"Diplo Didn't Make It"


Kala, track by track.

01. "Bamboo Banger"

TERESA: This gets the energy flowing exceptionally well for an intro song. The bamboo / mango / pickle / various food shout-outs are getting old, but the beat is more than solid and her flow is commanding enough to whet appetites for what's to come (and houses lyrics that are actually catchy, unlike the first leaked track--"XR2," which only made me worry about the album). [7]

JOSH: Not a particularly strong opener (ala "Pull up the People," which is so, you know, this-shit-is-on!). This one's more "this shit is...different." But it does grow a bit. Maybe a wise call for the first track actually, as it is indicative of the album's general oddness and allovertheplaciness. Jonathan Richman, eh? [5]

02. "Bird Flu"

TERESA: When this first surfaced on the net, I liked it a lot more than I do now. Mostly because it shone in contrast to the aforementioned, "XR2," but also because it was an inspired, genuinely, poundingly good club track for people that don't like normal club tracks. After hearing the rest of the disc, though, it's probably one of the weaker moments. [7]

JOSH: I like this, but not with much passion. Its chief virtue is its jarring otherness. At least, it's jarring the first few times you hear it. After that, it's take it or leave it. I'll take it, but the best thing it has going for it (a seemingly determined resistance to accessible songform) is also what prevents me from really getting into it. What can I say? I'm a songform guy.[6]

03. "Boyz"

TERESA: Okay, this is barely listenable. Maya's not even trying to be clever--resorting to simple riot chanting, which is annoying as hell (while it could have been intimidatingly badass... if it was about bombs and Bush instead of boys). [0]

JOSH: Same qualm, except this one falls on the "leave it" side. I know lots of people love it, which makes me wonder if I'm missing something, but what is there to possibly miss? It doesn't go anywhere. At all. But I digress... [3]

04. "Jimmy"

TERESA: Yes, the best song on here--though not her best ever, despite what Josh might tell you. The perfect Bollywood pop concoction, with a little more street edge and less camp than the usual kind. [10]

JOSH: The gift that just keeps on giving. On listen #493 or so, it still shimmers. Nothing else on Kala comes close. It suggests some tantalizing possibilities, not least of which the idea of M.I.A. as a pop star in a not purely theoretical sense. [10]

05. "Hussel"

TERESA: Initially, this one impressed me a lot--not unlike "Bird Flu"--but faltered on repeated listens. The chorus is still decidedly brilliant, in a simple way, but the verses are really quite lame. "I hate money 'cause it makes me numb"? We all know she can do better. [5]

JOSH: This one does go somewhere, but it gets tiresome fast. The spare drums are exciting early on, then the synths barge in and add nothing (good) to the mix. Kind of gives me a headache the way some grime did, and guest rapper Afrikan Boy sounds a lot like someone from Roll Deep. [4]

06. "Mango Pickle Down River"

TERESA: Ugh, if there's one thing that I always hate in music, it's pointless novelty. The only band I can think of that does it well would be CSS (though their pop culture parodies are really more like homages, and are hardly pointless). But anytime little kids are involved, it's bad news. And M.I.A. saying she likes fish and mango: not cool. Not cute. Not funny. [0]

JOSH: Weirdest track yet. Those kids are creepy as hell. (Maybe it's just me, though. I sometimes find young children creepy when that's not the intended effect.) I like it. [6]

07. "$20"

TERESA: This one is probably my third favorite on Kala. She may have picked the most famous, ubiquitous Pixies song to quote, but it's still the Pixes, and it still ends up being creative and refreshing. The rest of it is stellar, too. She's in top form here. [9]

JOSH: My initial impulse was that this was just okay (synths put to better use than on "Hussel," at least), but just when I was starting to get a tad bit bored with it, they switch up the synths and she starts chanting some Pixies. Upon repeat listens, this one impresses. It's actually somewhat hypnotic. [8]

08. "World Town"

TERESA: Again with the chanting. Sometimes it works, but on this disc it mostly fails--especially on "Boyz," and here. The squelchy atari trumpet beat doesn't help. [2]

JOSH: Sort of a songier (relatively speaking) "Bird Flu," yet decidedly less interesting. More than anything else here, this might've fit in on her debut (though it would've probably been the weakest track). [4]

09. "The Turn"

TERESA: Her most vulnerable moment in a long time--maybe to date. It, along with "Jimmy" shows that she can sing; if not particularly well, at least very prettily. [8]

JOSH: Not very songy at all, but I like it just fine nevertheless. Perhaps this is M.I.A.'s version of mood music. It comes off pretty well. [7]

10. "XR2"

