Film Review: "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull"

By From the Burn

"Please don't suck! Please don't suck!" These 3 words have been looping in my head ever since I wiped my shed tears of joy after hearing that glorious trumpet and seeing that familiar fedora hat lying on the ground in the teaser trailer for Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull a few months ago. But I have a perfectly good reason to be worried - hand over mouth, faking coughing sound - "Star Wars". You see, and I know I'm not alone in this, Star Wars and Indiana Jones are not just movies, they are the essence of my childhood.

A childhood marinated in escapism that still to this day keeps me from becoming cynical even as I cocoon into adulthood. The way I feel after watching an Indiana Jones/Star Wars movie is the same way I feel after a strong deeply moving spiritual experience. After all they're not called "The Holy Trilogies" for nothing. But there isn't enough menthol in the world to wipe away the bitter taste that still resonates three years after the last of the Star Wars prequels was released. After several years of therapy, I have been able to come to terms with the severe disappointment, and even see some of the good in them. But the trauma was so much that there was no way I could survive something like that again. Recovery would be impossible and as the movie approached release I even started looking into psychiatric hospitals to prepare for the worse.

Well the anticipation and worry is gone because I've seen it and the fact that I'm able to write this review proves that it didn't suck...but was it awesome? Eh, kinda, not totally. There was good, there was bad, and there was definitely some ugly, but in the end I think there was enough good to not completely send my body into shock. Let's start with the ugly...The jungle car chase scene; Shia's Tarzan impression, cartoon monkeys, bad CGI all around, and an elastic tree. Basically the movie became The Mummy 3 for a good 20 minutes. The bad; Kaminski's (the cinematographer) overt theatrical lighting that often made it feel like an exaggerated Indiana Jones film instead of one of the originals, the climax was a little hokey, and I thought Marion Ravenwood could've been a much stronger character than she was especially towards the end.

But amidst the bad and the ugly the good still outshone, especially the whole first hour of the film. It was everything you'd hope for in a new Indy film because simply it felt like an Indy film but it also took into consideration the passing of time as well as his age and that made it feel fresh and relevant. The action sequences were fun, the characters were great (There were no Jar Jar's in it), John William's score was one of his best in a while, and the very end was for me a satisfying conclusion to the franchise. There was actually a moment where I got choked up, in the scene where it is revealed that Sean Connery's character has passed away there is some dialogue between Indy and the dean of his school about the fact that life isn't what it used to be and they're getting older and that they're at the point where “life has started taking instead of giving.” That brought tears to my eyes, not because of what was happening in the story but because I started thinking about Harrison Ford, Stephen Spielberg, and George Lucas and realized that that is the point where they're at in life. Then I thought about the fact that there will come a day when they're not making movies anymore and that thought resonated with me as I watched the rest of the movie. So even with the bomb shelter refrigerators, angry monkeys, and flying saucers I found myself trying to take it all in and not wanting it to end and that is why I do recommend seeing this film.

The best way I can summarize the experience is to give you another example. Last year my favorite band of all time The Police got back together and I got to see them, the performance itself wasn't amazing, they were definitely a little rusty, definitely getting old, and definitely not as energetic as I'm sure they were in their prime, but I still got to see The "freakin'" Police. Just to be in their presence for two hours was all I needed to quench a longing thirst in my soul. I accepted the performance for what it was knowing that I may never get another chance to experience The Police live again. The same is true for me with the new Indy film so my advice is to just accept it for what it is and take it in because you probably won't get another chance to experience something that is so SPECIAL to not just you or me but all of us.

Album Review: Andrew Bird - "Soldier On" (7/10)

By Little August

New Americana for the New America

I have recently been listening to Andrew Bird non-stop. I can’t help myself. He’s that good. And he’s not new. To those of you who are part of the indie rock snobbery that is both at times appealing and repulsive, you probably heard Bird’s 2005 album The Mysterious Production of Eggs. If you have not heard of Andrew Bird, go to iTunes , buy all of his work, hit “play” and then continue on with this review with his songs in the background. Then listen to his work again. Stop. Check to see if he is visiting your city soon. Repeat.

