East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: WEEK ONE WRAPPED

The first week of our three week shoot is in the can.* All said, this has been a magically smooth week, aside from the devastating heat, my terrifying-a-baby thing, and the bumping of one scene from yesterday (which was absolutely jam fucking packed) to Monday, which is super light. The most difficult thing I had to do yesterday had nothing to do with the incredibly emotional moments Hillary and I had to deliver, but rather wrestling with a pair of button fly jeans. I have never worn a pair of these hilarious remnants until this film and the mechanics of buttoning up one's fly is foreign to me. That's being politic; it was like watching a bear trying to put on cowboy boots. At one point, thirty seconds out from action, I was struggling to get my misbuttoned fly buttoned and Jillian offered to help, as it is, literally, her job. I politely refused, as not being able to achieve this feat would have made me feel...less than. Everything.
One potential disaster did rear its head yesterday when an insane neighbor called the police on us twice. Once before the sun had even set, and once again around 9:30 or so. The cops told James, our heroic 2nd AD** that this was the quietest film shoot he'd ever seen. On the second call, however, he said that, if the cops are called a third time, even if we are doing nothing wrong and all our permits are good, we'd get shut down. Thing is, this neighbor is selling their house, and wants everything to look perfect. Now, just saying, if I were trying to sell my house and wanted everything copacetic, I would go way out of my way to not call the fucking cops on my neighbors, lest they make the neighborhood seem...less hospitable to potential buyers. Just saying. But, after Monday, we're moving on from this location and that particular piece of shit can go fuck themselves with other, smaller pieces of shit.

Looks like I will not be making it to Mother Feather and that is just fucking crushing. Can't believe I thought I would have free time while out here... So, I'm tossing atound the idea of having a thing next Saturday somewhere conducive to everyone and seeing folks then, although, as we are shooting in Anaheim in a week or so, I might be able to get Alan on the set so we can shoot our own little movie. Probably about coke and whores. Or cake and whores. Or cake and candy. Whatever the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences thinks is hotter these days.

Now, I'm off to get a high colonic, an asshole bleaching and re-tightening (because one's asshole can never be too tight)***, some lunch, an earthquake, and then California uber alles.

* This is a saying from the early days of film referring to what would happen when a reel of film was finished. Basically, the reel of film would be placed in a large can and then covered in the branches of an ash tree until everyone forgot about it. And then, several years later, someone, usually the producer would say, "Oh shit, whatever happened to that can of film?", then everyone would panic and try and find it.
Sometimes, the old ways still live on...

** AD stands for "anno Domini", which, in Latin, translates to "assistant director".

*** And I know what you're thinking: "Paul! If you're newly bleached asshole is too tight, you won't be able to poop!" Guys, I'm superfamous, I have a guy for that.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: Terrifying Babies

Have you ever tricked a snake into smiling, and whispering its name? Ah, only then can you truly know...........whatitistobeanActor.

Another full day, including crying, kissing, the baby, driving in cars, and some other things that sound mundane until the cam-ah-rah is pointed at them and they become magic. Sweet, sweet magic.

The heat continues to crawl and assault each and every person here, like some sticky plague, but, as of right now (about twenty minutes after my arrival), I am still determined. But, forty-five minutes and six gallons of Paul Juice later, I am sure I will be just as sopping and whiny as a whinesop. Oh, also, just a moment ago, I was informed that the reason the baby was so awful yesterday...was probably because she is afraid of me.
Innocent and vulnerable infant: 0
Horrible Slenderman: 1
Victory is mine. And it tastes like ashes.

I'm sure I'll have some sun-fueled fuckrant for you later.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: hot

Have you ever had intercourse with a taciturn seagull? If so, then you really know what it is to be...an Actor.

Fuck Christ's eyes it is awful out here today. Mid-90's is hell, but, mid-90's while wearing pants and a wool shirt while trying to get emotional for a camera? Shitting fuck. This goes beyond merely complaining about the weather. This is going to sound lofty and stupid, but when I can feel piss warm liquid pouring over every inch of exposed flesh and soaking into every layer of clothing on me, it distracts from the work. Then, the scene is over and I have no idea of what I just did.
Fuck.
Add in the fact that this has been a jampacked day with an infant on set* and I begin to wonder how these scenes are going to turn out.
Luckily, I trust our director, DP, and AC to let us know if something is fucked, and everyone in the cast and crew is still working together beautifully, no shitty drama or anything pointless like that, so, it's been bareable.
Still though, this fucking asshole heat.
One more scene left today and then our first semi-night shoot tomorrow, going from 12pm to 12am, rather than 6am to 6pm. SPOILERS: I WILL BE IN A CAR.

You know what, I can't even keep typing. This lily is wilted, yo.

* Who was a perfect bundle of squiggly silence...except for every time we needed her to be.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: Why Are There No Clouds?

Seriously though, why the fuck are there no clouds out here? What's wrong?
Also, a quick note, for the next three weeks, any time you see me type the word "MOTHAFUKAH" or its plural form "MOTHAFUKAHS", you are meant to be hearing it in the voice of David Duchovney's Hank Moody from Californication, which, if you have not watched it, is just fun as hell, despite its continual lack of plot. Brilliant cameos abound...

