2007? it sounded like a good idea.

It’s been a looooooong time, and I’ve not written because I’ve been preoccupied with writing. And when you write all day, the last thing you want to do is write all night. That said, I’ve decided that my annual list of the year’s best music is a good time to start up again.

As with last year, these are in fairly loose order until we get towards the end. And I could have added a few other albums [like, say, Menomena's "Friend and Foe"] but I figured that would be against the whole spirit of the "Top 10 List."

I've also included rollovers to a few videos, a number of which are links to the brilliant "La Blogothéque."

Enough, already. Let’s jump into it, shall we?


Caribou — “Andorra”

This one was a pleasant surprise. It’s lush and much like a walk through 1967 without sounding overly derivative [and without the bad acid]. To my ear, it’s got a little early-90’s flavor to it as well [without the bad X]. But it’s a great marriage and I doubt there will be any arguing over who gets the dog any time soon. So let that be a lesson for all of you kids out there: Good acid + Good X = Damn fine music.

[Standout track: “She’s the One”]




Spoon — “Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga”

Aussie: “You call that a knife? THAT’S a knife!”
Bart: “That’s not a knife. That’s a spoon.”
Aussie: “GASP! I see you’ve played ‘knifey-spoony’ before!”

As we all know, “Spoon” is both a noun and a verb. And for almost 15 years, Spoon have been putting out songs that, at first listen, sound pretty much like what you’d expect from the average indie rock band today. But scratch the surface and you can hear the difference that Britt Daniels makes. “Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga” is a collection of catchy compositions and each one sounds exactly like Spoon. And that’s a very, very good thing.

[Standout track: “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb”]




The National — “Boxer”

I had never heard of The National until 2007. [Thereby making me incredibly uncool. Again.] But “Boxer” is a good album with which to start. Taking a few cues from Lambchop, it’s a beautiful, smart album; beautiful, because of the string arrangements and smart because of the fucked-up time signatures in tracks like “Fake Empire.” And these two elements make it better than 99% of anything you’ll hear on the radio. [Have I ever mentioned that said radio sucks ass? If not, I need to remedy that — the radio sucks ass. Let's move on, then...]

[Standout track: “Fake Empire”]




The Bird and the Bee — “The Bird and the Bee”

Some advice: If you find yourself walking down Sunset Blvd, and Amoeba Music’s marquee reads, "TONIGHT: [Band You’ve Never Heard Of]," go inside and take a chance. I saw The Bird and the Bee at Amoeba and they were cool and refreshing — much like a tall glass of 7-up. First I fell in love with the singer; then I fell in love with her voice. If you like your Burt Bacharach mixed with a little electronica, this is the band for you. I do find that one either loves or hates them, though. So if you’re inclined to explore, keep that in mind.

[Stand out track: "Again and Again"]




Elliott Smith — “New Moon”

I’ve always believed that we form relationships with the musicians we listen to. Each elicits a unique emotional and intellectual response. For me, Elliott Smith always felt like the friend that needed a few words of encouragement. And when he committed suicide [was killed by his girlfriend], I can’t say that I was entirely shocked. “New Moon” is a delicate mix of new, incomplete tracks, and few covers and alternate takes. It captures his vulnerability and dignity. And it makes me miss my friend.

[Standout track: “New Monkey”]




Beirut — “The Flying Cup Club”

Everything Beirut does makes me feel like I’ve just walked into a smoky bistro in Paris — I hear catchy accordion-based tunes, smell like a cigarette, and wish there was a cheap streetwalker in close proximity. Somebody should tell Zach Condon he’s from Santa Fe. Better yet, don’t. Although this is one of the top albums of the year, I actually think their best song — and release — of the year was “Elephant Gun.” Regardless, who wants some Armagnac?

[Standout track: “Nantes”]




Feist — “The Reminder”

“1-2-3-4,
make me Steve Jobs’ corporate whore…”

Okay. Although I always find it annoying when a band gains public attention via a television commercial [Nick Drake's "Pink Moon"], it’s a good song and a great video. Mind you, I don’t have a problem with the ad as much as I do the laziness of the American music fan. [Dig, people. Earn your damn music.] But “The Reminder” is a terrific album, front to back, no matter where its audience first heard it.

