BABY ON BOARD
Celebrity Baby Craze
10/10
by Tori Burhans
These days, the must-have fashion accessory in Hollywood is The Baby. Some choose the more conventional ways of showing their newborn off (selling photos, random paparazzi snapshots), but the smart stars know there’s got to be a little bit of drama attached to their bundle of love. With the Hollywood baby craze in full swing, celebrities are finding new and exciting ways to exploit their newborns.
Hide Your Baby Like Osama Bin Laden. By keeping the face of their child a secret for so long, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes perfected the art of speculating. The lack of sun and abundance of hair can be seen on the cover of October’s Vanity Fair, where Suri Cruise makes her debut. Celebriphiles around the world argued for months over why this baby was hidden, and now we know: it’s sort of creepy looking (think Damien from The Omen).
Name It Something That Will Make It Disown You When It Grows Up. Coco Cox? Apple Martin? Brooklyn Beckham? What are they thinking? Simple: What is weird enough to make the cover of Us Weekly? All the paparazzi are going to be dying to snap a photo of Shiloh Nouvel Pitt, not only because his parents are the hottest adulterers du jour, but because the child’s name literally means “Messiah.” Jesus has a lot of hype, but not as much hype as Brangelina.
Be In Our Face About It. No one is more up front and forward about having babies as Britney Spears. Whether it is videotaping and selling the footage of the possible conception to UPN, nude pictures of herself in the third trimester, or demonstrating poor parenting skills on camera, Brit has been all up in our grills about being a mother. It’s sort of like a train wreck, only funnier.
Who’s the Daddy? Nothing captures the American public’s attention like a good old-fashioned Maury Povich Paternity Test scandal. Elizabeth Hurley tried it a few years back. More recently, Anna Nicole Smith left the identity of her second child’s father shrouded in mystery. This tactic can be rather ineffective (nine months is a long time to keep that charade interesting), which left Anna Nicole with one alternative…
Have Your Son Die As You’re Giving Birth to Second Child. Unconventional? Yes. Too Far? Absolutely not. That old son is old news! No one even knew you had him! Yes, it’s true, as Anna Nicole Smith grieves over the loss of her first son, her publicists and press people must be living it up. You can’t buy that kind of press. Not legally, at least.
SOMEBODY SET US UP DA BOMB!!!
Da Bomb Blunt Wraps
3/10
by Guy M. Scrivo
Fast on the heels of The Game cigars, Da Bomb Blunt Wraps come on the scene with a musical celebrity spokesperson of their own, Nate Dogg. He is apparently “the Voice of Hip Hop” according to the colorfully decorated blunt wrapper. I’m not the biggest fan of Nate Dogg, so I’ve created my own list of celebrities for blunt wrap companies to give licensing rights to. How about Sisqo, Little Richard, Tom Waits, Paris Hilton, Courtney Love, Whitney Houston, Gary Busey, and the University at Buffalo’s own A2J?
Da Bomb Blunts, which can be studied at www.smokedabomb.com, cost one dollar per sleeve and come with two flat, rectangular leaves wrapped around straws. While two for a dollar is far from a bad deal, the leaves are not natural by any means. Da Bomb Blunts come in 22 flavors, of which I tried three. All of them tasted like brown paper bags that had been soaked in Kool Aid. “Bubonic Blueberry” wasn’t a horrible flavor, but it tasted more like burning sugar than like actual blueberries. Other intriguing flavors included “Cottonmouth,” “Screwed and Chopped Purple Syrup,” and “Afghani Sour Apple.” I didn’t know apples could be grown in the climate of Afghanistan, so one can only assume that Nate Dogg grows them there himself in a cave, hydroponically, using a generator. The wraps burn slower than a Philly, simply because they are soaking wet when you get them.
In addition to the inferior quality of this blunt wrap, a buck for Da Bomb Blunt Wraps is a buck for racism. Their website is scattered with all sorts of racial stereotypes, such as their coming soon “Da Bomb Whips” section, in which Hummers are pimped out with decals found on wrappers sporting pictures of fruits and Nate Dogg. One of their Da Bomb Whip flavors, which is also a blunt flavor, “Reggaeton Tequila,” confuses Puerto Rican music with Mexican alcohol. On their website, the makers of Da Bomb Blunts tell the prospective retailers that they are “a revolutionary new cigar wrap, available in 22 urban-friendly flavors… The target market recognizes our catchy flavor names, knows our celebrity rapper, and the superior graphics and packaging is sure to catch the consumer’s eye.”
