Don't ever let anyone tell you that the world is a cruel and unjust place:

Old bird face-slapped with a tofu pie in France!


And...
As some of you may or may not know Brian Wilson has come up with a rather bizarre/cool plan that only he could dream up: He'll match anyone who makes a donation of a hundred bucks or more to the Red Cross and--the kicker--make a personal phone call to that person so he/she can ask Mr. Wilson any question of thier choice. Pretty rad, and apparently he's already raised over $200,000 and been making lots of calls. Tempting...

Kelley Stoltz, a recent Sub Pop signing that I quite like (early Bolan crossed with late 60s Kinks based on the couple songs I heard, with nice throwback production to the days of my infancy), made a donation. Here's the story, hijacked from the Sub Pop site:

"So Kelley’s girlfriend paid for him to do that Katrina benefit deal where you donate $100 to the Red Cross & he matches your $ & gives you a phone call & let’s you ask him a question. So the very same day they pay for it Kelley is sitting around the house spacing out & he gets the call. “Hi Kelley, this is Brian Wilson…”. He was apparently pleasant & asked what Kelley did etc. Kelley hadn’t worked up a question yet for him but in a rush he remembered that after getting his piano tuned he could no longer play a song he plunked around on called “Meant for You” so he asked him what the chords were. Brian’s response was “I wouldn’t know”. So that conversation kind of ground to a halt & Brian said “thanks for donating etc.”. Kelley was pacing around going wow, that was weird, what a trip etc. & the phone rings again. “Hi, Kelley it’s Brian Wilson. The first chord is an A-minor”. So Kelley goes over to the piano & smacks an A-minor & starts playing the song & sings a little bit of it & Brian joins in & they sing a 4-5 verse duet!!!!!! What the fuck????"

The leaves are growing old and deathly again as we all come together for the seasons of mischief. This was originally to be Part 2 of my Summer's End Pop Roundup, but now it's simply:

Part One of The Fall:

Old friend Øyvind Holm (Ringleader of Norway's masters of psych pop delirium, Dipsomaniacs) returns with his solo debut, "The Vanishing Point" (Camera Obscura), a heartfelt collection of rustling folk pop and psych rock that draws from the likes of the Byrds, Love, Dylan, John Lennon and maybe Guided By Voices for influence, but of course the biggest inspiration on Øyvind's songs is his life, and it's one lived with emotional clarity. These ten tracks easily rank among his best, but then he's probably one of the most consistant tunesmiths on the planet after all is said and done. "Self-Mutated Summer Breeze" goes from a jangly uptempo rush to fuzz implosion before the rousing chorus takes us to the fade. Elsewhere he employs harmonica, ivory tickles and tasty string swells to give everything a nice warm push into the coming cold season. For fans of Cardinal (excellent s/t'ed album recently reissued), the more structured side of Elephant 6, Beulah, later REM, etc... I'd also like to give a quick nod to Dungen and the reissue of their lovely breakthrough, "Ta Det Lugnt" album here in the states on Subliminal Sounds/Koch. It comes with a bonus EP of material (not as good as on the album, so not really essential if you already scored the import version) in a lovely digipack. What I said before still applies: "Some might dismiss "Ta Det Lugnt" as too retro or, the horror, too Swedish; fair I suppose given Gustav Ejstes sings everything in his native language in a nasally Lennon-esque tone, but I hesitate to see these traits as shortcomings. In a way similar to maybe Gorkys Zygotic Mynci, Dungen relishes all the retro trappings with glee and, by extension, so does his audience. The pummeling Jack Bruce meets Keith Moon drum work, the ornate strings, astounding guitar work and reverb drenched vocals are all lovingly employed in a dish crammed full of inventive ideas....easier to get into than a Volvo."

Every one of Mercury Rev’s six albums to date brings something interesting to the table, though the last one definitely showed them floundering a bit. "The Secret Migration" (V2) is a step back in the right direction me thinks with booming, shimmery pop constructions conjured with an ear towards classic 60s symphonic psych and all our favorite musical auteurs. The results are upbeat with a deep production, if not a tad overly familiar. This could be the best thing they've released since "Deserter's Song" and not necessarily just another rehash of what's come before; either way, it’s definitely a Mercury Rev record, with an almost mythical quality cascading throughout. I still like what they have to say, but it largely seems the rest of the world has moved on, or regressed, depending on your perspective.

