ATTACK OF THE moe.RONS
moe. 10-11-2k6
8/10
by Charles Wiff
When your band has been one of the heaviest touring acts in the country for a good decade, you learn something about playing to crowds who want something more than a playthrough of the greatest hits.
That was evident last Wednesday at The Town Ballroom, where longhairs and new-age heads endured extra-thorough pat downs on the first night of UB-formed moe.’s three-show stop. While Friday’s show was postponed by the freak snowstorm, moe. still played two well-structured sets that would’ve stood just as well capping of the run as they did as openers.
moe.rons, or die hard moe. fans who might see dozens of moe. performances a year, are always hoping for a unique show. They got one on this tour stop, as the fall run saw the development of tendonitis in the right arm of guitarist Al Schnier, forcing him to put down his guitar and pick up a tambourine. Kirk Juhas, of freebeer&chicken and Al’s own Al and the Transamericans sideproject, backed up the band in Buffalo.
moe., normally punctual, took the small stage stuffed with their equipment after a short delay and amid supporting cries of “We love you, Al!” They launched the first set with a protracted “Tailspin” which got the surprisingly sparse crowd swaying, but not rocking. “Tambourine” followed, in acknowledgment of Al’s lack of axe. But his vocals seemed more heartfelt than usual, and Juhas’ organ blaring away in the background made up for the lack of a second six-string onstage. The band then held off, pacing the crowd with a number of slower tunes that left everyone itching for guitarist Chuck Garvey’s fingers to fly on a fast-paced jam.
A vocally clean “Bring You Down,” with admirable playing by bassist Rob Derhak, sated the thirst of some fans and sent them to set break wanting more. In The Town Ballroom’s anteroom, speculation was rampant over what the next set would bring. The consensus? On the first night of a three-night run, don’t get your hopes up.
But moe. apparently didn’t get the memo. They opened with a rare cover of The Flaming Lips’ “Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots Pt. I,” a move that brought a few confused looks to faces (I had to look up the title myself) but was well-received for the most part. The second set was much livelier, composed of up-tempo songs capped with a half hour of nonstop jamming consiting of “Water,” “Where Does the Time Go?,” and a “Rebubula” that stretched into eternity. Percussionist Jim Loughlin even spent a stint on acoustic guitar.
“Rebubula,” off of moe.’s 1996 No Doy, is a well-known tune that had the entire floor dancing. It was surprising to see them pull the big guns out so early, with two more nights ahead, but it was a rousing version and pleasant surprise.
The now-sextet came out for a relatively short encore, and played a cover of “Cripple Creek” which, according to Phantasytour.com, hasn’t been played in over 300 shows. It was nice to be there for an end to the drought, but compared to the frenzy that took place minutes earlier, it wasn’t terribly impressive.
While those who waited for the final show on Friday were shafted, those who showed up early last week were treated to all the moe. The Town Ballroom could hold.
WEDNESDAYS WITH MOMMY
Mitch Albom - For One More Day
9/10
by Joe Speranza
Yes, I read the new Mitch Albom book. Yes, I enjoyed it. And yes, my balls are still attached. Thank you for asking.
While he may write the literary equivalent of chick flicks, I am not ashamed to say that I liked his newest book, For One More Day. The amount of twists and surprises, along with the fact that I was stuck on a train for seven hours, allowed me to read the book in one sitting.
The main character, Chick Benetto, has been drinking heavily since the day his mother died. He has lost most of his friends and has drifted away from his own family. The day he finds out he wasn’t invited to his daughter’s wedding is the day he decides to take his own life. Benetto even fails at that. Instead, he survives the suicide attempt and wakes up to find that his mother, who passed away eight years prior, is right by his side. Obviously, he has some questions for her, and the rest of the book follows the two characters as they spend a day together.
The premise is a touch sappy, I’ll admit, but it really isn’t corny. Everyone can relate to the story, and though I personally did not cry (I swear), it is certainly emotional enough to coax tears out of a more tear-prone individual.
I believe Albom’s two previous books were slightly overrated. Tuesdays With Morrie and The Five People You Meet in Heaven were both best sellers, and are generally regarded as great pieces of literature, however they didn’t really do it for me. I found Morrie too far-fetched; I couldn’t really relate to it. And with Heaven, I honestly can’t remember anything about the book, it was so easily forgettable. For One More Day, on the other hand, is a story that is extremely relevant; it explores the close, loving, and sometimes fragile relationship between a son and a mother.
