an issue that needs to stay current as the national political discourse fragments. Like Mudbound (and 2017’s outstanding O.J.-An American Story), you can see the fruits of #oscarssowhite in the high production values based on suddenly better funding for work like this.

Baby Driver is a fun movie and it is built around music which sounds a good note for me. It is set in Atlanta, which is another plus, it is unusually smart for a chase movie and it has great performances from John Hamm, Jamie Foxx and Eiza Gomez (who can really deliver a line) and an only OK one from, well, he whose name should not be mentioned. It is a way above average, fun summer movie. I have not heard anyone who saw it diss it (except a few critics who are….well, often notoriously off base on films like this).

I Am Brian Wilson

these songs are downloadable with a right click

Don’t Hurt My Little Sister

Fun Fun Fun

Hushabye

Pet Sounds

I Wasn’t Made for These Times

Caroline No

You have to see this as the twin to Mike Love’s autobio, Good Vibrations: I wrote earlier that you were constantly reading between the lines in that book. Brian’s book is exactly the opposite: if anything there is just too much information, Brian is way in touch with his feelings and ready to share. He writes repeatedly about his lifelong struggle with mental illness and is frank about his drug use. I’d had the idea that he was an acid casualty, but he only tripped twice and wrote a lot of California Girls during one of those. He began smoking pot beginning in 1964 (a year he repeatedly refers to as “the year everything happened,” the year the Beach Boys became international stars, had their first number one record, (the year the Beatles broke in America), and the year he had a mental breakdown on a flight from Houston and retired from performing). In the seventies he was fed semi-pro cocktails of psychoactive drugs by his therapist, Eugene Landy while he continued to self-medicate when he could with whatever he could get his hands on, from a four pack a day smoking habit and lots of bevvies to downs, coke and even heroin.

Brian Wilson is not one to push himself forward. “I wasn’t usually the kind of guy who would make a big deal about correcting a misunderstanding. If someone got the wrong idea about me, I might agree with a wrong story just to get out of the conversation.” Shy and sensitive (“The guy in the song sounds like he hasn’t even talked to the surfer girl. He just watches her and thinks about her. That was me. I was kind of shy, and whenever I started talking to a girl she would end up talking to Dennis or Mike instead. They were slicker and more aggressive, and I sort of got moved off to the side to wonder if the girl ever liked me or was interested at all”), but immensely creative (same quote continued: “I felt a little lonely at times, but I also knew that it made for good songs. Loneliness was something that everyone felt but that people were afraid to talk about”), people tried to control him through most of his life: his father, his band, his therapist, his band again, “One of the things I did back then was think about Don’t Hurt My Little Sister all the time. Maybe it’s because it was a song about protection and I felt scared that no one was protecting me.” But the main theme here is his second marriage to Melinda Wilson, better (professional) doctors, a more effective drug regimen and a healthy environment that put him back on his feet. He is relentlessly positive, happy to be writing and performing and seems surprised that people hold him and his work in such high regard. This is nice to see in a superstar.

There are heroes and there are villains: Brian’s abusive and controlling therapist of the seventies and early eighties Eugene Landy comes off really really badly, (only a step above cameo band contact Charles Manson), finally loses his license to practice and fades into a notable obscurity. Dad Murry Wilson terrorizes his sons but also, in Brian’s telling, loves them (unlike Landy), gives them music and, a child of the depression, constantly urges them (often violently) to work harder: ”You have to sing harder,” he said, ”like you care.” ”I’m a genius, too, Brian,” and then not too much later, ““I cannot believe that such a beautiful young boy, who was kind, loving, received good grades in school and had so many versatile talents, could become so obsessed to prove that he was better than his father.” Mike Love….Mike Love. Brian writes, “This Mike, Mike Love, was very friendly and very funny and he made me laugh. I really liked him. We hit it off real well, and soon enough he was almost a fourth brother,” and then “Other guys in the group didn’t like the idea. Mike couldn’t believe it. When he heard the demos he just shook his head and stared at me. The record label wasn’t sure about the album either. Often the record labels agreed with the other guys in the group. The album never came out….” Complicated. The long string of abusive relationships crippled his creative work and raises questions that many many many people on the internet have felt they could answer. I can’t. I’m glad he’s happy, that he’s recording and performing and that people can again enjoy his music.

Atlantic Records After the Beatles

 

This is the second of two posts inspired by an autobiography by Jerry Wexler and David Ritz, Rhythm and the Blues: A Life in Music. Jerry Wexler, along with Ahmet Ertegun was the management of Atlantic Records: he was the salty one, Ertegun the butter.

