OK, I admit it - I have a complicated relationship with Barnes & Noble.
For one thing, the only books I ever buy these days are blank. I like to have at least 2 or 3 blank journals on deck at all times, for some reason. It feels good to have them sitting there on the bookshelf, waiting for the future to be scrawled on their pages. Of all the chain bookstores, Barnes & Noble really has the best selection of journals. So much so that I had a hard time choosing one this past weekend - there were several leatherbound versions that I really liked. Although one of them had a big brass medallion on the cover and looked like it ought to contain some kind scripture from the Priory of Sion, so I passed on that.
I can often spend the better part of an hour picking through the assortment, since I have rather particular requirements. I do prefer lined to unlined, but that's not a dealbreaker. It probably goes without saying that I have no use for anything with inspirational quotes or fuzzy pink covers. I also pass up anything with a page count less than the King James edition of the Bible - since I can burn through an average journal in 3 or 4 months, bigger is better. I have visions of trying to store these things in 10 or 15 years, and finding the space for a series of mismatched little notebooks with 6 weeks worth of entries.
The downside is that going to Barnes & Noble also means facing my deep-seated issues with my own unrealized potential (according to other people, anyway). The Union Square megastore in particular gives me a minor anxiety attack - it is mind-bendingly huge, the stacks rising like monoliths on all sides. Being confronted with that much reading material at once is overwhelming - it always makes me consider the fact that there are more books in the world that I could ever read in a lifetime, even if my reading habits weren't limited to the time I spend waiting in airports. And, quite frankly, books make me feel bad about myself.
Someone commented to me recently that it was funny how musicians need almost no incentive to be creative, whereas writers need to "force" themselves to write. I can't speak to the former since I'm only musically employed, as opposed to musically inclined; however I certainly can attest to the defeatist struggle with words. It's my own fault (as most things are, at the end of the day) for simply sitting around, thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. There are some nights when I even have to force myself to write in my journal. I can generally only muster the willpower for that because (to paraphrase my friend Jenny), if I don't write it down it's like it didn't happen. But when all is said and done, my journals end up in the trunk in my living room. I'd really like to write something for public consumption, and it's been an albatross I've carried around for a good long time.
"You should really do something with your writing," people tell me, as though its an antique lamp that I let lanquish unused in my garage. Sometimes I get motivated and think "They're right, I'm going to sit down and really be serious about this." Then I generally stumble into a Barnes & Noble and immediately feel defeated by the idea that any book I would write has already been written by someone who wasn't an unmotivated procrastinator and with a better vocabulary. Sigh.
I need to go home and confront my journal tonight - I didn't write anything last night, although I had plenty to record. It was after midnight by the time I got home, and I simply didn't have it in me. As for writing things that other people might actually see, I'm working on that.
Showing posts with label wasted potential. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wasted potential. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Virtually reality
In my spare time, I'm reading a novel about the music industry.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Like most of the books I've read since college, my mother sent it to me. I don't read nearly as much as I once did. I really don't have the time - unless I'm trapped on airplane with 5 hours to kill and my movie choice is something involving Adam Sandler and/or talking animals - and the idea of sifting through the enormous stacks at Barnes & Noble exhausts me. So I rely on Bling Judy, who is an avid reader, to pass along books that she think might interest me. She tends to stick to things she knows I like, and most of the time she's not wrong - with the possible exception of the book she sent by the girl who lived in New York City, describing how she paid off her astronomical credit card debt by begging money off strangers on the internet. I mean, seriously - fuck her and her Gucci shoe habit. I feel sorry for her not at all.
This particular book, while intriguing on the surface, was a similar gamble. I almost never read fiction, first and foremost. So I'm already biased going in. And I haven't finished the book yet, so it's probably unfair of me to pass judgement. But if you want to step up and fictionalize my everyday experience, you're opening yourself up to a whole world of judgement.