This Delaney girl is new to me, but I like her moxy on this self titled debut, released by the Pehr Label. A Frenchie playing jangly pop songs that fall somewhere between Cat Power and PJ Harvey, all sung in the native language, mind you, which I suppose would make this French pop! Sensual and catchy, sad and a little pissy, she manages to transcend her predictable origins, and occasionally rocks out in the process. Better than expected, though not that original. What is today? Not Of Montreal, but they're still fun to shake yo booty to. "The Sunlandic Twins" (Polyvinyl) is a funky, freaky, poppy dance fix that combines their previous Beach Boys worship with an ever growing slide into 80s post disco. Still timid and loveable, less maniacle than earlier albums. One of the songs is titled "Knight Rider" (a likely nod to George Romero's cult classic). Almost there... "Oceans Apart" (Yep Roc) comes to us via everyone's favorite Aussie guitar pop export, The Go-Betweens, and it’s another solid effort from these legendary Monkees obsessives. The Go-Betweens are definitely one of those bands that bridged the gap between DIY punk and modern day meloncholic/ melodic indie rock (The Clean and REM are two others), and these 10 songs perfectly convey just why that is; particularly the rousing acoustic jangle pop of "Finding You" and the gorgeous swoon of "Boundary Rider," both radiating a lingering sense of loss as they knock you out with their harmonic splendors. The whole collection is a gorgeous slice of seemingly effortless mid-tempo guitar pop the likes of which too few bands can muster these days, but that hardly stops them from trying, does it? Pay attension, folks. Master Forster and McLennan wrote the book. This version comes with a bonus disk of live material recorded in London in 2004 with a solid selection that spans their storied 27 year career. There you have it: Melodicsm incarnate.

Two omissions in the Dylan doc worth considering:

Ramblin' Jack Elliot, and the controversy surrounding the suggestion that Dylan's early act was actually more acquired from this one time playing partner to Woody Guthrie. He supposedly was called "ramblin'" because he was known to go off on long stories whenever he struck up a conversation with someone. Strange they'd include Odetta and Woody but no Jack. I haven't seen "The Ballad of Ramblin' Jack," a film made by his daughter that goes into more detail, but want to.

Also no mention of Richard Farina, the author/folksinger who was married to Joan Baez's sister, Mimi. They recorded a few great albums in the mid 60s before, get this, he died in a motorcycle crash (the same year Bob was in his own crash!) Now that would've made for an interesting twist. The book "Positively 4th Street: The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Farina and Richard Farina" by David Hajdu goes into greater detail.

Quite enjoyed the Dylan doc. All those clean-cut, pasty faced Brits accusing Bobby of selling out are worth the price of admission alone. And poor Pete Seeger!

I suppose for the Dylan obsessive there's not much new information here, but as someone whose exposure to 60s Bob largely starts and ends with D.A. Pennebaker's brilliant "Dont Look Back," it was quite revelatory, not to mention self-aggrandizing and hypnotic. There really is a lot of confusion surrounding Dylan (he likes it that way), so this attempt to set some things straight--and further confound at the same time--should be welcome by most. Also, young Dylan is simply the most photogenic hipster of all time.

I do love how his most popular song--as are most meaningful pop hits--is a cryptic indictment against a culture who doesn't really know how it feels to be "like a rolling stone," or want to know for that matter. A culture that doesn't get it, but loves to sing along. Who can blame 'em. Life as a rambler ain't no party.

Here's a great article, published earlier this year in The Nation that explores the many possible meanings of the song through a review of Greil Marcus's most recent Bob opus and a couple other recent bios which over-ponder the meanings of pop songs. Good stuff.

Dylan is IT...
Should've posted this earlier: Tune into PBS tonight (9/26) and tomorrow to see Martin Scorcese's "Bob Dylan: No Direction Home." It's not just the history of how Robert Zimmerman became Bob Dylan; it's more like the history of American folk music in general, at least the first half, anyway. It's also on DVD.

