Blakroc: “Blakroc”

If you go to UrbanDictionary.com and look up the word “coochie,” you’ll be met with a message explaining that, if you don’t know what it is, you’ve probably never seen one. I might add that you’re also probably not on the same wavelength as Blakroc; it’s the title of the album’s first song, for one thing, and a later song is titled after a thematically related term, “Hoochie Coo.” But speaking more generally, the presence of the word at album’s beginning is indicative of the overall attitude– and lack of decorum– present herein.

This music is vulgar, in the sense of being very base, primal, and rough; and it’s tasteless, in the sense that it plays things loud, loose, and ragged. That’s all befitting an album that was cut spontaneously in just a few days; that splits the difference between hip-hop and blues; and that focuses its lyrical attention on cheating women, hard times, money, and drugs– common subjects dating back to the genesis of the blues and all the way to the cutting edge of rap circa 2009.

But while it may be visceral and brawny, it’s not dumb: Actually, it’s a surprisingly well-conceived concoction that completely redefines what “rap/rock” might mean in the 21st century, sounding quite unlike anything made by, say, Linkin Park or Limp Bizkit. And of course it does: To be a bit of a reductionist about it, the blue are brought hot and hard by the Black Keys, while the rapping comes via a roster of MCs that includes Mos Def, Ludacris, and half the Wu Tang Clan, including hip-hop’s reigning king Raekwon and the deceased Ol’ Dirty Bastard.

But that makes this sound like some kind of lame black-meets-white experiment, where actually it’s a perfectly symbiotic and sympathetic affair. The Keys know how important sound and recording techniques are to the blues, and they carry the same sensibility over to these slightly more beat-oriented numbers, emphasizing the low end but keeping things unvarnished and wonderfully rough. And the MCs present lock into the spirit of the blues; the focus is less on verbal finesse than on gritty storytelling.

The camaraderie present in these sessions shines through on the record, with house band and spotlighted MCs always seeming to meet each other halfway: The Keys aren’t afraid to let their featured vocalists’ individual personalities shine through, as when Mos Def goes off into typically philosophical territory, but he returns the favor by keeping it dialed into a low, bluesy rumble. Newcomer NOE sounds like a dead-ringer for Jay-Z, but his “Hard Times” performance could almost scan as an old blues song. The Keys, meanwhile, bring a hook bold enough that it could almost make its way to a ringtone, were it not so hard-hitting and from-the-gut.

Raekwon, meanwhile, is still on a coke-rap kick– his “Stay Off the Fuckin’ Flowers” is thematically of a piece with his own latest album, but he performs it over a brooding, minor-key clatter by the Keys; in this context, the blue hues of his story are illuminated, and the distance between old-timey hard-luck stories and more modern tales of the dealer’s downfall seems that much shorter. The rest of the record is in much the same spirit: The songs are ugly and sexy and mean, but they aren’t without dimension. And speaking of which, how nice that there’s some space here for R&B diva Nicole Wray to bring a much-needed feminine perspective to the torchy kiss-off “Why Can’t I Forget Him.”

That this project exists in the first place is something of a surprise, but it’s not totally out of the blue; the Black Keys collaborated with producer Danger Mouse on their last LP as a band, which hinted at their interest in this kind of music, but Blakroc is actually a much more convincing fusion of rap and blues. The Danger Mouse production touches on Attack & Release brought some hazy psychadelia and spooky atmospherics to the proceedings that sometimes shifted the focus to mood instead of hard-hitting songs, and if the Keys have maintained some of that ominous darkness here, they’ve also made it subservient to their grooves and their snarling riffs, making Blakroc an album that’s deeply felt– and deeply satisfying– purely on a gut level, smart music that you don’t have to think about to fall in love with.

The Top Ten (or so) Films of the Decade: #3 The New World (Malick, 2006)

I remember the first time I read T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland for a college English class– not getting it, not wanting to get it, ultimately hating it. I remember reading it again, baffled and bewildered by the professor’s in-class comments that suggested a depth I hadn’t even begun to fathom– laboring over it, taking copious notes, spending several days mulling over it in my spare time. And I remember reading it again and again– growing in my love and understanding of it, ultimately finding it to be the most meaningful and profoundly moving thing I read as an English major.

My experience with The New World is somewhat the same, and it should be no surprise– Terrence Malick’s transcendent proto-American epic is very much a cinematic poem, both defying and defining the cliche through its harnessing of the power of image and the potency of myth. It’s an alternate history, a secret history, and– dare I say?– a truthful history of America’s origins, a naturalistic meditation on destiny, free will, love, liberty, and responsibility. And it’s a movie you have to work at– a movie you have to grow with.

I had a friend who recently told me that he loves putting on The New World as a backdrop for other activities. This initially seems like the exact opposite of how one should approach this film– patiently, attentively– but the more I think about it the more it makes sense. This is a film in which one experiences, almost in a mystical way, something of the sublime: Malick’s much-loved (and in some circles maligned) shots of the natural world are restoring, rejuvenating, serene. They offer a quiet place of reflection, an experience of something deeply beautiful.

