Vibes and Stuff.
Wazzup, my name's Femi. Nappy-headed and intelligent. I despise emoticons and numerical hearts. I usually post stuff that interests me; 75% reblogged and 25% original. My musical qualities are chiefly Old School Hip-Hop and Techno. I also run this blog.
Posts tagged reviews
A Treatise Concerning The Newest Sleigh Belles Album and its Qualitative Merit, in honor of Lady Nantah
NOTE: this was originally written for a lady friend of mine who kept asking me to listen to the new Sleigh Bells album. I replied in kind. Enjoy.
Milady,
You previously pestered me without end about a recent collection of songs which you described as “awesome.” Not fond of items regarded with absolutes, I made an attempt to refrain from testing these uncharted waters, yet your persistence has been fruitful.
I acquired the album, titled with questionable taste as “Reign of Terror,” through rather ill-advised means and shan’t delve into them for fear of an ASBO. Nevertheless, I placed the vinyl upon my phonograph machine and hoped to become bathed in wondrous and marvelous sounds- a peculiar ensemble of violin and harpsichord perhaps, or a interesting song cycle of foreign descent. I topped off my pipe with the finest tobacco, slipped into my resting robes, and sat comfortably in my rouge lounge chair as the record began to oscillate.
Little did I know that what lay in each crisp groove was such a horrific and thrashing assault of pugnacious sounds and moral bankruptcy. Dear woman, what hath you wrought upon my faculties? Certainly not something my mother shall allow in her home, rest her nerves. She shall send me off to a strict finishing school if her tender ears cautch the slightest waft of this Satanic belch!
Or maybe you are unaware as to my seemingly hyperbolic attrition. Hear ye, I shall lay bare the various demerits I hold against these Sleighing Belles, whatever they may be.
Primarily, the musical components in which they commit their atrocities. The Belles evidently chose the long-gone era of the nineteen-eighties to base their music upon. In their defence, that is one of my fondest periods in terms of sonic archaeology, however they rest a bit much on the excessive tendencies of the decade and less on the musicianship. The guitarres, drummes, and voice of the chanteuse are certainly clear and in triumphant force, but the mixing of each together proves sloppy and overbearing. Her voice feels garbled by the heavy and metallic strings, and the strings flattened by that inexplicably loud percussion which pummeled my eardrums into oblivion. What sort of steampunk engineering produced such a noise?
Secondly, the puerile and anarchistic lyrics. Mind you, I am attune to the fact that many in these common times lead alternative lifestyles compared to the one of austerity and proper values that befits my own. However, the mere sliver of vapidity and moral rot that was previewed is enough for me to lead an urgent plea for the swift demolition of Whitechapel. What makes the chanteuse believe she was “Born to Lose,” and what reprehensible communion with “Demons” has she entered? And doth she sing sweetly of a thoroughfare into the damned pit of death and bloodlust which beckons horrid men without cease? Pray, I shall purge these hymns from my thoughts for fear of excommunication!
The only singularity of relative interest to my person lay only in the ninth song, titled “You Lost Me.” Nay Belles, I found my way around this melody quite nicely. It had the heavy and metallic guitarre and in equal measure the chanteuse’s musings of truthful vicissitude, yet by good grace, the percussion had been tuned down! Huzzah! Perchance by a thoughtful sound engineer, the artillery begins at a much later interval, and as such, comes off rather fitting.
Forgive me milady, for I am set in my ways, but your taste in musical entertainment bewilders me. Do you take delight in the macabre and vulgar side of society? Humor my inquiry, for my earnest aversion to such swill may be of great misunderstanding. In the meantime, I shall suggest that these Sleigh Belles address my vicar for exorcism and recanting.
My Greatest Regards,
FEMDOG, RPOB (royal purveyour of bass)
Femdog v. Metal: World Gone Dead
“World Gone Dead,” the third studio album from thrash metal band Lich King, feels a bit stale beyond the beginning. Yes, there are haunting riffs, drums that sound like an eager salvo from a green beret, and the overbearing, lurching screams of a vocalist, announcing the nihilistic doom of a hopeless multitude. But the sum of all these parts still left me bored.
