Flavour Country Revisited

One of my favourite new television shows is AMC's Mad Men, which chronicles the drama and tension (of both the professional and sexual vintages) rampant within early-1960s Madison Avenue advertising culture. The show's steely, unimpeachably cool protagonist, Don Draper (played by Jon Hamm), spends his days alternately devising pitches for soap flakes, striving to uphold a typical suburban household, bedding comely women, and wrestling with demons from his past. The secretaries, underlings, and higher-ups are superbly portrayed, bringing to life a savage brand of office politics that makes the average workplace look like student government by comparison. Don's long-suffering wife Betty (January Jones), besides being ridiculously foxy, is a vivid case-study of the era's restless housewife, shackled to subservient child-raising and a generally anomic existence. The sets are spot-on, the characters superb, the storylines clever, and the dialogue never fails to bring it's A-game. In fact, in light of the manifold factors that go into making the show an absolute winner, I only have one minor complaint.

The smoking.

In stellar period re-creation by the program's writers, essentially every character is rarely seen without a Lucky Strike dangling from their lips. The men smoke. The women smoke. Children, the elderly, and household pets smoke. It's a wonder that we can make out scenes through the carcinogenic haze generated by the show's talent.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, Don.

Before I go any further, don't get me wrong: I heartily endorse the abundance of on-screen puffing, as it undoubtably accurately captures the age and environment. No, my complaint is bred purely from personal weakness: see, I'm a recovering cig-monkey. I quit on my twenty-seventh birthday, after roughly seven years of dancing with the regular-filtered, king-sized temptress (wow, 'king-sized temptress' kind of makes it sound like I have a fat fetish). The reasons for my deciding to surrender the habit were threefold:

1) Saving money. I figured that any cash freed up could be re-routed to my first loves, hookers and blow.

2) I'm already cursed with garden-variety looks, room-temperature intelligence, and an overly large head, so figured that not reeking like an ashtray would help keep my then-girlfriend from coming to her senses and ditching me.

3) Blah blah health blee blee whatever.

Fast-forwarding to the end of the story, I managed to quit fairly painlessly. My secret? I was aided by determination, fortitude, and pluck. Well, those combined with the fact that, about a week after my last cigarette, I was afflicted with a painful, mononucleosis-like viral infection that left me hospitalized, and it ensured that sucking Du Mauriers was the last thing on my mind for a few weeks. In all honesty, I'm not sure if I would have been able to kick were it not for said affliction. Still, at the end of the day, I'd recommend trying out nicotine gum or patches to assist in quitting before contracting a dangerous illness. Any port in a storm, I guess, but just an FYI.

But back to Mad Men. I hadn't felt nic-twinges in ages, but, to get down to the brass-tacks, Don Draper is just such a goddamn fantastic smoker that it occasionally makes me consider running to 7-11 for a pack. The man really knows his way around a cigarette, suffice it to say. I haven't succumbed or anything, and I don't really see it happening (after drunkenly accepting a smoke at parties or bars since quitting, I've always regretted it immediately and end up crying 'uncle' after a few drags), but Draper's cig-virtuosity deeply undercuts a taboo promulgated by the health-care industry, authority figures, and the terminally dull: that smoking's a rote, joyless addiction practiced by dead-eyed adherents. I couldn't disagree more: smoking is addictive and extremely dangerous to one's health, but the dirty secret is that it's kind of awesome at the same time, at least when you're young and bulletproof. When I was a student at UBC, I lived to smoke; there was no better feeling than stepping outside following a particularly dull lecture or whilst knee-deep in term papers and lighting up. It enhanced concerts I've attended, plus I met a ton of interesting people in outdoor venue smoke-pits over the years. Stopping off on long road trips for a stretch and a cigarette was just glorious.

Wait, what was my point again? I suppose the underlying message of this blog is that, if you're a recent tobacco quittee, avoid Mad Men like grim death (you may also want to give it a miss if you're a recovering alcoholic). For everyone else, purchase the DVDs immediately.

The Year In Music, 2008. Part I.

Welcome to my review of what I believe to be a pretty strong year for music. This didn't always seem as though it would be the case; the first few months were mostly creatively arid, but 2008 salvaged itself with a great latter-half of the calendar year. Personally speaking, I'm finding it to be an outright thrilling time to be a music geek; my tastes continue to grow more eclectic, and the broad expansion of read-write culture that digital technology has enabled allows us to explore and engage with artists or fellow fans in a manner unimaginable even five years ago.

I've decided to break my year-end synopsis into two posts, mostly for the sake of length and readibility. Part I is centered around my list of the top songs of the year; also included is some assorted music-related stuff that doesn't really fit anywhere else (disappointments, trends, rants, pleasant surprises, etc). Part II, which is to be posted over the next few days, features my top 25 records of the year, plus the top compiliations, reissues, live shows, and the always-entertaining worst records of the year. Come on, who doesn't love a good hatchet job?

Anyway, I want to get the negative stuff out of the way first, so am starting with a roll-call of 2008 records that didn't live up to expectations; in shorthand, the biggest disappointments. Before starting, I just want to stress that these aren't necessarily bad records, but merely tepid efforts from artists who are capable of doing better.

