The story about Colbert Nation adopting the U.S. Olympic speed skating team makes me feel all kinds of good. I especially love the last quote in this story. Seems like everybody might get what they want out of this.
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Sometimes I wonder if Christopher Walken realizes how funny he is. (I’m not big on everybody “doing” Walken, but when Walken himself does something like this, it’s worth passing along.)
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This is an entertaining list of 10 infamous “Saturday Night Live” moments, but how they leave out the Paul Shaffer and Charles Rocket f-bombs (especially Rocket’s) is beyond me.
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This is actually kind of funny. A list of Hollywood’s most generic-looking actresses.
How can it get any better than this? An invitation from Billy Mays’ family to send in photos of people dressed as Mays for Halloween. There are prizes.
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Here’s a crazy ongoing project. The first “Star Wars” film (“A New Hope”) is cut into 15-second pieces and recreated by amateur filmmakers. Then the whole thing is put back together for our viewing pleasure.
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“The Informant!” was once touted as an Oscar hopeful. Even with the best picture field expanded to 10 movies, the Decatur-based effort isn’t getting much love from those predicting the nominees.
And if this hits a little too close to home for some of you, I’m sorry, but you have it coming.
I’ve taken phone calls and been watching the blog comments in Ashley Rueff’s DecaturAde regarding the cancellation of a scheduled appearance by the comedian Gallagher. The self-promoted show was called off due to limited advance ticket sales.
Posters and callers are complaining they didn’t know about the show.
Folks, we had it in the newspaper. It was listed on the front page of the D section last Friday. Two full paragraphs, along with five other events within an hour’s drive of Decatur (Christian band NewSong – whose Decatur show we’ll advance this Friday – “Tap Dogs” at Springfield, Andrew Bird at Urbana’s Foellinger Auditorium, Larry Reed at Mason City Limits comedy club, “Miracle on 34th Street” at Effingham’s Rosebud Theatre and Disco Biscuits playing at Urbana’s Canopy Club). In addition, advertisements for the show appeared in the newspaper.
Daily, I hear complaints from people who say they had no advance notice of an event. Easily 90 percent of the time, we’ve had information about the event someplace in the paper. AND the Web site. These complainers generally get my half-mocking-but-still-serious response, “You actually have to pick up the paper and read it. We could go around door-to-door and read it to people, but we’ve found packaging it up and laying it on your doorstep is much more economical.”
Look, I know the printed version of the newspaper is an incredibly uncool thing for some people. But consider this: If the Internet were the accepted manner of news delivery, the newspaper would have been invented to make it more convenient for users. You don’t need a computer or a wireless connection to read the newspaper. It’s THERE ALREADY.
And this comes from a guy who played a significant role in creating the site you’re looking at now. I LOVE the Internet. Love it. But I love print, too. I see them as complementing each other, not being mutually exclusive. I use both every day.
I know there’s a cadre of folks who seemingly can’t wait for the death of newspapers, or “mainstream media,” or whatever they call this thing they appear to view as a mindless, thoughtless, uncaring monolith. (I answer and/or return almost every one of my phone calls and e-mails, I swear, and most of my co-workers, to my knowledge, do the same.)
All I can say to that group that wants to shovel dirt over our faces is be careful about getting what you wish for. If you think it’s difficult to find information now, it will get worse if your wishes come true.
That’s one prediction I hope I don’t live to see.
Pick up and read the paper once in a while, OK?
Thanks for letting me vent. I’ll be back with more silly crap tomorrow.
Let that be the end of that – until the DVD release, anyway.
If you live in the Herald & Review circulation area, Thursday will be your last chance to catch “The Informant!” in theaters. After a seven-week run at the Strand and Hickory Point (in addition to the five-week run at The Avon), the Matt Damon-ADM price-fixing tale is leaving town.
According to Yahoo’s box office gross tracker, the film has made close to $33 million in domestic box office. If online estimates of $20 to $25 million for the film’s budget are accurate, it’s already in profit.
Raise your hand if you were actually gullible enough to believe “Michael Jackson: This Is It” would only be in theaters for two weeks.
Yeah, nobody’s raising their hands, are they? You’re very wise people.
