You know what I love to watch? Women dancing. No, icky trolls, I don’t mean strippers, though like Missy says, “ain’t no shame, ladies do your thang . . . just make sure you’re ahead of the game.” I’m referring to females claiming ownership of their bodies through dance, which of course includes strippers as much as it presumes Kate Bush. I bet Louise Lecavalier knows what I’m talking about and would probably add that there’s joy to be felt in stretching your body’s physical limits. No doubt Merrill Garbus would chime with a reminder not to forget the importance of forging a communal spirit. Movement creates an index of symbols and guiding a beat with your body can feel very powerful indeed. The other night, at a friend’s wedding reception, I had the pleasure of remembering that with friends. I hope you do too.
This first one is EMA’s “California,” a single off her debut solo record, Past Life Martyred Saints. Erika Anderson’s movements here aren’t strict dance, but they are clearly choreographed for this song, as she’s performed this routine at shows.
The second clip is for movement one of Erykah Badu’s “Out My Mind (Just In Time),” which Badu directed. Hopefully it is well-known that I think Badu’s a genius, like how Ellen Willis thought Janis Joplin was a genius. Badu is a master of embodying intangible feelings with her voice and body, as she does here. If her music and image is “difficult” to some (and “crazy” to ableists), it’s only because she’s telling the truth. Kristen at Dear Black Woman, posted this on her Facebook profile and it’s so great I had to jot off an entire post around it. Thank you for making my day, ma’am.
Hello, friends. It’s Memorial Day and I hope you’re maxing and relaxing. I don’t often plug things, but I’m a fan of Austin-based group Agent Ribbons. In point of fact, I’m currently putting together a set of songs by Texas artists for Homoground with them on it. There’s also an excellent chance I will include them in an epic mix I’m compiling for a friend who’s moving back to Portland. So in between your time at brunch or a watering hole or a movie theater or wherever you’ll be spending your time today, I hope you check out Agent Ribbons’ new music video for “That’s Not Edgar’s Heart,” directed by Ryan McCoy.
I’ve seen a lot of good shows. As I noted in an earlier post, I’ve seen Electrelane open for Le Tigre and TV on the Radio open for Zykos. I saw Yoko fucking Ono play with her son and his friends. I’ve seen Erika Anderson play on her own and with Gowns. I have part of a piñata from a Ponytail show that I need to encase. Wanda Jackson plugged in when I heard about Alex Chilton’s death. Os Mutantes closed out the Pitchfork festival. Jean Grae showed up the Roots. Hot Chip covered “You Make Loving Fun” at the Church of the Friendly Ghost before they got signed. The Juan MacLean threatened to cave in the floor to the Parish with their groove. Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki used plush toys to recreate the Milk Man cover, which would have been charming even I wasn’t stoned at the time. Dizzie Rascal freestyled in a makeshift studio. El Guincho made me forget about Fuck Buttons with just his voice, a floor tom, a sampler, and a woodblock. And on and on. You get the idea. “I was there.” I’m bragging.
But there are plenty of shows I didn’t see and more I’ll miss. I wasn’t there for the Boredoms’ drum circle, Kanye’s rooftop VMA performance, Sleater-Kinney’s final show, LCD Soundsystem’s farewell Madison Square Garden performance, Daft Punk’s light show, the FOC FEST, and plenty of other gigs. I also wish I could’ve been there for Our Concert Could Be Your Life in New York.
Taken from Michael Azerrad’s book Our Band Could Be Your Life, which documented certain “seminal” bands from the American underground music scene and thus sought to answer the question, “what happened between punk and Nirvana?,” the concert paired contemporary indie musicians with those acts. This book meant a lot to me when I first read it. Apart from it being important music history, it was zippy reading. It made me happy, even when folks like J. Mascis, Lou Barlow, Gibby Haynes, and all of the Replacements were demonstrating Herculean displays of dickishness.
Cover to Our Band Could Be Your Life (Little Brown, 2001); image courtesy of brooklynvegan.com
Being happy felt triumphant at the time, as I withdrew from college midway through the first semester. My problems weren’t exactly Julie Taylor’s. I hadn’t slept with a married TA after getting drunk on white wine at a grad school mixer, because I don’t know anyone who did. No, I was just sad. I mean, the “just sad” part was substantial. That was and remains the darkest period of my life. Much like many first-year college students including Taylor, whose dalliances were mere plot contrivance, I was having an existential crisis. A therapist I went to once told me I was a spoiled little girl who was making myself miserable. Partial truth, but fuck off. Sure, we can pin it on loving a guy who didn’t reciprocate or an estranged father or the rapid physical deterioration of a beloved grandfather. But really I just didn’t know who to be. With some moral support, I grew up a little and got through it.
