I've seen Men In Black maybe five times in my life. The first time I saw it, when it was in theaters, I thought it was great. The second time I saw it, I didn't like it that much. The third time, I thought it was great. The fourth time... etc. You may see a pattern developing.

Ignore the Ignorant is like Men In Black, but with extra Johnny Marr for flavor. Yes, The Cribs have been joined this time around by the former Smith, Pretender, Modest Mouser, Electronic(er?), none other than Johnny Marr. It's almost easier to list the people he hasn't worked with, to be honest. Come to think of it, he's been on every Pet Shop Boy since the mid-nineties, as well. But I'm getting off the point.

Ignore the Ignorant is, I suppose, good. The first time, I loved it. The second time, I thought it was thoroughly uninspired. The third? Well, it seems to be leveling out at "good." "Decent," maybe. The point is, if you like a punk attitude with slightly less-punk wrappings, this is the album for you. It's a step up from where they've been, certainly. But I probably won't remember it within the next six months.

I will most certainly remember the newest from The Flaming Lips, Embryonic. You don't really have a choice, honestly. From the moment Wayne Coyne starts talking about the difference between us on "Convinced of the Hex," this is clearly not the same Flaming Lips we've been exposed to for the last decade; they've cleaned up their act by getting really, really messy, and it's brilliant. It's haphazard, certainly, and overwhelming the first time, but once you sort it out, it's a great trip. Getting in a room and jamming it out suits these boys quite well. Not, by any means, for everyone, but if it were, it wouldn't be nearly as interesting.

Pure Pop for Now People

NOTE: The grading system has been eradicated. I began to feel it was too arbitrary, and when I was spending five minutes sitting at my keyboard deciding between a B- and a B, I knew it was a silly pursuit. Just read the reviews. They should give you the idea.

Thank you, patient readers, for waiting for me for so long. I apologize, it's been three weeks since my last post, but I have a pair of Power-Pop reviews, and this will be followed up in the coming days by reviews of the latest from The Flaming Lips, The Cribs, and Raekwon. Yes, that Raekwon.

My Old, Familiar Friend
(2009)
Brendan Benson

Brendan Benson, for those in the know (and who isn't?), is the other leader of Jack White's Raconteurs project. He used to be, at any rate, before White did that thing he inevitably does where he takes control. I'm not saying it's a bad thing, but it's a habit worth noting. At any rate, Benson is responsible for "Steady As She Goes," the best moment in the Raconteurs' collected output, and he was behind much of the first album. His is a very pure pop style; this is a man who listens to a lot of Big Star. The early Big Star, that is. Or, if he does listen to Third/Sister Lovers, he doesn't let it show.

At any rate, this is perky, perky, perky stuff. Emphasis on that last "perky." Opener "A Whole Lot Better" is a barnstormer of a single. It has the instant familiarity of a great single, sounding like it came out sometime around, oh, 1976. Yeah, that sounds about right. It also, as a perk, features a legitimately wonderful, simple lyric; "I change my mind every time that the wind blows," he sings with such enthusiasm that you can't help but think that may not be such a bad thing. It's on the radio from time to time, and you, yes, you, should check it out.

Unfortunately, for me at least, the album goes downhill from there. Not because it fails in its mission; far from it. I have a love-hate relationship with this kind of pop; the same influences that propel Benson forward are also responsible for Spoon, but Spoon had the sense to listen to some Pixies records once in a while, which keeps things, erm, grimy. It's too Pure, this pop is, which isn't really the problem; Elvis Costello's "Oliver's Army" is a Pop record, no bones about it, but Costello included weird harmonies, and wasn't afraid to use "nigger" in a sentence. Benson would probably shrivel into a ball, which is to say his lyrics don't make up for the sugar. This is a problem I will undoubtedly be alone in having, as is often the case. A very good Pop record, then, but not something I'll listen to much. Well, "A Whole Lot Better" may prove an exception...

The Boy Who Knew Too Much
(2009)
Mika

Let's be clear, "Grace Kelly," Mika's debut single from, what, 2007?, is brilliant. If you're its audience, it fills you with energy, enthusiasm, glee, vim and vigor, and if you're not its audience, it must just annoy the piss out of you. These are the things Great Pop is supposed to. Well, Great Pop which is aware of its existence as Great Pop is supposed to, anyway. This is why Coldplay are brilliant at what they do; Mika, Coldplay, U2, and Queen are all of a similar vein. Keep in mind, Mika is definitively the least deserving of that company, I'm not putting these people in tiers. I'm simply referring to the particular race they run; music written for the masses, not for the writer. There's nothing wrong with this, in principle. "Bohemian Rhapsody" is God coming through your speakers.

