Old Song Review: Smith - Baby It's You

Since SS has been derelict in his duty to this blog (yes I do see that half-finished Bob Dylan entry from two weeks ago), I've decided to pick up the baton (no I will not say 'Touch Me To Finish') and keep the Old Song Review series alive. I think it's a really neat idea, and it compliments my 'BEST NEW MUSIC' and 'ON REPEAT' and 'LILWAYNELILWAYNELILWAYNE' entries nicely.  This installment comes from a band called 'Smith' and is their cover of the Burt Bacharach penned 'Baby It's You'. The track reached #5 on the Billboard Top 100 Charts in 1969, after being originally recorded by The Beatles in 1963. I'm a Beatles fan, but there is no comparison after hearing Smith's rendition. Here's the original Beatles version:



It's nice. It sounds like most Beatles songs, with a some nice doo-wop style backing vocals.

Now here's Smith



Back-up vocals are swapped for an organ and a groovy bassline. And those mop-topped teeny-boppers are replaced with Gail McCormack and her soulful pipes. Her voice alone translates the lyrics from a hastily scrawled love letter into a desperate declaration. I don't know about you, but I get chills at 2:36 when she finally lets go and screeches the last few lines.

Of course I can't take credit for discovering this song on my own. It first caught my ear on the incredible soundtrack for Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof. Tarantino is a master of the film soundtrack and constructing iconic scenes from obscure songs. In my opinion, the Death Proof soundtrack is his magnum opus. Every song is pitch perfect in style and application. Only a small clip of 'Baby It's You' is actually featured in Death Proof, but as you can see below, it's more than enough to pique one's interest.

Bike Trail Code of Conduct

If the Minute Man Bike Trail is any indication, there are some fertile-ass people in the Arlington area. Why do I share these sweeping, borderline-offensive sentiments? Because on the first nice weekend of the spring (ie this coming weekend), the Bike Trail looks like tryouts for a children's circus. On such a day, every child in Middlesex county descends onto this 8-foot wide, 10 mile long strip of pavement, and it is hell on earth.

Some may say I'm exaggerating. They have obviously never ridden down the Bike Trail on a Saturday afternoon. If they had, I probably would have heard their "AMEN" from here. I don't particularly mind children, but trying to navigate around children on the bike trail is like playing 'hot potato' with Napalm. I don't have any children (to my knowledge), and I'm sure they are difficult to control, but this is why God invented the 'child-leash'. I understand this isn't practical on a bike, so if you MUST allow your spawn to roam freely on their 10-speed, make sure that they understand simple physics. By simple physics I mean inelastic collisions and the concept of 'proper braking distance'. Translated for the layman, "Make sure they know that if they get in my way I will not stop and I will crush them."

There are 3 types of bike-riding children on the bike trail, they are as follows in order of danger:

The Parasite

This is the best-case scenario when it comes to children on bicycles. The child is strapped in and unable to move. Tom Brady is a smart, courteous man (though he should be wearing a helmet), and he and his son can come on the bike trail any day. Of course, if you've ever seen the 'Daddy and Baby' skit from Jackass, you might think twice if you value your child's life.


The Sidewinder

This kid is cute, but he is a MENACE. He just graduated from training wheels and thinks he is hot shit. This kid realizes that having a bike means he can leave his parents/his sister/the cops in the dust, and he'll be damned if he touches the brakes. He pedals like Lance Armstrong on speed and has no interest in where he's going as long as it is as fast as possible. This inevitably means that every 3 seconds is punctuated with him realizing that he is about to die and jerking the handlebars the opposite direction. Reckless, but predictable.

The Pigeon

At first glance, the Pigeon appears to be the slower, docile cousin of the Sidewinder. That is until you are 10 feet behind them and they stop and look back at their parents for no reason whatsoever and you have to ride into a bush to spare their life. Sometimes they get off the bike entirely and leave it laying there. Other times they will attempt to walk their bike across the bike path, think better of it, and simply stand and wait. What I'm trying to express here is that they could not be any more unpredictable if they tried. I liken it to trying to catch a pigeon. You've picked your line, you have a bead on them and at the last second they turn the tables on you completely and you look like a fool.