Just before I withdrew, I attended a KVRX meeting because I loved Pump Up the Volume. But I felt too removed to sign up to canvas or whatever. The copy of Our Band I received for Christmas helped get me over the hump. What moved me about Our Band at the time was the its championing of the bands’ DIY spirit. I knew DIY was important to riot grrrl and that punk pretended to value this ethos. I also knew the majority of the bands in Our Band signed with major labels in the 90s. But college radio was an essential supporting player in Our Band, as those stations were (and remain, in however diminished a capacity) a conduit for circulating this music. I was too scared to pick up an instrument and form a band, but I always wanted to have a radio show. I made a promise to get one when I got back to college and after I completed my first semester, I did. This book, my abiding love for KTRU, and my friend Brooke’s KANM show “Weakdays” proved I could. Our Band gave me a larger purpose. If that sounds silly, it probably is. Though shortly after 9/11, in some ways, this was a much more innocent time. The Shins’ Oh, Inverted World was in heavy personal rotation, well before keyboardist Marty Crandall was arrested for beating up his girlfriend.
Our Concert sounded like a helluva lot of fun. Ted Leo taking on Minor Threat is intuitive, but Buke and Gass tapped into Fugazi’s austerity in surprising ways. Yellow Ostrich made Beat Happening anthemic, which they always were. Wye Oak didn’t dazzle with Dinosaur Jr., but I became slightly more receptive to a band that only inspires me to fix my posture and do my laundry. As a fan of the Judgement Night soundtrack, I love a good pairing. Dan Deacon taking on the Butthole Surfers’ psychopathic hedonism is smart. St. Vincent drilling through Big Black’s misanthropy with dexterous guitar noise is even more inspired. It might be my favorite performance.
Annie Clark of St. Vincent, covering Big Black; image courtesy of thefader.com
In context, St. Vincent’s performance sounds like progress. Annie Clark was joined by tUnE-yArDs’ front woman Merrill Garbus, Titus Andronicus’ Amy Klein, Wye Oak’s Jenn Wasner, Callers’ Sara Lucas, and Buke and Gass’ Arone Dyer. Women’s integration into rock bands is a minor theme in Our Band. Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon, Black Flag’s Kira Roessler, and Beat Happening’s Heather Lewis all made vital contributions. I don’t want to dismiss the first two as “just” bassists, because they were integral. However, we’ve clearly moved past the chick bassist stigma. Garbus is a percussionist. Klein wails on guitar and violin. Wasner shreds on lead guitar. Dyer plays a baritone ukulele, providing nuance and texture instead of trading on quirky novelty. And of course Clark is a classically trained musician who politely lashes people with her guitar.
However, if female musicians signal progress, they also connote privilege. College is a hub for indie rock because that’s where many bands form and deejays champion them (though, as liberal arts funding and training is under threat, my generation may have to continue to find new, creative ways to earn a living). Then as now, America’s indie scene and its coverage are both blinded by the white. I’m not sure if Kill Whitey parties are still prevalent in Brooklyn. I sincerely hope they aren’t. But Kreayshawn’s recent ascendance feels like the same thing, which means the Cocker Spaniels’ “The Only Black Guy at the Indie Rock Show” is still relevant to the conversation. Given Our Band‘s optimistic message, I hope indie rock will continue to expand and be more inclusive.
The talent behind “lady country trio” Ménage à Twang might be tickled to note that I most recently listened to their album, We Don’t Judge, while cooking. Would they find it funny that a feminist was reclaiming the kitchen? Maybe. I met member Jessica Del Vecchio in Feminist TV Criticism during our first semester in our respective MA programs, so I knew she was versed (and perhaps critical of) in the language of third-wave appropriation. Specifically, they might be amused that I was working with recipes from Veganomicon, NPR’s Kitchen Window, and Cooking Light–resources often called upon to maintain a twentysomething white feminist’s sensible diet.
Cover to We Don't Judge (House of Twang, 2011)
I’m piling on more signifiers here than I did ingredients for the curried couscous I brought for lunch earlier this week at my respectable office job. What I’m getting at is that the women behind Ménage à Twang clearly live a similar existence to mine. They sing about retreating to graduate school, listening to your mother, wearing pantsuits, coveting the kitchen wear that the smug to-be-marrieds put on their registry, visiting psychiatrists, speed dating, killing time at work on Facebook, and not wanting to hold babies. These zippy fourteen songs are realized with compositional economy and a buoyant country swing. The funny lyrics are shared between Del Vecchio, Emily Moore, and Rachel Levy, who also arranged their high harmonies. I can immediately recall at least six friends who might think this album is about them. Is this call coming from inside the house?
Forging this lyrical and musical terrain could make Ménage vulnerable to dismissal on the grounds of novelty and easy gimmickry. No doubt the same trolls who gave them shit for their witty single “Sister Don’t Date a Hipster” would dismiss them with a ”biting” Cinder Calhoun reference and continue to hate women. However, doing so discredits their collective skill as clever songwriters. Perhaps I’m overreading Del Vecchio’s theater background, but I’d hazard that these women have an abiding respect for folks like Cole Porter and the greats of Tin Pan Alley, who used songs to tell stories and craft precise character sketches. I also happen to know that Del Vecchio is a Geraldine Fibbers fan. None of the songs here lose it quite like Carla Bozulich at the end of her rope, but the indignant spirit is there. It may just be masked by nice white lady politeness. Ladies, are ya’ll Roches fans? You sound like you are. I’m paying you a compliment.
