Let's See Some ID

Someone who works for the company that manages the building in which I work asked me in the elevator today what my title is at the firm. Struck me as a rather strange question. When I told her that I'm a lawyer, her head dipped and her hand waived, as if to say, "Never mind." She explained that she had assumed I was something other than a lawyer because she's seen me going up and down the elevators a lot and I look young.

Not sure whether I should feel insulted or complimented. Probably a bit of both. Maybe it's time to dust off the suit.

The Ugly Duckling of Marks

Caught an amusing article in the Times today about -- of all things -- the semicolon. So tickled I was that I sent a message to the writer. I've got a love for words and (dopey as it may sound) punctuation marks -- except the semicolon.

Sam,

Very amusing story about the subway semicolon sighting. That ad caught my attention yesterday, although what got me thinking wasn't the semicolon. Instead, I was puzzled as to why the ad didn't encourage riders to place their papers in recycling bins; seems the more advisable thing to do.

As for the semicolon ... it's just such an ugly, asymmetrical punctuation mark. A lack of aesthetic appeal is a much bigger impediment to its use than any other attributes ascribed to it. Text should flow, and it should be pretty. Pretty and semicolon just don't go together.

BTW -- I would have posted this as a comment to the story, but comment posting seems to have been disabled for that article.

Regards,
Steven

Holy Bloody Crap!

Holy crap!

http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/news/47152-
my-bloody-valentine-add-reunion-gigs

So that was what I fired off to a few friends upon learning that My Bloody Valentine is reuniting for a series of shows in the U.K. next summer. And then I read that they've got a couple of albums slated for release, including one later this year. (Yeah ... this entry was started a couple of months ago and then neglected, like quite a few others. The talk of a new MBV album by the close of 2007 turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking.)

It felt as if I'd stumbled upon a Christmas present one month early. It's been a rather crummy few days, but reading those snippets of news put a quick smile on my face.

MBV holds a very special place in the pantheon of my memories. I can remember many a somber night during college and law school when the sounds of Loveless in a darkened room nurtured me from restlessness into a peaceful slumber.

When I fired off that e-mail, I was hopeful that MBV would extend their tour to the U.S. But quickly thereafter, the inspired me shoved aside the practical me. Why sit around and hope when you can make things happen? After all, London is but a six hour flight from thought to reality. So I hopped online and bought a pair of tickets to see MBV at The Roundhouse on June 23, 2008.

It's good to have moments such as those to remind you that you're alive.

Looking Like You Sound

And speaking of stylish ... here's a tasty nugget of beautiful kookiness from a singer named Jihae.


If the song serves up a dollop of erotic tension, then the video whips that dollop into a plateful. I've read that Michel Gondry (of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind fame) is a fan, so perhaps he had something to do with the video. Then again, from the looks of her website, Jihae seems to be quite the visual artist herself. So maybe she didn't need the assistance of Gondry's imagination.

A co-worker who walked into my office as I had Jihae's album playing remarked that Jihae sounds like Cat Power. I'm pretty sure she didn't walk in while I was listening to "Black Pearl" (the subject of the video above), because "sultry" doesn't come to mind when I think Cat Power. But her observation is a sensible one with regard to the acoustic tracks on the album.

Of Danes and Happiness

What led me to Dri and Virb was The Fashion, a stylish (naturally) band from Copenhagen. Could there be any other sort of band from Denmark? (Completely off topic, but I saw an amusing, insightful piece on 60 Minutes about how the Danes are apparently the happiest people around, mostly because they set attainable/realistic expectations. I'd venture a guess that the Swedes are not far behind.)

Can't quite figure out why I find the Scandinavian aesthetic so appealing. Then again, what's the point, right? I mean, it's like trying to convince someone that a monochromatic Rothko painting looks interesting. Either you see it or you don't. More to the point: either you feel it or you don't.

The young folks from Scandinavia (and even the not-so-young) have a way of oozing an unconscious air of coolness. Take a look at the video for "Solo Impala," which is an impressive display of creativity. These kids from Copenhagen do "Lower East Side" better than the Lower East Siders.

