This just in: "A FEDERAL JUDGE IN DETROIT ORDERS IMMEDIATE HALT TO BUSH ADMINISTRATION'S WARRANTLESS SURVEILLANCE PROGRAM, CALLING IT UNCONSTITUTIONAL"
Quote of the Day, Time's most liberal pundit, Joe Klein: "People like me who favor this program don't yet know enough about it yet," he says, "Those opposed to it know even less -- and certainly less than I do." Here. (Nice, tough reporting job there, fellas.)
I hadn't planned to see Oliver Stone's movie for a lot of reasons. Now I have one more. Former San Francisco Chronicle and LA Times columnist Ruth Rosen recently went to see Oliver Stone's reverent new blockbuster film, World Trade Center, which inaugurates the fifth anniversary flood of 9/11 films heading toward the various screens in our lives. She explains just why September 11th, which brought out so much that was positive in those who rushed to the scene to help, still brings out so much of the Bush-era worst in so many of the rest of us -- and why Stone's film, by what it omits as well as what it choses to show, manages to support the Bush adminstration's Big Lie about Iraq and 9/11. In a film that, as she says, may end up being "the definitive cinematic record of what it felt like to be inside the hellish cyclone known simply by the numbers 9/11," this is no small matter. She concludes:
"How could Oliver Stone leave it up to viewers to discover for themselves who committed this crime? And how could he leave the audience with the impression that there was a connection, as Dick Cheney has never stopped saying, between 9/11 and Iraq? This is the tragic failure of Stone's World Trade Center. It undercuts the historical value of the film and reinforces the Biggest Lie of the last five years, still believed by far too many Americans -- that in Iraq, we are fighting those who attacked our country."
Can Mel play first base?
"Someone named Charles P. Pierce?" Them's fightin words. Gee, that was hard.
The rejected rejection letter is one my favorite genres.
The Senate WMD report: A critical appraisal by Roberg Jervis in the Journal of Strategic Studies.
Why do you think they call me blow? (Thanks Petey)
I've always said The Washington Times is garbage.
Buzz-building Sneak Previews Section: I saw the pilot for the Aaron Sorkin and the Tina Fey backstage-at-Saturday-Night-Live shows. Aaron's show was terrific; Fey's show was quite good. I don't know if "quite good" is good enough to survive when your network has a "terrific" show on the same network. It's not my problem, but I would have preferred it if the one that was terrific were about NY and the other one about LA, rather than vice-versa.
On the topic of buzz, I was thumbing through the new Vanity Fair last night, and I noticed that many of the ads were glorifying junkies and pimps and violent-looking rappers who might as well be pimps, getting oral pleasure in front of their homeys. As a parent, as well as a human being, I'm deeply disgusted. I think liberals should make a bigger deal out this kind of thing. Look at this awful company, which is one of the aforementioned advertisers. Why are right-wing hypocrites like the smut-peddling Rupert Murdoch the only people who are comfortable voicing their anger about this kind of thing? (One possible reason: Are these guys going to come beat me up now?)
If someone is going to pay so much attention to a three-year-old book, the least we can do is give him a link here. It continues here.
And while we're on the topic of three-year-old debates, someone sent me a link for my Charlie Rose debate with Hitchens on the war, back then, here.
Alter-reviews by SAL, NYCD.
Randy Newman & Neil Diamond are two songwriters whose material has been covered by artists ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. Two fairly recent releases collect a bunch of those sides.
"Forever Neil Diamond," is the better of the two, even though none of the 14 tracks are new. There is of course, "The Monkees" with "A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You," a great pop hit, but oddly chosen over the bigger hit, "I'm A Believer." Also included are the somewhat obvious, but no less wonderful "Kentucky Rain" by Deep Purple, the Pulp Fiction-fan fave, "Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon" by Urge Overkill, and the 80's hit "Red Red Wine" by the now aptly named UB40. Some other stranger choices include the band Crooked Fingers (who?) and The Four Tops version of "I'm A Believer." Plus, you get the awesome, sorta-punkified version of "Cracklin' Rosie" by Pogue Shane MacGowan. Little to complain about with this collection, although if I had my hand in it, I would have made it a little better and a little longer. More here.