Frankly, this is a credible deterrent for some people–perhaps the same folks who have no time for awkward ladies at the gym or elsewhere. I think embedded within Ménage’s image and collective identity is white privilege and class contention. I certainly felt it with “You Make Me Want to Marry Poor,” a lilting ballad about finding someone you love so much you don’t care about abandoning any prospects for social mobility. I relate to this song. I cast my lot with a fellow liberal arts major still paying off his student loans instead of trying to make it work with a lawyer, engineer, or programmer–i.e., someone with better financial prospects, a provider. Part of me is proud to have found love and committed to a person who believes in my politics. Another part of me knows I haven’t escaped the pressures of relying on men for financial security. I’m reminded of the class baggage I inherited from my mom–ever a Jane Austen fan–who believed my family to be ”gentry class” even though we weren’t financially solvent until I was in high school. I have a hunch that this song may be addressing, or at least grazing, all of these concerns with ironic self-awareness. But each time I listen to this song, I’m reminded of the more difficult task Courtney Martin advocates for in the name of social justice: moving past acknowledging privilege. Maybe these ladies are too.
However, I’m on Ménage à Twang’s side. You might like their new record, which uses pop crafts(wo)manship to frame specifically-detailed feminist ire. Because I don’t want to hold that damn baby and there’s an excellent chance you don’t either.
Hopefully the inclusion of a certain late 80s pop trio isn’t a spoiler because you already saw Bridesmaids last weekend. Astute followers of SNL alum’s film efforts might note that it isn’t even the first time Wilson Phillips’ big hit made an appearance in one of their movies. ”Hold On” is performed twice (two times) in Spring Breakdown, a movie that I maintain is a misguided mess but worth checking out because it’s nice to see Amy Poehler, Rachel Dratch, Parker Posey, Jane Lynch, Missy Pyle, and Amber Tamblyn be funny in the same place.
The bridal party; image courtesy of hitfix.com
Maybe Bridesmaids is paying homage to Spring Breakdown with their inclusion of the song like they might be recognizing Laverne and Shirley by setting it in Milwaukee. Regardless, cool that Bridesmaids actually made it into theaters. Better that it’s holding its own at the box office. Shitty that it’s getting trounced by Thor. Unsurprising that Kenneth Branagh’s foray into Aryan porn action movies is completely outside of my purview. I felt like I saw Bridesmaids several times since SXSW by the time my friend Cassandra and I caught a sneak preview last week. Bitch correspondents debated it. Dana Stevens loved it. Arianna Stern liked it. Molly Lambert was excited about it. Rebecca Traister thinks it’s our obligation to see it. LaToya Peterson wonders why Maya Rudolph is the only woman of color in it, an observation that I think has a lot of traction. In short, this one’s been blowing up my radar.
How do I feel about Bridesmaids? I liked it fine. I didn’t love it and, like Genevieve Koski, I don’t believe it will or should save the chick flick. I’m pretty sure Roseanne is with me when I say that the chick flick is a patriarchal construct. Yes, I’m happy about the cast, Kristen Wiig’s co-writer credit, and the inclusion of Maya Rudolph in anything. I’m also happy about director Paul Feig’s involvement, as he seemed the more feminist-inclined person behind Freaks and Geeks. But at the risk of comparing apples to oranges (or popcorn comedies shepherded by men to cinematic think pieces directed by women) I’m going to see Meek’s Cutoff later this week and I’m totally planting my flag for that one. Accolades from my friend Curran, Rick Levin at the Eugene Weekly, and Caitlin at Dark Room only ramp up my excitement.
Bridesmaids itself is good. It’s a bit too long. Wendy McClendon-Covey and Ellie Kempner are underused. And echoing Annie Petersen‘s comments in a Facebook thread about the movie, the gross-out food poison scene is tacked on (and, since the culprit is Brazilian food, I think it’s also ethnically insensitive). I had a few more not-insignificant problems that I’ll outline below. But overall, I had a good time and recommend it. And Wilson Phillips is in it. Better yet, their cameo is an awesome punch line to a recurring joke about one character’s constant need to one-up Wiig’s protagonist Annie Walker by throwing money around as a means of proving herself to be a good friend. Best of all, Carnie Wilson is still harmonizing (or at least lip syncing) like a boss. Hug your friend and sing along.
I especially like that this movie isn’t about weddings so much as it is a barbed comedy about the ridiculous cultural rituals women go through when they get married. Generically speaking, it has little use for rom-com conventions and is ultimately a buddy comedy. Rudolph’s character Lillian Donovan is getting married to some guy named Doug, but Tim Heidecker (!) only has two wordless scenes with her. Wiig’s easy chemistry with Rudolph, tentative bonding with Rose Byrne, and tough love friendship with Melissa McCarthy takes focus. And unlike The Hangover, which it shouldn’t be marketed alongside, the ensemble doesn’t make it to Las Vegas.