[Standout track: “I Feel It All”]




Iron & Wine ¬— “The Shepherd’s Dog”

Sam Beam is consistently top-notch, and “The Shepherd’s Dog” is the next phase in the evolution of Iron & Wine. This one has a bit more electricity, and often when a band makes the jump from acoustic to electric, it’s a little awkward — not everyone can be Bob Dylan. Who, as I covered in last year’s list, is Bob Dylan. But Sam Beam is Sam Beam, and Sam Beam is pretty damn great. Plus, his beard makes Bob Dylan’s its bitch.

[Standout track: “Boy With A Coin”]




Okkervil River — “The Stage Names”

“The Stage Names” is a lot like Iron & Wine’s “The Shepherd’s Dog” release in that it’s a hugely successful step in the evolution of the band. This, thanks to Will Sheff. He’s a brilliant songwriter, who doesn’t pigeonhole himself and, in doing so, helps to shape the musical landscape. This one features my favorite single of the year...

[Standout track: “Our Life Is Not a Movie or Maybe”]




Andrew Bird — “Armchair Apocrypha”

This guy makes the violin cool. I missed my chance to see Mr. Bird at Amoeba. I forget what I was doing, but I should have cancelled it twice. I have no excuses and as I write this, I feel a little sick to my stomach, much like an Olsen twin after eating a single ziti. This is a beautiful album. Andrew Bird never really follows musical trends. He makes great music, but no apologies. This one was close to being number one of the year. But then the next two albums on this list came out.

[Standout track: “Spare-Ohs”]




“Neon Bible” — The Arcade Fire

In 2004, “Funeral” was the album everyone was talking about — something that’s usually the kiss of death for any sophomore release. The Arcade Fire didn’t follow that blueprint. On this one, they kind of scattered every which way and ended up making what could have been the best of the year. There are so many standout tracks on this, I’ll just throw a dart at the track list and give you the one I hit.

[Standout track: “Windowstill”]




Radiohead — “In Rainbows”

It’s just not fair. Other bands should be whining. They should go to their mommies and tell. Radiohead continues to be the best band on earth. In fact, they’re so good, they could end up on this list during years in which they don’t release a note of music. They’re better than Christmas morning, the last day of school, Fonzie's motorcycle, and Monica Bellucci, combined. —On second thought, scratch that last example. But they're pretty damn fantastic, and “In Rainbows” just isn’t fair. It’s the best of the year and if you don’t agree, you’re wrong. But that's just my opinion.

Like the rest of this list.

[Standout track: “Videotape”]




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recipe for a good time.

It starts with bacon. Bacon grease, actually.

Next, you’ll need an NFL quarterback, like, say, Michael Vick. Yeah. Vick would be perfect.

Okay. So then we fry up the bacon and give it to a homeless guy. [Or woman. I’m no sexist, so stop looking at me that way. I think homeless women can fight just as hard as homeless men in those DVD's.] My thinking is that the bacon shouldn’t go to waste.

Next, we take the bacon grease and run it through Michael Vick’s hair. That’s right. We take that bacon grease and run it right through those fashionable-ass corn rolls. [And let me tell you, corn rolls are always fashionable-ass.] Anyway, we run that bacon grease through his hair and take him somewhere nice. Like, say… oh, I don’t know… inside a dog-fighting pit. Yeah. That’d be nice.

Okay, after that, we get some dogs. Real mean, hungry pit bulls. Pit bulls that don’t watch football. I’m thinkiiiiiing… let’s go with six. Y'take those six pit bulls and put 'em in there with our buddy, Michael. 'Cause I think Michael Vick should enjoy some down time with vicious pit bulls. I mean, why not? He enjoys them — or so I've been lead to believe.

The only thing left to do is crack open an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon, make up some of your sister’s recipe for seven-layer dip, and let the laughs begin.

Michael Vick deserves this and so much more. He deserves jail time. He deserves massive fines. He deserves to be someone’s bitch. He deserves bad karma. In his next life, he should end up a dog in a fight, organized by a dumbass NFL quarterback.

Now, I was tempted to show you what a dog on the losing end of a fight looks like, so you could be witness to evil. Why sugarcoat it, right? But I figured you were already subjecting yourselves my bullshit, so why add to your pain? Besides, you can find a number of the aforementioned images online, so just Google “pit bull” if you have the stomach for it. Be prepared to see a dog’s face being held together by medical implements. Be prepared to see skin and fur torn away along the scalp. Be prepared to be completely disgusted. Be prepared to hate Michael Vick. [Mind you, I'm a Steelers and Notre Dame fan. I've always hated Michael Vick.]