Man Man - Rabbit Habits: The weirdness on their first seemed enlightened and inspired; the strained grasps at oddity on this sophomore release are calculated and uninteresting.

Jonathan Richman - Because Her Beauty Is Raw And Wild: It has it's endearingly whimsical moments, but there's an undercurrent of tiresome preachiness, which seems anathema to the Richman ethos.

Crooked Fingers - Forfeit-Fortune: Not bad, but more ingredients are added than Eric Bachmann's previous post-Archers outings, which gives the album a bit of a too-many-cooks feel. On the whole, it doesn't measure up.

Eric Bachmann of Crooked Fingers: no, this isn't creepy at all.

Islands - Arm's Way: I loved their first record, and really wanted to like this. It was spun about 10-12 times before I ultimately gave up; there isn't a single track that sticks to the ribs. Still, what with the great debut and a quality Unicorns catalogue, they deserve a mulligan.

Opeth - Watershed: This wasn't enjoyable at all; the slower moments sounded like something from the 604 Records stable. Remember what I said at the commencement of this category that these weren't necessarily terrible records? Go ahead and waive that caveat for this one.

The Breeders - Mountain Battles: I've never been a huge Breeders enthusiast, to be honest, but this may be their most boring yet. I'm a major Pixies fan who firmly contends that Kim Deal rules, but this project should be put out to pasture; they haven't really done anything memorable since 'Cannonball.'

Beach House - Devotion: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. This is exactly the type of rounded-edged 'indie' that sneers at the adventurism of predecessors from a less-charitable distributive age.

Del The Funky Homosapien - Eleventh Hour: The fact that he's probably my all-time favourite MC while never releasing a solo record that I'd grade over a middling C-plus (Deltron 3030 is an A-plus album, but that was done with Automator, so it doesn't count) bespeaks the quality of his extracurricular projects and live presence. I was excited to hear that he'd signed to Def Jux, and this is a servicable effort, but, as per usual, it's mostly frustratingly spotty.

From here, we delve deeper into the thicket of crumminess.

Worst Song Of The Year: My Morning Jacket's 'Highly Suspicious.' I can say without hyperbole that this is one of the most offputting songs of the decade, and I'll never look at the group in the same way again. Here's the scoop: MMJ, a collective of bearlike, hairy Southern rustics who have built a career upon releasing albums of smart, experimental Americana (2001's At Dawn, in particular, is actually a really great record) decided to cook up a Purple Rain-era Prince pastiche. Amazingly, it's even worse than it sounds on paper; the dichotomy between lead singer Jim James' burly, blue-collar appearance and the nuts-in-a-vice falsetto he employs here is truly jarring. The nadir comes partway through when the aforementioned singer begins giggling coquettishly. I'm sorry, but I really can't do it justice. Summary: I'd rather be beaten with a table leg than hear this ever again.

Phew, I'm glad that stuff is out of the way. Now, in the parlance of Dave Dameshek's Jerk List, it's time to bring a little sugar to the proceedings. First off, here are a list of the year's pleasant surprises.

Paul Weller - 22 Dreams: 'In The City' aside, I've always found The Jam to be little more than plodding dadrock, plus Paul Weller's solo career has been a snooze-inducing streak of piss. I'm not sure how exactly it even ended up in my Winamp, given his track record, but this is a legitimately interesting, ambitious album.

Wolf Parade - At Mount Zoomer: I didn't mind their first record, but was obviously drinking different Kool-Aid than the majority of the slavering music press, who rushed to not only crown Apologies To The Crown Mary 2005's album of the year , but essentially elevated it to the pantheon of indie rock classics. I couldn't disagree more - one only needs to listen to the Swan Lake record to hear that Spencer Krug doesn't yet measure up to a Carey Mercer or Dan Bejar in terms of songwriting heft - but this sophomore effort was much more satisfying.

Conor Oberst - s/t: I'm allergic to the fundamentals of emo, but have always loved Oberst's Bright Eyes; despite the media attention they've received, I think their catalog will be viewed as surprisingly strong in ten or twenty years. That said, Cassadega was the first Bright Eyes record that didn't really do anything for me at all, thus I figured the Nebraskan pretty-boy had reached his artistic ceiling and was settling in for a career denouement of diminishing returns. Boy, he sure showed me - this record's a delight.

Chad VanGaalen - Soft Airplane: Confession: I've often found CVG's records trying and overcooked, plus his live show bored the ever-loving bejesus out of me (especially when the excellent two-fer of The Doers and Fond Of Tigers opened said gig and served to set the bar ridiculously high). This is a step in the right direction, though; it's more judiciously edited and coherent than his previous work while still maintaining an experimental bent.

Crystal Castles - s/t: In a textbook example of judging a book by it's cover, I ignored this record for ages because the duo came off as buffoonish hipsters in the press. After finally giving it a chance, I felt shame; don't get me wrong, I still think they're buffoonish hipsters, but they've made an icy, intriguingly varied hum-dinger of an electro record.

This next list are also pleasant surprises, but fall under the 'old warhorse' category.