The fault of my boredom amounts to a number of reasons. The main one probably lies in the genre. Thrash metal has made its claim to fame by being a swift and unrelenting barrage of atonal guitar groans with drums played at the speed of artillery fire. Unlike classic metal, which flaunted masculinity by utilizing classic literature or folklore, thrash became concerned with the impending annihilation of everything, including themselves.
Another reason, and a major one, has to be the extremely overbearing vocals. I don’t know what the lead “singer’s” problem is, but he forces himself to belch, scream, and assault my ears to get these lyrics out, as if each recording session included a disembowelment. And to add insult to injury, I can barely understand a word he is saying.
Listening to each song was a chore. If the instrumentation kicked ass, it didn’t matter because the vocals splattered on top ruined the fun. If the instrumentation was mediocre or uninspired, his vocals simply wasted my patience.
“Grindwheel” was the only song that truly came together. It begins with a slow, rusty grind of a riff and contains lyrics calling for the damnation of an unlucky prisoner: “There’s no holy man for you/There’s no final meal/You’ve been caught and sentenced to/Grind beneath the wheel.”
The song appealed to me because the subject matter was pretty insane and well-crafted compared to the mishmash of ideas that became the other songs. What a horrid punishment for an offender that must be. No final meal?!? Damn.
It was also the only song whose lyrics I could actually understand without a Google search.
“World Gone Dead” might have been killer in concept, but it only managed to kill any of my enthusiasm in execution due to the excess of boring riffs, lazy solos, and a poor vocal performance.
Femdog v. Metal
2012 is the year that I push further beyond the limits of what I consider to be good music.
I already have a small foothold in heavy metal, as my favorite hardcore album is Iron Maiden’s “Powerslave.” But its not that hard for me to get the fact that out in the dark recesses of metaldom lies some dirty, sludgy, grinding viscera that demands to be enjoyed.
Of course, a good amount of metal deals with certain beliefs that I do not agree with. The second objective will be to assess those ideologies and find out why they are important to that band.
Here is the list of albums I will tackle this year:
- Led Zeppelin IV
- Black Sabbath
- Holy Diver
- Piece Of Mind
- Peace Sells… But Who’s Buying?
- Master Of Puppets
- Seventh Son of a Seventh Son
- Slipknot
- Godsmack
- World Gone Dead
- Dwellings
Parks and Recreation is cool.
The main character is a woman, she’s funny, and the supporting characters are phenomenal.
Music Writeup for 2011.
Here we are again, at the end of another eventful year. Seven billion people now populate the earth. Osama bin Laden is dead. I finally got a job. While tempted to continue on in an elegant display of glittering generalities and positive platitudes, I will simply shortcut to the basic point of this blog- I listened the shit out of some music, and will now encapsulate them in blog form.
If you’ve never heard of dubstep, listen to this before proceeding:
Someone treated me to a similar assault of electronic perversion earlier this month. At the end of the song, I was cradling in the corner with my thumb in my mouth, praying that his speakers would stop screaming at me. What was that sound? How could one call it music? Nevertheless, my ears begged for another listen, and with one small leap of faith, buying Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites, I had thrown myself into this new sonic frenzy they call dubstep, so much so that I went to my first concert ever. Dubstep was able to pervade my daily life in ways that my previous bouts with standard electronica had failed to do, mostly because of this genre’s break-neck intensity.
Yes, it is an obnoxious genre to listen to at certain times, but even the names of the chief artists alone should let you know that this isn’t for easy listening. It is punk music for our digital age; a blast of raw, filthy bass intelligible only to us no-good, snot nosed, “first world” vandals.
Of course, as this is a DJ-driven genre it warrants a bit of trial-and-error in order to find a handful of songs that are good (especially since a billion dubstep songs are released daily). My loyalties lie with Skrillex and Knife Party, and are good starting points for those willing to dig deep. Listen to dubstep in your car first. This genre is not meant solely for headnodding.