An Occasional Dose of Saccharine

I've been on quite the musical roll lately. Probably why there's been such a profusion of posts in the past couple of weeks. I've already written about a good number of new discoveries, but there are several others to write about -- if for no other reason than to remind myself years later how I came to know them.


First up is Dri, a/k/a Adrianne Verhoeven -- an indie pop songstress from, of all places, Lawrence, Kansas. (Not so strange, I suppose, given the Saddle Creek crowd from Omaha and her connection to it.) I'm particularly proud of this find, because it ain't easy finding much about her online. I stumbled upon her after being directed to Virb while searching for information about another band. (Virb's quite the discovery in itself. It's like a more aesthetically pleasing version of MySpace.)

Dri is definitely more poppy than I typically go for, especially these days. But she fits nicely with some of my all-time favorites, such as Saint Etienne and Mono. Like Sarah Cracknell (of Saint Etienne) and Siobhan de Maré (of Mono), her voice conjures up memories of Dusty Springfield, as do her doo-woppy rhythms.

Yes, I Like Rock Music

I don't quite get it. British Sea Power's third album, Do You Like Rock Music?, was released stateside Tuesday to much fanfare but also some criticism -- some very pointed criticism. A perusal of the capsule reviews at Metacritic suggests that most critics give DYLRM? high marks. But there are also a number of critics -- most notably, the one from Pitchfork -- who mock BSP for what they perceive to be a misguided grappling for grandeur. It seems Pitchfork guy sees a band reaching for stadium rock when it's barely capable of parents' basement rock. On a scale of 1-10, he gave DYLRM? a U.2, whatever the hell that means. (Cheeky commentary on DYLRM? being derivative of U2, I suppose.) Methinks Pitchfork guy doth focus too much on the whimsical album title.

How could anyone who hears BSP think U2, whether in a literal or conceptual sense? When I listen to BSP, I hear more shoegazer pop than MTV pomp. (Okay, I have nothing against U2. "Pomp" just seems to flow well after "pop.") I think I finally understand the rampant hostility in the indie rock world toward Pitchfork.

Just as puzzling are the comparisons to Arcade Fire. While at Youtube pulling up the video above, I came upon the following comment: "God, tey [sic] are so ripping off Arcade [F]ire using like instruments and sounds." (I have a sneaking suspicion that this commentary emanated from the depths of the San Fernando Valley.) The comment would be nonsensical even if it were given the most generous of interpretations. Surely she doesn't mean that BSP has pilfered the Arcade craft by using two guitars, a bass and a drum set to make sounds. My guess is that she finds similarity between the wah wah infused sounds of BSP and the falsetto swirls created by Arcade Fire on songs like "No Cars Go." And, you know, I suppose there is similarity. Such keen ears she has. But that's as meaningful as saying Italian pasta is a ripoff of Chinese noodles because they both use flour. (Um, wait a second ...) Actually, it'd be more like saying Chinese noodles are a ripoff of Italian pasta. (BSP, after all, released its first album before Arcade Fire.)

All beside the point, really, because I love DYLRM? I must confess, though, that I was rather disappointed upon my first listen because none of the songs grabbed me. But upon a second listen in a darkened room, the waves of soaring melodies came alive and swept me under.

Make It Plain

Saw another thought-provoking episode of American Experience on PBS, which is definitely one of my favorite shows. The episode was about Malcolm X.

I can't quite remember why, but I chose to write about Malcolm for my 7th grade research project. Pretty sure there's still a copy of By Any Means Necessary lying around at my parents' place.

I wonder why it is that I'm drawn to "tier 2" icons more so than "tier 1" icons? I find Malcom more interesting than MLK. RFK more so than JFK. And, sure enough, in this election cycle, I favor Obama over Clinton.

Just as I wondered a couple of entries earlier whether I'd be a Feist fan had she already been a pop phenomenon when I discovered her, I wonder whether my preference for "tier 2" over "tier 1" icons would remain the same in a vacuum? Or is my preference merely reactionary -- a necessary byproduct of my aversion to the mainstream and the obvious?