TERESA: I've said all I need to say on this turd of a wannabe-cultural mantra. [0]

JOSH: Still not a fan. I was hoping this would sound better in the context of the album, but Kala's so willfully eclectic that such context means little. In 2007, Diplo's baile funk fetish might finally be played out. [4]

11. "Paper Planes"

TERESA: M.I.A. may be bitter at the recognition and credit Diplo still gets for Arular, but she'll have to live with the fact that he did "make" the beat to one of her best songs (yes, this one). The sample is integrated beautifully, so that it's instantly recognizable, but not necessarily placeable (it took me a minute to realize what it was, though I knew I knew it). To her credit, her lyrics and pacing fit over it gracefully and make it eerily beautiful and tough at the same time. [10]

JOSH: Her ex redeems himself completely, though, with this one, my second-favorite on the record. Here, she raps over "Straight to Hell" with the same relaxed confidence she exuded on Piracy Funds Terrorism's "Bingo"/"Big Pimpin'" blend. It's too bad they're on the outs now. They make a terrific duo, creatively anyway. (This video proves it.) [9]

12. "Come Around"

TERESA: It's held up well, even after hearing the entirety of both this disc and Timbo's. It's breezy, summery, sweaty, fun, and funny. A winning combination, blah blah blah. Oh, and for the record, this is an example of the chanting being a good thing. [8]

JOSH: It's appropriate that this appears as a bonus track on both this album and Timbaland's. It feels like a one-off, the curious product of a collaboration that maybe didn't quite gel but still yielded this interesting result. That "baby girl / you and me / need to go to your tee pee" line is hilarious. [7]

It's Britney, Bitch!


Forget everything you know about Britney Spears in 2007. Forget that bald-ass billiard ball head. Forget the disturbing absence of panties when exiting vehicles. Forget the horrendous parenting and messy custody battle. Forget K-Fed. Forget that her other ex is now huger and more universally embraced than she ever was or could ever hope to be again.

Or don't.

Either way, "Gimme More" is terrific. The tight, squelchy beat, by Timbaland protege Nate "Danja" Hills, is locked-in and irresistible. The verses are all coy, breathy come-on's ("just wanna go that extra mile for you"), Britney doing what Britney's always done best--taking a page from the Madonna play-book and making smart use of that notoriously limited vocal range.

The forgettable, underwhelming chorus is the only thing that prevents this from being classic Britney ("Baby One More Time," "Crazy," "Oops I Did It Again," "I'm a Slave 4 U," "Toxic"), and, really, that's only appropriate. Killer hooks are for pop stars, and--let's face it--Britney isn't really much of a pop star anymore. She's a media star, eternal paparazzi bait, and as such, "Gimme More" is at least as good as, say, "Stars Are Blind." And better than "Rumors."

Trouble with Angels


Okay, so we swept Boston: Good! Okay, we're, for the moment, a game ahead of Seattle in the Wild Card standings: Nice! Okay, we're back within striking distance of the division lead: Great!

But here's the thing: If we want to avoid another disappointing early-exit October, we have to take the East. Forget about the Wild Card. Let the Red Sox have it--or the Mariners or the Tigers; it doesn't matter. Of course, sneaking into the postseason that way is better than not making it at all, but take a quick glance at the AL standings.

Right, should the chips fall the way they would if the season ended now--more or less the way they'll very likely fall a month from now--we wouldn't be starting the playoffs with a five-game series against the team we just swept in the Bronx. We'd be headed to dreaded Anaheim, and not for a quick stop-in at Disneyland.

The absolute worst-case scenario, given that we survive September and earn a spot in the postseason, is an opening round meeting with the Angels--the only team with a winning record against the Joe Torre-era Yankees. For whatever reason (Vlad? Too fast-paced? Cross-country jet lag? Garrett goddamn Anderson?), this club straight up has our number. To make matters worse, this year's version of the California Angels of Los Angeles via Anaheim is arguably the strongest since the World Series winners of five years ago.

So, I repeat: We have to win the division. We have to play as sharply as we did in this Boston series when Seattle comes to town in a few days, and, of course, when we visit Fenway in a couple weeks. We have to play the way this veritable all-star team should play against bottom feeders like Tampa Bay and Kansas City and Baltimore (i.e., trounce the hell out of them). We cannot endure another lapse like the recent one in Detroit. A-Rod has to keep putting up those MVP numbers. Matsui and Cano and Damon and the rest of the lineup have to continue getting key hits and driving in runs. Wang and Pettitte and especially Clemens have to keep pitching with the same urgency they displayed these past few games. And, not least of all, Mike Mussina needs to get his shit together. Fast.

