May 17, 2010

There was a gossip section article in Monday’s edition of “The Daily News” concerning the recording of R&B songstress Jennifer Hudson’s new album, which I normally wouldn’t care about in the least. But this piece of reportage so succinctly illustrates what’s wrong with modern popular culture I feel like I should say something about it. I do, after all, write about popular culture, although, until just a few seconds ago, I don’t think I’ve ever had a reason to type the name “Jennifer Hudson.”

According to the article, Hudson - who made her name on "American Idol," then won an Oscar for being big-boned and better than Beyoncé in “Dream Girls” - was giving a gaggle of industry types a sneak listen to a batch of songs that were set for release on her upcoming would-be spectacular diggity-wow-wow cd. But things didn’t go as expected. During the party, the listeners seemed less than enthralled with Hudson’s new offering to the Gods, which was comprised of fast-moving dance tracks of the Lady Gaga and Rihanna variety.

The music's tone reportedly came as an extreme surprise to everyone at the event, even though the tracks were produced by a guy named Rich Harrison, who was behind exactly the same sort of stuff when it was released by the likes of Jennifer Lopez, Mary J. Blige, and Beyoncé. “The consensus ,” as “The Daily News” source reported, “was the songs were so not J. Hud.” (Yeah. He called her J. Hud. “Jennifer Hudson” is very hard to say when you’re completely full of shit.)

So the general feeling was that the tunes weren’t the sort of thing people expect of Hudson, even though her entire output at this point in her career, if you ignore the “Dream Girls” soundtrack, is a grand total of 13 songs. That’s one more than a dozen, for those of you who aren’t mathematically inclined.

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The reserved response to her new music threw Hudson – and, you can bet, her “people” - off guard. They were looking for stomping and cheering, but instead got only finger sandwiches and sipping. Still, why Hudson should care if a random group of people in a single room didn’t dig what they were hearing is beyond me.

I’d like to believe the music they were listening to was driven by what Jennifer Hudson was feeling during the period when she created it. She put her heart and soul into it, and, when she was done, she had a chunk of her new album in the can. She was just being nice enough to let a few interested people hear it in advance.

I’d like to believe that, but it appears I’d be wrong if I did. In the wake of the listening party, rather than giving everyone a hearty “fuck you, and don’t forget to throw your cups in the trash on the way out,” Hudson reportedly ran back to the studio and started recording new tunes that were more in keeping with her previous work…which is to say, she learned not to surprise unimaginative people, and will no longer be brazen enough to reveal other sides of her personality in her music. That’ll show ‘em, by God.

As Hudson herself quickly Tweeted after the non-response, she’s now "In the studio recording with Harvey Mason! Ryan Tedder & Rich Harrison came up with some heat. We gon' kill the game come September, y'all."

The “game”, then, is pandering to expectations as heartily as possible in order to sell a shitload of cd’s. It’s important to note, however, that Hudson, who obviously didn’t invent pandering, is so willing to send a missive out to her fans saying she’s finally putting her back into the Big Pander. Boy, won’t it be exciting if she manages to sell the crap out of a bunch of overblown gestures and makes a pile of money with them?! Isn’t that, after all, why we listen to music?

Well...no. Not me, and hopefully not you either.

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Depending on the crowd, I still occasionally get viewed by younger people as an old-timer who thinks all the great albums were made between 1964 and 1980, and everything else is tainted by my no longer being a part of the industry’s youthful target audience. But that badly misperceives where I’m coming from.

As I repeatedly said about movies when I wrote reviews for CNN, it’s not a matter of how lousy the offerings are, it’s a matter of the audience standing there and begging to be abused by corporate monoliths, then gobbling up their test-marketed garbage, which in turn encourages the creation of even more garbage. Sooner or later, the audience is asking for it, and the musicians, vocalists, and (if it’s movies) actors, have to fork it over.

Jennifer Hudson doesn’t know if she’s simply a young woman with a big voice or a true artist because, when all is said and done, her goal is to sell as many cd’s as possible and pack arenas at $130 a pop. That’s the modern musical art form, not the creation of a cohesive, moving statement by the person whose name is emblazoned on the cover of the cd.

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This is Van Morrison’s 1967 album, “Astral Weeks.” You undoubtedly know who Morrison is, and maybe you’re even a fan to one degree or another. But you may not know about “Astral Weeks.” It was voted the #2 rock album of all time by “Mojo” magazine in 1995, and “Rolling Stone” ranked it #19 in 2003. That doesn’t make it either the #2 or #19 most significant album of all time, whatever that’s supposed to mean. It does suggest, though, that there’s something particularly gripping going on with “Astral Weeks,” since thousands of music lovers are still hugely enthusiastic about it some 40 years after it was originally released.

