July 23, 2012: What is it about Glen Campbell I love so much, anyway?! It's a rhetorical question, and I'm never sure whether you're supposed to put a question mark, so I always compensate by putting both an exclamation mark AND a question mark. How's that for conscientious?! (See?!)
Anyway, it's my kind of morning -- heavy rain, moody clouds and lots of thunder. The cats are being pleasant -- that is, the little cat is being sweet and friendly, but the fat one followed up pooping on the basement floor by vomiting in the kitchen. Still, they're better than some people I know, who poop everywhere!
And speaking of poop, I was recalling this great comment John Lennon made in some documentary, wherein he references that the quality of a given song he'd written on some day may have just been the result of his having had a good (dare I say, sound) bowel movement that day. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, what myriad details of living craft the precarious state of my emotions at any given time?!
For instance, this thunderstorm just set me straight, and now that it's clearing up I'm getting depressed. Frequent Blah-ugh! readers will (or won't) recall that I favor British weather to the skin-burning sun of modern summer, and any chance to be enveloped by the lovely hydraulic gauze of nature's natural sprinkler is, for me, just peachy keen.
On another note, I'm sitting here nude right now, as some of my regular Blah-ugh! readers may (or may not) realize, and I'm wondering if the front door being open constitutes my being some kind of public spectacle. It's certainly not my intention, as my regular Blah-ugh! readers would (or wouldn't) understand. It's just that I was about to shower when I was sucked into listening to this Glen Campbell album and felt compelled to let you know -- my regular (and irregular) Blah-ugh! readers -- that Glen is among the most underrated performers of the 20th century. Certainly, his is among my five all-time favorite singing voices, the others being Lennon, Lulu, Brian Wilson and Sam Cooke.
Anyway, I've got to go now. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! Don't forget to buy my Youtube video at this location, and watch "Space Case" if and when you've got the nerve ... And keep watching the flagpoles, because I note they're STILL all at half-mast and I have no F***ING idea why!
Showing posts with label Lulu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lulu. Show all posts
Monday, July 23, 2012
Monday, April 18, 2011
Music & Me
April 18, 2011: Well, another week has gone by and I'm still not famous. Part of me wants to publicly blame you for this, and yet what good would that do, (so I'll just keep blaming you privately). I had to eat another agent rejection this morning -- a dirty little cad whose name I'll spare you, even though it's a silly name -- and now I'm bitter ... more bitter than usual, if you can imagine such a thing ...
But that's not why I logged you in today, or on. In fact, I had more blissful topics to explore, beginning with music. This weekend I was pleasantly reintroduced to an old personal "best of" CD compilation I'd made back yonder. I hadn't heard a lot of these exquisite songs in quite sometime, and I was wholly drawn in to each as they spun (with only a modicum of skipping) so blithely upon (or within) my auto's CD spinning machine. And as each song played, I decided it was absolutely the best song ever recorded, bar none, if I had to name one, and for those three minutes I probably would have bet my life (or certainly your life) on the possibility that said song was a bona fide miracle of creation (or evolution, depending on which side you're on).
For starters, if you don't know the Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Lodi," I feel sorry for you, because it's got to be the most heart-wrenching, pathos-drawing, and yet rhythmically intoxicating tune ever created. I remember my friend Kristine Newman once commenting, "It just says it all," and it does! Great kudos to my friend John Fogerty, who set a standard for music and plaid shirts.
But then came the Allman Brothers' "Midnight Rider," which is beyond words. When the bridge (and bass) fall into that simple, almost two-note guitar solo, it's a heart-stopping moment for me -- rainy windshield on a Georgia highway, sucked along by that lordly voice of Gregg (or as his friends call him, Greg). And those harmonies ... Egad! as Matt would say (and he's from Georgia!).
And also from Georgia comes R.E.M., and while they have so many good songs (at least up until their drummer Bill Berry, with his enormous single eyebrow, left the band), "Sitting Still" just has to be (at least for me) the quintessential early '80s melancholy underground dance hall jangling Rickenbacker tune of it all. (On a personal note, I don't think Matt can understand this one, as he tried to run Bill Berry over with his car ... or maybe Berry tried to run him over; I always get confused about the story.)