I'd much rather have to deal with Cleveland or Seattle or even Detroit in a five-game Division Series than kick the postseason off with a pair of games in Southern California. I've got a hunch, too, that Torre, Cashman, and the Boss feel very much the same on the matter.

Stars, Bright-Shining or Otherwise


As you may or may not have noticed, I've been posting less lately (unless you count this stuff) because I've been doing a bunch of writing for someplace else again, and haven't really had much of note to comment on anyway.

But here are some brief thoughts...

This summer's incarnation of Team USA is just ridiculous: Kobe, LeBron, Carmelo, Jason Kidd, Dwight Howard, etc., playing like a team and humiliating all comers. This squad looks damn-near on par with the Jordan-Magic-Bird-Barkley Dream Team. Which is to say, I might actually tune into the Olympics next year.

This band is very good. Click on the song called "Caney Mountain" and agree with me. I'm going be reviewing their CD, Buckle in the Bible Belt, so, I guess, look out for that.

I haven't heard either the new 50 Cent or the new Kanye album in their entireties yet, but I like "I Get Money," the best track the former's put out since his debut album, more than the latter's "Stronger," which loses its novelty on repeat listens and starts to wear rather thin. I also prefer the odd-but-interesting "Ayo Technology" to the disappointingly so-so "Barry Bonds," despite the presence of artist-of-the-year frontrunner Lil Wayne.

We just finished watching the first season of Big Love on DVD. Color me impressed. To my tastes, it's the strongest HBO show since The Sopranos hit the air. The whole endeavor's so well-executed, from the admirably unsensational and sympathetic realization of the central, polygamist Henrickson clan to Harry Dean Stanton's Roman, uniquely unsettling among tv villains. Can't wait to check out Season 2; unfortunately, we don't have HBO for the time being, so we'll have to twiddle our thumbs until the DVD release.

And finally, I typically pay little attention to Hollywood's off-screen goings-on--I had no idea that Steve Coogan and Courtney Love were ever in any way involved, and only knew that Owen Wilson and Kate Hudson were from spotting them together at those Warriors playoff games--but this is so sad. Nathaniel linked to a thoughtful piece by Matt Zoller Seitz, and I will do the same. I hope Owen gets well soon. He's a wonderful actor, and so far as one can tell, seems like a genuinely good guy.

Lists


As readers of this blog may have noticed, I like to make lists. In an attempt to compartmentalize this nagging impulse, I've created this blog, on which I (or, if I can talk her into it, perhaps Teresa sometimes) will post a new top ten list every day (give or take, right?). I've kicked things off with (naturally) ten lists. They're on broad topics for the purpose of establishing a sort of framework; subsequent daily lists will probably be narrower or more marginal in their focus. To be clear, this blog will include no substance whatsoever, no running commentary, no explanations: just lists. And "top" always means "favorite," just for the record.

You Can Count on Me


About a week ago, I managed to get back in touch with a guy who was my best friend growing up. As kids, we learned to skateboard, played alto sax in the school band, hunted werewolves in his yard, pretended to crowd surf on his parents' waterbed, stayed up all night watching MTV, and went to see 3-D laser shows at the planetarium. Prior to the emails we've recently exchanged, we hadn't talked in a decade. Now, flashed forward those ten short years, we discussed degrees and careers and (at least in my case) marriage. Somehow, we've come an awfully long way from skateboards, werewolves, and laser shows.

Maybe that's why Superbad rings so true, and hits rather close to home--mine's now in Western Canada, his in Western Pennsylvania, both an awfully long way indeed from the tiny Southern Illinois town where we grew up. Now, I hope, in retrospect, that my friend and I weren't quite as dorky as Seth and Evan, the movie's BFF's. But it's entirely possible that we were: I was chunky and had learned a lot more of what I knew from pop culture than from actual experience; he was lanky and (sorry, man) somewhat socially awkward. Now, he has (according his Facebook page anyway) over 200 friends, and I'm happily married to a brilliant, beautiful woman. How in the world did that happen?

Superbad, like the also superb Knocked Up earlier this summer, is about--more than boobs and dicks and alcohol and drugs--growing up. That probably sounds a touch cliche, and it is: Isn't that the point of all coming-of-age movies, from American Graffiti to American Pie? The difference is that Judd Apatow and Co. are--amid said boobs, dicks, alcohol, and drugs--concerned with making movies about not just growing up per se, but in various ways, about developing into thoughtful, responsible adults.