Refreshingly, class is embedded in Bridesmaids‘ critique. Walker can’t afford a designer dress or a Vegas bachelorette party. Yet she feels pressure to spend money she doesn’t have because she wants to appease the whims of the better-off bridal party and perceives herself to be in competition for Donovan’s affections with society wife Helen Harris (played with nary a hair out of place by Byrne). Walker’s class position is drawn in detail. Her bakery recently folded and she’s working at a jewelry store because her roommate and mother (RIP Jill Clayburgh) pulled a few strings. She doesn’t even have the money to fix the broken tail light on her junker. I would have liked a bit more characterization for Donovan so that we understand how she’s more financially stable than her childhood friend, but it’s nice that there wasn’t some clumsy effort to explain her familial background. Her mom is white, her dad is black, and he is not paying for his daughter’s silly white friend’s extravagant vanity project. End of story.
The headache a dilapidated car produces certainly resonates with me. My partner and I are in the process of consolidating vehicles for our Midwest relocation and I’m pretty sure that my car has a busted transmission I can’t really afford to fix in order to sell it. To add to which, our cat has a left-field UTI and treatment is proving very costly. I know I’m less of a fuck-up than Walker and that there are far bigger problems in the world than planning a bridal shower or paying for a cat’s antibiotics. But I certainly know what it’s like to have none of my plans come together or feel like I’m disappointing friends who seem to have better lives than mine. I especially know what it’s like to get in my own way, so I appreciate that Wiig and Annie Mumolo’s script doesn’t let Walker off the hook for her less-honorable actions and gives Harris a little bit of dimension.
McCarthy makes the most out of a potentially icky situation as Megan, the movie’s Zach Galifianakis stand-in. I do miss her as the crushworthy Sookie St. James on Gilmore Girls. Though not a perfect show, it was pretty awesome that St. James was never the butt of any fat jokes. Sure, she was a chef and thus played with food. But she was awesome at her job. Also, she was a total sensualist. Sookie and her husband Jackson had three kids during the show’s run and were always obsessing about things like the integrity of their garden vegetables. You know those two were hand-feeding each other ripe fruit, exotic silks draping their nudity.
Not even exaggerating!; image courtesy of lyriquediscorde.tumblr.com
McCarthy looked like a goddess on Gilmore Girls. Bridesmaids isn’t so kind to her. For one, WB shows bathed their actors in autumnal light. Dawson’s Creek probably had a candle budget. Furthermore, McCarthy’s Megan doesn’t require it. She’s a salty broad working a high-level job in national security who seems to have as little use for make-up as she does Walker’s whining. I’m actually okay with this–or would be more okay with it if the audience I saw Bridesmaids with didn’t seem repulsed by the mere presence of a fat woman. I must give McCarthy credit for essentially walking away with the movie, because she’s very funny here. But I was annoyed that the movie ends with kinky footage of McCarthy simulating a blow job on her boyfriend with a hoagie. Ugh.
This isn’t Bridesmaids‘ only attempt at making fat women seem aberrent and gross. Before Walker moves in with her mom, she has a few scenes with her roommate Gil (Little Britain‘s Matt Lucas) and his sister Brynn (Rebel Wilson). Brynn is depicted as stupid, crass, lazy, racist, and disgusting. This tends to be a problem I have with Lucas’ show, which is often cruel to ugly people and confuses accents and costumes with characterization. These scenes are even more insulting and unnecessary than the orgiastic release of bodily fluids at the bridal shop, if because it’s kind of nice to see women shit and vomit all over bridal wear. These moments really took me out of the movie and I loathe a film industry that thinks they’re necessary to ensure a female-centered comedy’s success. At least they didn’t make Carnie eat a hoagie and I don’t remember if anyone caught the bouquet.
Today, I thought I’d share two music videos I really like. They don’t necessarily have thematic similarities. EMA’s ”Milkman” music video is in color, employs trippy imagery, and looks deliberately cheap. Tearist’s ”Disposition (In Black)” clip is in black and white, creates a sense of foreboding with shadows, quick cuts, and strobe effects, and is beautiful in its compositional austerity.
But both foreground the female singers–Erika Anderson and Yasmine Kittles–in a manner not completely out of step with pop video standards. No, we’re not dealing with Katy Perry cheesecake. No one is ejaculating icing from their bras, and glad I am for that because Jesus Christ never again. However, if music videos are foremost about elevating musicians to stardom–if only for a few minutes–these clips follow that trajectory while creating arresting imagery that befits the artists in the process.
I should also disclose that I’m prompted to dash off this post because the director of “Disposition (In Black)” contacted me recently. She told me about a write-up she saw on Lin Party where the author posted the video and used it as a springboard to talk about how Kittles makes him hard (incidentally, he didn’t talk about the song, the video, or the craft put into either creation). She wondered if I had written on the prevalence of these kinds of responses toward female artists by male critics in the past. Here’s an edited version of my response. I took out mention of the director’s opinion, because I’m not sure if she wants that reprinted. I thought I’d share because it deserves a larger conversation and I’m happy to use this blog as a forum.