You've heard me speak of Lulu's "Dreary Days & Nights," of course -- just breathtaking -- but a similar period piece (which I know Matt loves) is Pink Floyd's "See Emily Play." What an amazing arrangement, and scintillating use of effects ... It's really a song that takes creation to the next level. I love later Pink Floyd, of course, but this early piece has to be about their best to me.
And in that vain (or vein -- I'm not sure which), The Doors did something similar with several pieces, and one great (and lesser known) example is "Unhappy Girl" -- great lyrics (and I've never been an over-the-top Jim Morrisson fan, in part because I think most poetry is just silly), a fetching liquid tune, and again, special effects that just work brilliantly. Of course, there aren't many bad Doors songs.
Finally -- and believe me, I could go on and on ... I haven't even touched on the Beatles or Beach Boys, but each deserve their own entry at least -- but finally, what has to be (for me ... yes, remember this is all about ME!) the quintessential song of the 60s -- Jefferson Airplane's "D.C.B.A. - 25," which appears almost invisibily on the second side of the classic "Surrealistic Pillow" album. That song just sounds like Golden Gate Park on a late afternoon in summer -- a subtle echo, and heavy hit of sparkling noise. The Airplane was never a tight band, not a slick band, like the Beatles or Byrds, but a kind of sloppy dissonant chord. Yet Paul Kantner and company work wonders on this song, the throwaway title of which is merely the four chords they use, with the LSD joke tagged on. (God, listen to me making liner notes!) It also includes two of my favorite lines of any song -- "Too many days I've left unstoned" ... and perhaps my favorite, "I can but dance behind your smile." Wow! Now that's poetry!
Well, many more songs could I praise, but time is short and I have to get my pants on. Most importantly, it made me forget ... y'know ... and while I'll have to go back and reread this for typos, I'll look forward to getting out to my car again and escaping into auditory oblivion ...
But that's not why I logged you in today, or on. In fact, I had more blissful topics to explore, beginning with music. This weekend I was pleasantly reintroduced to an old personal "best of" CD compilation I'd made back yonder. I hadn't heard a lot of these exquisite songs in quite sometime, and I was wholly drawn in to each as they spun (with only a modicum of skipping) so blithely upon (or within) my auto's CD spinning machine. And as each song played, I decided it was absolutely the best song ever recorded, bar none, if I had to name one, and for those three minutes I probably would have bet my life (or certainly your life) on the possibility that said song was a bona fide miracle of creation (or evolution, depending on which side you're on).
For starters, if you don't know the Creedence Clearwater Revival song "Lodi," I feel sorry for you, because it's got to be the most heart-wrenching, pathos-drawing, and yet rhythmically intoxicating tune ever created. I remember my friend Kristine Newman once commenting, "It just says it all," and it does! Great kudos to my friend John Fogerty, who set a standard for music and plaid shirts.
But then came the Allman Brothers' "Midnight Rider," which is beyond words. When the bridge (and bass) fall into that simple, almost two-note guitar solo, it's a heart-stopping moment for me -- rainy windshield on a Georgia highway, sucked along by that lordly voice of Gregg (or as his friends call him, Greg). And those harmonies ... Egad! as Matt would say (and he's from Georgia!).
And also from Georgia comes R.E.M., and while they have so many good songs (at least up until their drummer Bill Berry, with his enormous single eyebrow, left the band), "Sitting Still" just has to be (at least for me) the quintessential early '80s melancholy underground dance hall jangling Rickenbacker tune of it all. (On a personal note, I don't think Matt can understand this one, as he tried to run Bill Berry over with his car ... or maybe Berry tried to run him over; I always get confused about the story.)
You've heard me speak of Lulu's "Dreary Days & Nights," of course -- just breathtaking -- but a similar period piece (which I know Matt loves) is Pink Floyd's "See Emily Play." What an amazing arrangement, and scintillating use of effects ... It's really a song that takes creation to the next level. I love later Pink Floyd, of course, but this early piece has to be about their best to me.