I bring up Queen because Mika and Freddy Mercury were cut from the same overtly melodramatic clothe, and Mika doesn't hide it. This is mostly because he finds the thought comforting, and a sort of Manifest Destiny. At any rate, his songs are Pop to the point where even I cringe. Listening to Mika is a lot like listening to an entire ELO album; when you're done, your brain kinda hurts, even though you're pretty sure you had a good time, and you think you want to do it again, but you don't know why. Each Mika album contains one ringer, though, and if his first had "Grace Kelly," The Boy Who Knew Too Much has "Rain," which is just Euro-Disco Pop, but better. It's all minor-tones, with whirling synths and a pulsing back beat which will get your feet moving whether you want it to or not.

Much like Mr. Benson, the album is immaculate in its construction, and every track is a technical ringer. Whereas Benson aims for guitar hooks which could land a whale, Mika uses everything, and there isn't an aspect of his songs which couldn't qualify as a hook; it depends on how you feel about hooks. I, for one, am cynical that way. Pure Pop is the hardest to pull off; you have to make it tricky while allowing everyone to think they could do it themselves. Both boys succeed wildly at that.

There is a stack of CDs sitting on my desk. I am falling behind. Thanks to work and academia, my rate of musical, literary, and cinematic consumption has dive-bombed into the basement. It is not a coincidence that my posts for this blog have dropped off as well, but beyond that, most of what I've listened to lately has failed to inspire. Here are two higher-profile albums I've listened to that didn't seem inclined towards a full-length review, and a book I know none of you will read, but I'm inclined to recommend anyway.

The new album by The Dead Weather, better known as Jack White's most recent project, goes by the ominous moniker of Horehound. Great name, but I'm not so sure about the album. It's more unusual than it is good or bad, which for some is a great thing. For me, that means it's alright. I don't typically appreciate weird for the sake of weird. It's a throwback to lo-fi sixties garage groups, combined with elements of straight-forward rock for which White is known, and while it succeeds spectacularly in that capacity, that's not a sound I necessarily needed back. So it could go either way for you, really. (Grade: B-)

The latest from Muse, The Resistance, is quite the disappointment. I enjoy not just the music of Muse, but their attitude in pulling it off. They take Over-the-Top to a whole new level, and firmly have their tongue-in-cheek while doing so. I love Absolution and Black Holes and Revelations, their last two, both of which served to provide the audience with a sense of the absurd mixed in with killer singles. Muse seem to have taken a step sideways with this one, and possibly a few steps back. Is it more grandiose than before? Unquestionably. The music is filled with the flourishing accompaniments of a real orchestra, and songs like "United States of Eurasia" are inherently ridiculous, as one expects from these space cases. But the lyrics are urbane where they used to be negligible, and the music is bland in places where it used to surprise. Not their best, then. (Grade: C-)

In books, I've finally finished volume 1 of Tocqueville's Democracy in America. It may have been written just short of 200 years ago, but this in-depth look at the American system of government as it came into adulthood is fascinating, and well worth the time. A balanced critic and admirer, Tocqueville never comes across as one-sided, always giving air time to all pertinent perspectives. None of you will read it, I know, but it's really rather brilliant. (Grade: A)

Paul Simon

Paul Simon
(1972)

Paul Simon, the eponymous solo debut by Simon & Garfunkel mastermind Paul Simon (I say all this like you don't know who he is... *shakes head*), is the only album I can credit with having saved my life. In December and January of this past winter, Paul Simon preserved my sanity. I'll spare you the details and simply note that I was in a bad place. I was in a very, very bad relationship, and I was alone in Chicago for five weeks. There were three-or-four day stretches when I would not see even the hall outside my apartment door. These were not high times. I wrote an unprecedented amount of material in those five weeks; between the solitude and the ever-shifting emotional space I occupied, it was a prolific period, certainly. I threw myself as fully into my work as I ever have, and that was very rewarding, but the writing I did in that period was intensely personal, and required me to stare straight in the face of the very things which were tearing me apart inside. The only thing that brought me back at the end of each day, and every day ended with me frustrated, exhausted, and unable to stop thinking, was listening to Paul Simon as I fell asleep, night after night.