Two weeks ago it was the Finns; last night it was the Swedes. Saw Dungen (DOON-GEN) play at the Gypsy Tea Room with Mia Doi Todd opening, though we arrived too late to see her set. As Dungen walked on stage, looking very thin and Swedish, I shouted "FUCKING HIPPIES!" to which the long haired, bespectacled bass player murmured, "fuck oaf." He was sheepish and adorable. Head DUNG, Gustav Ejstes was positively princely in his faded Max's Kansas City tee shirt. It was obvious from their stage demeanor and the hotshit tourbus outside these lads fancied themselves superstars in the making. And as far as I'm concerned, that's not a problem. Their set was comprised almost entirely of the best songs off "Ta Det Lugnt" ("Take it Easy"), but my favorite parts were the extended jams. At least one track went off into Canterbury-an (and Swedish) prog psych utopia complete with flute and distended acid leads for a good 12 mins, and made me feel like it was 1971 all over again. Lovely stuff every step of the way...

Phone Pix:

The Frances Ford Coppola (the guy responsible for all those "Godfather" movies and the incredibly creepy/brilliant "The Conversation") is writing and directing "Youth Without Youth," based on a novella by Romanian author Mircea Ellade and starring Tim Roth. The auteur claims it will be his creative resurgance: "I have come here to rediscover myself as an artist," he told a gaggle of Romanian uni students recently. Fingers crossed, Frances! He's also producing a film version of Kerouac's Beat bible, "On The Road," directed by Brazilian Walter Salles, responsible for "The Bicycle Diaries," which was kind of like 'Che Goes On the Road'.

Full story.

More reviews someday.

When you have some spare time, goto google.com and type in 'failure' and click 'I'm feeling lucky.' Ha!

Two upcoming events of note:

First off, Instal 05, scheduled October 14-16, is gonna be incredible. Birchville Cat Motel/Black Boned Angel, Tetuzi Akiyama, Sun City Girls, Jandek, Up-tight, Miminokoto, Alan Licht, Tom Bruno and more(!), all playing the Arches in Glasgow. Sheesh! Maybe next year, mates.

Second, scope the new mega box set release from the Last Visible Dog empire:
The Invisible Pyramid: elegy box 6 CD compilation

LVD's second compilation and spiritual successor to Drunken Fish's Harmony of the Spheres box (EP length submissions), but instead of 6 artists, there are now 31. The set features all exclusive material, and the total running time clocks in around 7 hours and 36 minutes. This compilation, like the first Invisible Pyramid comp (2003), finds its inspiration in the writings of Loren Eiseley (naturalist, anthropologist, and essayist); for whom an elegy to the first victims of the still-escalating wave of man-made mass extinction seemed appropriate. Each artist has dedicated their track to a recently extinct species (with a short bio), and Jeff Knoch (Urdog) has written a substantial essay to accompany the set.

Disc 1: Black Forest/Black Sea, Birchville Cat Motel, Wolfmangler, Loren Chasse, Bardo Pond
Disc 2: es, Andrea Belfi & Stefano Pilia, Sunken, Kulkija, Tomu Tonttu
Disc 3: UP-TIGHT, Flies Inside the Sun, Uton, mudboy, Steven R. Smith
Disc 4: Keijo, Doktor Kettu, My Cat is an alien, One Inch of Shadow, Fursaxa
Disc 5: Ashtray Navigations, Peter Wright, Geoff Mullen, Urdog, Miminokoto
Disc 6: Area C, Ben Reynolds, Seht, Avarus, Renato Rinaldi, Matt De Gennaro

All for only $40...Wow!

I've been reading "American Splendor": I love the movie, but it must be said the comic (er, graphic novel) is where Harvey and his many collaborators really shine. The movie works more as a postmodern comment on life, art and "happiness," but the actual stories are closer to genuine literature with visual aids and keen observational moments that hit too close to home. Harvey Pekar (along with the visual style of R. Crumb) is as visionary as they come. His comic stories are all a tad more primal and ridiculous than reality...or maybe just painstakingly accurate representations of how life really is.

It was a gift from Travis: He lives here: While visiting St. Louis I encountered: And of course: (percussionist for Islaja).

Other pictures from my St. Louis trip. I also have live recordings from the weekend-- Islaja, The Skaters, Kuupuu, etc--for share on slsk. It was fun.

