The White Lies’ album To Lose My Life was one of my favourites of 2009, so the follow-up — Ritual — was much anticipated.
It’s been taking a while to grow on me; I keep zoning off, hearing reflections of the breakthrough To Lose My Life. And then suddenly, pow!, the track ‘Peace and Quiet’ pounced on my ears and tore all the way to the heart. Which is why I love music. Even the most played album, or song, can take on new shades as the years go by and life lends new perspectives.
The White Lies have pushed on a little from To Lose My Life, bringing in some synths and adding a touch of harmony. Ritual is perhaps a more subtle, mature album.
Noirish imagery and striking turns of phrase abound. The overarching mood tends towards the fatalistic: lost love and a broken planet and a society riven by loneliness. Opener ‘Is Love’ sets the scene with its cynical treatise; the album closer, ‘Come Down’, suggests the brightest moment casts the longest shadow.
Ritual might not have the instantly catchy anthems such as ‘Farewell to the Fairground’ and ‘Death’ To Lose My Life, but it does reward repeated listening. I’ll keep delving, waiting for the next little piece of emotional lightning to strike.
AFP, of Dresden Dolls fame and now carving out a solo career, held court at a packed Sydney Opera House on Wednesday night. It was a precursor to her Down Under tour. But this was special.
For starters, there was an Aussie touch on stage: a Hills hoist and a barbie and an Esky of VB: the booze was rightfully derided as being piss poor, but the cartons did make a fetching backdrop, used as they were to spell out a mighty AFP.
There was a striking voice and piano courtesy of the Melbourne duo The Jane Austen Argument (playing support on AFP’s tour), and rollicking Gypsy-ish fun with Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen. The latter provided backing for AFP on a bunch of numbers during the night, showing a high degree of charm, humour and flexibility — one member played piano accordion, sax, organ and electric guitar. And there was a big-screen appearance from Meow Meow and, in the flesh, Kim Boekbinder (also touring with AFP, and author of the gorgeous New Orleans themed tune Big Easy).
And then there was Neil Gaiman, who read a yarn he penned to accompany Amanda’s Who Killed… book, the project that brought them together, and then a poem he’d penned in Hyde Park for Australia Day about our lost megafauna, and then a poem for Amanda.
And then of course there was AFP herself, cavorting with the crowd in her Union Jack corset like a charming and chaotic ringmaster, set list forsaken, band slightly shaken, snags cooked on a barbie, smoochings in the crowd and, in essence, damned good fun.
There were tunes from her new album and some crowd favourites, some silly fun ones and some that were somewhat more serious, and others simply beautiful: a ballad called The Drover’s Boy, just reminding us that the colonisation of this continent that was being celebrated that day had come at a cost to the indigenous inhabitants, and then the concert closer, Nick Cave’s The Ship Song, sung from the balcony.
A raucous encore featuring an all-in rendition of Map of Tasmania and Oasis, complete with glittering gogo dancers, sent the crowd buzzing out the doors after three hours of musical mayhem. The bridge arced over the harbour, mist hugged the skyscrapers, the black-clad tide disappeared into the Sydney streets.
Black Swan is the latest offering from director Darren Aronofsky (Requiem for a Dream, The Wrestler); it’s won a Golden Globe, amongst others, so yay that it’s finally reached Australia.
The buzz is warranted. It’s a gripping little drama, intensely personalised thanks to the bravura performance from Natalie Portman who handles her role with just the deftness required.
The story centres on a ballet dancer angling for the plum role of the Swan Queen in a new production of Swan Lake — Winona Ryder appears as the current prima ballerina. I went in knowing only that the movie was set in a ballet, and frankly, I was glad to not have read or heard any further information than that. The air of not quite knowing what was going on lasted right till the climax.
There were some delightful ‘ew’ moments, mostly from the simple realities of the physical toll of dancing, and some tasty little swipes at the industry as well.
Highly recommended.