If you want a full taste of how ridiculous some of the hyperbole about the film is, take a look at this press release masked as a news story. I know publicists who would be ashamed to engage in this kind of hyperbole.
I’ve found the coverage of the “This Is It” box office results interesting. All box office predictions I read last week had the film making considerably more than the $32.5 million it’s made so far. That’s barely ahead of the Miley Cyrus concert film from last year, and Jackson’s movie has almost five times the number of prints in circulation.
Yet news stories consistently repeat a figure of $100 million worldwide. Someone at Sony – the company that paid dearly for the “This Is It” footage – is working overtime. Worldwide grosses are rarely a big part of any movie story – unless publicists insist on it.
Last week’s new “South Park” episode – “Whale Whores” – showed me again how improbably creative the show’s writing staff can be.
Understand before you go forward reading this – I know “South Park” is not everyone’s cup of soup. However, I have two hours of appointment television per week: “Heroes,” “South Park” and “The Office.” That’s just me. Believe me, I get it if you feel otherwise – especially if you have pre-teen children.
By my count, the show has done 194 episodes, and I’ve only been disappointed in a handful. The prime key in the success of “South Park” is they deliver on the ideas.
The plot for “Whale Whores,” while not giving away any key elements, focuses on angry Japanese (portrayed in cruel racial stereotypes, as are almost every minority depicted on the show) killing dolphins. Somehow, the writers turn this into comedy, comedy that works.
I was and remain a huge fan of early “SCTV” comedy shows, but when the program moved to NBC, the demands of filling a 90-minute weekly slot overwhelmed the small writing team. The ideas were still there, but unfortunately, too often the pieces ultimately looked like barely sketched-out versions of decent ideas. (“What if we did a Bowery Boys spoof and put Robin Williams in it?”)
This “South Park” episode reeked of one of those kind of table discussions. (“The Japanese are the only country that refuses to not kill dolphins while harvesting from the sea.” “Wow, they must hate dolphins.”)
The episode even used stock film footage of the aftermath of World War II atomic bombs being dropped on Japan.
And yet the writers pulled off a funny episode, one of the best of this season.
How do they do it? I don’t know. But it’s amazing to me.
A friend of mine used to be fond of saying, “Face your fears and they’ll disappear.”
Unfortunately, her peer group discovered her fear of snakes. We were all amused by her inability to face down even fake rubber snakes. Ones that didn’t even appear real.
However, in honor of that friend (and this weekend being Halloween), let’s share what scares us. If we face our fears, they will disappear.
You first.
Seriously, though.
I’ve overcome some fears that were simply silly (thunderstorms with extra added bonus wind!) and others that were more real and maybe even remain around in a small way (heights). My biggest fear remains water.
“Cold or deep?” a friend used to ask. My response was “Cold AND deep AND wet.” Maybe if I’d spent more time swimming and less time listening to Top 40 radio in my teens, I’d have already faced down this fear. But it’s there.
(Although to a reduced degree from years ago. For example, I’m going on a Caribbean cruise – my third in five years – next month.)
There’s a lot to say about “Michael Jackson: This Is It,” and I try to address some of that Friday in my column in the print edition of the Herald & Review.
(Don’t worry – I’m not spilling as much ink about Jackson as I did with Brian Wilson earlierthis week.)
The first thing most of you are going to be wondering is how it is and whether it’s worth it. And the short answer is: That all depends.
First, be aware that it’s a “premium” ticket, which for me meant dropping $11 to see the 11 p.m. Tuesday debut at the Strand. A friend spent less at the concession stand.
Second, be aware you’re not seeing a concert film. You’re essentially watching footage of rehearsals, something I doubt Jackson ever wanted us to see.
If you want a look behind the scenes at preparations for a huge stage show, this gives you a small idea of what it takes. But if you’re looking for evidence that these concerts would have provided a creative rebirth for Michael Jackson, that’s nowhere in evidence.
Neither, though, is there evidence that Jackson was a walking cadaver. He looks paper-thin from a couple of angles, sure, and his facial reconstruction should have stopped before he started resembling a “Batman” Jack Nicholson when he smiled.
Based on what we see here, had Jackson decided to release a DVD of the “This Is It” concert, something like the film in theaters now would have served as an excellent and worthwhile extra on that DVD.
