Link Closure

Busy bizzy buzzy bee. Just a couple quick things to note, mostly written by other people, oh joy! And thus closing some links I've been meaning to close:

On the subject of Senator Obama and the Rev. Wright, I have nothing to say about Part 2 of that saga that Bill Moyers didn't say much, much better. Just a taste:

We are often exposed to the corroding acid of the politics of personal destruction, but I've never seen anything like this--this wrenching break between pastor and parishioner before our very eyes. Both men no doubt will carry the grief to their graves. All the rest of us should hang our heads in shame for letting it come to this in America, where the gluttony of the non-stop media grinder consumes us all and prevents an honest conversation on race. It is the price we are paying for failing to heed the great historian Jacob Burckhardt, who said "beware the terrible simplifiers."

But the entirety of what he said is worth reading, and can be found here, right at the top.

One of the things that's bugged me recently about the rise in gas prices is that the oil companies have stopped even bothering to explain what's going on. Into the breach steps Andrew Leonard at Salon. He writes a regular column called "How the World Works" that I would say is required reading if only I read it regularly. It's dense, and complex, and it helps if you have an economics degree, which I most certainly don't. But the man certainly seems to know what he's talking about, and he has written an excellent explication of why we're paying so damn much at the pump. You can find it here.

A person should always investigate the facts before complaining about how we're being gouged by the oil companies. Read Mr. Leonard's article, get a sense of the astonishing complexity of these prices--then go back to complaining about the gas companies because, you know, that's just fun.

Links are closed. I go back to other things. Hi do ho, hi dee hi.

Louts

Went to see Joe Jackson last night, playing at the lovely Orpheum Theatre in downtown L.A. Great show. I'm a longtime Joe Jackson fan, and although I saw him once before, it was during his Night Music tour in late '94, and the show was, let's say, idiosyncratic. Last night's show was more straightforward, even with a stripped-down three-piece band (no electric guitar!), and with one roiling exception, I had a great time.

The louts behind me. Or let's go ahead and call them The Louts. Because of course they are entirely representative of their kind, so let's go ahead and generalize.

You know exactly who I'm talking about. Those two assaholics, two rows behind, for whom enjoying a concert means shouting out their stupidity to the world, top volume, from first moment to last. Because of course it's important that we all be made to realize just how stupid they really are.

No, my best guess is the obvious one: that these guys are convinced that they're The Greatest Joe Jackson Fans Of All Time, and that they must proclaim their superiority at every moment so that all we Lesser Fans (who barely deserve even that paltry title) will be made to feel our wretched inferiority. One of The Louts, during the show, did in fact shout out "YEAH, JOE! WAKE THESE PEOPLE UP!" Which made absolutely no sense, because the crowd was in fact on the rowdy side all the way through.

After all, this was a Joe Jackson show, and Joe came out of post-punk Britain along with Elvis Costello when they were both competing for the title Angriest Young Man. Listen to the crowd in Joe's 1980 live recordings and you can hear particularly well that he's used to a lively crowd. Even so, last night he had to say "Okay, calm down" at one point. So it's not like the rest of us were asleep. In fact, it may be true that the fact that it was a loud crowd just meant that The Louts had to be that much louder. After all, how were they to establish their superiority as Joe Jackson True Fans if they weren't, you know, louder than everyone else? That is how you establish your superiority, right? By being louder than the other guy? I mean, everybody understands that, right?

For a while, I tried to give The Louts the benefit of the doubt. I said to myself, "Maybe it's like they're in church and, you know, testifying." So I ignored it for a while, but it just kept going on. (Then at one point, when Joe began a slow, quiet song, they had the temerity to start shushing the rest of us.) Eventually, though, it started to reach absurd heights. They started whistling to songs. Loudly. And singing along, sometimes deliberately badly. And of course loudly. (Sometimes they actually sang reasonably well, which is why I can say they were deliberately singing badly. And loudly.)

As my friend Buffie said after the show, "Sometimes I just wish I had my own personal taser."

I wonder: are these guys just idiots, or is there yet another level of idiotic vanity at play? After all, this was the last stop on Joe Jackson's U.S. tour, so I suppose there was a fair chance the show was being recorded. Were these guys trying to get on the album? Is that why they consistently picked the quietest moments of the show to bellow the loudest? Are they those idiots who jump behind newscasters and cavort maniacally?

Listen, Louts of the world. There's a difference between enjoying a show, between whistling and cheering, and being an obnoxious lout. It's not a subtle difference, either, it's a big stinkin' difference that most adults understand perfectly well. But then, that's the operative word, isn't it? Last night's Louts, who were not young, are nonetheless children, whining for attention like any three year old. And as anyone should understand, you just don't bring three year olds to an indoor rock concert.

