500 Days of Summer is another entry in the catalog of indie-rock movies that, were any of them old enough to join "My Best Friend's Wedding" on the broadcast TV circuit, would be labeled [Comedy/Drama] with [Hipster Themes]. The movie consciously self-defines as a paen to the nostalgia and hip self-awareness of TV and music literate millenials everywhere.
Summer Finn [Zooey Deschanel] and Tom Hanson [Joseph Gordon-Levitt] connect over memories of Knight Rider and boozy karaoke [Here Comes Your Man, by the Pixies] and the film follows their romance through comfortable tropes of twenteen existence: do-nothing jobs that we all suspect are beneath us, but are too lazy to leave. A trip through the Scandinavian depths of Ikea, including a detached, "scenes-from-a-normal-life" tour of the superstore's display rooms. And, of course, record stores.
Let me be clear: I've seen both Transformers movies, and I'll see the G.I. Joe movie--not because I expect (or expected) them to be good, but because they are the touchstones of my childhood. I'm moderately-to-severely annoyed in a summer featuring both a Transformers and a GI Joe movie, neither Arthur Burghardt (Destro, Devastator) nor the shambling corpse of fellow Jersey Boy Chris Latta (Cobra Commander, Starscream) were able to get any work. But, hey, Michael Bay gave Devastator some Trucknutz (tm), so there's that.
In other words, I'm the target audience for 500 Days of Summer, and I enjoyed it. While Zooey Deschanel plays the movie's eponymous character, the real star is Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Summer remains a cipher, a cardboard cutout standing in for every quirky, good-looking girl you've ever dated. An early sequence goes to great lengths to establish her as the object of widespread (but undoubtedly non-derivative, authentic, indie-pop-loving) desire. We never really find out why that's the case, and the subtle objectification of Summer is one of the lingering flaws of the movie. As a result, we never truly understand the bond between the two characters; Summer exists as a commodity to be won, enjoyed, and (when lost) recovered.
To some extent, these are flaws inherent in the genre. The schematic of a human relationship is rarely an interesting document, and often lacks the sort of broad appeal that translates into box office success. 500 Days of Summer falters when it tries to straddle that divide, offering both the comforting architecture of a comedy/drama and an elusive whiff of authenticity. The result is jarring--moments of brilliance undermined by a structure that can't quite support them.
Showing posts with label reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reviews. Show all posts
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Hoots and Hellmouth: The Holy Open Secret
Who needs a drum kit? The Philadelphia rock/alt-country/gospel outfit Hoots and Hellmouth generally eschew any percussion that can’t be easily transported to the front porch, choosing washboards, tambourines, spoons and footstomps over the usual snare, bass and high hat, yet their sound is no less raucous or irresistibly danceable for the substitution.
Their second album, The Holy Open Secret, is a worthy follow-up to their barn-burning first record. Producer Bill Moriarty has become something of a local Phil Spector, svengali-like in his ability to steer acclaimed homegrown acts to the cusp of national attention. His records with groups like Man Man and Dr. Dog elevated them from the house party and church basement circuit to appearances on network television and reviews in Rolling Stone. In the process he’s developed an idiosyncratic Philadelphia indie rock sound, characterized by constantly shifting instrumental textures, rich harmonies and dense arrangements that somehow still sound chaotic and wild – complex houses of cards, always on the verge of glorious collapse.
Moriarty’s arrangements are a perfect fit for Hoots and Hellmouth’s odd hodgepodge of influences. Despite the tossed off hootenanny atmosphere they cultivate, their songcraft is extremely ambitious, almost schizophrenic in its breadth and reach. “What Good Are Plowshares if We Use Them Like Swords” is a hard, razor-edged Motown single, chugging along on a viciously simple and ominous guitar riff, before segueing into the laughing Tom Waits kitchen sink stomp of “The Family Band.” “You and All of Us” is a wonderful mess: imprecise harmonies, an impossibly catchy, almost rag-time guitar line, and drunken, woozy hollering. The songs come at you from twelve directions at once, and your defenses are useless. They win you over.