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So this guy is the worst! This goes way beyond getting the band’s name wrong. “If you ever have the erratic urge to jump up and shove your soft spot crotch in my face in public (or private) I will welcome it with two arms, a shirt that says ‘Fuck me I’m Bell from Bell Biv Devoe’”?!?!? (note: the author is referring to a video Kittles did with Erik Wareheim where she straddles his face several times to Bat for Lashes’ “Daniel”) Really? Gross.This just reminds me of how my journalism professors would say things like “don’t describe a woman as beautiful if you’re doing a feature profile on her” or “don’t describe what the (female) rape victim wore.” The idea being that women are so often judged on looks that we don’t even think about it when deciding whether disclosing that kind of information suggests a bias and furthers the story. Like, what do these things actually tell us about the person? Giving into it is both lazy reportage and old-school sexism.
I haven’t written too much on this topic personally beyond the occasional aside. I do make a conscious effort not to indulge in it. It can be kind of tricky. Rock culture has always been twined (if not synonymous at times) with sexual desire. So when writing about it, I always try to be mindful about how to write about sexuality without conflating a personal arousal with a professional endorsement. I wouldn’t say I succeed at this 100% of the time. I recently wrote about Jana Hunter and how I find her stage persona and music powerfully sexy and alluring–enough to cut my hair like hers in tribute. The piece is really about the sexual politics of fan practices. But I tried to parse out what I find in her work without being like “she’s good at what she does because she turns me on. The proof of her value resides in her ability to get me wet.” Because that’s just super-insulting. If the author took out any mention of finding Kittles attractive, what would he talk about? And he could talk about her voice or the band’s music or her stage persona (without getting into what she wore or how his boner reacted to her dancing onstage or whatever). That he didn’t talk about those things ultimately reduces her work to his id.
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Anyway, I’m glad women like Anderson and Kittles are making music. I like EMA’s debut album and now I know about Tearist. I’m also pleased talented cisgender female filmmakers are working with them and a whole host of artists. I’m working on knowing more about and supporting transgendered artists and filmmakers, alongside contributions from girls and women of color. But I’m going to be really happy when bros stop equating women’s cultural value to their looks and their fuckability (shudder, ugh, vomit). The end of chauvinism relies upon both me and you.
Basically every video Beastie Boys, in some fashion, has famous friends in it. They’re the reigning hipster kings of New York. No wonder they’re friends with Spike Jonze, who wishes he directed the awesome “Step, Clap, Go!” promo Bruce Thierry Cheung shot for Opening Ceremony’s Target collection. He did get a shout-out, though. It’s who you know.
My favorite bit of “____ degrees of separation” between the hip hop trio and director is the “Sure Shot” video. Remember when MCA says “I wanna say a little somethin’ that’s long overdue, but disrespecting women has got to be through/to all the mothers and the sisters and the wives and friends I wanna offer my love and respect to the end”? And it’s accompanied by a quick montage of cool ladies like Chloë Sevigny, Kim Gordon, Sofia Coppola, and Tamra Davis along with a bunch of women I don’t know personally but are probably close friends and family members? This was my introduction to the Beasties.
Later, I found out about songs like “Paul Revere”, which made me sad. But then I found out that they don’t perform that song or many of the cuts from their mook phase because people didn’t get a joke that was never especially funny. And then I found out that they openly spoke out against sexism and would stop shows if they saw female fans getting harassed. Then I heard “Song for the Man,” Ad-Rock’s solo slam against chauvinist dudes on Hello Nasty. This made me really happy.
Ad-Rock is also Mr. Kathleen Hanna. I think this is unassailably cool even if I know this doesn’t guarantee he has unimpeachable feminist politics anymore than it doesn’t ensures Hanna does. Hanna is my heroine, but I have no use for pedestals. Anyway, I’d be happy to have them over for some white wine and The Immaculate Collection.
Anyway, I’ve liked the Beasties for some time. It started when I bought Hello Nasty after my mom reminded my stepdad that he was practicing gender discrimination when he let one of his sons get Ill Communication but didn’t think I should listen to them. I still like Licensed to Ill and Paul’s Boutique, when the Beasties were doing their chauvinist minstrelsy schtick–if in spite of and not because. I recently revisited Boutique, a high school favorite, and it’s still a super-fun listening experience. Couldn’t get it out of my car.
I watched Adam Horovitz’s forgotten troubled youth picture Lost Angels, not so much because I had a crush on Ad-Rock as I wanted to be Ad-Rock. I did, however, think his ex-wife Ione Skye was pretty. Apparently, she might have reciprocated those feelings at some point in her life. And while I find it a little disconcerting that bicurious actresses had dalliances with Jenny Shimizu in the 90s–I hope they weren’t just “going through a phase” with a Japanese American lesbian–I certainly understand. Fact: Few women are going to deny a hot dyke who can fix cars.