If you ask me, I’d say it’s an open and shut case. If the NFL brings him back this season [make no mistake — the players union won’t allow him to be banned permanently] they should keep this in mind: before he decided to kill little Filipino boys, Jeffrey Dahmer killed animals. Michael Vick decided it was okay to hang or electrocute the losing dogs in his little enterprise. Maybe if Jeff had been drafted in the first round he — and those boys — would be alive and well today. Maybe his life wouldn’t have been filled with so much despair and loneliness that his little psychopathic hobby would have run its unnatural course and diminished. Or maybe the closest he’d come to hurting an animal would have been kicking the pigskin.

And yes, I know i'm a hypocrite because I love my Thanksgiving dinner as much as the next omnivore, but in my mind there's a difference between food and sheer cruelty. Though, many would argue that I'm way off base.

One thing I do know is that Vick needs help. Eh. On second thought, maybe we should just get started on that recipe.

alec guinness is in front of the bed, bath and beyond.

Fame is a thing. David Bowie wrote a whole song about it and everything.

Fame is pretty big here. Lot’s of famous-types. Which means paparazzi. They're all over the place and whatnot. I’ve concluded that “paparazzi” is another word for “cockroaches.” They seem to be the lowest of the low. Even lower than anyone who’d wear a Ray Lewis jersey. But then, maybe not. Either way, it takes a certain deficiency — a certain nothing — to surround someone’s car in the In-N-Out Burger drive-thru just because the guy ordering the Double-Double Animal Style played “Astonished Juror #3” in a movie back in 1997.

But it seems to me that fame is something that I would absolutely abhor. Why would anyone aspire to have total strangers interrupt as they try to polish off the last of the their cobb salad? Although, it wasn’t a very good one. Mostly iceberg lettuce. And the bacon left something to be desired. I think it was fake bacon. Yeah. It was facon. More like Grape Nuts®. Bacon doesn’t get that hard and gravel-like. And that iced tea was pretty tasteless too. I should have gotten an Arnold Palmer. Oooh… and Arnold Palmer. That would really hit the spot right about now…

But I digress yet again.

So then, it seems to go like this: move to Hollywood, audition, get discovered, get hyped, get famous, get a star on the Hollywood walk of fame, situated in front of a retail chain.

In rare instances, the location of one’s star is fitting. Johnny Cash, for example, is across the street from an X-rated movie theater. Jamie Farr is… well… in front of the Bed, Bath & Beyond with Alec Guinness.

Of course, this wasn’t Alec’s goal. He never asked to end up a doormat for people looking to buy a 3-pack of Dust Buster filters, now did he?

Not Obi-Wan Kenobi. No, he seems more like a Borders Bookstore kind of guy.

“These are not the Ayn Rand books you’re looking for…”

comedy brittle.

Okay.

There’s been quite a large amount of water under the bridge since I last wrote on this blog. That’s at LEAST a gallon. Which, in L.A. runs about $16.

The reason I’ve been away for so long is that I’ve begun freelancing for an agency in town. And I think it’s the beginning of the magical and breathtaking world advertising — a land where candy canes and lollipops grow wild along the hallways and art directors quiver in their offices in the fetal position, muttering “I'm really a painter… I'm really a painter... “

The agency I’m doing work for isn’t Chiat Day, who, for those of you don’t know, has the Apple account. But they’re paying me. [Oh yes. I’m in it for the art. I’m like Warhol but without the hip, beautiful, destructive crowd of hangers on… Actually? Never mind. I’m exactly like Warhol.] But, as usual, I digress. The agency — a few of the people are quite nice and it’s good to know some of those kinds of people in Los Angeles [where gold-plated three-picture deals line the streets and the waiters move from table to table, muttering, “I’m really an actor… I’m really an actor…”]
But my time at this agency has brought into sharp focus, once again, an observation I’ve brought up time and time again. And that observation is that comedy is brittle. And when somebody fucks up your idea, I feel, it goes from brittle to brutal. This isn’t by any stretch a new notion. In fact, the brilliant John Cleese applied the word “brittle” to comedy about 10 years ago.

The reason I bring this up is because I’ve been experiencing this brittle/brutal thing firsthand lately. See, I labor under the revolutionary notion that the writer understands his humor better than anyone else. Except, maybe, your average Hollywood suit. Those guys are known for bringin’ the funny. They’re right up there with Hermann Goering and Carrot Top. I believe that the writer should be the director. And if he or she can’t be the director, they should be in the director’s ear, making suggestions. Things like, “could you get that guy to say my words less crappily?” [And I think Cleese would find this a fair question.]