Now, tell me...have you ever eaten a hard boiled egg in one bite? If so, then you know what Acting is. What it REALLY means to be an Actor. No, not really, but I feel like, now that I am super famous (like dumbsuperfucking famous) that I should start asking stupid questions and equating them with acting. So brace yourselves for that.

Yesterday was a short day for me, just a small handful of shots at a tiny little bookstore called Pop Hop. Marc Maron was shooting next door and I'd like to thank him for not taking random people from our set and having them on his podcast. Between set ups, I took a little wander down York  Boulevard looking for record stores, of which there were almost half a dozen.* York Boulevard is populated by gourmet donut shops, record stores, music stores, trendy vintage clothing stores and the like, but, in between each is some broken, abandoned store front or sprawl of homeless people. It's like a fucked up jawline; unnaturally white, perfectly capped teeth right next to rotting, smelly holes. Ah, El La.

After we wrapped, I tried out Seamless for the second time and I think it's honestly more work than just calling a number and telling some person what you want. Also, this is bizarre; not one person I have talked to out here knows what Seamless is. Spooky.

At the moment, I'm at the Baack Cave. We're about halfway through day three and, thus far, the hardest thing I've had to do in walk up and down a sloping lawn repeatedly. Murder on the knees, kittens. Murder on the knees. Kittens.
Knees kittens.

* How did I know there were almost a half a dozen record stores on York Boulevard? Well, I'll tell you: once I mentioned to Christina that Marc Maron was shooting next door and she called me a fucker because she's a huge fan and just KNEW I'd have some contact with him whilst out here, she researched the FUCK out of the area in order to experience things vicariously. Thanks punk.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: Day One

8:06 am

Sitting on some off-to-the-side stairs at a place called "Vanity House" at the moment*. I am going to try and make it my job to stay the fuck out of everyone's way as much as I can. These poor bastards are going to have to look at me (and, in some  horrific, extreme cases, TOUCH me) for the next three weeks, so I should spare them when able.

Plus, sitting and looking stoically out at the horizon lends a sense of thoughtful depth and quiet majesty that I shall immediately dispel the instant I open my mouth and people get to know the real me.

The Pig Man me.

To that point, here are some potential Avengers-related porn titles I came up with while trying to fall asleep at 8:45 last night, at which point, yes, the sun was still up.

Captain Slam Erica

The Incredible Girth

Thor Puthy

Iron Manhood

(Gi)Ant-Man

The Aven-Gerbils-Up-Their-Asses

Doctor Strange

Pretty happy with the gerbils one...

Note: there are a lot of birds around here. Which shouldn't be too weird, considering this place is called Eagle Rock **. For that reason, I am not suspicious of their intentions yet, but getting there.

12:58 pm

I did not expect that the hardest part of the first day of shooting would be me, getting into the driver's seat of a fucking car. Car seats without a huge goddamn steering column in the middle of them are hard enough, but this? It bordered on slapstick.

Just enjoyed lunch and, so far, things are going great, a well oiled machine.

Speaking of oiled, I am somehow not sweating as much as I thought I would be. MUST BE THAT FUCKING DRY HEAT EVERY ASSHOLE ON THE WEST COAST IS ALWAYS FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.

There are so many people on this set and it's a goal of mine to remember everyone's name, but, as I am a famous actor now, I am compelled to just give them numbers. And then forget the numbers.

Also, a select group of my friends will be happy to know I learned how to say "YAAAAAASSS!" in ASL.

I keep getting told that I "look amazing on camera", something I first took as a compliment, but now, I'm just wondering how monstrous I look when not on camera. Sufficiently monstrous, judging by the awe and delight in these people's voices, I imagine.

And, before I forget, if you read this and if you do social media, please do follow us @YouAndMeMovie on Twattle and Instagrok. It will make us feel loved and you feel gracious.

More later, norms.

* And, while it does sound like somewhere a murder would take place, it is actually our hair and make up and etc location.

** Looking for the "Eagle Rock Lounge" from Cake's "Mustache Man".

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: 68,400 Seconds To Go (Give or Take)

As of right now, I'm 19 hours out from my first day of shooting. Today there is nothing on the docket; everything for the first week has been throughly rehearsed and I've got nothing planned for today but an Uber to the store for more bottled water*, perhaps some laundry**, and to watch the majority of the latest seasons of Arrow (why haven't they fucking killed Malcolm goddamn Merlyn yet?), Flash (why aren't they constantly in the time vault learning shit?) and Legends of Tomorrow (haven't started it yet, but I do love me a good crossover). Then, I am going to try and be asleep by 9 pm to prepare for the next day, which, for me, starts at 5:30 am. The hardest part of being an actor is not waking up early, but that is one of the hardest parts.
Robert told me that.

Excited about tomorrow, but not nervous. I'm an actor and this is what I do.

Just realized my cursor blinks exactly once per second.

Have a nice day.


* Movie stars like me and Robert Downey Jr. don't drink tap water.

** Movie stars like me and Robert*** do do laundry.

*** Robert Downey Jr. I just call him Robert though, because we are both movie stars.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: End Times

Everything. Is on fire. Thousands of acres just twenty or so miles from my temporary place of residence are blazing. Ash is falling from the sky and we are looking at another 100 degree day.
This place is fucking broken.
But, despite the literal portal to Silent Hill opening in my neighborhood, I met up with Will last night who perfectly summed up El La for me.
Me: I mean, I know it's on fire, but it really does make the sunset look stunning.
Him: Yup, beauty at any cost.
Le not juste!

