Batboy

Happy Weekend, everyone!

We're still in the midst of Book Worm Week. In the interest of switching genres abruptly, let's go completely outside of the box and look at something fun and easy for a Friday night thing, shall we? Today's post is on Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli's stunning Batman: Year One. 

I know what you're thinking. Comics, for real? I know, I'm another in the long line of emotionally stunted men who still read comics as adults. Some are more like actual novels, like the sprawling and long form Y: The Last Man. Others are completely whacked out, like Hellboy or anything involving the X-Men. Batman, I honestly believe, falls somewhere between the two. Sounds insane to say, but hear me out - Bats has no superpowers to speak of. He's just a very wealthy, well trained man with an over-accentuated sense of justice. Nothing supernatural or completely far out, depending on the story you're reading. My preferred tales of the Batman are all closer to reality than some of the more fantastical story lines and continuities. So this excellent tale of how the Dark Knight got his start grounds itself in that same sense of reality. Let's take a closer look. 

I've got to assume that if you're reading this, you have at least a passing familiarity with Batman's origin. As an child, Bruce Wayne witnesses the death of his parents at the hands of a desperate mugger, the tragedy creating a void in his life that can never be filled. As a young man he travels abroad for 12 years, studying martial arts and along with a wide range of studies, preparing himself for cleansing corruption from Gotham City. The opening of the book sees him returning to the city and setting about the process of figuring out what to do. The plot for the book essentially follows the arc of Bruce Wayne's first year in his foray in donning a cape and cowl to fight the corruption threatening to destroy Gotham City. Simultaneously Detective Jim Gordon deals with transferring into a corrupt police force and has to face the task of combating crimes from the inside while holding on to a struggling marriage. The two men and their divergent methods of dealing with the problems they face make for an excellent read, the contrast in their dramas making for an engaging back-and-forth storytelling style. What many would dismiss as flights of fancy for teenagers and kids is actually a well written and beautifully drawn book that tells a believable tale of vigilantism taken to the extreme. 

The wonderful power of Year One comes not only from the images but the script. Too often you find hammy and over-the-top writing can pull you out of what could otherwise be a great story. Frank Miller's script, though, is fantastic - the dialogue and action are, given the circumstances, fairly grounded and true to life. Sure, it's hard to suspend you belief to accept a man dressing as a bat to fight crime, but if you read the scene in that sees Bruce finally deciding to use the likeness of a bat in his quest it really can be powerful. Likewise, the scene in which The Batman finally makes his presence explicitly known to the Mob families of Gotham is a tense, dramatic scene that plays incredibly well on the page.

The artwork here is simply gorgeous. They style of Mazzucchelli isn't one of over-exaggerated muscles and impossibly proportioned women with too little too wear. Instead it's all grim and grit, the smoke of the cigarettes wafting off the page, the rain making you feel chilled. The tone of the visuals is a bit of a throwback, drawing influence from old-school yarns that originated the format, re-contextualized in the style of the time (late 80s). It's a tale told in the shadows and gloom, yet it never gets lost in the dark - the dynamics make for a remarkable piece, all pops of color and highlights that draw attention to key elements. For men who work in the shadows, it's incredibly bright work.


No matter your stance on the format, you owe it to yourself to read one of the finest tales the medium can offer. If you've never read a comic, or anything about Batman, it's the perfect place to start. If you're passingly familiar with the world, it's an example of how high a standard the form can set. If you're a die hard, you already know just why you should re-read this classic. Batman: Year One is gospel. Do it for justice. Do it for the art.

Bleeding Edge

Exclamations! 

We're still in the midst of Book Worm Week, just passing the halfway point. So where does that leave us? Which genre can we jump to next? In a convenient twist, Next is the book du jour, a startling and strange look ahead by the late, great Michael Crichton. 

It was a sad day in the literary world when he passed away - Crichton was fantastic. His books vacillated between science fiction thrillers to cutting edge techno-parables that fueled their pace with frantic and dire warnings of progress run amok. Like anyone alive during the 90s (except paleontologists) I loved Jurassic Park - even re-reading it on a plane ride during the first decade of the millennium I thought it aged pretty well. It's a great story. Crichton had this relentless energy and nerds-pushing-glasses-up-their-noses aggression that added a level of seriousness without pomp. In short, I really dug his work. So when my (eventual) mother-in-law happened to leave a copy of his last finished published work on their coffee table, I eagerly borrowed it and got down to business. What I read was an interesting if uneven tale that Crichton made accessible despite the jargon within. Since my last read of any of his works was about five years prior, I was pleasantly reminded of why I love his work. 