Stephen Malkmus - Face The Truth: Obviously it doesn't measure up to Pavement, but he's at least made a solo record comparible to the stellar Pig Lib.

Local H - 12 Angry Months: I've always enjoyed the caustic Scott Lucas; back when I was in high-school, he made bullying jocks pogo to a song insulting their entire culture simply due to the inclusion of a naughty word. Always too clever and subversive to make it big, yet with enough polish on their records to alienate the indie crowd, Local H has always been the above-average tweener of post-Nirvana rock (think Ben Gordon, basketball fans), and this concept record spanning 12 months following the end of a relationship is alternately splenetic, heartbreaking, and hilarious.

REM - Accelerate: A nice, taut rock record from one of my early favourite bands. The last couple of REM releases have been pretty ghastly (though I'd take a bullet for Up, which most unfairly lump in with the remainder of the subpar post-Berry output), but the punchy songs here make for a nice live experience.

Portishead - Third: I always came down on the Massive Attack side of the fence during the great trip-hop debate of the late nineties, but the music of this bunch has aged much better. Moreover, this comeback effort following a lengthy hiatus is a classy augmentation of their sound.

Here are a few loose-end categories.

Biggest journalistic starfucker: For the fourteenth straight year, take a bow, Rob Sheffield. He used to be solely confined to the already wretched Rolling Stone, but seems to have taken his sycophantic junk down the freelance path: his Blender cover piece on Katy Perry was a fawning disgrace. I'd almost admire his plucky attempts to render such obviously two-dimensional figures in IMAX, if only they ever actually succeeded.

Tangent: when the NHL's Lady Byng trophy was instituted back in the late 1920s for gentlemanly play, it was won by New York Rangers forward Frank Boucher seven of the first eight years. As a sort of tribute, the NHL decided to just give the trophy to Boucher following the seventh win, and the Byngs donated a new award to the league. That's essentially the point we're at with Rob Sheffield and the starfucker award: just keep the thing.

I'll bet you didn't expect to see Frank Boucher and Man Man come up in the same post. That makes two of us.

Most overrated claim that's gained a depressing amount of traction: Death of the full-length album in the age of the iPod. Records haven't changed for the worse, and fantastic ones continue to be churned out by the dozens each year. To the leading proponants of this theory, no offense, but your attention span probably just sucks. I realize that some listeners are just more singles-oriented by nature, which is fine, but the debate is being being portrayed as a zero-sum-game. The entire theory points directly to consumerist, gadget-driven overstimulation, which is what I find really annoying.

Most frustrating record: L'il Wayne's Tha Carter III. Rather than having the chance to listen through the entire record in one sitting, I first heard this in three chunks upon purchase. At that point, I figured it was headed straight for the year's best list, but that prospect dimmed with each ensuing spin. There are a lot of incredible tracks on this disc ('Lollipop' excepted, which is retarded), and Weezy's rhymes are as wonderfully out-to-lunch as I expected, but Jim DeRogatis hit it on the head when he noted that there's a bit of a mixtape quality to this record. I love tearing it up for parts, but find it difficult to make through in a single sitting.

Best Record of 2007 (in hindsight): With apologies to last year's winner, Parts & Labor's Mapmaker, it has to be Kanye's Graduation. Even the hookiest tracks, which by design can be prone to losing their flavour like a piece of gum, are finding new ways to endear themselves to me, and there's hardly any fat. The only thing keeping it from being considered one of my top-five hip-hop albums of all time is the unfortunate presence of Mos Def on the lunkheaded 'Drunk And Hot Girls.' The unwavering critical appreciation of Mos Def has always really bothered me, and, going by his cameos on other records, I've come to the conclusion that he pretty much ruins everything. Here's a game you can play at home: wrecking historically venerated feel-good events through insertion of Mos Def guest spots. I'll get things kicked off.

[SCENE 1: Charlie Brown arriving to find his famously puny Christmas tree decorated beautifully by the neighbourhood kids]

Lucy: Charlie Brown is a blockhead, but he did get a nice tree.

*group starts humming 'Hark, The Herald Angels Sing'*

Charlie Brown: What's going on here?

*pause while he incredulously inspects tree*

Everyone else: MERRY CHRISTMAS, CHARLIE BROWN!

Mos Def: She spot me like paparazzi / shot me a glance / in that catwoman stance with the fat booty pants, hot damn!

*Christmas tree bursts into flames*


[SCENE 2: The moon landing]

Neil Armstrong: One small step for man...one giant leap for mankind.

Mos Def: Up top is you getting up with it? / Dirty dirty is you getting cronk with it?

*entire galaxy is sucked into a black hole*

See, it's hardly brain surgery. Create your own.

Mos Def enjoying his new hobby, zeppelin pilotry.

Best Record Store: Vancouver's own Red Cat Records. Unpretentious staff, great vinyl selection, and close to my house; what's not to like? I still can't believe it took me so long to discover this place. Audiopile and Zulu are strong runners-up.