Louisiana 1927
What has happened down here is the winds have changed
Clouds roll in from the north and it started to rain
Rained real hard and it rained for a real long time
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangeline

The river rose all day
The river rose all night
Some people got lost in the flood
Some people got away alright
The river have busted through clear down to Plaquemines
Six feet of water in the streets of Evangelne

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tyrin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away

President Coolidge came down in a railroad train
With a little fat man with a note-pad in his hand
The President say, "Little fat man isn't it a shame what the river has done
To this poor crackers land."

Louisiana, Louisiana
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
Louisiana, Louisiana

They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
They're tryin' to wash us away
-Randy Newman

Lot of tragic shit has gone down over the last 10 days, fingerpointing and politicizing's galore. When it comes down to it, no matter what side of the aisle of you might fall on, some things need to be said, and not necessarily by me. MSNBC's Keith Olberman nails the stink of this mass tragedy more accurately and interlligently than anyone else I've encountered so far. Courtesy of Crooks and Liars:

Just the facts, ma'am.

This is a sad one. R.L. Burnside dead at 78. RIP, brother.

About 10 days later than planned, but here it is. Another Summer is ending. Wasn't too bad for the smoldering, but then if you'd told me New Orleans would be 75% under water today, I'd probably just have laughed nervously. Painful times. Shattering times. I feel so small and useless right now. "Thousands without food or water"..."Corpses on the streets"...And apparently snipers are shooting at rescue workers and shit's just going downhill. If this isn't hell on earth, it's far too close for comfort.

But it's important to move forward and look to any bright spots on the horizon. To send in those donations to the RED CROSS, too. Can't believe some of the hate rhetoric I've heard on "talk radio" today. The arrogant, heartless Monday-quarterback attitude needs to go. As for the rise of gas costs, take a bus. Take a walk. Blow up every Hummer you see. Nothing like this has EVER HAPPENED before. NO ONE can truly be prepared. The govt sure as fuck wasn't. If you aren't affected by this on a personal, compassionate level, you're probably not someone I want to invite over for dinner. [rant over]

Anyway...

...Been a while since I've covered anything remotely pop in these archives, so let's dare to toe-tap in the wake of disaster:

Summer's End Pop Roundup, Part One:

A band I've finally discovered, only about six years too late, is The Radar Bros. They pretty much perfected trance inducing Floydian psych rock on their self-titled debut way back in '96. Remarkable how well that minor masterpiece holds up today with its vintage tone and immaculate arrangements. "The Fallen Leaf Pages" (Merge) is not as good, but it's still a compelling mixture of their earlier atmospherics and bouncier psych pop. The Pernice Brothers weave a similar spell with "Discover a Lovelier You" (Ashmont Records), and come from a more upbeat perspective, sewing a melodic tapestry that's as informed by dreamy synth swirls as power pop and early 70s folk rock. This is the first PB album I've heard that feels like more than just a pastiche of eras and styles. The glorious "There Goes the Sun" and the funkier "My So-Called Celibate Life" are basically modern art pop classics. File under: Beach Boys, Flamin' Groovies, Aztec Camera.


I dug Sleater-Kinney's "Call the Doctor" album way back when it came out and then largely lost interest as the trio got more ambitious and became indie rock icons. Not much for such institutions. "The Woods" (Sub Pop) knocked me out of my chair though. One of the more masterfully bombastic punk/psych/noise pop albums released this year. Pretty much everything about it sounds right, from accessible pop nuggets to crashing power chord blowouts. Like Nirvana or even Cheap Trick, the trio defines melodic, radio ready fuzz and kicks burly ass in the process. Dave Fridmann's raw production helps greatly, but it's these ladies' chops and hooks that leave me head-banging and hand-clapping.

