Pages tagged “issue 47”

Former Jayhawks bandmates put history behind them to make some new memories

These new memories—thank the Americana gods—are riddled with Louris and Olson’s past, but there are hints of even older musical moments. Ready for the Flood reveals traces of The Kinks, the Grateful Dead, Moby Grape, Buffalo Springfield and even Procol Harum (check the organ on “My Gospel Song For You”) lingering in the minds of the makers. That the ghost of Gram Parsons haunts some of the tunes is less surprising but more than welcome. The production of Black Crowe Chris Robinson lends grit, but is never intrusive, letting the scruffy melodies and jigsaw-puzzle interlocking of these stellar voices do the heavy lifting. The few electric moments (“Bicycle” stands out) provide a different kind of tension, a gruff contrast to the straightforward acoustic timelessness of tracks like 
“Bloody Hands."

Listen to tracks from Ready for the Flood on MySpace.

The voice on the other end of the line was timid.

Take it or leave it, Phish at a peak

Total jammin' brodown or no, Phish's two-DVD Walnut Creek, recorded in July 1997, stays focused on the music. Five cameras, almost exclusively trained on the earnestly pretentious Vermont foursome, plus a poppingly mixed soundtrack make for (mostly) caveat-free hippie goodness. Even in digital fidelity, Phish is—by its standards—flawless.

Release Date: Sept. 9
Director: Stuart Rosenberg
Writers: Donn Pearce, Frank Pierson
Cinematographer: 
Conrad Hall
Starring: Paul Newman, George Kennedy, Harry Dean Stanton, Strother Martin

Studio/Run Time: 
Warner Home Video, 126 mins.

Newman has aged well

Stuart Rosenberg's 1967 classic Cool Hand Luke has left a heavy footprint in our pop-culture conscience. A sampling of its many iconic moments includes Boss Godfrey's mirrored aviators, the hardboiled-egg-eating contest and Strother Martin drawling, "What we've got here is a failure to communicate." But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Newly remastered on DVD and Blu-ray, this deluxe edition features a "making-of" documentary and audio commentary from writer Eric Lax. But it's Paul Newman's exhilaratingly understated performance as the existential title character that anchors the film. Unlike Brando or Redford, Newman was a master at softening his masculinity without sacrificing virility. His anti-authoritarianism quietly burns as he first spars then bonds with his fellow prison-camp inmates, all the while planning his escape. Forty years later, Cool Hand Luke feels as fresh and vibrant as it did in the turbulent era of its initial release.

Poet and novelist Roberto Bolaño wrote about strangulations, stabbings, rapes, drug deals, pistol-whippings and love gone wrong like the Marquis de Sade on a Mexico City bender. His flat, police-report style—notably in short-story collection Last Evenings on Earth and novel The Savage Detectives—earned him almost as much notoriety as his garrulous presence on the international literary scene.

Killing time with a few good songs

It's evident from I Shot A Man in Reno that author Graeme Thomson possesses an undying obsession with songs of mortality. To pursue the subject through such terrain as murder ballads, gangsta rap and '50s teen schmaltz, and to make it a topic of conversation with musicians ranging from Ron Sexsmith to Ice T, one almost has to. Though at times it comes off as a magazine think piece that's vastly outgrown its 3,000-word slot, the book becomes increasingly compelling with each grim avenue it explores.

It’s human nature to love a mystery. We’re curious to know what happens after the final curtain falls; we ponder what’s in that room that’s always locked. Now just in time for October’s early dark comes Peter Straub’s ambitious (and hefty—25 stories, 500 pages and counting) collection of modern horror stories.

It is what it is, is What It Is

In this experimental collaboration between writer Maziar and designer (and Cold War Kids bassist) Maust, poetry, prose and striking visuals merge in 134 pages of edgy observation.

