February 2004 Archives

The Sick-Child Delayed Rebuttal to Dorfman's Rebuttal:

Martha Stewart on trial is a media event, the same way communists "on trial" fifty years ago was a media event. Plenty of celebs got singled out fifty years ago who were no more traitors to the country than Stewart is an inside trader. Moreover, if Stewart were a Man, it would be difficult to reconcile the severity of the charges with the outpouring of disaffection for someone who built their own empire and sweated a long-term public profile. (I can't believe I'm defending Martha Stewart; but there it is.) Jeffrey Toobin in the NEW YORKER said: "...There seems to be a hole at the heart of the government's case. The prosecution never charged Stewart with criminal insider trading -- that is, with acting on an illegal tip from Faneuil. The peculiar result is that she stands accused of lying to cover up a legal stock trade." Now that the judge has dropped the most serious charge, let's see how anxious the jury is to turn her into Leona Helmsley and throw her in the slammer. It's a matter of public record that Trump and W. and Cheney and Ashcroft and scads of others are guilty of far worse, and just because they stand up to pee they get a pass. She's not even a good scapegoat for the market's bubble burst or the surrounding corporate scandals, her star rose long before the web and has little to do with it. And I despise those Enron thieves too, it's molehills and mountain ranges to my eye.

If I weren't nursing my sick 3-year-old, I'd be all over this GREY ALBUM controversy. So let me toss up a few notes: Danger Mouse is an ingenious DJ, not quite an artist, but the record gives you a LOT to listen to, and a lot to think about. He should be celebrated, not persecuted. Because of "Grey Tuesday," the music has turned into a cause, and there have been a lot worse recordings turned into causes (remember AS NASTY AS THEY WANNA BE?). The flaws are less creative than aesthetic: the melding of Jay-Z and the Beatles doesn't really tell you anything new about either, except, perhaps, that the Beatles are unjustly underused beat engines. If anything, it makes me appreciate Jay-Z more, on one of the few rap albums that had me craning my neck to hear more on first listening (except for the typical rap caveat: bitches, hos, macho preening, etc). Like a lot of rap dudes I admire, I look forward to his ADULT (as in GROWN UP) records. And the whole exercise will get you thinking about alchemies you'd LIKE to hear: how about REVOLVER adorned by Erik B. and Rakim? Or Eminem rapping over LET IT BLEED? You'll notice rapper's aren't in a hurry to dress up DARK SIDE OF THE MOON, are they?

David Denby, "Living in America," New Yorker (Jan. 12) Last fall, Denby, a film critic for the New Yorker, published "My Life As a Paulette," as in an acolyte of the late New Yorker movie critic Pauline Kael. It was his exorcism of the spell the witch cast on him even in death: an account of how Kael befriended him, encouraged him, praised him, and one day called to tell him he wasn't really a writer and that he ought to do something else with his life. Well, he showed her--he got her job!--but as a critic Denby remains dead weight. His style is the equivalent of someone clearing his throat. On those rare occasions when he assays an argument, it's indisputable that nothing will ever rescue him from mediocrity.

In "Living in America," pumped by his liberation from Kael and at the same time helplessly but perversely imitating Kael's sense of herself as an American writer, Denby takes on Vadim Perelman, the Russian/Canadian director of House of Sand and Fog, Jane Campion, the New Zealander director of In the Cut, and Alejandro González Iñárritu, the Mexican director of 21 Grams. These people should not be making movies for American audiences, Denby says: "They don't really get America right...they miss the colloquial ease and humor, the ruffled surfaces of American life." They insist on the ugliness, horror, obsessiveness, and vengeance in American life (like Denby's hero, the Clint Eastwood of Mystic River, which apparently also pulses with the ruffled potato chips of American life, though I must have slept through those parts), but they "may be complacent in their own ways. Perhaps they accept tragedy too easily... Dolorousness"--yes, Denby is free; that's not a word Kael would have used at gunpoint--"is becoming a curse in the more ambitious movies made in America by foreign-born directors." "We don't need other people's despair," Denby concludes; plainly, foreigners can get down with it like John Woo or they can shut up. Kael didn't know the half of it.