Anyway, without further ado, here's my list of 2008's top songs. I've left the tracks unranked, with the exception of awarding a gold, silver, and bronze for the three best. Admittedly, the medal-based reward system may not be entirely kosher at the moment, as it makes myself and probably any other Vancouverite reading this think of white-elephant venue construction, general cost overruns, and insufferably smarmy, reptilian VANOC CEO John Furlong. Sorry, there's no hyperlinking to sound clips, but I'm sure these can be tracked down relatively easily over the interweb. Via purely legal channels, of course. Wink.

Silver Jews - Strange Victory, Strange Defeat: The reviews for this album were tepid, but David Berman's return can be filed under 'triumphant' for this cryptically astute nugget alone. The chorus is bigger than one usually finds on Joos tracks, but, as per usual, the lyrics steal the show.

Robert Pollard - Gratification To Concrete: The one where everyone's favourite beer-swilling, hyper-prolific former elementary school teacher comes up with his best track since 'I'll Replace You With Machines' five years ago.

Robert Pollard wrote thirty-two songs in the time it took to read this caption.

Ill Bill - My Uncle: The Non Phixion alumnus wrings a chilling anti-drug screed from familial experiences with heroin addiction. Commencing with a creepy sample of Bill's smack-ravaged uncle, what could have been a preachy no-mark instead resonates with a charged, Dead Prez-esque willingness to flout hip-hop convention.

Nas - Sly Fox: Many critics wrote this song off for it's hunting-sheep-with-a-bazooka targeting of Fox News, but the fact that cable's number-one coven for bloviating fucktards is an easy target shouldn't detract from the brutal elegance of the lyrics. The reply to a feud instigated by race-baiting alpha figure Bill O'Reilly, Nasir Jones knocks Papa Bear six ways from Inside Edition with this tour-de-force.

Bill O'Reilly came a disappointing third in the sack-race at the Fox News summer picnic, but later redeemed himself with a first-place harrumph-off finish.

Sun Kil Moon - Tonight The Sky: The SKM album narrowly missed my top 25, and it's highlight is this sprawling road-tripper, replete with irresistable chorus. Mark Kozelek's own 'Cowgirl In The Sand.'

Slow Down Tallahassee - Never Be Lonely Again: I'm quite possibly biased, as both my twin brother and arch-nemesis were both once members of this Sheffieldian unit, plus the primary songwriter bought me numerous beers and complimented hockey when I was visiting England (he was pretty hammered at the time, I think), but that doesn't change the fact that this summery track has glorious hooks aplenty.

Terrence Dixon - Unit: Dixon is one of my favourite discoveries of the year, even though he's been kicking around for ages (I'm late to the party); he released three EPs this year, and this gem from Point Of View best shows off his Detroit-leaning techno.

Parts & Labor - Nowhere's Nigh: The Brooklyn-based Record Of The Year emeriti tone down the kitchen-sink element and emerge with an anthemic-yet-warped nugget.

The Bug - Fuckaz (featuring Spaceape): In this grumpy slice from an already dyspeptic album, an ornery Spaceape tees off on greed, materialism, self-absorption, and your old man (okay, that last one's made up), amongst other things.

White Lung - Therapy: Some local content, this track is probably the finest sautering of seminal forbears (elements of Sonic Youth's 'Trilogy', Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, etc) and contemporary jagged noise energies that graced my stereo in '08.

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks - Out Of Reaches: The song starts off in a fairly average manner, but works it's way into an endearingly widdle-y Malkmusian guitar solo around the three-minute mark. By the way, when the term 'widdle-y' works it's way into a music review, it's fairly obvious that we're not exactly dealing with Robert Christgau or Peter Guralnick here.

Stephen Malkmus is off to the deli for his usual pastrami on wry. Har har! Slide whistle.

Cloud Cult - Love You All: Far and away the best track from an otherwise unremarkable album, this song starts with isolated, vocodered singing before gradually building into a gloriously lush climax. The brand of twee indie rock Cloud Cult trades in has mostly bored me shitless over the past few years, but this is a cut above. Beautiful.

Bvdub - It Could Have Been So Beautiful: Cinematic ambient dub really doesn't get much better than this exercise in lush, sweeping bob-and-weave. It was hard picking one song from his I Never Cried A Tear EP, as every track was stunningly accomplished.

TOBACCO (feat Aesop Rock) - Dirt: Combine Black Moth Super Rainbow's woozy, seasick psych-pop with Aesop's flow (crazily enough, he seems to be getting even better with age) and you have the best of both worlds.

Dr Dooom - R.I.P. Dr Octagon: Kool Keith, hip-hop's last word on batshit craziness, resurrects one of his underrated personas to re-murder Dr Octagon. By the way, Octagon is also a Keith creation. The villainous Dooom (Keith) had already previously knocked off Octagon (Keith) back in the 1990s, but after Octagon (Keith) rose from the grave earlier this decade, Dooom (Keith) arrived back on the scene to 'beat him (Keith) to death with rocks'. Follow? In other news, Kool Keith is a fucking lunatic. Great line about 'the critics giving him (Octagon) mouth-to-mouth' while in his death throes the first time around.

Kool Keith with an Elvis wig glued to his skull. No wisecrack required.

Skelm - 9 Ball: With the possible exclusion of the aforementioned Spaceape-helmed Bug track, this is probably my favourite dubstep cut of the year. Nearly ten minutes of crepuscular shiftiness, and it's even better on headphones.