The moral of the story here is never, ever, ever take your child on the bike trail. It looks serene, but then there are people like me who have no interest in leisure and use it as a speedway, and I REALLY don't want your child's blood on my hands (or on my new bike). I am convinced that if I am going to die on my bicycle, it will happen while valiantly trying to avoid some snot-nosed kid on the bike trail who got distracted by a butterfly rather than any combination of errant car door or drunk driver on Mass Ave. Please remember valiant for my epitaph.

On Repeat: Lo-Fi-Fnk

I don't know if the two dudes above are the Swedes responsible for Lo-Fi-Fnk, but they are the first image that came up on a Google Image search of "Lo-Fi-Fnk", and they look exactly how their newest single "Marchin' In" sounds. A couple shirtless dudes in a field of daffodils smoking joints. Happy and relaxed. Spring. Don't believe me? Watch the video for it below and tell me I'm wrong.
 


Boy do those Swedes know how to write a catchy diddy. Forgive me for beating a dead horse, but Gorillaz need to take lessons on song progression from this. A simple piano part, a quiet bongo and some snaps. A bouncy bassline. Beautiful vocals merge effortlessly as other elements enter the frame. The song has a clear build-up and clear peaks and valleys. Repetition is used as a tool rather than a crutch. The song has probably less than 30 words, but it's not about the words. It has probably 30 instruments too, and with sloppier production you could probably pick them all out, but that is of no concern here. Everything just feels natural and comfortable, and I'm not even high. Whoa.

Gorillaz: Plastic Beach

"With great hooks come great responsibility" -Me

When you are Damon Albarn and you have catchy riffs coming out your ears, you need to show a little prudence and make your listeners work for the hook. Ask for their patience, with the assurance that what is coming will be worth the wait. The problem with Gorillaz 3rd studio album Plastic Beach is that nearly everything sounds like a chorus. And when there's no distinction, no bridge, no lull, things get boring. Too many songs fail to build to anything significant, instead feeling like a stew of interesting ideas that fetter out and are simply repeated until the song reaches 3 minutes.


Take, for example, lead single 'Stylo" that I've embedded above. It opens with a wicked synth line and an effective verse from Mos Def, followed by Albarn's vocals and a soulful chorus (or is it?) by Bobby Womack. That brings us to about 2:30. Then what happens? The song virtually repeats itself word-for-word. Bobby Womacks chorus, Albarn's vocals, and Mos Def's verse VERBATIM. In what world is it ok to repeat a rap verse twice in the same song and get away with it? I don't care how catchy everything else is, I don't care how many different ideas are crammed into the track, it's just unacceptable. This isn't unique to this album, heck, Feel Good Inc. followed the exact same formula, repeating verses and choruses until you can't tell the difference and in my opinion distracted from the innovation therein.

Far too many songs on Plastic Beach fall into this trap, and it's a shame because the songs that actually follow a traditional VERSE/CHORUS/VERSE/CHORUS format are really great. Even the most frustrating songs are frustrating because they contain great ideas that are stifled and wasted. I'm not being pretentious here, I love a great pop song as much as the next person, but if you're going to try and get away with repeating parts of a song that aren't the chorus ad nauseum, the song needs to be FAST (See: ANY LADY GAGA SONG). It's easy to cover your flaws this way. Think of it like mooning someone in a rocketship or mooning them in a horse-drawn carriage.

As I alluded to earlier, some songs are able to rise above this mediocrity. 'On Melancholy Hill' is beautiful and focused, 'White Flag' uses verses from Bashy and Kano effectively (and only once!), and 'Some Kind of Nature' is worthy of Lou Reed's participation. But for every one of these, there is a song like 'Sweepstakes' that takes something potentially catchy and drives it so thoroughly into the ground that by the end you wonder how you ever liked it.

Sad, really.

Lady Gaga - Telephone

I often receive grief for my perceived snobbery. While its true that I have little interest in most movies that gross more than $100,000,000*, I have an undeniable weakness for a catchy pop song. This is why I know/sing all those songs I have no business knowing/singing in bars. This is also why I drunkenly stuffed a dollar into a Jukebox to hear 'Semi-Charmed Life' Saturday night.