Scott Pilgrim vs The World
Finally caught up with Scott Pilgrim, directed by Edgar Wright riffing hard on the original graphic novel, and really enjoyed the style. There’s a lot of graphic interplay to bring the fantasy home, ranging from unnecessary sound effects spelled out on screen to very cool sound waves and slow motion lines, and funky titles taken from computer games. But I can’t help thinking it’s time for the geeks to stop making wish-fulfilment movies. Michael Cera does a great job of portraying the title character, who must battle — arcade game style — the seven exes of the girl of his dreams (she’s smokin’ hot with dyed hair and aggressive sexuality, and she’s so into him because … well, it’s a fantasy, all right!). He also cheats on his current girlfriend, a 17-year-old virginal Asian school girl who proves adept with two swords, and has something of a history of being a cad, but you know, no harm no foul. Yes, I am old and cynical.
The Runaways
My liking for Joan Jett has been boosted by this biopic, which shows there’s more to Kristin Stewart than Twilight. Stewart takes the Jett role while the wonderful Dakota Fanning portrays troubled bandmate Cherie Currie. One is cut out for rock ‘n’ roll fame, the other ain’t. I enjoyed the ride of the all-girl band on the rise, and fall, but was a little miffed that the rest of the band didn’t score a ‘where are they now’ credit at the end, as the principals did. The soundtrack is, of course, rockin’.
On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina ripped across the Gulf coast of the USA, taking a terrible toll on the city of New Orleans.
I’ve been taking a great deal of heart, particularly in light of the devastating floods hitting Australia at this time, from a HBO program called Treme (trem-ay), set in a neighbourhood of New Orleans where it’s all about the music, man.
There are a couple of things that make this show exceptional.
For starters, it’s so understated. There is no melodrama, no great conspiracies or car chases. It follows the lives of various residents trying to cope in post-Katrina New Orleans. A bar owner trying to get repairs made on her club. A restaurateur trying to keep her head above the financial waters. A uni professor struggling to deal with the reality of the destruction and the general poorness of the nation’s response. Musicians, trying to make a living in the empty city. And so on. It rings true. Victory is not guaranteed.
I love the way the lives of these people intersect, by circumstance and by happenstance. I love the way the story can move me to tears in one beat and have me laughing out loud in the next. I love the compassion. I love the way it deals, from a street level, with government inaction, corruption and ineptitude, and yet, it’s pretty even-handed, showing the good and the bad of the NOPD, for instance.
The acting from the main players is superb, so natural and measured, so dignified in the face of nightmare and frustration. When they blow, you feel it.
And there’s the music, of course; unifying and restoring pride, an anchor when all else is swirling. It’s not by chance the series opens and ends with second lines (funeral processions led by bands). Jazz, jazz and jazz, a touch of Cajun, but it’s the brass and the bass that’s driving this beat, with plenty of identities (Dr John, Elvis Costello, Kermit Ruffins and more) sprinkled in the mix.
It’s simply some of the best television I’ve seen: no vampires, no explosions, just … real.
New Orleans is one of my favourite cities, one I’ve visited most often: one that does indeed live in the heart and mind. It’s so refreshing to see such a portrait on the TV. I hope all of America is watching.
The American is the second feature film from Anton Corbijn, following on from the brilliant Ian Curtis biopic Control, and though this thriller is a different beast, once again the photographer’s eye is up front and centre on the big screen.
The story, about an tired assassin/gun maker to the nefarious who seeks a seachange and lurv after a life of loneliness and violence, isn’t remarkable, and there are occasional, minor bumps in the logic road.
George Clooney, and his co-stars, are superb; Clooney is so understated, as is so much of the film. Funnily enough, if an American studio had made this movie, well, it would most likely have been such a different fish.
But instead of sparking, flipping, roaring car chases and huffing foot chases and cut sequences of martial arts and amazing volleys of inaccurate gunfire all set to a thumping techno beat, we have a far more contemplative movie: it still has car chases, foot chases and exchanges of gunfire, but this is a character piece, and it’s beautifully done. Even the soundtrack is treated with minimalist regard.