--Greil Marcus, "Real Life Top Ten," in City Pages.

From the Daily Kos.

BRAHMS Four Hand Piano Music 10 (Naxos 2003), String Quartets Op. 51 Nos. 1 & 2
Silke-Thora Matthies, Christian Köhn
SCHUBERT Piano Works for Four Hands 3 (Naxos 2003), Fantasie in F minor, Three Heroic Marches, Variations on an Original Theme
Jenö Jandó, Zsuzsa Kollár
ELGAR Symphony No. 1 in A flat major Opus 55 (AVM/DCC 1990), Karg-Elert's transcription for solo piano
David Owen Norris
LEON FLEISHER RECITAL Piano Works for the Left Hand (Sony 1993), Bach/Brahms, Scriabin, Strauss/Godowsky, Saint-Saëns, Takács, Blumenfeld
Leon Fleisher

I'm a sucker for transcriptions: not only do I love weird piano writing, but a decent downmix can reveal new things about compositions, and about how composers think. I'm also a sucker for product, and Naxos has just added me to their list. So beginning with a gorgeous Brahms disc, I wax rhapsodic: naturally, stringers will be repelled, but this is honest-to-gosh great-SOUNDING stuff, even with the quick decay of the hammer on strings. It makes Brahms's intervallic thinking all the more intricate, and you miss the lushness of bows on strings only in certain slow movement passages, and then only because of (presumed) familiarity. The Schubert is less revealing, and less artistically rendered, but worthwhile if you like that kind of thing. I'm comparing the Fantasie in my head to Radu Lupu and Murray Perahia, recently remastered by Sony (see below).
The Elgar, on the other hand, is mixed: great sweep and orchestral flavor, much of which doesn't suit the piano very well. But it's handsomely played, with an ear for the grandly withheld style, by David Owen Norris (mastered by one Steve Hoffman). The Fleisher I stuck on on a whim, and it reconfirms my earlier impressions of a decade ago: this isn't just a great left-handed essay; it's one of the great piano discs of all time.

Tim:

Michael Wolff has written a notably fatuous piece.  To equate Martha Stewart with the victims of McCarthyism; to make the case that the celebrity rich comprise an aggrieved class; to state, in other words, that the state's jackboot is crushing her without cause--this is rubbish, pure and simple, and an obscene line of argument.  If you'd never heard of Michael Woolf, you'd assume this piece is a parody.   But Wolff, who failed in his attempt to buy New York magazine, aspires no longer to be a mere journalist, but to join the ranks of media tycoon--to be, in that phrase of Gordon Gekko from the movie,  a player.   He is a pathetic figure, sort of like a street urchin with his nose pressed against the bakery window, too eager to court the people, were he content to be a journalist, he should be skewering.  The man is too self-important and bloated to write parody.

Here is the heart of the Martha Stewart case: she got caught trading on inside information, plain and simple.  For sure: the monetary stakes were small; and there are graver sins for the government to prosecute.  She could have avoided this trial by saying, contritely: Yes, I heard Waksall was selling, and I did something stupid.  I sold, too.  As a former stockbroker, I should have realized that even the appearance of acting upon inside information is wrong,  I am sorry, and I would like to make amends. 

But instead Stewart lied, and treated the prosecutors like stooges who aren't worthy of her time.  She lied.  She dissembled.  She dodged.  She tried to humiliate public servants.  She is getting her due, and the government is right to nail her and nail her good.

I hear it said that the government is going after her because she is a woman, or because she's rich; and in any case, why isn't the government going after the malefactors from Enron?  Nonsense.  Complete nonsense.  The Enron folks--from Fastow to Fastow's wife to now Jeffrey Skilling--are getting hammered for their arrogance, for their criminality, for their belief that rules are for the other suckers to follow, not the guys who count, not the players.  Funny thing, isn't that just what Stewart is in trouble for--and isn't this just what Michael Wolff, lackey to the lunch set at the Four Seasons, wants to excuse?

