Still Debasin', 20 Years Later

There are some concerts that you come back from feeling you've experienced something particularly unique and special. Seeing the Pixies last month at New York City's Hammerstein Ballroom during their 20-year anniversary tour celebrating Doolittle, their second (and best) album, was one such concert for me. In the tradition of self-indulgence Nate alluded to in an earlier post, I'll narrate my experience of it below.

The night started when I took off work early and waited in line for about two hours—totally worth it, as I made it to the front row. The opening band, Black Gold, had a lot of energy but unfortunately played songs that all sounded extremely derivative, which is slightly ironic considering the band they were opening for is known especially for their originality. When Black Gold's lead singer, about twenty minutes into the half-hour set, announced, "We've got a couple more songs for you," a number of people to the left of me were very audibly dismayed with this news. He fittingly responded, "Fuck you, you fucking hecklers!", then hastily added, "I'm just fucking with you." Gotta love audience-band tension.

When it was time for the Pixies to take the stage, a huge screen behind the stage started playing a seven-minute montage of scenes from the 1929 silent film Un Chien Andalou, the topic of the first song off Doolittle, "Debaser". Scenes of breast-fondling and bovine eye-slicing set to some creepy ambient music put everyone in the right mood. The Pixies appeared as soon as the film ended, and the roar from the crowd, which had already been pretty loud from all the anticipatory yelling, got really deafening. They first played some B-sides, then dove into Doolittle and played the entire album straight through. Here's a video of them performing "Debaser" that night (note the gaggle of photographers in front of the stage):



Besides some minor vocal variations, the performed songs sounded exactly as they do on the album. Kim Deal provided some brief, amusing banter in between songs (like announcing at what point in the set the songs would have reached the end of Side 1 on the vinyl record), but the band was pretty focused on just playing the songs, which suited everyone just fine.  The performance put on by Deal, Black Francis, Joey Santiago, and David Lovering was flawless and intense from start to finish. They came back on for two encores, during which the fog machine produced so much fog that, at one point, I could barely see the hands in front of me for several minutes.

Also, that screen behind them displayed some of the most bizarre and disturbing imagery I've seen at a concert. At times, it was a bit distracting, since the images were often interesting enough to simply watch by themselves. Regardless, it was an added bonus for an audience that probably would have been thrilled if the Pixies had come on stage and just talked about tax returns for 90 minutes.

And I think that's the main reason why the concert was such a great experience: the reaction from the fans, both young and old(er), was so ecstatic and personal. Granted, I can't say I've been at a concert where everybody was booing; the audience members were there because they wanted to be there, after all. But because the Pixies are alternative-rock legends, coupled with the fact that they put on such a thrilling show playing such good songs, the night had a distinctive feel to it. There was an almost surreal feeling of connectedness with the band, like no time had passed since the late 1980s and now (not that as a child I had any idea who they were back then, of course). Hard to put it into words, but maybe others have felt this with established bands they really like.

Speaking of which—when/where/what was the best (or one of the best) concert(s) you've been to? I'd love to hear other's experiences.

Top Film for Each Year of My Life – 2002

About A Boy

“No. No, you're not a bad mother. You're just a barking lunatic.”

2002 was a weird year for movies for me. Not since my ’88 entry have a felt less attached to my number one movie for the year. As I look over the rest of my top ten, I really don’t see any options I’d be happier about. Certainly, Punch-Drunk Love is great and Das Experiment is insane in all the best ways, but I’ve never felt compelled to watch them repeatedly. Even the great Wilco documentary, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, has the feeling that I already know as much as possible about the making of Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, so I don’t need to revisit it much. That leaves me with About a Boy, which is an immensely enjoyable film.

Largely, I’m not a fan of Hugh Grant. It’s not that I don’t like him or his performances; I just don’t think he chooses particularly interesting roles. However, he plays slightly off-type, here, and it’s particularly refreshing. He’s smug and shallow and a delight to watch. He’s the buddy/romantic comedy (because it really is both of those genres) equivalent of an antihero. For many people, I’m sure this is how they thought Grant was in real life.