It's not a novel in the traditional sense of having a linear storyline, only that it's made up. It's really a series of short stories focusing on one character, each of whom have a different perspective of the music business - the performer, the label drone, the fan. A critical blurb touts that it has "an insider's touch to its depiction of the music industry and its denizens." Hmm. OK. I noticed that the author was in a band. Not a band I had heard of, and I've heard of things that never see the light of day beyond, say, the lead singer's mom's stereo. So I was a little suspect as to how insider the touch was really going to be.
The first chapter is about a 26 year-old A&R rep, condemned by the back cover as "arrogantly hip." For the most part, I cringe at fictional depictions of the music business - especially things like A&R, which is often put on par with being Mick Jagger, and this was no exception. A&R is not a hard gig, but it's a cruel one. Your value rests solely on how much weight your opinion holds on any particular day. Job security there is not, and much of your time is spent in crappy rock clubs or being criminally insincere. On the other hand, it's not that I haven't encountered a fair share of people my own age who act especially entitled to their padded expense accounts and dubious clout by virtue of their American Apparel hoodies and having their picture taken at the right parties. But it's the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, I was in the Los Angeles office of Atlantic Records, who employed me at the time. It was my first time there, and I was making the rounds, putting faces to the people I communicated with on a daily basis. One of my last stops was the VP of A&R, who hadn't signed anything of real importance - most recently a band called Audiovent who's primary allure was that it contained the brothers of two of the guys in Incubus. But nevertheless he had a large office and unlimited supply of complimentary soft drinks, no doubt. Standing by his desk was a ruddy-faced kid, younger than me, probably about 19 or so. The department intern, I thought.
"Oh, have you met Kevin?" the VP asked.
"Hi," I said to the kid, extending my hand. "I work in the New York office." To be honest, I felt vaguely superior. I was only an executive assistant, but people knew me. After all, I had just walked into the office of the VP of A&R without knocking. While I had neither business cards nor any real influence, at least I didn't have to share a desk or spend my entire day stuffing padded envelopes.
"Kevin is our newest A&R rep," continued the VP. At this, Kevin smiled awkwardly and looked at his shoes. "He helped bring Audiovent to us."
This was the first time I realized that my very expensive college degree was no match for smoking weed with the brother of the guy from Incubus, as far as qualifications.
As I recall, Kevin was neither arrogant, nor especially hip. As the ideal demographic for pop music skews younger and the heavyweight executives get older, there occurs a frantic scrambling to latch onto anything or anyone who carried any semblance of relevance. So obscenely young and inexperienced people are hired, and their opinions are afforded an outrageous level of weight. Sometimes this goes to their head. But more often than not, they are shitcanned inside of a year when "restructuring" rolls around.
If anything, I'm a little amused to witness how an artist perceives the thoughts and motivations of those of us who work on this business side. Those of us who have to be somewhere every morning, sit at a desk and go through the motions of hawking art. Maybe we seem arrogant or self-important, incapable of understanding the artist since we must be analytical of mind and pretty much without a soul. We are, after all, agents of The Man.
Part of the artifice of the novel is how, on the surface, it's a series of independent vignettes about particular characters, the stories are all woven together in subtle ways. Central characters from one chapter pop up in the background of another as I read on, giving the whole thing a sort of loose structure. That's the one thing that I think rings true. This is a small world, this business - and a caste system in some ways. At the larger companies, unless you have a certain title, your usefulness is stripped down to whether or not you can be sent to Starbucks for lattes at 3PM. On the other hand, a person's overall clout is really nothing more than an illusion that can be crafted. It's all about getting your name out there, making sure everyone knows that you're a force to be reckoned with. I need to get better at this, I admit. My personal glory is never a concern, and I'm terrible at networking. My people will not be calling your people, and working a room gives me hives. But sometimes a reputation happens on its own.
Exhibit A: I was at a release part at the Hudson Hotel, thrown by Atlantic Records. It was a year or so after they had laid me off. Someone introduced me to Keith, who managed the Atlantic street teams. I had never had cause to deal with him while I worked there, but I had heard his name in passing. I shook his hand.