Just say nay to Nate Dogg and his wraps. I encourage everyone to get as inebriated as possible and call 1-800-DA-BOMB-4 and give them a piece of your mind for encouraging ethnic stereotypes and for combining various elements of Mexican and Puerto Rican culture into Frankenstein’s monster. But two for a buck man, hey, you can’t beat that. I’m just surprised they don’t have a diamond-encrusted Star of David on the package with Hebrew-looking text that says “Gefilte Fish Pricing!”
THEY GOT IT REITZ THIS TIME
Dan Reitz - Tortuga
10/10
by Daniele Hauptman
Usually, when someone endorses their friend’s band’s album, I merely scoff, replying with a sarcastic and dismissive comment or two. However, upon listening to Tortuga by Dan Reitz, I have come to the realization that friends’ bands can actually produce excellent material. Some of these songs were stuck in my head for days.
Dan Reitz fuses the sound of traditional instruments like guitar, bass, and drums, with genuinely expressive vocals, occasionally incorporating trumpet and saxophone into the often dreamlike electronic mix. Tortuga opens with the instrumental, “A Penny.” It highlights musical percussion and electronic noises reminiscent of digital bubbles, fading into white noise. The digital theme continues with “One More Time,” a track one might play during a party in a switchboard operating room. Or, is that a cell phone ringing in the middle of an alien encounter? Either way, it’s damn catchy. The lyrics are simple and unpretentious in the voice of a resigned teenager, fitting nicely with the alternations of upbeat and eerie instrumentals.
“Rewire” has exhaustedly mournful vocals, reminiscent of Radiohead’s Thom Yorke. The lyrics ring sincerely over the eerie digital blips that characterize the track, sounding like the soundtrack to a maze-like dream. Towards the middle of the song, funky porn-bass melodies come into play—always a welcome addition.
Arguably the best song on the album, “McSorley” is reminiscent of ramblin’ man folk rock. The lyrics are reflective and self-assured, and the incorporation of blithe whistling makes the track particularly effective. An equally excellent song is “Untitled (Mozart Song),” featuring a completely different style that anyone could rock out to at a dance party. It is fun, wacky, and creative, like punk rock with a flute. Reitz sings, “Mozart riding a go-kart / when will you start to realize we’re all the same?” The lyrics are simple and easy to remember, with a catchy melody that won’t leave your head.
Another track worthy of mention is “Horace Havemeyer” with electronic-toned strings, video game sound effects, and soul claps. It features a background synth that seems like something out of Napoleon Dynamite, but in a good way.
Dan Reitz concentrates on making each track sound interesting. Tortuga’s simple yet moving vocals complement the instrumentals wonderfully. The band maintains a great range of musical ability, while not jumping across the soundboard too much. Every single track on this album is astonishingly good—an unusual but welcome quality for any compilation.
WET DREAMS
The Science of Sleep
10/10
by Elina Vaysbeyn
The deep subconscious mind never rests and the main character of Michel Gondry’s new film The Science of Sleep knows that all too well. Gael García Bernal, known to the audience as the incredibly good-looking, but quirky and inadequate Stephane, is caught in the crossfire as his subconscious and conscious battle it out. He never seems to get a break.
When Stephane falls asleep, which he seems to do frequently without any warning, we get the first peek into his neuro-meanderings, which make us the audience of his own dream talk show. Chef Stephane has all the ingredients to create dreams, and as he combines them, he slides down a metaphorical dream tube. In his conscious life, Stephane is an artist; a cute and sexy, humbled introvert who has difficulty distinguishing reality from his dream-world. He creates with his hands, animating lifeless objects, making them catalysts in his own life. The inventions are surreal. They become a manifestation of his fears, desires, and frustrations.
Then Stephane meets Stephanie, and, in their seemingly eternal and sexually charged quest for each other, they come upon some obstacles. Stephane is constantly somewhere between asleep and awake, and it is in the midst of this confusion that the audience becomes aware of the complexities of their relationship.
Stephane’s character is a foil for itself. He’s got a double life. In his dreams, he’s the conqueror. He takes charge of his life. His dreams propel him forward with delusions of grandeur, meanwhile his real life just seems to beat his confidence with a shovel. Stephane is the withdrawn frightened child inside each and every one of us. His humanity, naiveté, and susceptibility to misfortune are what makes him me, you, that person sitting two seats away from you on the train. He’s completely lost in hopeless desperation, in his convoluted short-comings and the realization thereof. It may seem like he’s insane at times, but his inventions have purpose behind them, a profound message to us. “Look around,” Stephane tells us. Life isn’t cut and dry; it’s an overflowing well of imagery and ideas and wonder. I believe him.