Liking something because others hate it is perhaps just as pitiful, if not more so, than liking something because others love it.

Pronographic, yet cute

And speaking of the French ...

My new favorite band of the moment is The Teenagers -- a scraggly, potty-mouthed trio of Frenchmen who do camp with style. Who would've thought that a song -- "Homecoming" -- about pseudo-incestuous love between high school step cousins could be so amusing? And danceable? I mean, how can I find a song with this as the chorus to be so endearing?

[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] I fucked my American cunt
[girl] I loved my English romance
[boy] It was dirty, a dream came true
Just like I like it, she's got nice tits
[girl] It was perfect, a dream came true
Just like a song by Blink-182

But my favorite track is "Starlett Johansson." It's a song about ... well, it's obvious, no? So obvious, yet so clever.


Thanks to The Teenagers, I now know that Scarlett is half Polish, half Danish. Born in 1984. Got her start on Broadway at 8. Don't even have to read her Wikipedia entry anymore.

Maybe I'll Be at the Grammys Next Year

Speaking of Apple-feueled celebrity ...

The moment I heard the soundtrack to the MacBook Air commercial, I knew I'd be making a new music purchase. The song is "New Soul" by Yael Naïm, a French-Israeli singer/songwriter. Damn catchy. Makes you wanna grab a trumpet and go skipping along the sidewalk.

People Like Me. People Really Like Me.

So Feist is apparently performing on the Grammys tonight. After all, she's up for:

• Best Female Pop Vocal for "1234"
• Best New Artist
• Best Pop Vocal Album for The Reminder
• Best Short Form Music video for "1234"

I'm quite happy that she's become so popular, even though popularity is typically a quality in music to which I have an allergic reaction. Given the indie nature of the music that I tend to enjoy, commercial success is often a tricky matter. But I feel no discomfort with Feist's success -- although the ubiquity of "1234" is a bit annoying. (Definitely not my favorite track on The Reminder. That would be "I Feel It All.")


She's done it with integrity. The Reminder is a natural progression from Let It Die, her relatively obscure first album. Fans of Let It Die don't listen to The Reminder and think, "Huh? What happened?" (Unlike, say, when a fan of Nelly Furtado's "I'm Like a Bird" listens to "Promiscuous Girl." Talk about selling your soul. But I'm sure the millions help her sleep easy.)

I do wonder, though, whether I'd be a Feist fan now had I not discovered her well before the catalytic iPod commercial turned her into a pop phenomenon? Good thing I caught her at the rinky dink Knitting Factory way back when and don't have to deal with that hypothetical.

I live with mum but I have a potty mouth

Finagled my way into Bowery Ballroom to catch Kate Nash tonight. The show coincided with the stateside release of her debut album, which had already hit No. 1 in the U.K. And it got a glowing review from Jon Pareles in the NYT yesterday. Last time I saw that sort of enthusiasm from Pareles, it was directed at Feist. So maybe Kate's on her way to an iPod commercial and really big things in the U.S.

The show was fun. Super peppy, super simple. One dittie after another about adolescent fawning and love lost. Every now and then, seeing Kate banging away on her keyboard reminded me of Schroeder and the Peanuts gang.

Her youthful exuberance was generally endearing, but at times grating. The live act could definitely use some polish. But she's all of 20, so there's plenty of time for her to find her groove on stage.

Sidebar: What's the deal with couples who talk during shows? It's bad enough when the chatter comes from a gaggle of friends, but it's even worse from a couple. If you're still just getting to know each other, it would seem that a concert isn't a good venue for your "oh, you like that, too" babble. What can you really learn about each other while trying to talk over the performer other than that you're both incredibly annoying? And if you're a couple that has moved beyond the "oh, you like that, too" babble, what do you really need to say to each other that you didn't already or couldn't wait to say during the 12 hours of the day that you spend together away from the show?