A few hundred near-maniacal fans stand wide-eyed in rural Arkansas, amped by the prospects of an afternoon spent rocking out. When the opening act takes the stage, fans sing along to words they know by heart—morbid, gory phrases squeezed out through strained vocal chords, the syllables dripping: There’s power in the blood … they pierced his side … wash in the blood … sacrifice them to his blood … the crimson, cleansing tide.

Release Date: Oct. 6
Creator: Tina Fey
Writers: Fey, Robert Carlock, Jack Burditt, Matt Hubbard,
 John Riggi, Brett Baer, 
Dave Finkel, Kay Cannon
Starring: Fey, Alec Baldwin, Tracy Morgan, Jack McBrayer, Scott Adsit, Jane Krakowski, Judah Friedlander

Studio: NBC Universal

Meta-hilarious

One can only dream that behind-the-scenes goings on at sketch-comedy television shows match 30 Rock’s wackiness. Created by Tiny Fey, the series centers on head writer Liz Lemon (Fey), who must carry the show-within-the-show amid the antics of the talent (Tracy Morgan) and a crazy executive producer (Alec Baldwin). Cleverly dealing in meta-humor may account for 30 Rock’s critical success and slow ratings. For instance, Baldwin’s character introduces a ratings scheme called Seinfeld Vision, digitally inserting the comedian into NBC programs. Naturally, Seinfeld shows up to threaten the executive. That his appearance coincided with the release of his Bee Movie was a joke lost on those accusing opportunism. Such are the comedic stylings of a show that eschews cliché often by exploiting it: See Lemon choose “a sandwich over a guy,” scarfing it down in real time at airport security. The Peabody Award-winning series supplants its much-improved second season on DVD with voice-over commentary from cast members, plus Fey hosting SNL, and 30 Rock live at the UCB Theatre. If only Tracy Jordan’s novelty music video “Werewolf Bar Mitzvah” were also included.

August artist proves that the war is not yet over

More history lesson than mere musical recording, this two-disc set allows listeners to follow the bread crumb trail that led to this iconic musician’s prodigious successes, and learn how he taught his guitar to speak and feel, long before the flashy multi-platinum collaborations and colorful skull caps.

Last summer, I got a frantic phone call from my friend Jeanette. Her boyfriend had heard a noise in the front yard just after dark the night before. He opened the door, stepped onto the porch and was killed—shot in the chest.

Hometown: Glen Rock, N.J.
Album Title: The Airing of Grievances
Band members: Liam Betson (baritone guitar), Andrew Cedermark (guitar, keyboard), Ian Graetzer (bass), Eric Harm (drums), Patrick Stickles (vocals, guitar, harmonica), Dan Tews (guitar, keyboard)
For Fans Of: The Replacements, The Mekons, Bright Eyes

Act 1: DEFINITIONS
“Yeah, we’re punk,” affirms 22-year-old Titus Andronicus frontman Patrick Stickles. But not exclusively—the band also embraces theatrical histrionics and pub-rock ramblings. “I want to play our songs as though they were punk songs,” Stickles says. “It’s the most intense human music; it celebrates our shared imperfections and our weaknesses.”

Hometown: Boston
Book: A Better Angel

For fans of: Donald Barthelme, Herman Melville, Ursula Le Guin

Chris Adrian has earned a B.A. in English from the University of Florida. He has an M.D. from Eastern Virginia Medical School. He’s earning a new degree in a pediatric hematology/oncology program in San Francisco. He’s two years from a degree from Harvard Divinity School. Oh, and did we mention the M.F.A. from the famed Iowa Writer’s Workshop?
Plus, all the honorary degrees that will inevitably rain down as Adrian adds to a body of work that now includes two acclaimed novels—Gob’s Grief and The Children’s Hospital—and new story collection A Better Angel.

No tree left behind

Ron Rash is at the top of his game with Serena, his fourth novel, and 10th book. Rash’s storytelling ability ranks with the best around, and his history as a poet shows in every sentence.