I had more rehearsals yesterday, solely with Hillary, and something I should keep close continues to wander away from me: I am an actor. I am an actor, I am an actor, I am an actor. On this project, I am not a writer, not a producer, not the director, I am an actor. I say the lines, do what the director says and get rewarded with unlimited water and ego strokes. This is the most difficult thing about working on creative projects with friends; in this undertaking, they are not my friends, they are my co-stars, my writers, my director, and, unless there is an open call for it, nothing is up for discussion. It's a job and I am here to do it. This is always a struggle for me because I think I'm super awesome at everything. And nothing will convince me otherwise. Here is where persistent and stubborn-as-a-mule-made-of-metal intersect on the graph. But: according to everyone, it is looking fantastic.
Trust.
Who do ya?

EVEN MOAR rehearsal today and tomorrow and then, holy fuck, the shoot begins.
As long as the cast and crew are not completely engulfed in flames.

Pray for Mojo.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: The Girl With Several Tattoos, None Of Which Were Of Dragons

Yesterday, I met and was instantly enthralled by one of our wardrobe people: Jillian. She resembles an elegant, unbroken Lisbeth Salander (the Mara iteration, not the Rapace). She designs her own clothes, is a geek, and is as stylish as the word allows. So far, nothing but great folks on this project, from production design to hair and make up to cast. Very excited for shooting to begin Monday.

Last night, after deciding that I looked sufficiently human in the clothes that had been selected, Jillian left and, after a total alignment of all the planets in our solar system, I managed to hook up my PS3.
DESPITE THAT FACT, I still reached out to Will, but, as he is still 5% sick, give or take, and I had to do college stuff, das vedanya, we pushed our meet up to tonight. My immune system is a strange thing when I travel and I am, by nature, as fragile as a rose. A really soft rose. Which does not like sun. Or beer. Or sports. So, I spent last night trying to stay up until at least 11 pm. I succeeded. Thank you.

Today was to start off with more rehearsal, but Brendan (O'Malley, playing my best friend) took ill, and there are production fires that need extinguishing, so I've spent most of the day futzing around with some music apps and my Zoom 4nh, making the odd noise and beat. I also boiled some eggs. Because I bought some eggs and that is a thing you can do with them.

I was also contacted by my agent who informed me that Comcast wants to book me over the weekend for a VO.
You guys, I am a really good voice actor.

I just learned yesterday that Mother Feather is having their first El La club show on the 4th and I'm planning on going. I'm still peeved about missing both their fucking record release show and their
Warped Tour performance, but, fuck it, this show is going to be RAW.

All right. Off to do yogurt. Namaste.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: Waiting to Wait

I understand, yes, I really really do. I understand that, when it comes down to it, the actor is a teensy tinsey part of a film, really just an object at which the camera is pointed, and, also, that complaining about BEING AN ACTOR IN A FILM is as ludicrous as a fish complaining about getting wet or a bird who doesn't like Danish film, but.
But.
I am a deeply dissatisfied human being.
A whinging, whining poopface.
And sitting around for HOURS waiting for stuff to happen is killing me.
YES. I KNOW IT'S NECESSARY. I JUST SAID THAT I UNDERSTAND AND THAT COMPLAINING IS IDIOTIC.
I AM IDIOT.
Ugh.

Anyway, after hours sitting quietly like a child waiting for their father to finish a business meeting, I was made up and styled and lit and filmed and the final judgment is that I look handsome on camera.
Well, that's a relief. If the people seeing this don't believe that Hillary's Ella would even LOOK at my Tony*, that would be a legitimate issue. After that, I stopped by a Radio Shack and solved my PS3 connectivity problem...or so I thought. As of right now, I have two separate wires that I am praying will solve my fucking problem. As a result, I watched television last night, specifically Ghostbuster 2 and Robin Hood: Men In Tights. Both were infected with commercials. Aside from the occasional YouTube bumper, I had kind of forgotten about them. Ugh.
I really hope these fucking cords work.

Today, I met the actor playing my best friend, and he's an absolute blast. We rehearsed and got to know one another and shooting with him will be a breeze. After that, more rehearsal with Hillary, which also went smashingly.
You guys, I'm a really good actor.

Now, RIGHT NOW, I'm heading off to my fitting.

I love you all.

* My character's name, not a nickname for my wazzer.

East Coast, West Coast, Everyone's A Killer: Entering Los Angeles

So. Yes. I am in Los Angeles (or El La, as people here seem to call it). I am here for a month (7/18 to 8/15) specifically to shoot a feature-length romantic drama called You & Me. As a primarily comedic actor, I'm relishing the challenge this role will provide. The script was written by my high school friend, Hillary, and her husband, Alex, who is also directing. I like the flow of it as well as the characters and the story, but, as I've said before, this is not my genre and I cannot predict what other folks will think.
But, I like it, and I'm here, so that should count for something.
I'm staying in an Airbnb in Altadena which I'm digging. I like the look and feel of the place; I could totally see some horrible, David Lynch murder taking place there. Something I genuinely consider awesome.
Anyone who knows me knows I am a massive creature of comfort who loves his creature comforts*. I am a media whore who enjoys the ability to have a sandwich delivered to my doorstep twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. In order to facilitate this addiction, I brought along my PS3 and a massively disproportionate amount of games, movies and TV shows, plus, there's Netflix. But, I'm also less than a half hour away from some great friends in a place absolutely teeming with culture and food, and part of me, the adventurous part that spurred me to walk from my hotel in Monaco ten years ago when I was there for a commercial shoot, buy a train ticket, and spend an afternoon in Italy is kicking and screaming and shitting itself at the idea of not being social.
We'll see what happens with that. I'm a weak man. But I am also a child who gets bored easily.
Plus, there's Uber.