Here, I must confess to being a Nick Hornby enthusiast. I’ve read nearly all of his books and, with one exception, loved them all. The man knows how to write. With strong source material, it would have been difficult to screw up an adaptation. What’s remarkable is that many believe the Weitz’ brothers (one of whom, Chris, directed the most recent Twilight film) surpassed the source material. I’m not so sure about that, but it definitely doesn’t feel as dated as elements of the novel.

Much like High Fidelity, the film rises above its genre and actually has something to say about life. Both films use some form of narration, which I typically dislike, but it fits right in with Hornby’s writing style. Especially since so many of Hornby’s best passages are inner monologues and would feel forced trying to turn them into dialogue.

I’d say my only issue with About a Boy is that it goes the heavily trafficked route of having a performance as the grand finale for which Grant has to run out on stage to help save the night. It mostly works in the film, but I’m sick and tired of movies with set pieces like these (perhaps there will be a blog about it one day). Fortunately, it’s nowhere near as grating as the similar scene in Little Miss Sunshine.

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention the excellent soundtrack by Badly Drawn Boy. His voice perfectly compliments the tone of the film. (Oddly, whenever I think of Nick Hornby and music, I always think of Danny Boyle and music).

Unfortunately, 2002 wasn’t a scintillating film year, though I’ve yet to see Sex y Lucia and Y Tu Mama Tambien, which could challenge the top spot. Until then, no one ever said the best movie of the year couldn’t simply be the most enjoyable.

It's Only One Play

This is probably a little late to the discussion, but after week of listening to sportswriters/talking heads tear apart or support Bill Belichick's decision to go for it on 4th and 2, I feel compelled to point out a point of view that I haven't heard expressed. The breaking point for me responsible for this post was Bill Simmons' diatribe against the play.

I used to really like Bill Simmons. I always found his perspective interesting and enjoyed the pop culture-laced articles. However, ever since the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and the rest of the ensuing success of Boston sports, his writing has gone downhill. It's like he goes out of his way to ignore the rational to voice an alternative, usually unsupportable argument based on his observations of certain "looks" in player's eyes and the like (never mind that things like "clutch-ness" have been rejected as any sort of sustainable trait). He makes a few good points in the article, but they are hidden amongst ridiculous assertions. Simmons is using this ONE play as his reason for losing his trust in Belichick's decision making.

Which brings me to my point. How can you blame this play for the Patriots' loss? They had a 17-point lead earlier in the game. If the team would have executed and not let the game get within one touchdown, then this play wouldn't have come up. If something like this happens in the second quarter, sure it will be questioned, but no one will react like the coach was replaced by some alien clone.

This happens all the time in sports, where people focus on the most glaring element but forget to include the thousands of little things that led up to that point. Any time a pitcher gives up a game winning homerun, it was the wrong pitch or the manager should have used a different pitcher. In reality, it boils down to execution. In the case of the Patriot's, the were averaging over 6-yards a play during the game. 2-yards is not a lot to ask. So, they fell a little short. The game didn't end there. The defense still had to hold the Colts.

People view sports with tunnel vision. It's just easier to pick out the most egregious example of why they lost instead of viewing the game as a whole. With all of the interesting statistical work being done in sports, it's disheartening to see that, as fans, we aren't coming along for the ride and viewing the games rationally.

I Feel So Betrayed!

Those of us who are passionate about the things we enjoy (some may say overly-passionate) feel a bond with the creators of those things, be it music, film, painting, or wicker furniture. They are making it for US. Speaking to US. We soar with them as they achieve greatness. We pat ourselves on the back for have such great taste. There is an unspoken contract between creator and supporter: we’ll always be there to buy your product as long as you keep producing it at the highest quality. This is why we take it so personally when those we admire release something that falls short of our expectations. We don’t want them to stay the same from project to project, but don’t regress (this is a pretty unfair to the artist and history has shown that some of these “regressions” were critical divergences in propelling the artist to new and fantastic places).