--Jon Dorfman  

"It is hard, of course, to feel all that sorry for the rich (nor was it probably so intuitive to feel sorry, in another time, for the communists), particularly the rich who yell at the help (which may be all of the rich). And yet, there is a principle here. We ought not to prosecute somebody just because the tide turns against him—or her. It seems obvious, then, what should happen. The rich and everybody else on the make in New York (quite an ugly mob) should head down to the courthouse to defend their self-interest." (From Free Martha in NYMag).

Pioneer DV-563A

Befuddled at first to find that the optical connections that work for DVD surround don't work for either DVD-A or SACD -- instead, it wants ANALOG connections between player and receiver. Once that got set up, I played both DVD-A and SACD, which were both impressive, and then set up a side-by-side comparison with Fagan's KAMAKIRIAD. The difference was not exactly striking, but very telling in detail: more and better bass, it seemed, and acutely defined finger snaps jumping between channels in the opening bars. (The original actually and more finger snaps, less markedly defined.) These fingers snaps didn't "jump out" artificially, but held their own in the mix and were remarkably clear, and like they say, "3-dimensional," as if they were right in the room with you. Overall the definition and depth were very robust without being artificial: where I used to describe good CD sound as "etched," this was less "etched" than simply alive in the room. There didn't seem to be a canvass the sound was painted on, it just seemed to be THERE.

And as yet I can't really describe the "difference" between DVD-A and SACD, although in practical terms the hybrid format is a winner especially during the transition. Last night we put on BEGGAR'S BANQUET, and it was really something, a TON of presence and detail, very little hiss, detectable only during fades, and a very roomy soundscape: getting close to one speaker did not result in losing much of the other. Sort of like a more "optimal" stereo. I would say the key early quality that held me was the enormous center of the sound.

Queries:does anybody out there know of a good DVD hi-res sound site where listeners exchange notes on setups, tips, best practices, etc?

SOON TO COME: lists of best and worst surround mixes, hybrid discs, envelope-pushers etc.

ON VACATION : last week on the Cape, I don't think a day went by when I didn't hear Pete Cetera's voice, whether it was at the IHOP or Barnes and Noble. It was freaky-deeky.

Dick Gordon did a Connection show yesterday on personal ads in the NYRB and the LRB. Those are certainly the two publications to do: everyone is always tittilated to learn (?) that "intellectuals" have active sex lives, even consider the literate mind something of a kick. The LRB by contrast has the best personals ever, anywhere: "LRB readers. You are all just English lecturers who like Bjork. Get over it, then make love to me. Each and every damn one of you. Man, 98, Berks. Box no. 02/09" (click here, scroll down). It reminded me of something RSC actors talked about when they were in residence at Oberlin: as Brits they were all over the verbal skills, Shakespeare's meter and all that, but what they were drawn to and impressed by was the American instinct for physicality on the stage. What Americans lacked in reverence for the word they more than made up for in the passion of the body and everything that physical language could express outside the text. When the LRB editor was asked about his personals, he went so far as to say that aside from the tart skepticism, fantastic metaphor and brash humor, he got the impression that the verbal kick was an end in itself. Many of these ad writers, who write up to 800 words in often lively short fictions, and sport playful alternative egos and personas as erotic play, find fulfillment through writing, not expecting or pursuing any physical contact. It was left unsaid, but it was endearingly clear, that where LRB lonely hearts write more for writing itself, the NYRB personal writers write to get snogged.

We're not so worried about getting swallowed up by lists as we are about blind lists in a room full of deaf musicians. Still, the Voice Pazz Jop is out, and here's a bunch that tend to overlap with mine, meaning those I'll poach for stuff to check out [alphabetical, since we're trolling for blurbs, ahem], meaning, these are all very close personal friends, we gab about music all the time. What's fun about it though is that you can browse around former disfavored editor's lists and curse them in the night for overlapping at all with your good taste. Also, catch once mighty ears falling for piffle. For the bonus round, click on any album title, such as ELECTRIC VERSION anywhere it appears, and go to this page to see those who dumped oodles of hard-won credibility on it, too. Using this method, we find that only three of us chose Dave Holland's EXTENDED PLAY: LIVE AT BIRDLAND, which is a travesty. Ken Micaleff and Tony Tranfa are suddenly long lost brothers (But soft! Tranfa leads with Sarah McLachlan and includes Dan Fogelberg! Fie on't!):

