Coming from their fucking fantastic debut 1967 LP Safe as Milk, the album opener "Sure 'Nuff 'n Yes I Do" takes the blues and puts the throttle down in one triumphantly brash blast. With then-20-year-old Ry Cooder getting an "arrangement by" credit for the tune and being a full-fledged member of The Magic Band at the time, this isn't just the debut for Don Van Vliet's sprawling, raucous brainchild.
Some of you whippersnappers may also recognize the song from having been covered twice on the Lawless soundtrack, once by Ralph Stanley and once by Mark Lanegan with Nick Cave, Warren Ellis, and Co. providing the backing band in the form of The Bootleggers. It's so good, Nick Cave decided it needed to be in the film twice. If ever you needed a stamp of approval, there you have it.
The first song available to listen to from the forthcoming Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds album, Push the Sky Away--less than two months away, bitches--is up. As someone who already has tickets for the nearest show that the tour-hating Bad Seeds are playing to Austin (until of course they announce three fucking SXSW shows that no normal person will be able to go to), I'm excited for this record. This song does nothing to quell my excitement. Despite its title, the song is great. The effects on the organ are fantastic.
Director John Hillcoat and long-time friend and part-time collaborator Nick Cave's latest feature together Lawless may not be as fully-realized or as well-executed an effort as their last project together 2005's The Proposition, but it's a helluva ride nonetheless.
Set in the hills of Appalachia during the Prohibition Era, we are brought into a rural America that is being encroached upon by the larger urban powers that be, both lawful and unlawful. It is an interesting backdrop, and Lawless gives us a region and a people at a crossroads, a time and place in which these western Virginians had an overarching desire to simply hold onto their way of life. More so than perhaps anyone else in this world, the Bondurant boys want to keep a grip on their way of life and by means that at times defy logic and reason they will stand up to whatever outside forces attempt to act against them.
As the leader of the family, Forrest Bondurant, Tom Hardy is fantastic. His performance is positively inspired. Each moment he is on screen is a moment in which the film is enriched for his having been there. His natural physicality is brilliantly contrasted by an otherwise soft-spoken mumble-filled performance; he is socially reserved and a bit awkward but underneath lies a darkness and brutality waiting to boil over, spilling over onto everything around him. For his part, Jason Clarke--in a role with much less meat--fully embodies the less refined, less reserved, more inclined to indulging his id bootlegging brother. Rounding out the Brothers Bondurant, Shia LaBeouf is serviceable if not spectacular as the youngest and weakest of the bunch, the one who gets too big for his britches as it were. He is supposed to be a bit feckless and disproportionately cocksure, but it's hard to get past the fact that he looks pretty haggard and booze-soaked even when he's not supposed to be.
In support (or at times opposition) of the brothers, the rest of the cast is exceptionally well-cast. Jessica Chastain, continuing on in her string of outstanding turns, is great, holding her own against an otherwise almost entirely male cast and with a role that's not brimming over with rich subtext and backstory. She is stunning, and once again imbues her character with a quiet humanity that very few can infuse into their roles as seamlessly and effortlessly. In a lesser role, Gary Oldman, ever the chameleon, sinks into his role as big city mobster Floyd Banner as he has done hundreds of times before. But the most impressive performance (aside from Hardy's) comes from Guy Pearce, who is unrecognizable in appearance, manner, and performance. As an effete city cop with a streak of brutality and a disturbing sexuality about him, Pearce was brilliant. Complete with perhaps the most disturbing hairstyle ever, Pearce is the slimiest dandy cop imaginable, and he plays this with such elan that it simultaneously makes you marvel at the depravity while being shaken.
To compliment a spectacular cast, screenwriter Cave and Warren Ellis took to working up a brilliant soundtrack, one that hasn't left the CD player in the car in weeks. Between employing the likes of Ralph Stanley, Willie Nelson, Emmylou Harris, and Mark Lanegan, reworking tunes by Captain Beefheart, The Velvet Underground, Link Wray, John Lee Hooker, and Grandaddy, and writing songs anew, the soundtrack is so much goddamn fun.