Lady Gaga is one such artiste** that I simply cannot resist. I remember hearing Pokerface over the summer and being so completely entranced that my girlfriend at the time probably considered it a cry for help. It was an absolutely behemoth of a pop song, and it deserved to be blasted from the rooftops. So I did. If by rooftops I mean in my car and at any party in which I could gain control of the stereo. 'Bad Romance' very nearly captured the same magic a second time, and the world was Gaga's.

So imagine my surprise/delight when Ms. Gaga released a 9 1/2 minute music video Saturday for her newest single 'Telephone' that includes Beyonce, a Kill-Bill homage and prison-themed dance numbers. I haven't even begun to talk about the Diet Coke curlers and the lit-cigarette glasses. Nor have I mentioned the 'Let's Make A Sandwich' detour in which Gaga instructs the viewing audience on how to engage in a mass-homicide. The entire thing is such an epic spectacle that it completely fuses with the song. It will do for 'Telephone' what the music video for 'Thriller' did. Take an otherwise forgettable pop-song and make it a cultural phenomenon. The video has been out for nearly two days and it 15 million views and 1,082 video responses and countless parodies***.

Gaga is the virtuoso to fill the power-vacuum left by MJ. Beyonce has the voice but not the flair. Taylor Swift has crossover appeal but lacks any discernible edge. Gaga pushes every boundary beyond anything that has happened to pop-stars or pop-music in the last 10 years. Fashion, music videos and pop-music have been reinvigorated in the months since Gaga stormed the scene. She tapped into the spectacle that made pop-stars of yore such larger-than-life characters. It may all be a hastily built house of cards, but for the moment it is truly a sight to behold.

By most accounts this isn't technically NSFW, but there is a lot of strategically placed caution tape, etc. Oh I think Gaga says the F-word too. Earmuffs!


  
*Seriously, LOOK at this list. I have seen seven of these, and am almost ashamed to admit to that much.

**No, not a spelling error.

***Many of which ALSO have over a million views.

Classic Movie Review: On The Waterfront

Being that Oscar season is officially over and out, and the movie landscape for the next few months looks decidedly sparse, I've decided to use the coming weeks to catch up on some classic films I haven't yet seen. I blogged about this a while ago, but now after listening to an Oscar-Snub edition of my favorite podcast Filmspotting* last week, I've realized that the gaps in my classic movie knowledge can't be ignored any longer.

The first movie I decided to watch was 1956's On The Waterfront, starring a young Marlon Brando as Terry Malloy, a dockworker with ties to the seedy mob underworld of Hoboken, New Jersey. I'm tempted to make a 'New Jersey' joke here for JL, but I'll leave that to Gov. Patterson. The Mob has a iron grip on anything relating to the dock, and after Terry is used to lure a dockworker to his death (unbeknownst to him), he becomes an unwilling participant in a tug-of-war between the mob and the deceased man's sister. The stakes continue to grow as Terry begins to fall for the sister and a member of the church takes up the cause. It is during this tug-of-war that Brando delivers these iconic lines. The film virtually swept the Oscars, winning Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor (for Brando), Best Screenplay, Best Supporting Actress, Best Cinematography and 2 others. It is currently ranked #112 on IMDB's Top 250 films and was selected by the Vatican's list of Top 45 films of all time (seriously).

The entire film is based on a series of 1949 Pulitzer-prize winning articles that detailed the rampant corruption and extortion on New York City docks. Brando's character was modeled after a real whistleblower (who actually sued Columbia pictures for using his story). The film is surprisingly profound and has aged well, with many of the tracking shots and individual scenes still affecting today's audience just as they did over 50 years ago. Brando's performance is still one for the ages, and has only served to bolster his legacy.

This is the first film of Marlon Brando's I've seen prior to The Godfather, and I was surprised with the amount of charisma he brings to the table, when so many other actors fall into tried and true archetypes. He doesn't have striking good looks or guiles, but his sincerity and everyman qualities make him eminently likable. He has the brawn to look the part of a washed-up boxer, but has the acting range to make the dramatic scenes ring true. The make-up on Brando here is also interesting. Maybe it's typical in films of this era, but Brando's angled eyebrows and eyeliner make his typically deep-set eyes very expressive. It also makes him look like a drag-queen, but it's Marlon Brando, so I'll give him a pass.