We follow Chick Benetto as he grows up idolizing his father, who suddenly disappears from the family. His reason for departure is a mystery that lingers throughout the story, and is not revealed until later. Either way, Chick is forced to become a “mama’s boy”—something he is not used to.
He admits to being ashamed and embarrassed by his mother throughout the story, which is how the plot develops and gets more intriguing. The book is more than just an ode to every mom in the world; it is a complex story that follows a somewhat sympathetic character, Chick, and the final day with his mom which allows some of his past regrets to surface.
Albom’s writing style is very engaging, and since the book is relatively short, you will not want to take a break. For One More Day is like a tornado, or, perhaps more inappropriately, a hooker: it will suck you in, blow you away, and you will not be the same afterwards.
STOP TAKING YOUR PROZAC!!
Scientology
10/10
by Erin McCarthy
I’ve been tossed off the beaten path. Between constant work on grad school applications and my honors thesis, I have no sense of how civilization operates, I haven’t had a haircut in ages, and I continually wear something resembling old pajamas in public. Last week was particularly bad, and as I meandered through The Commons on my way to buy yet another GRE prep book, I saw a sign that gave me a feeling that things were going to get better for me: Free Stress Test!
“What is this?” I thought, looking at a table full of books. I curiously approached the display, when suddenly a small young woman energetically asked if I was interested in taking a stress test. Of course I was. I looked deranged and felt like a pathetic, societal outcast. Maybe these people were motivational coaches or psychology students wanting to cure my rapidly increasing anxiety. Maybe they could help me.
The girl sat me down and handed me two metal cylinders each respectively attached to wires, which plugged into a small black box with a meter on it. This thing looked more makeshift than mood ring, but I was willing to give it a shot.
“Okay,” she said, “I want you to think of someone in your life right now.” I automatically thought of my roommate, whom I hadn’t seen in a few days because I had turned into a hermit. The needle shot from one end of the meter to the other. “Did you see that?” She squealed enthusiastically. “Who did you think of? They’re obviously making you very stressed out.” I told her that it was my roommate. She nodded in a sympathetic manner. “Is it a bad situation?”
I hesitated. “I’m really more stressed because I’m applying to grad schools.” She asked me what degree I was applying for and I told her clinical psychology. She gave me a perplexed look and asked me why. I told her that I wanted to research and better understand psychological disorders. She was still confused. I further explained that through evaluating the behaviors and quantitative data obtained from clinical populations, I could better understand the intricacies of these disorders and advance knowledge for treatment. Nope, still not registering. She grabbed one of the books. “Have you heard about this book, Dianetics, by L. Ron Hubbard?” Now, I was the confused one.
“Everyone is filled with unwanted emotions and psychosomatic illnesses,” she explained, “and it is through dianetics that we can cleanse our souls and be free of everything negative.”
“You mean like yoga or mediation?” I naively asked.
“No,” she said, “I mean, do you know how someone with bipolar disorder just goes ‘AAAH!’ when you approach them the wrong way?” No. No, I did not, but keep going. “Well, if they just went through the ten steps outlined in Dianetics, they would be cured of their disease.”
“You do realize bipolar disorder is definitely an unavoidable chemical imbalance. You can’t just make it magically disappear,” I said.
“Yeah,” she challenged me, “but how can you prove it’s even there?”
“A thorough diagnostic evaluation.”
Flustered, she called her friend over, who was supposedly more of an expert in getting rid of psychological disorders than she was. She informed him that I was a psych major and I needed more clarification on how dianetics worked. He had me read the back of the book and there it was in big, bold print: A commendation from John Travolta. I was a bit more receptive when I discovered that the star of Battlefield Earth endorses this practice.
“Look,” I said, “You mean to tell me that the ten steps in this book will cure everything, even schizophrenia?”
“Yeah, it does, because all psychological disorders are psychosomatic, and you know what that means because you’re a psychology major. Psychological disorders don’t really exist; the symptoms just exist because of something negative from our past.”
Apparently, medications just cover up the symptoms of all diseases, they don’t make anything go away. Medications are useless. Hell, medications are downright awful. Dianetics, however, cures the problem by stripping the brainwashed aliens from our backs placed there by the evil lord, Xenu.
