8Sided Blog

a zine about sound, culture, and the punk rock dream

Equal Parts Confusion and Admiration

· Leave a Comment

Tyler Mahan Coe has finally launched the long-awaited second season of his podcast Cocaine & Rhinestones. If you’re not aware, Tyler’s show digs into 20th-century country music through his sharp lens — as historic and important, but often sordid and contentious. As he says in each episode’s intro, “I’ve heard these stories my whole life. As far as I can tell, here’s the truth about this one.” Tyler’s the son of controversial country star David Allen Coe, as well as a (now former) member of his dad’s touring band since the age of 14, so he’s undoubtedly heard his fair share of stories.

I’m a fan of Cocaine & Rhinestones and have gone from tolerating to embracing Tyler’s snarky tone. And I wouldn’t say I’m a country music fan — though there’s plenty of country music I like — but I’m a sucker for detailed accounts of music history. Cocaine & Rhinestones is foremost about the history, and, man, does Tyler get deep into it. 

Cocaine & Rhinestones is dense. The first two episodes of Season 2, respectively focused on pioneering indie label Starday Records and the beginnings of Nashville’s music studio scene, contain so much information that I found myself repeatedly getting lost and tapping the ‘back 30 seconds’ button. The names and dates and places come fast and furious, and it’s challenging — but fun! — to keep up. 

That’s why I’m starting to think Tyler Mahan Coe might be podcasting’s Adam Curtis. Cocaine & Rhinestones can be as dizzying as Curtis’s recent Can’t Get You Out Of My Head. With Coe, it’s pinball and ice cream, and with Curtis, it’s Tupac Shakur and doomed cosmonauts. You can agonize over how the dots connect, or you can just roll with it in wonder.

But if it sounds like I’m downplaying Cocaine & Rhinestones, I’m not. Tyler’s put together a phenomenal podcast, heavily researched, and a mesmerizing listen.1And he generously provides full transcripts for each episode on his site if you prefer to read rather than listen. I’ve not only learned tons about 20th-century country music but also about the larger music business in the context of American history. The first season is a thrill, too (this is my favorite episode), but you’re welcome to start with the currently-in-progress second season. Supposedly this season is all about George Jones, but I feel like, so far, I’ve only heard about him a smattering of times. There’s been just as much talk about the history of refrigeration. 

❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋

Rams wears its heart on its sleeve, encapsulated by the quote near the end: “Design only works when it really seeks to achieve something for humanity.” I’m a fan of documentaries about creative people doing creative things, making the world better and more interesting. No doubt, this film checks that box.

I wasn’t too familiar with Dieter Rams, but then, of course, I was, having seen his aesthetic throughout a world of products, including many in the home office where I’m writing this. It’s one of those “you can’t unsee it” situations — after watching, you’ll pick out his influence everywhere.

The vintage transistor radio — with its prominent touch dial — as the precursor of the iPod really is something to behold. I also enjoyed the scene in the design museum, where Dieter delivers equal parts confusion and admiration for the design choices of his contemporaries. The highlight, though, is the section in the middle explaining Rams’ 10 Principles of Good Design. It’s a beautiful sequence, both in how it’s directed as well as in the expression of the overall philosophy itself. Inspirational stuff, no matter your practice — you don’t have to be in commercial product design to draw from this well.

Oh, and yes — Brian Eno contributed the soundtrack. The music is lovely and fits perfectly with the visuals it accompanies. Eno pulled just the right selections from his 6790 options. 

Rams is streaming on Kanopy in the US. Check here to see where it’s available in your country.

❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋-❋

Today the wind outside is roaring (a common occurrence here at the lakeside office), and the sound is merging seamlessly with those found on David Newlyn’s new album, Tapes and Ghosts. The UK-based producer has released a healthy number of musical pieces over the past decade-plus and commandeers the cult-status CD and tape imprint Cathedral Transmissions. Newlyn’s sound on Tapes and Ghosts is an earthy flavor of ambient, at times resembling the Eno-y vintage of floaty music, as on “Surfacing“, where pianos meet string pads on the edge of discordance. “Sunset” follows suit, with a gentle guitar lightly overtaken by shimmering synths once daylight gives way to the spectral. There are hints of nature and memory through the titles of these pieces and others like “Radiance” and “Ceremony.” The music conveys these hints, too, often twinkling while pulling at something inner and emotional. The ghosts really come out on “Years“, featuring, as the liner notes reveal, an “unknown voice” from “a bought charity shop cassette.” This muffled spirit-speech accompanies Newlyn’s sheets of overlapping strings and melodic snatches. The effect is lonely and heartfelt and, coupled with the gusts outside my window, feels like wandering far from home. 