Ladies luv cool Jenny; image courtesy of flickr.com
The Beasties’ new album, Hot Sauce Committee Part 2, just came out. MCA directed the video for “Make Some Noise,” which is also making the rounds. My partner’s mom asked for his opinion on it and in the spirit of extending Mother’s Day into the week, I’ll answer her: it’s aight but I’m confused by it and think its charms diminish upon return.
Primarily, I’m lost as to why the mid-80s beer-guzzling chauv model of the group is recirculating (note: the Beasties recently released the short film “Fight For Your Right Revisited,” which extends upon the issues I bring up in this post). The obvious answer is because this is the group’s most iconic look. But MCA, Ad-Rock, and Mike D haven’t been these guys since I entered pre-school. In some sense, they’ve actively renounced this version of themselves. So why are Danny McBride, Elijah Wood, and Seth Rogen assuming the roles?
Also, the stunt casting is not especially effective here. In general, I’m leery of stunt casting. Recently, Tom Scharpling directed “Moves” for the New Pornographers. The video’s premise is promising. A preview for a fake biopic on the supergroup that swipes from every Behind the Music storyline? I liked Walk Hard. But the clip too heavily relies on the viewer being charmed by Julie Klausner playing Neko Case or Ted Leo in drag as Kathryn Calder. Look, no one laughed harder than I did at seeing Kevin Corrigan brandish a gun while strumming an acoustic guitar as Dan Bejar. But otherwise, the clip doesn’t really go anywhere. Scharpling also directed Ted Leo and the Pharmacists’ “Bottled In Cork,” which also features Klausner and a host of famous friends. It also gets in so many great, incisive digs at Green Day shilling for Broadway. It has a point beyond stunt casting, which makes it infinitely more enjoyable. In fact, I’m going to watch it again right now.
Essentially stunt casting and a flimsy plot are what hinder the video for ”Make Some Noise.” Wood might be the best actor of the three. Though he looks nothing like Ad-Rock, he’s clearly been studying the tapes. McBride is kind of stoic, which works well enough for MCA. Rogen may be deadpan, but possesses little of Mike D’s loopiness. It’s weird casting. Having Jack Black, Will Ferrell, and John C. Reilly play the roles at the end of the video is wonky too. Below are some stray observations.
1. Where’s Hanna’s cameo? Did I blink and miss her? Maybe she didn’t want to be involved with the video. I respect creative people wanting to separate their professional endeavors from their home lives. But if she just wasn’t asked to participate, weak sauce dude. Maybe she thought the celebrity stunt casting was as uninspired as I did. What is up, Kathleen?
2. Who is the girl on the skateboard?!?!? More of her coolness please. How about her own video?
3. I love that Rashida Jones gives Ad-Rock sass for trying to holler at her. You can call me a turkey anytime, m’dear. Oof. Give me a moment.
4. Jones should have walked off with Parks and Rec bestie Amy Poehler, but I’m glad they have their own segments. Also, when is Poehler going to win an Emmy for her work as Leslie Knope? I’m starting a damn campaign.
5. Why is Maya Rudolph a groupie with Kirsten Dunst in the limo? I’m so tired of her being underused. Even more tired than I am of the groupies-in-the-limo scenario. Can’t she be in a band that’s playing some cool loft party the Beasties crash or something? Then I can complain about men interrupting women. She was in the Rentals for a hot minute.
6. I’m pretty sure Sevigny (who appears to be in a different shoot than Rudolph and Dunst) provided her own wardrobe. It’s recently come to my attention that she frequents her bodega in that jacket. Also, the moment she smashes a bottle of champagne on Ad-Rock’s head and laughs is a GIF from heaven.
In short, I’m glad the Beasties are back. I was pulling for MCA. But I’m not feeling this video as much I’d like to.
The other night, my friend Erik brought Bob Gosse’s Julie Johnson over. This American indie film about a bored New Jersey housewife who enrolls in a computer course at community college, dumps her chauvinist husband, and embarks on a tentative lesbian relationship with her best friend did the festival circuit back in 2001. Lili Taylor plays the titular disaffected wife. Courtney Love and Liz Phair provide the feminist music geek intrigue as co-star and film composer. Spalding Gray is involved for some reason. Regrettably, this is not enough. The problems begin with Gosse’s and Wendy Hammond’s script and snowball from there. And even though Erik and I talked through the whole thing (while eating these delicious vegan lemon maple scones), I believe we had a handle on what was going on. Johnson is supposedly a mathematical genius on par with fellow working-class northeasterner Will Hunting. But like Good Will Hunting, the movie’s not that deep.