There’s a moody, organic beauty to “Astral Weeks,” a feeling that the music is pouring out of a naturally flowing stream of consciousness shared by Morrison and a group of superb, closely interacting musicians, most of whom were jazz artists who had no idea what the famously withdrawn Morrison was even shooting for. Nobody at Morrison’s record label really wanted him to record “Astral Weeks,” though, because his previous single was the undemanding, super-catchy “Brown Eyed Girl,” which became an enormous hit the previous summer. And, boy, wouldn’t it be great if he could come up with a “Brown Eyed Girl, Part Two!”

“Brown Eyed Girl”

That Morrison had vastly different plans, that he was feeling something stirring in his musical soul and, with almost ridiculous ambition, set out to orchestrate it, runs wholly counter to what performers like Hudson - and that would include a significant chunk of the most popular performers on earth - do when they record albums.

Morrison wrote and arranged the songs on “Astral Weeks” by himself, then, due to extreme budget limitations, recorded it in three days, churning cellos and all. And he wound up with a record that sounds like it grew out of the ground, or was plucked from the air when it passed by during an eternal echo. It’s one of the most mysterious, strangely moving albums ever put to tape.

"Sweet Thing"

The famous, self-consciously insane rock critic, Lester Bangs, once glowed over the album with these lines: "Van Morrison was twenty-two or twenty-three years old when he made this record; there are lifetimes behind it. What ‘Astral Weeks’ deals in are not facts but truths. ‘Astral Weeks,’ insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend."

Any bets on whether that’s what Jennifer Hudson will end up with?

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I’m not saying Hudson should aim to make an artistic statement as profound as the one found in the grooves – yes, they were grooves once - of “Astral Weeks.” I’m not even saying you’re guaranteed to like “Astral Weeks;” it’s a uniquely challenging album that simply may not be your cup of tea. But I’m trying to illustrate what I, personally, look for when I delve deeply into our popular culture, and I know from the reader responses I’ve received over the years that there are others out there like me.

There are still terrific, human-sounding albums being made these days. But the machinery of the industry has grown so overwhelming, the performers you’re most likely to encounter, if you don’t dig and dig and dig, might as well be recording their music in cubicles. They’re clock-punchers with fleet fingers and memorable voices, but clock-punchers nonetheless.

When I carry on about my favorite recording artists, I may sound like the old guy who quit loving music when Reagan was president. But I’m just yearning for the days when major stars, whether you’re talking about the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, David Bowie, Bruce Springsteen, Sly Stone, Lou Reed, Stevie Wonder, The Clash, Marvin Gaye, or piles of others, were allowed to go for it, to break down the barriers of their stardom and actually reach for the brass ring— to try to deliver a piece of work that speaks about the times in which they live, or to illuminate the concepts that drive them as human beings.

I want to know who that guy is playing that guitar, or who that woman is singing that song. And I don’t give a flying fuck how many records they sell, just as I couldn’t care less how much a movie has made at the box office. Why the hell should I?

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Oh, by the way— “Astral Weeks” didn’t go gold until 2001, 33 years after it was released, and Van Morrison is not exactly hurting for cash at the moment. Significant careers should be able to survive an album or two that not everyone wants to listen to. If music labels won’t allow those albums to be made, and the artists themselves don’t stand up and insist that they’re making them, do we really have nothing left to look forward to but careful insignificance?

To paraphrase Peggy Lee, “Is that all there is to a dying industry?”

Paul Tatara

May 13, 2010

Until this past week, the last time you saw Lawrence Taylor, the former New York Giants All-World linebacker wild man and a member in good standing of the Pro Football Hall Fame, he was a stumbling, fumbling contestant on ABC-TV’s hit inexplicability show, “Dancing with the Stars.”

Or, at least, that’s the last time you saw Taylor if your significant other actually watches this stuff, which mine does. If, on the other hand, you don’t know from “Dancing with the Stars,” you can probably recall one of Taylor’s post-football court appearances, which featured such groovy charges as crack possession and twice trying to buy cocaine from undercover cops.

Or maybe you saw the 2003 “60 Minutes” interview in which Taylor told Mike Wallace he used to send prostitutes to opponents’ hotel rooms the night before big games in order to wear them out (the players, not the prostitutes.) He also, just because it’s fun to know, told Wallace he used to submit his teammates’ urine when he had to participate in league-ordered drug tests. How, I wonder, do you broach the subject of wanting someone’s piss?

