Soft to the touch, Portland’s very own Blouse is a silky menagerie of lulling vocals and wistful 80’s-inspired frequencies. Every song on their self-titled debut is built up, somewhat, around the singing of female lead, Charlie Hilton, with tones that pronounce, support, and revere her gorgeously forlorn voice. Put it this way, if voices had a thread count, this chick’s would be fine Egyptian cotton.
It goes without saying that the vocals constitute the majority of the album’s pathos but don’t make the mistake of ignoring the elaborate synth that rests in the heart of each track. Whirring transmissions and reclusive dancepop are unraveled and folded neatly into one another as songs carry on. “Firestarter”, the opener, is traditional sounding in the grand scheme of the record. The moping guitar and generic drums are like spotless linens spread over the table, dressing the naked frame of Hilton’s lone words.
The clock ticks, not a single knock. “They Always Fly Away” and “Into Black” share a fleeting optimism that isn’t easily ‘danced off’. Sadness meets resentment as the keyboard whines and buzzes. “Videotapes” and “Roses” play on, echoing through the house as a reminder of this solitary night and all those that came before it. “Fountain in Rewind” is a witching finale that blows the candles out, melty melodies dripping like wax.
Plainly said, this release is as heartbreaking as it is stunningly rhythmic. So nobody showed up to your sweet sixteen? Drop the Leslie Gore routine and put on a Blouse, crybaby.
Over the past couple of months, there’s been a lot of shit talking about Netflix. From raising membership fees (boo hoo it’s still dirt cheap) to their oafish blunder with Qwikster – kicking sand in Netflix’s face has been all the rage lately. But while others have been trying to burn the greatest invention of the 21st century at the stake, I’ve been balls deep in Watch Instantly on the daily.
Recently, the suits at my “real job” have moved me to a remote office all by myself, so Watch Instantly has been my bitch for 40 hours a week. While cruising for a flick the other day, I got the inspired urge to search “Elliot Gould.” Mr. Gould is one of the most mesmerizing, natural actors ever – his turn in Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye has me drooling no matter how many times I see it and your mother probably liked him in MASH. I was tickled and baffled to discover that Netflix is currently streaming one of Gould’s rarest gems: 1974′s Busting. This one isn’t even on DVD yet (although according to Amazon, it’s getting a release in Jan. 2012). There’s not even a trailer for it! It’s one of the “unreleased” blessings on Netflix; films not available on DVD but streaming nonetheless.
Written and directed by Peter Hyams (a Мишка Rewind alumni with his badass sci-fi drug flick Outland), Busting is a gritty, cynical cop flick in the tradition of The French Connection. Elliot Gould and Robert “Baretta” Blake star as undercover vice cops sick and fucking tired of seeing their prey walk away on legal technicalities. After the higher-ups assign them the humiliating task of busting perverts in a public bathroom, the duo decide to discreetly go vigilante and take on LA’s drug and prostitution kingpin: Rizzo (played by ’70s and ’80s character staple Allen Garfield).
Over 90 minutes, Gould and Blake take on a dirty dentist, a seductive hooker, an entire gay bar, a smut peddler, and, in one of the the most thrilling and well-choreographed foot chases put to film, a trio of drug dealers. No lie, the chase goes from a dark, claustrophobic apartment to a crowded market and every second of it is insane! Constantly the camera moves in ways that would have most contemporary action directors shitting their CGI pants. And through it all Elliot Gould has some bullet-proof swag. From his knitted pom hat and varsity jacket to his handlebar ‘stache and slim-fit three piece – Gould is like a well dressed deity of The Cool.
In conclusion: if you aren’t entertained by Busting, you’re a stuck-up retard and I never want to talk to you again. There. I said it.
*Elliot Gould Side Note: A couple years ago, I went to a screening of The Long Goodbye at Boston’s historic Brattle Theater. Gould was in attendance and was one of the most humble, intelligent, and hilarious Hollywood stars I’ve ever seen. You wouldn’t have guessed this was a living legend who was once married to Barbara Streisand. He was like any other schmuck who was just their to dig on a great movie. More proof that Gould is the shit: he called the Oscars a “masturbatory fantasy.” Truth!
The Haxan Cloak is unreal. An apparition. Songs barely contained within their space; sounds conjured rather than recorded. Häxan is the Swedish word for witch, with roots in old German, and The Haxan Cloak feels like some ancient European spell: snow-blanketed, fire-lit, cast and recast.