Yesterday, my first full day out here, I met screen acting legend, Ms. Sally Struthers, who is playing my mother in the film. She is as delightful and ebullient as you would imagine. Then, later that day, at a wig store, I saw Rainn Wilson, trying on wigs. Absolutely bizarre.

I'm still experiencing the time difference, which is making me appear like a normal, functioning member of society, waking at 7:00, going to sleep at 10:00**. I'll be interested to see if my mind and body succumb to all the evidence around me, or if my stubbornness reaches my core and keeps me weird.

I've been to El La twice before, only for a matter of days; once for my birthday, when I stayed with Will, who made the trip amazing; we saw They Might Be Giants' thirtieth anniversary show at Royce Hall, then a secret Eddie Izzard show at the Largo, not to mention all the ridiculous food***, all on top of the fact that I was just getting to hang out with one of my best friends for the first time in years. The next time was August of 2013 for a disastrous awards ceremony. I was only there for two days or so, where, aside from exposing myself to the flaming train wreck of the first Geekies Awards, I also had a dinner with some friends celebrating my decision to leave my cockshit day job and go Full Retard with the acting.

I've never been anywhere that's not home for more than a week or so and this is a big deal. Mainly because Christina is planning on painting the living room now that I'm out of her goddamn hair.

Anyway, I'm rambling, but, then again, you're not paying me for this.

Right now I'm waiting for my turn getting hair and make up done for a camera test.

I'll keep posting updates if I remember and if  I want to.

* I call myself an Epicurean, although I know I'm just a soft, pampered baby bear

** AM to PM, you fools.

*** In & Out Burger is not good. It's not good burgers, it's not good fries, you people need to get over it.

A note about Phil Tucker's new epic fantasy series, "Chronicles of the Black Gate"

Facebook posts and Twitter blurbs weren't doing it for me, and, not that anyone will read this or do more than scan the title and click "Like"*, I felt as if I must expound on my thoughts and feelings towards Phil Tucker's new high/epic fantasy series, Chronicles of the Black Gate.

I'm not a high/epic fantasy guy. Never got into it. Got through the first two Ice & Fire books and then tuned out.** Made it to the Tom Bombadil chapter in Fellowship and actually told the book to fuck itself. The closest thing to high/epic fantasy I dig is King's Dark Tower books, and an argument could be made that those aren't really high/epic fantasy at all. So, when Phil, one of my oldest and dearest friends, reached out to me about reading The Path of Flames, the first book in his new epic fantasy series to get my perspective (that of someone who is not a fan of the genre) I was pensive. I love Phil's writing and the worlds he creates and have since we were in high school, where he introduced me to role playing (White Wolf's Mage the Ascension and Vampire the Masquerade mostly), but I was worried I'd get bored with the subject material and it would turn into a chore. 

It did not. 

It fucking did not. 

I found each of the six main character's intertwined stories engrossing and compelling, and, although I was waiting for a dull moment to crop up, spurring me to skip to the next paragraph***, that moment never came. When I reached the end of the first book, I was sated yet still ravenous; both to experience the next step in each of the protagonists' journeys and to discover more about this startlingly original world that Phil had created, its rules, its history, etc. But, more than that, as always with my favorite writings of his, I didn't just want the next book, I wanted to role play in the world, have Phil DM and plot some horribly twisted and delightfully macabre demise for me.

But, taking a step back, what did it mean if I, someone who doesn't know anything about the genre, liked it? It could be a fluke. I could be a fluke. One might also think that I'm biased towards everything Phil would write, as his friend, but, anyone overhearing my frank and, yeah, let's say it, brutally scathing review of the first two books in his recent YA vampire series would have to rethink that opinion. I'm acidically critical of Phil's work because I know what he's capable of. Same with Trent Reznor, same with all of my favorite artists.

So: I liked it. I gave Phil my notes and wished him well. As it turns out, I was right; it wasn't just his closest friends who'd liked The Path of Flames, it was other authors and fans of the genre; positive reviews and record breaking sales had confirmed what I had suspected: this was a truly excellent and potentially far reaching and massively appealing work. After reading an almost final draft of the second book, The Black Shriving, just released on Amazon today, I was completely sold. I'm in for the long haul. Might his Chronicles of the Black Gate make me into an epic fantasy fan? Probably not.**** But if this is the only high/epic fantasy I ever read, I'm comfortable with that.

* Or another one of those goddamn fucking emoticons that I WILL NEVER USE FACEBOOK SO EAT A SMILING DICK.

** And I've never seen an episode of GoT.

*** Not because of Phil's writing, but because my attention span has been as deliquesced by the uprising of social media as the next bent-necked, fungus-brained zombie.

**** Fuck Tom Bombadil. Forever.

End of the Month Music Bitchfest - June 2016

Nine Inch Nails
We're about to get a lot more information about Jupiter and, with it, how our planet and our universe were formed. NASA and Apple Music* teamed up and released a short film connecting the two spheres of space and music, and Reznor and Ross composed an elegant piece to score it. It feels like the softer, more beautiful moments from Ghosts. You can check it out here.