Next, published in 2006, is technically a novel about a loosely connected group of people in the genetic-research industry and the implications of their actions. In the same sense, though, the book functions more as a collection of interconnected vignettes about out-of-control and unchecked advances in the legal and ethical realm of scientists at the front of their field. Beginning with the tale of a man who loses the rights of ownership of his own cells (due to not understanding the language of a research waiver while being treated for a leukemia), Crichton begins spinning yarn after yarn about potential developments due to court-enabled precedents. The man loses the rights to his cells, which a university uses for research and eventually profit while barring him from any information, let alone profits. This ties in with a story of a geneticist who inadvertently creates transgenic specimens, one of which is a chimp that is blurring the lines of humanity in unnerving ways. Further concepts such as genetic predispositions to risk-taking and chimera genes are brought into the story as both plot points and parables. The collection of stories hold together well, but from my understanding Crichton wasn't aiming to do so - Next is intended as a single, cohesive novel and yet it comes across as segmented and uneven, some passages feeling too heavy handed to be legitimate fiction, while some fiction comes across as to much of a lecture to be engaging. Despite this uneven nature, I still enjoyed the book, if not for the diverse range of characters than for all of the startling and accurate developments in science and the legal system.

 One gets the sense, coming late to the Crichton party, that his books are not always read for their rich stories and characters but for the concepts and execution. I enjoyed reading Prey when it came out (Xmas of 2004) but I can't recall the characters. Similar story for The Lost World, save for Ian Malcolm. In fact, were it not for his science and adoration of boundary-pushing, would I have any inclination to read his books? Probably not. But that's neither here nor there. What really tickles my brain is that, having read this book just a few years after publishing, so much of it has come to pass that it becomes unnerving. We may not have full ownership of our bodies, given certain circumstances. Following a multitude of science and tech blogs (Hi Giz!) plus being obsessed with science fiction (Hellooooo io9!) I'm startled to read about the bizarre and incomprehensible discoveries and developments that occur on a daily basis. Just the other day I read about a lab that was creating a whole slew of transgenic animals and just wasn't telling anyone, just because they wanted to do it to see if it could be done (and supposedly what we can learn in the process). Or how we can cultivate bacteria to eat the oil in the Gulf or break down plastics in the Great Pacific Garbage Heap. Or everyone's favorite - the mouse with the ear grown on its back: 

Next is a bit of a hybrid itself - an imperfect development that spans multiple worlds. Crichton was a visionary, predicting both good and bad from this rapidly changing field - the main lesson to draw from it seems to be that we need to be judicious and cautious in our approach. It's not the most engaging story he's told (*coughcoughdinosaursrunningwildcoughcough*) but man, if it isn't crazy science. maybe I'm just a nerd who's suckered in by geeky subject matter and a pulpy story. Maybe I'm being to hard on a great author, now that he's gone. Tell you what - you read Next and weigh in. Am I a jerk or what? While we're doing homework, read these five summarizing conclusions Crichton made after writing this book:

Stop patenting genes.

Establish clear guidelines for the use of human tissues.

Pass laws to ensure that data about gene testing is made public.

Avoid bans on research.

Rescind the Bayh-Dole Act

...and read this critique on his reasoning, then weigh in. Test tomorrow. Okay, no test. It's Friday.

Nerf Herder

Welcome back to Book Worm Week!

To continue with my trend of abruptly switching gears with every post, I thought I'd get away from the heady, symbolic texts worth hours of introspection to focus a bit more on the lighter side of things. So today, instead of grim surrealism we're looking at Bossypants by Tina Fey