Release Date: Oct. 10
Director/
Writer: Mike Leigh
Cinematographer: Dick Pope
Starring: Sally Hawkins, Eddie Marsan, Alexis Zegerman
Studio/Run Time: 
Miramax, 118 mins.

Much happiness, some luck, mild charm

In Happy-Go-Lucky, Poppy (Sally Hawkins) makes her own charmed life in London, following a trail of giggles between a stolen bike, a disturbed driving instructor, bookstore clerks, nights spent partying with her flatmate, and most other situations that might arise for a single 30-year-old woman. Like Audrey Tautou's Amélie remodeled for extroversion and erased of an interior monologue (and an external dream world, for that matter), Hawkins is charming—to a degree. Though she moves through Mike Leigh's film with grace, she rarely seems to arrive anywhere. She learns to drive, but literally has no destination in mind. There are laughs, of course, but where there is drama—mostly via bottled-up driving instructor Scott (Eddie Marsan) and one of Poppy’s young students—it rarely comes with any depth. Eventually, we find Poppy, but she’s already found herself a half-dozen times by then anyway.

Eleven albums in, “Nashville’s
most *%$#’d up country band” 
remains as indefinable as ever

I’ve long since given up attempting to label Lambchop; the exercise in futility hurts my head, and given that my ears are attached to that extremity, I need them focused on the task at hand. Is Lambchop alt.country? If sonic elements like steel guitars, nods to prime 
Burrito Brothers (tell me that “Close Up”—a kissing cousin to “Hot Burrito No. 1”—doesn’t grab you by the lapels of your Nudie jacket) or the occasional Countrypolitan string flourish strike you as such, sure. Maybe blue-eyed soul? Considering that songs such as “A Hold of You” could be Barry White fronting the Muscle Shoals house band with Al Green standing by in the green room, why not? Maybe indie-—hey, they are on Merge. Whatever: just
listen to the damn disc. Kurt Wagner has kept Lambchop’s lineup constantly rotating since he began in 1994—and its typical dozen-person formation instantly qualifies as the quietest ensemble ever heard—and he still comes on like the Bukowski of Music Row, but when he busts out a line like “You’re busting my chops” (as he punningly does on the title track) you just cherish the man, and his work, for the illogical, indescribable blips that they are.

Listen to Lambchop's "Slipped Dissolved and Loosed" from OH (ohio):

You can stop any time

Some might say addiction is a disease of perception. For example, my dad drank every single day: He arrived at his local tavern to belt beers daily with more punctuality than he ever put into any job he had, yet the fact that he was an alcoholic escaped my perception until nine years after he’d suddenly died of heart failure at 52, when my sister gave me a book about adult children of alcoholics and about how, you know, we sometimes can deny the obvious and stuff.

A slapstick, in 16th-century commedia dell’arte, was comprised of two wooden slats that made a loud noise when struck against a player’s rear end,
 sounding much more painful than it actually was. Thus, a formula for the ages: A shot to the buttocks + startling noise = comic genius. From Shakespeare through Itchy and Scratchy, slapstick has delighted audiences. Why is it funny? 
Mel Brooks put it best: “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die.” In other words, as long as it’s happening to someone else, bring on the cruelty.

Flaming Lips ringmaster Wayne Coyne first bloodied himself on stage some 20 years ago at an Exorcist-themed concert. After learning a valuable lesson about coagulation, Coyne revisited the trick about a decade later when touring behind The Soft Bulletin and its trippy opus “The Spark That Bled,” initiating a now-famous ritual in which the Oklahoma City rocker appears to hemorrhage from the forehead.

Release Date: Sept. 23
Director: George Clooney
Writers: Duncan Brantley, Rick Reilly
Producers: Grant Heslov, Casey Silver
Starring: George Clooney, Renée Zellweger, John Krasinski

Studio/Run Time: Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 114 mins.