I hope to watch 'The Apartment', 'Sunset Boulevard', or some Hitchcock later this weekend, and will be sure to give them a review sometime next week. I also found this little gem on Google Reader earlier this week that is strangely appropriate.

*I don't listen to a lot of podcasts, but Filmspotting is really fantastic. If you like listening to people argue about movies. And I do.

It's Coming...

Play this for added dramatic effect

On Repeat: Bonus Edition

I couldn't decide between two tracks this week, so I'm going to talk about both. Conveniently, both fall into the category of lo-fi electro-buzz that I've been quite obsessed with lately. Similar to Best Coast last week, these two songs have humble origins but are so darn catchy that the risks they take add to the allure rather than alienate.

Sleigh Bells - Crown on the Ground

The shrieking guitar riff opening is a pretty good indication of what you can expect from Sleigh Bells. It just sounds DEAFENING, at any volume. Not 5 seconds after starting, an absolutely booming drum part stomps into the song and nearly shakes everything off the tracks. The song crackles and buzzes and vibrates in every note, sounding like a recording of a recording of a recording blasted through a blown-out stereo. Despite the rattling, the steady guitar swirls give this tornado of a song a center and direction. If it sounds a bit off-putting at first, give it another couple listens and you'll come around. I promise.

Royal Bangs - My Car Is Haunted

If Sleigh Bells are a bit too noisy for you, you'll be happy to hear that Royal Bangs exercise a bit more discretion. Not much though. Rather than place the bulk of the buzz on the drums, My Car Is Haunted fuzzes up the guitar instead, conceding the melody and hooks to the vocals. There's a frantic maraca, a cowbell that would make Bruce Dickinson proud and some post-apocalyptic lyrics referencing the 'age of lasers', an electric ocean' and 'ungodly heat'. I think a haunted car is the least of their problems.

She's Out Of My League

I see this poster every day on a massive billboard at off Exit 36 on Rte 93. I'm not interested in the film, but the subject matter brings to light a phenomenon that's near and dear to my heart.

Once in every man's life, he ensnares a woman whose beauty dwarfs his own so massively that he loses grasp on reality. It is the stuff of music montages and animated birds and dance troupes. It is a waking dream. That is, until you inevitably crash and burn and your heart becomes a chew toy for Bagheera.

My own such experience didn't have quite the harsh trajectory, but that's because I exploded into flames so quickly after takeoff that I scarcely realized I was flying. It's funny in retrospect, but at the time it was all I could do not to stare into the abyss.

During one of the first days of freshman year at UNH, we were introduced to our fellow Chemistry majors. These people would be in all of our classes and labs for the next four years, and we looked about what you'd expect a group of 18-year-old Chemistry students to look like. All of us except Tina*. Tina was breathtaking, a fact I verified with a friend of mine when I remarked "She is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen" and she did not refute it. I crushed on her like nobody's business. In the tide pool of freshman year, Chemistry majors didn't interact considerably, but Sophomore year when there were 10 of us in an 8AM Quantitative Analysis lecture, we got pretty cozy. Within said coziness and spurred mostly by pure boredom, rudimentary flirting developed. This usually consisted of me scribbling on her notes while our Geppetto doppelganger professor leafed through his notes at the board. This evolved into pen stealing and games of tic-tac-toe. Not traditionally effective tactics, but in a room full of SERIOUS nerds, strangely endearing.

By sheer blind luck (for me, not her), we both found ourselves without dates on Valentine's day, and for reasons I still don't comprehend, I finagled a movie date at her sorority house. I don't remember the movie, I didn't watch the movie. I remember kissing her and fireworks that made the Fourth of July look like a weenie roast. Walking with her later that evening, her arm in mine, I distinctly felt like Bob Dylan on the cover of The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

My friends were absolutely flabbergasted when I recounted this story, almost as much as I was. I felt like a Michael Jordan-Bono-James Dean-Ron Jeremy hybrid of awesome. I knew in the back of my mind that the clock was ticking, and that she probably was probably just lonely or rebounding off of a bad break-up or wasn't wearing her glasses when she puckered up, but nothing could bring me down. We spent more time together, this courting process culminating in an event that summarizes my complete boneheadedness better than I ever could.