As for the script, it manages to be significantly more fun than Cave's last time out. For all of the serious subject matter and the dire straits the Bondurants find themselves in, Lawless is actually quite funny, a trait that one wouldn't generally apply to The Proposition. Given his penchant for extreme violence, it is amusing to read Cave saying in interviews that the book from which the film is adapted (The Wettest County in the World) is jarringly violent and that much of the violence simply couldn't come through to the screen. The violence is still there and would appear to stay true to the way it manifests itself in the book, being jarring precisely because of how the lyricism in the book so suddenly gives way to darkness. The balance is struck quite well, and the quieter or more pastoral scenes of Appalachian Prohibition Era life contrast well with the violence that colors the film.
For Hillcoat's part, the film looks fantastic, and the whole thing comes together quite nicely. While not entirely perfect, Lawless is a good damn time and delivers on the promise that the assembly of the pieces involved possesses. Hillcoat largely has the sublime performances of Tom Hardy and Guy Pearce to thank for that, but they do make Lawless a helluva good time.
At this point, you should know the drill. We're using the UK versions. They are readily available online. Series One is available on Netflix Instant, Blu-ray, and DVD (I have no fucking idea how to get rid of that goddamn white box).
This week's installment finds the fabled "Season" having just come to an end. The Family Crawley, sans Lady Mary, has returned from London and the balls of high society. It is July of 1914. Franz Ferdinand has just been assassinated. Those with a cursory knowledge of world history knows what that means. Matthew's proposal hangs in the air, while Mary hangs back in London with her idiot aunt, Rosamund. Via Evelyn Napier, Mary discovers the source of the scurrilous (though true) rumors was in fact her awful sister, Edith. Cora finds out that she is with child, much to Robert's surprise. O'Brien gets news of the exact nature of the crimes of which Bates had been convicted--the theft of regimental silver--and she and supreme shitbird Thomas set upon scheming to take down Bates, a common theme. Anna and Mrs. Patmore go to London to have Patmore's cataracts removed on Lord Grantham's dime. Molesley sees Thomas rooting around in Mr. Carson's wallet. Carson and Lord Grantham decide that Thomas must be shit-canned as soon as the upcoming garden party is over. Mary, upon finding out that Matthew may not inherit the title of Lord Grantham, sees the footing upon which a fruitful union can be built losing stability and begins to hem and haw. Matthew takes her hesitation as a sign that she does not love him, eventually deciding he needs to leave Downton for his own good. Anna finds out the true nature of Bates's crime, marrying poorly; it was his wife who nicked the sterling. O'Brien, sensing a sacking on the way, resents what she perceives as a slight from Cora and leaves a half-bar of wet soap at the foot of the bath. She has second thoughts but is not fast enough. Cora slips, falls, and miscarries in the bathroom. It was a boy. Lord Grantham weeps for his unborn son but finds solace in the fact that Bates need not go anywhere. A garden party is had. In the most Downton way possible, Bates declares his love for Anna to Molesley. War is declared.
Wordy Ginters: Another great episode. I like the rollicking pace, plot pay-offs coming as hard and fast as the historical markers in the back drop.
Josh "Old Man" Duggan: The pace was fucking breakneck here. It's almost hard to catch your breath. This episode was about fifteen minutes longer than the rest of the episodes of the season, yet the action seemed to unfurl itself with such ferocity that it made the episode seem shorter than the rest.
WG: What know you of the "season" phenomena? The swells gather to marry off children and mingle? Lick the silver spoon, drink from the golden cup, and smoke the finest weed? Shout out to my man Everlast, a big Downton Abbey fan who lurks here often.
OMD: According to TSLF, all the aristocratic families from the countryside flock to the city (London) and attend balls. It's basically the debutante scene. Families throw galas. Daughters "come out." Usually a family would just introduce one daughter a season, meaning that the Bennett daughters all coming out at the same time in Pride and Prejudice was gauche. This was obviously Lady Sybil's first season. It being Mary's fourth season while remaining unattached is the subject of much consternation on her parents' part, especially since Mary seems to be her own worst enemy.
WG: I was digging the gear his lord and lady were sporting when they opened the episode rolling into Downton via car. I don't know about you, when I go on a road trip, I'm rocking the casual gear. A matching velour top and bottom track suit, slip on shoes. Maybe I shouldn't bring up footwear. Evidently back in the day, you had to dress up like the Wright brothers to drive.
OMD: You best believe that I'm sporting my driving gloves, (No glove? No love.) and I've always made sure to get my riding scarf in position snugly 'round my neck. You'll not see me wearing driving goggles, however, as I'm already bespectacled. Otherwise, just my standard attire of boxers, blazer, and baseball cleats. Nothing more. Nothing less. To be fair, were I alive in 1914, I'd surely have dressed like the Wright brothers, but not just for driving in the country.