Tina Fey is, in a word, awesome. I adore her. Yes, I am a married man, but I have to admit a certain fondness for her witty charm and insightful writing - plus her words can cut like a razor, which doesn't hurt. Frankly, anyone who has met me and my better half could attest I have a thing for genius-level brunettes with a strong sense of humor. My own embarrassing admissions aside, I remember first seeing Tina Fey on SNL hosting the Weekend Update segment. As someone who has always paid close attention to the news and politics, I found her cutting and delightful, a snarky and hysterical woman at a time in my life where those type were not in abundance. Plus, she wore glasses - not a lot of people in my small No-Coast town embraced the whole intelligence-fostering ideal, but it was high school and let's be honest - neither did I. Anyway, I regret not watching SNL more in those days and leading into college, because anything of hers I've seen has been awesome, like the Mom Jeans or Annuale commercial, or any of her work on Weekend Update. It was also around this time 30 Rock debuted. I remember thinking that it was either that show or Studio 60 that would survive and thankfully Fey persevered. Around the second season of that show I fell in love with it, and I have quickly glommed on to Fey's voice and perspective, figuring out what her general style is. Never one to relish in the spotlight, Fey was elusive and a bit mysterious, but she would probably chalk that up to being a social misfit and not wanting to be a reality TV star. 

So imagine my delight, then, when I heard about her (then) forthcoming book Bossypants. As a generally biographical tale sprinkled with her insight into the worlds of comedy and beauty, I was instantly sold on the book. While it is clear at times Fey was not writing for my general audience (young men) I still found what she had to offer to be absolutely hysterical and interesting, if not illuminating. Fey writes a fair amount about her experiences growing up; there were no great tragedies the reader can point to and say "Oh, that's where the bitter comedy comes from..." but there was just enough demeaning experiences and self-loathing to gain an understanding of her approach to writing and being a reluctant public figure. Her home life comes across as supportive and normal, her school experiences seem, while certainly unique, not impossible for anyone else to identify with, even a 28 year old guy lying on a beach on his honeymoon. Those were great conditions for reading the book, by the way - Fey's a whip-smart woman with a jovial, engaging writing style, so buzzing through a couple quick chapters while lying in the sun were ideal. A crowded bus? Maybe not so much. But it was a fun, quick read that was hard to put down. 

Her rise to prominence wasn't a tale of overcoming adversity but trying to get through to foolish people who struggled to understand that women were just as capable as men when it comes to being funny. In fact her tales of career choices and the events in her life pale in comparison to when her sense of justice and humor fire up at the same time - when writing on the idea of whether or not women are inherently funny, Fey goes after her detractors with both barrels blazing, to delightful effect. I should admit, though, that these passages were, in essence, preaching to the choir - I was still in my formative comedy years when women took over SNL and I see everyday women like Kristen Schaal and Samantha Bee kill it on The Daily Show, so I don't see where the 'women aren't funny' concept generated. Furthermore, her take on the whole Sarah Palin period was particularly revelatory.

But I digress.
Fey is most alive in the book when straying from her loose autobiography. She shares funny, if perfunctory, anecdotes about her her honeymoon and raising kids while being a writer, but they're more to give insight into 'being the boss' of her life, the theme of the book. Her musings on women's fashion, photo shoots and the experiences of being both over-and-underweight are the most entertaining and revelatory. Again, as a guy who's almost 30, these aren't truly aimed at me. I still found them to be entertaining and worthwhile reading, though. I also particularly enjoyed her tales of backstage at SNL and the assembling of her writer's team on 30 Rock, which is, in my humble opinion, one of the hands-down funniest shows, period. Citing her writing staff's highlights and MVP moments is also great for fans of the show - it gives a glimpse at how the insane scripts come together, instead of springing forth from creative people's minds, pre-assembled.

 I simply can't say enough good things about Bossypants. I'm one of those guys who think Tina Fey can do no wrong, Sarah Palin-skewering included. I love her writing style, I adore her comedy and sense of humor and I really enjoy and admire her take on what it is to be a woman. Again, though, this is coming from a dude who's been a dude all his life, so make of that what you will. That being said - if you know me and are the least bit curious, just ask. I gladly loan out my books. 

Corridors

Hello! 

Welcome to day two of Book Worm Week! 

After looking at such a dense and heady text as Murakami's Windup Bird Chronicle yesterday, what would you say to switching gears completely, to something like a total inversion of that experience? Instead of an emotionally driven tale of a lonely man's search for identity in the world while dealing with dream-obsessed psychic prostitutes in a doorstop of a novel, how about a pop-culture influencing, quick read that almost makes a game out of the reading experience - would that pique your interest? Good, because today we're looking at House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski.