Much of the charm is in the direction, with almost still images striking such emotional chords: Clooney framed in a cafe window, looking out, seeming so small and paranoid and very alone, is one that sticks in the mind. But these remarkably evocative images are everywhere, whether in the twisting streets of an Italian village or the panoramic landscape or the framing of the characters, making this a real joy to watch.
I trundled along to the very funky Pure Pop Records in St Kilda last night to catch Deborah Conway and partner Willy Zygier perform.
I saw them only weeks ago, supporting Leonard Cohen in front of thousands, so this gig, with 30 or 40 people comfortably arrayed around the record store’s brick courtyard, was something of a contrast.
But not in terms of the performance, strangely enough. The couple, with three daughters in the audience, were just as chilled, their rapport just as warm and endearing, though the interplay between the two was magnified thanks to our proximity.
Normally, the thought of spending 90 minutes listening to two folks armed only with acoustic guitars is nerve-wracking: should I bring a pillow? A razor blade? Ear plugs?
No such fears of folksy warbling or surfy somnambulism here; not with that voice, and not with that guitar — in fact, Willy pulls out (and isn’t it handy to have kids for roadies?!) a steel guitar, a ukulele and a mandolin in addition to the acoustic, while Conway plays rhythm. He also provides a wonderfully complementary background voice, accenting choruses and certain lines.
It’s a little surreal, hearing Conway, who burst onto my radar way back when with Do Re Mi singing about pubic hairs on pillows and hopeless men and defiant women, now turning her lyrical wit to suburbia, but the moment passed quickly. Such a voice! (Conway is included in the free Rock Chicks exhibit at the Arts Centre).
Conway and Zygier played tunes predominantly from a new album, Half Man Half Woman — available in a plain cardboard slipcase with origami insert — and a few from the more traditionally packaged Summertown. Songs of love abound, though it might not always be the peaceful happiness of Lying Next To You but rather a glimpse of that Do Re Mi fire in, say, Say Goodbye to What is Left, and there’s uptempo thumpers, too, such as the eight-minute saga of Take Pity on the Beast.
A highlight of last night’s gig was seeing the three daughters Syd, Alma and Hettie aka the Zygierettes perform two numbers, one a capella, revealing promising voices each with their own distinct qualities. (Conway and the girls stayed in the store to sign albums afterwards.)
The venue was also part of the attraction, with a tarpaulin covering the open area of the roof sometimes ruffling in the breeze, a small bar set up in one corner at the back, a coffee machine inside on the counter, vegetarian pizzas and open melts on the menu, and universally friendly staff.
All in all, it was a damn fine way to spend an overcast Sunday evening.
If you’re looking for a bug hunt, you should probably head over to the aisle with Alien vs Predators or Aliens or somesuch. Gareth Edwards’ Monsters is not about the critters from outer space, but our reaction to them.
The scenario is this: a NASA probe carrying alien life from somewhere in our solor system has burnt up in the atmosphere, but consequently, strange creatures have appeared in Central America, to such an extent that much of that region has been declared a quarantine/infected zone. The creatures have a seasonal migration during which things get particularly hairy for those caught in the zone. In this case, there’s a photographer, Kaulder (Scoot McNairy), and Samantha (Whitney Able), the daughter of his media mogul boss. Kaulder, who would rather be chasing fame and fortune with his camera as the creatures hit the road, is instead saddled with babysitting duty — daddy wants his daughter shipped out on the first available ferry to the USA, where her fiance is waiting.
Naturally, the travel plans are somewhat interrupted, and the two get to reveal certain truths about their personalities and lives.
There’s no real big picture to the alien encounter, and I don’t want to give away much about the nature of the critters, but this is a very localised story — the opening titles annoy with mention of ‘half the country’ without saying which country (we presume America, the movie is set in Mexico); there’s no mention of how the rest of the world is faring, or even why Sam has to leave by ferry rather than say, by air, or by going to a different country south of the zone. Maybe I was dense and missed the salient details. Certainly, at movie’s end, I wished I’d paid more attention to the opening scenes; now I really want to see those again, just to confirm some things.