WG: Lady Grantham is pregnant! Hard to imagine a sex life for those two. Don't get me wrong, I've always found Cora to be attractive. It just seems that his lordship would find the act of humping as too undignified. I think it speaks well of their relationship that they still knock it out every now and again.
OMD: His Lordship seems to be most concerned by doing what's best for the masses. That includes but is not limited to getting his hump on, dignity be damned. That they sleep together--rather unusual for the time--speaks volumes to his affinity for keeping warm at night via the good old-fashioned means of body heat. Perhaps Cora was raised by eskimos, who taught her both how to keep warm at night and how to properly catch whales, the latter being the means by which she amassed her fortune.
Lord Grantham's desire to hear nothing of womanly matters from Dr. Clarkson was hilarious. Your earlier mention of boot-knocking being too lacking in dignity for his Lordship certainly applies here. I also really loved the scene where Robert is about to head into the library when Sybil jumps in and tells him that he cannot go in there because Gwen is getting interviewed for the secretary position with the phone company. His reaction at having been overruled by one of his daughters reminded me of how often Coach Taylor, a stately chap blessed with an innate sense of command and responsibility in his own right, was summarily put into his place by his wife or daughter on Friday Night Lights.
WG: Alas, I have not cracked the Friday Night Lights serial. Buzz Bissinger and Peter Berg together again? I've heard good things. What never goes out of style is men acting like paternal stick up the arses. Good for Sybil. No one else gets over on his Lordship like Lady Sybil.
OMD: Berg brought it to the small screen, but handed the reigns over to show-runner Jason Katims almost immediately. Cousin Bissinger is actually not involved with the show at all. The show, as I've mentioned many, many times in this forum is awesome. The best programming that network television has had to offer in ages, if not ever. As for Sybil, the youngest certainly owns his Lordship. I think he wilts at her determination. Brava, Sybil. Brava.
WG: Did you catch the quote Mary had when Napier dropped a dime on Edith? I believe she directly mentioned "face to face" in her conversation, which is a fairly obvious endorsement of the F2FA theory as the cause of Pamuk's ultimate demise.
OMD: With as coy as Fellowes & Co. get with their cheeky dialogue, one cannot help but assume that they are getting to the heart of the matter: F2FA. It never leaves Mary's mind. Forbidden Turkish fruit has its way of doing that to a fancy lass.
WG: As we've mentioned before, the show challenges viewers to follow some unspoken plot advancement and twists, which is refreshing. The cinematography is sometimes brilliant as well. The scene including his Lordship and Matthew discussing Mary's ruminatin' on the marriage vows was stunning.
OMD: Refreshing indeed. As for the photography, it is beautiful. Tasteful, restrained British opulence or the verdant grounds of Downton in every frame. First, it looks as though they're on a stroll at Augusta, then they've got the beautiful Jacobethan styling of Highclere Castle as the backdrop in the next frame.
WG: For the first time, Bates' body language looked defeated. When Carson came in to share the contents of the "gotcha" note that had been procured by O'Brien, he looked frail and small. First time I'd noticed that in the series.
OMD: I am still not quite sure why this note should have been so damning coming so hot on the heels of Bates's confession to the very misdeeds cited in the note. Bates, while wearing defeat like a leaden cloak, is ultimately a scrapper. Somehow it seems as though no matter what shit gets thrown at him, he's going to end up persevering--a modern-day telling of the Job story, I hope.
WG: Liked the Bates line, "astonished at your kindness" in response to Carson's on-going deliberations throughout the episode. I know you linked the Nick Cave tune last week, since I've been going thru a Cave phase lately, it reminded me of mebbe my fave Cave song: "Stranger Than Kindness" from Your Funeral... My Trial. First proper Cave album I owned. I think I found him via a sampler, Neil Young covers--a benefit album/fund raiser for some org called "The Bridge." He covered "Helpless." Loved it, went to the local record store and scored YFMT. Loved it. Still do. Might be my fave Cave album.
OMD: Great line for sure. The first Nick Cave album I had was Let Love In. If memory serves me correctly, my introduction to the band was through The X-Files--that Songs in the Key of X pseudo soundtrack. I wish I was cool enough to say that I was into The Birthday Party and followed Cave over. I suppose I'd have been a really cool kindergartener if I'd been able to say that I'd been into The Birthday Party since I was born and that I was still unsure as to how I'd feel about Cave with his Bad Seeds. Personally, I go to Murder Ballads first, and then jump up to The Lyre of Orpheus / Abattoir Blues double LP.
