Old Blind Dogs New Release Solid But Not Their Finest

Old Blind Dogs

Wherever Ye May Be

Compass 7-4542-2

* * *

Why the funeral sepia-colored album cover? Why are Aaron Jones and Fraser Stone dressed like gravediggers and Ali Hutton like a greasy undertaker? And why does Jonny Hardie look like an apparition from the past? If you recognize those names as the lineup of the Scottish band Old Blind Dogs, you’ll know that OBD seldom does what you’d expect and Wherever Ye May Be, their latest album, is no exception. As we learn in the liner notes, they have assumed the role of pschopomps--which is also the name of one of the tracks. If you don’t know that word, don’t be embarrassed--I had to look it up myself. Psychopomps are mythical beings who escort souls between this world and the next--guides such as Charon, Anubis, Epona, Azrael, and Virgil.

Old Blind Dogs have long been known for raucous sets, fiddle-, percussion- and pipe-driven compositions that melt the borders between rock and Celtic music. The set “Pyschopomp” aims to obliterate the ultimate border. That’s not the theme of the entire album, but it does seem to have impacted OBD as the music is more controlled and moody than usual. “St. Kilda,” for example, opens with a funerary drone and Hardie’s delicate and wistful fiddle. This traditional song was originally inspired by unrequited love, but OBD’s opening instrumental is somber enough to accompany a hearse. (They do finish it off with lively pipe, conga, and harmony vocals.) I don’t mean to imply that this is a depressing album--far from it. They are plenty of high-spirited selections such as “Scotland Yet,” the jazzy “Room with a View,” and “Copper Kettle,” which is about the brewing of whiskey, for heaven’s sake. Still, the overall mood is quieter and reflective than usual. It also spotlights Aaron Jones’s lead vocals more than Stone’s percussion, Hutton’s pipes, or Hardie’s fiddling. There’s nothing wrong with that, except that hand drums create OBD’s signature rhythms, the album could use more pipe-fired spark, and Hardie is, simply, one of Scotland’s best at the bow and is conspicuous by his relative absence. Even the big sets sound more subdued than usual.

The quality of musicianship is uniformly high throughout and I’ve no hesitation in recommending the album, especially if you’re unfamiliar with OBD. However, I also suspect that long time fans will agree with me that this is merely a so-so effort in the sweep of the band’s output. But then again, OBD has set a pretty high bar over the years, hence middle-of-the-road for them would be top-of-the-heap for lesser bands.--LV

Here's a YouTube link of OBD when they get things fired up.

I Can't Imagine John Lennon in Nowhere boy

Nowhere Boy (2010)
Directed by Sam Taylor-Wood
98 mins. Rated R (language, mild sexuality)
* *

Nowhere Boy was rushed into early U.S. release to coincide with what would have been John Lennon’s 70th birthday. Alas, there is very little reason for you to make haste to see it; this film is—at best—a video rental for an evening in which you’re in the mood for something more schmaltzy than provocative.

If you want revelations about the making of The Beatles, look elsewhere. Nowhere Boy is a tepid relationship triangle whose only twist is that the trio in question consists of adolescent John (Aaron Johnson); his aunt and guardian, Mimi (Kristen Scott Thomas); and his biological mother, Julia (Anne-Marie Duff). When John’s beloved uncle George dies, John is convulsed by rebellion and teenaged angst that leads him to seek out his birth mother. It’s not exactly like she’s hard to find--she’s Mimi’s sister and also resides in Liverpool. She’s also a loose party girl who plants the rock and roll seed in John’s soul. Soon we see John mastering his pawnshop guitar—and if you believe the soundtrack music can possibly come from that instrument you’ve obviously never held a guitar. John gathers a small group of other Liverpool quasi-rebels who share his love for American rock and African-American rhythm and blues. That circle, of course, includes George Harrison (Sam Bell) and Paul McCartney (Thomas Sangster), the latter of whom is younger than John but knows way more about music and technique. Unless you were raised on another planet, you know the rest—Liverpool clubs to The Quarrymen to Germany to… The Beatles.