Silly comedy about football's beginnings kinda swell, thanks to Clooney

Say, George Clooney's got a lotta moxie, giving us this slapsticky movie about an aging football player's hail-mary attempt to save his rag-tag 1925 team and bring fame and fans to the fledgling professional sport. He's the cat's pajamas as Jimmy "Dodge" Connolly, all rumpled and dapper in his newsboy cap, three-piece suit and soft smirks. It's hard to understand how Renée Zellweger—as Lexie Littleton, the hard-boiled dame reporter who's "got great legs"—can resist his whiskey-soaked charms for so much of this lighthearted film, instead taking a shine to too-good-to-be-true war hero and football star Carter Rutherford (The Office's John Krasinski). The movie's got a nifty look and feel—Randy Newman's ragtime piano and speakeasy scenes could just as easily be sepia-toned—but it could've done without the Keystone Cops routine. Some of the characters seem half-baked, their conflicts rushed and too easily resolved, and what is presented as a possible script twist never pans out. Thanks to ol' Georgie boy, though, we can forgive the film's faulty construct—because it's fun to watch and he, of course, is the bee's knees.

Watch the trailer for Leatherheads

From chess to Halo, games about war are as old as war itself. Paste examines the history, benefits, costs and ramifications of the massively popular world of virtual war.

In Capcom’s 1985 coin-op smash, Commando, you fire white pellets at endless streams of generic enemies. When hit, they simply vanish, leaving no trace on the stylized tropical environments behind them. In real war, the cost of a human life is inestimable. But in Commando, life’s value is both measurable and dirt cheap: dropping a quarter in the glowing slot bought you three lives. That’s a little more than eight cents per.

Unassumingly excellent moonlight romps under the milky-way night

Having delved into glossier synth-pop on Night of The Furies, The Rosebuds have returned with guitars cranked, reverb in the mix and a warmth and twirl in their arrangements that recall The Church. “Cape Fear” glides by like a silenced black motorcycle, while “Border Guards” is like The National without as much languid self-interest. There’s a haunting quality to these songs that belies the album’s casual four-track origins, the presumably acoustic skeletons cloaked in shades of silky texture enhanced by stacked vocals and subtle-but-driving drumming. “In the Backyard” crowns the album with a lush open-sky guitar part and moody lyrics. It’s heady and magical stuff.

Listen to tracks from Life Like on The Rosebud's MySpace page.

Brit-Pop vets create a wall of boring

For all the band’s outlandish bragging, Oasis has never shown as much nerve in its sound, preferring to polish the rough edges and refine aggressions rather than seek new territory. This neo-conservatism worked in the past when it uncovered a magical melody, and the newfound band democracy of 2005’s Don’t Believe The Truth pointed toward a potential second act. Each member contributes songs here as well, Noel Gallagher’s “The Shock Of The Lightning” and “Falling Down” coming closest to the classic Oasis sound. However, left with half-baked blues (Noel’s “[Get Off Your] High Horse Lady,” bassist Andy Bell’s “The Nature of Reality”), droning, unimaginative psychedelia (guitarist Gem Archer’s “To Be Where There’s Life,” Liam Gallagher’s “Soldier On”) and an overall sound that’s been compressed and flatlined into one continuous buzz, this sounds like a tired band that had already gone through the motions before it even started.

Listen to tracks from Dig Out Your Soul on Oasis' MySpace page.

Cash or 50 Cent? Rascall Flatts or T.I.? Who's playing cops and robbers and who's grabbing their submachines might surprise you. Test your knowledge of country and rap's most violent lyrics with the following quiz:

Release Date: Oct. 3
Director: Barry Levinson
Writer: Art Linson
Cinematographer: Stéphane Fontaine
Starring: Robert DeNiro, Bruce Willis, Sean Penn, Catherine Keener, Stanley Tucci, Robin Wright Penn, Michael Wincott
Studio/Run Time: Magnolia Pictures, 102 mins.