 Published back around the turn of the millennium, House of Leaves could be the very definition of a post-modern book, one that is just as much about the book itself as it is about what happens both in and on the page. On the surface (which is a statement, in and of itself) the plot is as follows: a young man working at an LA tattoo parlor named Johnny Truant is told about a vacant apartment for rent, whose previous tenant was a blind old man named Zampano. In the old man's belongings they find a book the man apparently dictated, the subject of which was a film called The Navidson Record. As Truant begins to edit and assemble a workable copy of the book from the scraps and fragments left by Zampano, the tale of The Navidson Record takes over. The Navidson record was a (possibly) fictional movie the documented a family whose home suddenly gains a large closet it hadn't previously held. The patriarch of the family, (fictional) famed photographer Will Navidson, begins an obsessive quest to document the exact measurements of the house, finding it to be exactly 1/4 inch larger on the inside than the outside. This discrepancy begins to consume him, and when there appears a doorway on the living room wall which opens into a corridor that exists seemingly in hammer space, he begins to explore it. 

So to recap - a book about a book about a movie about a strange and impossible labyrinth. 

As I stated at the beginning of the post, the book is a poster child for the modern non-book, a work with multiple levels of interpretation and meta-contextually that becomes a winding, inescapable journey into the author's mind. In a cheeky move, the book itself is 1/4 inch larger than the cover, the pages jutting out intentionally. The text inside changes fonts, sizes and formats, depending both on the narrating character and the context of the action. Passages of prose are broken up by poems, which are footnoted; these footnotes often contain there own footnotes, at times telling entirely capsular stories of their own. As the reader reaches the point of Navidson exploring the labyrinth in his home, the text shifts and twists around the page, reflecting the alien nature of the story and the sub-protagonist's perspective. It's fascinating but at times it makes it either impossibly off putting or entirely engrossing. When fleeing sounds in the darkness in the labyrinth, the text becomes small, claustrophobic blocks, forcing the reader to rapidly flip pages to keep up, as though running along side the action. When lost miles beneath the house, the text circles back around in isolated boxes that are upside down in other chapters, highlighting the impossible physics and skewing the reader's sense of perspective. Text changes color at times randomly, other times quite intentionally for specific phrases and words.

 To be candid, though, I found this to be simultaneously inspired logic yet it absolutely withdrew me from the reading experience. I found myself wistfully thinking, at times, how nice it would have been to simply have the straight text of The Navidson Film in a standard book format - the idea of inner-space being more extensive than outer-space was fascinating and (I felt) at times fumbled by Danielewski. What could have made for a disturbing and haunting tale becomes, instead, a case of 'look how clever I am' exercises in an author's debut work. It felt like at times the book would reach out and slap me if it had hands, just to defy the typical reading experience.

 I say all this, yet I still have read the book more than once. I can bag on the post-modern theatrics that Danielewski foists upon the reader and yet I still adore the central concept on display. This no doubt has ties to my love of the Silent Hill series, which has often featured long and winding passages that don't exist in reality yet force the player through them in effectively disorienting sequences. As much as I love the adventure of the characters getting lost somewhere in the walls of the house, it is, at it's heart, a book about a married couple clutching each other's hands as their relationship stumbles. I didn't realize it until my second read through (with some internet-assisted hand-holding) that the book has just as much of a focus on the characters as it does the house itself. Johnny Truant's crumbling mind and Will Navidson's obsessions fuel the plot developments in such a deft and sly manner that it adds another layer to an already massively choreographed work - you don't notice it as you read about a 'haunted house' but it's the character's you're becoming unknowingly invested in, not the labyrinth. 

It's divisive, it's notorious, it's over a decade old and still post-modern. House of Leaves is strange and wonderful journey that is fundamentally unlike anything else I've ever read. I would highly suggest you track down a copy and see what you find. Book Worm Week continues tomorrow with another abrupt change in style - stay tuned! 

Bird On A Wire

Happy Monday, dear readers.

Or rather, just Monday.

Mondays are a bite. I don't care for 'em. So I'll take the opportunity to flip it on its head. Like I promised when I resumed writing after the honeymoon, I'm doing more themed weeks here on the blog. Video Game Week went pretty well, and I have something lined up for October that I'm really excited for. In the mean time, starting today it's officially Book Worm Week! In a bold attempt at breaking my own conventions and exposing my own limited comprehension skills I'm going to spend the week highlighting books that are fantastic, underrated or fantastically underrated. So where do we start? Instead of easing in to the week, let's go full-bore: The Windup Bird Chronicle.