Beck
Beck's new, as-yet-untitled album, which, according to the Space Child himself, "will sound like a range between last year's 'Dreams'** and 'Wow'," is set for release in late October. The new single, while mucho funky, feels a bit pointless and cliche, lyrically (aside from the line about doing jujitsu and the Lamborghini shih tzu, that's pretty solid Midnite Vulture content). Plus, Beck sounds kind of, I don't know, uninterested in all the stuff he's saying. Look, I get that there will never be another MV, that's okay, we'll always have MV. I'd rather Beck just do something new and original than try and recapture the vibe he had 17 years ago.
Just the fact that new Beck is on the horizon gives me hope though...

Aphex Twin has a new EP dropping on July 8th called CHEETAH. While most of it is solid luminescent Aphex; "CHEETAHT2 (Ld spectrum)" has a fantastic, frantic energy appropriate only for the racing of future space cars, the "single"*** "CIRKLON3 [Колхозная mix]" thuds along and gets kind of dark at the end (but doesn't really do it for me), but the big stand out is "CHEETA2 ms800", which is just...fun. Fun and bouncy and, of course, only about fifty seconds.
*sigh*
Not my favorite Aphex Twin EP, but still a totally capable Aphex Twin EP.

I'll be in Los Angeles for most of July and August, so there might not be a Bitchfest next month.

Don't. Cry.



* SYNERGY, MOTHERFUCKER.

** Which I just saw in a car commercial. This...displeases me...

*** Ha. Yes. The radio single. That will be played on the radio.

A review of Garbage's "Strange Little Birds"

On every Garbage album since their self-titled debut back in 1995, there's a song or two that doesn't really fit. It's maybe a bit darker or slower or more electronic or intense than the rest of the album. These are the songs I tend to gravitate towards. Their newest, Strange Little Birds, is absolutely overflowing with songs of this ilk and I think that's why it's my favorite album of theirs in years. Whereas Manson and Vig usually get all the kudos from me, this time around it's Duke Erikson's bass. It drives the whole album like no other.

"Magnetized" and "Night Drive Loneliness" are both a bit on the nose, the latter featuring Manson moaning the words "lonely" and "all alone" repeatedly, but other than these rather mild tarnishes, the rest of the album glimmers spectacularly (and consistently) with dark, troubled energy.
The opener, "Sometimes", is completely disparate from anything in their catalogue, combining soft orchestration and brutal, synthetic loops. "If I Lost You" is a perfect prequel to their sinfully, psychotically sensual "#1 Crush" and sounds like sexy Depeche Mode from their Ultra-era. The interplay of Manson's harmonies on "Blackout" (just one of three tracks clocking in at over six minutes on SLB*) is entrancing. The powerful, anthemic slow burn of "Even Though Our Love Is Doomed"** is "the throbbing heart of the entire record" and...is "Teaching Little Fingers To Play" about masturbation? "Doing it my own way / (I'm doing it, I'm doing it) / I'm changing things up / Like I'm teaching little fingers to play". If so, that's awesome. And, if not and it's about Manson taking private guitar lessons...sorry.

And I could keep going. If you tend to enjoy the radio friendly, poppy hits Garbage has put out over the past twenty years, this might not be your thing, but if you like their more shadowy, more intricate depths, then you should probably give Strange Little Birds a try.

* Don't know why, but these things matter to me.

** This and "So We Can Stay Alive" feature some of my favorite lyrics here.

End of the Month Music Bitchfest - May 2016

Nine Inch Nails
Well, it's fucking June and, aside from his name (and that of his wife and long-time guitar player) popping up on a list of folks involved with the new Twin Peaks, we've heard jack shit from Trent Reznor/Nine Inch Nails/How to destroy angels/Tapeworm. I figured, when Reznor tweeted about "new stuff in 2016", that he'd either drop some shit at midnight on January 1st, or do the opposite, and post a blurry photo at 11:59 pm on December 31st. Sometimes you eat the bar and so on and so forth.
Guess we're looking to Q4 for this stuff...

Beck
Go here.


After over a year, I finally imported Time Machines II** from the USB stick embedded in the piece of wood set in the hand-carved pewter slipcase inside the leather wallet that's been sitting on my desk.* And reviewed it.

I also finally got around to checking out Soisong, yet another project from the late Peter "Sleazy" Christopherson of Coil (a collaboration with Ivan Pavlov aka CoH). It's so unlike anything I've ever heard from him...  Their one LP Xaj3z is just jaw droppingly disparate from either of their normal fair. There are elements of Reznor and Ross ("Amkhapaa"), Danny Elfman ("T-Hu Ri Toh"), an after hours casino, famous for its android floorshow ("Paer Tahm"), early Gorillaz ("Dtorumi") and, finally, "Ti-Di-Ti Naoo", a quiet, fragile send off, reminiscent of Thai sky lanterns; the very end of which is downright endearing. Almost childish feeling. This is almost a perfect collaboration.
And the packaging is something I've never seen before.

Dat new Radiohead album tho. I feel like A Moon Shaped Pool is the band's Morning Phase, and I think that's why I like it so much. I will admit to having cooled on it since its release, but those Greenwood strings, man... A lot of this feels like Yorke's solo stuff (maybe because just under half of it originated as just that), which I dig more that the majority of Radiohead's catalogue. Review here.