The thing is, this IS a very personal movie. It’s about the two Yanks and the place they’re in, about how the politicians have responded to the arrival of the alien lifeforms — America, for instance, takes its Mexican border fence a massive step further and builds a modern Great Wall — and how this varies to the response of the people still living within the quarantine zone who are dealing with this change in their natural environment while the jets rain down bombs and chemicals and the tanks rumble through the streets.
Monsters is elegant and understated and beautifully acted, the dialogue so natural in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if some was simply ad libbed. The relationship between Kaulder and Sam unfolds at such an unforced pace, it’s a delight.
The director knows when to use handheld and when not to and the use of the aliens is wonderfully controlled to deliver moments of tension and of wonder. Not a bad effort for a low-budget flick! (IMDB says the estimated budget was a mere $200,000. Amazing.)
There are some clever Jurassic Park/War of the Worlds moments to add tension and action, but it’s the very believable portrayal of two ordinary people, and indeed a nation of ignored people, under stress that makes this movie one of the year’s best, and certainly a sterling addition — following on from District 9‘s alien-as-refugee scenario last year — to the canon of alien invasion movies.
Two young and rockin’ electro-oriented bands have newish albums on the shelves, and both share a further commonality: gradual evolution rather than revolutionary advances in sound or technique.
Canadian outfit The Birthday Massacre (Metropolis) offer a melange of influences melded into a gorgeous blend of heavy rock drums and metal guitar with pop sensibility and the juxtaposition of a cherubic female singer, the uber cute Chibi.
It’s been two years since I caught this entertaining outfit at Brisbane’s venerable Zoo (check out a review here my interview with Chibi here) and the band retain their signature sound on album Number 4, Pins and Needles. It blasts open with In the Dark, but then settles into familiar territory with less gruff metal and a few nods to 80s big hair riffs. You have to listen closely to enjoy the nuances and lyricism. The title track is possibly the catchiest, but there is plenty to reward patience (Shallow Grave, for instance).
Similarly, I:Scintilla are caught in their own wake on album Number 3, Dying & Falling (Alfa Matrix), sounding unmistakably like their fusion of metal and electro-pop with distinctive if slightly underpowered singer Brittany Bindrim up front. There’s a fair swag of studio noodling going on here, whether on uptempo dancefloor numbers or the more intriguing slower tracks: again, you need to listen closely to appreciate the effort, with too few really reaching out to grab the ears on casual listening. The title track is delightfully cruisy, with a raft of vocal and sound effects enhancing the appeal.
I bought the 2CD version, which has 11 remixes and a couple of additional tracks, including the engaging Hollowed; the majority amount to pleasant background noise.
Fans should be pleased with these solid outings but newcomers might find greater instant gratification on the most excellent earlier offerings, TBM’s Violet or I:Scintilla’s Optics.
In terms of performance, I don’t anyone at Melbourne’s Rod Laver Arena last night could say that they didn’t get their money’s worth. Leonard Cohen promised he and his brilliant band would give everything they had, and they certainly delivered: for nigh on three hours.
The hits just kept coming: ‘Suzanne’, ‘Bird on a Wire’, ‘I’m Your Man’, ‘Hallelujah’ …
He’s a fascinating performer, Cohen, the quintessential gentleman on stage, full of grace and modesty. When was the last time you heard an act thank their sound and lighting guys by name?
The night got off to a splendid start thanks to Deborah Conway and Willy Zygier, offering an acoustic set that was a mite too short, their rapport and her pipes proving to be a winning combination (it’s been a long time since Do Re Mi and the Sweet & Sour soundtrack, eh?).
And then it was time for the main event, complete with intermission, and thanks to the venue for letting food and drink be taken into the auditorium, a glass of red the ideal accompaniment on a rainy night.