Cobra Verde is one of America's best kept secrets, as heard on their brilliant "Easy Listening" album, a raucous glam metal punk mash that you should ckeck out asap if you haven't. So potent was its creative expulsion that the boys decided to release "Copycat Killers" (Scat) next as they considered their next move in the studio. As you might've guessed by now, it's a covers collection that features everything from Pink's "Get This Party Started" (Think Faust goes reggae and then crank it to 12) and Leonard Cohen's "So Long Marianne" (sounding like mid period Church or Jesus and Mary Chain with big booming percussion and boatloads of reverb) to the Flamin' Groovies "Yesterday's Numbers" (note for note and exquisite!), but the pick of the litter is probably their creeping/sensual take on the Stones' "Play With Fire." These guys rule because they're a "punk band" that obviously has a deep affection for the best newwave, glam, garage boogie and good old fashioned songwriters. This version of New Order's "Temptation" is pretty much perfect. "I Feel Love" (the old Giorgio Moroder disco hit) is an absolute blast of house beats and blistering Bonham-esque gallops. Closer to Hawkwind than any disco I've ever heard. There's so much affection in these tight, thunderous performances, such masterful production. These guys pretty much deserve every ounce of recognition they receive.

OH WOW! 30 sec Quicktime sound clips:
"Temptation"
"I Want You"
"Play With Fire"


"La Forêt" (5RC) by Xiu Xiu should be the breakthrough Jamie Stewart and his capable ensemble have been promising for years now. I've been a fan ever since the first time I heard "Hives Hives," a howling clash of desolate post punk defiance and crumbling industrial grime from their "Knife Play" album, but Stewart's alienating, sexually confused perspective could be as daunting as his musical inconsistency. My response was usually something along the lines, "get over yourself already and just do what you were born to do!" And that is sing pretty/cryptic songs over a lacerating bed of pulsating rhythms, rabid acoustic/electric guitars, seething synth and other sound-makers. Folks might get pissed when listening to Xiu Xiu because it's just so obvious that they could step beyond confrontational shock into sheer greatness if they really wanted to, but that's not very pfr [punk fuckin' rock], is it?

Thematically "La Forêt" is just as bilious as all that's come before, but it's sweetened with an influx of strummy acoustic guitars and hypnotic pop hooks that are consistently compelling. Opener "Clover" makes the point obvious from the outset with distant guitar strums and Stewart's tense vocal murmur (think Talk Talk's Mark Hollis on antidepressants) giving way to the most languid vibes and cello interplay. If the hair on the back doesn't respond aptly, you probably don't have a pulse. Elsewhere, a sparkling percussive glimmer segues into a thumping beat, blaring synth, impassioned vocal eruptions and, finally, total noise overload on "Muppet Face"--a title that has a special resonance with me because I used to describe a character from one of my recurring dreams as "muppet face." Synth and indie pop guitars merge perfectly in the jangly laserbeam woosh of "Pox."

Where previous Xiu Xiu albums seemed designed to occasionally shock the listener out of any perceived comfort zone with jarring sonic terror and lyrical anguish, the juxtapositions on "La Forêt" are more subtle and carefully thought, without sacrificing any of Xiu Xiu's paranoid intensity. "Saturn" is a barage of crumbling industrial groans and buried vocals, but it's followed by the deep synth swell of "Rose of Sharon" which is closer to early Eno and Nico's classic 70s albums than Joy Division or Throbbing Gristle. It's a beaut, for certain. And then there's "Bog People" (a video of which is included with the CD), which is probably my favorite kind of Xiu Xiu song--frenzied and freaked out--but with a vibrant humanisim running through its core that can't really be denied. To Mr. Stewart: Thank you for listening.

You scored as Young Buck.

You are the crayziest in your crew, noone messes with you. If a person messes with anyone with your crew u make them pay, and if cops get involved well you just add them to the problems.

Young Buck-----------------------81%

50 cent--------------------------75%

Tony Yayo------------------------75%

Lloyd Banks----------------------69%

The Game-------------------------44%

Which G-Unit member are you?

8/28/05, Austin, TX:

Like the night, he crept onto the stage slowly and deliberately. There were three other performers in his band (two drummers and a bassist), but he still loomed solitary and apart. His frame was tall and slender, like an emaciated prisoner or a wilted dustbowler.

He approached the guitar case carefully, opened it, placed a book on the music stand, took strap in hand and attached it before sliding the ax over his shoulder. He said nothing the entire night. But oh, how he sang.






(Thanks to Nick H. for this awesome pic. Yes, that's Nick's pretty head popping up in the lower back.)