WG: Both excellent choices. No More Shall We Part is a fave around these parts. Have you dug backwards beyond that stuff? I LOVE the Birthday Party stuff, it appeals to an angry noise aesthetic that I've got a soft spot for. I found it late as well, only after immersing myself in Cave. Your Funeral... My Trial, Kicking Against the Pricks, Henry's Dream, and The Good Son are all great records. Repeated listening is richly rewarded.
OMD: On the Cave front, I have everything but From Her to Eternity, Kicking Against the Pricks, and Tender Prey. Don't ask me why I don't have them. There's no rationale. Simply a lack of time. I'm definitely keener on their later sound. As for The Birthday Party, it's definitely noisier than I'm typically into, which is why I've never really gone whole-hog on them.
WG: O'Brien. An excellent antagonist. Loathsome. She hits all the wrong notes in this episode. Fellowes rounds the corners a bit by having O'Brien stare into the mirror and attempt to convince herself that the conniving double-dealing harpy isn't who she really is. It's easy to hate O'Brien, but you have to feel a little pull there. I'm wondering if she's going to go The Godfather route and split her wrists in a warm tub so she doesn't embarrass her old school brother from Sicily.
OMD: It's a great scene. One word comes to mine. That word is phonetically contained within the words "country singer." A fate that you describe would be letting her off too easily. I want pain. I want blood. I want a torturous demise. I love the twist of the knife that comes later when she discovers that the advertised position was to replace the Dowager Countess's maid. I hope this eats away at her and eventually drives her over the cliff into a state of madness from which she cannot come back.
How great was Bates telling Molesley in only the way that Fellowes would have it done that he loves Anna? In the third person: "He's very keen. Very keen indeed."
WG: That was maybe the highlight of the episode filled with highlights. I loved it. Also, was that Bates in make up playing his own mother? The resemblance was striking. Too lazy to look at the DVD materials, but I'm wondering if it was a blood relative.
OMD You'll love this. It was actually Jane Wenham who played Bates's mum. Jane Wenham was in a bunch of British shit I've never heard of. She was also married to Albert Finney, having popped out a son, Simon, who works as a camera operator.
A single from The Prodigy succintly describes what should happen to her
OMD: I'd love to smack the hell out of Lady Rosamund right about now...
WG: If I were the Dowager, I would say something half corny, half biting, but I ain't got it in me. Oh, wait... The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
OMD: How great was William pounding on Thomas? Thomas has always been a shit, and despite the fact that the hammer is moments away from being brought down on the snaky footman, it's nice to see mild-mannered William give Thomas a once-over. William should make Thomas fluff his pillow (non-sexually) every night until Thomas is out of the house.
WG: The pay-off wasn't as brutal as I was hoping for. I thought Bates might come in to bat clean up. It was cleansing to see someone finally put a fist in Thomas's smart mouth. His unraveling throughout the show was a pleasure to watch. That he appears to be a step ahead regardless is a little galling, but at least he got mussed up a bit. Dude wears some sweet vests. He's got the Gordon Gekko horizontal herringbone thing going on. I like it. I wish they had those sweet vests at Target, I'd be wearing one to the pool this summer.
OMD We should start up a vest shoppe. We'll call it The Vestibule. Vests for all shapes and sizes. It'll catch on like wildfire.
OMD: I loved Cora's response to Lady Edith's sad plea for maternal approval after Cora congratulates Sybil on a season well done. "Don't I? You're very helpful, dear." If Edith weren't such a--what was the word I alluded to earlier?--country singer, you could almost start feel bad for her. That "slut" line draws any last opening for sympathy emphatically shut. Now we get to sit back and take perverse pleasure in every slight that comes her way.
WG: Mary may be named after the Mother of Christ, but she can bring the revenge like a little devil. Revenge is a dish best served cold. At a garden party. With iced cakes and war declarations.
OMD: The father/daughter dynamic between Carson and Lady Mary was here in full-force again. First with Carson's assumption that Lady Mary would never turn Matthew's proffered engagement down, assuming the best in his daughter by proxy. Mrs. Hughes's response--"Mr. Carson, Lady Mary Crawley does not deserve you"--was priceless. I love how differently the two heads of house see everything as pertains to Mary. Later, of course, he, not Lord Grantham, is there to console his near-daughter as she is beside herself at the prospect of having to live without Matthew around, having squandered her best chance at happiness in marriage.