David Newlyn’s Tapes and Ghosts is available now on the prolific ambient/dream-pop label Somewherecold Records.

David Lynch Gives a Lesson in Sound Design

· Leave a Comment

David Lynch is relieving his lockdown boredom by posting videos. He gives weather reports (nothing new for him), baffles fans with what he’s working on, and declares a daily magic number. If only I could get a couple of hundred YouTube views from pulling numbers out of a jar.

In addition to documenting these quaint activities, Lynch’s team is also posting a series of short films under the David Lynch Theater series. I don’t think many, if any, of these are new, but most are new to me.

So far, my favorite is the deceptively simple one-shot video, The Spider and the Bee. The mini-movie consists of a close-up shot of an unfortunate bee caught in a web as a spider enacts its fate. There’s no semblance of Hollywood production here, and it’s a solid guess we’re looking at an undusted window sill in Lynch’s house. It’s Lynch, not Attenborough, after all.

The scene lasts for eight minutes, a challenging length for a real-time display of a struggling insect. But I found the video transfixing, my attention aided by the remarkable sound design. Evocative use of sound is a Lynch trademark, dating back to the hisses, hums, and whirrs found in the Eraserhead score. Sound is dramatically and innovatively used to accent images and nestle implications through Lynch’s entire oeuvre, right to the recent Twin Peaks series. If you pay attention to final credits, you’ll notice Lynch is always partly or solely responsible for the sound design on his projects. And The Spider and the Bee is an experiment in sound design.

With only natural sound (or no sound at all), the video’s nothing special, a ‘circle of life’ home movie shot on a lazy day. Add the sound — the bee’s hapless buzzing, the spider’s cartoonish clicking, the swoops as the spider slides — and the story becomes compelling. The viewer is brought into this, too, as the camera thunders as it quickly changes angles. I jumped out of my seat the first time that happened.

Sound is an effective contextualizer, and inventive sound design, even when subtle, can transform a visual storyline into something heightened and unreal. It’s a fun trick played on our brains.

Bonus points: check out the documentary Making Waves: The Art of Cinematic Sound.

Generous Expertise

· Leave a Comment

The terrific documentary about Other Music popped up on Prime Video last month. I’ve wanted to see this for a while — the NYC store, much mythologized, really was the ideal of an indie record shop. It had it all: a niche selection curated by the owners and staff, records filed under sometimes-baffling genre section names, cards with reviews filled to the edges with jumbled handwriting affixed to releases, store layout and organization to the point of disorganization, and so on.

The documentary made me miss New York City (I’m so happy I got to visit a few months before The Strange Times) and, of course, browsing in record stores. But, most of all, I miss the communities and interactions that revolve around great shops. This aspect of music culture was fading, along with independent retail stores, with or without COVID interference.

Other Music, New York City

Record store clerks get a bad rap for being smug jerks, judging customers’ musical tastes from behind the counter. Sure, I know a few of those —perhaps on a bad day, I’ve been one of those — but I think the cliché is overblown. As the Other Music doc shows, record store employees are often helpful experts in their chosen fields. As Caroline said as we watched the movie, “I could listen to them talk about records all day.” They know a lot about music, they listen to a lot of music, and their favorite thrill is turning someone else on to great music. People who work in record shops live for that.

There’s a moment in the documentary when a customer says to the clerk, “I’m looking for something like Lou Reed that’s not Lou Reed.” We wait for the side-glance, or a snarky response, or the indignant huff. The legends and depictions of pretentious record shops train us to believe this might be a terrible thing to ask. The customer is brave even to bring it up. 

But record store staff enjoy questions like this. The request is open-ended but has a launchpad. It’s an invitation to explore, and, most of all, it’s the customer saying, “I trust you to turn me on to something I haven’t heard yet. And I’m inclined to love it.” Maybe that’s just my own experience (I owned a record store once, remember), but I think I’m right. 