Originally slated as a European-tour-only EP for his 2007 tour, Bird has released Soldier On digitally for the rest of us who weren’t able to make it to Gothenburg.

The album starts off with Bird sounding very Thom Yorke-ish with his ghost-like “ooohs” setting the mood of what shapes up to be combination of a somewhat dark song set mixed with highlights of a couple different takes of older Andrew Bird songs and a superb Bob Dylan cover at the finale.

In addition to being compared to Yorke, Bird has been compared to sounding like Rufus Wainwright and Jeff Buckley . I think there are times where Bird’s voice sounds less like Wainwright and Buckley and more how Sondre Lerche would sound after 10 years of extensive English classes.

But Bird is his own man: sometimes living up to his (sur)name with accomplished birdlike whistling (be it ironic or intentional), and unlike Yorke and Lerche, distinctly American, singing from one American to another of a docile culture bloated by wealth that is threatened to crumble under the weight of its “success.”

Bird’s sublime cover of the American bard, Dylan, is symbolic of the Americana torch being passed not only between generations but also between genres. A bold statement to be sure, but could it be that Bird’s style of new-world-American themes interlaced with his multi-instrumental, orchestral music (a style similarly echoed by another great American songwriter, Sufjan Stevens ) is replacing any version of modified folk and is emerging as the New Americana?

His songs are steeped in rich layering of imagery and logophilic purity. The EP opens with “The Trees Were Mistaken, ” setting the stage with themes of cultural preservation in this modern time where society threatens to cement its symbolic Southfield Freeway directly over and across the stories that once dwelled in its place. Knowing that the Southfield Freeway is in Michigan, I couldn’t resist a quick Google search to find out if there were any articles of interest with the Indian name “Blackbird” in that state (because of Bird’s repeated instance that his name is not Blackbird in this opening song). This search turned up an interesting character from Michigan’s past who was recently honored in 2007 on Michigan’s Walk of Fame: Andrew Blackbird, who was an Ottawa Indian from the 19th century remembered for various accomplishments linked to preserving culture. Is Bird lamenting our society’s tendencies to (in this song’s case, literally) pave over the past, destroying its rich culture? Or is this a certifiable Little August conspiracy? In either case, I am in Oakland, not Scotland Yard, so we will move on after agreeing that, for better or for worse, listening to Andrew Bird makes you feel smarter.

Sic of Elephants follows this opening tune, where the New Americana poet speaks to the masses of a new generation 21st century America on the dangers of our society’s condition of seemingly starting the decline after a 50-year peak as a superpower:

Can't you see how dangerous
When you're too content to make a fuss
Can't you see how dangerous

The lyrics portray republican Elephants and lobbying sycophants as being behind the current war, but place the blame squarely on us (yes, likely the same us, the new generation of young adult Americans who are now reading The Old Shack) for our inability to choose (i.e. our infamous inability to stand up and vote in the 2004 election):

Can't you see how dangerous
The one you chose is
Which brings us back to
Might makes right
So we learn from Wars of the Roses
Pain was only fear kneading your toeses

Bird alludes to the disastrous War of the Roses, perhaps to liken the British civil war between two royal houses to the Red State / Blue State tug-o-war currently dividing our country.

Bird’s best stab at painting the dilemma of the New America is found within the lyrics to “How You Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm.” The lyrics here come from Mister Reuben and his Wifey Dear: two old representatives of the Old America where hard work, agriculture and the simple life comprised much of what made America great. The Old American ambassadors contemplate the dilemma of what will happen to their world now that “the war” is over and their sons are returning, victorious. Ma seems to think life will be the same back on the farm, but clairvoyant Mister Reuben foresees the future of a country led by a generation who have returned victorious.