But, again, the film isn’t about the band. Matt Greenhalgh’s screenplay is based (very loosely) on Julia’s memoir. It is really a battle for young John’s affections between buttoned-up Mimi and good-times Julia, and there’s quite a bit of implied sexual frisson between the latter two. But don’t expect anything risqué to be played out in Sam Taylor-Wood’s color-within-the-lines direction. The film meanders toward abrupt revelations that seem tacked on, and to forgiveness scenes that could have been written for the Lifetime channel. Let’s start with the fact that most of it is made up. John Lennon knew who his mother was and had extensive contact with her from the time he was eleven-years-old. Now let’s move onto the film’s pop psychology. It turns out that most of this is also fanciful; Lennon’s own memoirs are not exactly on par with Greenhalgh’s script. Add a flat tone to the production and direction, and this film veers dangerously close to turkey terrain. Were it not for Kristen Scott Thomas’s steely performance, it would be hard to care about any of what we see on the screen. She’s easily the best thing in the film and strikes all the right chords as an ice queen in search of her defrost button. Also superb is the doe-eyed Sangster as Paul. Sangster looks and acts the part of a fifteen-year-old--reticent, fearful, and seeking to fit in, but capable of occasional flairs of one-upmanship and resilience. (I only rate this film with two stars out of five in honor of the aforementioned performances.)

Aaron Johnson is actually just twenty, but he looks older and isn’t very convincing as John. When he takes one of his various tantrums, it comes off as a histrionic older person overacting rather than a bout of teenage rage. By contrast, Duff appears too young to be Julia. When she and Johnson appear together, one almost expects them to be a couple as they look the part. But the worst miscasting is reserved for Liverpool, which has been scrubbed and sanitized. One gets no sense whatsoever of the city as a played-out blue-collar grime pit. Those who know the story of The Beatles know that part of their story is covered in the filth of the city’s docks and the meanness of its streets. When Taylor-Wood touches on the city’s toughness—and it is onl y a touch—it feels and looks like an American Graffiti outtake. I half expected to see the leather-clad Liverpool punks burst into a song-and-dance routine.

The film lacks grit, verisimilitude, and coherence. Imagine this as the story of John Lennon? No, I can’t. Nor can I imagine he’d have had anything to do with this production if he was still among us. --LV

Winter's Bone a Bleak Masterpiece

Winter’s Bone (2010)

Directed by Debra Granik

100 mins. Rated R (language and violence)

Winter’s Bone isn’t knocking anyone dead at the box office for several reasons: it’s an independent film, it has no star power, it lacks a major distributor, and its story line is bleak and depressing. But make no bones about it--it’s the best American film of 2010.

Winter’s Bone guts the American Dream like an illegally jacked deer. Its protagonist is Ree Dolly, Jennifer Lawrence in a performance that makes all the other Oscars hopefuls look like poseurs. Ree is a girl with deep troubles, not the least of which is that she’s seventeen and doesn’t have the luxury of being an adolescent. She lives in a ramshackle Ozarks cabin with a catatonic mother and two young siblings for whom she’s the de facto caregiver. Her daddy is AWOL and (apparently) a bail jumper who used the cabin to secure freedom before his court appearance. Ree needs to find him and make sure he keeps that date, or she, her brother, her sister, and her crazy mother will lose the cabin. Her journey through the Ozarks backwoods in search of her father makes Dante’s Inferno seem like a stroll through a tulip farm.

Director Debra Granik, who also co-wrote the screenplay with Anne Rosellini, shows us an America most people would rather pretend doesn’t exist. Think lawless Appalachia, mountain poverty, and blood feuds are relics of the past? Replace the moonshine stills of yesterday with meth labs, and the 19^th century Ozarks become a 21^st century nightmare where the code of the hills prevails, and where folks would rather mete out mountain justice than ask the local sheriff so much as the time of day. It’s just the way things are and people like Ree don’t get to have prolonged childhoods; their futures are dictated by circumstance, not dreams.