As a future scientist, I was curious as to whether or not he had any scientific reports detailing the methods by which Scientology gets rid of these diseases. Nope. Pamphlets, literature, anything? No, who the hell needs that crap?! These people have results. Who needs proof that something works when they have results?
I had to admire the fact that his enthusiasm was reminiscent of Tom Cruise on Oprah. My stress test only lasted two seconds and I didn’t even get a reading. But that wasn’t even the point of me sitting down anyway. What really mattered was that I got the message that psychologists are liars. People with psychiatric disorders need to stop taking their medicine, stop seeing their therapist, buy Dianetics, start the ten-step plan, and free themselves from an alien, mind-control scheme that started 75 million years ago. Got it? Mr. Hubbard, just beam me up already!
THE RETURN OF COUNTRY
Jenny Lewis
10/10
by Peter Scheck
Jenny Lewis, the child actor turned pop-darling turned electro-babe has no trouble fitting into country music. In fact, for her, it’s as easy as changing her clothes and hiring a new band. Her first album without her group Rilo Kiley, Rabbit Fur Coat features Lewis on acoustic guitar, backed up by a full band of old cohorts, as well as gospel singers the Watson Twins. The product is a record focusing not as greatly on lyrical poignancy as great passionate production value, and the truth is as much as Lewis dresses her girls in gowns and her guys as cowboys, she’s not a country singer, but a great singer whose songs translate well to whatever arrangement she wants to spin on them.
It worked last week at the Center for the Arts, where she was met by superfans and regular fans, but not enough of either to hold the show in its original venue. Lewis played in the Drama Theater down the hall, a smaller, cozier theater than the main stage. She deserved these fans, and they were well-served by the relocation.
One of Lewis’ openers, Vietnam, played foot stomping alternative country. Their singer could have placed well in a Dylan impersonation contest, not only for his vocal style but for his speed-freak style lyrics. Following their performance, with the convenience of a 30-minute intermission, the lady and I made it down to the local saloon at Maple and Sweethome.
The scene there was grim, the only other couple under 40 was a young man in a blazer and his significant other, a dark-haired dame. They said things like cheers and referred to each other in the third person. Strange stuff down there at the corner, I’ll tell you, but it was the perfect time to get a drink and make it back in time for the show. Bravo, middle-aged concert promoter!
But the first half of the set was dull, featuring songs like “Happy” and “The Charging Sky” from the band’s album. It felt canned and sterile, much like those songs felt recorded on Rabbit Fur Coat. The turnaround came with a costume change and, in honky-tonk tradition, an introduction of the band in much skimpier attire.
The sexual charge Lewis evokes from her fans isn’t like Dolly Parton, it’s more like June Carter. She’s a musical seductress and her fans seem to know that just as well as she does as she dances from side to side, flirting with them innocently. The allure is unreal, but at the same time natural. Just as an audience longs for a change from the regular Buffalo venues to the cleaner, newer CFA, Jenny Lewis represents a change; she’s not just a body, but a brain.
There are songs on Rabbit Fur Coat that immediately stand out when performed live, and as much as I hate to admit it, the inflated ticket price pays for perfect sound. “Big Guns,” for example, is exciting and raucous, half-upbeat rock number and half harmonic bliss.
Others, like “You are What You Love” have a certain emotion when played live that Jenny Lewis seems to pull off unlike any other performer. Her words sometimes shriek when the band heats up, and you want to sing even when you don’t know the words. “I’m fraudulent, a thief at best / A coward who paints a bullshit canvas / Things that will never happen to me.” And you want to say “No, that’s not true! I believe you now!”
Whatever the band was drinking out of those plastic cups started to kick in, and I felt like I woke up. The band played a rendition of the Traveling Wilburys’ “Handle With Care” that I will not soon forget, with Lewis singing George Harrison’s words “I’ve been uptight and made a mess / but I’ll clean it up myself, I guess / Oh the sweet smell of success / Handle me with care.” That’s not mentioning the a capella gospel piece “I Met Him on a Sunday” which spoke volumes to the unique voices Lewis and the Watsons exhibit.
The band’s single, “Rise Up with Fists” as well as Lewis’ encore “Rabbit Fur Coat” were cynically energetic, if not masterfully worded stories. Oh, and another thing: they make you feel like you’re hearing a country song.