"Oh, wow, I've heard of you, " said Keith reverently. "They still talk about you. You wouldn't take shit from anyone."
There's also a healthy amount of self-loathing among almost all of the characters I've met so far in this book - the A&R guy is apathetic about his job, the rock star hates his fame, the label president feels like an inhuman dream-crusher, the sound engineer mourns the wife and children he left behind. I have to say, I have my moments of self-loathing, and they never have anything to do with my chosen line of work. Usually it's the result of stuff I do when I'm drunk. I mean, honestly - I've never met anyone who felt so resoundingly trapped in a gilded case littered with broken CD cases that they couldn't pack up and go work for a PR firm. This line of work is not as glamorous as it's often made out to be (we use a lot of Excel spreadsheets just like everyone else - sorry to disappoint), but I know that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else. At this point, I'm not sure I'm really qualified to do anything else. Besides, I think I still have some remnants of my soul left.
What struck me this weekend, as I finished the chapter about the newly signed band member who struggles with the suicide of his ex-girlfriend (replete with shout-outs to Natalie Merchant, natch), is how utterly depressing the whole book felt. All of the characters seemed so painfully isolated. There is no mention of them having friends, and especially not friends within the business with whom they can commiserate or laugh about its inherent absurdity. This is the biggest fiction of all, at least given my own experience. The friends I've made over the course of my tenure in the music industry are my surrogate family, sometimes only because they can most acutely appreciate the singular experience of what we do. "It's like being in Vietnam," I sighed to my lawyer friend. "You can try to explain it to people who weren't there, but they can't really understand what it's like."
This all sounds quite romantic, I suddenly realize. How trite. That wasn't my intention. Every Tuesday at my office I have to take out the trash. There are certainly days when I question whether or not it wouldn't be better to move to Minnesota and work at a truck stop. At times I go home feeling like I had a productive day, but more often I find myself exhausted by the struggle of fighting against an industry where logic goes to die. It's like any job.
"You should write a book," Mike said to me once. More than once. We sat next to each other for three years, tortured in similar ways by the unglamorous and often ridiculous mechanics of selling music for a living. "You can't make this shit up."
Maybe I will write a book someday. Except it would be non-fiction. And it would be a comedy, I think. After all, it's only entertainment.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Great Moments In Music Licensing
Every time I watch the Oscars, I'm reminded of the fact that even had I not strayed away from the ordained path of film production after college, my chances of having the opportunity to thank God, the Academy, the Russian woman who does my waxing and the teachers of America were pretty slim. Not only was I was an outstandingly terrible director, but I wanted more than anything in the whole world to be a music supervisor. In the world of film school, that's like aspiring to be a key grip. No one thinks it's a real job and, even if it is, no one has any idea what it means other than it probably won't get you invited to Harvey Weinstein's after-party.
The argument could be made that giving out Oscars for music supervision is akin to giving Grammys to DJs. Although, to be fair, P. Diddy won a Grammy for essentially re-purposing The Police. So let's not get on our high horse, entertainment industry. On the other hand, I can understand the backlash. Movie soundtracks have largely become marketing tools that are littered with throwaway tracks from the distributing label's roster or exercises in bargain bin licensing, having nothing to do with the movie at all (maybe some current single gets a shout-out in the closing credits). And then "The O.C." slinks into popular consciousness, plays a different Spoon song over every Important Scene, and huzzah! Music supervision is the cool with the kids! (Don't get me started on Garden State because I might roll my eyes so hard that I'll do permanent damage.)
When I was 14 and largely unconcerned with my future beyond the next issue of TV Guide, I remember watching the mini-series adaptation of Stephen King's The Stand and being deeply effected by a single scene involving the music of Crowded House. I made the decision right then that if picking music that went in movies was an actual job, then that was the job for me. My parents thought this was as viable a career choice as when I had announced I was going to join the Thundercats when I grew up.