However, in the moment, we do feel betrayed. From the announcement of a new project (which can easily be as long as a year), we anticipate. We gobble up every new bit of news. If it’s a new album, we check out leaked tracks. A movie, we watch the trailer and clips. By the time the full product comes out, we are ready to fully immerse ourselves in it. Our anticipation is palpable and when the product doesn’t live up to expectations, it’s more than a little depressing. The following is a list of groups and people I’ve been disappointed by in the recent past in no particular order. I still look forward to what they produce, but I’m a bit more cautious about it.

My Morning Jacket

From The Tennessee Fire in ‘99 to Okonokos in ’06, My Morning Jacket could do no wrong. The music was impeccable, their arrangements were getting tighter, their jamming was exploring new avenues, and their live shows were astounding. Then came Evil Urges in ’08. While not a horrible album, it is severely lacking. Jim James substitutes his falsetto for one that emulates Prince. The music is less inclined to rock and more inclined to, well, just sit there. That’s not to say it’s a horrible album, it just feels like they abandoned what made them great for no reason. That’s what side projects are for. At least the live shows are still epic.

Evil Urges - My Morning Jacket

Ben Folds

This situation is about the opposite of what happened with My Morning Jacket (except for the live shows, because Folds is a great showman). Way to Normal feels like Folds is stagnating, hints of which could be sensed in his previous release, Songs for Silverman. He’s gotten a lot of mileage alternating between his silly, adolescent romps and his melodramatic tales of loss and love, but it just feels stale by Way to Normal. When Ben Folds Five folded and he went solo, he made the excellent Rockin’ the Suburbs, so maybe he just needs to shake things up again.

Hiroshima (B B B Benny Hit His...

Grandaddy

There is something off about Grandaddy’s last release Just Like the Fambly Cat and I’m not really sure what it is. It’s not drastically different from their other output and it’s not the same. It just feels inconsequential. It feels like they new the band was ending and just went on cruise control to finish the album. Fortunately, Jason Lytle released his first solo album Yours Truly, the Commuter is a return to form, even if it sound exactly like a Grandaddy album (isn’t that what we really wanted anyway?).

Rear View Mirror - Grandaddy

Danny Boyle

Boyle is one of my favorite directors working. I’ll defend A Life Less Ordinary and The Beach (which I feel is maligned due to the proximity to the Leo/Titanic hooplah). And I’ve spoken of my love of Sunshine despite its troublesome ending to many people. But I’m just not on board with Slumdog Millionaire. The opening chase through the slums is riveting (no one shoots a foot chase as well as Boyle), but the rest is pretty clichéd as far as love stories go and has the pointless Who Wants to Be a Millon-aire backdrop to connect the vignettes. It won a lot of awards and people loved it, but Boyle’s much better than that.

David Fincher

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was one of my most anticipated films of 2008. All year long, I pined for the chance to see it, especially since it followed up the fantastic Zodiac. Not only was Button a let down, it was one of the worst film I saw that year. Unlike most let downs on this list, I struggle to find any redeeming quality to the film (OK, maybe the guy who constantly gets struck by lightning, which was already done in The Great Outdoors, so points deducted).

Tim Burton

It’s popular among the cinephile elite to right off Burton as a stylist with no substance, but his output from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure through Sleepy Hollow is damn entertaining. However, once the new century hit, Burton has been in a slump with only the great Big Fish standing out (The Corpse Bride is decent, too). He’s on some bizarre remake kick that must be stopped. And for the love of god, someone get this man some practical effects! Say what you will about Planet of the Apes (and please, say a lot of bad things) at least the costumes and sets were amazing.

Terry Gilliam

Of all the people on this list, I probably try hardest to rationalize Gilliam the most. This is probably because he has the longest history for me. I’ve loved Monty Python since I got Life of Brian when I was about 12. His movies are one of the bright spots of the 80s (along with Joe Dante’s output). Much like Burton, something happened at the turn of the century. The Brother’s Grimm is OK, if I’m feeling generous, but had potential to be so much more. I haven’t seen Tideland or Dr. Parnassus, but reviews aren’t encouraging. And much like Burton, he needs to revisit practical effects. They make films feel more intimate and tangible. I take solace in the fact that Ebert hated Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Baron Munchausen bombed at the box office, because those films a fantastic. Maybe I just like rooting for the underdog.