Jennifer Lawrence is stunning, a woman-child who must swallow pride, stare horror in the face, and grow up faster than anyone should. She strikes a perfect balance between steely resolve, resignation, sorrow, and fear. Almost as good is John Hawkes as her uncle Teardrop, the brother of Ree’s missing father. He has a tender side, but he’s as incendiary as dry straw in a blowtorch factory. One of the film’s open questions is whose side he’s on.

Open questions are among the many things that make this film special. Looking for easy-to-digest answers? Don’t. Looking for nostrums? None here. Want a tidy resolution? Sorry, life isn’t like that--especially for those who are dealt cards from the losing middle of a stacked deck. This is not an easy film to watch, but view it you should. It will leave you shattered, outraged, and perhaps horrified. But I will guarantee you will not forget it. Call this one a dark masterpiece. Find out why this adaptation of Daniel Woodrell’s novel won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance.

Emmylou Harris Thrills Sold-Out Crowd

Emmylou Harris

November 11, 2010

Calvin Theater

Northampton, MA

Emmylou Harris performed before a sold-out Calvin Theater on Thursday November 11 and once again demonstrated why she’s an American treasure. It’s not easy to turn a thousand-seat auditorium into a living room, but she managed it.

At 63 Harris has lost surprisingly little of the power or range of her youth, and the most visible effect of all the years on the road is that she’s more graceful and gracious than ever. She certainly looked the part of the reigning queen of cerebral country folk music as she stood center stage, perfectly coiffed and sporting an elegant gold necklace that accented a spangly flowing skirt, black top, and—of course—finely tooled boots. Watching her work with her four-piece band—which included longtime touring partners Stuart Duncan (mandolin, fiddle) and Phil Maderia (accordion, keyboards)—makes you understand instantly why other musicians love working with Harris. It’s always about the song with Harris. As singular as her voice is, she’s never afraid to allow a thick aural ambience to envelop it, nor does she need to hog the spotlight. In fact, she spent a considerable amount of time walking out of it, turning her back to the front, and jamming with the band. Every now and then you get the impression that she’d be quite the whiz on the dance floor. The songs demanded that she not stray far from the microphone, but she usually made her back with sashays suggestive of waltzes and two-steps.

Harris thrilled the crowd with a lot of familiar material, in part because she hasn’t had a solo release since All I Intended to Be in 2005. That title is a great metaphor for Harris in late career. As she told the audience, “I never wanted to be anything but a folk singer and now here I am.” Let’s first send a virtual hug to a singer who hasn’t run from the “f” word by inventing new terms to avoid saying “folk music.” With that out of the way we can say that there probably isn’t a genre that totally contains Harris. Yes, there are sweet folk songs—and has there ever been a sadder one than her cover of Steve Earle’s “Goodbye,” or one that blows the lid off the American Dream like “Red Dirt Girl”?—but Harris’s repertoire is also filled with country, Appalachian, and pop songs, and since her initial collaboration with Daniel Lanois more than a decade ago, the arrangements are multi-layered and sophisticated. But when she needs to, she can still peel away those layers and use stark simplicity in ways that astonish. At one point near the end of the show a microphone failed and a horrendous electronic crack ripped across the auditorium. Unfazed, she stepped to the front of the stage with Duncan and Medeira and delivered an a capella unamplified gospel song and you could hear every note, even up in the nosebleed seats. She came back for her encore with her two dogs in tow, both of whom soaked up some loving from the front two rows. Harris is a long-time animal rights activist and gave a plea for folks to adopt shelter dogs before launching into the finale, a cover of “Pancho and Lefty.” Smiles as wide as the prairie were upon the faces of the audience as they poured out upon the street. Many seemed to meander, as if dazed and not ready for the evening to end. Well, yeah….