Vince Aletti
Joe Gross
Keith Harris
Still Owes me for that friggin' BALDIE compilation I made for him.
Sasha Frere-Jones
Tom Hull
Joe Levy
Greil Marcus
Whose first entry is a bizarrely overlooked Gallowsbird's Bark FIERY FURNACES, which Mark LaPore sent along just as the year closed, and it's very tasty. His second two entries, Natalie Merchant and Jon Mellencamp, inexplicable. Chalk it up to Counting Crowes fever.
Michaelangelo Mato
Leland Rucker
Rob Sheffield
Ken Tucker
Stephanie Zacharek (the Stephinator...)
Milo Miles
And for those of you just clicking through, some sites that makes you go "bling-bling": List of Bests and Recordnerd and Fast'n'Bulbous and the granddaddy, Julian's Rock List.

Finally, these folks take home an extra cookie. Cheers.

One more gripe (What flunkie decided Dave Mathews should play ACOUSTIC guitar on "I Saw Her Standing There"??? And Vince Gill's solo got buried!) before MOVING ON to my own

FANTASY GRAMMY CATEGORIES:

DVDs

The latest in pushing pre-recorded CDs is to stick a limited edition performance DVD in the package. Did this new marketing schtick have any effect on downloads? Doubtful. There were simply too few decent concert vids. Here come the nominees:

Sheryl Crowe C'MON AMERICA 2003 (A&M)
(Like Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits, Sheryl Crowe is one of those less intriguing talents who lacks the charisma gene. For a looker who enjoys playing bass, picks good material, and has a classic (not to say conservative) sense of rock history, her new live DVD doesn't have the spark it promises, and her Led Zep encore ("Rock'n'Roll") doesn't live up to its ambition.)
Allison Moorer SHOW (Universal, which dumped her)
(Nice Neil Young cover, "Don't Cry No Tears")
Neil Young GREENDALE (Reprise)
Bangles DOLL REVOLUTION (Koch)
WINNNER: Bruce Springsteen LIVE IN BARCELONA (Sony), which includes the "Doo Wah Diddy" opener from Fenway Park, 9/03, which I heard from my sick bed at Cambridge City Hospital.

REMASTERS (plain vanilla stereo)
Neil Young AMERICAN STARS 'N' BARS, ON THE BEACH (Reprise)
Beatles LET IT BE NAKED (Apple)

REMASTERS (hybrid CD/SACD, DVD-Audio, 5:1 mixes)
Beach Boys, PET SOUNDS (Capitol 5:1, superb)
Rolling Stones CATALOG (ABKCO SACD)
Bob Dylan CATALOG (Columbia SACD)
(Can anybody explain where Columbia ends and Sony begins, not to mention Legacy?)

VAULT (never before heard)
Rock City (Lucky Seven/Rounder)
(Early Big Star sessions; impress your friends.)

BOX SETS
There's NO CATEGORY FOR THIS, but it's been paying the bills for a decade. Usually gets tossed into "packaging" or some such. Not that anybody's listening.
Miles Davis JACK JOHNSON (Sony Legacy)

In lieu of Justin's apology, and the complete lack of pierced nipples, we flipped around to catch:

BEST PROGRAM-TO-AD SEGUE, PRIMETIME:
"Arrested Development" (2/8/04) which sported an opening ad for...The United States Army.

BEST EDITORIAL ASSIGNMENT:
Ben Ratliff, jazzer, reviews the new Norah Jones CD in the NYTimes ("Pop's Best Behaved..."), calls her sensibility "blank." Fair game since she records for Blue Note.