I can’t imagine the response if that person asked for “something like Lou Reed but not Lou Reed” on Facebook or Twitter. Maybe he’d get a handful of helpful replies in the spirit of a record shop clerk, but the snark would cover those over like a storm cloud. I don’t know of an internet equivalent of a space where one stranger can ask another for an open-ended recommendation without fear of trolls or insults or intimidation. 

Record stores are places of generous expertise. It’s sad that the concept almost seems quaint in this volatile age. And that’s what I miss the most about stores like Other Music. Hopefully, these stores — Other Music not included, unfortunately — will be around once we get out of this mess. In the meantime, watch the documentary. If you ever had — or have! — a favorite record store, this movie will move you.

——————

A couple of weekends ago, 1200 record stores participated in Record Store Day. I don’t need to tell you that this was a weird edition of the annual tradition. Record store day occurs typically in April but, this time was pushed to June, as there was a thing called “wishful thinking” back then. As that plan fizzled out, we’re now celebrating RSD 2020 through three ‘RSD drops’ on the last Saturdays of August, September, and October.1One wonders if this monthly schedule was inspired by ‘Bandcamp Days.’ In part, the idea is that spreading it out will thin the crowds showing up at actual record stores. This schedule, in theory, will also help space out the releases, so they’re not all hitting on a single day. I’m not so sure.

The decision exists in our current retail paradox of ‘less physical customers, more physical sales.’ The dramatic lines in front of record stores (which you can see in photos from a year-old blog post of mine) are no longer welcome. Elbow-to-elbow bin browsing is not allowed. That’s a shame as peeking at the person’s selections next to you is how vinyl junkies make friends. 

Most record stores won’t open their doors to the record-collecting masses. The RSD organizers frowned on online orders of exclusive releases, but this year it’s acceptable. Stores are trying to restrict orders of these limited items to local addresses, which sounds like a losing battle. Some stores are using a lottery to determine which customer snags a rare vinyl release or who gets to step in the store for an allotted time. Others are using platforms like Instagram, posting a photo of the record. Then it’s ‘first come first serve’ among the commenters. And, appropriate for this year of live-streaming, Zoom-led RSD tours from stores are happening.

In Variety, Mick Pratt of the Northeastern US indie chain Bull Moose says of the challenges, “I choose to be optimistic about it and hope that it will be great and it will not result in too much stress, either for staff or for customers who are like, ‘Damn, what I really needed to get through 2020 was this record.'”

How did it go? It seems like it went okay, but shifting vinyl fans from crowding the stores to crowding the internet had foreseeable problems. Here’s a tweet from Damon Krukowski, whose old band Galaxie 500 released the live album Copenhagen for RSD:

Regardless, the point is to support these stores (among all the other independent businesses you’re supporting) during this difficult time. You don’t need to wait for the next Record Store Day to do so. We can’t lose these places of generous expertise: the record stores, the bookshops, the locally-owned restaurants, the farmer’s markets, etc. I have the feeling once we get out of this, we’ll need these places more than ever. I don’t know how we’ll manage if they’re gone.

——————

John Shepherd has a generous expertise. You’ve probably heard about the short documentary John Was Trying To Contact Aliens by now. So you know Shepherd’s expertise wasn’t only his musical selections. Though I’m not convinced all those knobs and wires and screens and machinery actually did anything, you know, scientific. You might also know that his generosity extended to alien life forms. He DJ’ed to the great unknown, an audience that may or may not be out there. I know the feeling — I used to have an overnight slot on college radio.

As evidence of my embarrassing music-nerdom, the most crucial part of the documentary, to me, is when, in vintage footage, Shepherd pulls Musik Von Harmonia out of his vinyl collection for a local TV crew. As obscure as that album is now, it was but a rare fossil when that television ‘human interest’ piece aired — sometime in the ’80s is my guess. Shepherd’s geek move was strategic. He knew this would go out on television, potentially to an audience in the hundreds of thousands. So what album does he choose to show? And then he plays some of the music, announcing “now here’s a song from Harmonia” into the microphone. Shepherd’s audience is now more than extraterrestrial, and he knows it. 