Don’t get the wrong idea, I just don’t think Jenny Lewis needs country music. I think Jenny Lewis is about as close to nu-country as she is to nu-metal.
Just like the video for “Rise Up with Fists,” Jenny Lewis is playing a running gag on country music, and a welcome one at that. Everything from her costumes to her “mama”-heavy lyrics get so close to being country songs, but are ultimately just Jenny Lewis the songwriter, writing the stories she knows with a different pen.
A NEW LATIN FLAVOR IN BUFFALO?
Solë
6/10
by Brenda Diaz
Solë had a comfortable atmosphere with Spanish music playing in the background, yet the dress code was different than your typical Buffalo restaurant. Most customers were wearing formal-casual wear, making me feel like the odd one out in jeans. The decorations and colors of the restaurant were lively but you could tell once you looked closely at the walls that the paint job wasn’t that great since it was smudged on some of the furniture and other spots.
Regrettably, Solë’s menu had barely any options: the entrées lacked in anything that wasn’t a taco and their list of appetizers took up the whole left side of the menu. Another problem was that they didn’t list their beverages on the menu, and when I asked what beverages they had, the server handed me an alcoholic beverage menu. Sadly, I am not 21 yet. Oddly enough, our server did not have a clue what they had to drink. “Pop? Water?” she asked, more than offered.
On the plus side, we were seated and attended to right away. We were even given free tortillas and small circles of corn bread as a small appetizer within seconds of sitting down.
The food came about a decade later. I didn’t know it took so long to cook a small portion of food. I ordered the Chimichurro Grilled Steak, which in typical Hispanic restaurants is this humongous steak that falls off the plate with fries, salad, and its own separate plate of rice and beans. But in Solë, it was barely a handful of steak that was sliced delicately and doused in sauce. It shouldn’t even be called a steak. In the middle of the plate were fries that tasted and looked like potato wedges from KFC. There was more salad than steak—it took up about three quarters of the plate. I suppose Solë was looking out for your health because the meal was inexcusably tiny, compared to what other restaurants would give you. It was definitely not worth the $18 I shelled out for it.
The highlight of the whole meal was the dessert. Even though it was misspelled in the menu—it’s Dulce not Dolce—the Dulce de Leche cake was absolutely scrumptious. It comes highly recommended from the vast list of desserts in Solë—three items that, of course, were too much for the server to remember. It’s only when she heard the word “cake” did she recognize that particular item. I mean, the desserts were cake, flan, or sherbet. It’s not that hard to remember.
Did I mention that in this “Spanish” restaurant, there weren’t any Spanish people working there at all? The servers, busboys, and later on when I asked, I found out the cooks weren’t Spanish either. Figures why everything tasted like the other typical American restaurants out there instead of what it’s supposed to taste like: Spanish cuisine. In the end, Solë was like a child pretending to be something its not, masking itself from its genuine form which is that Solë is an Americanized wannabe Spanish restaurant. How sad.
OFFBEAT, YET RIGHT IN TUNE
Chrome Children
7/10
by Abel Germosen
Adult Swim is known for providing us with offbeat comedies such as The Venture Bros. and Aqua Teen Hunger Force, but in recent years they have made contributions to the hip-hop world as well. While last year’s DangerDoom was a collaborative effort between Danger Mouse and MF Doom, it included the voices of several Adult Swim characters. Chrome Children, on the other hand, is a compilation that commemorates the tenth anniversary of the small indie hip-hop record label, Stone’s Throw Records, but is inspired by the same offbeat nature of the Adult Swim brand. The album produced by DJ/Producer Peanut Butter Wolf features contributing artists such as Madlib, MF Doom, and the late J Dilla of Slum Village fame.
Chrome Children has a very unique sound, fusing street raps, R&B, and ‘70s-style funk comparable to something you would hear on a George Clinton record. A couple songs that exceed in illustrating these themes on this compilation are “Raw Heat,” “Third Rock,” and “Nothing Like This.” Produced by Madlib, “Raw Heat” is your typical “gangsta” mixtape song featuring block reppin’, crew wreckin’ lyrics on a dark, heavy bass-driven track. One of the funkier tracks, “Third Rock,” performed by Pure Essence, has a vintage R&B feel to it. The lyrics coincide with the feel of the track with its uplifting lyrics about being yourself; Pure Essence sends a clear message about individuality when he yells, “People run—run from the sun / you can’t be you.” J Dilla makes his presence felt on “Nothing Like This.” In the song, he describes his love for someone over a thumping bass line with a backdrop similar to something you would hear during a love scene in a movie. With this melting pot of different sounds, the album is definitely entertaining and keeps listener wondering what to expect from song to song.
