I have the feeling that Vladimir Nabokov, unlike Pablo Picasso, was indeed called an asshole on many occasions. Also brace yourself for the most hilarI have the feeling that Vladimir Nabokov, unlike Pablo Picasso, was indeed called an asshole on many occasions. Also brace yourself for the most hilarious footnote ever on page 136. ...more
Skip around through the sonnets first (the authors are clear that this shouldn't necessarily be read in historical sequence), then check out some of tSkip around through the sonnets first (the authors are clear that this shouldn't necessarily be read in historical sequence), then check out some of the explications. You'll notice very quickly that Stephen Burt has a poetic turn of mind with a vivid prose style to match -- and a sense of humor. David Mikics, alas, is bone dry and has a tendency to point out the blindingly obvious. (He also seems to be the religious one -- his selections and explications often bend toward the theological). A great introduction, but the disparate talents of the two authors is a distraction. ...more
Hilarious, rambling, heartfelt, self-effacing -- only one of those adjectives applies to Kermode's film criticism: all four apply here. Between lamentHilarious, rambling, heartfelt, self-effacing -- only one of those adjectives applies to Kermode's film criticism: all four apply here. Between lamenting the deaths of Alexander Walker (!) and Roger Ebert, and sounding the alarm about the use of "community reviews" -- such as this one -- to evaluate artistic works, he offers a potent defense of the value of professional critics, especially in a century where all that is solid melts into air. I'd ask for more structure, but if you approach this as a collection of interrelated essays, you'll dig it. ...more
This witty and fascinating march through history didn't cure me of my hate for "classical music" -- in fact it reinforced my belief that these highbroThis witty and fascinating march through history didn't cure me of my hate for "classical music" -- in fact it reinforced my belief that these highbrow genres were always made by and for European (or Europhile) religious, political, and economic elites. Yet it did grant me not only understanding and knowledge, but lots of gossip, dirt, rebellion, and insanity to chew on next time I deride classical as music for serial killers. An excellent book, recommended for everyone everywhere -- even haters -- and it's remarkable that this final revision was assembled when Schomberg was in his eighties.
Here he digresses about castratos (in the chapter on Handel): "These glamorous, ungainly figures were pursued by bored ladies out for a new kind of thrill. There were many such in the eighteenth century aristocracy. They also knew that, come what may, there would be no children." When I saw that "come what may" I laughed out loud, and sussed Schonberg as a nasty wit who has no interest in preserving composers in amber.
The chapter on Tchaikovsky reconfigures that neurotic man as something less than the AC/DC audacity of the 1812 Overture, and more of a crazier version of Morrissey: when conducting, "he got the idea that his head was going to fall from his shoulders, and he actually would put his left hand under his chin to keep it attached. It is not surprising that he was not exactly a conductor who could inspire his players."
Or dig his career summary of Giacomo Puccini: "He composed three of the most popular operas ever written, died worth an estimated four million dollars, had all the opportunity he desired to play poker and to decimate the duck population around his lodge at Torre del Lago, and indulge his passion for fast boats, fast motor cars, and fast women." Every chapter features gems of this sort -- these composers come to life as mostly nutzoid or (unintentionally) hilarious men. Only dull sobersides like Bach, Handel, or Mendelssohn take you away from the flesh and blood and deep into the music.
But there really is an autumnal tone, a sense that modernity has rendered new "classical" music comatose, or vegetative. The last words here: "Whatever the complex of reasons, the period after World War II and the following decades saw a hiatus in the mighty line of powerful, individualistic composers that had extended from Monteverdi through Igor Stravinsky and Arnold Schoenberg." Imagine all the rock and pop music writers today having to contend with that, with the death of all they've ever enjoyed and engaged through a lifetime, and that's what Schonberg leaves off with. I look forward to reading Alex Ross's The Rest Is Noise for an alternative to Schonberg's verdict, which as far as I can tell remained unchanged at his death in 2003. ...more
The usual historical narrative tells us that metal died in 1991, when grunge (Nevermind, specifically) took over the airwaves and thereby plunged hairThe usual historical narrative tells us that metal died in 1991, when grunge (Nevermind, specifically) took over the airwaves and thereby plunged hair metal heads into the toilet. But Nevermind had little effect on metal: indeed metal got fretful and multiplied. Popoff's third metal record guide not only crams more albums in than either of the other two (and without copping out with terse "bomb" symbols and such, as in Christgau's 90s guide), but points out the scores of new scenes and genres that metal begat. And grunge is only one of them -- yes, he does include Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Tar, Tad, the whole shebang. But you also see lots of grindcore (which Popoff initially dismisses), death, death'n'roll, industrial , power metal, melodic death, new "southern rock", punk, etc. etc. As always his gonzo style is descriptive, witty, accurate, comprehensive, and generous. And as with any great critic, he'll turn you on to some cool tunes you've never heard before -- in my case it was Love/Hate and the Tea Party. The only thing I miss is the LP cover reproductions. ...more
Big ups to Popoff for featuring Black Oak Arkansas's 'X-Rated' on the title leaf -- perfect encapsulation of how "southern rock" is an extension of boBig ups to Popoff for featuring Black Oak Arkansas's 'X-Rated' on the title leaf -- perfect encapsulation of how "southern rock" is an extension of both Hee Haw and the dirty business that goes down in that hayloft.