FAV TRACKS:
- Knife Party- Fire Hive
- Imogen Heap- Hide and Seek (Roksonix Remix)
- Gemmy- Maroon Chant
- Skrillex- Ruffneck (Full Flex)
Section.80 is one of the most creative hip hop albums to have come out in the new millenium. Like every other album you can think of, they don’t qualify. Not only is this album replete with tender, jazz and electronic-infused beats and the best lyricism to be had from any New School MC, but the topics he discusses are much appreciated. Not many artists can produce a song describing the plight of women, simply because they never wanted to or the fact that the references to the opposite sex in any previous work is lathered with misogyny. And not many artists can be honest about our generation’s runaway zeitgeist with copious amounts drugs, sex, and ignorance without being shunned. It was not my favorite album of the year- it wasn’t even an album that particularly wowed me at first, but it was the album that earned my deepest respect.
FAV TRACKS- Poe Man’s Dreams, Rigamortis, HiiiPower
Hmm… where do I begin…
WTT was not horrific to me. Nor was it the great collection of bangers it was purported to be. The mass hysteria that cocooned this album from the beginning of the year until its release date was so thick, I could not help to think that this could have been the best hip hop album to ever grace my ears. Sadly what I was given was one great song (Otis), two OK songs (Gotta Have It, Murder to Excellence), and an absurdly ornate album cover. That left about nine songs worth of dead weight which made me almost incensed as to the amount of time and effort that these men had worked on for what felt like forever. My solemn postulation is that this album was a way to release the under-cooked morsels from the expensive MBDTF recording sessions, which explains the wide and inconsistent array of beats they rapped on. Kanye was competent, but let’s be real- Jay-Z has fallen off.
FAV TRACK- Otis
Many critics wrongfully relegated this as a free mixtape. No one painstakingly crafts 21 songs, complete with Southern home-cooked beats and front porch poetry delivered with such a majestic drawl and deserves this sort of insult. Return of 4eva is, at least to me, a Southern renaissance album; a body of work that truly represents the willpower and regional tendencies of the Third Coast. I have to admit, the length of this album is a bit much, but the majority of these songs got massive rotation. King Remembered In Time.
FAV TRACKS- R4 Theme Song, Another Naive Individual Glorifying Greed and Ecouraging Racism
Fleet Foxes- Helplessness Blues
This album came into my life strictly by impulse, on a boring May day and after a couple clicks on Amazon. Folk music had not been even my slightest interest up until then. And yet I found myself overwhelmed with such heavy emotion half an hour in. Helplessness Blues is a ponderous look into what we strive to make of our lives, of how every little fold and contour on the road of existence is just as important as the giant banks and curves. The instrumentation is so lush and organic, truly a gift for any acoustic lover. And let’s not even get into the angelic vocal harmonies this band is capable of; they put Destiny’s Child to shame. I love this album.
FAV TRACKS- Lorelai, Sim Sala Bim
Casual will kill your favorite rapper in a rap battle, then shit on his corpse with another smokin’ hot 16. His album The Hierophant is truly only defined as dope, and the opening song alone qualifies that a thousand times over. What I admire so much about Casual is how dense his lyrics are compared to his colloquial, slack-jawed delivery. Not to seem mean, but he kinda sounds like that bum under the freeway you see on Saturdays, but I think that that underestimation simply adds power to his poetry. Fiend of Hip Hop is such a glorious track; when the beat comes in man… finito.
FAV TRACKS- Fiend of Hip Hop, Sunday’s Best
Milo- I Wish My Brother Rob Was Here
If there was ever a hip hop genre defined as nerdcore, this would be the best example. Don’t get me wrong though, Milo is not a pasty, socially-challenged introvert… well not to an extreme. I dug this album because he was so honest about his interests compared to the average self-conscious nerd person his age, and he didn’t feel obligated to whine about it a la Childish Gambino (seriously, he’s a good comic, but his music is an amalgam of sexual assault and an unnerving lack of prozac). The beats fit his demeanor quite well, basically composed of electronic landscapes cut into looping beats. Milo is more hardcore than Soulja Boy, IMO.
FAV TRACKS- For The Unheard Proboard Warriors!, Backpacker’s Sermon from Mount Jansport, all of it!