It is, in a good many ways, a misunderstood film. Not at all the kind of ravishing precolonial romance some anticipated, it is, instead, a contemplative love story that is told not through impassioned dialogue, but through internal monlogue, through private thoughts and prayers. And the story that it tells is of a nation’s birth, yes, but also of things much more primal, universal, and human.

The New World is a suggestive film: It tells a story we all know, about characters who are iconic, and considers ideals that are deeply ingrained into our nation’s identity. It understands the power of all this, yet it casts all of it in a role subservient to the untamed landscapes it so lovingly explores. There are bigger things at play– both in this movie and in the universe– than the story of America, and that story is told here in a way that bids us to reconnect with something far larger.

#4. Spirited Away (Miyazaki, 2002)

SSv’s Top Albums of 2009

Stereo Subversion– a publication, as most of you will know, that I write for from time to time– has unveiled its top eleven albums of the past year. It’s very indie-centric– Dirty Projectors are #1, chased by Animal Collective, Grizzly Bear, and the like– and is probably a pretty good window into what other indie-based publications will be honoring in the coming weeks.

I’ll be honest and say that my own ballot only included one of the albums honored here– and I’ll bet you can guess which one. Scroll down to #11 and read my blurb. Notice also that a couple of my vote-getters are listed among the honorable mentions. So close!

My own top fifteen albums of 2009 will be posted at the end of next week.

Tom Waits: “Glitter and Doom Live”

Wanna know the difference between a Tom Waits appreciator and a Tom Waits aficionado? For those merely impressed by Waits’ gifts —those who, perhaps, even admit to enjoying his music, in limited doses — it all starts with the songs. “You know, once you get past the voice, he’s actually a great songwriter!” And indeed he is, but ah, The Voice! For the true connoisseur, it begins and ends with the voice, the one that barks, sputters, coughs, growls, takes a Howlin’ Wolf imitation straight through the gutter and sometimes all the way down to Hell.

But where to start with Glitter and Doom? If anyone ever doubted Waits’ capacity to write songs of bold, melodic beauty and lyrical elegance, this fine set would leave them without a leg to stand on; presented live and without the smoke and mirrors of the recording studio, the songs assembled here are amplified not only in their sheer loveliness, but also in how composerly they are structured, and how richly they reflect an increasingly diverse milieu of musical traditions. And The Voice? It’s pushed to the fore and strained to the max: The Tom Waits who softly rasps at the piano is mostly eschewed in favor of Tom Waits, the carnival barker.

Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.

The Top Ten (or so) Films of the Decade: #4 Spirited Away (Miyazaki, 2002)

It was released in the same year as a Star Wars and a Lord of the Rings, and in a decade that gave us Pan’s Labyrinth and, uh, two more Lord of the Rings. But for me, Spirited Away is the defining work of fantasy on the big screen– a masterpiece of imagination that is without peer.

If I were making this list based on the sheer, visceral thrill of the moviegoing experience, this one would top them all, hands down. I remember seeing this one on the big screen– the first time I ever had such an honor with a Miyazaki film– and being utterly floored, not just at the animation (all hand-drawn!) but also the sheer scope and limitlessness of the auteur’s world-building, story-telling know-how. I struggled for a long time against the temptation to watch it again on DVD, not wanting the impact of that first viewing to be diminished, but the story is simply too rich and intoxicating to be denied. It fits the cardinal test of this kind of list: I could literally watch it over and over again.

Speaking of intoxication, I think it’s funny that the film is so often described using the language of narcotics. I’ve heard it called trippy, druggy, hallucinatory… and, of course, it draws frequent comparisons to the opium haze of Alice in Wonderland. But this isn’t the kind of movie that feels like it was birthed during an acid trip. Far from it: It’s drunk on nothing but childlike whimsy, wide-eyed wonder, the sheer joy of creation.

What’s it about? It’s about growing up, to be simple about it, but it’s not just a linear coming-of-age story. It’s emotionally mature, sophisticated. It’s like an elaborate series of little parables, some about friendship, some about responsibility, some about protecting the environment. It’s pro-family, pro-earth, anti-whining. It’s a lot like life– but maybe weirder. And it’s magical. You may have preconceptions about fairy tales, or about Japanese animation, but I promise you’ve never seen anything even remotely like Spirited Away.

#3. The New World (Malick, 2006)
#5. No Country for Old Men (Coen, 2007)

Robert Earl Keen: “The Rose Hotel”

When I call Robert Earl Keen a songwriter’s songwriter, I mean it as a compliment – for the most part. It’s a fact that even Keen himself will attest to; in the press materials accompanying his new record, The Rose Hotel, the artist admits that he would love to spend even an hour in the shoes of a great singer — Vince Gill is the one he mentions by name — but affirms that yes, ultimately, his gift is for storytelling, not necessarily performance.

Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.