And in that vain (or vein -- I'm not sure which), The Doors did something similar with several pieces, and one great (and lesser known) example is "Unhappy Girl" -- great lyrics (and I've never been an over-the-top Jim Morrisson fan, in part because I think most poetry is just silly), a fetching liquid tune, and again, special effects that just work brilliantly. Of course, there aren't many bad Doors songs.
Finally -- and believe me, I could go on and on ... I haven't even touched on the Beatles or Beach Boys, but each deserve their own entry at least -- but finally, what has to be (for me ... yes, remember this is all about ME!) the quintessential song of the 60s -- Jefferson Airplane's "D.C.B.A. - 25," which appears almost invisibily on the second side of the classic "Surrealistic Pillow" album. That song just sounds like Golden Gate Park on a late afternoon in summer -- a subtle echo, and heavy hit of sparkling noise. The Airplane was never a tight band, not a slick band, like the Beatles or Byrds, but a kind of sloppy dissonant chord. Yet Paul Kantner and company work wonders on this song, the throwaway title of which is merely the four chords they use, with the LSD joke tagged on. (God, listen to me making liner notes!) It also includes two of my favorite lines of any song -- "Too many days I've left unstoned" ... and perhaps my favorite, "I can but dance behind your smile." Wow! Now that's poetry!
Well, many more songs could I praise, but time is short and I have to get my pants on. Most importantly, it made me forget ... y'know ... and while I'll have to go back and reread this for typos, I'll look forward to getting out to my car again and escaping into auditory oblivion ...
Friday, January 28, 2011
By The Way ...
January 28, 2011: There are many things competing for attention in my brain this frosty evening -- favorite Lulu songs, Freecell, Lord Voldemort, Chinese food, images of nude women ... -- and yet, at the end of the day, isn't it always about the nude women!?
Actually, I'm being glib, because that's what I do. You see, I'm trying to make you laugh, and that's why I'm so unsuccessful at it. I try too hard. But then why shouldn't I? You aren't trying at all.
You see, my point is a subtle one, meaning I'm not even sure what it is. I mean, I know there's a point in there somewhere, but couldn't it just as well be a line, or a ray, or perhaps some three-dimensional geometric shape too complicated to name.
And speaking of names, when was the last time you wrote your mother? When was the last time you wrote my mother, or even phoned her. (And she's dead, by the way, so I hope you reversed the charges.)
And speaking of my mother, what of Lord Voldemort? For one thing, he doesn't have a nose, which is part of why it's so hard for him to get dates. Of course, having a nose, I'm not sure why it's so hard for me to get dates, except I'm married, and a lot of women consider that a red flag about committment.
And speaking of committment, am I ever going to figure out how to spell it correctly? No, probably not. If I were serious about committment, I'd look it up, but I'm too lazy. Which is why if the Dark Lord ever comes back, don't count on me to be much help.
And speaking of help, it's amazing how nice some people are about the excessive snowfalls, while others are veritable monsters. My neighbor across the street is a saint, and actually helped clear my driveway last week. Much to my consternation, he failed to clear it yesterday, so I knocked over his mailbox. But what was worse, some guy came along with a power blower and asked for $30 to clear my driveway, and after I'd already shoveled most of it. I told him to shove off, and thought of that poigniant (I know I misspelled it!) line from H.G. Wells, wherein he references a gross mingling of panic-filled disaster and profit. (I intended to point this out to the gentleman, but by then he was four houses down telling my neighbor what a cheapskate I was.)
Actually, I'm being glib, because that's what I do. You see, I'm trying to make you laugh, and that's why I'm so unsuccessful at it. I try too hard. But then why shouldn't I? You aren't trying at all.
You see, my point is a subtle one, meaning I'm not even sure what it is. I mean, I know there's a point in there somewhere, but couldn't it just as well be a line, or a ray, or perhaps some three-dimensional geometric shape too complicated to name.
And speaking of names, when was the last time you wrote your mother? When was the last time you wrote my mother, or even phoned her. (And she's dead, by the way, so I hope you reversed the charges.)