Like making friends with the person browsing next to you at the record store, John Shepherd aims for connection. He’s satisfied if that connection is with aliens or a TV viewer left dumbfounded at a Harmonia album on the evening news. The film’s director, Matthew Killip, speaks about these connections in The Guardian: 

Killip was interested in extraterrestrial life less as scientific inquiry than cultural phenomenon – “if you make a film about someone trying to contact aliens, there’s an in-built narrative problem, which is that they don’t contact aliens,” he said. But he found Shepherd’s lifelong interest in contacting someone, or something, in outer space to be “deeply romantic”, and more universal than a guy rigging thousands of dollars of radio and electrical equipment in his grandparents’ living room might seem. “We’re all sort of sending out a message hoping that someone else will pick it up and understand us and understand who we are,” Killip said. “We’re all trying to make contact.”

The compact but poignant documentary John Was Trying To Contact Aliens is streaming now on Netflix. And, John is right — Musik Von Harmonia is an album worth hearing.

This post was adapted from Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a weekly newsletter loosely about music-making, music-listening, and how technology changes the culture around those things. Click here to check out the latest issue and subscribe.

Isolation Is Their Preferred Place

· Leave a Comment

It might add comfort in our continuing isolation to watch the stories of people who are isolated by where they choose to live. ‘Choose’ is the key word here — these folks wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

I watched the documentary Children of the Arctic, described as “a portrait of five Native Alaskan teenagers growing up in Barrow – the northernmost community in the United States.” The town (since renamed Utqiagvik) has unique challenges, including the all-too-apparent effect of climate change on its way of life, a loosening of revered traditions, the months of total darkness, and the depression that overtakes its residents. A couple of the teenagers do leave for a bigger city — but then they come back. What we see as isolation is their preferred place, a home they won’t give up. [LINK]

The next night I watched Darwin, which profiles the 35-strong population of the dying town in Death Valley, California, that gives the film its title. It’s a place where people go to hide, though not necessarily from the law. The mines are long-closed, as is the Black Metal Saloon, but the residents love living in Darwin and sing its praises throughout the documentary’s run-time. [LINK]

The musical score in Children of the Arctic is remarkable — gorgeous and droning and fitting the views of northern lights and snowy vistas. I noticed, in the credits, that Michael Brook is responsible. Then Darwin‘s score also grabbed me, with lonely, far-away guitar riffing and desert-toned passages. I watched the credits and — again! — Michael Brook. What a coincidence, right? Not really, as I realized the same director is responsible for both films: Nick Brandestini. This double-feature was not intentional, and I wasn’t familiar with Brandestini beforehand. But now I’m looking forward to seeing his latest documentary, Sapelo. From the IMDb description — the film takes place on “a unique American island” — it appears to also involve isolation by choice.

Ten Films

· Leave a Comment

There’s a social media ‘challenge’ going around where you’re assigned the task of posting images from ten films that had the most personal impact. I’m sure you’ve seen it. Today the gauntlet was thrown in my direction so I must oblige. But rather than responding to the challenge on social media (and spreading it out over the required ten days), I thought I’d post my answers here. I have trouble following rules.

I’m interpreting ‘impact’ as films that changed me in some way. That could mean through mind-altering insights into the world, or an introduction to a new kind of language (not the spoken type), or by sending me down a rabbit hole of other films, artworks, or philosophies. These aren’t necessarily my favorite films (though my favorite film is here, and I doubt it’s the one you think it is). And I’m leaving off anything recent that’s blown me away as these things take time. It’s no surprise that half these movies were first watched before the age of 15.

Some of these images are obvious straight away — and probably show up on everyone else’s lists — and others are more obscure. I’m not supposed to identify the films but each photo has a hyperlink that reveals all.

I guess I’ve ditched the rules at this point so I’ll break the ‘no explanations’ mandate on a couple of them. The first one is what I watched the week of 9/11/01. I had no idea how heavy, affecting, and appropriate it would be for that particular time. And the last one I watched repeatedly while working on Invisible Airline. I related somewhat to the main character (which is not really a good thing), and there is a song on the album named after a magic chant in the film. I could probably tell you a story about all of these — perhaps someday I will.