And it’s all summoned by one set of hands: Londoner Bobby Krlic, trained composer and sound designer supreme, a man ostensibly taken with the intricacies of noise and drone, of field recordings and open air. He’s described the project as “unavoidable-yet-escalating tinnitus,” but I’d go a bit further: it’s the sound of madness descending, uncontrollable, charmed like a snake by cults or covens. Built of hand-made percussion, jagged electronics and Krlic’s haunted way with stringed instruments, The Haxan Cloak is as reliant on your emotional reaction to the noise as the noise itself. The slow-moving dirge of “Raven’s Lament” with its heady, swarming atmosphere; the creaky surges of “Burning Torches of Despair” and illusory drone “The Growing”; those possessed growls introducing “Parting Chant” — each signals terror and tongues, the primal beat of fear, demons gnashing their teeth from the hot core of Earth. What villagers saw in the corners of their minds just before the stakes burned.
But it’s also beautiful in its way, the psychology of it, the association. Krlic’s created a cyclical composition that feels as historical as it does modern, this story unfolding over centuries rather than years. It’s something you could imagine hearing in stone amphitheatres and broken-down warehouses alike; a piece that commands the undivided attention of performance. Because really, The Haxan Cloak, above all else, is spinning a narrative both personal and ancient — and what you bring to it, which images and allusions, is what it becomes.
VVOVV, am I impressed! I really didn’t expect anything less than exhilirating from our instrumental comrades’ first full album now out on AMDISCS, the hostess with the mostess. Never faltering in their objective of infecting everybody who lays ears on them with a dancefloor virus, Poor Spirits have pumped out a 13-track satellite of electro-complexity that beams intangible, beat-laden messages from the shadowy lunar hemisphere to your hand-me-down, bedroom speakers.
This is far from our first run-in with the contentedly secretive 2-piece, having featured an earlier video of theirs recently and Sean reciprocally checking out our 305 Broadway hovel of doom, we’ve begun a strange symbiotic affair with the glassy stylings of Poor Spirits as they vow to keep our collective, totemic bear-head nodding to the sound that bends and refracts off their keyboard. At the launch pad, “ROLL” starts up, emitting tropical afro-surges and shimmery glints like sunlight hitting metal. From there, “OFFERING” and “LIBRE” sandwich one of my favorite tracks on the album, “GLOVV”, with unearthly drum n’ bass massages that resonate deep in the bones of the subject.
“GLOVV” is a machine-like syncopation of breakbeats that graciously disassembles, brick by brick, the wall that separates jungle and dancehall from the synth-heavy samplings of American artists right now. I can’t get enough of this jam, it’s circulating from my head to my feet like some sort of inorganic lifeblood and I damn well don’t mind. Wobbly transmission are a go!
Whether you’re alone, nose in science textbook, contemplating the speed at which sound travels or throwing a mean kegger while the folks are on vacation in Florida, don’t think twice about initiating VVOVV for take-off sequence and turning that volume dial till’ it don’t go no further. Sorry mom, I hope you can understand why, from this point on, I’ll be writing my double-ues a little differently from how you taught me.
This evening, I quickly wanted to touch on a subject that’s very near and dear to my heart. As a youngster, I fancied myself as somewhat of a Kung Fu film enthusiast, but generally stuck to the lighter Asian fare of Jackie Chan flicks. Considering I was a middle school-aged dork at the time, and barely had a dial-up modem at my disposal, hardcore Karate shit was generally pretty hard to run across. Basically, I was out of luck if I wanted to see anything that couldn’t be found nestled within the modest action section of my local Movies Plus. Suffice it to say that I watched BloodSport more often than would be advisable.
Around the time of my Kung Fu discontent, Comedy Central had just been picked up by the local cable provider which catered to my home town. While the network was mostly screening that horrible game show Make Me Laugh at the time, you could potentially catch a solid SNL re-run every so often if you were lucky. I think they were screening The Gods Must Be Crazy quite a bit back then too. Anyway, The Daily Show with Craig Kilborn had just premiered as well, and I thought it was pretty awful on the whole. I perceived Kilborn as an arrogant turd since his days anchoring Sports Center, and really had no interest in watching him crack wise on current events or hit on actresses.
One portion of his show that I did enjoy, however, was the 10 or 20 seconds prior to him asking his guest an arbitrary 5 questions every night, in which they would loop some clip of a giant Asian fellow smashing another guy’s head to oblivion. The clip was both super stupid, and totally outrageous, but I was kind of obsessed with the thing. Sooner or later I was able to track down the name of the film from which the excerpt was lifted, and even locate a copy of the entire film at a newly open Blockbuster franchise that had popped up around my house. Essentially, the stars had aligned, and had granted me the opportunity to watch one of the dumbest things ever laid to celluloid.
The movie in question is entitled Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky, was released in 1991, and could best be described as containing elements of Mortal Kombat, Cool Hand Luke and Big Trouble in Little China. Really though, the thing is mostly just horrible. The Story of Ricky outlines the journey of a fellow named (you guessed it) Ricky, who is crazy good at fighting, and possesses an unwavering moral compass. I should also mention that Ricky has the power to maim the jerks he fights with a single strike, punching the flesh off human bones with the greatest of ease. The movie makes an effort to explain how our hero obtained this super power at one point, but the back story is basically erroneous for the most part.