In 2003, Taylor said, "L.T. died a long time ago, and I don't miss him at all...all that's left is Lawrence Taylor." Now, though, Lawrence Taylor has deftly combined two of L.T.’s favorite pastimes into one kick-ass reemergence on the ever-popular celebrity police blotter scene.

No, he hasn’t danced a badly timed rumba with a drug dealer, at least not as far as I know. But he has been arrested at a New Jersey hotel, where he allegedly raped a 16 year-old prostitute. Even in Jersey that kind of thing can get you into trouble.

New York sports fans, who are notoriously forgiving when it comes to assholes in their stadiums, both on the turf and seated around it, have been twisting their brains like street vendor pretzels for the past several days, trying to convince themselves what L.T. allegedly did with that kid at the hotel isn’t as bad as it first seems. If you think about it, all the mountain-like man did was force himself on a cowering teenager who was in the room solely because a pimp slapped her around for refusing to go. It’s not like he killed somebody. Plus, it sounds like he was...um...set up. Sort of.

Just to give you an idea how far you can get by being a beloved sports figure in New York City, the very girl Taylor is accused of raping said this to “The Daily News” yesterday, and why she was talking to “The Daily News” is anybody’s guess: "I was a huge Giant fan," she said, "and I used to look up to him." She added, "I don't want to ruin his reputation," despite what happened in the hotel room. "After all," she said, "He's in the Hall of Fame and he won two Super Bowls.” (My astounded italics.)

Really? That’s a fair trade-off? Really?

Taylor has her delivered on a platter to a hotel room in New Jersey, he rapes her, then gives her $300, the bulk of which she undoubtedly had to hand to the pimp who earlier slapped her around. And she doesn't want to ruin Taylor's reputation because HE’S IN THE HALL OF FAME AND HE WON TWO SUPER BOWLS?? Did she forget he once appeared as himself on "The Sopranos?"

This girl is a victim, and her head surely must have been in a bad, bad place even before she entered that hotel room. But if that isn’t the atomic bomb quote of the year, I don’t know what is.

Taylor’s defense in all this, now that he’s tried the “she didn’t look 16” angle, which means not a bit of difference in a court of law and nobody believed anyway, is that he never touched the girl. That’s right— he simply masturbated while she was in the room, which is several steps removed from both the rape charge and the graphic testimony the girl delivered to the cops when Taylor was first arrested.

So, yeah. Taylor paid $300 for an underage hooker who was forced into the act through an ass-kicking from her pimp. But all he did was jack off while she was there, man. Then, undoubtedly, he lectured her on the dangers of possibly getting raped in exactly that situation, braided her hair for her, and packed her a sandwich in a Hello Kitty lunch box before she left.

Forget “where have you gone Joe DiMaggio.” I’d settle for “where have you gone Sonny Liston.”

Paul Tatara

May 13, 2010

I'm convinced this should be adopted as America's new National Anthem, both the music and lyrics. It's concise enough for idiots to remember, and so accurately reflects the Zeitgeist.

Paul Tatara

May 12, 2010

Sometimes you just don't feel like it, and, for the past several days, I haven't much felt like cooking up a new entry for Wall of Paul. So, since I don't think it's right to leave loyal readers hanging for too long, I'm dusting off a Nov.11, 1998 review of the 60th anniversary re-release of "The Wizard of Oz."

This may well be my favorite piece that I ever wrote for CNN.com, and it generated lots of (positive) mail. However, as I've pointed out before, CNN always did an exceptionally shitty job of illustrating my reviews. This time, lucky you, the pictures are more interesting. - Paul

(CNN) -- Forget the seemingly endless string of vampire and slasher movies that we've been forced to endure lately, I'm here to argue that the scariest movie to hit our theaters in 1998 is "The Wizard of Oz." The film has been reissued for its fast-approaching 60th anniversary, in a hallucinogenic new print with colors that practically leap off the screen at you.

It scared the hell out of me when I used to watch it between my fingers when I was a kid, and (though it might say too much about my own emotional development) I still get the heebie-jeebies from a lot of it. I can feel a vague twinge in my stomach during particularly troubling moments, and there's more of them than you might remember.

It seems a little ridiculous to have to convey the entire plot. In fact, one of the main things that struck me while finally seeing it on a big screen is just how iconographic many of the movie's key images are. Over and over again you get really terrific songs and dance numbers, and then there's stuff like "Surrender Dorothy" and those ruby slippers that are so surprisingly impervious to removal. (I think a magic shoehorn would've been a great plot device.)

So I guess the best way to deal with this is to explore the individual characters and moments that make me want to hide. Frankly, all of the characters are a little bit out-of-whack all of the time, except when they're so far gone that they're actually a flying monkey or a murderous tree.