J Dilla is the most recurring artist on this album other than Peanut Butter Wolf. He is shouted out by several artists and is also a heavy contributor to Chrome Children; he produces three songs and lays down one verse. Other than “Nothing Like This,” he also produces “Clap Your Hands,” and “Take It Back.” While “Clap Your Hands” and “Nothing Like This” sound like songs he could have produced on a Roots album, “Take It Back” has a unique vibe. A huge leap from the other tracks, J Dilla and Madlib make “Take It Back” sound like a psychedelic journey back in time to the early eighties. Overall, the album is solid and entertaining. Outstanding showings from J Dilla, MF Doom, and Madlib give Chrome Children validity and consistency in the midst of its hectic nature. Solid lyrics mixed with excellent production make this Adult Swim/ Peanut Butter Wolf collaboration worthy of your hard-earned buck.
WELCOME TO SAM’S TOWN
The Killers - Sam’s Town
10/10
by Susy Kim
I remember the first time I heard The Killers’ sophomore album, Sam’s Town; it was end of July 2006, and I was at their listening party with some of the biggest names in the music industry. L.A. Reid came on to introduce the new album and he ended his introduction by saying that Sam’s Town was one of the top three albums that he worked on in his life. I agree with him in every way. The Killers returned with a more mature and hardcore sound. Compared to their debut album Hot Fuss, Sam’s Town is less pop and more American rock. They put more focus on their hometown of Las Vegas, rather than replicating British rock. You can feel the difference in energy level and their personal input into the album just from listening to the first single, “When You Were Young.” Each song on Sam’s Town digs a different part of your mind.
The title track on the album is not only great because it starts off the album with a head-bopping beat, but because it also introduces the album without being too blunt. Although The Killers do have an interlude that follows “Sam’s Town,” this first song is the one that actually opens the doors to Sam’s Town. The lyrics are liberating and make the listener feel as if anything is possible.
My favorite and the most touchy-feely song on the album is “Uncle Jonny,” in which the band talks about a cocaine addict who has a hard time getting out of the habit. This is probably the only emotional song without the sappy tunes, which makes it better because you don’t have to be totally depressed every time you listen to it, only a little pensive. Another song that will get you thinking is “My List.” It has a pretty slow beat in the beginning, but the guitar kicks in later to level it out. This song focuses on living life to the fullest. It points out that it’s the little things in life that count and make up who you are. You’ll actually want to do all the things on the list after listening to this song.
Other tracks that should receive special attention on Sam’s Town are “This River is Wild,” which shows off Dave Keuning’s spectacular guitar skills, “Bling,” the second single, and “Why Do I Keep Counting.” On closing, forget the mixed reviews that Sam’s Town received from the rest of the world. What matters is that this is an awesome album.
JUST CALL HIM “OB TRITE”
Lloyd Banks - Rotten Apple
1/10
by Guy M. Scrivo
What can truly be said about G-Unit that hasn’t already been said? G-Unit does not progress musically; they have found their niche in the industry and they will exploit it until it is dead. Is Rotten Apple a “bad album”? No, far from it, but only because Interscope records poured so much money into this album that it would take hard work to make it bad. But using this exact same formula, one could say that Justin Timberlake puts out “great albums” because of the catchiness of the beats and the competence of the producers behind the album. I found myself humming certain beats after I was done listening to the album, but that says nothing, as I would be equally likely to find myself humming “I’m Popeye the sailor man” after watching a cartoon. That’s what defines “catchy” as an attribute of music.
What’s of much more significance though is the image that Lloyd Banks is presenting to the world. While I do not judge books by their cover, I do judge albums by their covers, and judging by this album art, Lloyd Banks really has no personality. My favorite image is one of a tabletop, and on this tabletop rest many piles of large bills held together by rubber bands, a gun, and all of Lloyd Banks’ jewelry. Of his six chains, the one with a crying Jesus-face medallion is closest to the gun, and just in case you forget that Lloyd Banks is a devoted Christian, two of the other chains are crosses covered in diamonds, because I guess diamonds are what Jesus was all about.