They’ll never want to see a rake or a plow,
and who the deuce can parlez-vous a cow?
And how ya gonna keep ’em down on the farm
after they’ve seen Paris?

Mister Reuben’s assessment of the next generations future rings true for our current “Generation Me,” who feels we increasingly deserve more, more, more (like the new Comcast commercials!):

“Mother Reuben, I’m not fakin',
though you may think it strange.
But wine and women play the mischief,
with a boy who’s loose with change!”

Perhaps there is more mischief in store, or maybe the masses of the New America will dig up the Southfield Freeway, find the roots that once made America strong and will Soldier On into a brave new future with the New Americana bard Andrew Bird at the helm.

Album Review: Fleet Foxes - "Sun Giant" (9/10)

By Old Man

You need some serious cajones to open a debut E.P. with a choral song. Serious cajones. And that is precisely what lead singer Robin Pecknold and the Fleet Foxes have. This five song E.P. put out by Seattle stalwarts Sub Pop makes some bold statements from the get go.

The opening song (and title of the E.P.) is a dandy named "Sun Giant," which plays out like an O Brother Where Art Thou old-timey hymn. "What a life I live in the spring time / What a life I live in the spring" says the band innocently. "Drops in the River," sounds like a eastern-mediterranean version of Sun Kil Moon, complete with Sitar and marching 4/4 beat. "English House," is a gypsy song with some beautiful and suprising chord changes, filled with yearning and hope. The diamond of the album, however, is the two part song "Mykonos," in which Pecknold sounds like he is channeling a Nebraska era Bruce Springsteen, in charge of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young . Sound odd? It actually works - wonderfully, in fact. It's a story, taking place (perhaps) in ancient Greece about a friend who constantly disappears. That's seems to be their thing - employing history to give gravity to humanity. Which is why I don't get Pecknold's aversion to the 70's rock he is so obviously influenced by, stating defiantly "We are not hippies" in an interview with Seattle weekly newspaper, The Stranger. I am sure he has his reasons.

Sun Giant does something I haven't seen done well from any Seattle, or even Bellingham band, ever (Eddie Vedder's Into the Wild soundtrack is an exception - but that isn't a band effort): Write music that represents the vast majority of the Pacific Northwest. Beautiful untamed wilderness, open space, vast bodies of water, and dense, dark forest. Unlike the urban hymns of their now contemporaries Death Cab for Cutie, The Shins (I know, Albequerque - but they moved to Portland years ago), Stephen Malkmus, Pedro the Lion, and (fill in the blank x10), the Foxes are willing to write natural world, grand, beautiful baroque pop that encapsulates the maze of logging roads that traverse the landscape outside of Seattle and Portland's carparks.

This is, perhaps, the best debut E.P. I have heard from a band. Their Myspace page has them playing a few shows with Wilco in August. Perhaps that is a sign of what is to come for the Fleet Foxes.

Regardless - I hope they don't lose touch with their roots on there (at this point) inevitable climb upward. It's rare to find a band that has the distinct sense of place - even within the limitations of an E.P. Highly recommended.

Album Review: New Pornographers "Challengers" (9.3/10)

By Old Man

I am happy to report that the success of the New Pornographers has probably taken more than a few late night porn stalkers to the website of one of the greatest bands living. If you believe in G_d, that is called "irony." If you don't, well, it's just funny. But if you do believe in G_d, you have got to praise the Big One for giving this band some serious talent. SERIOUS talent.

I was first aurally introduced to a band three years ago from one of my students, a girl named Katie, who swore they were the best band I had never taken the time to listen to. She let me borrow Twin Cinema , and I immediately bought it, and now is one of those albums that I listen to and still always sounds fresh. If the old maxim is true: "While you are sleeping, Ryan Adams is writing a song" (used to spur us songwriters on to be more productive in terms of numbers) the same thing could be said for the New Pornographers in terms of quality and inventiveness. While you are playing you're '69 Stratocaster through a Blues Jr. (guilty), the New Pornographers are using instruments you haven't heard of in ways you haven't thought of with creativity you wish you had.