Curiosity, Mystery, Anonymity

· Leave a Comment

An anonymous artist paradoxically often attracts more attention because of anonymity. Curiosity draws us in for a closer look. Just look at Bansky, with mentions of his accomplishments usually sitting alongside guesses to his identity. And we can’t forget all the electronic artists accused of secretly recording as Burial throughout the end of the ’00s. The scrutiny created problems for the reclusive recording artist and, unlike Banksy (so far), he gave in to the pressure. Hua Hsu in the New Yorker:

When Burial was nominated for the Mercury Prize, a British tabloid writer tried to figure out his true identity, but was thwarted in part by Burial’s fans, who wanted him to live according to his own choices. As the curiosity about his identity started to overshadow his work, though, Burial revealed his name: William Emmanuel Bevan. Still, he refused to do interviews or to perform live shows, and he claimed to have little interest in the Internet.

Disguises became a thing, too. Artists as mainstream as Sia obscured their mugs, but there wasn’t anonymity. We know Daft Punk aren’t robots and recognize their real names (some of us even DJ’ed with them before they donned masks). There’s a purported idea of ‘let the music speak, not the image of the musician.’ But isn’t the mask, the anonymity, an image in itself? Of course, it is. And, same as the outrageous exploits of a controversial rock star (including those also disguised), it can even overshadow the music.

The Residents followed a doctrine of ‘The Theory of Obscurity.’ Formulated by the equally mysterious artist N. Senada, The Theory of Obscurity poses that an artist can only deliver their most authentic work without pressure or influence from an audience or the outside world. The Residents decided anonymity would help them follow the theory but the outside world proved inescapable. The band changed their appearance frequently through the ’70s but got stuck in the eyeball and top hat disguise for years. The image was just too popular with fans to shake.

Before Hardy Fox died in late 2018, he revealed that he was a founding member of The Residents and responsible for most of their musical output. In turn, we surmised that the still-active Homer Flynn is the ‘singing Resident,’ supplying most of the distinctive vocals. Die-hard Residents fans suspected this as Flynn and Fox acted as ever-present representatives and spokespersons for the band and their company, The Cryptic Corporation. When Homer Flynn speaks, it’s with an all-too-familiar southern drawl that those familiar with The Residents’ songs instantly recognize. Here’s a video documentary from 1991 with Flynn and Fox making appearances, and a young Penn Jillette also acting as an early-80s band representative:

(There’s a more recent, feature-length documentary titled Theory of Obscurity. It’s available to stream on Kanopy and some other spots.)

Fans whispered that Flynn and Fox were secretly the main two eyeballs in The Residents. As with Burial, the fans also — for the most part — protected these identities. And the two repeatedly denied any connection beyond their duties as managers/spokespersons. But then Hardy Fox nonchalantly revealed his actual role in a newsletter to fans a year before his death from brain cancer.

As a longtime Residents fan with a shared North Louisiana connection — more on that in a sec — I’m torn by the unmasking. The mystery of The Residents was a big part of my appreciation of the music. Again, there’s the paradox. If a purpose of anonymity is to present music without the baggage of personality, then how can the opposite result happen? It was impossible to listen to The Residents without separating them from the unearthly presences in their videos. They didn’t seem human, like they arrived in 1972 fully formed and naïve to the expectations of us earthlings and our musical norms. The mystery made them ominous, too. Just look at them here in what might be my favorite promotional photo of any band ever:

The Residents at Mount Rushmore

But now I think about Hardy Fox when I listen to The Residents. I think about how he met Homer Flynn in Ruston, Louisiana. They were randomly assigned dormmates at Louisiana Tech University. I went to that school for a semester and DJ’ed on the radio station for longer than that. Often I played The Residents across Ruston’s airwaves, no idea that I was paying homage to local heroes. I also think about Hardy Fox’s ARP Odyssey synthesizer, which is the star of this touching article in Tape Op. These weirdos were big-hearted humans in the end. How could they not be? But, in this discovery, the Residents lost the sinister enigma of the strange photo above.

But I also appreciate these revelations. It’s all part of the tricky business of anonymity and mystery. There’s a great quote from psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott: “It is a joy to be hidden, but a disaster not to be found.” In a way, the unveiling is a gift — we listen to the music differently with this knowledge. The songs almost become new. Even Burial’s atmospheric tunes take on new meanings to explore with a name attached, even if still not much is known about the producer.

I’ve heard The Residents’ music many times before, but now there’s a history attached. The context shifts and, in a way, the music becomes something else. “Santa Dog” is an especially wild proposition when it’s traced to these artsy outcasts, freshly escaped from a life in the Bible-belted deep south. And, now listening to the music, boy, can I relate.