Elvis Costello, GET HAPPY!!!, PUNCH THE CLOCK (Rhino doubles)
What to make of Elvis anymore? I picked up these last year as "advance CDRs," trading off fidelity for early, cheap access. Hoped picking up the real things would help boost his stock (can better fidelity redeem albums that have lost their inner sheen?) Disappointing. Except for GET HAPPY, about which more later, not much here stands up as well as I want. In college this guy was my hero, and I probably would have been more inclined then to admire his "classical" crossover moves, which now totally turn me off. For me he PEAKED with KING OF AMERICA, and he should still mine that country vein, because whenever he hits it good it's remarkable. I even like ALMOST BLUE, even though it should simply serve to turn you on to all the original artists.

GET HAPPY is one of those CDs I have an intriguguingly weird relationship with. I can go months without it, and then I'm suddenly smitten and HAVE to hear it again and again. Sometimes this turnaround is completely satisfying, I hear new grooves, new details, new snarls, and I'm quenched. Other times, while I admire the writing, textures, and arrangements, I can't get Milo Miles's comment out of my head (paraphrasing): "Almost great, he needed Booker T's MGs on that session." And while I'm inclined to argue that the Attractions striving to achieve Stax-like pockets is pleasure in itself, more often than not it makes me reach for the Stax box itself. And then I swoon. And then sometimes I reach for BLOOD AND CHOCOLATE and I think it hits that perfect balance between early garage-rock and pithy self-consciousness.

Now, of course, he's gone completely off his rocker (with NORTH, on DG), and his pretensions are unbearable. He seems to want us to believe that his career arc is one of increasing "respectability," when his entire MY AIM IS TRUE stance was one of an uncompromising amateur. Doesn't it do his early work a disservice to have him now straining to be accepted by the very aesthetics he once trounced? His musical smarts used to be at the service of rawness, and now he seems committed to smooth surfaces and superficial "emoting." His singing has grown especially mannered. He used to have lyrical panache, the will to baffle, and now it's like he's writing for textbooks, exams, the very sensibilities he started out snubbing. Where his early producer-cohort, Nick Lowe, has made the move to flophouse lounge-singer with a wink and a leer, Elvis is stuck back in college trying to impress his professors. It's alltogether unseemly, especially since his concept of range used to include so many more stylistic ideas besides "lieder." I'd much rather hear him produce someone else, or write liner notes to whatever classical music he's onto than keep failing at it himself.

So many Grammy targets, so little time. On a seven-second delay to prevent any "indiscretions."

When you look over the cast of characters in Angels and think about whom we're supposed to sympathize with, and who gets forgiven, you can't help noticing that the most sympathetic, the "best" characters are either ill, or women, or black, or Jewish. Looking over this rather PC list, it occurs to you to wonder whether, in the worldview of this play's creator, the reason why Joe Pitt, who alone of the characters is the most genuinely and interestingly torn, who in fact seeks love the hardest and suffers the most for self-knowledge, can't be forgiven by his creator, and is the only character who goes unredeemed in some way at the end of the play, is that he's a healthy, uninfected, white, Anglo-Saxon, male Christian. This in turn makes you realize how much of the second part of this play depends, from the in-joke of San Francisco as Heaven to the closing scene in which Prior addresses the audience and in a valedictory blessing vapidly declares us all to be "fabulous creatures, each and every one," on a certain set of glib, feel-good, politically correct gay assumptions about the world, assumptions that in the end undercut the ambitions and, occasionally, the pretensions of what has come before. I, for one, would have respected much more a play that invited its presumably liberal, often largely gay or gay-friendly audiences to see as its central and truly tragic figure a white, healthy, Protestant male on the verge of something truly transformative and redeeming: not illness and suffering, but self-knowledge. When all is said and done, Angels itself is guilty of its own kind of reprehensible abandonment: abandonment of the tragic for the merely sentimental, of real intellectual challenges for feel-good nostrums, of hard questions about guilt and responsibility for easy finger-pointing at all the usual suspects.

--from Daniel Mendelsohn's NYRB piece on Angels in America, the best thing yet written on it.

The hardest working man in show business still pumps up for Super Bowl OLD SCHOOL.

And in a clever campaign to upstage her brother's pedophilia trial, ...