One night, after a late movie, she invited me to stay over, which I obliged. Then, after a few hours of lying awake in her bed, I decided to go back to my dorm to get some sleep as we had a test the next day. I don't remember what I got on the test and whatever points I gained and whatever infinitesimal boost my GPA received from those 3 hours of sleep I got in my own bed are beside the point. When a girl asks you to spend the night, you spend the night. The whole night. It doesn't matter if you are on the floor, or in a shoebox in the closet. You can't sleep, so be it, but don't even think about going home.

Shortly after this transpired, we both went home for Spring Break week, and I effectively snuffed out the embers of the relationship by asking for her address to send her flowers during vacation. I thought (and still think) it would be cute; she did not. And that was that. The end. Finito. I had no say in the matter.

In retrospect, it was a matter of time. I could not conceivably maintain the level of cool I had somehow convinced her I possessed. That realization did nothing to stave off the waves of self-pity I enjoyed the rest of the semester, but is comforting now. If you are reading this and you've never dated light years beyond yourself, buckle up and tighten your boots, because she is coming. You will not emerge unscathed, and you will need a pride transfusion, but for a few seconds it will be wondrous.


*Name has been changed. Obviously.

Hide the women and children (and PBR)

I'm growing a beard.

Allow me to rephrase.

I'm maintaining my facial hair.

What this entails to remains to be seen. It's been eleven days since my last go-round with my straight razor. Inspired by CMM's luscious* moustache, I decided to see what these little follicles can do. Much like Brad Pitt's probing question in Fight Club, I asked myself; 'How much can you know about yourself if you've never grown a beard?'. Growing a beard is a rite of passage. What if I could grow an incredible soul patch that would make Apollo Anton Ohno shave his off in shame? I owe it to humanity to try.

In my experience, there are two classes of men when it comes to facial hair. There are the men who could lose their razor for the better part of a month an no one would be the wiser**. They will remain nameless, but they know who they are. Then there are men whom ought to carry a Mach 3 in their pocket. You don't know which camp you fall into until you take the plunge. With that being said, I'm still not sure.

Here's the thing about facial hair. There's no rhyme or reason to it. So little in fact, that I've been trying to recount any childhood scalding incidents to explain the strip under my jaw that is inexplicably bare. It's filling in, but it was dicey for a while there and made we want to scrap the whole project. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed.

Right now it's just itchy. I don't know if this goes away, but if it doesn't, I have a newfound respect for Zach Galifianakis. I try not to think about it. Also, it has a strange auburn hue to it, which is a relief, since I can't think of any variation on blond facial hair that didn't scream rapist or amphetamine addict. There are some benefits, which I honestly did not foresee.

Firstly, a moustache (or the makings of one) adds a level of gravity to anything you say. Maybe it's because everyone with a moustache looks like someone's dad, but I get the distinct impression that I am being taken seriously. Too seriously in most cases, since I'm usually about to fling a rubber band at them. A moustache is also the jackpot for non-verbal expression, allowing you to express despondence, fury, and confusion with subtle adjustments of your orbicularis oris.

I feel closer to the hipster community than ever before, but also closer to homeless, so we'll see how it shakes out. I'm not going to look like Pei Mei, Ron Swanson (above), or Al Swearengen***, but now I know could if I set my mind to it. That's the American Dream right there.

*This is the first and last time I will use this word to describe a non-food.

**Save for 3 inexplicably long hairs that only their girlfriend's notice.

***COCKSUCKA

Information Addiction

We can all agree that the internet has changed everything. Communication, entertainment, and research have each become incredibly more convenient since the advent of wi-fi. For better or worse, gone are the days of turning pages in encyclopedias, using a TV Guide, and mailing letters. However, when everything is at your fingertips and simply waiting for a URL to zing you off to sights unseen, the novelty of the little things is trampled. There are pleasures to be had in putting pen to paper, or aimlessly leafing through a dictionary. Now the experience been reduced to frantic Googling to secure the information you want as fast as humanly possible. The process has become so slight and so streamlined, that I've found myself reading entire articles and processing nothing.