The Science of Sleep breathes a certain imaginative vision. The buildings are cardboard and everything looks like it’s made of play-dough and fabric. Like childhood artifacts, but these are objects of a universal childhood, one that Stephane can’t seem to grow out of. He’s just a shy lonely little kid, all by himself in a huge playground, daydreaming, until someone hits him with a ball. Everything about this movie is hardly realistic and yet so believable. It provides an accurate depiction of the randomness and ambiguity of dreams.
We start to believe that time can go backwards and forwards, that stuffed ponies can gallop across green fields, that there can be forests in boats. The Science of Sleep really is amazingly imaginative and beautiful, and best of all, it’s honest.
LIVING IN HAPPY HOLLOW
Cursive
10/10
by Tara Sullivan
“Popular” bands acquire a fan following through great marketing and a successful run on MTV or through the media. Truly great bands are grown from a different seed. They form a unique, groundbreaking sound that commands respect from critics and fans alike. These bands usually don’t earn six-digit paychecks, because for them music is a passion, not a job. While the mainstream may pop out a new cookie cutter celebrity each week, they are something that only years of experience can craft. Today’s popular music may be alright for dancing drunk on Friday nights, but if you want to experience a band that can rock hard, write some damn near existential lyrics, and put on one hell of a live show, turn to Omaha’s Cursive.
Made up of lead guitarist/lead vocalist Tim Kasher, backup guitarist/backup vocalist Ted Stevens, bassist Matt Maginn, and drummer Clint Schnase, Cursive has been making brilliant, cataclysmic music since 1994. Their sound has morphed over the years, taking incarnations as the no-frills guitar rock of Domestica to the haunting cello-driven ballads of The Ugly Organ. Their most recent release, Happy Hollow, adds a lofty brass section to fuel powerful and upbeat songs with a mission.
Poignant jabs questioning the Catholic faith are among the themes of Happy Hollow. Kasher best sums up the LP’s drive in the song “Rise Up, Rise Up” stating, “I wasted half my life on the thought that I’d live forever. I wasn’t raised to seize the day but to work and worship ‘cause he that liveth and believeth supposedly never dies. Rise up, rise up, live a full life, ‘cause when it’s over it’s done.” The personas he creates within the songs usually offer scathing retorts to the often authoritarian religion—be it a pregnant teenager, gay priest, or a desperate gigolo. Cursive successfully transformed a controversial topic into a rollicking whirlwind of horns, dramatic breakdowns, and gut-wrenching vocals. All these attributes shine through in their energetic live performances to create a show you can’t help but get caught up in.
The Buffalo Icon was flooded last Thursday night for Cursive’s highly anticipated return to the stage after a two-year touring hiatus, which would be the kiss of death to many a lesser band. After being tortured by an hour-long feedback-ridden set performed by an atrocious opening band, everyone was extremely anxious for the headliners to start the show. You would think they’d take the hint from a crowd full of blank stares and the resistance of the soundman. The waiting paid off. The crowd went crazy when the trumpets finally began to blare as the band kicked right into their new album with a jaded tribute to the American Dream, “Dorothy at Forty.”
Tim Kasher and bandmates promised on their website that they would delve into their extensive discography, catering to both old and new fans. They know that people seldom come to a show for a mindless recitation of the newest release, however good it may be. Living up to their end of the bargain, Cursive put on a show as varied as their history. From the more recent gothic inspirations of “Art is Hard” and “Driftwood” to the melodious classics like “the Radiator Hums” and “The Great Decay,” to name a few, there truly was something for everyone.
Halfway through an already lively set, Kasher stopped to address his fans by apologizing for being so “exhausted.” If he wasn’t into the performance, it was news to the crowd. As the second half of the show was about to unfold, he assured everyone that “If this were a relationship, and we were in bed together, and I’m not meeting certain ‘expectations,’ I just want you to know that the night’s not over yet. The sun has not yet risen!”
To preserve the tone of their albums, Cursive brought in a bevy of dramatic backup tracks. These were combined with unconventional methods of playing, such as running a beer bottle across the strings of a guitar to produce long interludes or boisterous feedback which introduced many of the songs. Another welcome surprise to their live act was the intertwining of the brass section into older tunes, providing a whole new element of depth to tracks like “Gentleman Caller” and “Who Needs Who the Worst.”
Kasher and bandmates ended the show with a bang, literally. An eruption of sound heralded Cursive’s mighty ode to the omnipotent debate over creationism. Whatever you believe, it didn’t really matter—Cursive ruled the stage that night. As the band exited the stage amongst roaring applause, murmurs of “that was the best show ever” echoed through The Icon. In this age with the technology of studio production, it’s rare that a band’s live performance can live up to the expectations set by their records. Cursive shattered those expectations. What they created was a night that those lucky enough to be in attendance will not forget.