Those of you who know Popoff as a metal critic may be shocked at the stuff he digs up here, lots of it bordering on the forbidden zones of country and jam bands. Hell, his struggle with the Marshall Tucker Band discography is almost existential (he gives up in 1983). On the other hand, he dutifully explores every Skynyrd reunion and Van Zant recording after the tragic events of 10/20/77... including Christmas Time Again (he scores it 7/10 and notes "the critics lambasted this thing out the backdoor and around the yard a few times. Mercilessly."). His criteria for "southern rock", one of the slipperiest genres out there, focuses on geographic origin (14 southern states, but not California) and "you have to combine variously blues, soul and/or country influences with rock, rock being anything from metal to hard rock to pop." Thus the inclusion of the Classics IV and Eddie Hinton, but the exclusion of CCR and the Band. Still, it's a compulsive read, Popoff dishing out lots of cool trivia and interconnections, giving some great recommendations (why hadn't I heard Hydra? or those early Charlie Daniels Band LP's?), and generally doing his duty to give props to a groovy and oft-maligned genre.
Warning: the CD attached to this book was probably created without Popoff's input. Very obvious songs ("Sweet Home Alabama", "Ramblin' Man", "Keep On Smilin'"), and two artists (Dixie Dregs and Steve Earle) who are not even reviewed in the book.
"Hello Styx and goodbye zamboni, which means the third period's about to start." -- that's just an aside in a review of Europe's The Final Countdown, "Hello Styx and goodbye zamboni, which means the third period's about to start." -- that's just an aside in a review of Europe's The Final Countdown, but man, there's why I love Martin Popoff. Unlike the mighty Robert Christgau -- sole precedent for this sort of record guide -- Popoff knows how people use LP's and cassettes and CD's in their daily life, how buying music enhances their social esteem, how catharsis and anger and fellatio-bait can turn a work into something for the ages. Papering your room with April Wine posters, or cruising half-buzzed down the highway, drunk buds feet hanging over the front seat, "Spirit of Radio" blasting out he cassette deck -- that's what he digs, music as communal experience.
This eighties metal guide includes everything you even vaguely remember from Girlschool to Black Flag to Queensryche. With capsule gonzo reviews that achieve Christgau concision while rambling with the Lester-Robitussin wordplay. As with any great critic, he pisses you off sometimes, wields Occam's razor on difficult cases (Ratt, Krokus for example), but dives into the muck for cool reviews of things most critics don't take seriously, for example the complete eighties discographies of Raven, Venom, Kiss, Black Flag, Manowar, etc.
So take the title with a grain of salt -- sure this can be a collector's guide, but really it's a consumer guide, a really groovy and fucked-up one, compulsively readable and so far (in my case) with zero naff recommendations. (Remember when Christgau was pumping Freedy Johnston, Beck, and Fluffy? I mean really...)...more
Fact: Let Us Now Praise Famous Men was my earliest "gonzo" literary experience -- an elaborate, Biblical, rambling book with a world-historical anchorFact: Let Us Now Praise Famous Men was my earliest "gonzo" literary experience -- an elaborate, Biblical, rambling book with a world-historical anchor and a truth to tell us about poverty and faith. I was practically a kid when I devoured it between three jobs and over coffee -- age 22 or so -- but my impression was of an inspired tongue-of-fire collaborating with a no-nonsense genius photographer, Walker Evans. A professional collaboration, paid for by Fortune magazine no less. So imagine my surprise, reading the man's bio many years later, to find Jim Agee weeping uncontrollably at the foot of the bed as he watched Walker having sex with his pregnant wife Alma. Of course Agee arranged this kink scenario because he believed in universal love and whatnot, but the event scarred him and probably embarrassed all three parties... But that's nothing, Jim's ex-wife was also riding Walker's man-dangle just a couple years earlier.
I still can't say I have a grip on Agee, even after reading this propulsive bio. On the one hand he slogged about like a poverty-stricken sot (he "would work a suit into fitting him perfectly by the simple method of not taking it off much" says Evans), yet he was a Harvard grad who never held a regular manual-labor job in his life. He made some babies but never paid much attention to them, while adoring the many simultaneous women he was boning in some abstruse proto-hippie poly lifestyle. He became fast friends with Whittaker Chambers, Charlie Chaplin, Dwight MacDonald, John Huston, the mighty Helen Levitt, and Clement Greenberg (who said this about Jim: "He had the ability to be sincere without being honest").
His film reviews are a frontier of wit and insight; and he wrote the screenplays for The African Queen and Night of the Hunter. His ability to score chicks magically increased as he got doughier and more dissipated, with bad teeth and booze on his breath day and night. Indeed, one could say that round about 1949 (pace Jim Croce) you do mess around with Jim.
As he entered his forties he had heart attacks constantly, and at 45 he died in the back of a cab on the way to a regular doctor appointment. "He wanted to destroy with his own hands everything in the world, including himself, that was shoddy, false, and despicable," so went one eulogy from T.S. Matthews. Something like that -- he really did have a sense of principle, and his talent did magically ascend even as he trotted about at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. And of course his afterlife was much better -- hippies and beats and one future President resurrecting 'Famous Men', and cineastes exalting his reviews and scripts.
This bio puts all that in front of you in a very gossipy and insightful narrative -- it's obvious Bergreen has a love/hate relationship with his subject too. Highly recommended. ...more
Loading...