This is partly due to impatience on my part. I've always considered myself an impatient person, and while I've had internet access nearly my entire life, dial-up internet imparts a degree of restraint on a developing mind. It wasn't until broadband internet and wi-fi became prevalent that my inner information glutton evolved. Today, I sigh when a Youtube video is longer than a minute long, and I read more box-scores than Op-Eds. I use Google Reader to aggregate interesting websites into a sickening buffet of information that I can consume as efficiently as possible. It is troubling, and I'm working on it.

Regrettably, blogging has probably exacerbated this phenomenon, but in many ways it forces me to focus and practice measured writing and pacing. At the same time, I have no such poise when thinking of things to write about. The whole thing resembles an ouroboros.

This restlessness is no longer an internet-contained phenomenon. I drive too fast, check my watch 20 minutes (and every subsequent 20 minutes) into a movie, and wonder out loud why anyone writes songs longer than 4 minutes. I have my phone set to check my email every fifteen minutes, stock quotes every hour, and software updates instantaneously. I'll probably never make a pot roast, a turkey, or any incarnation of slow-roasted barbecue. I rarely sleep more than 7 hours and I resent even sleeping that much.

I could argue that I'm simply interested in many things, and that there is no harm in that, which would be true if I was deriving as much pleasure out of these things as I should be. But I'm not, as the preceding paragraph has explained. So now I've established the problem, what steps am I taking to remedy it?

Well, for starter's I'm drinking tea. I'm also running a lot, and reading a lot (full chapter books!). When I do these things, I am doing only these things (mostly). This is in stark contrast to the normal cerebral whirlwind. I've done more crossword puzzles, and casually research Yoga. I've read philosophy to understand belief systems larger than myself and to gain perspective. Little things, but it's helping. Maybe I'll fall off the wagon and read Wikipedia until 3am, but I haven't been on hipinion today and I'm ok with that. That has to count for something.

Indie Band of the Week: Best Coast

Best Coast sounds like something that washed up on a California beach. Tossed around in the waves, mid-range frequencies are smoothed and softened, leaving only the sharp treble and the deep bass drone in tact. It's an interesting technique that draws favorable comparisons to the lo-fi sounds of The Beach Boys. The churning guitars of Sun Was High (And So Was I) mimic a distant lawn-mower, and Bethany Cosentino's vocals sound like she's caterwauling down a sewer pipe. Guitar riffs are blurred and loose, and Cosentino's melody sometimes makes me want to hide my stemware.

This would be a problem if the songs didn't hover around two minutes and the melodies didn't burrow themselves into my parietal lobe. The lyrics (barely amounting to more than a haiku) are repeated with a sincerity and warmth that shines through the distortion layered over them. After a string of EPs and singles, Best Coast is readying their debut LP for a 2010 release. Check out a fan video for Sun Was High (So Was I) below.    



 

The Adventures of Indoor Boy: Indoor Boy Gets a Flat

I have an irrational fear of parking too far away from the curb. This waking nightmare culminates in me walking out to my car to find a massive scrape along the length of my car and my side-view mirror dangling like a pinata. Maybe it's because SP's tires were slashed for no particular reason*. Another reason is the fact that LK drives a Toyota FJ Cruiser. If you haven't seen an FJ Cruiser, envision a feeder bus with a roof rack. Its a nice car to be sure**, but whenever I park across the street from it, I feel a bit uneasy.

To overcome this uneasiness, I've developed the foolhardy habit of nudging the curb when I park along the street, just to be absolutely sure that any buffoon screaming down Amsden St will have to go make a conscious effort to take out my mirror. Unfortunately, in the wintertime this usually means I can only open my door 3 inches before I meet a snow drift. Climbing out through your back seat is a small price to pay for this peace of mind. Until today.

Today*** I kissed the curb with a little extra vigor, and I knew it. I just knew it. Any lingering doubts were dashed when I opened my door and heard the unmistakable whisper of a dying tire. Knowing there was nothing to be done, I kicked it in a half-hearted attempt at euthanasia and went inside. After recruiting JL for a 'second opinion', he verified my suspicion. The tire was 'fucked'.  