I could say more, but somehow it'd betray the sacredness of the evening. 90 mins: some genuine rock-out moments, a constant stumbling aura that was as nerveracking as it was mystifying, as based in the blues as jazz. Jandek is the most angular of them all. His shadow projected against the side curtain will haunt me for many moons. Nick Hennies and Chris Cogburn (two of Austin's finest avant percussionists) were on skins, and a boy named Juan Garcia was on bass.

The show was here:
The Austin Scottish Rite Temple and Theater is a beautiful historical Masons lodge situated in the heart of downtown Austin. The night was filmed and recorded (but not by me! *wink, wink*). Barry Esson from Scotland even made the trip.

For obvious reasons, the New Orleans show (9/02/05) is canceled, though such an apocalyptic setting somehow seems proper for a Jandek concert. In Austin all the desolation just tends more to be internalized. My heart goes out to all those suffering through the floods and rising tides in NO. It's a beautiful city, and I pray she can recover, but I'm really afraid it will never be the same there.

Make a donation for the victims of Hurricane Katrina here.

More info on the Jandek shows can be found here.

I love how when you look at someone, and you're on say, LSD or mushrooms or whatever, and all you see is that person...not the layers of bullshit they present to the world...just who they are. You can look at a beautiful woman and you don't see this vision of pornographic lust; you just see a woman, a beautiful woman, a cute girl, a nervous smile, plenty of lovely shapes and curves. The great equalizer....

The two best movies I saw this Summer were the unlikely pairing of "The Devil's Rejects" and "Grizzly Man."

"The Devil's Rejects" is a solid slice of b movie shtick galvanized by a well chosen southern rock soundtrack and moments of tortured sadistic brilliance. The movie this is a sequel to, "House of 1000 Corpses," was a passable homage cum rip-off of "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" (without a doubt the greatest over the top psycho horror freakout ever conceived. The opening scene alone is worth the price of admission) but hardly memorable.

Rob Zombie has slightly altered his genre this time out to a road movie / crime spree romp across the West Texas flatlands, and it works a lot better thanks to some lovably disturbed leading characters (mainly Bill Mosely's "Otis" and Sid Haig's "Captain Spaulding"), gallows humor and a bizarre supporting cast of familiar faces from the American b movie/sitcom wastelands. This drops him squarely in Tarantinoville, though Zombie is not near the filmmaker Tarantino is; for proof of QT's genre mastery, just check out the final sword fight blow-out that concludes "Kill Bill Vol. 1"--phenomenal! Rob makes up for it with his own ridiculous sense of excess and style (which is about what you'd expect after seeing a White Zombie video). That being said, he uses too much slow motion for my taste, but then it's a genre convention, and I'm all about genre. Favorite moments: Hearing the Allman's "Midnight Rider" over a montage of Otis and Baby running through yellow fields as they evade the law, broken up with 70s styled action stills; Otis torturing and slaying two good ol' boys in an industrial area as he philosophizes about what it really means to be free.

""Grizzly Man"" is inspired by a similar desire to exist outside of society, to know "true freedom," but it's an entirely more haunting and impenetrable work. Werner Herzog's latest documentary is among his very greatest films, and that's largely because of Tim Treadwell, a self-made naturalist superhero who is at once noble, tragic, comedic, pathetic. He's damaged, as we all are, to the point that he'd rather hang out for months at a time with gigantic grizzlies and foxes in the Alaskan wilderness than deal with the world of man. His life is a metaphor for so many ideas and desires--and Herzog too, someone who is at once enthrall and deeply resentful of nature.

Treadwell is the ultimate Herzogian protagonist. He's sensitive, self made, ostracized, alienated, living on the line between domestication/the wild, reality/fantasy, sanity/insanity, love/loss. He's a character that I think will stay with me always. Just like Aguirre or Fitzcarraldo or Kaspar Hauser, Herzog has found someone who not only represents the many boundaries we all negotiate through the "grizzly maze" of life, but himself too--a larger than life persona and fiercely independent filmmaker. It's easy to see why Herzog was so drawn to Treadwell. He [Treadwell] still had hope long after society had broken him; he just had to travel deep into the heart of darkness to find it. But as Herzog says in his haunted, often strangely humorous narration, "violence rules the universe," or some such, and ultimately there is no line between the wild and civilization: The same rules apply everywhere. For more info, here's a fascinating article from the Christian Science Monitor that shows that Treadwell and Herzog's kinship runs deeper than even the film might suggest. Thanks to Ben Judson at Eat Worms for forwarding this.