A plug also to the evening’s opening act, a young quartet from Rhode Island who call themselves The Low Anthem. Let’s just say there are no categories for this band. Reedy-voiced lead singer and songwriter Ben Knox Miller sounds a bit like a young John Prine, but the music is another thing altogether. What label would you apply to a piece arranged for two oboes, a pump organ, a French horn, a harmonica, and a musical saw? The four musicians spent stage time passing off turns on the dozen or so instruments on stage. Although their set contained some songs that might comfortably fit in a folk or country box, most of it did not. In fact, lots of it was a meditative mash-up of psychedelia, trance, and four-part harmony singing. It’s hard to say if this music would be enjoyable out of its live context—but The Low Anthem is certainly a fascinating group to catch live. We’ll weigh in on their recording Oh my God, Charlie Darwin when we’ve had a chance to listen, but the title alone clues you that orthodoxy isn’t in the offing.

The Social Network is Creepy and Fascinating

The Social Network (2010)

Directed by David Fincher

PG-13, 121 mins. (Sexuality, nudity, language)

* * * *

Mark Zuckerberg is the smartest guy in every room he enters. The problem is that he knows it and he’s also either suffering from Asperger Syndrome or is a full-blown sociopath. As such, Zuckerberg has the sensitivity of a two-year-old, the morals of a sadist, and the self-control of a Turret’s patient. And he’s not even the most unlikable figure in the film. That dishonor would go to Jason Timberlake playing Napster creator Sean Parker, who packs more crude than the Gulf oil spill.

Be forewarned; seeing this (barely) fictionalized account of how Facebook came into being will make you immediately want to do five things: trash your Facebook account, kill Zuckerberg, assassinate the founder of Napster, call for a federal investigation of Harvard, and start a class war. Is The Social Network real? Technically it’s fictional and is based on the Ben Mezrich novel The Accidental Billionaire. Zuckerberg says it’s fanciful, Parker (Sean Fanning in real life) hasn’t said much, and several of the litigants who claimed Zuckerberg bilked them are silent because they signed non-disclosure agreements. But the fact that no defamation lawsuits have been brought against Mezrich, Fincher, or script writer Aaron Sorkin suggests that none of the villains of this piece--and there are precious few good guys--feels confident enough to air their views of the truth in public. (Sorkin insists the film is pretty close to reality.)

The film opens at Harvard in 2003. Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) has just been dumped by his girlfriend (Rooney Mara) and retreats to his room to slander her on his very-public blog, get drunk, hack into Harvard data bases, and set up a Website that allows testosterone-poisoned Harvard males to rate the relative “hotness” of Harvard coeds. This was the genesis of Facebook. Without giving away too much, getting to the Facebook of the present also involved Zuckerberg double-crossing a trio of secret society lads (including the smug Winklevoss twins, both played by Armie Hammer); putting the screws to Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield), his only friend; and coming under the Svengali-like influence of Sean Parker/Fanning. The unindicted coconspirator is Harvard, a fetid cesspool of arrogance, self-indulgence, sexism, bad behavior, and contempt for everyone who lacks the social privileges enjoyed by the Crimson-clad spawn of Satan. Among the many questions raised in the film is why rich kids are allowed to get away with actions--sexual harassment, hacking, invasion of privacy, lewdness, drug dealing--that would land a public university student in prison. (Still another question is how this film managed to wrangle a PG-13 rating.)

The Social Network is like watching a horror flick; we don’t want to look but we do. Credit Fincher’s focused direction, Sorkin’s acidic script, and superb performances all around, especially that of Eisenberg, who keeps our eyes glued on a character who is essentially a monster, and an unsympathetic one at that. The movie unfolds at a crisp pace and deftly handles a task that is hard to capture on film: the creative process. For all of his faults, Zuckerberg was/is a genius and to watch him build Facebook’s architecture and envision its potential miles ahead of everyone else is reminiscent of the scenes in Amadeus in which Mozart dictates scores from his sick bed while poor Salieri struggles to keep up.

I‘m not sure if we can call this a “good” film, as there just isn’t much social redemption to be found. It is, however, an endlessly fascinating one. See it, and then go home and take a shower. Trust me--you’ll definitely feel like you need one.

Tax Cuts for the Rich and Endless Toil for the Masses

Are you kidding me? Was Barack Obama kidnapped by aliens and replaced by an evil replica? Or is he just so friggin’ stupid that we should just give up on him?