Gratitude as the Answer to Tragedy

I wish it weren't so, but it is. I've just discovered that Robert C. Solomon, my favorite professor, died earlier this year. I don't often curse, because I don't want to devalue the expressive effect of curse words; I save them for those special occasions when I care to communicate something visceral. Upon reading the news of Professor Solomon's passing, I bellowed a "fuck" or two -- even though no one but I could hear.

A bit strange how I came to discover the news. Earlier tonight, a friend who's preparing for a philosophy exam asked me whether existentialists are metaphysicists. I couldn't answer. Even had she asked while I was immersed in existentialism during my undergraduate days, I likely still couldn't have answered because metaphysics, epistemology, ontology and other such placeholders for rigid, ordered theories never much mattered to me. What attracts me to existentialism, and Camus in particular, is its embrace of the emotions in a philosophical sense.

That was the first time someone had asked me a question about existentialism in a long while. When I got home, an article in the NYT caught my attention. It's about an MIT professor who has become something of an Internet phenomenon because videos of his quirky lectures are available online. The article introduced me to iTunes U, which is an online distribution center for podcasts of lectures from academia. I took a look and saw that "Phil 7: Existentialism in Literature and Film," a course taught at U.C. Berkley, is at the top of the charts.

Just then, nostalgia kicked in, and I wondered whether Professor Solomon's lectures were available online. So I started searching. And that's when news of his death at the much too young age of 64 left my mouth gaping.

During my second semester of college, I had doubts as to whether I had chosen the right major. But Professor Solomon's ethereal lectures on existentialism displaced those doubts. He had such a gift for wowing without trying, all while making light shine through the opaque.

It saddened me tremendously to learn of his passing. But as I read the various tributes to his life, I felt a sense of joy and gratitude for having encountered him in mine.

Gratitude, I want to suggest, is not only the best answer to the tragedies of life. It is the best approach to life itself. This is not to say, as I keep insisting, an excuse for quietism or resignation. It is no reason to see ourselves simply as passive recipients and not as active participants full of responsibilities. On the contrary, as Kant and Nietzsche among many others insisted, being born with talents and having opportunities imposes a heavy duty on us to exercise those talents and make good use of those opportunities. It is also odd and unfortunate that we take the blessings of life for granted -- or insist that we deserve them -- but then take special offense at the bad things in life, as if we could not possibly deserve those. The proper recognition of tragedy and the tragic sense of life is not shaking one's fist at the gods or the universe "in scorn and defiance" but rather, as Kierkegaard writes in a religious context, "going down on one's knees" and giving thanks. Whether or not there is a God or there are gods to be thanked, however, seems not the issue to me. It is the importance and the significance of being thankful, to whomever or whatever, for life itself.

- Robert C. Solomon, Spirituality for the Skeptic (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 105.


- Robert C. Solomon in Richard Linklater's Waking Life

No talking, please.

Saw Broken Social Scene Plays Kevin Drew's Spirit If at Webster Hall a few nights ago.


Perhaps I'm a bit burnt out from seeing so many shows. Or maybe I'm just getting really old. (Probably both.) But there were parts of the show that I found quite annoying. And BSS is one of my favorite bands.

Wish they wouldn't be so chatty. And it's especially bothersome when their chatter borders on the dopey when almost all their songs are rather serious and intense. Kind of screws up the mood.

As my irritation grew, they, on occasion, began to sound like a hillbilly collective from the Great White North. But all was forgiven when Emily Haines came on stage -- especially when she she filled in for Feist on "7/4 (Shoreline)." I'm certain I wouldn't be nearly as big a BSS fan if they didn't have vocal contributions from Emily, Feist and Amy Millan. They're like scraggly frat boys who need the intervention of girlfriends to shape up.

The Same But Different

Saw an interesting segment of Bill Moyers Journal featuring Thomas Cahill, a historian. Cahill made some rather insightful observations. He pointed out how the people who hate each other most tend to be those who are the most alike except for some minor difference. As an example, he referred to the Catholic-Protestant conflict in the 16th century. He said that, if a Martian had come down to earth and listened to the two sides, the Martian probably would've wondered why the two sides were fighting when they seemed to believe basically the same things. Cahill then noted the parallels between the Catholic-Protestant conflict and the Shiite-Sunni conflict. And perhaps we're the Martians wondering why the two Muslim factions are fighting when they seem to believe basically the same things.