That's why Superbad's morning-after denouement registers as bittersweet. Seth and Evan's relationship has, if not run its course, at least served some real purpose. By learning to be loyal friends (the image of Seth carrying passed-out Evan from the police-crashed house party feels oddly iconic), they've readied themselves to be good partners for their romantic interests. If not for Jules and Becca, their high school crushes--the movie ends happily, even hopefully but guarantees nothing outside Seth and Evan's good nature and ultimate functionality--then for some women someday. Or maybe, as Richard Corliss suggests (and perhaps oversells in his hasty pan), not women necessarily.

Either way, it struck me then that Superbad's filmic kindred spirit isn't, finally, Knocked Up or The 40 Year-Old Virgin or, for that matter, non-Apatow sex comedies like the Porky's or American Pie movies. It's Terry Zwigoff's filmization of Ghost World. Both movies indulge quirk, embrace social misfits, and crack wise, all the while lamenting the inevitable end-point of close adolescent friendships. Think of that heartbreaking scene where Enid and Rebecca sit together on the bench outside the hospital and, in effect, concede that it's over, that they've grown apart and in different directions, that they're not going to be sharing that apartment and continuing to elude independent adulthood as planned.

Then think again of Superbad's penultimate shot: Seth staring fearfully up the mall escalator as his best friend's face fades from sight. You might at first suspect that dude's just freaked out by the prospect of spending an afternoon alone (albeit in a public place) with the girl of his dreams--and you'd be partly right, of course. But more than that, it's separation anxiety setting in fast, the wistful realization that actually getting what he ostensibly wants most means no more sloshed slumber parties with his buddy. At the end of Ghost World , we watch as Enid leaves town on a Greyhound bound for nowhere. Evan's just going to Dartmouth in the fall.

We Pack and Deliver Like UPS Trucks


What's been on:

*Puffy Amy Yumi - "Tokyo Nights"
*Lil Wayne - "La La La"
*M.I.A. - "Paper Planes"
*50 Cent - "I Get Money"
*Alan Jackson - "I'll Go on Loving You"
*Susumu Hirasawa - "Mediational Field" (from Paprika)
*Mirah - "La Familia" (Guy Sigsworth remix)
*Miranda Lambert - "Guilty in Here"
*Lee Jung Hyun - "Believe"
*The New Pornographers - "Go Places"
*David Banner f/ Lil Wayne, Snoop Dogg, & Akon - "9MM"
*Morrissey - "I Just Want to See the Boy Happy"
*Bryan Hyland - "Sealed with a Kiss"
*Yeah Yeah Yeahs - "Kiss Kiss"
*Kanye West - "Young Folks"
*Rihanna - "Push Up on Me"
*Cansei de ser Sexy - "I Wanna Be Your J. Lo"
*Kelly Willis - "Sweet Sundown"
*Jin - "Open Letter 2 Obama"

They Might Be Giants


I'm late getting to the recent deaths of Michelangelo Antonioni and Ingmar Bergman (as, let's face it, I usually am with most things here at JLT/JLT), but I did want to say something on the subject.

It seems an odd coincidence that this particular pair should pass on the same day since, in their respective primes, no two figures arguably (Fellini is a contender, as well, obviously) better represented art cinema with a capital 'A'. Though it now seems dated and cliched--partly due to being the subject of countless parodies and partly due to its own stone-faced seriousness and heavy-handed symbolism--Bergman's The Seventh Seal remains perhaps the most famous of postwar European films. Likewise, Antonioni's L'Avventura, with its Old World vs. New World theme and barely-there narrative, is unmistakably a key turning point in the development of the contemporary art movie.

Of course, as a teenager eager to be initiated in the cult of Serious Cinema, both were eye-opening, and for a long time, Bergman and Antonioni were among my favorite filmmakers. I semi-exhaustively sought whatever I could get my hands on by either, ordering VHS copies of Smiles of a Summer Night and The Virgin Spring and Red Desert (probably my favorite Antonioni) from my local library. When I first saw Persona, at age 14 or 15, I was pretty sure it was the best movie ever made, give or take Citizen Kane.

Alas, nerdy film snob that I am, I've subsequently outgrown Bergman's austere moral universe and (to a lesser extent) Antonioni's Euro-Art existentialism (though I still adore his rigidly architectural mise-en-scene). I've moved on to the greener pastures of Dreyer and Bresson, Ozu and Mizoguchi. I await with baited breath the latest releases from Hou Hsiao-hsien and Abbas Kiarostami and Apichatpong Weerasethakul, dutifully observing that the art film hot spots have shifted east since the mid-century heydays of Bergman and Antonioni. But you know what? I would've probably never navigated my way there without first "discovering" The Seventh Seal and L'Avventura, and for that I owe these departed masters a tremendous debt of gratitude.