Anyway, Ricky is thrown into the slammer at the outset of the film, and decides, for one reason or another, to take down the four criminal bosses who control each of the four wings of the prison. The plot is straightforward enough, but the special effects end up taking center stage here, as the amount of gore that is shoved down the viewer’s throat is truly remarkable. All the exploding appendages and organs may not appear totally life-like throughout, but I get the sense that the folks behind Riki-Oh were never striving to pound out a piece of Kelly Reichardt-esqu Neorealism.
I was going to rank my favorite fights from the film in ascending order awesomeness, but I tend to love each one as much as the last. There’s simply no way I could Sophie’s choice these brawls even if I tried. They all mean too much to me. Riki-Oh provided one of those transcendent experiences as a kid, where a piece of art, film or music makes the leap from appearing as one the dumbest things ever, to eliciting some crazy fandom. I’ve heard folks describes similar experiences while listening to The Ramones eponymous debut, and I can understand that. The violence here might at first be off-putting for some, but I’m sure you’ll be applauding each splintered bone and exposed intestine by the time the credits roll on Ricky.
Earlier in the week, The Gothamist posted up some late-breaking content dealing with Louis CK, the guy most people view as the current best-stand-up-in-the-world. The celebrated comedian, who just so happens to have recently been nominated for 4 Emmy Awards, has always been pretty liberal with the personal information he relays on stage. Despite this fact, early footage of the comic has always been pretty scant. Well, thanks to Louis’ blog archive, as well as a bit of handy work by the folks over at Splitside, a clip has fallen into our lap which highlights some of his early performances that were filmed between 1990 and ’91.
The Louis we’re presented with in the video vaguely resembles the oaf we’ve all come to know and love, but appears considerably more vivacious. While the comic used to have a full head of hair, and was a bit more svelte, his material certainly hadn’t progressed to level it currently rests at. I suppose some of the minority bits are kind of trite at this point in the game, but I do still think most of this stuff stands the test of time. You definitely get a sense though, that the dude wasn’t totally comfortable tackling the dark side of his personal life on stage yet.
At any rate, the video acts as a nice time capsule for early 90′s comedy. Also, don’t underestimate the novelty aspect of watching a skinny Louis CK with hair perform.
This one goes out to all the burgeoning punk rockers out there who are just now being weaned on the compressed music videos that litter the current internet landscape. At one point in time, not long ago, the sheer idea of YouTube or the cell phone video camera would have sent most folks running for the hills, similar to the prehistoric man encountering fire for the very first time. While this may be an overstatement, footage of your favorite rock n’ roll act never used to be as readily available for your consumption as it is in the present. This is where Target Video comes into play.
Years ago, if youngsters felt the need to peep their favorite artists in action, there were a number of hoops they might be required to jump through en route to attaining their goal. One could either sit around like a jerk all day, waiting for their favorite clip to grace the MTV airwaves, or perhaps they’d have to actually purchase a concert ticket in order to see the band play live. A third alternative came about with the advent of the “Video Home System”, more commonly referred to as the “VHS tape”, which afforded folks the luxury of watching previously recorded material from the comfort of their home, at their own command.
…Alright, I’ll refrain from condescending to you readers from this point on. I realize I was laying it on pretty thick just now, and that needs to stop. I apologize. Let’s move forward.
Basically, Target Video was established in San Francisco by some artsy California dudes and babes who wanted to capture a bit of footage highlighting contemporary punk and hardcore acts of the day. Before we go any further, I should probably also say that the video company was in no way affiliated with the giant Target department stores that I’m sure most of you are familiar with. Anyhoo, led by artist Joe Rees, the Target crew eventually opened up their own performance space, where they held shows which were subsequently filmed, and later released to the public. While most of the footage they gathered would be considered pretty dingy by today’s glimmering standards, I think it adds a nice feel to the performance that’s entirely fitting of the subject matter. I’m willing to be that nobody has ever found themselves clamoring for Flipper concert footage in HD. Those were some pretty grungy fellas.
While some of the performances the Target crew captured were pretty bare bones, they would often grant some better-known bands with a bit of production capital. The Screamers footage respresents, to me, the crown jewel within the Target cannon, and is pretty much scraped of any production value at all (unless you take into account the helicopter footage that runs at the outset, or Tomata du Plenty’s Kraftwerk-informed wild west get-up). On the opposite side of the coin, however, the Chrome footage Target crapped out was rife with cheesy 80′s camera effects, that I think properly jived with the band’s low-down sensibilities.