Let It Be on YouTube

O happy me. For years now, I've been patiently (no, impatiently, very impatiently) waiting for the Apple/EMI people to release Let It Be on DVD. This of course was the movie that The Beatles made, reluctantly and grumpily and almost disastrously, to document the recording of what would become the album of the same name. Not a one of them was happy with any part of the process, leading Paul to eventually release what he considers to be a superior recording (i.e., one with all of Phil Spector's production gimmicks stripped away) a couple years ago. (In the process, by also stripping away the little interstitial stuff, the bits of conversation and whatnot, Let It Be... Naked ended up feeling lifeless compared to the original.) During the course of production, George Harrison quit the group altogether for a few days, bringing the whole enterprise very nearly to a halt--and potentially denying the world both the Let It Be and Abbey Road albums.

The first time I saw the movie of Let It Be, I was probably five years old. Mom and some friends took me along to see it at a drive-through, and all I can really remember is lying on the hood of the car, enjoying some Road Runner cartoons that came before the movie and then being really bored by the movie itself. I saw it again in early 1981, when it was rereleased following John Lennon's murder, at which point I was still so shell-shocked that I just couldn't absorb any of it.

Since then, it's been hidden away. Paul McCartney hates it, Neil Aspinall hated it, and basically the movie simply disappeared after '81. There were a few expensive, poor-quality VHS tapes floating around, and that was it. I've been wanting to see it, really see it, for all these years. And the other day, it finally occurred to me to check on YouTube.

Sure enough, there it is. (The movie is broken down into nine parts; the link brings you to Part 1, then just follow with Parts 2, etc. via the links to the right.)

I won't say much about it--if you're interested, you're interested and will go check it out. If you're not interested, then you don't much care what I have to say about it. Really, as a movie it's lousy--dismal sound quality, you can almost never hear what anyone is saying because they're miked so badly, nothing ever develops, there's no through-line at all, it's just a mess. But--

But it's really the only footage of The Beatles in the recording studio, and so it is precious. Plus, after about fifty minutes of meandering, not terribly musical nonsense, The Beatles got up onto that rooftop, and suddenly it's all magical. Suddenly the jaw drops, and I find myself desperately wishing that I had been in the right part of London that particular day. (Plus, you know, not a toddler.)

So if you're a Beatles fanatic like I am (and if you are, you know you are), it's probably worth noting that these YouTube clips must be in gross violation of copyright, so I would suggest you hie yourself thither with all due despatch. And no matter how dreary it is, just remember that eventually they're going to emerge onto a rooftop and bring joy one last time.

Two Lodgings

Been doing a fair number of road trips lately. On a couple of occasions, in service of Internet Marketing for Filmmakers, Marc Rosenbush and I traveled to San Diego for a seminar (refining yet further our own internet marketing skills, as taught by the phenomenon that is Frank Kern), then a week later we went to a film festival in the charming desert town of Fallbrook, California, where Marc had been invited to give a presentation. We stayed in two very different kinds of places. The first of them was what I call...

Skank Central

The Hard Rock Hotel, San Diego. Very sleek, very high-tech. Right in the Gaslamp District, which is like a little ongoing Spring Break in the heart of town. And of course being part of the whole Hard Rock franchise, the hotel has a rock star vibe, although not a single actual rock star was sighted the whole time. (Unlike, say, the W hotel I once visited, where everyone in the lobby carefully scopes out everyone who walks in the front door because s/he could very well be Somebody.) The location was terrific, and we ended up having a series of fantastic meals. In the glossy room I had, a theme of guitar picks was emulated in every conceivable place, including being stitched on the pillows. But what would have been really cool--if they'd had a place where you could plug a guitar into the room's speakers, now that would have been awesome. No such luck.

And it must be admitted that the folks loitering outside the hotel mostly consisted of, well, skanks and hos.

Very young women, wearing not much at all, and never mind that it got cool at night. Slightly older young men, wearing more but intent only on the very young women and trying oh-so hard to be Ultra Cool. The hotel has a couple of clubs that cater to these folks, and I'm sure they make a pretty penny. People will, after all, spend just about anything to be seen as hip. Part of the In Crowd, which of course mostly consists of other people just like them, just as anxious to be part of the crowd that considers itself to be the In Crowd even though they're aren't actually.

If I sound hostile, I don't think it's just a function of age. I was never a club-hopper, I just don't have it in me--and the thing that has always offended me is that oppressive sense of entitlement. That whole "I'm beautiful, therefore the world belongs to me" thing that is shared by both men and women. They are lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin, and yet they're unshakably convinced that the rest of us should fall down and worship their plumped-up beauty.

I've known plenty of very gifted, industrious people who are also quite beautiful. But they weren't about their beauty, they weren't Beautiful, they were just--well, you know. Handsome folk doing what they do in the world and not making such a great fuss about it. But those folk don't typically hang out at Skank Central.