Then again, I have a low tolerance for the cut-rate spooky stuff (like “The Blair Witch Project”), and am more likely to be disturbed by things that make others laugh out loud. (Like “Funny Games.”)
And maybe had there been more people around when I saw the film “Paranormal Activity,” I might have been more spooked just picking up the vibes of the crowd.
As it turned out, though, the people (whose opinions I respect) who called the low-budget one-camera film one of the scariest films they’d ever seen probably just built me up for something no movie could match.
The acting is great, and there were a couple of scenes that raised the hair on my arms a little bit. But “The Blair Witch Project” had that too.
I consider both to be wild marketing successes, and at best mediocre movies.
I’ve also been reading that some younger couples are finding themselves walking out of the movie pretty shaken by what they’ve seen. Maybe it’s an age thing, or maybe it’s just knowing how hard it is to wake me out of a loud, snore-dominated sleep.
This is a continuation of yesterday’s blog about last week’s Brian Wilson concert at Springfield’s Sangamon Auditorium last week. I understand if you’re not interested in 1,300 words about Brian Wilson. Come on back Wednesday.
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Upon entering the auditorium, I was immediately smiling. The music playing was songs clearly influenced by Wilson’s Beach Boys work. I love that stuff. (First Class’ “Beach Baby” is easily one of my five favorite songs from the 1970s, and always reminds me of tubing down the Apple River in Wisconsin.)
(Other songs included “I Live For the Sun” and Eric Carmen’s delightful but obscure “My Girl.”)
Wilson brought close to a dozen performers onstage with him, and while he didn’t play (except for a token strapping on of his bass guitar near the end of the show), he sat center stage and was clearly the focus of attention.
The band was an amazing recreation of The Beach Boys’ sound. And to show how amazing that group’s harmonies were, at times there were eight people onstage replicating the sound of the original five (or sometimes even three or four) singers.
And if you’re a fan of this music, it just makes you feel good. So I couldn’t keep from smiling.
But then I started noticing things. The musicians weren’t interacting much with one another. That may have been a tribute to the difficulty of the music (it’s complex, as simple as it sounds). It may have been because of exacting standards.
Or it may have been the influence of Wilson. He sat on a stool centerstage, in front of a keyboard he rarely touched. A computer screen was mounted ahead of the keyboard, and I assume it projected lyrics, although it may have even included Wilson’s wooden stage patter. He was strangely unconnected as the band behind him laughed at a couple of sloppy starts or tried to engage in their own stage patter.
Wilson seemed more engaged as the setlist moved to a couple of songs from “That Lucky Old Sun,” but otherwise seemed untouched by what was going on around him.
Maybe I was just too sensitive and feeling defensive for him. As I’ve written before, there was a time when all many of Wilson’s true fans wanted was for him to simply live his life and enjoy it. He’s living it now. I wish there was more evidence he was enjoying it, but maybe that’s impossible.
Wilson doesn’t have any of his falsetto any more, and I was actually relieved his voice wasn’t as gruff as that show four years ago in St. Louis. However, his vocal efforts were sometimes boosted by others on the stage.
And there are singalongs.
I HATE singalongs.
At one point during the second half of the show, someone was horribly out of tune. As I scanned the stage and tried to pin down the culprit, I slowly realized it was a woman a row behind me and a few seats to my left.
This was NOT during a singalong, by the way.
This group did exacting rehearsal to perfect these harmonies, and some dope in the audience wants to join in? Save it for karaoke night.
So at what point does a show like this become a tribute act with the tributee present, centerstage, headlining? I don’t know. That’s a good question. I take comfort in realizing Wilson hand-selected this band, and I’ve seen video evidence of his interactions with Darian Sahanaja, who played a key role in pulling together “SMiLE.”
And if this is a pension tour for Wilson, so be it. Plenty of people have made plenty of money off his creativity for the last 50 years. If he wants his, I’m good with that, and I’d rather see my money going to him than Mike Love.
Now, that’s assuming you can tolerate some things. It was an old audience. It’s going to be. Hey, I’m old, too. I’m accustomed to being the oldest person in the room at a show. Not since seeing Tony Bennett a couple of times in the 1990s, though, have I been in contention for being among the youngest.
