They're Not Rock and Roll Animals; They're Rock and Roll Athletes. The Soft Pack Interview...

2009 is shaping up to be a very busy year for Los Angeles based The Soft Pack (formerly The Muslims). They recently signed to Kemado records, are about to embark on their first European tour-where they were invited to play England's "All Tomorrow's Parties", being curated by The Breeders (whom the band toured with this past year)-are recording their debut record for their new label, and will be touring the U.S. extensively with Friendly Fires and White Lies.

This is all the more remarkable considering they have only been in existence for two full years.  The buzz is deserved, after witnessing them open for The Ravonettes recently at Bimbo's in San Francisco, I saw plenty of converts by set's end.  The set was blistering; showcasing the wit, intelligence, and musical economy that make them a band to keep your eyes on in the coming years.

I was able to run into the founders of The Soft Pack, singer/guitarist Matt Lamkin and guitarist Matty McLoughlin, at a bar up the street.  They were relaxed, focused, and truly genuine. After bonding with McLoughlin over our fanatical devotion to the Replacements, he agreed to an interview with me.


Duvet: Give me a little bit of a background on how the band came together? I think you mentioned that you went to high school together?

Matty McLoughlin: Matt and I started the band in January of 2007. There was a rotating cast of drummers and bassists for a year. Dave and Brian joined in January of 2008 and finalized the lineup of the band. Matt and I and Dave went to the same high school but never really hung out until afterwards. Brian previously played in bands with friends of ours, we have known him for about 5 years or so.

Duvet: How would you like to have your music described?

Matty: I really don't have a preference. It's just kind of a rock n roll band. Catchy.

Duvet: Who would you site as influences and inspirations?

Matty: We all like comedy a lot. A lot of the books that get passed around in the van are comedian biographies. Steve Martin, Rodney Dangerfield, Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor. Big fans of Kids in the Hall. I get more inspired to write tunes after seeing/reading something that makes me laugh. When it comes to musical influences everyone grew up listening to different stuff, but I would say the big ones are Roy Orbison, The Fall, David Bowie, The Replacements, Modern Lovers, Bob Marley, Iggy Pop, James Brown, Pavement. Guys who have a good sense of humor are badass.

Duvet: What is the music scene like in San Diego?

Matty: Well we moved to Los Angeles about a year ago but the San Diego music scene is doing well. Kill Me Tomorrow is a band we've been fans of for awhile. Our favorite band the Sess broke up but those guys are getting new projects together that are good. We like the Night Marchers.

Duvet: How important is where you grew up and began playing to your sound and development?

Matty: We were all big fans of San Diego bands in the 90's like Drive Like Jehu, The Blackheart Procession, Hot Snakes. I'm not really sure how growing up there has affected us. We are laid back but there aren't any Spicoli's in the band really. No one did too many whipits in high school, no wrap around shades.

Duvet: Seems like things have moved pretty fast for you guys, is that weird or has it been difficult?

Matty: Nothing too weird. The shows have gotten bigger. Besides that everything is the same. We have been able to open for some bands that we were huge fans of growing up. Meeting those people can be a little intimidating. People that changed the way you went about your business. But they all have been very cool and nice.

Duvet: I think you mentioned you don't have to work day jobs anymore?

Matty: Yeah. We are going to be on tour for awhile, had to quit the day jobs. This is our job now.

Duvet: You recently signed with Kemado records, why were they a good fit?

Matty: We really liked the people at Kemado. We got along really well and felt like they got what we were about the most. Also, they were one of the first labels to talk to us and show a genuine interest. Long before all the CMJ hype stuff.

Duvet: Do you see the songwriting moving in a different direction, after all the touring you've been doing recently?

Matty: Well the song writing has changed since Brian and Dave joined the band. Now someone comes to practice with a riff or chord change and we all work the song out together. The first record was done by Matt and I. Things are much more collaborative now. Touring has made the band much tighter. The band has gotten stronger sounding because of the touring.

Duvet: Your self-titled record under the old band name was pretty stripped down, production wise...
Do you envision this changing with the new record you're currently working on?

Matty: We were trying to make the first record more "hi-fi" but that's the best we got. I'm proud of that record but I don't feel it captures us as a live band. We sound a bit tougher than the record indicates I think. We want the next record to have better sound quality but nothing too glossy or lame. We want it to be better sounding, more exciting sounding. Just want to make a better record.

Duvet: How did you decide on the new name?

Matty: We had been trying to change it for a year but all of the names we came up with horrendous. Then Brian came up with the name The Soft Pack around Thanksgiving and we all liked it.