FAV TRACKS- Make My, The Lighthouse, Kool On, The Other Side
For an album that is filled to the brim with drug abuse, overt misogyny and a near-psychopathic view on life, it seems odd that this is one of my favorite albums of the year. Danny Brown somehow managed to turn his horrible bout with drugs and his self-proclaimed rockstar life into comedy blacker than obsidian, with a voice that also embodies that off-kilter atmosphere. His lyrics literally slobber over you with their out-of-left-field references and hyperbolic exaggerations (the song “I Will” is so insanely gross…) Danny Brown is just as wise and thoughtful as he is reckless.
FAV TRACKS- Lie4, Detroit 187, Blunt after Blunt after Blunt after Blunt after Blunt after Blunt (AND I SMOKE!)
My thoughts on MisFits so far (SPOILERS BRUV).
The first time I had heard of this show was in someone’s dorm. It was one of those glittering generalities, “misfits is awesome!” or anything else in that vein. Didn’t really pay it much mind because it was around the time that Skins began its fourth series, and the third one was pretty lame.
Yet fate is a tempting mistress. Day in and day out, small glimpses of the show would waft over my eyes through the numerous gifs created by tumblr fiends. They mostly consisted of Nathan, the main character, because he is attractive and this networking site is 78% female. I wasn’t intrigued to be honest, but I took note.
And here I am now, six episodes in with the first episode of the second series currently buffering in another tab. I took the usually salty and regrettable medicine of peer pressure, and thankfully it was worth it overall.
Probably due to forced pretensions or my actual beliefs, I cannot simply stick with a show simply due to beautiful people, or because it is there. One or two resounding qualities must surface before it becomes a staple watch (which explains why I haven’t dug into Mad Men despite the large goldmine that is Christina Hendricks). Anyways, MisFits has a unique, fantastic story and a great cast, although it does pander to the senses a bit too much for my taste.
This show does follow the plot formula of Skins: introduce a motley crew of East Britons with varying degrees of character and personality, then create each succeeding episode around one particular character and their own problems. This formula does not truly merit on its own, but due to the great writing and implementation. It proves trues for MisFits as well, as it allows you to get an overall cross section of the bearings of what the show has to offer, then slowly digs into the nooks and crannies of each individual’s life.
Apart from Skins, this formula is fantastic because of the premise. Five rough ne’er-do-wells doing community service, who after enduring a lightning and hailstorm receive supernatural powers? It seems and is far-fetched, but the creative special effects and the repercussions that come attached with each power really shake up what could be another slightly unorthodox teen drama.
And it should be noted that the powers also correlate to the personality of each character, in exceedingly ironic ways. Alisha, the self-proclaimed supafreak, is a walking aphrodisiac; Nathan, the self-aggrandizing, astronomically obnoxious protagonist, is immortal; Curtis, as fast on the track as he is with women, can involuntarily rewind time; Simon, the often overlooked filmmaker, can become invisible; and Kelly, the gangsta chick with a heart of gold, can read thoughts. These are ubiquitous superpowers, but what gives them heft is that while each person feels no impulse to service and duty, they still realize the devastating side-effects of having those powers.
These setbacks are what ultimately kick off the main storyline and force them to utilize their powers to cover up any forensic tracks. One really great example is the episode centered around Curtis. It not only showed the extent of his true free will over the situation, but also how one minor change lead to an even worse conclusion for the core characters. Plus, awesome electro music played after he rewound time. That was pretty neat.
Only two acting credits really deserve any special dissection- Nathan and Simon. Not only are they the most refreshing characters of the bunch, but they must consistently deliver their respective personalities for the rest of the show’s duration, and have succeeded in doing so thus far. I don’t fall for every one of Nathan’s attempts at comedy or ridicule, but whenever I do its well worth it. Plus his Irish accent gives him this other layer of nonchalance, like he might throw gold dubloons at you while setting a car on fire (horrible Irish jokes, I know…).
Simon deserves mention because he is the creepiest teenager I have yet to see on television. He doesn’t even do much, but his constant filming of everything, cringe-worthy attempts at social interaction, and those damn grey eyes that pierce into your soul and threaten to display the skeletons of your closet to the world culminate into a truly harrowing performance.
My only substantial dislike is the gratuitous amount of “shagging,” references to “shagging,” etc. Yes, we are teenagers and creating jokes about sex is a thing that tends to happen, but it doesn’t mean that it should be the only resort to filler. According to my knowledge it is broadcast in an adult swim format (when normal boring people are asleep) which definitely allows for a good amount of leeway, but there should still be some red line between a television show and an R-rated film right? Eh.