 This book is heavy, both in the figurative and literal sense. It functions as a doorstop as well as a dense, symbolic text about the author's search for identity in post-World War II Japan. The post-modern work of celebrated Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami, The Windup Bird Chronicle tells the tale of a young man named Toru Okada as he searches for things gone missing: first his cat, then his wife, then his sense of self, both real and perceived. But upon reading the book it becomes apparent its' actually about much more than that. The book is a heavily symbolic examination of identity and loss in a world with which I am only passingly familiar. As Okada begins a search for his cat, his wife introduces a sort of psychic woman named Malta Kano, who has an obsession over water and flow in the lives of her clients. Her sister, Creta Kano, also displays a sort of clairvoyance. The manner in which these characters are connected slowly is brought into focus throughout the first third of the book, until it becomes clear that for better or worse, they are drawn together to make sense of the world around them.

 Okada's brother-in-law, Nobroru Wataya, is the central figure in the book, serving as both motivation, plot mechanism and antagonist. His character is, by its very nature, murky and ominous, ill defined. His presence is one that fills the other characters with dread and loathing, though they struggle to comprehend just why that is. Murakami has done an incredible thing in creating this character, who eludes the reader's grasp yet exudes an air of malice and otherworldliness, even when speaking quite simply and bluntly about his motivations. It's fascinating to watch him come to life.
The book is, indeed, a chronicle - it works both in chapters and as a larger, arching tome. The manner in which the plot meanders and segues into other ideas is bit serpentine and unpredictable. At times it feels like entirely different books and plots are overlapping with the central themes Murakami presents. That's the thing about this book - it's incredibly hard to describe. While I've mentioned the basic plot and characters, there are vignettes of other tales and divergent paths all over the place. Okada meets a variety of characters, all having distinct and whole lives that figure in - an old soldier from Japan's failed invasion of China who recounts the horrible things he witnessed in Mongolia and Russian Labor camps. A designer and holistic healer named Nutmeg Akasaka whose guidance is central in later plot developments. Okada's neighbor, the morbidly obsessed May Kasahara, actually leaves the story, only to appear in a series of letters to the protagonist through the remainder of the book. Like I previously stated - The Windup Bird Chronicle is a dense complicated book.

 I should say, though, that despite the complex nature of the book, I've adored it through multiple readings. The first time I made my way through it, I was admittedly confused by the events and the (at times) disconnected nature of syntax; it felt like while I understood the literal language, there were sub textual things that were lost on me. Upon further readings of the book, however, it became much clearer that I was reading too deep into the text. Things that were originally murky became much more simple and straight forward on a second pass. What also became much clearer was the nuanced, interconnected nature of the plot. Where my first pass through the text took over a month with me scratching my head at seemingly unrelated events, my second time through took only days, with the plot becoming so much more cohesive. The manner in which Murakami ties in his characters with overlapping themes and repeated motifs is breathtaking in their beauty and scope. Once again at the end of the book, I found myself asking how it all tied together. In just a few short pages and a handful of developments, the plot's central essences is laid bare, elegant in its simplicity but masterfully played out by the author.

It's about a man searching for things he's lost, but it's also so much more than that. If you have any patience whatsoever for a fantastical, strange text, I would emphatically recommend The Windup Bird Chronicle. To fully describe it would rob it of the journey it presents - you simply must read it to experience what Murakmi has created. So begins Book Worm Week! I'll see you tomorrow for more literary adventures. 

Professional Painters

Evening!


Just checking in on Sunday evening to see what's up! You been good? I had a great weekend - for example, my better half made mayonnaise from scratch. Yeah. My meals included homemade chipotle mayo. That's what's up. 


So I was kind of racking my brain about what's been good and worthy of shining a spotlight on, as of light. While I could write endless pages about alternative hits from the 90s or punk bands I have loved, I thought instead I would share something secret with the larger would. The secret I refer to is one of the sources of my favorite things - in a sense, if it turned out Stan Lee's best friend was telling him about his crazy dreams while Stan furiously scribbled notes and cackled to himself. I speak of the genius of Sam.