From Washington, DC comes startling news. First, President Obama has offered an olive branch to the Republicans by saying he’ll consider an extension of tax cuts on the rich. For the love of Pete, the tax increase was only going to affect those making over $250,000 and he’s going to cave in?

There’s so much wrong with this that one hardly knows where to begin. First of all, we have the pathetic case of Democrats behaving as if they are the minority party. I grant that they’re quickly mismanaging themselves to that status, but…hello! Democrats still control the Senate and the White House. That’s one-third more than Ronald Reagan had when he was first president, but he had the guts to fight for his agenda. An inability to govern has plagued Obama from day one. Remember the renting of garments that Democrats lacked the super-majority to prevent filibusters? I’m sick of listening to Democrats whine. So here is a series of call-outs to President Obama.

First, govern or get out! Want something? As the British say, put a bit of stick about. As chief executive, Mr. President, you have the power to dole out and withhold goodies. Lyndon Johnson took on Congress when he wanted the Civil Rights Act passed. Among his tactics was a threat to veto every bill that came onto his desk until it was passed. Withholding highway funds finally turned the trick. Get a spine, Mr. President.

Right after you’ve grown a spine, get your ears cleaned out because apparently you’re not hearing Republicans who shout that their number one objective is to make you a one-term president. Helping this lot is like lending your pocketknife to a man who vows to slit your throat. Or maybe you don’t care that the GOP wants to give the country back to the thieves who screwed it up in the first place.

Or maybe it’s courage you need, though one wouldn’t think it would take a lot to point out that a person making a quarter of a million dollars ought to repay the nation that enriched him. Who will pay if the Bush tax cuts aren’t renewed? Individuals making five times more than the average family income. You know what? If you make that kind of bread you shouldn’t be whining about your tax bill; you should be on your knees and grateful. C’mon Mr. President--tell these greedy bastards to shut up and pay up. Who knows? You might actually convince someone you have leadership skills if you fight that battle.

If all of this isn’t enough, we get today’s news that once again the GOP is targeting Social Security. If they get their way, the age for full benefits will rise to age 69. Here’s another issue I’m sick of hearing about. Everyone who has a calculator knows how to make Social Security solvent--remove the income cap. As it now stands individuals stop paying Social Security on income above $106,800. Why, for heaven’s sake? Once again, if you’ve that kind of money you can afford to pay another 6.2% tax on it. A lot of us pay higher rates than that in sales taxes. But what’s the message here? More for the rich even if the rabble has to work until they drop? Tell the rich that they need to help secure the future of the elders. And tell young people moaning over SSI taxes that if they aren’t willing to pay there simply won’t be jobs of them--the geezers will have them all.

So I’ve attached an old cartoon from the Industrial Workers of the World. It shows how IWW members thought the world operates. One doesn't have to be as radical as the IWW to think that maybe it was onto something. As the old labor song put it, Mr. President, which side are you on? If it’s with the lot on the top layers, then I couldn’t care less if you lose in 2012.

Business Speak is for Idiots

When someone asks if they can conference with me I reply: “No. We can have a meeting. We can hold a discussion. We could engage in debate. But we can definitely cannot make a noun into a verb.” If pressed I also advise that at no point in our conversation will we incentivize, prioritize, interface, or benchmark. Nor will we construct a matrix, make a list of doables, or pick any low-hanging fruit.

If you have ever used any of the above phrases in anything other than an ironic context, repent! If you are currently using them, for the love of God, stop! If you use them and harbor the illusion that subordinates are doing anything other than laughing behind your back, seek help.

Think I’m kidding? Check out the BBC’s new list of annoying business phrases: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/7457287.stm If you haven’t gone to management school you’ll find this hysterical. If you have, you probably won’t get it. The truly hopeless will believe that their personnel finds their business techniques useful because employees have demonstrated “buy in” during staff meetings. They are so clueless that they cannot recognize feigned interest, the desire of staff to keep their paychecks, or playing mind games to stave off boredom.

Some people dream of utopia. Me too. But for now I’d settle for MBA programs that aren’t run by morons that graduate imbeciles who will make the lives of their future staffs miserable by insulting their intelligence.