But his most interesting observation concerned racism. As Cahill put it, each country has its dream and its nightmare, and racism is the American nightmare. He noted that we (the collective "we," of course) essentially committed genocide on the indigenous people of this continent; we then enslaved Africans; and we dropped atomic bombs on Asians. In Cahill's estimation, the U.S. would never have dropped an atomic bomb on Europeans.

I'm not sure that I agree with him, but it's certainly an intriguing viewpoint. Had the Japanese surrendered first and the Germans persisted, would the U.S. have dropped atomic bombs on Frankfurt and Hamburg?

Living in Oblivion

While riding the train to work this morning, I noticed a disheveled man sprawled across a short segment of seats. He looked to be in bad shape, and I wondered whether he was alive. That thought wouldn't have crossed my mind had I not read a story a while back about a dead man who rode the 1 train for several hours before anyone noticed that he was dead. When I read that story, I was troubled by the seeming invisibility of the dead man. But it wasn't difficult to understand how something like that could happen. I could easily imagine myself as one of the other passengers enveloped within the three-inch perimeter around me that formed my zone of concern. And that bothered me.

So this morning, after the thoughts above swirled through my head, I made it a point to look for the subway car's ID number. I figured I'd call MTA after getting above ground to advise that they should send someone to check up on the man. Not long afterwards, we pulled into Penn Station, and two policemen stepped in to examine the man. I was glad that someone had been thoughtful enough to alert the police. But as the minutes passed with the train idling while the police did their thing, my thoughts skipped tracks from concern for the man to concern about getting to the office on time for a conference call. And I quickly hopped off and scurried to the uptown local platform, betting that a local train would come and depart before the police finished their thing.

Just another reminder of how fast things move in this city.

The Hazards of Observation

It's getting chilly finally, which means knee-high boots are once again out in full force. The whole jeans-tucked-into-boots look took some getting used to, but I rather like it now. There's no getting used to that look on guys, though. Each time I see a guy trying to pull that off (which is much more often than it ought to be), I wince and silently exclaim, "Ew!" Surely I'm not the only one.

I'm pretty sure I won't be seeing much of that this weekend. That sort of thing can put you in grave danger down in Texas.

I Don't Get to Feel It All

I'm on my way to EWR and, ultimately, Dallas. Been traveling a lot lately. So much so that it's not quite as bothersome anymore.

But I'm rather bothered by the timing of this trip. A couple of nights ago, I found out that Feist is going to be on SNL this Saturday.

I passed that bit of information to others who may be interested, including my Canadian co-worker who introduced me to Feist. Lo and behold, a short while later, she called to offer me a pair of tickets to the dress rehearsal. (She's got a friend who's friendly with Broken Social Scene and Feist. So friendly that she got to partake in a brunch with Brendan Canning in Toronto a few weeks back.). Anyhow ... I'm quite bummed that I had to turn down the tickets.

Oh well. I'll take solace in seeing Shout Out Louds for the third time tomorrow. Woohoo!

Shouting Out Loud at the Bowery

Are my priorities out of whack if I'm more concerned about hearing loss than high cholesterol?

Just got in from seeing Shout Out Louds at Bowery Ballroom. Another wonderful show. I saw them a couple of months ago at Luna Lounge in Williamsburg. It pangs me to say this, but after seeing the same band at both venues during the same tour, I may have to concede that Luna Lounge is a slightly better venue. (But that's only if you assess things in a vacuum, which is a rather pointless exercise. Bowery and its sentimentalities are inseparable.)

I somehow managed to drift, drift and drift some more until I ended up at the very front. So far in front that I conveniently set my jacket on the stage. But, alas, that's not such a great place to be because it's a bit of a sonic dead spot. I'm pretty sure the sound would've been better a few feet back.