Sam is my secret weapon against boredom and mediocrity. He is responsible for most, if not all, of the things deemed awesome in my life. He introduced me to my better half in college. He has told me about countless bands. He introduced me to the local hip hop scene here in MPLS. His lifestyle of aggressive intelligence coupled with bikram yoga and liberal amounts of alcohol reinforce the notion that life is not only an ongoing experiential in ratios, it also can be just as awesome as you want it to be. So periodically Sam sends me an email or text with a band name and song title.


Every single time he does this, it's golden.


I won't bore you with a full list just yet, but I will share his most recent, and fully deserving, recommendation. It said, simply, "Warpaint - Undertow". He then called to explain that I should be warned the band sounded like The Breeders being channeled through some hipsters to play subdued, heady guitar-based alt-rock in our modern era. At this point in the conversation I had to interject to clarify his warning was only further piquing my curiosity. 

He was totally right - Warpaint are a fantastic band, and 'Undertow' is a great single that is exactly what he described it to be. The band is based out of LA, having released only an EP (Exquisite Corpse) and an album late last year, The Fool, which has been gaining steam as of late. There's quite a buzz around this band, and it is absolutely deserved. I adore the simultaneously laid-back yet tense sound they put down - it's cool and quiet, but menacing and a bit dangerous. The kind of band you'd see playing at a bar in a modern noir flick where the detective protagonist has to frequent seedy clubs to find a dame who chain-smokes and answers his questions with more questions. That kind of a sound. 

The buzz has only continued to build around Warpaint, as their album The Fool is rife with material for further singles. They're also young and ready to work, having barely scratched the surface of what they're capable of. This is just one of the many reasons I love Sam - he's got an ear to the ground, feeling these things out with an eerily drawn bead on me. The dude just gets me, so when he sends me a recommendation like this I have to pass it on.

Tenacity

Here we are again!


It's another rainy, stormy Saturday night as I type this. 


Once again I've spent the evening preparing and enjoying an amazing meal with my better half, followed by dedicated movie time with a bottle of wine. She makes crazy good popcorn, I have to say. This time around it was some veg from the farmers market, buffalo burgers and corn on the cob, followed by the Oscar dark horse of last year, The Fighter.

 Holy Hannah, was that a solid evening.


I get now why there was such a fuss over the movie. Having been involved in planning a wedding, being stuck in America's frozen tundra and not wanting to shell out approximately $30 to see it in the theaters, we waited until now to catch up on some of last year's buzz films. Hey, it's cheaper this way, all right? Don't judge - I don't torrent and I'm not made of money. 


Anyway.


While being a fairly rote boxing movie, The Fighter is still incredibly well-constructed and well-executed, to the point that I talked a great deal during the film, mostly my remarking about the nature of boxing and the quality of performance on screen. Not to look down my nose, but it is a rather by-the-numbers underdog movie - it's just that everyone in it is so phenomenal. David O. Russell did an amazing job assembling a cast and framing every shot. I really do feel that I could write hundreds of words on every scene. From the way the ropes of the ring intersect faces to where music cuts in and out, this is a film that is absolutely intentionally constructed, down to the finest detail. 

Of particular note in The Fighter are the supporting players. While Mark Wahlberg is the star, Christian Bale, Amy Adams and Melissa Leo give astounding, trans formative performances that one could use as signatory examples of what their craft aspires to. Melissa Leo simply gets lost in her role as Micky Ward's mother/manager, with intensity and hard-lined devotion fueling her motivation - I look forward to her performance in Kevin Smith's forth-coming Red State. Amy Adams delivers a genuine and completely believable turn as the down-on-her-luck girlfriend. The real show, though, is Christian Bale - the manner in which he channels a crack addicted has been, only to redeem the irredeemable, is simply captivating. We're talking about an actor who physically goes from this:

To this:

And then back to this, for the last in the Nolan-Batman trilogy:

Bale is haunting and riveting, in the best way possible. He summons the persona of Dicky Eklund, for better or worse, somehow entirely through the use of his eyes and relentless nervous energy. Seeing the real-life clips of the actual Eklund at the end of the movie only reinforces the unnerving impersonation Bale is able to pull off.


I was thoroughly engaged through the entire movie. If you've waited this long to see The Fighter, go pick it up now and see what everyone else freaked out about last year. It's no wonder The Academy was so up-in-arms about who to give the Oscar to - this upset the apple cart with good reason. I'll catch you tomorrow, gang.