The funny thing is, things can change in a moment. During the second set, Wilson introduced what he called the greatest song he’d ever written. As I went down a short checklist in my head (“Good Vibrations”? “ ‘Til I Die”? “Caroline, No”?), I was embarrassed at my mental omission as the band launched into “God Only Knows.”
(This – from July of this year in Germany – is a decidedly inferior version compared with what I heard at last week’s show.)
Wilson was no longer singing clipped syllables. He was holding the notes as long as they should have been held. His voice was beautiful. I’m not ashamed to admit I cried a couple of times during the “SMiLE” show, and “God Only Knows” almost had me in tears in Springfield.
It’s amazing to me what Wilson does just as I’m ready to count him out. Which is why I’ll probably never be able to.
I wasn’t expecting to write this much, so I’m going to split this discussion about last week’s Brian Wilson concert at Springfield’s Sangamon Auditorium last week. I understand if you’re not interested in 1,300 words about Brian Wilson. Come on back Wednesday.
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I can’t believe I almost gave up my ticket for this show.
I saw Brian Wilson perform four years ago in St. Louis, a performance I called going “to church.” Wilson’s live performance of the legendary “SMiLE” album left me in tears at a couple of points. It was exactly what I wanted out of a Brian Wilson show – a showcase for his ambition.
Before the “SMiLE” tour, Wilson had performed the entirety of The Beach Boys’ luscious “Pet Sounds” album at shows, and last year, he toured and performed the entirety of “That Lucky Old Sun,” a new concept piece.
So when I saw Wilson had been booked for Springfield’s Sangamon Auditorium, kicking off a new tour, I anxiously landed my ticket as soon as individual sales began. I wound up with a sixth-row center seat, and assumed “That Lucky Old Sun” would be the centerpiece of the performance.
Then a couple of things happened.
I began reading that Wilson had changed the scope of his shows to focus on his hits. That’s a great idea from a financial point of view – certainly more people are familiar with “Good Vibrations” than “SMiLE,” and would be more inclined to pay to see that. Wilson could play in larger venues.
But I’m less interested in that. I’m not big on nostalgia shows, as I wrote in my column a couple of weeks back.
Then, a couple of weeks before the show, I interviewed Wilson. Or maybe I should say we spoke over the phone.
It was unquestionably one of the worst interviews I’ve ever experienced. And usually, I’m willing to blame myself when things go wrong. In this case, though, no. I’d probably only be better prepared to interview Elvis Costello or Paul McCartney. I KNOW my Brian Wilson.
But he was on auto-pilot. For all I know, he’d been doing interviews all day and was sick of talking to reporters. Or maybe this was his first of the day. Or maybe he’s mentally damaged enough to not be good with social-business interaction.
At any rate, it all left a bad taste in my mouth, and I looked to dump my ticket.
I was unable to find anyone. I figured the worst that would come out of the deal was I’d listen to live Beach Boys music for a couple of hours, and there are lots of punishments in life worse than that.
One of my favorite moments in the Monty Python documentary series on IFC was when the commentators all were shown hesitating after being asked to name their favorite Python sketch.
(My very favorite moment from what I’ve seen? Steve Coogan’s recreation of a piece of the “Pirhana Brothers” sketch intercut with Michael Palin’s performance. Clearly, Coogan had become one with Palin’s performance thanks to love of it, and repeated viewings.)
The discussion among some Herald & Review Python fans result in the same hemming and hawing. As we threw out different bits (semaphore “Wuthering Heights,” Albatross,” “The Bishop”), we started laughing, and those around us unfamiliar with the Pythons were reduced to uncomfortable smiles and hoping we’d change the subject soon.
The fact is, either Python is a part of your life or it isn’t. In Chicago last weekend, some co-workers and I shared a Python-based joke referencing the Spanish Inquisition. I think the Pythons would have been proud of us.
But after watching Wednesday’s episode of the documentary, I stayed up and left the TV tuned to IFC and watched an original episode of the show.
“Oh!” I thought a couple of minutes in. “This one has Crunchy Frog.”
How did I forget that one when I was listing some of my favorite bits?
I’m amused to see KISS (why all caps? Who knows?) is playing Chicago’s United Center early next month.