This post was adapted from Ringo Dreams of Lawn Care, a weekly newsletter loosely about music-making, music-listening, and how technology changes the culture around those things. Click here to check out the latest issue and subscribe.

Conny Plank: The Potential of Noise, a Son’s Tribute

· Leave a Comment

The documentary Conny Plank: The Potential Of Noise was more touching than I expected. The film is a collaboration of director Reto Caduff and Stephan Plank, Conny’s son. Stephan drives the documentary as conversations with musicians who worked with Conny Plank help him understand and rediscover his father.

Conny Plank died of cancer at 47 when Stephan was just 13. A lot of Stephan’s memories of his father revolve around these odd musicians who stayed and worked at the farmhouse studio. Often the musicians would join the family for dinner (indulgently prepared by Stephan’s mother Christa), and they would become Stephan’s temporary playmates in between sessions. So, in this documentary, Stephan is meeting people who not only have perspectives on his father but are also part of shadowy childhood memories. The musicians are also taken aback — the last time they saw Stephan he was a child and an oblivious studio mascot.

The highlight of the documentary is Stephan’s meeting with the classic rap duo Whodini. Did you remember that Conny Plank produced part of Whodini’s first album? I forgot, too, until this film pleasantly reminded me. Whodini was an upstart act in their late teens, suddenly flown to a farmhouse in rural Germany in a bold choice by their label. The duo grew to love the eccentric but brilliant Conny Plank, and this love and respect pour out of their interview segment. Stephan is visibly emotional as he hears another warm story of the universal impact and guiding influence of his father. Even I choked up a little.

There’s so much more in this film, including interviews with Michael Rother (Neu! and — early on — Kraftwerk guitarist), Eurythmics’ Dave Stewart (who may have been the last to work with Plank), and Holger Czukay (Can). Czukay comes off as kind of a jerk in his honesty about how Conny cared more about his studio than his relationship with his young son. It seems that Stephan has come to terms with this.

Noticeably absent is Brian Eno who stepped into Plank’s studio on more than one occasion. A section on the recording of Devo’s first album allows Eno most of his screen time, and that’s given to Gerald Casale talking about how he didn’t like Eno’s attempt to add his ‘pretty’ vocals and synth lines throughout the record.

Conny Plank: The Potential Of Noise is inspiring and a stirring tribute to a person who lived the creative life. But most of all it’s the story of a son finding his talented but distant father. With Father’s Day approaching, I can’t think of a better movie to watch, especially for those of us missing our dads.

Conny Plank: The Potential Of Noise currently streaming on Amazon Prime and available as a ‘rental’ on other services. And here’s a fine interview with Stephan Plank about the documentary. For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure the no-show Stephan refers in that piece is Eno, not Bono.

What Am I Doing Now? (May 2019 Recap)

· Leave a Comment

  • I’m gearing up for a few days at MusicBiz 2019 in Nashville, starting on May 5. I’m expecting terrific panels, productive meetings, new contacts, seeing some old friends, and perhaps an announcement or two from my camp. If you are in Nashville for this conference, then feel free to drop me a line and let’s meet up.
  • The first Q-Burns Abstract Message release since 2011’s “Balearic Chainsaw” is out now on 8D Industries and it’s called AUDIOTOTEMPOLE. This is a special release, and it closes a loop of sorts. These are songs spanning the years. The one with ‘1997’ in the title is that old, and I completed the newest track three months ago. I think that I can now move on to new pastures, new sounds, new — and more frequent — Q-BAM releases.
  • Additionally, on the Q-Burns Abstract Message front, I’m breaking my DJ retirement for one night to play at the Phat N’ Jazzy 25th anniversary party. There are only a few things that would get me to DJ again and this party qualifies. Twenty-five years ago I had a weekly gig playing spacey trip hop records in the backroom of Phat N’ Jazzy at The Beach Club. It was my first residency, and it’s where I honed my DJ craft. I’d probably be in a different place today if the P’n’J crew didn’t trust me to command the backroom vibe. For the May 11 anniversary party I’ll be playing the tunes from that classic era, or at least the ones I still have on vinyl.
  • Consultancy: I’m currently working with Reza of Vexillary, Deepak of Hidden Recordings, and I’ll be advising Snax once again starting next week. A big thanks to my clients for being on board and receptive to some crazy (but effective!) ideas. I’m expanding the consultancy into special one-on-one workshops over the next couple months.
  • Soon you’ll hear me blabbing about music industry stuff on the This Is Orlando and Scotch and Good Conversation podcasts. I also did a long interview with the site MyMusicMoments that I feel good about. I’ll post links to all of these in the blog once they’re online.