I often listened to it during the day, as well. I listened to it three or four times a day, on occasion, though I usually did my best to restrict the habit to once a night, when it was a balm, a salve to my sanity. During the day, it simply kept me from falling apart entirely. Any time I felt myself losing what composure I had, I put it on, and it would stop the bleeding, if only for a few hours. But, at night, laying in bed, with nothing to focus on but breathing and the music, it took on a healing power I've never found in any other music. Everything was alright, everything would work out, and I was going to survive this.

To be fair, I'd never been in as intense a situation as I was at that time, and, if Paul Simon hadn't been there, I'm sure I would have found something else. But it was there, and it was all I needed. I didn't have much else in the way of input during that time; television, movies, and all other music allowed my mind to wander, and I found it hard to focus. Books weren't even close to an option. I couldn't focus for a sentence. When I wasn't writing, I was probably listening to Paul Simon.

Not surprisingly, once that period was over, I didn't listen to it much. It wasn't a conscious choice, but there's no sense in arguing that I wouldn't have found the emotions attached to it overwhelming and unpleasant. It became a sort of talisman, a box in which I poured everything negative from that time, and I left it on the shelf, afraid to touch it, to disturb what was inside. I remembered the important role it played, but the music was lost in the shuffle. So to speak.

A little over a week ago, due to circumstances in my life which have brought the tail end of that chapter to a close, I listened to Paul Simon for the first time in eight months. Every note of it was still familiar to me, I could sing every word; it was almost as if the album had never left, but, this time, it wasn't serving a function. It was there to be enjoyed, not to be relied on. And I discovered, rediscovered, how truly amazing a piece of work it really is.

On a technical level, I'm only now really appreciating all there is to appreciate about it. It was a blanket before. Now it's a tapestry. There is a remarkable, subtle variety to the songs here; it was meant to be appreciated as a whole, and that shows, as the songs are all dissimilar yet still familiar with one another. Paul Simon's voice is calming, weary, withdrawn even; he wrote the album in the aftermath of a divorce, and the sadness, hurt, resolve, and real, true pain are all found throughout these songs, without ever being reduced to a cliche. He manages to dissect the pains of dissolved love with a combination of empathy and intelligence which many strive for, but almost none achieve.

I bought the LP today, as I've only ever heard it as mp3s. The fullness of the sound, and the details I could hear, as this thing which was so familiar and important to me took on a whole new beauty and quality, a whole new existence, almost brought me to tears. I can't recommend it enough.

Eeyah oh-whoah, ah, oh, eeyah oh-whoah, ah, oh

Bitte Orca
(2009)
Dirty Projectors

Bitte Orca came out in early June. My review has been delivered in a manner we should not quite consider timely, but it was necessary; it took me three months of repeated listening to really digest this album, to understand what I thought about it. Of course, as will happen sometimes, what I think of it is still frustratingly ambiguous.

There are certain songs, such as the opener, "Cannibal Resource," which I fully enjoy. I even catch myself, from time to time, humming its hook, an oddly-timed set of, well, noises, really. This is not an accessible album, yet it is unquestionably Dirty Projector's most pleasant listen. I use the term loosely, of course. I listen to this entire album waiting for the songs to break into something I love. My coworker, Garret, overheard this album and noted, "It sounds like something I'd almost like," and I think he hit the nail on the head. I admire its pep, I see what it was going for, but I don't get it.

Grade: B-

(500) Days of Summer

(500) Days of Summer
(2009)
Directed by Marc Webb
Written by Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber
Starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel

The genre of Romantic Comedy, or "Romcom" as all the time-pressed youngsters call it these days, is something best compared to a well-worn pair of dress shoes; over time, they've worn in to a comfortable shape, you know what to expect when you put them on, and you rarely regret having put them on. This is not necessarily a complement. We're talking about leaving a movie simply not minding that you've just lost ninety minutes, as opposed to having found great value in them.

It is a great, great pleasure to see a movie that manages to do something new with those shoes. (500) Days of Summer is a romantic comedy, but it is a smart one, it is fresh, it is idiosyncratic without being fey. It is testament to director Marc Webb's abilities that this movie came across perfectly; the jokes rely on perfect timing to not seem twee.

Zooey Deschanel is pitch-perfect as the titular Summer; you will have a hard time not falling in love with her early on. Much has been made of Joseph Gordon-Levitt's evolution into one of the finest actors of his generation, and his performance here justifies everything you've heard; he's an actor who knows how to inhabit the emotion of the moment, without making a show of it. Towards the end of the film, there is a scene on a train where he manages to imbue more genuine emotion into a pause then most actors could get out of a monologue. Stunning.