Harpooning Hollywood hijinks

Given Hollywood’s proclivity for epic narcissism, it’s not particularly surprising that there’s such a rich history of self-satire in film, from The Player to The Kid Stays in the Picture. Barry Levinson’s What Just Happened? is based on producer Art Linson’s 2002 memoir (Linson’s credits include The Untouchables: Capone Rising, Fight Club and Into the Wild), fictionalized here as a story about Ben (Robert De Niro), a Bluetooth-toting, fire-extinguishing producer with a fractured family, a massive SUV and a cabal of eager assistants. Ben’s got all the power but no control: Bruce Willis, playing himself, threatens to shut down Ben’s new film with his scraggly “Grizzly Adams beard” and 30 pounds of paunch, while studio exec Lou (Catherine Keener) insists that Ben convince director Jeremy (Michael Wincott) to transform an art-house tragedy into a blockbuster. Miraculously, Levinson (Diner, Rain Man) manages to spin familiar power plays (the studio wants something more commercial; the actor is difficult) into genuinely charming vignettes, and What Just Happened? ultimately transcends a potentially disastrous same-old-story/same-old-town conceit.

All the pretty corpses  

Until 1992, with the publication of the National Book Award-winning All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy had been a writer’s writer: a writer few except other writers (and critics) read. McCarthy hadn’t helped himself, either. Like contemporaries Thomas Pynchon and J. D. Salinger, he refused to give interviews and readings or do book tours. Legend had him living under an oil derrick, in fleabite motels, a mobile home. He famously turned down a high-paying lecture gig despite having little money for food.

Release Date: Oct. 3
Director: Larry Charles

Cinematographer: Anthony Hardwick
Starring: Bill Maher
Studio/Run Time: Lionsgate, 100 mins.

Bill Maher wages snarky crusade on organized religion

Following in the heretic spirit of Christopher Hitchens, Bill Maher shows off his agnostic angst in this barbed documentary analyzing the logical shortcomings of the Abrahamic faiths. Directed by Borat helmer Larry Charles, the duo goes cross country, interviewing religious figures and visiting such institutions as a trucker chapel and the center for Cannabis Ministry. Unlike Charles’ last project, there’s no comedic caricature to deflate the tension between predator and interviewee—just Maher’s deadpan oratory pitted against street-level defenders of the faith. While entertaining, the philosophical merit gets lost as Maher’s contempt for the Church reveals him to be as fundamentally biased as those he interviews. To the filmmakers, Christianity, Judaism and Islam have only led to genocidal violence and ignorance; they neglect the humanitarianism and relief work of Mother Teresa and religious NGOs. It’s an unfortunate perspective, as Maher’s rhetorical skill in exposing the hypocrisy and inconsistency of conmen like faux-messiah Jose Luis de Jesus Miranda is more than hilarious—it’s socially responsible. But the majority of his targets aren’t leaders or spokesmen—they’re strawmen dissected on camera with a merciless judgment fit for the deities on trial.

Release Date: Sept 30
Executive Producers: Thomas Schlamme, Aaron Sorkin
Writer: Sorkin

Starring: Felicity Huffman, Peter Krause, Robert Guillaume, Josh Charles, Sabrina Lloyd, Joshua Malina

Studio/Run Time: ABC/TRT/Shout! Factory, 20 hrs.

Sorkin rewrote the rulebooks with this character-driven sitcom

The workplace has long been a productive venue for sitcoms. From the studios of WKRP in Cincinnati and Mary Tyler Moore’s WJM-TV to a bar named Cheers and, most recently, a paper supply company in Scranton, Pa., the drudgery of the work and ineptitude of the workers have provided light laughs for Americans at the end of the day. But as a screenwriter for films like A Few Good Men and The American President, Aaron Sorkin loved his job and was very good at it. So, naturally, when he developed his first TV series for ABC 10 years ago, he filled it with characters who loved their jobs and were very good at them.