WG: I'm man enough to admit that the dynamic between Carson and Mary is sweet. Like two fluffy kittens struggling to escape a wicker laundry basket. It makes me feel warm inside.
OMD: Speaking of Carson, how great was his phone practicing? I'd love to watch that for an hour.
WG: I'm right there with you. The sense of dignity and duty he brings to the most mundane tasks is inspirational. I would imagine his bowel movements involve a certain decorum and order that would seem otherworldly in today's bathroom culture. Which is in rapid decline. I'm working on a position paper entitled "The Shame of Public Shitting," which attacks both the shoddy and generally unclean state of public restrooms in the City of Lincoln Nebraska, and also the complex psychological issues that crop up in a restroom.
OMD: A friend of mine wanted to write a book detailing the best bathrooms in the land. My personal favorite is the bathroom in the Marfa Bookstore. Not overly glamorous, but classy. Simple. It's bi-fold focus lies equally on utility and cleanliness.
As for this episode, it was such a great close to the first series. It brings a semblance of closure to the necessary arcs while setting the pieces in place for a [spoiler alert] great second series. War is upon us. Batten down the goddamn hatches.
And so ends Series One. We pick right up again next week with Series Two (here on Blu-ray and DVD and also stream-able on Netflix Instant).
This song was my gateway into the dark twisted world of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. It was featured on the Songs in the Key of X compilation--an anthology of songs tied to The X-Files either in theme or actually having been featured on the show. Chris Carter actually stated that "Red Right Hand" had been the inspiration for putting the collection together in the liner notes for the collection. While not a huge single at the time of Let Love In's release in 1994, even in Australia or the UK, its mark has been much more significant than its charting would imply, as it's been featured in all of the first three Scream movies (in one way, shape, or form), Dumb and Dumber, and Cirque du Freak: The Vampire's Assistant. That last credit makes it only the second weirdest gateway to the modern youth demographic with that dance in the tent scene in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 1, taking the cake for most unexpected place to find Nick Cave.
The phrase "red right hand" is from John Milton's Paradise Lost and is a reference to the vengeful hand of god, according to Wikipedia.
It occurs to me that I've not talked about Grinderman in these here parts. All I should have to say is Nick Cave to sell their worth to the unindoctrinated. Off of Grinderman 2, which is sadly going to be their last record, here is "Heathen Child."
Finishing off our Males with Female Relationship Issues Week, we come to the culmination of man's inability to have a healthy relationship with a woman in the form of the macabre duet "Where the Wild Roses Grow." Oft accused of being a misogynist (as a fan, these claims may not be baseless, having just finished The Death of Bunny Munro), Nick Cave teams with Kylie Minogue, singing from the point-of-view of the murdered Eliza Day from beyond the grave, in this song from the fantastic album Murder Ballads from 1996.
Picking up on the roses motif in "Holland, 1945" and running with the weekly theme, this is even darker than the Damien Jurado turn on the pseudo-jukebox, as this song details a devious courtship followed by cold-blooded (and overt) murder.
I like Nick Cave. A lot. Enough to travel from Austin to Portland to see him (with the Bad Seeds) in concert. The Death of Bunny Munro was a tough read.
Perhaps it was the fact that I was reading this simultaneously with Bukowski's Post Office, but reading something that made me feel like an unforgivable bastard just for being equipped with male genitalia is not the most appealing proposition. The titular character is loathsome. He is controlled by his id, chasing tail recklessly (and often reprehensibly) across the pages of the novel. Surviving his wife (whose suicide can largely be pinned on his wanton skirt-chasing ways), he brings his son along on the road with him while he makes cosmetics sales calls. He unravels, but the voyage is simply tiresome.
Upon finishing the book, the only feeling left is relief at not having to read any further, which is sad because Cave has such a penchant for writing compelling music leaving you wanting more.
Let us begin this post with a warning for the men out there: Do not read this book concurrently with Nick Cave's The Death of Bunny Munro unless you want to feel like the worst person alive.