I was one of the millions converted by the 1975 release “Kiss Alive!” (The current tour is billed as “Alive 35,” a celebration marking the 35th anniversary of the release of that breakthrough double album.) I continued to follow the group as a semi-fan, liking some stuff (“Destroyer” and “Love Gun”) while getting annoyed with others (the disco-fied “I Was Made For Loving You” was particularly disturbing).
Years after I first wanted to, I finally saw the band in concert in Rochester, Minn., in 1987. This was probably the best time to see them. Only two original members were present – same as now, Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons. And the crowd was a mere 2,000 – about 15 percent of what they’ll likely attract in Chicago.
There was no blood-spitting, no fire-eating, no makeup.
But it was 90 minutes of loud, thumping rock and roll, including exhortations from Simmons that women in the audience disrobe (sung as he forgot the lyrics to “Blue Suede Shoes”) and a hot (no pun intended) version of “Heaven’s On Fire” that made me permanently reconsider the song.
It cracks me up (in a good way) that they’re still satisfying audiences. Their soap opera of existence is one of the best in rock history, and on top of that – years after Gene Simmons said he was through recording new music because of thievery via the Web – they’ve got a new album out.
I’ll have to check that out. But I don’t need to see the Chicago show. I’ve already rock and rolled all night. Now I’m old, and I just want a nap.
Not that I want to rehash the discussion from last week about John Fogerty’s album of cover songs, but Phil Collins is off to do the same thing now.
Collins told a German newspaper he plans a new CD in 2010 that will feature covers of 30 songs from the Motown label.
“I want the songs to sound exactly like the originals,” the paper quoted him as saying.
You know what sounds even MORE like the originals? THE ORIGINALS.
One of the things I failed to point out in my Fogerty post was how even in his Creedence Clearwater Revival career, he produced great and mediocre covers. CCR’s first hit was a cover (“Suzie Q”), and their version of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” is, to me, the definitive version. On the other hand, I could do without their “Hello Mary Lou” and the limp “Midnight Special.”
But even at their worst, CCR generally did different things with their cover versions. At his best, Phil Collins is a Xerox. He had a hit in 1982 with “You Can’t Hurry Love,” but if you’d rather hear that than Motown’s original version (by The Supremes), I truly feel sorry for you.
Reading about Collins’ plans made me think of the 1984 “Saturday Night Live” parody when Linda Ronstadt had released her “What’s New?” collection of 1940s big band standards. Julia Louis-Dreyfus appeared in the same garb Ronstadt wore on the album cover and sang a pointed tune about making money off others’ hits and not being able to come up with anything new.
Is there an “SNL” cast member who resembles Phil Collins?
When the “balloon boy” story was unfolding last Thursday, it was a hot topic of discussion between a handful of us in the newsroom.
I usually call these stories the “TV stories.” They’re driven by striking video (as was the case here) or some sordid or unbelievable details (Scott Peterson murdering his pregnant wife Laci), or by being part of a divisive issue on which everyone has an opinion (Terri Schiavo and end-of-life rights).
These cases are not necessarily news by themselves, except to a select few. They become national news because cable stations, needing to fill 24 hours a day, develop attachments to them. And many of us are glued to them.
When we went into our 4 p.m. news meeting Thursday afternoon, the balloon boy was a topic of discussion, including the possibility that the young boy had actually loosed the balloon himself and was hiding, thinking he’d be in trouble. None of us verbally expressed the belief in the possibility that the story was a hoax, but the story was dismissed as a front-page possibility because we had three strong local stories and thought another national story was more compelling and wide-reaching – one about a Louisiana judge declining to perform marriage ceremonies for interracial couples.
In reading follow-ups to the story on Friday, I began to second-guess my position, which was that the story DID NOT belong on our front page. Two networks led their news with it. Was my judgment that far off base on this one?
I was half-relieved as the hoax part of the story began to unravel. We ran the story, but didn’t play it up in a huge way.
This isn’t to excuse any of the media – or any of the public - for falling for a hoax. All I want to point out is at least here (and at other papers where I and my co-workers have been employed), these decisions aren’t made without thought. And however much you as readers might second-guess us, for the most part, you aren’t any harder on us than we already have been on ourselves.
I’ve always had a fascination with the Grant Wood painting “American Gothic,” which you can see if you’re willing to drive three hours.