America loves it when hip-hop emcees rap about how rich they are, how much money their outfit cost them, how much jewelry they wear, and how many drugs they deal. So it’s no wonder that’s what Lloyd Banks is trying to do in order to make quick money out of the music industry. Rather than gain individual credibility, Banks decides to take the easy route and sound like everybody else, rapping about expensive cars, expensive clothes, and expensive jewelry as though he were a Long Island girl with a rich daddy trying to impress other princesses with status items. On that note, how come G-Unit glorifies the use of cocaine so much? Cocaine abuse historically created a lot of meaningless, overproduced, narcissistic shit on the radio during the 1970s, and not to mention it is known for turning its users into cocky douchebags that see themselves as bulletproof. G-Unit needs less cocaine glorification and more musical talent.
If you really decide that you want to get Lloyd Banks’ album, do civilization a favor and download it for free and burn it. Every time someone gives Lloyd Banks fifteen bucks for his “poetry,” Martin Luther King Jr. spins uncontrollably in his grave. By the way, in case you’re unaware, in the year 2004, Lloyd Banks had to make a public de nial on 106th and Park, (a show on BET for teeny boppers) that he had been in a gay porno film. Google it, I’m serious.
HISTORY IN THE MAKING
The Decemberists - The Crane Wife
9/10
by Tara Sullivan
There is always some anxiety when a truly talented and unique band leaves their comfy indie roots for the treacherous world of commercial music. Fears of their style conforming to industry standards usually pop up in the weeks leadings to a group’s mainstream release. The folk-rock quintet, The Decemberists, headed by Colin Meloy, has recently made the jump to big time Capitol Records from Kill Rock Stars. This caused many of their fans to be on edge, waiting with bated breath to hear their newest album. The Decemberists lovers rejoice! The Crane Wife delivers an eclectic series of love-struck ballads, powerful war anthems, and jaunty ditties sure to please.
The Decemberists sound as if they stepped out of a late nineteenth century bowery. Their music romanticizes bloody battles, paints pictures of smoky opium dens or shifty sea towns, and draws inspiration from varying nations’ folklore. Someone in the band is clearly a history buff. The Crane Wife is a doubly themed album. It alternates between heartfelt songs drawn from a Japanese folktale (from which the album garners its title) and stories of heists, warfare, and violent gangs.
No two tracks sound alike. This grants the listener an enigmatic musical journey rather than a systematic series of songs. Both “The Crane Wife 3” and “The Crane Wife 1” and “2” are wrought with mesmerizing strumming guitars and perfectly honed vocals. “The Perfect Crime” borrows funk from new wave electronica while “The Landlord’s Daughter” utilizes dreamy piano hooks reminiscent of Pink Floyd. Thrown into the mix is a flat-out creepy lullaby about the cleaver-wielding Shankill Butchers—an actual Irish gang that was known to skin their victims alive.
Aside from enthralling instrumentals, The Decemberists are one of the most lyrically intriguing bands out today. The prose of the seemingly upbeat “O Valencia” is actually quite dark, “Well, the shot, it hit hard / and your frame went limp in my arms / and the lull of love was your dying cry.” “Summersong” also uses this tactic: “Boats bobbing in the blue of the bay / in deep far beneath / all the dead sailors slowly slipping to sleep.” By mixing joyous melodies with dismal lyrics, The Decemberists captivate their listeners by presenting something not heard very often.
The Crane Wife is a triumphant leap from mild obscurity to imminent fame. The Decemberists’ sheer talent will allow them to gain new fans. Being on a major label won’t hurt the band; it will allow those who aren’t familiar with what isn’t in the mainstream to enjoy music they have always missed out on.
GANGSTER’S PARADISE
The Departed
9/10
by Brad Deck
It is fair to say that with this month’s release of The Departed, Martin Scorsese and his mesmerizing eyebrows are back, and better than ever.
With the release of his new movie, and the subsequent Oscar discussion it has produced, Scorsese has been thrust back into the limelight with his best picture since Goodfellas.