For comparison: This show is better than Skins in terms of having a unique story, but not individual characters. I love you, Cassie.
The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo(Engrish) Movie Review.
We need more Swedish chefs and less Nordic crazy people.
Film adaptations of books can be a tough challenge to sort out. Not only should the resulting film be able to captivate the multitudes who are not familiar with the subject matter, but they must also win the approval of the existing fans. Obviously, not every project goes as well as the fabled Harry Potter series.
That being said, it piqued my interest to hear that David Fincher was at the helm of the English adaptation of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, the symbolic, modern crime thriller written by the late Stieg Larsson. As director of the cult favorite “Fight Club,” the compelling yet tedious “Benjamin Button,” and the contemporary classic “The Social Network,” all of which are based on literature, he would have no real qualms about taking the reins of a project similar in tone to his previous work.
So it comes as a bit of a surprise that this film felt extremely esoteric and equally dry in many spots. Take note that this film as a whole is a brutal and very visceral portrait of humans committing awful atrocities on other humans; however, there are too many long stretches of minutiae and insanely detailed book rendering that may leave a fresh-faced onlooker with a bad impression of the source material.
Aside from the overall sore thumb of the varying accents, the cast of GWDT is a quite fitting portrayal of its literary counterpart. Not as a slight to Noomi Rapace, who played Salander in the Swedish version, but Mara’s performance displayed the emotionally distant “psychopath” with a bit more panache and determination. Her body alone has the exact gaunt definition that I envisioned in Larsson’s prose. Of course, this is a tough opinion to hold, considering I consider both performances to be short of a true rendition of the complex character. Daniel Craig was, in terms of build, a good choice for Blomkvist, but his acting was pretty general.
Plummer, who stole every scene he was was in with his earnest and inconceivably spot-on portrayal of Henrik Vanger, was a great choice for this rather limited character, and Stellan Skarsgaard as Martin Vanger initially came off as underwhelming, but paid off in the end. Advokat Bjurman, Salander’s slimeball guardian, is more than fleshed out by Yorick van Wageningen. He is just slimy and awful, a true archetype of the novel’s symbol for those who destroy the people they are endowed to protect.
GWDT from a sensory standpoint benefits from being under Fincher’s care. From the beginning, an intense CG credits sequence alludes to the story in very sharp ways. The use of digital photography in the film proper provides a clarity and extraordinary level of depth to the snow-capped visuals that Sweden has to offer. And appropriately, the score done by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross is a near-perfect interpretation of the persistent sense of distrust and unease displayed amongst the characters. The Nine Inch Nails-style instrumentation atop a haunting electronic drone sound is able to manipulate the events of a scene in ways that a ubiquitous orchestral score is not equipped to do.
The rape scene exemplifies the truest combination of faithfulness to story with an artistic license. Even though I knew about this particular part- and had even seen it brought to life in the Swedish version- this particular event begins with a deceptive mind trick that pretends to conceal such a tragedy from the viewer, before pulling them back in during the worst part. It was terrifying to watch, and I was a hyperventilating, watery-eyed shell of my former self by the end of it.
Yet while the movie grips your attention viscerally, the plot and pacing do leave a bit to be desired. It’s honestly a blessing and a curse really, as Fincher’s insane attention to detail not only included parts of the book that really interested me or kept out parts that felt like filler, but also develops the story in the way that the book did to the exact, laborious letter. Larsson’s books were an omniscient third-person playground, with each character being examined from every angle even during the most mundane task. This made the books less of a chore when Blomkvist and Salander ended up in a government database poring over thousands of old photos and newspaper cutups… but in the film you simply see them look at this evidence with no dialogue. The elongated epilogue is also included in the film, and although the succeeding events are quite enticing and set up the plot for the sequel, they only dilute the power of the more deserving conclusion.
I may be held back by my knowledge of the books. It might be my special criteria regarding film adaptations of books, and the dangerous crevasse they tread regarding the average moviegoer and die hard fans. In either case, GWDT sadly teeters on the edge of this crevasse, possibly pumping too much emphasis in parts that would deter newcomers from the source material, while also splaying every little bit of information that may have been better suited for a montage sequence.