But my fascination didn’t run quite as deep as this blogger’s, who has posted a collection of “American Gothic” parodies.
That site makes me laugh a lot.
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Remember a few years ago when NBC pimped its summer reruns by essentially saying, “If you haven’t seen the show yet, it’s new to you?”
Love that logic.
Well, this clip of Shia “NoNoNoNo” LeBeouf has 800,000 YouTube views, but I’d not seen it before, and it makes me laugh.
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If you’ve been wondering about the ads you’ve been seeing for the film “Paranormal Activity,” here’s some of the backstory. Apparently and from all accounts, this is one of the most petrifying films ever made.
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Oh yes I would buy these in a minute. If only these mock trading cards from unlikely movies were the real thing …
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In case you’re really shook up about “2012″ (the movie) or 2012 the year the world ends, this may give you a little perspective.
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Science, on the other hand, was never my forte. This simple quiz proved that, and the result was my meager knowledge of science would do the world no good if I were transported back 2,000 years.
It may seem like overkill to some, but as far as I’m concerned, if “The Beatles Anthology” TV documentary ran six hours, it’s only fair that a documentary of the comedy troupe Monty Python’s Flying Circus run the same length.
I’ve always thought Python were The Beatles of comedy, taking it to a place it hadn’t gone previously and setting a standard impossible for almost anyone – even themselves – to follow. (The only shows I think have come close to Python in the comedy sketch genre have been the second season of “Chappelle’s Show.”)
So on IFC – Independent Film Channel – starting Sunday night, a six-part documentary on Python begins, an hour a night. Deceased member Graham Chapman will be represented via film clips, and the remaining Pythons are alive and participate.
There will be – as was the case with The Beatles – varying versions of the story, and you can choose your own edition of the truth.
But if you’re a young adult and only have some passing knowledge of Python, and are a regular reader here, it might do you some good to check it out. If you find yourself in agreement with me about comedy, you’ll get a chance to see the guys who did it brilliantly for four years of television and a handful of films, including “Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” my pick for the funniest film ever made, a thought shared by respondents to a Herald & Review survey a few years back.
I always find it interesting when musicians decide to record albums of other peoples’ material, especially when the artists have established themselves as legendary songwriters.
David Bowie, Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello - they’ve all recorded “covers” albums of varying quality. Rosanne Cash has just put one out - “The List”- but I want to discuss John Forgerty’s “The Blue Ridge Rangers Rides Again.” (Yeah, that’s the right title - “Rides.”)
Fogerty’s career maddens me in the way McCartney’s and Costello’s do. All are incredibly talent, and each has spent years (in my view) wasting time on projects outside of their strengths or, in Fogerty’s case, on bitterness. (Angry over being burned in numerous business deals by friends and family, Fogerty has twice refused to record for a full decade. I wrote a little more about this part of Fogerty a couple of years ago.)
The Blue Ridge Rangers in 1973 were Fogerty, coming off the breakup of Creedence Clearwater Revival, whom some people will argue were and remain the greatest American group in rock history.
Fogerty played every instrument and did all the vocals on an album of country songs, many of which were unfamiliar to rock listeners. He did a rock-style arrangement of Hank Williams’ “Jambalaya” which was such a kick, it got played on both rock AND country stations.
Had he taken a similar approach with this year’s “sequel,” it might have been interesting. Instead, it’s by-note readings of songs like Everly Brothers’ “When Will I Be Loved,” The Kendalls’ “Heaven’s Just a Sin Away” and even his own “Change in the Weather.”
There’s an irony in Fogerty recording Rick Nelson’s “Garden Party” (which concludes “If memories were all I sang, I’d rather drive a truck”) on an album of his own memories.
And I’m about to write something I never imagined I would write. Fogerty’s recording of John Denver’s “Back Home Again” - an annoying song with mediocre lyrics - makes me long for the sincerity of Denver’s delivery. Fogerty’s limp reading makes it sound like he’s rather be anywhere but home again.
In the end, I’m not sure who this album is for, other than John Fogerty. Fans of the songs will hear them better elsewhere. Fans of Fogerty like me would prefer more new material, or maybe even some of those Creedence memories. And the younger listeners don’t care one way or the other.
Only with Michael Jackson could the release of unearthed material be such a bizarre controversy.