I’ve never taken for granted the instant-gratification that comes along with watching a film on Netflix Instant nowadays, but I still feel that there’s something a little bit romantic about the thought of bringing a videotape to school, and trading with your nerdy friends. Then again, I totally fucking hated rewinding stuff when I was a kid. It took so long, and you couldn’t even skip chapters if you wanted to. Also, there were no special features, and certainly no commentary done by the director or cast of a film. On second thought, I completely regret writing this entire post. Nevermind it all I guess.
What better way to embrace your patriotism and celebrate our day of independence with a movie titled Red White and Blue? Actually, besides its title, the film doesn’t evoke any feelings of pride in the USA. But it is a brutal and brilliant tale of love and feral revenge. Instead of waving a flag after the film, I walked around my neighborhood. I had to. The film unnerved me so much I had to cool off for a while.
Written and directed by Englishman Simon Rumley (The Living and the Dead), Red White and Blue follows Erica (Amanda Fuller), an aimless girl living in Austin, TX. She occupies her time boozing, sleeping with strangers and working at a hostel – where she also lives. Another resident of the hostel, Nate (Noah Taylor) is sweet on Erica. He’s a quiet man who doesn’t like talking about his past, although he does reveal that he was honorably discharged from Iraq. Nate helps Erica find a better job and together ease into a relationship and Erica finally seems content bedding with the same man every night.
The film then shifts its focus to Franki (Marc Senter) , an aspiring punk rocker and momma’s boy. His band is doing well and they’re even beginning to book their European tour. Franki’s mind is occupied though. His mother’s cancer is a heavy burden on him. Unknown to Franki, that’s the least of his problems. Several months back, he had a one-night-stand with Erica and it’s about to bite him in the ass in the worst way you could imagine.
The tension that builds up throughout Red White and Blue is intrinsic for this kind of revenge story. It gets to the point where it becomes nearly unbearable, then it explodes in your face like a duct-taped bundle of dynamite. Noah Taylor‘s turn as Nate is one of the most refined portrayals of vengeful mania that I have ever seen. I was equal parts in awe and completely terrified of him. I don’t want to say much else and take away from one of the most emotionally effective films I’ve seen in a long time.
Every two years Canadian duo Handsome Furs release an album, and each time it’s worth the wait. Pent up energy explodes in a volcanic display of aggressive keyboard led melodies, joined by vocalist Dan Boeckner’s gravely roar on the band’s third album, Sound Kapital. Inspired by Eastern European industrial and electronic music, the album’s nine tracks trigger themes of claustrophobic repression, and the feeling of freedom that comes when you finally let it all blow.
On “Bury Me Standing” Boeckner repeats the track title’s words over and over, growing more agitated with every iteration. It’s synth-pop filled with tension, a quick-paced anthem for raising your fist in the air, and demanding your voice be heard. This sense of urgency defines Sound Kapital. “Damage” teeters on the edge, one foot suspended and ready to jump. Chaotic whipping synths leave another layer of scars on already damaged flesh. Radio samples from a Hong Kong hostage broadcast are scattered throughout the noise, building momentum towards what feels like the final standoff of a long chase scene. Desperation weighs heavy in the trudging keyboard notes of “What About Us”. Words of heartbreak flow from Boeckner’s lips, the melody growing gradually slower as he folds into the meaning of his heavy lyrics.
Sound Kapital suffers somewhat under its own weight. The often depressing lyrics and aggravated instrumentation paint a front page news story of a life where everything is hard, and freedom comes with consequences. It leaves you feeling appreciative of the little things. And again, the Handsome Furs pull off energy with ease.
Hanna-Barbera is best known for classic cartoons filled with old-timey, squeaky-clean yuks. Even their work featuring anthropomorphized nude animals always came off as pretty chaste. However, video that has surfaced of their 1988 retelling of the book of Genesis manages to be a lot racier, despite depicting one of the most revered religious myths of all time.
The Greatest Adventure – Stories from the Bible is a sexy, scandalous cartoon version of the classic Adam and Eve story, featuring an apple-bottomed, nipple-less Eve and Tim Curry (!) as the voice of the serpent. There are also tons of acid-swirly sequences, proving the tried-and-true theory that LSD is an excellent way to feel spiritually connected with God, man, even amongst the hardcore Judeo-Christian set. The first and best one is right after the title sequence and credits, about a minute and a half into the video above.
Look at the light of heaven shining down on that can. Eve looks smokin’ and provides the possible inspiration for A Tribe Called Quest’s classic song “Bonita Applebum,” released just two short years later, as well as showing off plenty of perky, if anatomically-incorrect tittage (where are her nips?) and a historically-inaccurate Brazilian. Maybe not the best advertisement against original sin, Hanna-Barbera.