Wayne's World


Okay, I'm going to be purposefully brief here, as I'm planning on writing a lengthier feature on Lil Wayne and The Carter III for Pop Matters (so look out for that, if you're so inclined). Suffice it to say, for now, that Wayne is simply at another level right now, as I'm obviously not the first to observe. But, christ, this is the rare air once occupied by Jay-Z (circa The Blueprint), Biggie (circa Ready to Die), Rakim (circa Paid in Full), and few others. This mix, stunning from start to finish, is Kobe dropping 81 points on the Raptors. No question, Wayne's the MVP of the moment. Here's to hoping he doesn't go to jail.

100 Performances: 2000-07


Being, for better or worse, a compulsive list-maker, you know I can't go too long without putting one of these stupid things together. This time, I compiled my one hundred favorite performances of the new millennium, thus far. Here's that. Below are some brief notes on my picks for the top ten.

01.

I know what you're probably thinking: Odd choice for the top spot--he's not the film's lead, the role isn't remotely showy, it's just a past-his-prime warhorse turning in an uncharacteristically low-key appearance in a hip indie. But Nick Nolte's performance in Clean is a wondrous thing, warm, soulful, in a word or two, incredibly human. Each time I return to Assayas' underrated addiction flick, I find myself marveling at how Nolte brings just the right amount of gravitas to his grieving father/cautiously supportive father-in-law role. Had he opted instead to chew scenery--see, for example, his audacious perf in Ang Lee's Hulk--it would've spoiled the film's hard-earned redemptive tone. You've got to give Assayas credit, too, for recognizing that Nolte was perfect for the part, and for (presumably) coaching him to dial down his signature histrionics; the rage simmering below his character's grief is entirely palpable without an obligatory freak-out scene.

02.

Somehow, at the dawn of the new century, Scully from The X-Files managed to do what Martin Scorsese had struggled with: She translated the emotional nuance and tragic dimensions of Edith Wharton's literature to celluloid. Gillian Anderson's Lily Bart is a creation like Anne Wiazemsky's Marie in Au hasard Balthazar. She fights to stay afloat, but is dragged further and further down by her environment, until, finally, she's too exhausted to keep up that fight. Come to think of it, in Terence Davies' cooly and cruelly rendered turn-of-the-century New York, she's also rather like the title character of Bresson's masterpiece. Though, in the end, she sets herself out to pasture, so to speak, it's no less devastating.

03.

Okay, disregard for a moment my praise of Nolte's low-key, non-histrionic turn. Sean Penn's Mystic River performance astonishes for the same reason most of his best performances (excluding, of course, Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Sweet and Lowdown) astonish: dramatic fireworks. In Eastwood's film, Penn (playing, like Nolte, a grieving father) is absolutely explosive. It's as if he thought to himself, in preparation for the part, "How would Tony Soprano act if some bastard killed Meadow?"--and just took off from there.

04.

In the mysanthropic-yet-secretly-sweet-natured record geek Seymour, Steve Buscemi finally got the role he richly deserved after years of slumming his singular talents in Adam Sandler vehicles and Jerry Bruckheimer garbage. The performance he turned in was extraordinary. Just think of that scene in the hospital: "I'm high on life," Buscemi deadpans. From anyone else, it's a good line; the way Buscemi delivers it, it's down-right heartbreaking.

05.

It's time to give the girl the props she deserves: Kirsten Dunst is the best actress of her generation. Whether in Spider-Man (or its sequels), Bring It On, or more "serious" fare (crazy/beautiful, Marie Antoinette, both of which also turn up later on my list), she hits it out of the park every time she steps to the plate. Her performance as aspiring comedienne, and more famously, William Randolph Hearst mistress Marion Davies is her strongest work to date. She's the all-too-fragile heart and soul of Peter Bogdanovich's underappreciated mystery-cum-mood piece. Additionally, Dunst's performance makes for a fascinating comparison alongside Dorothy Comingmore's Susan Alexander in Citizen Kane.

06.

Like Dunst's Davies, Amy Adams' rightly awarded Junebug turn is a deftly handled exercise in hinting at dissatisfaction and sadness behind a sprightly facade. Yet even after Adams' character, Ashley, miscarries her baby, she doesn't seem hopeless--or humorless. That's the triumph of Adams' performance: credibly portraying the extremes in human emotion, while remaining true to the essence of one of the most lovable characters to grace American movies so far this millennium.

07.

The reason the scene, near the end of the film, where we see Wladyslaw Szpilman once again playing his piano (echoing the film's opening image), registers as deeply as it does is due to just how effectively Adrien Brody expresses Szpilman's perilous journey through Polanski's nightmare vision of Nazi-occupied Poland. In that penultimate moment, you can see in Brody's eyes the unspeakable horrors Szpilman's witnessed and endured in navigating his way from Point A to Point B. When, all of a sudden, he cracks a smile, it's the most optimistic--and beautiful--moment in Polanski's dark oeuvre.