“This Is It,” a “new” single by the late singer, who died in June, was released online earlier this week. A solo Jackson recording was enhanced by vocals from his brothers and additional overdubbing.
The problem was, Paul Anka co-wrote the song, and was not credited upon initial release. The Jackson estate has acknowledged Anka’s work, and will compensate him.
The Associated Press reported the original track – with a Jackson vocal and a piano backing – “was appar-ently found in a box of tapes with only Jackson’s voice and a piano accompaniment.”
If you think this is the last of the new Jackson material – and I’m sure you don’t – but if you do, you’re tragically mistaken. Heck, during the success of “Thriller” (released on Epic Records), Motown Records pulled some material from its vaults and dressed up a new Michael Jackson album.
One thing of which I’m certain: The coming years of Michael Jackson releases will make 2Pac – whose discography has doubled in size since his death – look like a recording recluse. There are too many Michael Jackson tapes lying about, and the cash cow needs to be milked.
There are a lot of things Michael Jackson never intended for us to hear that we will be hearing in the coming years.
Years ago, one of my favorite performers, Robyn Hitchcock, burned the remnants of what essentially was the first 10 years of his performing life. Lyric scraps, song tapes, paintings – he destroyed it all. At the time, I was devastated. Now, it seems like a dandy idea.
Sometimes I find myself looking continually at my iPod display, wondering if I am in fact actually listening to the artist I think I’m listening to.
It happened earlier this year with Mandy Moore. Her “Amanda Leigh” album is the biggest and most pleasant musical surprise I’ve encountered in years.
And it happened last week in an unpleasant way.
Jet’s debut, “Get Born,” was 10th on my 2003 best albums list. That album is best-remembered for “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” which has been in more commercials than I care to count. But it had a really cool video.
And their 2007 “Shine On” was a candidate for my year-end list.
Jet’s newest album, though, has a photo of a burning truck on the cover. I guess I should have taken that as a bad omen for “Shaka Rock.”
This doesn’t sound like the good-time head-banging band whose music I grew to love earlier in the decade. This sounds like a band that has listened to a lot of Black Crowes ballads and said, “Yeah, we want to sound like that, only worse.”
I find myself often begging performers to grow artistically. Don’t keep churning out the same couple of songs – explore, expand, develop. Sometimes when they do, (The Beatles, Neil Young [except for his mid-80s output], Pete Townshend/The Who) my respect, admiration and appreciation grows. And sometimes when they do (Robyn Hitchcock, Elvis Costello), I find myself longing for the days when their reach didn’t exceed their grasp.
I have no idea what to make of Prince any more, if I ever did have an idea to begin with.
He’s talented, unquestionably. Prolific, certainly. He has the attitude of an artist, which can be good or bad, and he’s attempted a few fresh business ideas, which is more than some of his contemporaries can say. He’s bull-headed enough to insist he knows exactly how to handle his career, regardless of what people with years more experience think. And sometimes, he’s right.
In a lot of ways, he reminds me of one of my favorite artists, Frank Zappa. They’re even close to the same age - Zappa died in 1993 at age 52, and Prince turned 51 in June.
I told a friend 15 years ago that I thought it might be 15 years before the world figured out what Prince was up to. And now 15 years later, it still doesn’t make sense to me. Zappa’s career I’m able to break down to different descriptions. Prince’s work doesn’t slice up that easily.
The only reason I bring this up now is I finally have listened to Prince’s new “LotusFlow3r” album. There’s funk, pop, rock, some Hendrix-style stuff, a little bit of jazz, some great songs, a couple of clunkers …
In other words, for me, it’s pretty much every Prince album, give or take a little bit of quality here and there, since 1995‘s “The Gold Experience,” which I think was his last GREAT album.
Or maybe this is his NEXT great album. Or maybe that was “3121,” and I didn’t like it as much as I should have. Or maybe it was “N.E.W.S.,” and most of you didn’t like that as much as I did, or as much as you should have.
That’s part of the problem with Prince never taking a break. You don’t really have a chance or take the opportunity to go back and reevaluate some of the old work.
But it also gives us an opportunity to embrace one of rock’s greatest talents. Even if you don’t like the guy, it seems to me you ought to respect what he’s doing. It’s fairly … well … revolutionary.