With that warning out of the way, this was my first experience with Bukowski. Weird, I know, but I finally got around to it. As an introduction Post Officewas a perfectly suitable introduction. It seemed an apt representation of what I had expected a Bukowski novel to be. The bouncing around from one dysfunctional sexual relationship to another was present. Many trips to the race track were there. Alcohol was Henry Chinaski's lifeblood. Countless hours were spent a meaningless job in which Chinaski's apathy plays to great comic effect.
Given what I knew of Bukowski, this was an acerbic gem of a novel that reads effortlessly. While his prose is generally simple, it suits the directness of Chinaski, the first-person narrator. While Chinaski is essentially adrift in a world populated by fellow lowlifes and obstructionist bureaucrats, both of which serve as comic foils for his selfish and anti-social behavior.
While I wouldn't recommend reading Bukowski concurrently with Bunny Munro unless you want to feel like a total bastard, Post Office was a helluva read. There were more than a handful of times in which I found myself laughing aloud. Is it high-art? Probably not. But fuck Ulysses.
As I briefly mentioned ages ago, one could hardly call me a fan of these movies. The first two were utter failures--Chris Columbus's direction was awful. Maybe kids enjoyed them, but there was nothing in them for adults, and I was of legal drinking age when TSLF dragged me to the first one. Once Alfonso Cuarón took the reins in The Prisoner of Azkaban, the series was rebranded. Cuarón's successors, Mike Newell and especially David Yates, have continued on following his example, and the results have been mostly good. Yes, the series is still a bit hokey at times, but it has gotten slightly more adult as the characters have aged.
Now, as I mentioned in the aforelinked article, TSLF had some concerns upon finding out that the final installment of the series was being split into two parts. The primary concern lied with the fact that nothing happens in the first half of the last book*. If the final book were to be split in to, it would stand to reason that it would be split roughly in the middle. What does that mean for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 1?
*For the record, I have not nor do I intend to read any of the books. I have bigger fish to fry.
Longest.
Camping movie.
Ever.
So for 153 minutes of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and now 146 minutes of The Deathly Hallows: Part 1 essentially nothing has happened. Think of it like a really long Empire Strikes Back. Now as we all know, that doesn't equate to it being bad necessarily. In the case of Empire, much of its worth is tied directly to the fact that George Lucas's involvement in the film did not include either a screenwriting or directing credit, but that doesn't mean that it isn't similar in spirit to this film. Both are penultimate build-ups to what should be a huge ending. Fortunately, there will be no goddamn Ewoks in Part 2. Unfortunately, no gold bikini, unless I'm reading this series entirely incorrectly.
As for the cast, well, we all know what they're bringing to the table. Daniel Radcliffe brings this...
Emma Watson is cute and pulls off bookish well. The kid (or dude, now, I guess) who plays Ron* does that thing that he does.
*His name--and yes, I had to check the credits for this--is Rupert Grint.
And it's all fine and good.
It's just nothing really happens. If you go to movies as much as I do, this probably won't bother you too much. In an eight-film series, 299 minutes isn't really that much time in which nothing happens. Hell, nothing really happened in the entire second season of Lost.
Now, if the ultimate installment, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2 blows ass, then you'll be dealing with a camper almost as unhappy as Peter Johansen after the finale of BSG, but until then I'm willing to allow for this to have been the longest camping movie ever.
For me to not be irritated at the fact that not much happened meant that Yates & Co. pulled off what they aimed for. Some of the best movies ever (Rear Window comes to mind) have virtually nothing happen and succeed because of the masterful building tension. Deathly Hallows One is no Rear Window, but for the most part it works in spite of the fact that very little happens. In that regard, kudos, David Yates. Kudos.
Weird Side Note: I was totally weirded out by the fact that the only song on the soundtrack was "O Children" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I bet he never thought that a bunch of nerdy kids who love magic were going to discover his music via the Harry Potter franchise.
Following a weekend in the Twin Cities for a chum's wedding, I made my way to Portland to stay with my most famous friend, Sean McGrath. The inspiration for the trip was the opportunity to see the rare thing that is a North American Nick Cave show at the Crystal Ballroom. So I dropped a chunk of change on a plane ticket (it was a good thing I was able to consolidate the two trips...) and the ticket at face value that Tony Tonucci and J-Bone picked up the instant they went on sale (yeah, I still owe you the $35, Mark).
Now I'm poorer.
But I digress. I flew in Sunday, hung out with my boy, went to a play, inadvertently squirted clumpy hot sauce in Antigone's eye as a result of my untold strength, and fell asleep.