Mitch Hurwitz

I feel awful saying anything that criticizes the man who brought us the Brilliance (yes, capital “B”) of Arrested Development, but Sit Down, Shut Up isn’t… good. There are moments that are hysterical, but they maybe come once an episode and the rest is filled with overly meta joke (am I the only one getting a little tired of the constant blatant use of meta-ness?). The characters are completely one-dimensional and the considerable voice talent can only take them so far. The show has improved a little, though I bet no one even knew that it had a second season out.

Do We Hate the Music We Hate?

Before I get started, I'd like to thank John and Paul for contributing to Creamy Nougat. They are great writers and, better yet, great people, so check out their stuff. Now, if I could only find a George and a Ringo (or a Jones, or a Pope), I'd be set. I'm going to have to watch my self-indulgences with them around, or hope that they bring their self-indulgences up to my level. Either works.

Now, onward to the meat and potatoes!

Commercials are going to be the death of me. Not just because they are largely annoying (have you seen the new Miracle Whip ad campaign?) and interrupt the shows I’m watching, but because I block them out. You may ask, “Isn’t it good to block out the stuff that annoys you?” and you’d be right, except you’re not. By ignoring the commercials, I let my guard down and things bleed into my subconscious. The background noises, typically music, seep past the actual ad and into my ears. The next thing I know, I start bobbing my head around and tapping my feet. Sometimes this is a good thing, like the T-Mobile commercial that uses an Architecture in Helsinki song or the Buick commercial that uses a Black Mountain song. Other times, though, I’m horrified to discover I’m dancing along to an atrocious Mary J. Blige autotuned (or do they still try to say it’s a vocoder?) piece of garbage. Or that’s what I tell myself.

I guess the issue at hand is: what dictates our “liking” something. Clearly, on the basest level, if I find myself subconsciously affected by the music and that transfers to physical movement, there must be something about it that I like before I have a chance to acknowledge that it’s something that I do not (or should not) like. It’s like an instinctual reaction. This kind of scares me, because I REALLY don’t like the song in that commercial. But why? Is it the perception of others I care about? Do I have some image I need to uphold? Probably.

Another time this happened to me was watching the Doug Pray documentary “Scratch.” I’ve never been one for hip-hop or scratching, but a good documentary can make any subject enthralling (and it is a good documentary). However, I still came out of it not caring much for scratching, except I found myself moving along to the rhythm once again. These moments of cognitive dissonance are profoundly confusing to me. It’s like a fight between body and mind. Why can’t I just give myself over to the music? I won’t say it calls into question everything I know, but it calls into question the things I think I know, if that makes any sense.

Maybe I do like Jay-Z, Justin Timberlake, and Beyonce. Hell, maybe I like Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys, and Nickelback (I got a little nauseous typing that last one, so I think I’m safe there). I’ll never know because I’ll never investigate further than what I hear on TV or the radio. I’ll almost definitely never admit to it even if the artist is critically acclaimed.

There is one thing I can always fall back on. A happy place to go to re-center and find myself once again. Something so steadfast and true that I could build a religion around it. My security blanket… Journey sucks.

The House of the Devil

Howdy. I'm John, who got to know the creator of the Nougat through a mutual friend, a certain Mr. Aaron S. Margolis, during college. Nate graciously offered the blogless bum that I am a place on his own turf to guest post, and, well, one thing led to another, and here we are.

Now, on to talking about movies. Upon Nate’s recommendation, I checked out 2008’s Let the Right One In this year and thoroughly enjoyed it. I haven't seen many horror movies from the 2000s, but Let the Right One In has to be one of the very best, if not the best, of the decade.

I mention this film because when watching The House of the Devil, out in limited release now, I was immediately reminded of a similar, or what some critics have called an “old-school” (I just call it good) approach to horror filmmaking: an understated style based on continually building tension by focusing on mundane details and leaving much to the viewer’s imagination. It’s undoubtedly the signature element of Devil and one of its best qualities.