Don’t Need You No More-Allman Brothers Band
Soothe Me (live)-Sam and Dave
Don’t Play That Song-Aretha Franklin
One Way Ticket-Aretha Franklin
Walking on Gilded Splinters-Doctor John
It’s All Over-Wilson Pickett

There is a mix of songs here that is now downloadable with a right click (the last post’s music is also now downloadable).

Atlantic Mix Down 2

One of the reasons that Atlantic lasted longer than any of the independent R&B labels was that Wexler and Ertegun adjusted to the rapidly changing opportunities in popular music. In the late fifties they began bringing in talented staff producers, first Lieber and Stoller (Charlie Brown-The Coasters) and then Bert Berns (Under the Boardwalk—Drifters). Wexler kept producing too, sticking to his main line, R&B. He also initiated a relationship with Stax Records based on a distribution deal that led to hits with Sam and Dave and that also opened his interest in southern soul.

But Wexler wasn’t always good at business: at his instigation, they sold the company in the late sixties to Warner/Seven-Arts for US$17.5, what Wexler (and a lot of other people) later thought was about half its value. Wexler, the street smart guy who grew up in depression era NY had misgivings about the long term viability of the music business and argued that it was time to cash out—right on the brink of the business’ and Atlantic’s exponential growth in the late sixties and seventies: Wexler produced Aretha Franklin’s first record that same year—not for Atlantic but for Atlantic as part of Warner Brothers.

The sale amped up what were already serious differences between Wexler and Ertegun. Up to then they had been completely independent—Wexler said “despots”—and that suited both of them well. After the sale they were managers at a music industry conglomerate soon owned by Kinney, originally a parking lot operator. Unsurprisingly, it turned out that Ertegun was very talented in that environment while Wexler rubbed just about everyone the wrong way. That rough weather exacerbated Wexler and Ertegun’s personal differences. Ertegun began to be interested in the possibilities that lay in rock and signed Buffalo Springfield and then Crosby Stills and Nash, Cream and finally Led Zeppelin. The Atlantic subsidiary Cotillion had the Woodstock album.

Wexler stayed with soul music, produced Wilson Pickett, first at Stax and then at Muscle Shoals, and produced all of Aretha Franklin’s miraculous albums of the sixties and early seventies. This was beginning to not be Ahmet’s scene: Otis Redding pretended he couldn’t say his name and called him “Omelet.” It’s also likely that Ertegun saw more clearly that an industry built on white men recording (and profiting from) black music was going to have to make some possibly difficult changes in the era of Black Power. Wexler writes of black friends hustling him out of the infamous August 1968 NATRA meetings in Miami after they heard death threats. He was hung in effigy. You could also see the differences in the two men’s backgrounds becoming more significant: the street smart Jewish kid from Manhattan who squeaked through high school and the multilingual son of an ambassador who grew up in the Turkish embassy in Washington.

But they were both huge music fans and also….I think this is significant…readers. In an article by George W. S. Trow that ran in the New Yorker, Ertegun sings the praises of the Delage automobile, something he almost certainly picked up from James Salter’s A Sport and A Pastime (a great book, incidentally) and a nice note in his performance of class, whether you recognized it or not. Wexler also read widely and it shows in the verbal skills that made him a sought after elder statesman of R&B, a good and accessible interview with great stories. But “wanna” and “have” are different places to start from and the foundation influences everything.

Still, Wexler continued to turn out awesome music (Aretha) but found his personality is a problem in board rooms. He opened his own Criteria Studio in Miami and played an important role in the white blues guitar band fever of the late sixties and seventies recording Eric Clapton, Delaney and Bonnie, the Allmans and Doctor John. A lot of the legendary interplay between Duane Allman and Eric Clapton happened at Criteria, produced by Tom Dowd and as far from New York as Wexler could easily manage. But as the decade continued, fewer people were interested in white guys jamming the blues and the kind of music he excelled at producing faded against the lightning of punk (never mentioned), the twitter of disco (ditto) and the glam of new wave (also ditto).

Ertegun became a king maker. In the high rolling and mostly personal relations of the seventies record business, he was an emperor. He had Led Zeppelin and then the Rolling Stones on the label (Led Zeppelin’s contract specified that Atlantic management was not allowed in the studio when they were recording. Whether this was aimed at Ertegun, Wexler or someone else it is revealing). He excelled at the jet set and coke scene and had a knowledge and ease in the business that others could not compete with. In his article on Ertegun, George Trow writes, “Successful people in the music business were familiar with styles you could buy —black groups under contract and expensive department stores did not, generally speaking, terrify them—but Ahmet seemed to have an easy familiarity with styles you could come by only through instinct or inheritance, and this made it seem likely to the men in the business that he existed in a state of special grace.” Imagine. There’s a famous anecdote in Trow’s article that gets it all. “Do they have recording studios in France?” [David] Geffen asked Ahmet. “France is like Brooklyn,” Ahmet said. “They have everything.”