And, finally, Mother Feather has unleashed their dragon and it is taking huge, wet bites out of the pop music scene. Favorable reviews all over the place (including this one here) and shut up and get the album.

* Not ever to be confused with Tin Machine II, although, fuck me would that have been weird...

** Not even kidding.

A review of Radiohead's "A Moon Shaped Pool"

There's a line in Marcel Proust's Within A Budding Grove that refers to a small village seen just at sunrise but before the sunlight has actual hit it: "its pond encrusted with the opalescent nacre of night".* That phrase, "the opalescent nacre of night" keeps returning to me as I listen and relisten to the newest release from Radiohead. If we're getting conspiratorial, then I believe the opener, the frantic, paranoid buzz of "Burn The Witch" is the only "waking" track, something so horrible and prophetic that the narrator is overstimulated and driven into a soporific escape from reality. This is where the rest of the album takes place. After this assault and retreat, the theory is cemented by the watery blur of "Daydreaming" which even concludes with low strings and vocalizations serving as fitful sleeping noises. There are a few crescendos on Moon Shaped Pool, but all of them are soft. For the most part, the BPMs are low. And almost everything drifts along on Jonny Greenwood's syrupy orchestration.

As far as reviewing something like this...I'm really at a loss. It doesn't feel like a typical Radiohead album (whatever the hell that is). It's like trying to review a series of dreams or imagined vignettes, perhaps all taking place in those ubiquitous "five minutes" one always begs for before their day must begin. Greenwood's amazing, emotive strings play the same role here as David Campbell's orchestration on Beck's Sea Change and Morning Phase, specifically to deepen and widen the experience, to give it more meaning. The slow, sad, glorious bloom of "Decks Dark", the recounted anxiety-dream feel of "Glass Eyes", "Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor Rich Man Poor Man Beggar Man Thief" which stands out in the most interesting way**, that heartwrenching, faux choir on "Identikit". There's more space here, sometimes filled with sparkling keys or electronic sputters or just silence, on the whole making Moon Shaped Pool sound a bit more like Yorke's solo work.

For a while, before they erased themselves from the internet, released two videos and then the whole thing in a matter of days, there was talk that this album was to be titled Dawn Chorus, which wouldn't have been totally accurate, because of that ever-present "opalescent nacre of night" here that I mentioned earlier.

At this point in their career, I wonder how Radiohead garners new fans. They've been around for over two decades and, I feel, you either like a few of their songs***, are dangerously, slavishly devoted to them, or cannot stand Thom Yorke's voice/don't know what a radio head is. If you're in that second category, you've already downloaded the digital version, pre-ordered the CD and/or vinyl, and, most likely, the elaborate and, no doubt, spectacular special edition as well, and you're not going to cancel your orders based on anything written here...so...why are you reading this?

* Fuck my eyes that is the most pretentious sentence I've written since college.

** Something feels Bond-ish. Maybe an earlier and completely disparate draft of "Spectre"?

*** "PLAY CREEP! PLAAAAY CREEEEP!!!!"

A review of Mother Feather's self titled debut LP

I used to force music on people. My thinking was: I like it and I’m the smartest person in the world with the best taste in music, so you should like it…here’s a mix CD…what did you think of the mix CD I just handed you…etc.

I’ve stopped doing that.

Until now.

This isn’t a review or a recommendation, it’s a prescription. Go. Go now and listen to this album because it has everything a sane person would want: nostalgia? Check. Anthemic manifestos of empowerment? Check. Minxy euphemisms involving trampolines and airplanes? Check. Fucking puns involving ancient Egyptian goddesses? Fucking check. I would tell you this album cures cancer, but there isn’t enough empirical data to substantiate that claim.

Yet.

It’s eerie…you’re not hearing this music for the first time, you’re rediscovering it. It’s more than primal, it’s archetypal.  “Natural Disaster” is inspiring without being pandering; less of a “c’mon, kiddo, you can do it!” vibe and more of a “you know you can rule the earth, get off your ass.” The slinky little guitar line in “The Power” is both coy and fun, until the chorus when it’s kicking you in the teeth and causing you to uncontrollably pump your fist. “Trampoline” is inexorable, inescapable joy— resistance is futile. And then, there’s the title track, which contains one of my favorite lyrics. In music. Ever.* You cannot get the chorus of this song loud enough. I dare you to try. 

The only downside to this album is that it isn’t twice as long.

Front woman Ann Courtney informs you and assures you that she “will be your mother feather”, and, while you do not know what that is...you want it, you need it. But, sadly, you can't gain full understanding merely by listening to the prayers, you must go to the temple to worship, to truly see these gods and goddesses burn and writhe as they preach. Shield your eyes though, you might just become a zealot, a devout follower, and then everything else will fall away and the chorus to their titular anthem will never seem loud enough again. 

Hm. I’m going to sound like a lunatic until you listen and get what I’m talking about. So, do it. Get this fucking album. Discover the Truth. You’re only denying yourself something singular and pure and amazing if you don’t.

* Specifically, “you have lucked upon my lightning”.