Where the movie goes wrong, however, is that it spends so much time building tension that it’s forced to cram an incredible amount of horror toward the end of the movie. The result is that the climax feels decidedly rushed, contrived in places, and oddly out-of-place, like it’s been spliced from a reel belonging to a different, more over-the-top horror film.

It’s regrettable that the ending is so disappointing, because pretty much everything that comes before it is so good. It's held together by a combination of the aforementioned dread-inducing style, and the strength of the few performances in the film, which are all stellar. Greta Gerwig, Tom Noonan, and Mary Woronov give highly engaging supporting work, but it’s Jocelin Donahue whose skillful, naturalistic performance drives the film. Most of the movie consists of following her around doing everyday things, but she does it so absolutely well that you simply don’t mind. Paired with director Ti West’s style, Donahue is really the reason to watch this film.

(And yes, she is pretty, but that's besides the point.)

Aside from the finale, the only other inherent problem to Devil is that the opening title screen unbelievably spells out the film’s subject matter. Why West chose to do this baffles me. It’s totally unnecessary and undercuts practically all of the mystery. In fact, I’d recommend to anyone who hasn’t seen this movie to not read the words that appear before the film starts (which I know is kind of tricky).

Basically, the movie is an excellent suspense film with a clumsily tacked-on horror-movie ending. If the two elements were integrated better, this could’ve been an outstanding film. But despite the fact it mishandles its most crucial moments, The House of the Devil is effective, absorbing and worth seeing.

Top Film for Each Year of My Life – 1978 (The Prequels)

Top Film for Each Year of My Life – 1978 (The Prequels)

By: Paul Toohey

When Nate first started doing this series of posts, I mentioned to him that I liked the idea and I might one day steal it for my own blog. Then he offered to let me guest post on his blog and I thought, what better way to use his idea then as a guest poster on his blog? So that’s what this is. If you don’t know me already, my name is Paul Toohey and I’m a friend of Nate’s. We met through Allen and Becky, who are two of Nate’s grad school friends (I went to UT with Allen, where we both got our BS in RTF, if you’re keeping a scorecard). Nate and I are currently working on a project together that we should be sharing with you all soon, so hopefully this will be a good opportunity to get to know me a little before that happens.

I have the fortune of being born a bit earlier then Nate, and right in the heart of a really good string of cinema. Now I’m not trying to say that all the movies in and around 1978 were great. There were some great film there was also Convoy (film) (or the many rip-offs). I was born one year too early for Star Wars, but the same year that The Star Wars Holiday Special was released on the masses. 1978’s Best Picture Oscar was awarded to The Deer Hunter, which is a deserving film (and one of the only nominees that I can actually recognize as a film I’ve heard about). Ok, so it was also the year of Jaws 2. Piranha (1978 film), Every Which Way but Loose (film), and The Bad News Bears Go to Japan. But to me, of all the films from 1978, one stood head and shoulders above the rest. And that masterpiece is George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead.



“When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.”
No, I did not see Dawn of the Dead in 1978. At least I hope I didn’t, I would really have a problem with my parents taking infant me to a zombie movie (although I did once see a mother change her infants diaper during Mimic in a theater I used to hang out at). I am not really sure when I first saw it, but I remember it vividly. The movie spoke to me. I was young enough to envision me and my brothers taking over a shopping mall and bunkering down like Flyboy and the gang. Making it our playground. Running around, having fun. You see, at the time I didn’t quite understand what the movie was trying to tell us. At a later viewing the message of the film crept up on me (get it, like a zombie…who creeps, but never runs). The Romero zombie films, like all great movies, tell more of a story with their subtext then is actually present in the text. This was Romero’s commentary on the consumerification of America.

Francine Parker: What are they doing? Why do they come here?
Stephen: Some kind of instinct. Memory, of what they used to do. This was an important place in their lives.

Even before the over indulgence of the upcoming 80s Romero could sense where we were headed, and he wanted to warn us against being zombies and focusing on materialistism and consumerism.