T.I. - No Matter What: This is one of the biggest pop songs I heard this year; meat-and-potatoes thumping beats, a five-alarm synth-line, and a chorus built for arenas (ironically enough, T.I. couldn't actually go to said arenas due to his being under house-arrest, but that's neither here nor there). The obvious pick is the ubiquitous 'Live Your Life,' which is also great, but Rihanna's taking part in the 'ayyyayyyayyys' is hugely unbecoming. She sounds like a dude; it reminds me of Daphne Zuniga singing 'Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen' while imprisioned in Spaceballs.

T.I.'s hat nearly pulled off the great escape, but eventually ended up back in the cooler.

Alejandro Escovedo - Swallows Of San Juan: One of my favourite songwriters of the past twenty years released a sort of concept record this year ruminating on his fascinating career, from his time hanging out with Sid Vicious in NYC to the present-day. Some of the songs are too beholden to a rockist template for me, but it makes for a really fun listen on the whole; the best song, though, 'Swallows Of San Juan' is more classic-nineties Escovedo, which I feel is his best phase.

And, without further ado, here are my favourite three songs of the year.

BRONZE

M83 - We Own The Sky: The track closest in spirit to the captivating rococo of 2005 predecessor Until The Dawn Heals Us (somewhat-interesting fact: Jared's '05 Record of the Year), this French unit's exercise in candy-coated ethereality is absolutely spectacular.

Anthony Gonzalez of M83: 'My kids need wine.'

SILVER

Adem - To Cure A Weakling Chile (Boy Girl Song): Taken from a record of covers released by the less-famous half of Fridge, this staggeringly ambitious spinning of an Aphex Twin track into breathy, pastoral folk (!) is nothing short of a marvel. Just absolutely stunning, and I encourage anyone to track this one down - it's appeal should be fairly universal, unlike the often-difficult source material.

Adem: for my next trick, I'll convert Windowlicker into spoken-word.

GOLD

Subtle - Day Dangerous: The full-length was a bit of a disappointment, but Anticon's favourite supergroup (I don't tag the mighty cLOUDDEAD with the same designation, as they're representing a sort of ex post facto supergroupism) comes up with the left-field pop song of the year. The soundtrack to my summer, it still pops into my head each time I drive near Jericho Beach.

Subtle. Didn't the guy in the back make Super Size Me?

Anyway, the top full-length albums (as well as top compiliations / reissues and the year's worst records) are on deck. Unlike this wisecrack-laden mess, I'll try to maintain some semblence of reverence in that piece. Well, except for the 'worst records' part. If you made it this far, please feel free to post some of your favourite songs from 2008 in the 'Comment' section below. Cheers!

Jazz Is

It didn't take long for the first truly wretched decision of 2009 to happen (outside of the Israeli offensive into Gaza, but that's another rant), as iconic polymath Nat Hentoff has been let go by the Village Voice, the NYC weekly he's maintained a column at for the past 50 years. The old cost-cutting saw was given as the reason for his being included within a round of job cuts at the Voice. Given the current precarious environment traditional print media finds itself in, layoffs within the industry don't come as a huge surprise, but releasing Hentoff when he's 83 and in possession of such an augustly tenure at the paper is pretty tacky. Mysteriously, the just-okay Tom Robbins emerged unscathed.

Hentoff: giving your Pop Pop a run for his money in the terrific sweepstakes since 1925, see.

If you're not familiar with the man's career, he's done yeoman's work advocating pretty much everything that's important and/or cool. Yeah, that's an overstatement, but here's a quick overview of Nat's achievements:

• Hentoff's known as perhaps the foremost jazz authority of the past 60 years who isn't an actual musician; he's advocated, recorded, presented, and written tirelessly about the form, and his credibility was bronzed a few years back upon being the first non-player given the Jazz Master designation by the National Endowment for the Arts. Nat was a great help in introducing me to jazz as 'the sound of surprise' with his liner-note essays for albums I bought over the years, which is actually where I first stumbled upon him personally. By the way, is there really anything cooler than the jazz sleeve essay? C'mon.

• He's been a tireless journalistic attack-dog for First Amendment rights, and actually testified on behalf of Lenny Bruce at the profane comedian's trial (some would call it a witch-hunt) back in the 1960s.

• Even in his twilight years, Nat's been one of the most tenacious, effective critics of the Bush administration during it's interminable time in office. Not given to the embarassing rhetorical propensity that has crept into print media from the shit-show that is cable news over the past couple of decades, his dignified-yet-pointed pieces exhibit the thorough research, shoe-leather journalism, and sheer instinct that can only be procured through years of experience.

• He was immortalized on a hilarious Patton Oswalt stand-up riff about bookish NPR types (see the underrated No Reason to Complain DVD performance). Ah, I love me some Patton.

I've been profundly depressed since hearing the news, so spent today at work staging a bit of a mini-celebration of Hentoff's career; I scoured the web and found hours of audio and YouTube interview material (including his inclusion in a 1995 Charlie Rose roundtable with Allen Ginsberg, which was the poet's last media appearance before his death a few weeks later - skip ahead to 22:35 in that clip), and played it in the background while busting fraudsters. It really served to cheer me up, and it's not like Nat's dead or anything; he's still going to be contributing to other outlets. Still, I'll greatly miss his Voice column.