A review of Peter Christopherson's "Time Machines II"

I know that the man used electronic instruments. I know that I might even own one or two of the exact type he utilized to create the follow up to Coil's Time Machines, but, in my mind's eye, I've never pictured Peter Christopherson sitting down at a keyboard and pushing buttons or pressing keys; I picture him sitting in a darkened room with a jumble of wires sticking out of the far wall. He sits and meditates on what he wants to create, what he decides to share, what he needs to excise from himself, then stabs these wires into his brain. The resulting sound is recorded directly onto whatever storage device he has hooked up.*
It's a nightmarish image, but it's the only one that comes to me when I hear this, Christopherson's final work**.

The end begins with dental drills and synthesized church bells. Exactly as it should. Next, something rife with whimsical jounce, fun until everything melts into sputtering, chittering madness. The fourth track sounds enough like something from Alessandro Cortini's Forse trilogy that it's distracting. The penultimate track is redolent of tribal drums and black mists. The album concludes with something wet and nasty; a noxious tar pit teeming with broken starlight. Or eyestalks. And, although things are disturbing and evocative for a bit, the final sounds given to this world by Peter "Sleazy" Christopherson are quiet, tender, and lonesome. 

When compared directly with its predecessor, Time Machines II is not as trance-inducing; there's more variation and texture to the dissonance, but, I firmly believe that, under the right circumstances, one could use this work to truly pass through the space-time continuum. It's a dark, elegant, and fitting end to the creative life of one of the bravest men in music.

* In this case, a USB drive embedded in a piece of wood contained within an engraved pewter slipcase in a leather pouch.

** "Final" until some malnourished Thai boy stumbles over Danny Hyde's doorstep clutching a wax cylinder bestowed upon him decades ago by Sleazy himself.

End of the Month Music Bitchfest - April 2016

Well, my ass just got morcellated by the government, but it's all worth it when you look at the plethora of new ah shit there's nothing.

Nine Inch Nails
OR IS THERE?! It looks like Reznor, Mrs. Reznor, and Mrs. Finck-Reznor are all involved in the new season of Twin Peaks. While some people speculate that Reznor will be acting in the third season*, I'm confident that this just means a Reznor/Reznor/Finck reimagining of the original TP score**, but this time, with more dissonance! And, since Julee Cruise was also tagged, maybe Trent will give her some good music over which to caterwaul.
We won't know until next month, when second-long blips of music start rolling out from nin.com every week until mid 2017, when the show airs.

They Might Be Giants
TMBG have wrapped up their "Phone Power Tour"*** and, aside from some make-up dates and a small handful of special appearances this year, will go into hiding to create A WHOLE NEW YEAR OF MUSIC FOR 2017.
I'm shocked I've made it almost halfway through the year without getting the TMBG DTs...


In other news, Garbage released a new song from their upcoming album and it's...a Garbage song. Meh.

MOTHER FEATHER'S ALBUM IS OUT IN TWO WEEKS BUT I'VE BEEN LISTENING TO IT ALMOST NON-STOP FOR A MONTH. THE REVIEW IS FORTHCOMING.

Finally, I still don't quite believe that Prince is dead. Just typing that feels impossible. Score one for that bastard God; what is the ONLY WAY to make the world forget about Bowie's death? Kill Prince.
You fucking cunt.
Why can't Justin Bieber die? Or any of the, literally, hundreds of goddamn awful shitty "singers" out there? At some point soon, I'm going to watch his three films, bawl myself stupid and then accept this, but, not yet.
Also, these as-yet-unconfirmed rumors that the man died of AIDS and had been living with HIV since the mid fucking 90's seem ridiculous. He WAS sex, so how could he POSSIBLY have contracted a sexually transmitted disease? That's like saying the sun got skin cancer or the ocean drowned...
Prince is responsible for some of the best moments in me and my best friends' lives, and I'll never forget that. Yet another truly unique soul in this parade of gray mediocrity has been lost and the universe will never recover.
One thing I will say: if his goddamn sister had anything to do with his death, my dwindling faith in humanity will be absolutely extinguished and I shall devote myself, fully, to ending this sick and broken world.

* We are calling it a new season, not a reboot or series, right?

** Oh Christ, I hope he's not acting in it...

*** Which, oddly enough, only features three songs from the album after which it takes its name...

"SPECTRE" PROBLEMS

When I walked out of the theater that night, I was apoplectic. Not only had it been a bad Bond film, something I thought we'd seen the last of in 2002 when whatever devils shat out Die Another Day*, but it had actually managed to damage and devalue the previous three, excellent Bond films*** and set the whole franchise back. After that shitty little tacked on scene, I was completely fine with a new Bond****. Toss it out and burn it down.

Since then, I have purchased the film and rewatched it, taking notes about what, exactly, had made me so furious, confident that it couldn't be that bad, right?

I am exceedingly pleased to admit to myself that it's not, in fact, that bad, and convinced now that that guy who said Spectre was "the worst Bond films in 30 years" had never seen Die Another Day.

After some time and distance (and filtering out the niggling shit), here are my biggest issues with the new Bond:

Oh that credit sequence: In all seriousness, did NOT ONE PERSON INVOLVED with this know of the existence of tentacle porn? Also, while we're talking about octopi: the octopus as a symbol works, but the actual octopus, especially an octopus/woman hybrid does not. Fire, good; mirrors, good; hentai, BAD.
Then, there's Sam Smith's voice. His testicles? Where are they, please? I get that there must be emotion, but, if you're going to get that high, just get a lady to do it. I don't want Bond to be associated with men singing in breathless falsetto. Unless it's as a joke.
Or unless it's beautiful.