There was a similarity to the set list in terms of mood and tempo, occasionally breaking out of the meditative lounge setting to trot or waltz — ‘Everybody Knows’ (such a brilliant song, I highly recommend the Concrete Blonde version), ‘First We Take Manhattan’, ‘Take This Waltz’. The musicianship was superb, clarinet and bass doing wonderful melds, Javier Mas on bandurria adding that hint of otherworldliness, Bob Metzer’s electric guitar adding some glue, the Hammond organ… each got their moment in the spotlight, often with Cohen singing their praise, but it was the combination that made the night, all those pieces fitting together, humbly, to make the big picture. And then there were the backing singers: Cohen’s long-time collaborator Sharon Robinson, who got her solo on ‘Boogie Street’, and the Webb sisters, Hattie with her almost-Celtic vocals and Charley with a dusty quasi-Stevie Nicks rasp.
Lighting and sound deserved their kudos, from what we could see and hear from way up side-on to stage. I never did see the drummer, the big screen being sufficiently tilted to cover him without actually showing much of a view of the action, and both bass and guitar being mostly obscured by a pylon. If I had a gripe about the evening, it was the undisclosed sub-standard seats for the price (buyer beware at the Rod Laver Arena!).
But it was the words and the man that the crowd was there for, and they were paramount. With each song offering Cohen’s gorgeous phrasing, delivered with such distinctive aplomb — the man picked up his guitar for a stretch, too, making those almost 80-year-old fingers do their thing, and delivered spoken word on ‘A Thousand Kisses Deep’ — you’d have to be made of stone not to be impressed, if not carried away. Love lost, love found, melancholy nights on the street, a touch of gospel and a slice of Bible story, cynicism and self-deprecation and songs about songs and those rays of hope, all sitting so seamlessly side by side.
There were two encores, the Webb sisters performing ‘If It Be Your Will’ with guitar and harp in the second before Cohen and Co. brought the curtain down with ‘Closing Time’. Outside, the puddles on the pavement and the mist hanging over the city’s neon heights were the perfect setting for the post-show walk to the station.
Songs we heard (I’ve probably missed some, and they aren’t in order): Dance Me to the End of Love (opener), Suzanne, Bird on a Wire, I’m Your Man, Hallelujah, A Thousand Kisses Deep (spoken word), Boogie Street (Robinson), Sisters of Mercy, Take This Waltz, The Gypsy Wife, In My Secret Life, Everybody Knows, There Ain’t No Cure for Love, Waiting for the Miracle, Feels So Good, A Singer Must Die, Born In Chains, Tower of Song, Chelsea Hotel #2, The Partisan, The Future, Anthem, first encore: So Long Marianne, First We Take Manhattan, second encore: Famous Blue Raincoat, If It Be Your Will (Webb Sisters, spoken intro by Cohen), Closing Time (closer).
I’m a big fan of William Gibson, the man who brought us Neuromancer and helped forge the cyberpunk movement and a great deal of our internet nomenclature in one fell swoop. And has continued to take a poke at near-future technological change in and on society.
His most recent novel, Zero History, returns to characters introduced in Pattern Recognition and Spook Country – a lot of them have names beginning with H – and further delves into industrial espionage, marketing and fashion.
Hollis Henry is back in Hubertus Bigend’s traces, looking for a mysterious clothes designer, with assistance from former bandmate Heidi Hyde and former addict Milgrim (who comes across as a sad, neglected fallout from a Le Carre novel circa Smiley’s People).
Add some gadgets, some pithy one-liners and weird decor, and that’s about it, really.
The story builds on its predecessors but does stand alone, though having read the previous volumes will deliver a bigger payoff. The writing is descriptive and label-laden, as you’d expect, but the commentary isn’t particularly biting and the action doesn’t really grab, partially because the threat level seems quite low. Neither of our narrators, Hollis and Milgrim, are in the loop, reducing us to bystanders on the rim of the action as Bigend’s curiosity leads them into vaguely dangerous ground.
In some ways, the mundane nature of the characters’ desires, framed within the hyper-real world of Bigend’s manufacture, is part of the appeal; in other ways, there is a feeling that a soap opera is being brought to a close, family trees tidied, rewards handed out, just desserts delivered, even if the chemistry of attraction might seem to be missing.
Zero History is enjoyable and comfortable, but not compelling, a bit like old jeans when we’re used to something a little more shiny from this label. Not so much lukewarm as luke-cool.