Happy birthday to my Dad, the most honest guy I know.

No spoilers...

There's a telling moment in the recently broadcast series finale of HBO's "Six Feet Under" (which will soon be on DVD), where Claire, the youngest, most artistic of the Fisher clan, tells her decidedly opposite Bush-voting boyfriend that he "possibly has the most unhip musical taste ever." I don't know if you've ever seen "Six Feet Under," the series set in and around a mortuary home and the family that works and lives in it. It's a kind of surreal soap opera lent weight and depth by great acting, deep characterizations, constant unpredictability and both a human understanding of death and a willingness to laugh in its face. Within the three Fisher children (and the rest of the clan) just about the entirety of emotional existence for the so-called everyman is explored. By "everyman" I just mean those of us who stumble along our paths regularly but for whatever reason maintain hopes and desires that reach for the sky. We don't give up.

Elder son Nate is most like "us," or at least me. He's a likeable, impulsive guy with a big heart and not the best judgment. He's also a bit of a fuck-up who gets away with it most of the time because of his charm and good looks (I may be charming, but cute is a stretch). When he comes back to work at the funeral home because of the inevitable family tragedy, he literally faces death, and his own inadequacies, the only way he knows how: honestly and emotionally. It's Nate's desire to be so true and "emotionally available" with everyone--but himself--that often pushes people away. He's the most troubled character on the show, which in a way makes him the most accessible.

David, the middle Fisher child, is something else, both uptight and upright, and an in the closet homosexual till the show's beginning (the first season is largely devoted to his coming out). David and his on/off/on boyfriend, a former cop (!) named Keith, are good people in the truest sense, but they make mistakes just like the rest of us. Every impulsive act, meltdown and mending is lent a universal depth that makes them utterly human and transcends any sexual boundaries or stereotypes. The songs of the great Magnetic Fields come to mind in David and Keith's scenes of domestication. Stephin Merritt may be gay, but he's a person first, and the gender of the characters in his songs is almost a moot point in light the poetry of their words and actions. "Six Feet Under" works just like that. It's a show that strips away all the layers and facade of who we are--that as the things we most see in our day to day interactions--to reveal the soul and humanity beneath.

Even though Claire knows her boyfriend is a total dork, the kind who simply "hears a song on the radio, likes it, and goes and buys the CD at the store," she can't help but respect that simple logic. The purity of an action that isn't tainted by more elitist considerations that might drive the choices of the uber-hip undergroundist, possibly like some reading this here diary of indulgence. And ya know what? I know this guy. He's a friend of mine. He's a lawyer. He's money obsessed and kind of a dork in the art sense, but he's true to himself in a way that I often doubt in the indie/art scene. There's a lot more posing here than there ever was in so called mainstream society. I sometimes think I'm still a poseur too, and that I always will be. And I'm not sure it's a bad thing if I at least recognize that it's a natural impulse to want to be something else, be it better, beautiful, intelligent, "profound"... The goal is to step beyond the boundary of pretending to being, or to be more accurate, doing. Claire sees a guy that's comfortable with being, and who can blame her for wanting to have some of that in her life? Especially after a year or two of art school.

One of my favorite story devices in SFU is the inclusion of ghosts, not the kind that moan or go bump in the night, but they certainly haunt. These ghosts are merely an accumulation of memories as refracted through the minds of whoever sees them. What a concept, eh? It gives me shivers just thinking about it. One day we will all just be an accumulation of memories in someone's mind. Each person in the show sees his or her ghost a different way because their relationship to that person is unique. In other words, the ghosts are just surrogates for his/her own conscience. We all strive to be better, yes? At least I do, and I often wonder if my own judgment is enough. I tend to look to others for approval and dismissal, but always wish that my own was enough as I do so. Needless to say "Six Feet Under" gets to the heart of being and loving in a way that no other show ever really has, though the ones that come close are also HBO original productions.

Which reminds me, I love HBO. Last night I watched a show about porn stars with John Waters. Life is good, if not cheap.