Taylor and Love look as disappointed as I am; image courtesy of mtv.com
First of all, the script is terrible. New Jersey’s transportation department can’t fix these plotholes (SLICE!). Johnson is a mathematical genius who hasn’t finished high school? Sure, there are lots of brilliant high school dropouts. But the movie explains that she has an intuitive understanding of abstract mathematic and scientific applications from reading scientific magazines. While many people display mathematic aptitude regardless of whether they complete school, I’m pretty sure you can’t divine this kind of ability, especially from magazines that contain verbiage you don’t understand. Articles like Janet Cooke’s “Jimmy’s World” were revealed to be fabrications, in part, by sloppy characterization that didn’t make sense. A child heroin addict can be gifted in math, but can Jimmy do exceptionally well on his homework if he is usually truant? Math builds on concepts. People don’t understand probability if they’re shaky on ratios.
This extends past math. I’ve been faking my way through “gender performativity” and “repetition” for years. I’ve yet to successfully read Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble and Bodies That Matter cover to cover. I know doing so will require a thesaurus, a dry erase board, a study group, and probably some sock puppets.
Also, Johnson keeps these contraband “scientific” magazines in the pantry so her husband (Noah Emmerich) doesn’t see them. You get it? Because cooking is woman’s work. The woman’s place is in the kitchen, not at school. Still, are we to believe he wouldn’t throw together a sandwich and not see the archive she’s keeping behind the peanut butter?
Mischa Barton plays Johnson’s petulant daughter, Lisa. As an O.C. fan who knows Leighton Meester is Joan Collins’ true heir apparent, I relied on Barton’s acting to be stiff and her accent inscrutable. But there’s a paper to be written about Barton’s involvement with projects that contain lesbian storylines, however disappointing. I’m not sure if it is to be read, but I know there’s a through line. Actually, I tried writing it as a grad student when I turned in my final essay for Feminist TV Criticism on Marissa and Alex’s arc as lovers on the second season of The O.C. Shortly afterJohnson, Barton and Evan Rachel Wood played girlfriends on Once and Again. She also starred as a Russian girl in love with her friend and t.A.T.u. in You and I. I kinda want to watch the t.A.T.u. movie with Erik at some point, but don’t expect a blog post on it. The movie sat on the shelf for three years and it used t.A.T.u. as a point of identification and marketing tool–we know it’s terrible.
"Hey! Remember me? I liked girls for about nine episodes in season two to help boost ratings."; image courtesy of nypost.com
Phair’s contributions leave much to be desired. I’ll go along with comparisons between Funstyle and Girlysound, but I cannot abide the forgettable shlock turned in here. Unlike the thirty seconds of Phoenix’s “Love Like a Sunset” that loops throughout Somewhere, Phair actually wrote some new material for Johnson and collaborated with composer Angelo Badalamenti. Julee Cruise is one of the few things I like about Twin Peaks (beyond Nadine and the Log Lady, of course). Suffice is to say, Liz Phair is no Julee Cruise. She’s also trying so hard to sound like Sheryl Crow at this point in her career that it makes me sad. Musically, Johnson opens with whitechocolatespaceegg clunker “Uncle Alvarez” and declines. Montages unfold. Hearts break. Lessons are learned. Guitars are strummed. No one cares.
Taylor is fine here. She deviates very little from the accent she gave Patti in Girls Town, but thankfully dispenses with the chola minstrelsy. Love is clearly trying really hard to lose herself in hardscrabble Claire. She’s slightly better here than she is in 200 Cigarettes and The People Vs. Larry Flynt, which is kind of an insult, but I enjoy on some level how Courtney Courtney is in both of those ostensibly bad movies. Drea De Matteo would have been better.
Gabby Hoffmann and Christina Ricci, two of the three true stars of 200 Cigarettes (the third one is obviously Dave Chappelle); image courtesy of agentlover.com
Regrettably, the leads don’t have chemistry with one another. This is ultimately Johnson‘s true failing. I’m sad that Claire goes back to her lobotomized meatloaf of a husband, but the creature comforts heteronormativity provides do break apart some queer couples. On some level, I’m actually glad they break up. If Claire is scared she’ll lose friends if she embarks on a relationship with her closest confidant, Johnson deserves someone better. However, the script comes to these events in such haste that I’m unsatisfied. Johnson finds peace with the loss of her closest friend somehow, and the movie ends with her gazing at stars with her lecherous professor (Gray, typecast). Maybe among the cosmos, Johnson can find how this movie lost its way.
Last week, I whiled away a Sunday morning on Marc Lawrence’s Music and Lyrics. My partner, anticipating that the 2007 rom-com was going to be a shitshow, voiced his displeasure by asking, ”You realize that if we watch this, we’re going to have to follow it up with Did You Hear About the Morgans?” Funny guy and no we don’t.
Drew Barrymore and Hugh Grant do not . . . wait for it . . . make beautiful music together.
I’m no fan of contemporary American romantic comedies but I don’t hate them out of hand. For example, I like Broadcast News. Holly Hunter is so great as news producer Jane Craig. I love that she bursts into tears without apology whenever she’s frustrated–even in the middle of the newsroom–but is still amazing and in love with a job that she executes with the utmost integrity. When I’m the boss, you won’t have to go to a bathroom to cry. I am especially glad that Craig finds happiness–but not marriage–with some guy she briefly mentions who we never see. Hunter in Broadcast News reminds me that: 1) I need to watch Desk Set, 2) Cher beat Hunter out of an Oscar until Hunter justifiably won for The Piano, and 3) Reese Witherspoon totally copied Hunter’s performance for How Do You Know, which I recently slept through on a flight.