And still, despite awards for Best Assistant Director (retired in 1937, to the outrage of coffee-fetchers everywhere) and Best Original Song By Randy Newman, the Academy is still unwilling to recognize that music supervision done right is an art. Maybe it will happen someday, through lobbying or Graeme Ravell holding a member of the Academy hostage. Maybe they'll call it the Zach Braff Memorial Award For Excellence In Making An iMix For A Motion Picture. Who knows. But in the meantime I’d like to share a few of my favorite moments in music supervision, since these strokes of genius are unlikely to receive any formal recognition anytime soon. Naturally, I'll begin at the beginning.
"Don't Dream It's Over" / The Stand
I had just finished plowing through all 1000+ pages of the novel a month or so before this aired. For those unaware, The Stand asks what would happen if all but 5% of the world's population were wiped out in a matter of days by a highly contagious disease. And then Satan showed up. I'm disappointed that I couldn't find the clip of the way the song was actually used in the movie - underscoring a montage of shots of empty streets, bodies left where they fell, the few survivors mourning their loves ones while fleeing The Evil. A haunting portrait of a realistic apocalypse. I challenge you to find anything half as effective involving any combination of Mischa Barton and Death Cab For Cutie.
"Down With The Sickness" / Dawn of the Dead
Pure genius, especially given that it's a movie about zombies. When I saw this in the theater, I actually clapped. And no one does that anymore, except maybe if Jeremy Piven gets punched in the face because who doesn't want to punch Jeremy Piven? At this point in the film, Ving Rhames, et al have set up shop quite comfortably in a suburban mall and are making the best of it, despite the frenzied mob of brain-eating undead that's amassed in the parking lot. It's an excellent exercise in irony on several levels, not least of which is using Richard Cheese's version of a laughably over dramatic Disturbed song. I’d like to point out that I spent some time on IMDB, trying to find and credit the music supervisor (who also had the stroke of good taste to use the Stereophonics’ “Have A Nice Day” during the opening credits), but no such luck. They have a credit for the “third assistant accountant,” though. Just saying.
"Wise Up" / Magnolia
Generally I dislike Magnolia for being an overlong, indulgent, meandering mess (although it did paint a believable portrait of Tom Cruise as an insane cult leader - synergy!). However, I have to give Paul Thomas Anderson credit for the following: writing a screenplay inspired largely by the Aimee Mann songs he went on to use in the film and having the insane vision to employ this much-maligned technique of breaking the 4th wall. Just enough to emphasize the spectacularly relevant lyrics and connect each of the characters at a similar point in their individual downward spirals. I remember very few specifics from the film, but I've always thought of this scene as groundbreaking and a less than subtle example of what good supervision is supposed to achieve.
Opening Credits / Inside Man
I have an affection for Inside Man for two simple reasons: Clive Owen (who is hot) and the fact that it was both set and filmed two blocks from my apartment. The building that was used as Manhattan Trust Bank is now something called "Beaver Bar" - I don't even want to know - with a large yellow banner and a wry-looking cartoon beaver, enticing passers-by to "Come on in." I'll take a pass, thanks. But, really, one of the most excellent moments in the film happens in the first few frames: the remixed version of "Chaiyya Chaiyya" that plays over the opening credits captures both the uneasy multiculturalism of New York City as well as the impending cat-and-mouse between crook and cop. I half expected Spike to trot out some tired jam by Public Enemy. Happy surprises all around. And Clive Owen? Hot.
The argument could be made that giving out Oscars for music supervision is akin to giving Grammys to DJs. Although, to be fair, P. Diddy won a Grammy for essentially re-purposing The Police. So let's not get on our high horse, entertainment industry. On the other hand, I can understand the backlash. Movie soundtracks have largely become marketing tools that are littered with throwaway tracks from the distributing label's roster or exercises in bargain bin licensing, having nothing to do with the movie at all (maybe some current single gets a shout-out in the closing credits). And then "The O.C." slinks into popular consciousness, plays a different Spoon song over every Important Scene, and huzzah! Music supervision is the cool with the kids! (Don't get me started on Garden State because I might roll my eyes so hard that I'll do permanent damage.)