Ertegun remained a force majeure in the industry right up to his death. Wexler ran up a 40 year string of amazing records and grew into a comfortable retirement, still giving interviews, still able to spin great stories about the amazing talents that he had known and worked with through his long life in the music he had christened “rhythm and blues” back in 1948.

 

 

roma

Crowds at the Trevi Fountain
Satisfying that craving for gelato
The Coliseum’s vastness

I visited Rome…a friend had said “Rome just keeps giving,” and he was right. Every corner you turn, there was something spectacular, ecstatic, surprising…and yet all very comfortable and inviting. What a splendid place, splendid people, a plaza society.

There is no “but” coming—it’s all good. Sights, people, food, transportation, weather, people watching: what a place, so old and yet not jaded.

It is monumental, things are large and then you get to someplace like St. Peter’s, the Coliseum, the Vatican Museums or the Pantheon and it is REALLY LARGE! Photos fail to catch the scale. And of course, it’s impossible to catch how nice people are, the quality of the food, sandwiches, coffee, wine, pizzas, dinners, seafood, or the close-in vistas that reveal themsleves all along those narrow streets.

Now back in Berlin, a different scene entirely, enjoyable in a different way.

And I note New England is getting your classic St. Patrick’s week blizzard.

counting blessings in berlin

Dark Apartment, 148 Lincoln

Lock Up Storage Pano 1

For six months I have been packing my worldly belongings into a storage area. This was not fun, but it is done. I had a lot of help and support, and many thanks! I locked the old house up, locked the storage up, locked my car and had my friends drop me at Union Station in New Haven.

 

 

This morning at 7:23AM I landed at Tegel airport in Berlin. I will be posting regularly and in varied ways now and in the coming months and invite you to come along on the journey, tell your friends about laopan888.com and on Instagram where I will try to post daily (my #selfdrivingcar project is the default, but you see a lot of interesting things on the road). I’ve never gotten a comment (I don’t think: there are still couple of loose ends), so try me! Always a thrill!

 

signs at the women’s march(es)

This is a list of signs from the Women’s March on January 21, 2017. Most of them are from the DC march, but some from others. The Washington Post columnist Dana Milbank ran a column with some of the ones he liked best, but the comments had many many more.

Read it and smile at a time of so many unfunny events. It’s easier to convince a person by joking with them than it is by shouting at them.

Women are the wall, and Trump will pay.

2,864,974 because we know it bothers you

Tweet others as you want to be tweeted. (The golden shower rule)

140 characters but no character. #SAD

Make love not wall.

I’m no longer accepting the things I cannot change; I’m changing the things I cannot accept!

Honestly, I’d prefer an actual swamp.

Donald Trump’s Book Club –& pics of “The Constitution for Dummies”

Can Trump Tweet and Juggle Putin’s Balls at the Same Time?”

Don’t Make Me Come Back Here

There is no Planet B.

No, Donald, THIS is a massive crowd

Whose interests are you Putin first?

Our Rights Are Not up for Grabs, and Neither Are We

Fight Like a Girl

If I Make My Uterus a Corporation Will You Stop Regulating It?

We’ve Taken this “Anyone Can Be President” Thing Too Far

#Tweet Us with Respect

Hottest new tea for party: IM-Peach-Mint

Abort unwanted presidencies

And Jesus, he wants to go to Venus

ELECTILE DYSFUNCTION

Protect Your Privates from Ryan

Why don’t you leave us for a younger, prettier country?

Thou Shalt Not Mess With Women’s Reproductive Rights” Fallopians 4:28′

Goodnight science, goodnight facts, goodnight corporate income tax.

Leave it to The Beavers

“I Believe In Partial Term Presidencies.”

 

I do not like you down my shirt

I do not like you up my skirt

I do not like you on my rump

I do not like you, Mr. Trump

 

I Thought That Sexual Offenders Weren’t Allowed In Government Housing

Melania, Blink Twice If You Need Help

You Haven’t Seen Nasty Yet

This Is Not A Good Sign

I Raise Up My Voice-Not So I Can Shout-But So Those Without A Voice Can Be Heard

Tinkle, tinkle little Tzar, Putin made you what you are