08. and 09.

Amy Taubin accurately described Before Sunset as "Mozartian." Like a Mozart concerto, Linklater's belated sequel wouldn't work without every part falling perfectly into place--the real-time structure, the pitch-perfect script, the expertly designated Paris locations, the luminous, graceful photography. And, of course, the performances, by Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. As in the first film, Delpy and Hawke are Celine and Jesse. Here, they convincingly age their classic couple by almost a decade, precisely articulating their disappointments with thirtysomething adulthood and worn-down idealism. Naturally, they still have uncanny on-screen chemistry.

10.

Full-disclosure: I initially hated this movie, and especially Summer Phoenix's seemingly inept performance. Eventually, I came around, and now regard Desplechin's film as something of a minor masterpiece, and Phoenix's performance as uniquely intuitive. The title character is an aspiring actress with virtually no personality to speak of when she's not on stage. What Phoenix accomplishes here, in the unenviable task of playing a blank slate, is a compelling study, simultaneously self-conscious and naked, of the craft of acting.


See selections 11-100.

Lost in the Supermarket


Brief notes on a few good albums...

Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Is Is It's not a classic EP on the level of their career-making "Master," but as between-albums offerings go, this is strong stuff. The first two are already tried-and-tested knockouts, especially "Down Boy," which sounds like the YYYs' version of mood music. The last two are solid enough--not filler, but decidedly not catalogue standouts either. In between, there's a song called "Kiss Kiss" that Teresa doesn't like but I do lots and lots. The chorus, "Everywhere kiss me," is as close to a conventional come-on as any line Karen O's delivered to date. She's still doling out the orders, and yet she sounds almost, for lack of a better word, submissive. Maybe she's figured out that there can be real pleasure in it, or real release anyway. Actually, sometimes it sounds like she's saying "Everywhere kids meet." Probably just a coincidence, but I'm opting to believe otherwise.

Kelly Willis, Translated from Love As Norah Jones-esque wallpaper goes, this is essentially lovely, and her "Don't Know Why" is nicer than Norah's anyhow. The more rock-tinged numbers here don't work quite so well; the keybs do when she doesn't try to do too much with them. "Sweet Sundown" reminds me in a roundabout sort of way of both Fleetwood Mac and CCR; it's comfort music, cherry cheesecake for your ears. On the title track, which closes the album, Kelly sings, "If it goes off the seismograph / you have to control the aftermath," an early contender for relationship metaphor lyric of the year.

Patty Griffin, Children Running Through No wonder Miranda looks up to her: Patty Griffin seamlessly veers between trad country, modern country, folk, blues, and rock. Her "Getting Ready" is looser, earthier, and somewhat more elusive than Miranda's confrontational take. It's followed by a very pretty ballad called "I Don't Ever Give Up" that Ran should keep in mind for her next record. It matters little that the album doesn't necessarily hold up as a whole when Patty's hitting her stride. Which is most of the time here.

Where Were You in '92?


Mallory O' Donnell's piece about listening to Pavement for (effectively) the first time succeeded thoroughly in making me nostalgic for--right--listening to Pavement for the first time, and more generally for the '90's, which is looking more and more like a cultural and political golden age every day. I looked back wistfully on the Clinton Era, on My So-Called Life and The Real World (before it sucked), on "insular, ironic, sweater-clad whiteboys" (as O' Donnell initially christens Pavement) somehow managing to make a generous handful of really good records. (Now we've got, what, Surfjan Stevens and Interpol?)

The first thing I did after finishing the article was re-watch this video for "Range Life," which narrowly edges out "We Are Underused" and "Shady Lane" as my favorite Pavement track. The video's great, too, in that half-assed, on-the-fly, concert footage and behind-the-scenes ephemera cobbled together sort of way--which is to say, very mid-90's. The best part comes around the 2:25 mark, when SM lip-synchs (badly), hands lazily on his hips, eyebrows raised mock-dramatically, staring directly into the camera: "Don't worry / We're in no hurry / School's out / What did you expect?" In its way--at once, oblique and uncommonly straightforward, like most of Pavement's and Malkmus's strongest work--it's as fitting a generational mantra as anything Kurt Cobain or Thom Yorke ever came up with.

Good News for People Who Love Bad News


Welcome, one and all, to Existential/PR Crises Week, brought to you none too proudly by the professional sports commissioners of the U.S. of A.:

David Stern: "This is not something that is anything other than an act of betrayal of what we know in sports as a sacred trust."