When I was 14 and largely unconcerned with my future beyond the next issue of TV Guide, I remember watching the mini-series adaptation of Stephen King's The Stand and being deeply effected by a single scene involving the music of Crowded House. I made the decision right then that if picking music that went in movies was an actual job, then that was the job for me. My parents thought this was as viable a career choice as when I had announced I was going to join the Thundercats when I grew up.
And still, despite awards for Best Assistant Director (retired in 1937, to the outrage of coffee-fetchers everywhere) and Best Original Song By Randy Newman, the Academy is still unwilling to recognize that music supervision done right is an art. Maybe it will happen someday, through lobbying or Graeme Ravell holding a member of the Academy hostage. Maybe they'll call it the Zach Braff Memorial Award For Excellence In Making An iMix For A Motion Picture. Who knows. But in the meantime I’d like to share a few of my favorite moments in music supervision, since these strokes of genius are unlikely to receive any formal recognition anytime soon. Naturally, I'll begin at the beginning.
"Don't Dream It's Over" / The Stand
I had just finished plowing through all 1000+ pages of the novel a month or so before this aired. For those unaware, The Stand asks what would happen if all but 5% of the world's population were wiped out in a matter of days by a highly contagious disease. And then Satan showed up. I'm disappointed that I couldn't find the clip of the way the song was actually used in the movie - underscoring a montage of shots of empty streets, bodies left where they fell, the few survivors mourning their loves ones while fleeing The Evil. A haunting portrait of a realistic apocalypse. I challenge you to find anything half as effective involving any combination of Mischa Barton and Death Cab For Cutie.
"Down With The Sickness" / Dawn of the Dead
Pure genius, especially given that it's a movie about zombies. When I saw this in the theater, I actually clapped. And no one does that anymore, except maybe if Jeremy Piven gets punched in the face because who doesn't want to punch Jeremy Piven? At this point in the film, Ving Rhames, et al have set up shop quite comfortably in a suburban mall and are making the best of it, despite the frenzied mob of brain-eating undead that's amassed in the parking lot. It's an excellent exercise in irony on several levels, not least of which is using Richard Cheese's version of a laughably over dramatic Disturbed song. I’d like to point out that I spent some time on IMDB, trying to find and credit the music supervisor (who also had the stroke of good taste to use the Stereophonics’ “Have A Nice Day” during the opening credits), but no such luck. They have a credit for the “third assistant accountant,” though. Just saying.
"Wise Up" / Magnolia
Generally I dislike Magnolia for being an overlong, indulgent, meandering mess (although it did paint a believable portrait of Tom Cruise as an insane cult leader - synergy!). However, I have to give Paul Thomas Anderson credit for the following: writing a screenplay inspired largely by the Aimee Mann songs he went on to use in the film and having the insane vision to employ this much-maligned technique of breaking the 4th wall. Just enough to emphasize the spectacularly relevant lyrics and connect each of the characters at a similar point in their individual downward spirals. I remember very few specifics from the film, but I've always thought of this scene as groundbreaking and a less than subtle example of what good supervision is supposed to achieve.