They push the boundaries of pop rock.

Which is why Challengers is the top album in my list of "Best Albums of 2007." Seriously. It is good. The reason it doesn't get a full (10/10) is because, for me, no album can get a 10/10 when it comes out. That rating is saved for the time-tested, those with many followers like Radiohead's epic OK Computer and Springsteen's Born to Run . Challengers is not on that level. But it's close...

The lyrics range from Divorce to Love to Hate to G_d, and in ways you haven't dreamt. "We are the challengers of the unknown," Neko Case croons on her album titled orchestral masterpiece . A.C. Newman takes divorce head-on with his gorgeous bittersweet opening track "My Rights vs. Yours ,"

Remember we were the volunteers
Courts knew this and nothing more
Now it's my rights versus yours

I'll leave the rest of the Vancouver, CA band's tracks for you to enjoy and interpret. I understand why they aren't more popular - they are too good. This is a band whose esteem will grow from generation to generation. Remember the Sonics ? Of course you don't. In their time, no one knew who were they were, nonetheless they influenced countless numbers of the next generation of singer-songwriters. The New Pornographers will be the same way. In ten years, Rolling Stone will be interviewing bands who count them as huge influences, and many will wonder whey they didn't hear about them earlier. And I will be able to say I had, and "I told you so." Which is, selfishly, one of my favorite things to do.

Book Review: Steve Coll "Ghost Wars" - (9.5/10)

By von Richthofen

In the age of 24 hour news coverage, it has become inevitable that we now view history through an awkward lens.
Just ask anyone how they communicated back when Blackberry was still just a fruit. Yes, it is clear that we no longer consciously remember a day when news was beamed directly to our every location. We can't recall what life was like before we had the sum collective of our knowledge available at the click of a mouse.

Steve Coll, the Managing Editor for The Washington Post, concludes his gripping account of the events leading up to 9/11 on September 10th, 2001. This is the account of what was not documented by television cameras and lived by millions worldwide, live on air. It had been nearly 60 years since America was violently jarred awake at Pearl Harbor. But many Americans did not see footage of the event until days or weeks later. 9/11 was instantaneous. But the undercurrent was largely undocumented by American television cameras.

Coll's narrative is equal parts thrilling espionage cat and mouse dashed with the inescapable feeling of impending doom. With the benefit of hindsight, Coll allows his research to make a case where blame is widespread and errors are commonplace. It is an incredibly detailed book and the research needed to compile it must have been exhausting. The reader is carefully navigated from the dusty streets of Kabul to the darkest corners of the Pentagon. From the halls of power in Islamabad to the cramped caves of the Kyber Pass.

The truth behind 9/11 is that Afghanistan had been a bastion of failed foreign policy for over two decades. And not just any foreign policy, but rather, the worst kind. The US government's war on Communism was waged globally during the Cold War. But in no place was the war as immediate and deadly as Afghanistan. Coll allows the reader to see how arms and cash were used to gain leverage against the Soviets but also details how those weapons were used to broker the birth of Osama bin Laden's first training camps. CIA agents staged elaborate weapons deals and cash payoffs to secure the loyalties of freedom fighters who called themselves the Taliban. As we all know, many of those weapons are still being used against American troops in Afghanistan today.

As the big history buff that I am, I was astounded to learn that I knew little about that area of the world prior to 9/11. My first visualization of Afghanistan was as fodder for 1988's Rambo III. Coll seems to understand that most of his readers are as unfamiliar as I was. He writes with tremendous pacing and the only time I put the book down was to take notes on who was who (there are a lot of interwoven players in this book). It is an elaborate puzzle but Coll does everything possible to bring each thread back to the inevitable conclusion.