In The Departed, Jack Nicholson gives a performance that is just as comical as it is heart-pounding, returning to the dramatic genre after a string of lighthearted comedies. He plays Frank Costello, a Bostonian gangster with a young partner in crime (Matt Damon) planted in the Boston State Police to ensure that there is no interference with his illegal activities. At the same time, police academy throw-out Bill Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio) goes undercover in Costello’s mob detail as a last ditch effort to establish himself as an officer, but quickly finds that he is in way over his head. The film continues to lay the tension on thick with mistaken identities, a complex love triangle, and an extraordinary amount of blood and gore.
Anyone who has seen the trailer for this picture knows that Jack Nicholson has returned to the screen just as fierce an ass-kicker as he was in his late twentieth century villainous roles. His signature grimace makes his character equally fun and chilling, and his power radiates from the screen. Damon and DiCaprio are just as superb, with performances so genuine that they are almost forgiven for The Brothers Grimm and The Man in the Iron Mask, respectively. Marky Mark Wahlberg, sans Funky Bunch, continues his cinematic winning streak as a police sergeant with a tragic inability to smile. Alec Baldwin and Martin Sheen also take entertaining turns as Irish detectives, rounding out the most impressive leading cast in any film so far this year.
The real star of The Departed, however, is Scorsese himself. In a world where white-rapper extraordinaire Eminem has an Oscar, yet the director of the American masterpieces Taxi Driver and Mean Streets has yet to take a statuette home, a movie of this caliber can be extremely prevailing. Much more universally enjoyable than his last handful of films, this has the best chance of being the one that will finally garner him academy recognition.
With a killer score that can only be described as Celtic-metal, and enough bullets-to-the-head to please even the most sadistic of viewers, The Departed is a film that is sure to remind us all that the man behind the camera remains one of the most masterful directors around, and that the rewards for such mastery should match the praise.
HIGHLY REFINED ROCK SHOW
Minus the Bear
8/10
by Victoria Burhans
Leaving the Showplace Theatre this past Monday, one couldn’t help but agree with Jack Snider’s claim of a “beautiful tapestry of set.” Snider is the lead singer of Minus the Bear and this tapestry was intricately woven with a hodgepodge of genres. Starting off the weaving was Russian Circles, a trio of technically flawless musicians. Completely instrumental, Russian Circles renewed my faith in the opening band. Surprisingly, I didn’t miss vocals at all. Mixing metal, indie, punk, and prog rock, they created their own great sound, presenting it in the hottest way possible: three sexy musicians in skin-tight shirts rockin’ out.
The Velveteen, follower to Russian Circles, is a California-based trio that did not merit my approval or applause. I enjoyed the sounds of jarring noise and flickering red lights as my eyes wandered over to the guy in front of me popping acid out of a foil wrapper. He dug the set more than I did, and apparently the idle racket didn’t bother him as much as it bothered me.
POS is “known for art and speaking from the heart” as well as pissing off confused hipsters. Accompanied by his DJ Turbo Nemesis, who looked like the DJ/Mugatoo’s henchman from Zoolander, POS got everyone pumped. Hand-picked by Minus the Bear, this hip-hop artist is the last person you’d expect to win over this unrelenting crowd. Whimsically commanding the audience to “uncross their hipster arms and put their hands up” as well as sending those that wouldn’t give him a chance to take a 45-minute hike, POS was the biggest surprise of the night. Demanding audience participation and enthusiasm, he showed the crowd that “rap” shows could be fun.
Headlining to a packed audience, Minus the Bear delivered a flawless performance. Only stopping to towel themselves off, sip whiskey, and endorse Music for America (an organization which registers young adults to vote) they played a straight up rock n’ roll set. Hailing from Seattle, Washington, MTB played a satisfying selection from all five albums in their discography. Performing fan favorites, such as “Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse” and tracks from their new album, including “Ice Monster,” it seemed like every audience member heard their favorite song. Known for their amusing song titles matched with technical prowess, MTB kept up the lightheartedness during their first song when balloons came out to the crowd, a great idea for concert props. Like all bands that love and respect their fans, they played a three-song encore, which still left many asking for more.
Despite the audience’s antipathy towards the opening bands, each one managed to entertain the crowd until the headliner came on. The Minus the Bear concert was a buffet of talent and genres that satisfied even the most fickle palette.