I've read several comparisons of Shout Out Louds to The Cure, but that never made any sense to me because the Shouts are much too peppy. But tonight, as they played "Shut Your Eyes," I started to hear "In Between Days." And then it started to feel as if they could launch into "In Between Days" in the middle of any song. So, okay. I understand The Cure references now. But only if we're talking The Cure on Prozac, like on "In Between Days" and "Friday I'm in Love." (The Shouts apparently aren't fond of the comparison, which is understandable. Who wants to be compared to anybody when the aim is to be original? I think they're plenty original. It just so happens that a few of their chords and Adam's achy voice now sometimes make me reminisce about The Cure, which is good thing, really.)


Here's a pretty amusing write-up on the matter from Oh My Rockness:

Shout Out Louds are four lads and one lady that have a similar sound to The Cure, although Shout Out Louds come armed with a brighter perspective on life. Singer Adam Olenius does a spot-on impersonation of Robert Smith at his most happy. And that's really the biggest difference between the two groups (besides, you know, millions and millions of album sales). Shout Out Louds don't reach for that anguished diary drama like The Cure often did.

Instead, this band opts for those fun, catchy cowbells and hyper-melodic choruses (more like "Friday, I'm in Love" maybe). Yee haw! And it's a good thing Olenius doesn't incessantly sing about heartbreak, because Shout Out Louds don't have a whole lot to be sad about these days. I mean, they're on Merge Records after all, and are winning tons of fans left and right as they consistently tour the world. I wouldn't be sad either.

People also like to compare Shout Out Louds to their compatriots, Peter Bjorn and John. But whatever, these guys are The Cure.

Anyhow ... all was great until a severely rhythmless and toneless girl somehow ducked in front of me. Fortunately, she and her slightly less rhythmless and toneless friend left before the encore. And the first song the Shouts played during the encore was the one song I was most looking forward to hearing live: "Hard Rain." (That was the only letdown at the Luna Lounge performance: they didn't play "Hard Rain.")

The set ended with a rambunctious performance of "Very Loud," which was (naturally) very loud. A few of their friends from home came on stage to help make things noisier. One of them wore a nifty t-shirt that had an artsy rendition of the Swedish flag emblazoned across the front. I saw that and got all nostalgic. Wish I could've seen them live in Stockholm.

Oh well. For now, seeing them again next Saturday in Dallas will have to do. Can't wait, especially since my Stockholm cohorts will be with me.

You're no Friendster of mine.

Someone forwarded an article to me from the NYT. I couldn't tell who it was because I didn't recognize the nondescript e-mail address of the sender. But I did remember that this person had also forwarded an article to me about a month ago. I had started to write a very generic response to the first message ("Thanks. I saw this as well. Not sure which side I agree with. But it's definitely interesting."), but I never sent it because ... well, bad things can happen when you respond blindly. This time, I figured I should try to decipher the identity of this mysterious figure. So I ran a search of the e-mail address on Friendtser. (That's what the kids do these days, no? Oh wait ... I think they're on to Facebook now. I'm such a fogy.) Turns out that this wasn't a mysterious figure at all but a good buddy using a shadowy, unrecognizable e-mail address. (I wonder why he needs one? Freak.)

What's more interesting about this tale of awkward Internet interactions is that, while on Friendster, I noticed that my last serious girlfriend is still listed as a friend of my buddy. This wouldn't have been so troublesome had I not recently discovered on a semi-annual perusal of my account at Friendster that she had de-listed me as a friend.

Why should I care, right? I mean, we really aren't friends anymore. We don't even talk to each other. But rationality rarely plays a prominent role in situations such as this. I was the precipitating force in the break-up. (And I say that not in a righteous manner but as an acknowledgment of my responsibility in the ordeal.) So why am I so troubled that she de-friended me?

It's just always a jolting feeling when things that have always been cease to be. I wonder if this is what Andie felt when Duckie grabbed Iona, kissed her, and exclaimed, "You've been replaced!" (Did I just make a Pretty in Pink reference? Leave me alone. It has a good soundtrack, damn it. Oh, the perils of growing up with three sisters ...)