This book is not for the faint of heart or the overly optimistic. You will walk away questioning American foreign policy for the last 50 years. While it is a devastating read, it is also pertinent and timely. And while we may not remember what life was like before it, the reality of a post 9/11 world bears some serious reflection.

Movie Review: "Prince Caspian" (6.5/10)

By Old Man

The premise of the Narnia series is not without it's scientific backing: Some quantum physicists believe that sub-atomic matter is blinking in and out of existence in our physical world, and perhaps traveling back and forth between difference worlds across the universe, maybe even transversing dimensions. So in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, where four children walk through their grandfathers wardrobe and find themselves in a different world that is on a different time-space continuum, C.S. Lewis may not have been operating as much in the science fiction level that he initially thought.

So when the four siblings in Prince Caspian are called back into Narnia from the London Tube, it didn't take much suspension of disbelief for me to buy in. Unfortunately, some more basic parts of the movie made it more difficult.

Having enjoyed the Narnia books and having imagined the entire world in my head already, and coupled with that engaged in the sophistication of Lewis' writing, even in his children's books, Prince Caspian was destined to be a let down. Yet last night, while watching the movie, I finally realized the roots of my disappiontment with the series: It's missing a character.

The books lean on the omniscient narrator's voice - which is very present in the telling of the story, and isn't above commenting on the action to the reader, and even addressing the reader as the action is going on (ala Ron Howard in Arrested Development ). This allows the narrator to be another character in the book - you almost feel like you're hanging out at the Bird and Baby with the Inklings (his writing group - which included J.R.R.Tolkien and Charles Williams), having a pint while Lewis reads his latest manuscript.

What the movie is missing is the narrator, Lewis.

Disney's take on the book is moves furiously - filled with intense battle scenes, oddly reminiscient of the bright, shiny, graphic novel-esque computer imaging of 300. There's also a magnificent water god, cool minotaurs, and other belles and whistles. However, it lacked the depth and sense of strong characterization that the books benefit from. The acting seemed forced much of the time, and the romance (I'll spare you the details), like a few glaring parts of the movie, was an obvious Disney addition that wasn't in the book. Probably meant to lure in some more teenage moviegoers. The result is entertaining - but very piecemeal. The movie never gets into a rhythm or flow, it just jumps from "exciting, dramatic scene" to "exciting dramatic scene" and never stops to breath. And if everything is "exciting," then...nothing really is.

So Disney, here is my message for you: Stick to the books. Find a narrator, perhaps even Liam Neeson (the voice of Aslan), to provide commentary.

And reader, if you decide to see the movie (I'd rent it), understand that you are getting just as much Disney as Mr. Clives Staples Lewis.

Song Review: Kenna - "Daylight"

By From The Burn

So I'm technically the film guy at The Old Shack, but my inaugural review will be a song because frankly I can't stop listening to this track and I feel that it's no longer fair to hog it's awesomeness anymore, it's time to share. Whether I'm waking up to it in full "I-Home" glory or it's helping me get through my perilous L.A. commute, this anthem rocks all of my six senses with glorious "classic pop" vigor.

I, like a lot of people, first became aware of Kenna from his appearance in Malcolm
Gladwell's peculiar best seller, Blink. For those of you who haven't read the book, there is a whole chapter devoted to Kenna's journey of being on the verge of mainstream success and ultimately failing to break through, despite unanimous critical praise. The book claims that it was because of his "too all over the map" sound that made him hard to market as well as his own shortcomings of not trusting the people that were behind him that contributed to his downfall. Kenna's inability to find his "Tipping Point" with his first album as well as being dropped from labels didn't stop him from coming back with a long delayed follow up album that in my humble opinion unrepentantly blows his previous outing into sand grain sized smithereens.