And speaking of my mother, what of Lord Voldemort? For one thing, he doesn't have a nose, which is part of why it's so hard for him to get dates. Of course, having a nose, I'm not sure why it's so hard for me to get dates, except I'm married, and a lot of women consider that a red flag about committment.
And speaking of committment, am I ever going to figure out how to spell it correctly? No, probably not. If I were serious about committment, I'd look it up, but I'm too lazy. Which is why if the Dark Lord ever comes back, don't count on me to be much help.
And speaking of help, it's amazing how nice some people are about the excessive snowfalls, while others are veritable monsters. My neighbor across the street is a saint, and actually helped clear my driveway last week. Much to my consternation, he failed to clear it yesterday, so I knocked over his mailbox. But what was worse, some guy came along with a power blower and asked for $30 to clear my driveway, and after I'd already shoveled most of it. I told him to shove off, and thought of that poigniant (I know I misspelled it!) line from H.G. Wells, wherein he references a gross mingling of panic-filled disaster and profit. (I intended to point this out to the gentleman, but by then he was four houses down telling my neighbor what a cheapskate I was.)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Jarret's Frank Film Forum (FFF) -- A Review of James Bond Films
October 10, 2009: The letters have been pouring in requesting more film reviews by yours truly (meaning me). A child of alcoholism, I'm always looking for ways to be liked, so I'm happy to accommodate my loyal readers -- the three of you -- and offer another offering of my utterly valueless opinions. (See, now that's the dysfunction talking!)
In an effort to form my own son's opinions and set him straight on the road to manhood -- straight manhood, mind you, not the gay kind -- over the summer I introduced him to every James Bond movie in the official series. We even watched the George Lazenby one ("On Her Majesty's Secret Service") which sucked like Telly Savalas's singing, and every Roger Moore (I think there are 17; he played Bond well into his 80's.). Being something of an authority on Bond -- I've read each Ian Fleming story at least three times and can even play the Monty Norman theme on guitar -- I thought I'd offer a concise appraisal of the catalogue.
To begin, I'd have to name "Thunderball" as the quintessential Bond film, firing on all cylinders, save its awful title track by Tom Jones. Sean Connery is at the top of his game and still has enough hair to dominate the role. It's consummate kitsch in technicolor, and also a very full adventure with lots of glib lines. (Of course, none could beat the last line of "From Russia, With Love," when Bond, after having nearly been booted to death by Klebb's poison shoe, remarks, "She's had her kicks!")
That said, I have to give the nod to Pierce Brosnan as the best Bond. He hit a mixture of suave control and formidable action-film athleticism that can't be matched. I understand that Connery is still the consummate father of the film role (and I'll always love his Bond), but Brosnan really took it to another, higher level. I'm sorry he only made the four films. Moore does an adequate job, but overall he's too self-conscious and continually falls back on a vaguely unsympathetic sarcasm he clearly lifted from Cary Grant (who was never unsympathetic to viewers). Timothy Dalton wasn't as bad as everyone says, but ultimately he had very bad hair, and sometimes that's enough to put someone on the Black List. Daniel Craig's dour brutality is an interesting take, but even by the books' standard, he's much too taciturn. (I love his two movies, but somehow I don't completely consider them Bond films in the pure sense.)
Among other films, "Dr. No" is a personal favorite. I guess I remain something of a closet racist, but it just cracks me up when Quarrel rolls his eyes in primitive fear. I also love "Live and Let Die" (the first film I ever saw, as a 6-year old at a drive-in in Florida; I was mesmerized!) "Diamonds Are Forever" was much better than I remembered, as were several of the Moore films. The heroine in "For Your Eyes Only" is probably my favorite -- a lovely Carole Bouquet who plays a believable strong ally. Olga Kurylenko may be the most gorgeous, even with that mammoth scar on her back in "Quantum of Solace." Halle Berry, of course, remains a goddess, but I found her a bit annoying in "Die Another Day" and kept hoping she'd get an arrow through her back.