Even while doing the press rounds expounding on his recent firing, though, the man still has things to say. This is from the NPR piece I linked to above:

"It's happening more and more: Those small papers in those small towns, some of them are folding," Hentoff says. "And that, of course, means... the Internet — which is fine, except what you get most of the time is people going to sites and blogs [with] which they already agree.

This very subject is fodder for an upcoming post of mine: the ideological divide in the wake of traditional print media's demise. Sounds like a barn-burner, hey? Well, I think it's interesting, and will spruce it up, I promise (I plan on alternating between goofy and serious pieces with this blog). By the way, I realize that I'm out W-Axl-Roseing Chinese Democracy, but the 2008 music lists are on tap for this week. I think I was overly ambitious in terms of length and variety of subjects, and may actually break it up into two pieces over a couple of days for the sake of readibility.

Take care, and, in conclusion: fuck snow. I'm writing this on Sunday night, and so Vancouverites will get that.

Things to be frickled

The merry year is born
Like the bright berry from the naked thorn.

Hartley Coleridge penned these words; in them, the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (and who, frankly, I'd never even heard of until around ten minutes ago; I suspect he had his labour swapped for opium numerous times as a child by the old man) spins a simple, comforting rumination on the passing of time. In this spirit, it serves to remind contemporary society to take time and savour the transistory aspect of this annual milestone. Perhaps you spent the first minutes of 2009 surrounded by loved ones and reflecting upon the previous year, be it on triumphs or missed opportunities. It could be that you made silent, solemn pledges for the coming months. Or, if you're like me, you watched daredevil spawn drive his motorcycle over a gigantic motherfucking jump.

That's right, I was at a friend's place yesterday evening when the ball dropped, and FOX's thermo-nuclearly cheesy New Year's Special had the house transfixed. Diversions included performances by has-been (Scott Weiland) and never-will-be (David Cook) musical hacks, plus a bizarre piece on an apparently pantsless Cirque du Soleil revue currently running, but the production was built around the late Evel Knievel's son, Robbie, jumping over a spanking new faux-volcano at The Mirage in Vegas. All I could think about during shots of the burping, flaming edifice was how much fuel was being wasted on such a useless diversion, but the people seemed happy. Who am I to complain, at the end of the day? I guess.

Robbie Knievel jumps 21 Hummers in June 2008. Not pictured: the 21 assholes who own them.

Anyway, the funniest, albeit most macabre, part of the lead-up, which included interviews with Robbie's main stunt co-ordinator and sundry crew members, was a lovingly CGI-ed sequence done by the network that graphically illustrated each potentially deadly unhappy-ending should anything go awry. As such, along with cartoonishly grave narration, we were treated to visual simulations of flaming Robbie, Robbie flying from the bike and landing in a crumpled heap on the ramp, and Robbie dropping directly into the heart of the volcano after failing to attain the required speed. Believe me, I scoured the internet for the better part of a half-hour trying to find this footage, but came up empty; it was just so wrong, yet hugely entertaining. By the way, this was tape-delayed, so we knew nothing gory happened, lest you think our group was a pack of rubbernecking ghouls.

After this warm-up, the jump itself seemed a bit anti-climactic, to be honest.



What's amusing is that, as I scoured YouTube for a clip, there were already heated debates in the comment sections about whether the jump was a 'hoax,' or if it lived up to his father's formidable legacy. My two cents: it's difficult to bring dignity into the argument when the subject is wearing a doo-rag.

Hope you all had a great New Year!

2008 In Review, Part 1 (The No-Music Section)

By the grace of God, I've decided to break up my 2008 Best-Of into two chunks. The first, contained here, is everything that doesn't have to do with the year in music. You may notice that I also haven't touched upon books at all; that's because my favourite title of the past 365 merits a post to itself, and that will be up soon. This is a bushel of fully arbitrary categories that is grander than planned; originally it was going to serve as a quick opening act for the music gunk, but has sort of taken on a life of it's own. Anyway, enjoy. Nay, tolerate. Oh, and apologies for any crummy HTML-ing; I'm a rank amateur.

Favourite Movie: Iron Man. There's an saying amongst actors that the next role is always the best one, which is probably true unless you're Seann William Scott. Coming off of a show-stealing performance in Tropic Thunder, Robert Downey Jr had palpable momentum, and he really makes this picture (well, that and the special effects). I honestly can't believe that a superhero flick takes my top spot, which has never happened before, but there you go.

I should point out that I haven't seen Doubt yet, though, which has 'Year's Best' written all over it. At the moment, Religulous is probably runner-up.

Worst movie: Juno. Yes, I know it came out in 2007, but it's so obnoxiously mannered and rotten that it carries over an extra year for further ignominy. Diablo Cody must be stopped.

My hipness knows no plausibility.