PLAY THAT FUNKY HARP,
ELF GIRL
Joanna Newsom in Toronto
9/10
by Andrew Blake
Joanna Newsom is fucking beautiful. She is an elf, the kind of elf that you want to make love to forever and ever.
Newsom’s 2004 debut album, The Milk-Eyed Mender, made her the darling of indie. That role is rather puzzling since the music she performs is far from what you would expect audiofiles and college geeks to swoon over—it’s harp music. The Milk-Eyed Mender is 12 tracks of harp (a little harpsichord every now and then for good measure), all accompanying her chilling tweak of a yodel that, for some reason, just works out marvelously.
With a new album, Ys, on the horizon, the enigmatic Newsom booked a rare 11-date tour, which brought her to the Mod Club in Toronto this past week. On the stage completely alone with the obvious exception of her 47-string instrument of majestic wonder, she performed to a sold-out crowd. While her set was brief (barely an hour), it was one of the most captivating shows I have ever seen. The young musician, only 24, plays the harp with such ease that you are torn between where to look, at her hands plucking flawlessly at the harp which overshadows her tiny frame, or at Newsom herself, who in all of her elfin glory is nothing short of breathtaking.
Some may find her shrill soprano cries to be nothing short of nails on a chalkboard, but to the crowd that night, it was a hymn performed by none other than an angel sent to Earth.
Treating us to songs off of her debut as well as the yet-to-be-released Ys, Newsom seemed happy to perform in Toronto for the first time. Apparently soft-spoken, she sacrificed between-song banter and instead dazzled the crowd with harp-fueled stories, some more epic than others (one new song clocked in at close to 15 minutes). From the second she plucked the openings notes of “Bridges and Balloons,” a song from her 2004 release that opened her set Wednesday night, the crowd was all ears. While she did indeed entertain us, the short set left us wanting so much more.
Newsom responded to calls from the crowd to return to Toronto quite positively, so we can only hope that day comes sooner rather than later.
WHERE POEMS GO TO DIE
Poetry Bus Tour
1/10
by Jason A. Bocko
There’s a story from the ‘50s that both poets and exhibitionists alike enjoy recounting. Two of the great Beat poets, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso, were giving a reading in Los Angeles, and a drunk in the front row kept repeatedly heckling the men asking them what they were trying to prove. Ginsberg excitedly replied, “Nakedness!” and began to strip and approach the man while challenging him to do the same. The man understandably retreated to the back of the room and Ginsberg proudly declared, “A poet always stands naked in front of the world!” If that is the case, might I suggest that poets participating in the Poetry Bus get some Pilates tapes, or at the very least invest in a couple of mumus.
On Friday, September 22, a group of 11 traveling poets stopped at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery and gave a free reading. While the vast majority of the poets were technically proficient writers, all but a few presented works lacking in both maturity and any true poetic graces. What they presented as their moving and inspired works read much more like Maya Angelou for the chain-smoking heavy-drinking set.
The first person speaking introduced the concept of the Poetry Bus, a brilliant idea—a group of poets board a bus, drive around the country and give readings—the poetry of the people imagined by the greats like Ginsberg. Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
The first reader gave a dramatic reading, yet little substance was underneath his façade of intensity. This is acceptable. In any group reading, you are bound to find one poet you just don’t connect with. However, this should not have snowballed into the hour and a half blood bath of poetics it became. I will spare you details, but my notes from the first set include such phrases as “no real style,” “lacks refinement,” the very blunt “BAD!” and my personal favorite “Is he Keanu Reeves?” It was 45 minutes of watching the craft I love most being viciously beaten with poems like “How I Know I’m Still Missing.”
The second set offered some hope, but this hope was short-lived. One poet was amazing. The images were beautiful, his words were skillfully chosen, and he actually had something to say. To top it off, his delivery was sublime. This was only the eye of the storm, and once again came the cultural rape of poetry. One poet actually used the line “Eyes and genitals blinking.” This was bad poetry. The only thing that could have made the experience more painful is if all 11 returned to stage to finish with a rendition of “We are the World.”
Poetry, when handled correctly, can be beautiful and inspiring. When placed into the wrong hands, it can turn a two-hour trip to the Art Gallery into a seeming eternity. Multiply that by the 22 hands that were there that night. If you are inclined to attend a poetry reading, which I highly suggest you do, Buffalo is a very good place—early in October John Ashbery and Susan Howe, two of my favorite poets, are reading. Contemporary poetry is alive and well in so many places, but the Poetry Bus isn’t one of them. The name “Poetry Bus” should be quickly changed to “Poetry Hearse.”