Bud Selig, after squirming and waffling for months, is headed for San Francisco, after all.

And Roger Goodell tells Michael Vick to stay home.

On this last matter, I'd like to editorialize a bit:

Michael Vick is a psychotic scumbag who needs to be appropriately punished--and, no, I don't just mean league suspensions (time off work--what an awful fate!) or fines (dude's a multi-millionaire). I'm speaking as a former fan of Vick's tremendous athletic skill, but more passionately as the former owner of an abused pit bull. Her name was Rory, and she was the sweetest dog (or animal, period, for that matter) I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Prior to adopting her from my local animal control center, she was undoubtedly neglected and malnourished--her growth had been stunted to the point that she weighed less than half of what a year and half-old female pit should weigh--and possibly used as dogfighting bait. Rory's previous owner deserved more than a mere slap on the wrist, and so does Vick.

He reportedly not only fought his dogs, but executed the losing dogs by means of electrocution, drowning, hanging, or shooting. This makes me want to vomit--the motherfucker clearly took real pleasure in torturing these poor, innocent animals. Anyone who engages (and delights) in this sort of deranged activity needs serious mental help, and in the meantime, deserve substantial punitive action. Our pets are very much like our children--they depend entirely on us for their well-being, caretaking, and survival. I'm not saying that Vick's punishment should be the same as if he'd tortured children, but at the same time, his accused crimes shouldn't be written off or viewed leniently because they were "just dogs." Because they were his dogs does not mean that he should be permitted to treat them in such a repugnant, deeply inhumane manner; rather, it means that they were his responsibility, and that he has evidently failed miserably as a responsible adult and as a caretaker.

If this man throws a single pass or runs once for a touchdown next season (in some capacity other than a prisonyard scrimmage), though, that failure isn't his alone. It is, then, that of the NFL, the American justice system, and of human decency and compassion.

Remix! This Is the Remix!


Solidifying "Umbrella"'s already-unimpeachable track-of-the-year status is the fact that it's now been remixed--officially and unofficially--within an inch of its life.

Some are good, others, naturally, not so much.

Chris Brown's "Cinderella" verse adds next to nothing, but this blend with Kelly Rowland's "Like This" comes off really well. The version with Lil Mama (who also kills on Avril's "Boyfriend" remix) handily trumps both.

This mix is fun in a somewhat generic, sped-up clubby sort of way, but I like this mash-up with Queen better. And this take (oh, and this one, too) better yet--not just because they doesn't leave our star sounding like a chipmunk.

On the unofficial front, cuts with Biggie, Ludacris, and Eminem are worth a listen, if mostly just for the novelty value. This dude's take isn't, but, hey, at least he seems to be having fun.

More tangentially, there's also this rather pretty piano interpretation by some lady named Marrina.

Finally, if it's not too '06 for you, this "What You Know"/"Unfaithful" mash-up recontextualizes T.I.'s triumphant boast as a poignant confessional.

Get at 'em.

Word's Gonna Get Around


Okay, so I spoke too soon. America's Best Songwriter (TM) will have to settle with having made 2007's second-best country record (probably the year's second best record, period). Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is the no-question, might-as-well-close-the-voting-booths-early-'cause-it's-a-done-deal album of the year. Kindly excuse what may read as hyperbole--this one's that damn good.

Josh Love acutely observes that Miranda manages the deft trick of playing with persona in a genre that values authenticity above almost all else. More impressive yet, I'd argue, is Crazy Ex-Girlfriend's staggering emotional range, and how tightly and seamlessly she ties it all together. This is the most thoughtful, fully-realized portrait of the natural disparities in human emotion since To Bring You My Love. It's, by turns and sometimes at once, moving, funny, sweet, and scary.

And, oh yeah: Every track here's a classic.

The album opener, "Gunpowder and Lead," and the title track pick up where "Kerosene" left off, with Miranda in full-on Bad Girl mode. That's the idea, anyway--the selling point. But in the former--one hell of a way to kick off a much-anticipated follow-up record--Miranda angrily confesses that "he slapped my face and he shook me like a rag doll," then adds, "don't that sound like a real man?" By the time our (supposed) 2nd Amendment advocate disturbingly taunts, "His fist is big, but my gun's bigger...he'll find out when I pull my trigger!" it's too late to conscientiously object. You're hooked. In her corner, for the long haul, for better or worse.