Monday, I got pumped. I ate lunch with some of the Austin boys at Greek Cusina, spent entirely too much money at Powell's, drank at $5 pitchers at Rocco's, supped with Sean and friend, and then embarked on a mission to the Crystal Ballroom. As we neared the venue, my excitement was almost causing nausea*. We met up with Noocher and Steenburgen (Sean getting to use the ticket that a certain clamato lover didn't deem worthy of putting off motorcycle repairs to be able to afford a plane ticket to Oregon for) at the bar near the club, where I claimed my ticket, and we all headed off through the labyrinth to get into the club.
*This nausea was probably complicated by the worrisome chance that we were possibly going to be able to get our way backstage as a result of the opening act (Ghost Writer) having been from Austin and knowing one of the other gents we were with. Honestly, much like Mark's younger brother having run into Tom Waits on the beach in Hawaii and electing not to speak a word to him, I, too, feared the worst: that we'd get backstage and Nick Cave would say something that would destroy me. Alas, much to my relief/disappointment, the opportunity did not present itself...
When we stepped into the ballroom, it quickly became evident that despite the fairly impressive surface appearance of the club's interior, the floor was going to collapse and we were all going to die. At least we weren't going to die seeing Great White in Providence. The impending death was an easy one to reconcile.
While the volume levels were more than appropriate during the Ghost Writer set, it took two songs of blaringly unintelligible instrumentation for it to become clear that the Nick Cave set was going to shatter ear drums. Now, I've heard others say that the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds shows they saw were also very loud, but this was borderline obscene. For the opener, "Night of the Lotus Eaters", all that was discernible was vocals and then racket. By the third song, everyone's sense of hearing had been so thoroughly defeated that some instruments were able to bear themselves out and emerge from the sludge.
Now sound issues notwithstanding, the show was outstanding. The tracks off the new album played great, and since the nature of the album is so much more of a rocker, I'd have to say I'm glad I saw them first on this tour, where Nick's presence came out in full force at the mic. Particularly affective were "We Call Upon the Author" and "Today's Lesson", which stuck out as being (at the very least) slightly more intelligible than some of their couterparts. Just as importantly, they played many of the classics that I desperately wanted to hear. "Deanna" fucking rocked. "The Weeping Song" played just as well as it does on Live Seeds, which is saying quite a lot. Nick Cave belted out "Red Right Hand" to the delight of his followers, while Mick, Warren, and Co. firmly had his back. And when I was sure during the fourth song into the encore that I'd miss out on some "Stagger Lee" action, Nick busted out his cocksure strut, put on his best badass front, and killed each and every person in the crowd, showing he was just as bad a motherfucker as Stag could ever be.
Even with the shoddy sound, Cave's stage presence more than made up for the fact that I thought my ear drums were actually going to explode during the third song of the encore, which I can't even remember the name of because I'm now brain damaged. Regardless, the show was great in spite of the sound.
As for what happened afterward, it's probably not a good idea to relate what else happened while in PDX. There was a travel scare, as Mark and Jeremy coincidentally ended up in line behind me at the security checkpoint only to have one of them get stopped for something (non-narcotic) being in their bag by accident that was a felony pre-9/11. Luckily, they were let through (hell, they'd gotten through the Austin airport without a flag being raised leading me to believe that the ABIA security is the most lax in the world) without said item and boarded their plane with about twelve seconds to spare.
I had my own travel snafu, as minutes before my plane landed in Austin at 10:28 pm, the power in the main terminal went out, and our plane, which was the first to land after the outage, sat on the tarmac for--no shit--over an hour and a half, while they restored power to our wing. Of course, every other plane that landed after us was able to go to their gates and deplane (deboard? Des Plaines?), but if there's one thing that my experiences at ABIA have taught me it is that I do not matter to them at all.
, and DVD
(I have no fucking idea how to get rid of that goddamn white box). 
and DVD and also stream-able on Netflix Instant). 
was a tough read.
, but reading something that made me feel like an unforgivable bastard just for being equipped with male genitalia is not the most appealing proposition. The titular character is loathsome. He is controlled by his id, chasing tail recklessly (and often reprehensibly) across the pages of the novel. Surviving his wife (whose suicide can largely be pinned on his wanton skirt-chasing ways), he brings his son along on the road with him while he makes cosmetics sales calls. He unravels, but the voyage is simply tiresome.
unless you want to feel like the worst person alive.