Box set clarifies diva’s proud legacy

It’s Sept. 15, 1963. The radio plays in the background as Nina Simone sits in her apartment, preparing for a weeklong stint at New York City’s Village Gate. Her mind is heavy. A couple of months earlier, civil rights worker Medgar Evers was shot dead in Mississippi, and Simone’s friends are beginning to ask what she’s doing to further the cause of her people.

Ben Folds aims at normal, cracks open head in Japan

Ben Folds may have named his third solo LP Way To Normal, but the North Carolina native doesn’t have any such destination in mind. If you listen closely, you can see he’s on the highway to hell, or at least to “Effington,” his own version of The Truman Show. More movie set than true home, that song—and the entire album—reaffirms the long-suspected idea that Folds is more comfortable on the margins of art, respectability and society, a perpetual outsider reveling in his own eccentricities, from naming his former trio Ben Folds Five to mounting a project with Ben Lee and Ben Kweller and dubbing it “The Bens” to producing an album for William Shatner to palling around with “Weird Al” Yankovic.

Release Date: Sept. 26
Director: Neil Burger
Writers: Burger, Dirk Wittenborn    
Cinematographer: Declan Quinn
Starring: Tim Robbins, 
Rachel McAdams, Michael Peña
Studio/Run Time: Roadside Attractions, 120 mins.

War film falters

Audiences haven’t exactly been flocking to movies dealing with the Iraq War lately. Perhaps by inserting its story into the road-movie template and sprinkling with a light dusting of comedy, The Lucky Ones will fare better—that is, if viewers can get past its plotline clichés, faltering script and simplistic view of anti-war criticism. Tim Robbins, Rachel McAdams and Michael Peña play three injured soldiers who are serendipitously thrown into a cross-country road trip together while home on leave. Though McAdams infuses her character with a cloyingly forced innocence, Robbins' and Peña’s performances are solid, allowing for some genuinely affecting moments in the dialogue-heavy movie. But as the three soldiers bond while dealing with the precipitous turns of events in their lives, contrived plot twists muddle the film, as does the suggestion that only those who have been to war can have a real opinion about it.

Review Haiku

Acid leaves me cold.
Bring me my rabbit fur coat.
Jen, you let me down.
—Rachael Maddux

Biiitch, please: Jen’s on fire!
Acid burns with spunk, pluck and
ambition. Cold? No.
—Nick Marino

Bring back Watson Twins.
This is campy and childish.
Nick: zero, Rach: one.
—Kate Kiefer

Listen to Jenny Lewis' "Fernando" from Acid Tongue:

Old Crow Medicine Show dabbles in new prescriptions

With its self-titled 2004 debut, Old Crow Medicine Show careened to the vanguard of modern bluegrass, largely due to the blast of energy the band brought to the genre. While it makes for an easily flammable straw man to imagine the rest of the bluegrass world as a taxidermy convention of hidebound traditionalists and corny neo-hippie banjo plunkers, OCMS managed to be simultaneously reverent to the genre’s musical form and edgy as all hell. They demanded notice. Somewhere between fiddleman Ketch Secor’s chiseled-rogue looks and the scrawn and yawp of fellow vocalists Willie Watson and Critter Fuqua, OCMS struck a nerve—and to its credit, even the more traditional corridors of Nashville paid tribute, inviting the band to the Grand Ole Opry and Emmylou Harris’ induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame.    