"Crazy Ex-Girlfriend," on the other hand, doesn't bother fishing for our sympathy. It's as vivid, and nearly as violent, as one of Eminem's fantasy scenarios. "Didn't give a second thought to being thrown in jail," Miranda brags, "because, baby, to a hammer everything looks like a nail." Still, it seems ironic that most of the attention surrounding Miranda focuses on said Bad Girl image, a persona clearly in conflict with mainstream country's slate of decidedly tamer female stars. Without stretching things too much, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend can be prettily easy read as a concept album about the consequences of letting your temper get the best of you, about a good relationship that might not have gone bad had cooler heads prevailed--on both sides.

On "More Like Her," Miranda watches as an ex she still clearly has feelings for returns to a less volatile old flame. The other woman puts up with his shit, and Miranda wonders whether maybe she should've kept her calm, too, sometimes. A couple tracks later, she asks, "What became of all the boys who only want one thing? Will somebody tell me what I'm doin' wrong?" Right, growing up is tricky. What's a smart, sassy Texas gal to do?

How about absolutely torch a Patty Griffin cover? Here, "Getting Ready" becomes a vehicle for pure country-rock catharsis--romantic and sexual frustration rechannelled as impossible confidence. And as much as it is a kiss-off to a former lover, it's also very much the sound of Miranda towering over the competition, consciously realizing how much better she is than almost anyone else out right now. Thinks Girls Aloud on "The Show." Or Jay-Z on "The Takeover." Or, again, Polly Harvey circa To Bring You My Love.

But catharses, like such periods of dominance, are ephemeral; they don't usually last. Doubt and worry set in, and Miranda closes her masterpiece with another, very different cover. This time she takes her cue from Emmylou Harris as she sings about how "it's gonna be easy from now on," though you can tell from the hesitation in her voice that she knows well otherwise. From our firearm-wielding, bar fight-provoking heroine, it's incredibly tender, legitimately beautiful, the high point on album full of 'em. "When the morning comes and it's time for me to leave," she confides, "Don't worry 'bout me, I got a wild card up my sleeve." Trust me, it'll break your heart.

Pearls


Keith Olbermann asks Bush and Cheney to resign now.

Gene Wojciechowski considers A-Rod's future.

Allen Barra wonders what the hell is up with the '07 Yankees. (Lord, so do I!)

Stuart Klawans says interesting things about Sicko.

So does Jonathan Rosenbaum.

Edd Hurt mulls over Big & Rich's place in today's Nashville.

M.I.A. might be having a sophomore slump.

Lil Wayne throws a party on Mars.

The Results Are In


Well, sort of. Roughly halfway through '07, here's our favorites-for-now.

JOSH

Picture: Still Life
runners-up: Bug; Black Book
Director: Jia Zhang-ke, Still Life
runners-up: William Friedkin, Bug; Paul Verhoeven, Black Book
Actress: Ashley Judd, Bug
runners-up: Carice van Houten, Black Book; Kirsten Dunst, Spider-Man 3
Actor: Samuel L. Jackson, Black Snake Moan
runners-up: John Malkovich, Color Me Kubrick; Seth Rogen, Knocked Up
Supporting Actress: Zhao Tao, Still Life
runners-up: Leslie Mann, Knocked Up; Zoe Bell, Death Proof
Supporting Actor: James Franco, Spider-Man 3
runners-up: Paul Rudd, Knocked Up; Justin Timberlake, Black Snake Moan
Screenplay: Judd Apatow, Knocked Up
runners-up: Tracy Letts, Bug; Paul Verhoeven and Gerard Soeteman, Black Book
Cinematography: Nelson Yu Lik-wai, Still Life
runners-up: Norman Cohn, The Journals of Knud Rasmussen; Michael Grady, Bug

TERESA

Picure: The Host
runners-up: Black Book; Bug
Director: Satoshi Kon, Paprika
runners-up: Bong Joon-ho, The Host; Paul Verhoeven, Black Book
Actress: Miki Nakatani, Memories of Matsuko
runners-up: Ashley Judd, Bug; Carice van Houten, Black Book
Actor: Michael Shannon, Bug
runners-up: Seth Rogen, Knocked Up; Kurt Russell, Death Proof
Supporting Actress: Zhao Tao, Still Life
runners-up: Asuka Kurosawa, Memories of Matsuko; Leslie Mann, Knocked Up
Supporting Actor: Paul Rudd, Knocked Up
runners-up: Hie-bong Byeon, The Host; Sebastian Koch, Black Book
Screenplay: Seishi Minakami & Satoshi Kon, Paprika
runners-up: Judd Apatow, Knocked Up; Tracy Letts, Bug
Cinematography: Norman Cohn, The Journals of Knud Rasmussen
runners-up: Michael Grady, Bug; Amy Vincent, Black Snake Moan

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