Obviously, I like romantic comedies that star women who are awesome at their jobs. I also delight in movies that play up the homoerotic connections between female characters, which means I love Desperately Seeking Susan. Theoretically, I could like Music and Lyrics, since Drew Barrymore’s Sophie Fisher is a gifted lyricist. I thought Kristen Johnston could provide some queerness as Sophie’s sister Rhonda. However, not only is this movie super-normative and symptomatic of romantic comedy’s pervasive misogyny, it uses Hugh Grant as washed-up 80s pop star Alex Fletcher to illustrate this.
Cheap shot
I never understood why Grant’s floppy-haired, “I’m so charmingly befuddled” act held any appeal. Remember when Jay Leno admonished Grant for being caught with a black prostitute when he had English rose Elizabeth Hurley waiting at home by asking “what the hell were you thinking?” Leno was assuredly evincing some casual racism. But he may as well have posed this question to the generations of women who flocked to see Notting Hill because the emosogynist with the teeth was in it. By my count, Grant has only been good in one movie. No, not Impromptu. He’s totally boring as Frédéric Chopin, though Judy Davis is fun as George Sand. Not Sirens either, because I don’t remember anything about it other than how it used breasts to masquerade as art house fare. I’ve only liked Grant in About a Boy. As Will Freeman, Grant revealed his romantic lead schtick to be narcissistic and hollow.
I forgot what a deterrent Grant was going into Music and Lyrics. As abrasive as I find him, I still wanted to see Barrymore as a songwriter working on a collaborative project. I was also curious to hear Adam Schlesinger’s musical contributions. As Jody Rosen observed, Schlesinger is a master pop craftsman who, in his attention to formal detail, provides generic authenticity that conventional musicals like Dreamgirls tend to lack. I’ve been a fan of Schlesinger’s band Fountains of Wayne since junior high. I’ve followed his film career for nearly as long. I could put on “Pretend to Be Nice” from Josie and the Pussycats right now. He should have won an Oscar for “That Thing You Do!,” which is exactly the kind of pop nugget from which a second-tier 60s American rock band could not escape. It lost to Evita‘s needy, airless “You Must Love Me.”
To my surprise, Schlesinger doesn’t play much with genre for comedic effect here. He penned “Meaningless Kiss,” which cannily mimics “Careless Whisper.” But Miike Snow’s Andrew Wyatt is largely responsible for Music‘s more parodic material. He co-wrote the delightful “Pop! Goes My Heart,” the major hit for Fletcher’s former group Wham! PoP! He also wrote the tuneless “Entering Bootytown,” which is a single for Cora Corman, a Britney-esque pop star who projects faux Eastern spiritualism and duh-obvious sex appeal onto her blonde whiteness. However, Schlesinger is responsible for “Way Back Into Love,” the ballad Corman commissions Fletcher and Fisher to write.
Beyond my disregard for Grant, there are two fundamental problems with Music and Lyrics. While it’s interesting that the movie focuses on the creation of one song, the process through which “Way Back Into Love” materializes seems implausible. I know former pop stars find later success as songwriters. Linda Perry FTW. But Fletcher is supposed to sing “Way Back” with Cora onstage at Madison Square Garden. Really? The washed-up pop star? Maybe with an American Idol contestant after he’s made some kind of comeback, but I bet Britney wouldn’t share her spotlight. Also, he’s given a week to compose the song and cannot change the title. In desperation, he calls upon the girl who waters his plants to write the lyrics and quickly falls in love with her. Contrivances.
Fisher gets points for calling out Corman’s crimes of cultural appropriation and Fletcher’s pathological need to sell out. But overall, her character bums me out. Hollywood, why do you hate women so much? Romantic comedies are especially insidious. With rare exception, they stereotype white women as harpies, bumblers, and sluts. They pretend women of color don’t exist unless they’re sassy best friends, sometimes casting white actresses in roles written for them in the process. I don’t like to hate on a girl, but when I see Kate Hudson on a poster, I steer clear. I refuse to see a movie called Bride Wars on principal. Movies about girlfriends sabotaging each other because their weddings are on the same day? Fuck off. Do not ask me to see Something Borrowed unless you want me to torch a multiplex.
So it was especially disheartening that not only is Fisher neurotic and self-involved, but she’s punished by an ex who writes her into an unflattering work of “fiction.” Really, I have to watch a restaurant scene where Fisher takes some woman’s red dress and is rendered incapable of telling off the writer guy who sold her out? No. Does Fisher have to have this back story? Does she have to fall in love with Fletcher, who is about as engaging as a coat hanger? Can she just do her job without falling in love and thus turn this flimsy excuse for romantic misadventure into something else? I want a new songbook.