Dorothy (Judy Garland) -- The pre-amphetamine Garland plays Dorothy, a Kansas farm girl who's evidently failed being 12 years old and has been forced to repeat the age well into her teens. It's a wonder she doesn't have five o'clock shadow. The famous line after the farmhouse drops down in Oz is that they're not in Kansas anymore, but you gotta hand it to Dorothy and Toto (not the band). They're pretty damn resilient when you consider the variety of colorful nightmares they're about to endure. Garland, it needs to be reiterated, sure could belt out a show-stopper when she wanted to. And just try not to dig those happenin' slippers.

The Scarecrow (Ray Bolger) -- His insides fall out on the street, and they pick them up and cram them back in as if nothing happened. If he gets too close to an open flame, he lights up like a Zippo. Bolger's the most ingenious dancer of the bunch, though, and I feel comfortable around people who are so happy to announce their own stupidity.

The Tin Man (Jack Haley) -- Oz never gave nothin' to the Tin Man that he didn't already have.

The Cowardly Lion (Bert Lahr) -- The Cowardly Lion doesn't scare me. I just don't like him. He seems inebriated, and you can easily see the string that makes his tail wag. Come on.

Glinda, the Good Witch of the North (Billie Burke) -- Could this chick be any more full of herself? "Yeah, all the witches on the west side are ugly. Not gorgeous like me." Factor in the magic wand and she's like a delusional homecoming queen with a cattle prod. Anybody who's attended high school knows that that's trouble.

The Munchkins (a bunch of very short people) -- As seen in "Under the Rainbow." Creepy city. Their bizarre fashion sense alone is enough to make me cower behind a couch cushion. I mean, their shoes have flowers growing out of the tips, for God's sake! Then you notice the hair -- half of them have that little swirl on top, like they're a Dairy Queen cone.

They're also way too enthusiastic, if you ask me. The mean old witch was just killed, fair enough. But, hell, it happened right there in front of them and two minutes later they're gettin' down like it's Fat Tuesday. I refuse to even discuss the full-bodied horror of The Lollipop Guild.

The Wicked Witch of the West (Margaret Hamilton) -- I mean it; I have trouble looking at her! This is what a witch is supposed to look like -- big, bent nose; Jay Leno chin; green skin. And she's not afraid to dress like a witch, either. Nowadays you get Nicole Kidman with hip-hugger jeans and a pierced bellybutton. It wouldn't occur to you to rub oil on Margaret Hamilton, and it shouldn't. She's a witch!

There are several tremendously frightening witch moments, particularly when she overtakes Auntie Em's plaintive image while Dorothy has her face crammed right up against that crystal ball. Then she actually mocks the way Dorothy's crying! And mocks her good, too. I also like the shot where she's standing by the window, egging on squadrons and squadrons of flying monkeys. This particular image used to pop up in my nightmares when I was kid. Honest. I should sue the Mervyn LeRoy estate.

The flying monkeys (actual flying monkeys) -- Oh, man! These guys are the key to the whole thing. I like the kind of monkeys that used to go on Ed Sullivan and impersonate Maurice Chevalier. Not this! Their eyes are what do it. They seem like they're grasping everything just a little bit better than I am. And they hop around in what looks like a vaguely aroused manner when the witch starts screaming ... which, again, probably says more about me than it does anybody who worked on the movie. Besides, just imagine the ordeal of incoming monkey poop. I'd like to see the lost dance routine for that sequence.

The Wizard of Oz (Frank Morgan) -- The guy's schizophrenic. When he gets all warm and fuzzy right near the end and starts handing out symbolic tchotchkes, are we just supposed to forget that he made the whole gang crawl in horror 30 minutes earlier and sent them on a deadly mission to retrieve the broom? He was lookin' to kill 'em. Plain and simple.

Actually, you can get some fresh mileage out of the movie by comparing the plot to "Apocalypse Now" while you watch it. Our tormented hero (Dorothy) goes on a dangerous mission up-river (The Yellow Brick Road), all the while wondering what she'll do when she meets Col. Kurtz and his followers (The Wizard and all those crazy bastards at The Emerald City).

There's nothing to worry about, though, because the Wizard turns out to be a big, fat guy who's full of himself and realizes that you can't play God forever. You could even dub "The Ride of the Valkyries" over the flying monkey attack. (No napalm, though. That might freak out the Scarecrow.)

"The Wizard of Oz" is "The Wizard of Oz." There's not much more that I could tell you. This is not a director's cut with previously censored nude footage of Miss Gulch. It really is quite a trip to see this new print, though. Rated G. 101 minutes.

Paul Tatara