Recursive Rounds

Happy weekend, kiddos.


I feel bad about yesterday. Not really in the sense of what I wrote, but more so the tone I wrote it in. Millencolin is a really great, hardworking band and I feel bad about the manner in which I backhandedly complimented their hard work. So to make up for it, in addition to writing about how great 'No Cigar' is, I thought I'd take the time today to tell you about two more excellent and under-appreciated songs of theirs.

First off is a single from their hard-rocking change-of-direction album Home From Home. The single, 'Fingers Crossed', is a speedy, slick little number that squirrels right out from the starting gate and doesn't let up until they reach the finish line. I remember picking up the album right before I went on my high school's class trip to the East Coast, throwing myself into the furious tempos and relentless attitudes on the album to dull the boredom of an endless bus ride. That's how we rolled in the Middle West, kids. Anyway, the sheer pop brilliance of 'Fingers Crossed' shows how strong of songwriters the boys in Millencolin are - the song is undeniably sun-shiney and hooky, the kind of stuff I always associate with spring time - things are waking up and coming back to life, so the music should be similarly bright and full of life. The Home From Home album was a turn away from traditional punk to more riff-based rock, but it still was pretty damn good.

Another track that I feel needs a little more love (especially after the piece yesterday) is the single 'Ray' from Millencolin's 2005 album Kingwood. Released to strong reviews, the album showed a return to more of a traditional sound that the band was known for. Buzzing away at a comparatively rapid pace, the tune is another undeniably catchy song that has some fantastic chord progressions and satisfying melodies. The way the band twists and turns the tune around their fingers, it comes across as incredibly clear they have good reason for their lasting popularity and prolific career. I love the feel of the song dropping into the chorus, hitting the low notes as they wail away on their instruments.

Again, forgive my dogging the band for simply excelling in their genre - they shouldn't be subjected to flak (especially from the lowly likes of me) for doing what they do well. Millencolin know their strengths and play to them very well. Not every band has to write an opera to be respected - these guys craft incredibly tightly wound pop songs in punky little packages and deserve every bit of respect they've earned. Give 'em a spin and see what I'm talking about.

Close but...

Hey kids! 


Riding high on the summer, I thought I'd take today's piece to extoll the virtues of the black sheep of popular music, the thing a lot of people loved but no one admits anymore - melodic punk. I will not stoop to calling it pop-punk, because even for me that feels a bit too emasculating, despite my love for both old school punk like The Descendants (Milo Goes to College) and pop music (my own Cyndi Lauper posts). The conflagration of titles seems to be a detriment to both genres, so I tend to just think of it as punk songs with a bit more melody and sunshine, the kind of thing you sing along with no matter what you're doing. Today's melodic punk selection? 'No Cigar' by Scandinavian band Millencolin. 

Millencolin have long been associated with skate culture, as early as their first American releases on California label Epitaph, who saw the potential in bringing the band's sound into the exploding scene on the West Coast. Riding in on the wave of mega-sellers like Green Day, The Offspring and Rancid, Millencolin (whose name supposedly is derived from the skate trick known as a melancholy) found success both here and abroad. Of course, being the nerd I am, the only reason I knew of the band was from the cultural exposure I can credit to my hip West Coast cousin Ben, who included them in a long list of "Bands I Should Be Listening To". Others on the list included NOFX, Reel Big Fish and MxPx. It was a heady time, when all was right in the world, I was a young teenager and poppy little ska-punk bands like these made total sense to us. I had no idea I would look back on this list and think "Oh, that's cute..." while cringing just a bit. Hey, at the time I was also into Radiohead and the Pumpkins - sometimes you gotta just roll with the punches. 


Anyway. 


I was familiar with the band. However, the first time one of their songs really drilled into my skull, though, was like a lot of nerds - as accompaniment to Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 2. I know, I know. Further proof of inherent, undeniable nerdery. It's like a brand or a mark that can't be scrubbed off. Anyway...the track chosen for the game came from an EP the band had just put out, titled No Cigar. The song stands out for me as a kind of codifier on what mid-90s alt-punk sounded like, with it's jangly, punchy guitar riffs and hurtling choruses. I seem to recall Ben telling me that the band was Swedish, but maybe that's just a crossing of wires in my memory banks. I do know that it was apparent that there was something just slightly off about the lyrics, like they were written a little oddly or sung with strange inflection. Whenever it was that I found out, though, their sound made a lot more sense. 