In fact, this film is perfectly suited for the person who refuses to read, as they recieve the gorgeous visual treatment of the film as well as the lengthy and tedious parts that would otherwise be tucked away on a shelf. The English adaptation of this modern story, where Sherlock Holmes himself is just as seedy as the criminal he pursues, is definitely worth the watch, but probably not for the faint of heart or for the exuberant nerd.
Finally watched Girl, Interrupted.
Dude. That was pretty unbearable in some spots.
Yet it was the first chick flick that wasn’t about love that I dug a lot.
Whoopi Goldberg was great in this.
Angelina Jolie gave the best performance of her entire career, which is worth noting especially since it was at the beginning of it.
Oh yeah, and Elizabeth Moss.
The Muppets Movie Review.
GO WATCH THIS NOW NOW NOW DON’T READ WHAT ARE YOU AN OLD FOGIE
The Jim Henson Company has in its history produced entertainment with a similar tenet of having characters with personality and ambition, and effectively adding any well known pop culture references into the mix as part of the fun, rather than an anchor to entice certain people. This film, directed by James Bobin, is a celebration of not only that, but the Muppet Show legacy as a whole, taking the opportunity to share the show’s 35 year history with an audience that has largely been absent to its very existence.
Walter, a Muppet by flesh yet not by affiliation, grew up in the entirely human society of Smalltown, USA. While he loves his human brother Gary (Jason Segal), he has never truly connected with anyone quite like himself, and spends the wee hours of the night watching the Muppet Show. As a mentally matured being in contemporary times, he has little to cling to except for Muppet nostalgia, and plans to visit the now decrepit Muppet Studios in L.A.
His brother Gary, a schoolteacher, happily sings to school to meet his co-worker and girlfriend Mary (Amy Adams), who is secretly concerned about Gary’s tendency to focus more on himself or Walter rather than their relationship. The three make their way to the theatre, which, while still standing within the modern world, is only a reminder of older, grander times. Walter sneaks away from the guided tour to discover the cartooned evil oil baron, Tex Richman (Chris Cooper), thumbing over a contract that would pass the deed from Kermit the Frog over to him in a month should they fail to pay any remaining debts.
And the film basically takes flight from then on. Walter and co. track down Kermit, now a secluded nobody, and encourage him to save the studio through one more production at the studio that will raise ten million dollars. They only highlight certain characters, especially Fozzie Bear, Gonzo the Great, and the lovely Miss Piggy, but eventually round up the entire cast and crew. They all come together with the same unity and passion that they once had and work hard to produce the show, not only because of the prize at stake, but also due to every one’s assumed nonchalance concerning the Muppets’ relevance.
A great part of the film is its complete acceptance of the Muppet franchise’s general disappearance from the public eye, which is deliberated upon in numerous ways. Whether its Kermit’s soft drink preference being TaB soda or President Carter and Molly Ringwald being faithful guest stars to be considered, the vision that it takes with this knowledge is not to display passive resentment, but to inform the audience with a wink and nudge. The final Muppet Show near the end is a pretty energetic dose of nostalgia, as they truly reenact each part of the show in a grand manner, from the popular theme song to Fozzie’s terrible stand up act.
In fact, The Muppets more than makes up for its franchise’s dormancy by employing a good number of cameos to aid the titular gang in their quest, notably Neil Patrick Harris, Whoopi Goldberg, Selena Gomez, and even Clinton campaign strategist James Carville. And perhaps as a slight to his career, Jack Black is literally forced to host their variety show. Granted, with the exception of Foo Fighters member Dave Grohl, who voices Animool, the have nothing to add, but simply gather around the characters for support.
Humor is not even considered a weakness for the Muppets, and this still rings true. Not only characters not only deliver witty and funny dialogue designed to solicit a laugh, but also collaborate in breaking the third wall of movie tropes at every opportune moment. This is usually done in an off-the-cuff way that a possibly cynical person would allude to, such as what happens to the large crowd of dancers after the song is over, the famous Indiana Jones cliche of “travelling by map,” Mary’s constant disruption by others while singing, or even the most direct joke where Richman repeatedly says “maniacal laugh” with a smirk instead of actually doing so. Segal, who is co-writer along with Nicholas Stoller, does a great job in this department.