Best commercial: Shamwow! is legendary, but a bit overexposed at this point, plus Russell Oliver and Lastman's Bad Boy (yes, that Mel Lastman: Toronto's two-term mayor) have already been kicked upstairs to Hall Of Fame status. It's crazy how 95% of unintentionally hilarious spots have their roots in airing on channel 87 during The Sopranos - it's kind of serves as the Book Of Genesis for bush-league advertisements. This year's winner, however, actually aired the other day on the Big Ten Network while I was watching a college basketball game. The Italian-American Defamation League is going to have field day with this one; the tipping point / best part comes when the complaining guy starts gnawing on a convienently located slice of pizza.




Most distressing commercial: Disaronno Amaretto, which features the two most unabashedly randy figures to ever appear in small-screen advertising. The woman orders a drink before proceeding to, apropos of nothing, lick at and slobber over an ice cube. Subtle. The bartender looks like a date rapist. Where's Bob Barker selling the value of spaying and neutering when we really need him?




Best forgotten outrage: CBC losing the Hockey Night In Canada song. Don't get me wrong, I always loved it, but does anybody even notice or care anymore? I'm a traditionalist at heart, but the furor was a bit embarassing. The most satisfying facet of the entire brouhaha was passionate anti-tax crusaders hypocritically up in arms about maintaining a jingle that cost significant bucks for the public broadcaster with each airing.

Hidden TV gem: Bill Moyers Journal. The timeslot is horrific for those of us with Seattle PBS (Friday night at 9 PM), but all episodes are available online. Moyers is one of my journalistic heroes; granted, he skews left (which is fantastic for me), but he has no tolerance for wasteful spin and cuts right to the beating heart of any given issue. This is the anti-CNN partisan jamboree.

Media find of the year: Dave Dameshek. What a fella; I first discovered him when he made a cameo on Bill Simmons' podcast late last year to promote his Los Angeles ESPN drive-time radio gig. Seeing that, despite being an incurable sports geek, I hold sports radio in roughly the same esteem as Madonna or a punctured testicle (after all, besides the enjoyable Don Taylor and Barry Macdonald, the old grey ladies of the Vancouver scene are the over-serious, moronic likes of Bob Marjanovich, Dan Russell, and Fat Fat David Pratt), Shek's show was a revelation. It's smart, not lunkheaded. Give him a try; to those who've heard me use the phrases 'hooey and applesauce' or 'a thin slice of heaven,' they're completely plagarized from Dameshek.

Best sports moment: Without a doubt, Trevor Linden's jersey retirement night earlier in December.




That 1994 Canucks team probably provided at least three of the top five moments of my (extremely happy) childhood, and I still smile and get goosebumps when I hear the inimitable Jim Robson on that clip. As we all know, he did play, and nearly singlehandedly willed Vancouver to victory in game seven back at MSG. Enjoy your retirement, Trev.

Honourable mention: Kevin Garnett finally winning an NBA title (his teary, post-game interview in the immediate aftermath of Boston's clinching win has polarized people in a way not seen since Sally Field's 'you like me, you really like me' Oscar speech, but I thought it was off-the-cuff and fantastic), A.J. Burnett leaving the Blue Jays (don't let the door hit you on the way out, jackass), Cam Wake's reign of terror on the BC Lions defensive line (the fact that he wasn't CFL MVP is criminal). I'm holding off on the Sundin signing until I see how the 'Nucks react to it, though it should be a great thing.

Worst sports moment: Calgary winning the Grey Cup. Not only do I despise the Stampeders, but no crowd deserved a home Cup win more than Montreal fans; Canadian football is thriving in Quebec right down to the grassroots like nowhere else in the country.

Honourable mention: Seattle losing NBA basketball (even though I kind of hate the NBA, I follow it in spite of myself), the Bengals finishing 4-11-1 (it's bad enough that they were terrible, but they had to get a TIE! In FOOTBALL! Pigskin draws are my most hated outcome in all of sports), my hockey pool team continuing to exist.

Thanks for coming out, Ocho.

Worst sports playing surface: Bronco Stadium at Boise State University; the turf is blue. I have the Humanitarian Bowl on TV as I type this, and it's actually a bit painful on the eyes to watch the game. I'd hazard that somebody steamrolled the Smurf's village and had football markings painted on top, only Papa, Brainy, and company would almost certainly set up shop somewhere more interesting than Idaho. The runner-up is the ice surface in any NHL sun-belt city; the upside of the financial meltdown is that it could lead to bankruptcy in the feeble, warm-weather markets, which would mean sweet, sweet contraction. 21-24 NHL clubs would lead to near-optimal puck, I'd guess.

The Smurfs do Idaho; Peyo as potato-socialist.

Best channel find: Game TV (channel 155 on digital cable for those in the Vancouver area), which mostly airs old game shows, and is the best illustration I've seen yet that the pre-irony era might as well be vacuum-sealed. Here are my favourite two case-studies:

Supermarket Sweep: Essentially a half-hour commercial, albeit one with a toothy host lording over. A pack of brand-saturated contestants show off their consumerist bona fides by answering questions about shopping before racing through the store in spree-like fashion to procure as many products as possible. I loved this show when I was a kid, but you can't go back; the women are all heavily made-up born-again Christians, and mullets bob to-and-fro amongst the males.