Duvet: Are you working with a specific producer?

Matty: We are going into the studio to record with Manny Nieto in a couple weeks. He has a great studio in east Los Angeles.

Duvet: What are some of the themes you like to work with lyrically?

Matty: Matt writes all of the lyrics so you'd have to ask him. But my take is that they are about just everyday stuff.

Duvet: So how is 2009 shaping up? I know you mentioned going to Europe to play some festivals, is this your first time going there?

Matty: We are going to be doing a lot of touring and will be recording our record. We are going to the UK in couple weeks. Then we are doing a tour with White Lies and Friendly Fires throughout the U.S. Then we have some festivals in Europe around the summer. I have never been to Europe so I'm really excited. Busy, but all stuff I'm looking forward to.

Duvet: What are some of the challenges up and coming bands face with the changing musical landscape?

Matty: Gas prices were a big problem for us but they have gone down so that's good. Any money we made before went straight to the gas tank. Other than that I think you can do whatever you want. You can release your own records, set up your own tours. If you are willing to eat Doritos or a banana for dinner you can get whatever you want out of it.

Duvet: How important do you feel sites like Pichfork, Stereogum, PopMatters, etc. are to a band's success?

Matty: That's how the majority of people hear about bands now. Read about bands on a website, then check their MySpace to hear the music. Then go to YouTube to see if they are good looking or whacky or something.

Duvet: Are social networking sites like MySpace or Facebook still useful tools, if so in what way?

Matty: Yeah with MySpace you can instantly hear a band, see what they look like, communicate with them. As a band you can set up shows with other bands, a tour, a rivalry.

Duvet: What would you like people to know about you guys that they may not know?

Matty: That we are athletes, that we don't care.

Duvet: Any good road stories?

Matty: There hasn't been anything too far out there lately. Last year we got thrown in the back of an immigration truck at the Arizona border because the drug dog went crazy on our van. They detained us for about an hour, didn't find anything, and drug dog ate Dave's burrito. I met Lebron James on our way home from tour. We didn't speak for very long but he was a great guy. Charismatic as sin.

Duvet: What do you find yourself listening to on those long drives?

Matty: Steely Dan, Curtis Mayfield, The Breeders, Metallica, Warren Zevon, a bunch of stuff. Whatever anyone brings on the trip or we buy at truck stops. Oh, Steve Martin's "Get Small" album. Sometimes talk radio or nothing. Nothing can be relaxing.

Duvet: What would be a dream bill to play on (bands can be either current or past, alive or dead)?

Matty: REM, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Stones, Women, Jonathan Richman, Mika Miko, Spiritualized. There is alot. We are down4whateva.

Duvet: Any bands you're excited about?

Matty: We all really liked this band Women that we saw at CMJ. They are from Canada. We are playing with them in England and are really excited about that.



interview conducted with ©2009 Robert L. Celli, Jr.

Batman Nearly Has A Stroke...

This could be the best thing I've heard all week. Listen as actor Christian Bale, loses his shit over the director of photography walking onto the set, during the filming of a scene for some jackass, Hollywood blockbuster he's shooting.

Imagine what would happen if Batman's suit wasn't ready at the dry cleaners?  Perhaps, these fools take themselves a little too seriously...I mean, the film he is working on is called Terminator Salvation, not Schindler's List.  I guess the "Dark Knight" might need to get his script refilled.

From a Sammy Hager Way of Life to Sober House: Bob Forrest of Thelonious Monster Just May Save Your Life

There are certain performers and bands from your youth that leave an indelible mark. They have a profound influence in shaping your musical aesthetic and become the barometer, against which, all others will be judged. For some it is generally accepted "Godheads" like the Beatles or The Rolling Stones. For others, it may be a band from your hometown only a handful saw perform. Often, these lesser-known acts disappear into the ether of your mind-only to come back in a rush of memories, triggered by a song or a friend recounting a time you hadn’t thought about in years.

One of those bands for me was Thelonious Monster, especially their dynamic, conflicted and, I assumed, dead singer/songwriter Bob Forrest. I say this because Forrest and some of his fellow band mates’ drug addictions were hardly a secret. Those lucky enough to have seen Thelonious Monster perform, often witnessed erratic performances, that oscillated between inspired and disastrous-sometimes within the stretch of a few songs. At the center of this storm was the transcendent, boho punk; Forrest.