"Daylight" is the first track on "Make Sure They See My Face," and it seems Kenna brought in his clean up to bat leadoff, because he swings for the fences with this
track and it lands clear in the upper deck. It was Kenna's list of influences that first made me curious about him, U2, Talking Heads , Jimi Hendrix, Michael Jackson, Weezer, The Police, and David Bowie to name a few. If we indie rockers, who fall under "Generation Me" are honest with ourselves, we know we all are closet Michael Jackson fans. We all owned The Chronic and serenaded girls with Jodeci and Boys To Men songs before we were detached from our pain-bodies by Pablo Honey, Nevermind, and Siamese Dream , but to completely deny our pop roots, is to simply deny our essence, and Kenna makes no apology for his Pop/Hip Hop sensibilities or hides his New Wave/Glam Rock/Heavy Funk/Alternative Folk influences, and it's this reason why I think he may be the first artist to truly capture the essence and story of our generation.

You literally do go on a genre-bending journey on both his albums. One second your listening to Keane, the next Talking Heads, oh, there's Radiohead, Bloc Party, Daft Punk, Depeche Mode and hey, even Justin Timberlake (c'mon you know you like him), but with "Make Sure They See My Face", there is a bit more cohesion, at least thematically, than the previous effort, which may just be what Kenna needs to achieve the recognition and fame he deserves even if it takes a little bit to catch fire, ala The Postal Service and MGMT (who are both bands that are equally hard to categorize). "Daylight" is the opus of the album and it sets the stage perfectly before sending us through an odyssey of lost love, disappointment, and redemption. Starting like a Philip Glass score, it then launches into Coldplayesque riff that sets a light show ablaze in your grey matter.

From there on it's like any other great anthem, only it packs an emotional punch that I can get behind. For me the song is about getting ourselves out of a state of self loathing which I think is one of the main messages that my generation needs to hear, so that alone gets me excited, but the arrangement of the song brings the message home in an emotional way that leaves an impression. My favorite part of the song is the bridge that comes towards the end,

We all wanna rise
Seconds, seconds they fly by, yeah
We all wanna rise
We all wanna see light
We wanna see light

These words showcase the commonalities we all share, and it's these words that symbolize why Kenna's sound works. He's an Ethiopian born American that not only
symbolizes the crock pot of cultural influences that reflect our landscape today but also the musical influences that many of us grew up with. With this song in particular, Kenna demonstrates why we all love music, that no matter the sound, well constructed lyrics and melody hold the key to what connects us all...our souls.

Album Review: Death Cab for Cutie - "Narrow Stairs" (5.5/10)

By von Richthofen

I was never a paint by numbers kid. You remember those don't you? Square 1 = Red. Square 2 = Magenta.

It's getting old Ben and crew. Fire up your ITunes and listen to track 1 on DCFC's latest offering Narrow Stairs . The faint hum of a verby guitar gives way to a slow burner...sounds great except that it sounded better (much better) as track 1 on their last album Plans ("Marching Bands of Manhattan" ) or track 1 on the preceding album (the effervescent "The New Year" ).

I'll keep this review short and sweet. You've heard this record before. You've followed them into the dark and discovered the figurines in plastic on the wedding cake. Heck, I unearth my vinyl copy of We Have The Facts and We're Voting Yes at least once a year and collapse into a cathartic mess on my sofa. Afterwards, I emerge a little bit less prickly to the woes that befell my day, month, and preceding year. I tuck the vinyl (worth a pretty mint if not for the chew marks on the sleeve from my feline friend) carefully back into it's home and place it back on the shelf for another year. It's a great ritual.
I've found myself enjoying each release since (and including) Transatlanticism a little bit less. This album is no exception. The highlight of the entire affair is "Cath...", which deftly posits the bombast of later period DCFC singles like "Crooked Teeth" directly on top of instrumental fireworks seldom heard since "For What Reason" on We Have The Facts. When they turn the tempo up a notch on "Long Division" you can hear Chris Walla's power-pop sensibilities interceding. It's fun factor is on par with anything that you would find on a New Pornographers disc. "Grapevine Fires" hits on a soulful swing as Gibbard recounts the devastating fires that ravaged California last year. It's here that he is most casually disarming. Gibbard has always been an excellent visual tour guide.
But sadly, the euphoria is short lived. Just as quickly as they break stride, the march towards uniformity continues with "Pity and Fear" and the throw in "The Ice is Getting Thinner" (see Transatlanticism for a deeper take on this dynamic). It's telling that as I played back some old Death Cab For Cutie jams to corroborate the comparisons that my ears were drawing, I found myself sucked into the old songs and loathe to return to Narrow Stairs. It's not a bad offering. It just doesn't hold water.
Kudos to Chris Walla on another crisp and detailed production job but I still think that his magic was best captured on inferior equipment. There was a spontaneity that simmered out of cheap mics and sour notes. It's the same problem that plagues the songwriting here. Square 3 = Blue.
Maybe it's time to dust off that vinyl. I pretty sure that Gibbard and Co. will eventually tear themselves from the steel tracks of a preordained destination. For now, I'm looking backward for assurance that this isn't the next to last chapter in a great ride.