Listening (music):

• Simon Scott – Below Sea Level
• Khotin – Beautiful You
• Mary Lattimore & Mac McCaughan – New Rain Duets
• Kankyō Ongaku: Japanese Ambient, Environmental & New Age Music 1980-1990
• Helado Negro – This Is How You Smile
• The 180 Gs – Commercial Album
• Revisited Sonic Youth’s Sister and Mission of Burma’s Vs. in a big way.

Listening (podcasts):

• Cherie Hu’s relatively new Water & Music podcast is great. Stellar music industry commentary. Check out the episode with Amber Horsburgh for starters.
• On Russell Brand’s Under The Skin, I enjoyed the conversations with Douglas Rushkoff and Derren Brown.
• Bob Lefsetz’s podcast is back, and the episode with Billy Bragg is a lot of fun. I especially enjoyed the history lesson on skiffle.
• John Livesay’s appearance on Big Questions With Cal Fussman was super-insightful on the topics of marketing and developing stories.

Watching:

• Cold War
• Free Solo (inspirational)
• Silent Light
• We finished The Americans. I was unsure for the first couple of seasons but we hung in there which paid off … the show got really good (as I’m sure you’ve heard).
• And, sure, we’re watching Game of Thrones. And Gay of Thrones.

Reading:

• Finished Bobby Fischer Goes To War which was fantastic, though it did wind down a bit mid-match (and 3/4 into the book) once it became apparent that Fischer would win. I wholeheartedly recommend it, though. One big complaint: the book mentions throughout that Bobby Fischer often listened to ‘rock n’ roll’ while preparing and practicing, but there’s no mention or clue as to the records of bands he liked. I want to know!
• I’m now halfway through Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash after multiple people coincidentally recommended it to me over the same few weeks. Confession: this is the first fiction book I’ve read since 2001. No idea why I gave up on fiction, but I’ve meant to get back into it. So far so good — I’m enjoying Snow Crash, though I still am not sure what it is about the book (or me) that inspired various friends to point me to it.

Misc:

• I started using Focusmate over the past few weeks. I’m using it right now. It’s a game-changer — expect a blog post about this soon. In the meantime, here’s the article that convinced me to give Focusmate a try.
• Civic Minded 5, my favorite concert promoters, hosted the trio of Nels Cline/Larry Ochs/Gerald Cleaver a couple of weeks back. A mind-blowing show. There were two sets — the second half of set one was explosive and set two was at times drone-y and Krautrock-y. So good. Again, I’ve never been disappointed by a Civic Minded 5 show and am grateful they are here in Orlando. Your city should be jealous.

What Am I Doing Now? (Jan 3, 2019)

· Leave a Comment

  • Readying Monta At Odds‘ Unsuspecting album for release on January 18 on my 8D Industries label. This is a reissue of the Kansas City combo’s first album from 2005, and I’m planning for it to be the first in a reissue series for this prolific band.
  • I’m also expanding my consultancy, a big plan for 2019. I just sent a proposal to one prospective client and will be checking on a couple of others next week. There will be a website for my music publishing consultancy, which I’ll be working on in earnest once January 18 passes. I’m also debating another site focusing on my DIY label management consultancy.
  • The daily blog practice has been amazing. I’m so happy I relaunched this. So far, I only missed a few days around Christmas and NYE. But I must remind myself it’s not a competition — there’s no pressure.
  • After spending a week in the sticks (that is, a remote wooded location), I’m back home in time for some beautiful Florida weather. We’ve paddle-boarded two days in a row and it’s possible we’ll make it three. That might be it for a while as the weather looks to go downhill starting tomorrow.
  • Movie: last night we watched Leave No Trace and loved it.
  • Music: listening to Ultramarine’s terrific new album, and today’s been a Sun Ra day with the albums Crystal Spears and Sun Ra Exotica (the latter a great starting place for any Sun Ra neophytes).
  • Reading: How To Make It Big as a Consultant. At times an amusing read as it’s a little outdated but there’s plenty of useful advice within.