The Top Ten (or so) Films of the Decade: #5 No Country for Old Men (Coen, 2007)

I had a literature professor who offered a slight criticism of author Cormac McCarthy, that perhaps he was just a bit too fascinated by a particularly macho vision of violence and bloodshed. I’m not sure that the same could be said of the Coen brothers‘ adaptation of McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men; in fact, the filmmakers seem to lose their interest in onscreen violence halfway through the movie, as grisly deaths and bloody shoot-outs grow fewer and fewer, and the lingering implications of sin and moral anarchy ring louder and truer.

This is the Coens’ most philosophical movie. Characters talk about fate and chance, about justice, about the inevitibility of evil and suffering in a fallen world. These are the questions we ask ourselves as we think about terrorism and preemptive war, and they are questions that have been asked since long before; the movie is very much an encapsulation of its time, and it is very much timeless in its concerns.

It is also the Coens’ most visceral movie, in my opinion: The intensity, the suspense, the sheer adrenaline of this movie best even Fargo and its infamous woodchipper scene, and there are moments of pure terror, as we stare directly into the abyss of evil, that are matched only by Barton Fink. It is a story told through precise, economic language, but also through the lens of the camera. The moral and philosophical musing is present not just in the script, but in the imagery: Indeed, I think some of the film’s most provocative characterizations of the nature of evil come in the very first and the very final images of Anton Chigurh, not in anything that it spoken out loud.

This is a great American film, one that acknowledges (sometimes quite graphically) the blood spilled across our collective landscape, but looks beyond it– inward, outward, perhaps even upward.

It might stand the test of time to become one of the Coens’ greatest achievements. As it stands, I would probably call it their most essential work of the decade. But get back to me in two or three years, and don’t be too surprised if I come to view A Serious Man as their most profound and sophisticated film. It’s just too recent– at least right now– for me to consider it for this list just yet, but it at least deserves a highly honorable mention.

#4. Spirited Away (Miyazaki, 2002)
#6. Punch-drunk Love (Anderson, 2002)

Film Break: “The Fantastic Mr. Fox”

Fantastic may be the understatement of the year– Wes Anderson’s new film is flat-out stupendous, and in an already-historic year for Hollywood adaptations of childhood classics, ranging from Spike Jonze’s triumph of interpretation in Where the Wild Things Are to the zany inspiration of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, Anderson’s Fox is the stone-cold champ, a knockout movie and a masterstroke of collaboration.

Yes, collaboration– for this is nothing if not a joint effort with author Roald Dahl, whose spirit is not so much reverently preserved here as it is given room to breathe life into this wonderfully witty and creative movie. It’s also a collaboration between Anderson and a whole cadre of animators; clealy enamored with the stop-motion effects he used in his Life Aquatic, he brings to this one a homespun, kids’ craft project vibe, rendering the story as a masterpiece in corduroy and fur.

But what makes it masterful is that it’s as quintessentially Wes Anderson as any movie he’s made: He makes his love of the story apparent by injecting it with his own wit– which has never been funnier or less cloying– and an aesthetic that’s charmingly rustic, both visually and even sonically, as Anderson recorded his actors all together on a farm, preserving not just the spontaneity but the naturalism of the session. He brings out his own typically Andersonian themes in the film– there are daddy issues, self-esteem issues, grappling with failure– but never feels as though he’s twisting Dahl’s work.

And it is also, by the way, a terrific Thanksgiving movie: At one point Mr. Fox himself expresses gratitude and, as he puts it, “awareness” not just for basic survival, but for the blessings of family and community. It’s a particularly warm moment in an entirely loveable and endlessly enjoyable movie– one that I’m particularly thankful.

The Pulse of Jazz

My friends at Stereo Subversion asked if I might write a few words about the state of jazz in 2009, and I was more than happy to oblige. You can read my essay on the subject here.

Loudon Wainwright III: “High Wide & Handsome: The Charlie Poole Project”

Loudon Wainwright’s High Wide & Handsome is billed as The Charlie Poole Project — not, you will notice, The Charlie Poole Album. And that’s fitting. Weighing in at two discs and containing a thick booklet complete with historical notes and biographical date, even an essay by Americana guru Greil Marcus, the album is something much more than a typical tribute album. But its sheer girth and lavish extras aren’t what set it apart: What truly amazes is that this isn’t just a set that cherry-picks the best or more famous songs associated with Poole, but it actually makes a respectable effort at representing the artist in his full, multi-faceted entirety.

That means something different when we’re talking about Charlie Poole than it would, say, Wainwright himself, or any other singer/songwriter from the past sixty years. Poole’s era was a different one indeed: A string-band minstrel who rose to prominence in the 1920s, Poole was a working musician at a time when being a working musician didn’t mean selling albums or packing stadiums. Instead, it meant traveling from one regional dancehall or honky tonk to the next and giving the people what they want. A musician like Poole may have been gifted at writing songs in a country-blues or folk vein, but if he wanted to eat he had to be all things to all people, which meant making music people could dance to — and making sure everyone in town was going to like what he played.

Read the rest at Stereo Subversion.