It is a fantastic number, though. From the opening drumrolls that slide you right into the pocket, the song is a solid rocker. Like I said, it's classic 90's (ugh) pop punk, with verses that are sung over just drum and bass, picking up some palm-muted notes as the chorus approaches. I still adore the way the chorus lurches into high gear, with the syncopated slams of the band playing in unison for every note. By the time the last chorus comes they're playing these impossibly dexterous triplets that hook my brain in, no matter how pretentious my tastes have become. True to form, there are no solos or lead parts, just a really jangly little riff that plays on some minor, open chords that are left to ring, creating a great sense of dissonant harmony. It's just a really straight-forward, strong pop song that veers more to punk than rock, is all. 

So why do I feel so sheepish about enjoying this, when I've clearly written about much more embarrassing things on here? Maybe it's that it's the underdog of the 90s, a time on which a lot of people still don't look fondly. There's a bit of nostalgia, sure, but it really wasn't that long ago (10 years, man) that it came out. It still made its way into a playlist I made a few months ago, for running. I think there's a simplicity and accessibility to this song, and certainly this genre of music, that people confuse with vapidity. To be clear and straight-forward in your communication is not a bad thing - conversely communicating poorly and then acting smug about not being understood is not sufficient grounds to label something art (to paraphrase an old XKCD comic). It would seem people are afraid to embrace the music due to it's stigma of fashion, rather than ideas - Bad Religion continue to be one of the smartest, most thought-provoking bands I've heard. 


Regardless of my apologist stance, 'No Cigar' by Millencolin is a a great song that shouldn't get swept under the rug. Just wait for more of the nascent 90s nostalgia if you want a good excuse. When everyone's rocking Doc Martens and watching Clarissa Explains It All, feeling good about VH1, I'll be the one saying "Yeah, but I still think this band is good..." 

Beached Wail

You guys!

I once again come bearing the joy that is free and fantastic music!

After a hard couple of days of emotional and deeply introspective posts about neglect, let's look on the brighter side of things, both literally and figuratively. To be perfectly honest I was quite content to keep the subject of today's piece as private as possible, but it's hardly private at this point. Hell, I read about it on the Nerdist blog, which is hardly an obscure place these days, what with their awesome-sauce podcast and newly-minted TV show. Anyway, the site tipped me off to something I love, in concept and execution - the good ol' mixtape. Although I suppose at this point, technologically, such a thing is extinct. It's more of a playlist. But that just doesn't have the same ring, now, does it?

I digress.

The mix is titled Beachland. Put together by Nate LC and hosted on his tumblr Mixbox, the playlist (which I remind you IS FREE) is designed to be a phenomenal and utterly enjoyable summer mix. After making good use of it since I was tipped off back in...what, May?...wow...I can say with certainty that it is a great mix. The dude knows how to string tunes together, which on the surface sounds easy but is, in fact, quite an art. Described in a manner which I won't crib here, the mix is the perfect thing for your summer and I wanted to make sure anyone reading this got a fair shake at it before the season is gone (sorry Aussies and Kiwis, try back in a few months). 

Full of legitimately great tracks by a variety of artists, there's something for everyone here. Kicking off (and wrapping up) with some beach sounds, the mix rolls from one chilled-yet-sunny track to the next with a deft touch of talented mixing. 'Surfers Hymn' by Panda Bear is a superb choice to open the mix with its joyous, open structure. 1234 Jericho by Jamaica is one of the sunniest, clearly summer songs I've ever heard. That it's followed by the super-fun 'Houdini' by Foster The People only sweetens the deal. I know it's total teeny-bopper stuff but I can't get enough of Eliza Doolittle singing 'Pack Up' - it's become a summer standard in and of its own right. I'm constantly hearing 'Radio' by Raphael Saadiq on the Current these days, highlighting its relevance. There's even some Lonely Island for levity and thump, as well as a great, cheery rap number from my seckrit favorite Childish Gambino.

I love this mix for a whole slew of reasons. It's incredibly well constructed and one of many Nate LC has done. I have yet to spin through the Halloween mix, which I am forcing myself to wait for October to play, even if it kills me to do so. Head on over and get it while you can and while the sun still shines - it's great for whatever you've got going, I promise.