Next came the humbling task of removing the lifeless rubber carcass and replacing it with something that would be better suited on a Power Wheel. For this I also recruited JL. After a moment of panic, we fortuitously discovered that the nice folks at Hyundai thoughtfully included a jack and a lug wrench (yes I had to look up the name of it). Maybe all car companies do this. I don't know. As I said, I've never had a flat. Due to my penchant for parking as close the curb as physically possible, jacking up the car was quite exciting.  JL and I tried about 5 different permutations of spinning the metal bar (all of which precipitated in scraped, bloody knuckles) before we (JL) found an efficient method. From here it was virtually a cake walk. If said cake has molten lava icing and you're barefoot.    

I Google Mapped a few tire places nearby and inched down Mass Ave, trying to convert 80kph (the maximum allowable speed on a spare tire****) to mph. It's 50, which is plenty fast on Mass Ave. However, once it becomes clear that all the tire stores on Mass Ave are closed and the one dude you were able to catch before he locked up directs you to Waltham (down RTE 2, Speed Limit 55), 50mph becomes a bit of a handicap. I had the presence of mind to ask him about the limitations of the donut before I went on my way. The exchange went something like this:

"Is it safe to take RTE 2 on a spare tire?"

"Compared to the 45 or whatever they say? Yeah. Heck, I've driven 80 on donuts before and nothin' happened."

Pause. At this point he presumably realized that telling me to drive double the recommended speed might constitute a liability on his part. So he quickly added:

"Well, I mean, don't be stupid about it"

This did little to assuage my fears. This is where I started to wonder if anyone had ever gotten a flat tire on their spare tire, and if that would be sufficient cause to call out of work for the rest of the week.

As it was, I drove like my Nana for 3 miles down RTE 2. Once arriving at the Tire Shop, I began playing the game of 'Don't-Let-Them-Know-How-Clueless-You-Are', a favorite past-time of mine. A portly gentleman recommended a Goodyear tire for $120. Knowing nothing about tires but street-smart (or paranoid) enough to know not to take the first suggestion. I coolly stammered: 

"Do I have any other options?"

In retrospect, that's like holding up an apple at Market Basket and asking if they have any other fruit. Of course they have other tires. He patiently listed off three other tires, one for $97, the rest considerably more. He then proceeded to enter lecture-mode where he referenced other tires that he may-or-may-not have "in the back". All of these sounded like they had been banished to the Island of Misfit Tires. Of course, playing the safety card is a slam-dunk so I bought the $97 Uniroyal blah-blah-blah and some mustachioed Carhartt-model named Mike threw it on my car while I read Sports Illustrated.

I made an afternoon of it and went to D'Angelos and Trader Joe's afterwards. I tend to do this when I spend an absurd amount of money I wasn't planning on spending. I go to D'Angelo's and pretend I ate a fancy dinner and go to Trader Joe's and pretend I spent $100 on groceries and Voila! Instead of spending $100 curb-stomping my car, I spent $100 on necessities. That's much easier to swallow. And what did I do when I parked on Amsden St again? Parked a cool 3-feet away from the curd, and looked up how much new side-mirrors cost.   

*I contest that he was parked too far from the curb. Or maybe SS's ex-neighbors are passive agressive psychopaths.

** It even has an inclinometer! Very helpful if gravity becomes suspended on the way to the grocery store.

***Literally 8 minutes after seeing a shredded tire on 93S and remarking "I've never had a flat. How dumb do you have to be to not run over metal shit?"

****OR SO THEY SAY

This Week In Inexplicably Popular: How Low Can You Go - Ludacris

I'd like to use this blog a forum to publically put to rest the Chipmunkification of hip-hop music. If you haven't heard 'How Low Can You Go', count your blessings and don't press play on the embedded video at the bottom of this page. If you have, you can surely sympathize. I've never been a fan of Ludacris. His songs have always played to the lowest common denominator in hip-hop, and while this has resulted in unprecedented crossover success, you'd have a hard time finding anyone to argue the merits of Area Codes and Move Bitch in 2010. In fact, save for aging frat dudes, you'd have a hard time finding anyone to not cringe upon hearing the opening bars. Meanwhile, 15-year-old 'Juicy' brings down the house in every club at 2AM (see Saturday night).