It Isn’t Technique, It’s Language

· 1 Comment

Some movie talk for today, three films in particular. First of all: Roma. I believe Alfonso Cuarón has come into his own with this picture. Fans of his previous work may feel he had already arrived (Children of Men is a masterpiece, yes) but bear with me. The lengthy single takes that Cuarón is known for often overshadow his movies — reviews of Children of Men always mention shots like that famous car scene, and bringing up Gravity elicits talk of its 17-minute opening scene. There are plenty of impressive long takes in Roma, but Cuarón has settled into a lyrical style with his camera where these scenes draw you in rather than drawing attention to themselves. Cuarón alludes to this in a must-read profile in The New York Times:

“ … what they’re calling technique in film — and I’m not talking about commercial movies — isn’t technique. It’s language. When Tarkovsky makes decisions about framing and about how to move the camera, they’re not technical decisions, or even stylistic ones. They’re requirements of the language that he needs for his filmic experience.”

I loved Roma, and the Tarkovsky shout-out isn’t far off (there’s a bit of Fellini, among other masters, in there, too). Regardless of the camera’s ‘language,’ the personal story told in the film, with a powerful social and political undercurrent, is affecting. This one got under my skin.

On a less intimate note, how disruptive would it be if Netflix took home an Oscar? There’s a discussion to be had about Netflix and other streamers as the present home of bigger budget ‘art films,’ as theaters continue to lean hard into the superhero/event movie paradigm. Amazon’s been supporting upper-tier indie film a bit longer than Netflix (though their commitment has been questioned), and HBO seems to be ramping up their indie game, so this could become an odd competition. Roma’s performance at the Oscars could increase the heat.

But I did see an ‘art movie’ at an actual theater in the past week. We visited Enzian Theater, our local, long-running independent film establishment, for The Favorite. I admit I was lukewarm on The Lobster — it fell apart for me in the last half — and though The Favorite does not entirely convince me, I liked it a bit more than that previous film. It’s fun. Despite the other high-profile stars, it’s Olivia Coleman’s movie, isn’t it?

I don’t go to the theater that often and this recent experience opened some thoughts as to why. Maybe it’s just me, but I am often distracted in a theater and find it difficult to ‘get into’ the movie. I enjoy completely losing myself to a good film, and occasional murmurs and coughs and – in the case of the Enzian, which I do love – servers walking around take me out of the story. But I don’t think movie-goers have changed as much as we’ve changed as watchers. My huge TV, subwoofer-enhanced sound, and distraction-free home environment spoil me, and I can’t imagine watching the swirling images of Roma any other way. This home theater preference is a significant problem for non-event movie studios and theaters, which is why the support of Netflix et al. is increasingly essential.

I’m not sure if Shane Carruth would accept any Netflix money, though. With Primer and Upstream Color, Carruth took independent film-making to a whole new level as the sole engineer every step of the way: writer, director, producer, composer, lead actor, and so on. He was even one of the distributors in the case of Upstream Color, selling hi-res downloads of the movie from his own site. It probably wouldn’t matter if these were lousy films, but I find them wonderful, elusive statements and completely vision-driven. Scott Tobias wrote a terrific new piece on Upstream Color for Polygon:

Upstream Color exists just outside the realm of comprehension, which isn’t a bug but a feature, designed to keep the mind circling back to it like some unscratchable itch that flares up every once in a while. Some filmmakers like to give viewers something to solve but it takes an audacity to leave a few ellipses and risk riling up the sleuths. […]

There’s plenty of room for speculation over [the movie’s] questions, but unlike the mappable timeline chicanery of Primer, they’re unmoored and abstract. Carruth has full command of his effects in Upstream Color, but he doesn’t seem interested in directing viewers toward specific conclusions more than general ones.

If that seems like a description of your kind of movie, then seek out Upstream Color. It’s fantastic and fantastically done.

As for Shane Carruth and his next project — The Modern Ocean perhaps? — there’s been radio silence. In the meantime, Carruth can be found doing side-jobs like his beautiful score in the first season of TV’s The Girlfriend Experience, or his lead acting role in The Dead Center. Fans may be frustrated that he’s in front of the camera more than behind it, but I see Carruth taking a cue from John Cassavetes. In time, the side hustles will fund his next project, allowing continued independence and an unbroken vision.