"Sail Away: The Songs of Randy Newman" is a newly recorded collection that has a bit of a country theme to it. The stellar line-up includes such faves as Steve Earle, Sonny Landreth, and Joe Ely, as well New Orleans newcomer Marc Broussard. Some tracks work: the aforementioned Steve Earle's version of "Rednecks," as well as his wife Alison Moorer's gorgeous version of my fave Newman track "Marie." But, some just don't come close to the originals, or even some earlier covers. Landreth, hailing from Louisiana, seemed like a good choice for "Louisiana 1927," but it just doesn't pack the whallop of Aaron Neville's heartbreaking version. Other artists involved include Sam Bush, Kim Richey, Del McCoury, and Tin O'Brien. It's not bad. Not great. Just, not bad. More here.
Catch a Wave: The Rise, Fall, and Redemption of the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson by Peter Ames Carlin (Rodale, 2006)
Prologue:
The people in flight from the terror behind--strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.
-- John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
Brian Wilson is sitting in a little room somewhere deep in the recesses of the Austin Convention Center, staring intently at the green linoleum floor. His face is blank; his mouth, a thin, unmoving line. His biographer-turned-friend-turned-advisor-and-documentarian, David Leaf, sits nearby, next to Van Dyke Parks, the musician/arranger/songwriter whose career has been inextricably bound to Brian's for nearly four decades, though they've rarely seen each other most of that time. David and Van Dyke are chatting mildly--about restaurants, friends in common, their plans for the weekend. But the man who brought them together is silent, examining the universe beneath the toes of his black suede Merrell shoes.
Soon the three of them, along with a couple of music journalists, will sit on a stage in front of a jammed conference room to discuss Smile, the album Brian and Van Dyke wrote and recorded most of in 1966 and 1967. At the time--just when the Beach Boys' early stream of surf/car/girl-focused songs had given way to Brian's ambitious song cycle Pet Sounds and the smash pop-art single "Good Vibrations"--Smile was envisioned as a panoramic commentary on America's tangled past, ambivalent cultural inheritance, and spiritual future. Simultaneously nostalgic, sad, dreamy, and psychedelic, the songs struck those who heard them as a whole new kind of American pop music. Some observers called it the harbinger of a new era in pop culture.
Then something happened. Exactly what that something was -- static from the other Beach Boys, interference from Capitol Records, the corrosive effect of drugs, Brian's own neurological problems, or some combination of the above -- has never been resolved. But the aftermath was all too clear. Brian gave up on his musical ambitions and spent most of the next four decades adrift. The Beach Boys faded from the scene, only to return as a kind of perpetual motion nostalgia machine. And Smile became a folk legend: a metaphor for everything that had gone wrong with Brian, the Beach Boys, and the nation whose dreams and ideals they had once transformed into shimmering waves of harmony. End of story.
Except the story wouldn't end. Even as the years turned the Beach Boys small and dispirited, the passage of time seemed only to enhance Smile. Hundreds of thousands of words came to be written about its creation and demise, including a science fiction novel whose hero goes back in time and helps Brian finish his masterpiece. Televised biopics and theatrical documentaries told the group's story in various shades of personal, creative, and cultural melodrama. But all came to focus on Brian's dramatic rise and crushing fall, and this story always pivoted off the lost glories of Smile, what it was, what it could have been, why it never came to be. Eventually Smile, in all of its glorious absence, became something else altogether. And that is why we're here today.
David Leaf wants to get something going. "So Van Dyke," he says, his eyes gazing past the short, stocky man in the foreground to the taller one sitting just past him, "did you ever think you'd be here at South-by-Southwest talking about how you finally finished Smile?"
Van Dyke smiles broadly. "It has been a wild ride," he declaims in his storybook Mississippi drawl. "And I do need to thank Brian for the opportunity to take it with him."
Both men look over at Brian, wondering if he's going to toss in his own observation, perhaps priming the pump for the onstage discussion they're about to have. But Brian is still gazing down at his toes, his face stony and empty. The two magazine writers on the panel--Alan Light from Tracks and Jason Fine from Rolling Stone--come in, but this only makes Brian seem more disconsolate. He shakes hands. He says hi. But he doesn't even try to smile, and when the festival organizers come to shepherd the gang upstairs to the stage, Brian moves with the dark resignation of a man headed for the gallows.
Upstairs the room is crowded, buzzing with excitement. The ovation begins the moment Alan Light steps onto the stage, then grows more intense when Van Dyke steps into the light. The crowd jumps to its feet when Brian emerges, but he either doesn't see this or doesn't care to acknowledge it. Instead he moves robotically to his seat, sits, and stares stone-faced into the darkness beyond the footlights. The applause continues, now mixed with cheers, and finally the taut cast of his face loosens. He mouths a silent thank-you, and then, finally, his lips slip into a small, shy smile.