Well, Ludacris has done it again. 'How Low Can You Go' was certified platinum last week as you can see above. I love watching him accept the award in a studio surrounded by middle-aged white record executives trying hard to look comfortable. Nobody gets platinum records anymore, so Ludacris is the record label messiah. I'm reminded of 'The Skit' from Wale's fantastic Mixtape About Nothing. That is the current state of affairs in hip-hop crossover music. 'How Low Can You Go' is 2010's 'Crank Dat Flying Squirrel'.

I don't mind Kanye West does it. Heck, most of College Dropout is drenched in the chipmunk effect (see Through The Wire) and I LOVE that record. but the difference between Kanye and Ludacris, is that Kanye is sampling legitimate soul songs and Ludacris has no such artistic integrity. Couple this absurd effect with lyrics that would make Biggie blush and you have a recipe for a platinum record. You also have one more thing that Fox News and middle-aged women will reference whenever they talk about what's wrong with America.

Review: Jackie Brown

Having made quick work of Elmore Leonard's 'Rum Punch', I thought I'd take a couple hours to watch Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown to see how the two compared. If you aren't aware, Jackie Brown is QTs adaptation of Rum Punch for the silver screen and his only adapted screenplay. I've been a huge Tarantino fan since seeing Pulp Fiction for the first time nearly ten years ago, and his early passion for crime-centric screenplays is a big part of the reason I decided to check out Rum Punch (and make everyone in TBC read it as well)

In my opinion, Jackie Brown is Tarantino's most underrated film (Death Proof is a close second). While it retains his ear for dialogue and vibrant characters, it is decidedly less-stylized and has as linear a plot as you're likely to find in a Tarantino flick. Much like Pulp Fiction before it, Tarantino displays an uncanny eye for acting talent. Just as he revitalized the career of John Travolta as Vincent Vega, QT makes an inspired choice here by plucking Pam Grier (of 1974's Foxy Brown fame) and B-Movie actor Robert Forster off the discarded actor scrapheap. He also casts Robert Deniro as washed-up ex-con Louis Gara and Tarantino staple Samuel L. Jackson as the pony-tailed gun-runner Ordell Robbie. Everyone is at the top of their game here, but it's Forster's Max Cherry that is the most compelling (he garnered a best supporting actor nod for it).

In typical QT fashion, even the soundtrack is homage, this one heavily indebted to soul music, opening with Bobby Womack's Across 110th Street and featuring songs from Bill Withers, The Supremes and Brothers Johnson. Most notable of these is 'Didn't I' by The Delfonics, which is played at 3 different junctures by 3 different characters, with 3 different responses. Tarantino has always taken great pride in the songs used in his films (much like Martin Scorsese before him), and his obsession with the material shows in every frame.

With regard to how Jackie Brown compares to Rum Punch, the differences are very minor. Small subplots involving an injured member of Robbie's entourage and Cherry's ex-wife are omitted, and the romance between Cherry and Brown is much more subtle through QTs lens, which is a nice touch. I'm sure much of this is due to the ease with which these delicate feelings can be portrayed on film compared to the written word. Tarantino has never been one for tact and subtlety, so to see him reign things in a bit here is refreshing. As far as the overarching plot is concerned, Tarantino is smart to remain faithful to Leonard's book, maintaining the tide of double and triple-crosses, and quite frequently using entire pages of dialogue verbatim. It is a testament to Leonard and Tarantino both that the words can transfer effortlessly across mediums, and only serves to make me wants to read more crime writing. Rum Punch is not the first Elmore Leonard book to be adapted for the screen (there have been nearly 20, including Out of Sight and Get Shorty), but in contrast to what I've seen of the others, Jackie Brown offers the perfect meshing of seemingly disparate styles. QT rises to the source material by keeping his stylistic urges in check, while at the same time, cutting scenes out of the book that would appear to be right in his wheelhouse in the interest of pacing. The result is a gritty balance of style and substance, everything you hope for in an film adaptation.