Opening Credits / Inside Man
I have an affection for Inside Man for two simple reasons: Clive Owen (who is hot) and the fact that it was both set and filmed two blocks from my apartment. The building that was used as Manhattan Trust Bank is now something called "Beaver Bar" - I don't even want to know - with a large yellow banner and a wry-looking cartoon beaver, enticing passers-by to "Come on in." I'll take a pass, thanks. But, really, one of the most excellent moments in the film happens in the first few frames: the remixed version of "Chaiyya Chaiyya" that plays over the opening credits captures both the uneasy multiculturalism of New York City as well as the impending cat-and-mouse between crook and cop. I half expected Spike to trot out some tired jam by Public Enemy. Happy surprises all around. And Clive Owen? Hot.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Things that happened, Part 2
... from Friday, October 23, 1998
Barbara called this afternoon around 3pm. I guess I was in lecture; I certainly wasn't home. She told my mother that she hadn't called sooner because she was having "family problems" (i.e. she's fighting with her mother again - like no one else does this) even though I would "probably think that's crap." She knows me too well. Apparently she wasn't having family problems last weekend when she went out with Alyssa and Colleen. Or when she called James on Monday. Jesus Christ, at least try and think of a decent excuse. I was mauled by wolves, for instance.
I wonder sometimes about these people I call my friends. But why dwell on it?
Today was probably the first I can remember in a long while where I didn't work on my film. I guess I decided to give myself a break after finishing the visual aspect of it. On Monday I need to get the voice over in there as soon as I can sneak into the multimedia lab.
It was an absolutely beautiful day. I think Fridays should always entail nice weather. There should be some kind of mandate. There's something about fresh, warm sunshine and a cloudless sky that makes you feel like that whole week was worth it. Because of that I think the painfully overcrowded subway (due to the victory parade for the Yankees) didn't make me as homicidal as it might have.
This is something I'm going to work at from now on. I'll do some existential housecleaning and try focusing on the positive things in my life. Dare I say that I'm giving optimism a chance? Maybe. You never know you don't like it until you try it.
On the other hand, since I seem to be doing pretty well in my liberal arts-centered classes, I can't help but think that I'm only kidding myself with this film major. As much as I kept telling everyone that, if it didn't work out, I wouldn't feel as though I failed - yeah, that's a lie. I could never admit that I had not only made a bad choice but that I was also unable to live with it. I have this thing about permanence. If I'm going to wrangle enough courage to do something drastic, it's going to damn well be a lasting arrangement. I could never see myself switching majors (much less changing schools - I did that enough in grammar school), getting a new job, admitting that I was wrong. If I make a bad choice, I'm going to stick with it. That's probably not a terribly productive way of thinking, but, hey - tenacity has got to be worth something, right?
Although, at the moment, I'm enjoying myself well enough in my film classes. Whether I like it enough to make a living at it is still up for debate. Maybe I'm trying to convince myself that I do just to save face. Nah. I wouldn't sit through my hellish Language of Film recitation on sheer principle alone.
The only other notable thing today was that I fainted during my blood test. I'm not at all ashamed of this. To the contrary, I seem to find these kinds of weak moments as possessing their own brand of glory. I'm not totally sure why it happened; I've had these sort of tests for more than five years and never had a problem. It's certainly not my favorite thing, but it's nothing worth passing out over. Regina, the nurse, asked me if it was "my first faint" (like when people talk about your first period or your first date - some kind of initiation into adulthood?). No, actually, it was my second faint. There was that little incident in the emergency room two years ago. I'm quite the veteran when it comes to unceremoniously collapsing after needles are involved. So Regina actually pronounced me "a fainter," brought me a Coke, and told me to have my blood taken lying down from now on. Oh, indeed, I sure will.
After that I went to McDonald's and ordered myself a Deluxe Big Breakfast. I'm such a medical hypocrite.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Friday, October 20, 2006
All the good ideas are taken
You might be asking yourself what I do on Saturday nights. This is, after all, the town where anything can happen. After Sex & The City starting showing in syndication, my mother made the hilarious comment, "I imagine that's kind of what your life is like." My life involves a lot more enduring rock bands at Piano's, not as much time spent at brunch. Generally speaking, I spend my weekends recovering from whatever late nights I've had during the week, and often nachos are involved. Do you know what goes well with nachos? Headbanger's Ball.
I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.
Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"
When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.
In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.
I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.
Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"
When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.
In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.
Monday, October 16, 2006
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