The story manages to go places you don't quite expect, and, assisted by its non-chronological sequence of presentation, it keeps you engaged and interested, without ever managing to be cheap. I would be remiss if I did not mention the music selection, all of which is perfect; the soundtrack consists of Regina Spektor, The Smiths, Doves, Hall & Oates, and Feist, to name a few; all the song choices fit the story and the mood exquisitely. The music supervisor for this film, Andrea von Foerster, did a superb job; she earned her paycheck during an absolutely hilarious segment involving "You Make My Dreams" by Hall & Oates. I haven't laughed that hard in a movie theater in years.

In short, there's nothing about this movie I didn't like, and there are very few things about it I didn't love. You should do yourself a favour and see it; life will just plain feel better.

Grade: A

Me and Them Lonesome Blues

Blue
(1971)
Joni Mitchell

This is not, you may have noticed, a review of a new album. I have decided to eliminate a regular Classics-themed article, and instead will simply write up Classics when I am driven to do so. This should, I believe, ensure that the write-ups are impassioned, and I am writing them simply out of a deeply felt want to spread the wealth, as it were.

My roommates and I recently visited Reckless Records, a well-known record store here in Chicago. I tend to stay away from record stores most of the time; no matter how cautious I am upon entry, I am bound to leave no less than fifty dollars lighter. These are purchases I enjoy making, of course, but it's not something I want to make a habit of. I've been trying to keep my vinyl-related impulses in check since I went a bit eBay-happy two years ago. At any rate, it has been quite a while since I bought a record, and I felt it time for a hit.

I walked away with some Elvis Costello LPs, a pair of Elvis Costello singles, the single for "Flashdance... What a Feeling" from Flashdance (what a chorus, huh?), and two Joni Mitchell albums. Joni Mitchell is someone I resisted for a long time. When her most recent album, Shine, came out in 2007, the multitude of articles I read about her left me with a bad taste in my mouth; her persona seemed very self-righteous, to a degree that I felt made it unlikely it wouldn't leak its way into her music. Not self-righteous like, say, Elvis Costello is self-righteous; that's more an issue of too much confidence. I'm talking about the kind of self-righteous that found its way into folk music in the sixties. If you don't know what I'm talking about, there's a song on the Elektra Records compilation, Forever Changing, that is EXACTLY what I reference. I can't remember what it's called, but the entire compilation's only eight or nine hours long, so you should just listen to the whole thing and you'll come across it.

Last June, I was compelled to listen to Mitchell for the first time. I started with the one you hear the most about, provided you run in circles where you hear about Joni Mitchell; Blue. I was surprised, immediately, by the energy present. Here is an album whose cover does not exactly scream up-beat, yet the opener, "All I Want," overflows with enthusiasm, with a certain amount of humour. It sounds like Joni Mitchell had a good time recording that song, which is probably the best kind of energy any record could ever hope to get across. If the band sound like they're having fun, then the audience probably will, too.

The songs contained here are remarkable on a number of levels; for one, the lyrics reward inspection. Joni Mitchell is held up as a peer of Leonard Cohen, as apparently there is something about Canada that fosters introspective, poetic rambling, but I find her lyrics to be more involving. Laughin' Lenny slips into trite metaphors a bit too often for my comfort. Mitchell's lyrics here are never less than exemplary.

Another great feature is the recording itself; this album was done by experts, and everything sounds so lush. It's an album that functions both as active, involved listening, and would be great to throw on in the background of, say, a dinner, if you're one of those types of people (I'm not, but I'd be willing to try). In my experience, only Randy Newman's Sail Away has more clearly illustrated the difference between an mp3 and a vinyl record.

Mitchell's voice is the third draw; it can, and does, do everything. Her range is spectacular, and her power of expression belies all explanation. You can feel the catharsis, but, and this is key, unlike so many albums since, you're never overwhelmed by it. While it is often personal, and never shies away from expressing an emotion, at no point does Blue come across as an album Mitchell wrote for herself. That is unquestionably one of its greatest strengths.

The guitars give way to piano as the album moves on, and the results are even more engaging. My favourite cut is "River;" Joni Mitchell incorporates part of "Jingle Bells" into the piano interludes, giving it a spectacularly sparse, wintry feel. It's the most immediately atmospheric, the song most capable of dominating a space with its mood. It's also achingly beautiful, and a perfect example of what this album holds in store. Absolutely essential.

Grade: A+