At the heart of it, I think what's bothering me is that I do wish things were otherwise. I do wish that we were still friends. But I know that, for her sake, we shouldn't (and perhaps can't) be.

Such is life.

You Go First

Quite the beautiful day for a bike ride. Nice and breezy, but not too windy. Not a cloud in the sky. Upper 70s in late October. Couldn't help but be in a good mood.

After I made it up to the 70s by the Trump buildings, I ventured out onto the pier to sit for a while and stare out at the George Washington Bridge -- my favorite bridge in the city, especially at night. Not sure why, but while sitting there, a strange memory flashed through my mind.

A few months ago, while walking through Grand Central, I saw a kid run across the main concourse and launch into a slide on his belly. I felt as if I were watching a fantasy sequence from a movie. You know, one of those scenes that unfolds in slow motion with music box sounds in the background. And I thought: Wow, how fun would that be?

The times, they are a-changin'

I think it's safe to say that I've undergone a metamorphic change in the past few years. I went through all of high school, college and law school without drinking -- not so much because it was taught as the wrong thing to do but because of a philosophical objection. It's hard enough when I've got all my faculties about me to figure out which experiences are genuinely mine; I didn't want my experiences to be clouded by a foreign influence. Besides, drinking was the cool thing to do, and that made it undesirable by default given my distaste for the mainstream.

All of that is a long-winded setup for this: I just got in from a bike ride, and the first thing I did was reach for a beer in the fridge.

He's Lost Control

Oh wow. Just saw Control, Anton Corbijn's debut feature film about the unraveling of the life of Ian Curtis -- the woeful lead singer of Joy Division. I haven't written for a while, but after I saw Control, I knew I couldn't go to sleep without writing. It's experiences such as this that make a blog worth keeping.

I've never really been a big Joy Division fan, but I've always known their history by way of obsessing about New Order. So the general subject matter of the movie wasn't foreign to me. And much of the specifics weren't either because I had read three glowing write-ups about the film (here, here and here). Usually, that's a pretty good formula for a letdown. But I was blown away. Far away.

The movie made me feel. It tugged my heartstrings hard every which way. I felt joy. I felt disdain. I felt sympathy. And I felt desolation. I seemingly felt what Ian felt.

The last movie to elicit such a reaction from me was Lost in Translation. It has a certain understated elegance that's bolstered by a sublime synchronization of moods between songs and scenes. And Control shares that convention. Joy Division songs have such a haunting quality that they may as well have been written with the intention of being used as the soundtrack for a movie about Ian's life. When I heard the initial synthesized drone of "Atmosphere" as the closing credits rolled, I felt a sinking feeling within -- a feeling not unlike the sensation of falling experienced while in descent on a roller coaster. A feeling also not unlike that experienced when breaking up. It's as if Joy Division had recorded an elegy for Ian's funeral.

I read that the cast actually performed the music in the concert scenes (in front of audiences of actual Joy Division fans). They sounded quite convincing. Often times, they sounded so good that I'd buy their album if they were to make one. Perhaps it's just that they were performing Joy Division songs with the help of modern production techniques. Maybe that's what the new remastered Joy Division albums will sound like when they're released later this month.

Sam Riley, who played Ian, was particularly impressive in his performance -- both as a musician and as an actor. He rarely had to say anything to communicate a sense of despair. That vacant, forlorn look on his face always said plenty.

Of course, Anton's brilliant direction surely helped. My favorite shot is that of Ian looking at his newborn sitting in her crib. The shot was framed from the perspective of the newborn, such that Ian appears to be behind bars as he looks at his child. That shot mastefully captures the constrictive nature of Ian's existence as he must have seen it.

I do wonder whether I'd have enjoyed the movie as much if I weren't a fan of New Order and, by extension, Joy Division. I suspect that it wouldn't have been as awe-inspiring, but it still would've been engrossing. (Kinda like Lost in Translation. The music elevated the movie from the status of pretty good to that of unforgettable.)

It's not often that a movie makes me feel. And I'm anxious to feel it all again soon.