Even with that, the film manages to display the importance of relating to one another. As Walter has the very obvious problem of being a Muppet surrounded by non-Muppets, he effectively learns that he is already unique enough to be accepted by those around him. Also, Gary makes amends with his girlfriend’s arguments against him in one of the best song numbers that the film has to offer.
In a sense, this movie hearkens back to a time when people came together to create programs that were meant not only to entertain a focused group for the moment, but also to enlighten an entire generation through genuine humor and an appropriate and creative sense of contemporary culture. Even the musical numbers they construct are in the operatic sensibility of strengthening character development rather than the promotion of a catchy tune. The Muppets, while being a definite and enclosed event, has certainly served up a great reintroduction to the modern world.
Drake - “Take Care” Album Review.
On November 15, 2011, Drake will place his golden goblet down on his Austrian imported coffee table, slip on his goose down slippers, and descend from the Epicurean city of excess with his latest project, Take Care. The essence of a million virgins shall be stolen by opportunistic frat boys, and the sex-addled minds of women everywhere shall delight in the bounty of wet dream jams that their saint has adorned them with. In a nutshell, Drake shall leave a trail of moist panties and softly broken hearts along the yellow bricked road that is his career.
And excuse me for slightly describing my preconceived disdain for Drizzy’s music- its simply that this new breed of “soap opera rap” (as he himself coined it on the track Headlines) does not wash over my musical palette without him leaving a considerable aftertaste of arrogance and an unnerving bipolar approach to women. Although Drake certainly seems to be a genuine emotional person if not a bit eccentric in his expression (lavender-scented showers, anyone?). Regardless, there was something for me to delight in on this album.
First and foremost were the beats. I am admitting a dearth of knowledge of his previous work, but as far as this project’s case, there seems to have been a conscious effort in acquiring high-quality instrumentals that add to his message, rather than simply provide a backdrop. The track “Crew Love” has a swirling, cavernous feel to it, and this pulsating, glassy sample adds a nice touch. The titular track, which features an underused Rihanna feature, has a dancehall-esque bass rhythm garnished with piano and live drums. While annoying at this point, “Marvin’s Room” still objectively merits from these cacophonous screeching sounds in the background, the swooning synth, and those nice bass stabs.
Despite Nicki Minaj’s presence on “Make Me Proud,” simply put that beat still goes hard (and frankly she was OK). And it took a while for me to come around on this one, but the Just Blaze sculpture on “Lord Knows” has to be one the best commercial beats this year, not to talk of being a great single later on down the promotion line. I love how the initial sample swirls round and round until swelling into an emphatic choral refrain accompanied band-style drums. And the beat goes straight H.A.M. when Rick Ross bosses up the joint. It is truly gorgeous. And even if a beat failed to stand out among the herd, it at least kept with the consistent tone of the album and was by no means crap.
In a distant second were the lyrics. Now, let me preface this by saying that it is damn near impossible for me to critique the numerous sections on the album where Drake sings. Because that would be like a fifteen-year old girl enjoying The Expendables. They’re simply these overdrawn R&B stereotypes inflated to their breaking point and delivered with a sultry voice, crooning women into climax. “Slow jam” is not a good enough terminology for the concoctions that bears Drake’s name. Thankfully, he does not “Drake” on every song, and provides a compelling slew of rap songs accessible by those who want them. He’s got the flow, and on a lazy day, I would let “Headlines” or “We’ll Be Fine” bump in the whip.
The topics he discusses are quite varied, ranging from women, how his fame has attracted women, how he can’t settle down with some women, how he raps for women, and how many women he womens while womenning in Womendom. This cavalcade of sexy time, life’s pleasures, and paper-thin emotional display is to be expected like snow in the winter. But I still cannot shake my innate feelings on his approach. I mean come on, for a guy who wants to save women to also claim that “he can’t trust these hos” or the fact that he like girls who “practice” with other guys, isn’t there something uneven about that profile? He pretends to be the suave sweater-laden rapper who understands women, but then quickly objectifies women when it seems right. Cognitive dissonance is the bullshit I am calling here.