Light, serving as the event's moderator, leads off with some background on Smile's history. Then he throws the session open to questions, and the first one comes instantly, from a man whose eyes glisten as he addresses the stage. "Brian, I just want to thank you," he says. "Your music has saved my life so many times . . ."
Brian nods. "You're welcome."
"I just want to ask, why did you decide to finish Smile now, after all this time?"
This is the key question, of course. You could write a book about it.
The room is silent, waiting to hear what combination of internal and external phenomena has led this man--so often described as a genius, just as often dismissed as a burnout or pitied as the victim of untold spiritual and physical torment--to make this unexpected leap back into the creative fires.
"Well, I knew people liked watching TV," he begins. Brian is talking out of the side of his mouth, both because he's nearly deaf in one ear and because this is what he does when he's extremely nervous. "And, uh, Smile moves really quickly, right? So I figured people could hear it now."
This is puzzling. But another hand shoots up, and another man stands to ask Brian about his decision to perform "Heroes and Villains" at a tribute concert in 2001. "Heroes" is one of Smile's key songs, and Brian had refused to play it in public for more than 35 years. Was he frightened to take it on again--particularly on a show that would be broadcast on national TV?
"Oh, it took me about half an hour to prepare for it," Brian says, shrugging. "But then it was great."
"Oh. Well." The man sounds a bit deflated. "It meant a lot to me. Thanks for doing it. And for bringing Smile back to life."
"Oh, sure. Thank you," Brian says.
Someone asks Van Dyke about how it felt the day Brian called to ask him to help him finish their long-lost masterwork.
"You must be talking about November 16, 2003," he says. "Obviously, the day means nothing to me."
This gets a laugh, and the glimmer of feeling behind his words prompts Light to ask Brian about the recording of "Fire," the cacophonous instrumental piece that represented both the heights of his creative daring and the start of his emotional devolution. How did he get such a vivid, scary sound out of the drums, cello, violins, fuzz bass, guitars, and theremin? Did he really think the music had sparked a rash of fires in downtown Los Angeles? And did this inspire his decision to not finish Smile at all? Brian listens and nods--and once again refuses to provide an answer. Instead, he retells the story of how he had an assistant build a fire in a bucket so the studio musicians could smell smoke while they played. They all wore plastic fire hats, too. And the song came out great, he adds. "But then we junked it." He shrugs. Light seems pained. But he smiles at Brian and nods. "Great. Thanks."
This goes on for 45 awkward minutes. Throughout, two things are obvious: the depth of the audience's feeling for Brian and his music; and Brian's near-total unwillingness to acknowledge, let alone engage, that feeling. What it comes down to is this: The people who love him the most need Brian to be something that he is no longer able or willing to be. The journey was too difficult, the price too steep. He shed that skin a long time ago, and he has no intention of looking back. Which may be one reason he engenders the passion he can no longer abide.
Brian Wilson's music became a part of the American cultural fiber not just because it was innovative and instantly memorable or even because it was so often set in a dreamland of open space and windswept horizons. It's the desperation that inspired those visions--the darkness that ignited the flight to freedom--that tugs at people's hearts. Like all of Brian's best work, Smile tells the American story in those same visceral terms: innocence, pain, flight, joy, corruption, desolation, redemption. It's in the music. It's in the story behind the music. It's in the sorrow that haunts Brian's eyes even when he's smiling.
This feels important, like something that should be talked about and understood, particularly while Brian is still alive, still able to put his thoughts into words. Only that's not where he likes to put his thoughts. It's the sound that matters to him. The feelings, the emotions, the vibrations, are all in the sound.
Eating lunch in Los Angeles a few weeks later, he addresses the same questions. Only now Brian is in a good mood, feeling the sun warming his back and sharing a piece of cheesecake with a friend and a writer he has come to know a little bit. He speaks easily and illustrates his thoughts with occasional bursts of song--a line of melody; a rhythm pounded out on the tabletop.
"Sometimes I think I sing too sarcastically. Like I get worried I can't sing sweet anymore, so I sing it rough." He's talking about Smile again, contemplating the dozens of times he'll perform the once-lost work for audiences during his summer tour. "I worry about that all the time, like I'm losing the sweetness in my soul or something. But then I hear myself singing sweetly and I think, Hey! Listen to me! A sweet sound, all full of love!"
He laughs and shakes his head. "Listen to me! Just listen!"
For more, go here.