"This won't be the last you hear from me, it's just the start".

Song Review: Peter Sarstedt - "Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)"

By Little August

Love, Spite, and a Dude That’s Older Than My Dad

It was 1:30 a.m. on my birthday night (good!) and I had just woken up with a racing heart and a sore left arm (bad). Reaching for my radio and tuning into some late night KALX I was just in time for some French-sounding accordion set to a somewhat Disneyland-fake-esque European-sounding waltz beat with a 1960’s folk feel.

What the hell was this?

I loved it. It was sweet but had a cutting sense of swagger and sarcasm. It was full of longing but also had an odd sense of humor to the point that I couldn’t tell if it was serious or joking. Trying to calm down my racing heart, I imagined some sort of Wes Anderson movie with its beautiful cinematography, chalk full of vivid colors and accompanied by quirky characters falling in and out of awkward love. Who was this guy reaching out through the late night radio waves to serenade my birthday heart attack? After waiting through a bunch of bebop and butt rock songs (which didn’t help the anxiety), the D.J.-in-training released the name: Peter Sarstedt… from The Darjeeling Limited Soundtrack . I knew it! Wes Anderson movies always have great music, but I was a little late on buying this latest mix tape from the director.

I thought this song had just been released and was being picked up by a local college radio station. This guy is older than my dad, and the song was released in 1969. The song sounds like it’s being sung by a Frenchman, but Peter was born in India.

The point is, I hadn’t heard of Peter, and maybe you haven’t, either. But you should definitely check out this song.

Peter’s voice and guitar accompaniment is a merry-go-round that spins my mind in and out between my reality and the song’s fake Parisian world. The soaring accordion and produced strings transport me into the Latin Quarter through my earphones, and it doesn’t even matter that I’ve never stepped foot in France. One moment, I’m in Oakland with a panic attack; the next, I’m in 1960’s France, but not really. It’s in the carousel whir of this fake geographic and time setting where Andy Warhol reminds me that the difference between real and fake doesn’t really matter if nobody can tell the difference.

At this point I don’t care, so I tune my ears to the lyrics (plus the, folksy, waltz-y rhythm, while beautiful, repeats in a circle like a Tilden Park merry-go-round ride and there’s not much more to comment on the instrumentation).

The singer sings to Marie-Claire, whom he knew as a child but they grew up in different social directions. No matter how hard I try, I can’t tell if he’s longing for her love or if he’s cutting her down with his sarcastic humor. Maybe both. It could be love and spite. She’s a poor girl from Naples, turned jet-set hipster (from 1969, check out her Rolling Stones records, and check out the song’s dated 60's references. He’s just someone she used to know, living in a different world.