The album wrings a lot from the tension between the band’s two songwriters and vocalists, Sean Hoots and Andrew "Hellmouth" Gray. Hoots’ songs are generally the better ones. His melodies move in more unexpected directions -- the soulful gospel vibe and bluegrass rhythms seem to be his contribution. In comparison, the Hellmouth tracks -- mostly contemplative singer-songwriter ballads -- seem very routine and predictable. Still, with Hoots throwing such a wide variety of sounds into a blender and coldly snarling his way through oblique lyrics, there's something warm and personal about Hellmouth's delivery, his broad chords and dusty melodies, the creakily expansive, oaken timbre of his voice. Amidst all of Hoots' tight arrangements, falsettos, bible quotes and whiplash key changes, a well sung, simply stated lyric like "in this kitchen all I see are a thousand dishes and me" isn’t just prosaic -- it's intimate, familiar, true.
Gray doesn't possess even half of Hoots' impressive talent, but his well-worn folk holds an important place on the record. Without it, Hoots' hyperactive musical imagination and surplus of ideas might grow wearying, even unpleasant.
Hoots is the kite. Hellmouth is the string. The Holy Open Secret tugs you skyward.
Their second album, The Holy Open Secret, is a worthy follow-up to their barn-burning first record. Producer Bill Moriarty has become something of a local Phil Spector, svengali-like in his ability to steer acclaimed homegrown acts to the cusp of national attention. His records with groups like Man Man and Dr. Dog elevated them from the house party and church basement circuit to appearances on network television and reviews in Rolling Stone. In the process he’s developed an idiosyncratic Philadelphia indie rock sound, characterized by constantly shifting instrumental textures, rich harmonies and dense arrangements that somehow still sound chaotic and wild – complex houses of cards, always on the verge of glorious collapse.
Moriarty’s arrangements are a perfect fit for Hoots and Hellmouth’s odd hodgepodge of influences. Despite the tossed off hootenanny atmosphere they cultivate, their songcraft is extremely ambitious, almost schizophrenic in its breadth and reach. “What Good Are Plowshares if We Use Them Like Swords” is a hard, razor-edged Motown single, chugging along on a viciously simple and ominous guitar riff, before segueing into the laughing Tom Waits kitchen sink stomp of “The Family Band.” “You and All of Us” is a wonderful mess: imprecise harmonies, an impossibly catchy, almost rag-time guitar line, and drunken, woozy hollering. The songs come at you from twelve directions at once, and your defenses are useless. They win you over.
The album wrings a lot from the tension between the band’s two songwriters and vocalists, Sean Hoots and Andrew "Hellmouth" Gray. Hoots’ songs are generally the better ones. His melodies move in more unexpected directions -- the soulful gospel vibe and bluegrass rhythms seem to be his contribution. In comparison, the Hellmouth tracks -- mostly contemplative singer-songwriter ballads -- seem very routine and predictable. Still, with Hoots throwing such a wide variety of sounds into a blender and coldly snarling his way through oblique lyrics, there's something warm and personal about Hellmouth's delivery, his broad chords and dusty melodies, the creakily expansive, oaken timbre of his voice. Amidst all of Hoots' tight arrangements, falsettos, bible quotes and whiplash key changes, a well sung, simply stated lyric like "in this kitchen all I see are a thousand dishes and me" isn’t just prosaic -- it's intimate, familiar, true.
Gray doesn't possess even half of Hoots' impressive talent, but his well-worn folk holds an important place on the record. Without it, Hoots' hyperactive musical imagination and surplus of ideas might grow wearying, even unpleasant.
Hoots is the kite. Hellmouth is the string. The Holy Open Secret tugs you skyward.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Head Home
Hey You Guys,
I'm Dr. Teeth. You may know me from my work with the Electric Mayhem, or perhaps my thriving Muppet-orthodontia practice. I'm the new pop culture guy here on the balcony. Expect me to use this space to vent my frustrations with and enthusiasms for the books, movies, TV shows, albums, and other random things over which I obsess. So if you're out there, wandering the blogosphere like a forlorn Jew, thirsting for a place where you can find high-minded dissections of all the pop cultural detritus with which you fill up the cold black void in your sad, lonely little life (you loser), you can have a home at From the Balcony.
Let's start off with an album you should buy. (Not steal; buy. Judging from their stage show, these guys are in dire need of funds with which to purchase shirts, low-calorie foodstuffs, and back-waxing kits.)
Hailing from the murkiest swamplands of Brooklyn, New York, the members of O'Death conjure up a brutal, humid hoedown on their latest album "Head Home." The opener "Lay Me Down to Rest," an irresistibly ramshackle shout-along, sets the haunted hillbilly tone that echoes through the record. Yes, O'Death is another band of college-educated New Yorkers attempting to summon gothic ghosts out of the weird old South. But no, unlike several of their hipster-country contemporaries, they don't suffer from musical carpetbagging.