On the other hand, I must admit that I got a kick out of the hotel's collection of rock memorabilia. Including a scrap of paper on which Mal Evans wrote out (and George corrected) the lyrics to "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." But in one display case, there was an outfit that Janis Joplin wore on her 1969-1970 tour.

Interlude: The Janis Story

Ages ago, Mom went to a lot of concerts, and sometimes she brought me along. That's why I can proudly boast that I saw both Jimi and Janis, not too long before they died in 1970. Janis was doing an outdoor concert on the campus of the University of Miami, and I was four years old at the time. People sat there, marveling, and of course the weed was being smoked with copious abandon. Smoke wafted. Janis sang. Janis did that unquantifiable thing that still makes her one of the greatest rock and roll/blues singers of all time (something about overtones, as I understand it).

I was, literally, entranced. (Put on "Ball and Chain" and I'm still entranced.) Mom turned away to say something to a friend of hers, and when she looked back, I was gone. I will cheerfully claim to be one of the first crowd-surfers, because what Mom saw was little four-year-old me, being passed from hand to hand, closer and closer to the stage. I was chanting to myself: "The lady. Got to get to the lady."

Now I don't think Janis was all that great with kids, and I don't she was too crazy about the idea of this kid being put on the stage with her. Alas, it didn't come to that. Mom shouted out "Send him back!" and they did, the hands turned me around and sent me back to her. Still chanting to myself. The lady. Never did get to the lady. Damn it all.

So when I saw that outfit, I read the placard, which said that Janis wore it on her 1969-1970 tour. Meaning that it's quite likely she was wearing it during that very show--perhaps was wearing it even as I moved closer and closer, murmuring to myself. I stood there staring at it for quite a long time, still wishing just as much as ever that I could have somehow gotten to the lady.

So okay, the Hard Rock ain't so bad after all. Still, I have to say that I preferred to be...

Out in the Desert

Not that I like deserts. As an ocean people, deserts are too much the other thing. But we stayed at a B&B in Fallbrook called The Santa Margarita Inn, and it was a lovely place. Nestled on a plateau deep in the canyons, with hiking and riding trails winding all around. A view beyond description of that area that has been shaped and reshaped by geologic activity for millions of years. The house is huge, with gigantic windows in all the appropriate places. And when we drove up, we saw it immediately: right there on the front gate, a big ol' cast-iron image of a guitar.

As it happens, I'd brought my guitar with me, for no particular reason. We were greeted by one of the owners, Arlene, a longtime musician with a whole collection of guitars, and when she saw me with mine, I think everyone pretty much knew straightaway that we were going to have a good time.

The B&B has only been operating for a short time, and Arlene isn't yet jaded about the whole experience, so she's still plenty proud of this house she's been building for the past twenty years, and she took great pleasure in showing it off to all of her guests. (There were some filmmakers from the festival, plus a terrific couple on their anniversary.) Arlene showed us her music room, a playground of sorts, stuffed with guitars, including a Marwin Star from the 1930s that is probably worth a bundle. Alas, we were only there for one night--we attended the opening night reception, Marc gave his presentation in the morning, and then we had to leave that afternoon. So there was never time to really wander the property, nor was there time for much of a jam session. (Although at one point Arlene did play a song she'd written that apparently Willie Nelson is taking a look at. The lyrics needed work, but musically it was pretty damn good.)

The place has only one drawback: Elvis.

Elvis is a Rottweiler. A huge Rottweiler. When I sat on the sofa, Elvis and I were eye-to-eye. And when owner Frank was around, Elvis is a softie, sprawled across an astonishing amount of floor space, docile as a kitten. But after the reception, Marc and I drove back in the black desert night, and Elvis was guarding the otherwise-empty house. Barking at that strange car he didn't yet recognize, driven by people he couldn't quite remember; and because the whole B&B thing is new, Elvis isn't yet accustomed to strangers walking into his house. So he put up a spirited defense, and believe me, it takes some fortitude to walk up a narrow exterior staircase that is guarded by a barking, snarling, utterly gigantic Rottweiler.

Marc, several feet in front of me, says he did his aikido misdirection thing. "Look at my hand, way over here," as he steadily and slowly walked, without stopping, to the front door. Elvis let him pass, then turned to look and bark and snarl at me. Me, I had no Jedi mind tricks, so all I could really do was say "Oh, now Elvis, come on. I'm too big a meal for you. Look at Marc over there. Much more bite-sized, don't you think?"

We made it into the house, closed the door, and started breathing again. Not too long afterward Arlene and Frank returned, Elvis trotted in, and he was docile and sweet all over again. He's not the sort who actually attacks, but he sure puts up a hell of a good show; and if we'd been, say, a couple of elderly folks just staying at the B&B, I can well imagine that Elvis might be something of a deal-breaker.

And yet--Elvis aside, I vastly preferred Santa Margarita to the Hard Rock. Give me homespun and warm, even when it comes with a snarling Rottweiler, over Skank Central any day.