Kings
I want to hate this band. Actually, I want to hate any band with a song called “Sex On Fire.” I tried to dismiss Kings of Leon for their filthy lyrics, bodyguards (it’s true) and painted-on jeans, but beyond that, I really can’t muster any cynicism. I love the early-Stones confidence of “I Want You,” the catchy-as-hell melody of “Use Somebody” and the subtle mid-record slowdown. Caleb Followill’s echoey 
vocals during “Sex On Fire” make up for the unfortunate title, and his brother’s rough-to-ringing guitar moments on “17” make up for the unfortunate subject matter (a hot teenager). I’m not out to defend the band’s character or artistic integrity—I suspect they’re usually some combination of wasted, horny and arrogant; and the Kings clearly strive to be stars. But there’s a place in the world for arena rock (it’s called the arena), and you can’t blame the guys for  deftly pulling off this formula. After all, there’s only one U2 (well, two if you count Coldplay), and somebody’s got to open for them.
—Kate Kiefer

Jokers
Maybe the world needs bands like Kings of Leon to pump out albums of ever-durable testosto-rock. They fill the void when people need to believe dudes with shaggy hair are on the case, “saving rock.” The fact that the Followill brothers are the sons of a Pentecostal preacher may lend a minute of authenticity to suck-ass lyrics like “You, your sex is on fire,” but that’ll only get you so far, and innocuous Don Henley tripe like “Notion” squanders any holy rollin’ cred the band might have scored. This is the Kings’ fourth album, where they supposedly expand their palette and mature (like puberty, right on schedule), but don’t be fooled by the occasional interesting arrangement—it’s also right on schedule for more hookless half-funk (“Manhattan”) and underwhelming lyrics about how it’s cold in the desert (“Cold Desert”). Here’s to hoping the odes to statutory rape (“17”) will cease right on time, too.
—Jesse Jarnow

Listen to Kings of Leon's "Sex on Fire" from Only By The Night:

Okkervil River frontman Will Sheff wrote “Westfall,” a chilling murder ballad about the slaying of a young girl, more than six years ago. Yet even now, Okkervil audiences scream every word—indistinguishable faces channeling their repressed urges into a macabre sing-a-long that climaxes with the song’s repeated final line: “evil don’t look like anything.”

When I was a cub reporter starting out at the Albuquerque Tribune, I found a report in the police blotter about a pair of 16-year-old lovers who gassed themselves in a car. I about choked on how great a story it was, did a little reporting, found out they did it in a closed garage and that their bodies were discovered by the very same parents who were trying to split them up. Then I pitched it to my editor. no way, he said. I said, “What? Are you crazy? It's Romeo and fucking Juliet!” He gave me a sad look. “If I run this story, and give it big play and a nice layout, I guarantee you there will be a copycat suicide. Maybe a bunch of them. Do you want that on your conscience?”

We’re still loyal

Music blogs are like bad boyfriends. They take a heretofore unknown band, make them feel special with much frothing keyboard clickity-clack, turn them into rock stars, then suddenly lose their number when the next well-coiffed strumpet in skinny jeans strolls by. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Tapes ’n Tapes are probably still, right now, sitting in their living rooms decked out in mascara-smeared prom dresses waiting for Pitchfork to pick them up, wondering why their respective follow-up albums were greeted with such a resounding chorus of crickets.

We live in a brutal world. Violent, degrading and tragic events disturb everyday existence, just as they have since the dawn of time. Or as novelist Chuck Palahniuk puts it, “Crap has always happened, crap is happening and crap will continue to happen.”

Hometown: Dublin, Ireland.
Film: Battle in Seattle
For Fans Of: Medium Cool, United 93, Crash

In 1999, during the winter of our discontent, a tornado hit America’s own Emerald City—Seattle—in the form of tens of thousands of protesters who stormed the streets in a successful effort to shut down a meeting of the controversial World Trade Organization (WTO). Meanwhile, Stuart Townsend watched the “Battle in Seattle” unfold in another city revered for its verdancy—his hometown of Dublin—with nary a thought that it would one day illuminate the events in his directorial debut. “I wasn’t very political, and I wasn’t very aware of the world of protest,” Townsend says. But after reading an essay by Paul Hawken that recapped those five fateful days, he was “taken in by it, all the creativity on the streets, and how people express themselves and their right to dissent, or speak truth to power. I thought it’d be great to bring that to a big-screen audience and let them enter this colorful, creative, chaotic world.”