Among the villains, nobody was better than the great Geoffrey Holder as "Live and Let Die's" Baron Samedi. Grace Jones is certainly among the worst in "A View to a Kill." The best theme song is undoubtedly "The Man with the Golden Gun" sung by the great Lulu. (Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" is a close second.) Sheena Easton's awful "For Your Eyes Only" is a Bond embarassment, and the producer that sanctioned that shameful ballad should have his groin distended without anaesthesia.
I could go on, but suffice it to say that James Bond movies rock, even the crummy ones (excepting "Secret Service," which would have been 10 times better if it had merely consisted of two straight hours of Lazenby taking a bath in pudding).
One technical note is that Fleming's Bond would have never handed M the disrespect he regularly does in recent movies. The real M would have pierced Bond's testicles with a marrow spoon and left to dine at Blades. I'm not sure what my point is, but it's late and I have to end these reviews somewhere!
In an effort to form my own son's opinions and set him straight on the road to manhood -- straight manhood, mind you, not the gay kind -- over the summer I introduced him to every James Bond movie in the official series. We even watched the George Lazenby one ("On Her Majesty's Secret Service") which sucked like Telly Savalas's singing, and every Roger Moore (I think there are 17; he played Bond well into his 80's.). Being something of an authority on Bond -- I've read each Ian Fleming story at least three times and can even play the Monty Norman theme on guitar -- I thought I'd offer a concise appraisal of the catalogue.
To begin, I'd have to name "Thunderball" as the quintessential Bond film, firing on all cylinders, save its awful title track by Tom Jones. Sean Connery is at the top of his game and still has enough hair to dominate the role. It's consummate kitsch in technicolor, and also a very full adventure with lots of glib lines. (Of course, none could beat the last line of "From Russia, With Love," when Bond, after having nearly been booted to death by Klebb's poison shoe, remarks, "She's had her kicks!")
That said, I have to give the nod to Pierce Brosnan as the best Bond. He hit a mixture of suave control and formidable action-film athleticism that can't be matched. I understand that Connery is still the consummate father of the film role (and I'll always love his Bond), but Brosnan really took it to another, higher level. I'm sorry he only made the four films. Moore does an adequate job, but overall he's too self-conscious and continually falls back on a vaguely unsympathetic sarcasm he clearly lifted from Cary Grant (who was never unsympathetic to viewers). Timothy Dalton wasn't as bad as everyone says, but ultimately he had very bad hair, and sometimes that's enough to put someone on the Black List. Daniel Craig's dour brutality is an interesting take, but even by the books' standard, he's much too taciturn. (I love his two movies, but somehow I don't completely consider them Bond films in the pure sense.)
Among other films, "Dr. No" is a personal favorite. I guess I remain something of a closet racist, but it just cracks me up when Quarrel rolls his eyes in primitive fear. I also love "Live and Let Die" (the first film I ever saw, as a 6-year old at a drive-in in Florida; I was mesmerized!) "Diamonds Are Forever" was much better than I remembered, as were several of the Moore films. The heroine in "For Your Eyes Only" is probably my favorite -- a lovely Carole Bouquet who plays a believable strong ally. Olga Kurylenko may be the most gorgeous, even with that mammoth scar on her back in "Quantum of Solace." Halle Berry, of course, remains a goddess, but I found her a bit annoying in "Die Another Day" and kept hoping she'd get an arrow through her back.
Among the villains, nobody was better than the great Geoffrey Holder as "Live and Let Die's" Baron Samedi. Grace Jones is certainly among the worst in "A View to a Kill." The best theme song is undoubtedly "The Man with the Golden Gun" sung by the great Lulu. (Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" is a close second.) Sheena Easton's awful "For Your Eyes Only" is a Bond embarassment, and the producer that sanctioned that shameful ballad should have his groin distended without anaesthesia.
I could go on, but suffice it to say that James Bond movies rock, even the crummy ones (excepting "Secret Service," which would have been 10 times better if it had merely consisted of two straight hours of Lazenby taking a bath in pudding).
One technical note is that Fleming's Bond would have never handed M the disrespect he regularly does in recent movies. The real M would have pierced Bond's testicles with a marrow spoon and left to dine at Blades. I'm not sure what my point is, but it's late and I have to end these reviews somewhere!
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