Game On: I actually remember this sports quiz show from the late nineties, and it's an ideal petri-dish of classic game show culture floundering in the overly self-aware late nineties. The two co-hosts are a perpetually chattering, quite possibly coked-up male quizmaster and an icy, leggy blonde-for-hire who spends most of the twenty-two minutes perched on a stool making sarcastic remarks and glaring contemptously; I can't possibly convey how entertaining this is. If I had my way, there'd be a marathon every night (though I'd guess that less than ten episodes were actually filmed).

Speaking of game shows, I was flipping to Million Dollar Password the other night during commercials in the football game, and unfortunately bore witness to Regis Philbin giving Betty White a neck-hickey during banter time; I only wish I was making this up. The entire ordeal can basically be boiled down to high-school earth sciences, specifically plate tectonics; a billion-year-old continent encroaching upon aged oceanic crust. Tangentically (and bizarrely), Adam Carolla was also peripherally involved.

Best polysyllabic excuse to call in sick: Neurasthenia. I first read about this in a Don Murray-penned piece on the CBC website; apparently it's a 19th century diagnosable malady that's been widely discredited. The condition arose, it was said, as a 'result of exhaustion of the central nervous system's energy reserves by modern civilization.' Um, can we find a way to re-credit this; like, everybody would be on disability. Shit, just trying to find a parking spot in South Granville would reduce me to a certifiable case.

Best evidence of Canadian media decripitude: Scaremongering around a potential governing coalition. Granted, civics education in Canadian schools is weak, but this was deliberate skewing of parliamentary reality so media titans could maintain the status quo in which they have a vested interest. I'm a lefty, and thus think that complicated problems have complicated solutions; we can't just bludgeon an idea or concept with the 'separatist' epithet until it goes away. Harper should be embarassed, and could be were he capable of feeling actual shame. This fiasco is going to make up a post in the near future, so I'll cut it off there.

MOOB BOMB!

Most prescient quote to describe 2008: Ralph Nader’s father, Nathra, opined years back that 'capitalism will survive as long as socialism is used to save it.' Another apt citation came from economist William Krehm, who got right to the brass tacks when he stated that deregulated banking is 'governed by mathematics of the atomic bomb.' Years back, I subscribed to the Globe And Mail, and once a month the Report On Business magazine was included with my paper. Once per year, there was a piece on the 20 top CEOs. It was literally nauseating to read; doughy, white fat-cats were celebrated as 'mavericks' for essentially screwing with the livelihoods of the hoi polloi - layoffs were a celebrated as some sort of tidily quantifiable abstract figure, like sports stats. Doesn't the bailout and ensuing hoarding of taxpayer money by the financial institutions go to show that big business is essentially playing with house money, and that they know they're not going to lose? What's so 'independent' and 'mavericky' about that? The dismal science, indeed. More to come on this.

Oh, and before the commie alarm starts ding-a-linging, I believe in capitalism, albeit a regulated one in the vein of the Nordic countries. They must be getting sick of all of those 'Best Place to Live' designations year after year; colour me socially democratic.

Scariest deficit: With apologies to the financial meltdown, the ongoing dignity deficit. Reality television and the fame reflex forces forward unabated, and every week seems to bring a fresh tent city outside of electronics stores for the latest new gadget. Imagine if we were preoccupied with things that are even marginally important.

Anyway, on that preachy point, this is the end of part one. My music lists, which are the real pride and joy, should be up over the next few days. Happy New Year, all!

Welcome to my resolution.

Hey, everyone! This is a bit awkward, but whatevs; long story short, following in the distinguished wake of quitting smoking (2006: successful resolution), and failed pledge to finally read Ulysses (2002, 2003, 2007: didn't happen), this blog is my '08 New Year's resolution. At the end of the day, as foreshadowed by previous Auld Lang Syne pledges, it could go either way, really, though I'd like it to be a success. Those who have been acquainted with me for years know full well that I really enjoy writing, and also that I practice a precise/maddening form that lends itself to nitpicky perfectionism. As '08 was dragging towards a merciful end, though, and I realized that 30 approaches rapidly, I was getting a bit tired of writing only for myself in journal-form; I want to get my haughty, unpalatable opinions out there, and yearn to encourage debate and argument. Politics, sports, culture, commerce, etc; all of my passions are going to be aired.

My blog is called 'Wreckless Conjecture,' and I hope you'll become a subscriber/follower/whatever. It's going to be a bit bumpy at first, as I'm trying to learn rudimentary HTML to incorporate pictures and prettiness as a respite to text blobs (my main goal is wiseacre picture captions), but bear with me. A crash-course, really, but I'll learn as I go - I'm old-fashioned in thinking that content trumps visuals. Besides, being a smart-ass knows no tagging.

Anyway, I'm planning on getting the first week off with a bang: my two-part '2008 In Review.' The first half should be up within the next day, and that's the 'amelodic' portion, meaning essentially everything but music (sports, TV, movies, everyday mundanity, etc.). The lengthy music best-of (part two) will be posted within 2-3 days, and will feature my albums and songs of the year, to say nothing of duds and other miscellaneous categories.

Rain in Spain, and here's hoping you'll read and contribute.

Jared