You can almost hear Peter laughing with sweet-but-not-too-cute love when he sings “legs” in the 4th verse:

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pins
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs

You can hear Peter laughing in spite when he says “ah-ha-ha-ha” (yes, definitely laughing here) in the 6th verse:

Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ah-ha-ha-ha

I’m not sure why, but this song makes me want to fall in love and then have my heart broken over and over again. I want to soak up the jarring feelings like a puff of smoke and then release them just as I jump back into my real life, just in time to remember that I don’t have to deal with the hangover of this drunken swooning.

But that’s the lovelorn side-effect of this song. The tongue-in-cheek part of it just makes me want to down some Napoleon brandy with a friend on the French Riviera and talk shit about people who don’t think theirs doesn’t stink.

Either way, the song calmed down my panic attack and reminded me to pick up the new mix tape by my best buddy Wes Anderson. Peter may have ended up with a love dilemma, but I ended up with sleep and a free merry-go-round ride.

---Post Note from Little August---
This song is also available on “The Lost Album,” a collection of Sarstedt songs released together in 2008. I haven’t reviewed this album in depth yet, but I do have to say that The Darjeeling Limited soundtrack is quite good, and I definitely recommend that compilation (it’s a great chance to grab an eclectic mix of Indian and classical music).

Album Review: Saint Etienne - "Tales from the Turnpike House" (8.1/10)

By Platypus

"So, what is that?"

That's the question one might ask when confronted with a platypus, that mysterious work of God, as the Old Man once mused. I guess it only makes sense that I base my virgin review on a group that evokes similar queries. Saint Etienne : who are they? What are they? Before this heads down a slippery existential slope, let me prime the unprimed on this London trio. These two guys and a girl first came on the scene in the early '90s with their blend of swinging '60s melodies, contemporary electronic beats, and quirky obscure pop culture references. Over the years (which includes a couple of US releases on Sub Pop), their growing body of work just goes to show that, like our duckbilled friend, you can't put them in a box. Whether it's soundtracks, documentaries, multimedia exhibitions, or other eclectic collaborations, Saint Etienne always seems to have their collective fingers on the pulse of the city, equal parts cutting edge and endearingly eccentric.

I could wax on about the many faces of the Saints, but let's get back to the music. It was with great anticipation that I awaited their most recent release, 2006's Tales From Turnpike House . Past releases have vectored off into genres such as dance, folk, ambient, alt rock, and synth pop. True to form, Saint Etienne decided to blaze yet another trail on their musical map while staying true to their urbancentric ethos. Tales is a concept album of various narratives in a tower of flats in London. Call it a day in the life of the 'hood, if you will.

Though there are profound nuggets to be found lyrically, listening to the Saints is less about that, than to immerse oneself in the fruits of their lush music unorthodoxy. For the most part, it succeeds beautifully. The opening number, "Sun in My Morning," is a warm acoustic/acapella tune that evokes spending early hours at the beach in sandals, coffee in hand. "Milk Bottle Symphony" is a dulcet combination of Sarah Cracknell's vocals and what seems to be the aforementioned receptacles. "Lightning Strikes Twice" and "A Good Thing" harken back to the group's affinity for programmed beats, while "Stars Above Us" is an exuberant ode to infatuation that wouldn't seem too out of place at some hip wedding reception. "Teenage Winter," on the other hand, is a melancholy eulogy that pines for the loss of past youth and innocence. The only bomb on this album is the duet "Relocate," which comes off as a half-baked English version of the theme song from the 60's show Green Acres. Personally, I'd rather tune in to Nick at Nite and let Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor do the singing.

I have to say that the album's bossa nova-flavored first single, "Side Streets," speaks for Saint Etienne themselves, and maybe for all of us city dwellers:

But I still walk the side streets home,
Even when I'm on my own.
If I let myself believe all the bad press and horror stories,
I wouldn't set a foot outside.

A haunting, yet resonant nod to the urbanite in all of us: caught in a mass of humanity, busyness, and chaos, yet in many ways struggling on our own journeys trying to find our way through it all. Give this album a spin and judge for yourself: like the platypus, it might continue to mystify you as an enigma, or you might just come away pleasantly surprised.