The other day I came up with what I thought was a pretty funny ad for McDonald’s. This, in and of itself was a victory. But the end result is one that I’d turn off within 15 seconds.

I’m hoping that my pilot [which I wrote with the alarmingly talented mike exner] or my screenplay [which I wrote with the alarmingly talented mike exner] fares better.

Time will tell.

neighborhood shots.

oslo.

There’s a dog on my street with whom I love to interact.

Oslo [pronounced “Oh-slow”] likes to hang out in his front yard and poke his head through the fence — and hedges — to see what’s going on in the neighborhood. He introduced himself to me a few months ago, as I was walking down the street. Suddenly, the manicured hedgerow became Oslo and we've been friends ever since. He’s never made a peep and he doesn’t jump around maniacally like every other Weimaraner in the known free world.

He just sits there, making this face.


Oslo's cool.
...............

north.

So, I've decided to shoot Beachwood Canyon. I find it's loaded with a bizarre mix of typical Los Angeles architecture, typical British architecture — the kind one might find in the countryside - and, surprisingly, Asian minimalist architecture. [This led me to say, "Oy vay! It's Feng Shui!!"] The lighting wasn't optimal for shooting the homes, so I'll shoot them at a later date. There's also a stable at the end of my street. I asked permission to photograph it, knowing full well they'd deny the request. [I said, "I shoot horses, don't I?" They said, "go away."]


...And, as per usual, you can click on 'em to enlarge.

somewhere, tinky winky is laughing. hard.

And then he’s gonna have a threesome with Dipsy, and Po [a ho, I'm told] and laugh even harder.

Jerry Falwell died today. So, okay, let’s just come out and say it, shall we? Jerry Falwell was a nasty, hateful tool.

Oh my god! Did he just say that? About a man of the cloth??

Yes. Yes, I did. And I would argue that Jerry Falwell was more about green paper than cloth. He had exactly zero scruples, and if there is a Creator, he’s instructing St. Peter to bitch-slap Falwell and have him dragged to Hades by God’s Bouncers. [They look like they’ve been lifting, so don’t mess with them.]
Don’t believe me that Falwell was a no-good shithead? This is what he said after September 11th:

"I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen.'"

…uh... Jerry? As the kids say these days, WTF?

Wait, it gets better. He thought you were stupid [much like the ad guys mentioned in my May 6th post]. I know this because of what he said two days later:

"I hold no one other than the terrorists and the people and nations who have enabled and harbored them responsible for Tuesday's attacks on this nation."

And he expected you to believe him.

He then blamed the media for incompetent reporting. Personally? I blame the media for not calling him on it. No, I blame the media for not treating him the way Tony Soprano last treated Christopher Moltisanti.

But, much like a Ginsu Knife offer, there’s still more: Falwell contested that, “when The Antichrist comes, he must be, of necessity, a Jewish male."

Yeah, Jerry, Sandy Koufax is the beast. And it’s not “666.” It’s “000.” Which is, of course, a perfect game. I can see how Jerry might get the two confused.

Anyhow, I couldn’t possibly go through all of Falwell’s bullshit with one post. It would have to be the length of a novel, and who the hell wants to read a novel about him? If you want a book about an asshole, you may as well read, “The Cat in the Hat.” Sure, he’s one of the most celebrated characters in children's literature, but let’s be honest with ourselves — he’s an asshole. He comes in and trashes his hosts’ house and puts their pet’s life in jeopardy. But at least he’s not that pervert, Tinky Winky, ‘cause that guy loooooooves that Judy Garland.

But back to Falwell — who was only marginally smarter than the average children’s literature character [and av-er-age bear]. Let’s not revise history. Let’s not insult everyone’s intelligence. Let’s not react as Senator John McCain [R-AZ] reacted.

In a statement today, he said, “Dr. Falwell was a man of distinguished accomplishment who devoted his life to serving his faith and country. Our thoughts and prayers are with Dr. Falwell’s family at this difficult time.”

Not that you ever had it, Senator, but you’ve officially lost my vote. I can’t abide another idiot in the Oval Office.

But, as cold as it sounds, I think the world is a better place now that another idiot is in the dirt.

Oh my god! Did he just say that? About a man of the cloth??

Yes. Yes, I did.