WHY DID BLOFELD’S TORTURE CHAIR DO, LITERALLY, NONE OF THE THINGS HE SAID IT WOULD DO?! Not only did Bond remember exactly who Swan was seconds after having his brain drilled, but, moments later, he sprints down a hallway, disarms a guy, shoots that propane thing, and snipes a whole bunch of dudes, things one couldn’t do without, you know, "sight, hearing, and balance", all the things Blofeld said he'd just fucked with. Plus, if ANY of his senses had been the slightest bit affected, that would have been an excellent time for Swan to be more than a damsel with pretty hair. It ends up making Blofeld look like an idiot.

That weird and clearly tacked on bit at the end. It's obvious the creators didn't know how they wanted to leave things, so they shot that bit of drivel.

And here's the niggling shit I filtered out.

"I think you're just getting started!" - Jesus fuck

So, that posthumous message from M indicates that she knew about SPECTRE? Nah, let's not bother explaining that.

Hi, I'm Rory Kinnear, double-0 exposition.

"Of course! (forehead slap) Mr. WHite!!!!!!!11!!!"

Making Mr. Hinx superhuman is the bad kind of reference to older bond movies. Jaws was Jaws, let him rest.

Why does SPECTRE headquarters feel like a spa?

The details of the ring and how it connects everything is WAY underexplained. I had to pause the movie on Q's computer screen to put it together. Am I that stupid? 

"I'M THE METEOR!!! ME! AND SPECTRE! WE'RE ALL THE METEOR!!!"

Blofeld talks about how he was (indirectly) responsible for the death of all the women in Bond's life, but the woman from QoS didn't die. You'd think with so many cameras, that Blofeld would have known that.

So much surveillance and foreknowledge of Bond and they didn't check his watch?

The fluffy, white cat just for fan service felt silly.

So love is stronger than…cataclysmic brain trauma?

They should have let the "now we know what 'C' stands for" joke stand on its own.

The escape from M I 6 was way too cozy.

That last a little car commercial moment is just awful.

Here's what I'd like to see if there is another Bond in this series: 

SPECTRE returning to its roots and moving off of the personal shit with Bond. Or, maybe they put a bounty out on Bond and Swan, allowing us to see a little more of her being awesome. You could also throw in 009...played by Idris Elba. And, one way they could ameliorate that pointless and completely ineffective torture scene would be to have lingering effects hindering Bond.

I'd really like to see Swan in the next one and the issues Bond has with real life. We didn't get nearly a long enough look at that with Vesper in the third act of Casino Royale.

Or reboot the whole thing. Again. After the bad taste Spectre left in my mouth, I'd be fine throwing out Craig and starting things over. I like M, I like Q, I like Moneypenny, and I like Blofeld.

* One of my favorite credit sequences though.**

** Not the music; the visuals and story tie-in.

*** I enjoy Quantum of Solace as a direct follow-up to Casino Royale, not something to be viewed after a long period of time.

**** Although not Idris Elba. I love his strength and grit but he is not Bond any more more than James Brolin is.

A review of Har Mar Superstar's "Best Summer Ever"

My first exposure to Har Mar Superstar (AKA Sean Tillmann) was a song called “Sextape” which combined my favorite elements of Beck and Prince into one filthy little ditty. Ever since then, I've been into his unique and sweaty* brand of sleazy R&B/dance. On his latest album however, the sleaze has been washed away...by reminiscent tears.

I do not know what I was expecting**, but Best Summer Ever was not it. It's so goddamn sincere! Tracks like "Don’t Erase", "Confidence", "How Did I Get Through the Day?" (strong "I Only Have Eyes For You" vibe on this one), and "I Hope" (a fantastic opener which seems to start things off at the end of the proceedings, rather than the beginning) are heartbreakingly real. Scars from lost summer loves, perhaps? This is not a slezeless release, however. "Anyone's Game" and "It Was Only Dancing (Sex)" have got some jizz on them, but there's still that patina of sincerity lurking at their core. There's also "Haircut" (featuring Karen O.), which could have been a lost track from some 70's compilation consisting of artists who tried to start new dance crazes and failed ("Hey! Everybody do the Crewcut!"). Karen O.'s giggles on the track only add to the silliness.

I've never thought of HMS as a joke artist; he's too dedicated to what he's doing, and Best Summer Ever is no exception. This is a legitimately heartfelt album, almost overflowing with moments of genuine feelings and emotions. Has Tillmann grown up? Has he abandoned his gold lame bikini briefs?*** Personally, I hope not, but, then again, I'm a bit peculiar. Any normal person could bring this album to the beach, hit repeat, and have a really excellent (if somewhat tumescent) time, especially if any of those normal people loved music about heartache from the 60's, 70's, or 80's, as Tillman and  Julian Casablancas (who produced the album and penned "Youth Without Love") perfectly captured all three decades. Whether or not Har Mar Superstar has, indeed, grown up, he will always have a sweat-stained and shady place in my heart, and, if you're willing to get a little filthy yourself, you might find one there for him as well.

* Oh so incredibly sweaty...

** Aside from a guy who looks a hell of a lot like Ron Jeremy wearing underwear, socks, and a smile, I suppose.

*** Several pairs of which I assume he owns.