Mixing a great deal of hoot with a pungent dash of nanny, these guys create their own passionately threadbare musical universe, making similar gothic yowl-folk groups like Man Man and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah look half-hearted by comparison. They wear their influences on their sleeves -- singer Greg Jamie's high, wobbly voice recalls Tonight's the Night-era Neil Young, while the gutbucket bass thump and general kitchen-sink groove are lifted directly from late-period Tom Waits -- but blend them into a heady concoction entirely their own. There's something relentless about the music -- the songs are hastily hammered together out of wagon wheels and rusty nails, driven forward by whip-crack fiddle sawing of Bob Pycior. They sound as though they might burst into flames or fall to pieces at any moment.
O'Death is also capable of restraint and loveliness, as in the melancholic opening of "Only Daughter," a song that eventually builds to a chaotic storm of thuds and strings. It's one of the few mistakes on the album -- a quiet and gorgeous song dressed up in apocalyptic pretentions it doesn't need or deserve. Listened to all at once, the album suffers from a somewhat wearying sameness -- more quiet and understatement would serve to highlight the cataclysmic barnburners and supply some much-needed tonal shifts. As scorching and enthralling an album as Head Home is, it sounds like a first try. You get the sense that the great O'Death masterpiece is still in the future -- a future that lies further and deeper in America's growling, cut-throat rural past.
Next time on "Doctor Teeth Yammers Semi-Coherently"... The Lost Finale: did it suck or rock?; a philosophical treatise on the hotness of Evangeline Lilly; and why it's all actually about the nation of Israel.
I'm Dr. Teeth. You may know me from my work with the Electric Mayhem, or perhaps my thriving Muppet-orthodontia practice. I'm the new pop culture guy here on the balcony. Expect me to use this space to vent my frustrations with and enthusiasms for the books, movies, TV shows, albums, and other random things over which I obsess. So if you're out there, wandering the blogosphere like a forlorn Jew, thirsting for a place where you can find high-minded dissections of all the pop cultural detritus with which you fill up the cold black void in your sad, lonely little life (you loser), you can have a home at From the Balcony.
Let's start off with an album you should buy. (Not steal; buy. Judging from their stage show, these guys are in dire need of funds with which to purchase shirts, low-calorie foodstuffs, and back-waxing kits.)
Hailing from the murkiest swamplands of Brooklyn, New York, the members of O'Death conjure up a brutal, humid hoedown on their latest album "Head Home." The opener "Lay Me Down to Rest," an irresistibly ramshackle shout-along, sets the haunted hillbilly tone that echoes through the record. Yes, O'Death is another band of college-educated New Yorkers attempting to summon gothic ghosts out of the weird old South. But no, unlike several of their hipster-country contemporaries, they don't suffer from musical carpetbagging.
Mixing a great deal of hoot with a pungent dash of nanny, these guys create their own passionately threadbare musical universe, making similar gothic yowl-folk groups like Man Man and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah look half-hearted by comparison. They wear their influences on their sleeves -- singer Greg Jamie's high, wobbly voice recalls Tonight's the Night-era Neil Young, while the gutbucket bass thump and general kitchen-sink groove are lifted directly from late-period Tom Waits -- but blend them into a heady concoction entirely their own. There's something relentless about the music -- the songs are hastily hammered together out of wagon wheels and rusty nails, driven forward by whip-crack fiddle sawing of Bob Pycior. They sound as though they might burst into flames or fall to pieces at any moment.
O'Death is also capable of restraint and loveliness, as in the melancholic opening of "Only Daughter," a song that eventually builds to a chaotic storm of thuds and strings. It's one of the few mistakes on the album -- a quiet and gorgeous song dressed up in apocalyptic pretentions it doesn't need or deserve. Listened to all at once, the album suffers from a somewhat wearying sameness -- more quiet and understatement would serve to highlight the cataclysmic barnburners and supply some much-needed tonal shifts. As scorching and enthralling an album as Head Home is, it sounds like a first try. You get the sense that the great O'Death masterpiece is still in the future -- a future that lies further and deeper in America's growling, cut-throat rural past.
Next time on "Doctor Teeth Yammers Semi-Coherently"... The Lost Finale: did it suck or rock?; a philosophical treatise on the hotness of Evangeline Lilly; and why it's all actually about the nation of Israel.
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