Overall, the album is not really expanding to any new territories save for the production. I suppose if you wanted this album, you would’ve had it by now. If anything, “Make Me Proud” and “Lord Knows” are songs that we can all Kuumbaya to in the proverbial club.
Drake sounds like J. Cole. Or does J. Cole sound like Drake? He did drop his debut an entire year after; its just an observation.
Monster Movie Mash: Elvira, Mistress of the Dark
“And I thought my jokes were bad.” - The Joker
Elvira is known for being the dark, sexy power-babe of the 80s and 90s who warmed the hearts and pants of b-movie fans everywhere. The cheesy humor that pervaded her show was simply an extension of the MST3K atmosphere that it wanted to cultivate, only in terms of horror. This movie is for that specific type of crowd, only in a meta sort of way.
Not that the fillm is full of plot holes or horrible acting per se, but simply that the titular Elvira, played by Cassandra Peterson, spends the 90-minute run time spewing out sarcastic and innuendo-laden quips concerning the immediate situation that are surprisingly not rooted in pop culture of the day other than her. Oh, and lets not forget the cumulative book of jokes written primarily about the sumptuous bosom. These jokes tend to wear out within the first half of the film, but they are few in far between.
For display purposes only.
The plot, which has Elvira obtaining a run-down mansion in ultra-Puritan Fallwell, Massachussetts, is clearly created to promote the type of jokes that accentuate her personality and physical form with her surroundings. She manages to carry the film quite well in spite of her sedentary experience, and even performs two dance numbers (one lovingly ripped from Flashdance).
There’s not much else to this movie. It has a built-in audience that will vibe with the film in many ways, but an onlooker will not be excluded by this either.
Monster Movie Mash (not really): The Last House On The Left
Revenge is a concept that some societies take very seriously, almost as a paternalistic command to maintain dignity within the family. It may also be an instinctive reaction to “restore the order” of the world. The Last House On The Left deals with revenge in neither of those ways.
The Last House On The Left had a great opportunity to provide a thrilling and extremely shocking story. The basic plotline already fulfilled the groundwork: A group of thugs rape and murder two young women, Mari and Phyllis, and make the karmic mistake of spending the night at one of the women’s house, and culprits in turn are murdered by her parents. Unfortunately, the most important element missing from this movie is a deliberate justification for this plot twist.
The movie is rather lazy in making any of the stuff onscreen fully engage the audience. Its safe to say that when a person is being held against their own will, a combination of terror, helplessness and power should be exemplified. That simply cannot be the product of two well-dressed “convicts,” a woman who just took a bath, and a damn switchblade surrounding Mari, and lets not overlook the mediocre and emotionless way in which their minion lured them in from the street. Even the forest rape scene had me feeling relatively uncomfortable rather than completely disgusted or appalled. The only chase in the film is a ten minute loose string of Phyllis stumbling through the woods while two of her captives keep their distance, and of course this sequence is sound-tracked by a third rate Garfunkel and Oates, which completely drains any culpable suspense from the whole affair.
The final revenge plot by the parents was certainly ambitious, but suffered the same problems. The moment that they discover their daughter’s lifeless body in the woods is completely devoid of empathy or grieving, and their ensuing plan to terminate the sleeping murderers was somehow concocted by the prop assistant from Home Alone, as the father sets up the most elementary traps ever: a useless trip wire, a logically sound yet ridiculously ineffective electrified doorknob, and the piece de resistance, shaving cream on the floor. All of the father’s efforts fail to hurt any of the four men, especially Krug Stillo, who is the only one who actually attempts to fight back. He even overpowers Mari’s father and makes lewd passes at the body. Although the revenge is by effective means carried out, including a hilarious “blowjob with teeth” death carried out by the mother, it was a complete and utter mess of an ending to this film.
The Last House could have been way better than what it eventually became. The potential of the basic story was heavily marred by a stale roster of actors and a true lack of focus during each sequence- lest I forget the huge waste of comedic relief that was delivered by a police duo which deserves no attention at all. Sadly, Mari and her friend Phyllis will forever turn in their graves, unless the remake has any merit that is.