Forrest was like a raw, exposed nerve. His reedy voice aching with the passion of a life spent living off the rails. I remember him walking out on stage, after the band had just abandoned it in a hail of finger pointing over who was responsible for that night's meltdown. Forrest, hunched over, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses, began stomping his feet in 4/4 time. He delivered "Mercedes Benz" a capella as if he was channeling Janis Joplin. The words spilled over his lips. They sounded desperate, lonely and cathartic. When he finished, he asked for anyone with heroin to meet him at the end of the bar.

Thelonious Monster formed in Los Angeles in 1986, their name, a play on jazz great Thelonious Monk. They featured a revolving door of LA musicians over the course of seven years, releasing four albums on Epitaph, Relativity, and Capitol. The sound of these records was often as schizophrenic as the band itself. Psychedelic jams giving way to well-crafted pop or acoustic confessionals alongside "bar rock" were not uncommon. All were done with earnestness, highlighted by Forrest's brutally honest lyrical self-examinations.

The band’s recordings featured music industry notables on both the production and performance side. X's John Doe produced their third record Stormy Weather and Beautiful Mess contained a duet between Forrest and Tom Waits. Flea, Al Kooper, Soul Asylum's Dave Pirner and Dan Murphy, Benmont Tench, and others contributed over the years.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers were early boosters with both bands emerging out of LA's underground scene. The Chili Peppers experienced their own tumultuous years of losing members to drugs and Thelonious Monster acted like a farm system for replacement guitarists. They along with X took the band on the road with them.

Thelonious Monster flamed out sometime in the late '90s, with Forrest going on to form The Bicycle Thief. That band would release one critically well-received album entitled You Come And Go Like A Pop Song in 1999. The Bicycle Thief featured former members of Campfire Girls and (Red Hot Chili Pepper) John Frusciante's band, along with guitar wunderkind Josh "Kobe" Klinghoffer. Frusciante, himself, plays on some tracks along with Ana Warnoker of That Dog. Thelonoius Monster would later reform in 2004 to play a set at Coachella and still occasionally surface to play gigs.

I, however, lost track of Bob Forrest. The occasional "T-Monster" song would pop into my head, and I would dig through my records to satisfy the itch those songs generated. The frankness of the lyrics still floored me. It was if all his demons were on display, swaddled in the hope of better days.

My friend and I saw Bob working as a busser at a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard in LA's Silverlake sometime in 2002. We were sure we were the only ones to recognize him, electing to keep our admiration to ourselves. It felt sad.

Fast-forward five years, as my wife and I settled down to watch the premiere-of our sure to be latest guilty pleasure-Celebrity Rehab on VH1. The congregation of D-list former television stars and one-hit wonders file into a room for group therapy. Dr. Drew Pinsky, host of the show, begins by introducing his staff. The camera settles on a pockmarked, horn-rimmed wraith from my past, hair buried under a familiar Panama hat; it is Bob Forrest.

Dr. Drew introduces Forrest, currently the Chemical Dependency Program Director at Las Encinas Hospital in Pasadena, CA, as a wave of happiness and relief overtook me. My musical hero had emerged from the wreckage of junkie despair. He was alive. And even though we never knew one another, I felt as if I was looking at a piece of my youth that could have, so easily, been forsaken to a well-worn Rock narrative. Instead, he puts the same passion and openness he committed to song; to keeping people off drugs on another VH1 show Sober House. This show follows some of the same celebs in their post treatment recovery.

Today, aside from his role as drug counselor, Bob Forrest still plays music. He contributed his version of Bob Dylan's "Moonshiner" to director Todd Haynes film, I'm Not There. In 2006 he released a solo recording and now hosts Bob Forrest's: Happy Hour Hootenanny at various clubs in LA (also released digitally). A documentary about Forrest entitled Unsung is in postproduction and should be released this year.

Loose Nut In His Head: Raymond Pettibon Rediscovered...

Human depravity, sexualized violence, macabre desires come to life in two dimensions; this is the world artist Raymond Pettibon renders in pen and ink. It is a world mirrored sonically by the band he formerly played with, Black Flag, and the label where he acted as visual curator, SST, for much of the late ‘70s and ‘80s.

Most familiar with the hardcore punk scene of this time will remember Pettibon’s comic book influenced drawings. They adorned telephone poles, streetlights and album covers. Flyers depicting police officers with guns lodged in the their mouths, nuns brandishing shiny steel hedge clippers, and other disturbing scenes accompanied by cryptic captions, advertised shows by Black Flag, Circle Jerks, DOA, and many other bands of that period. In 1990 he did the artwork for Sonic Youth’s “Goo”. The album cover has been both one of his most enduring and typifying images.

While his artwork has since become iconic and synonymous with this period in punk music, few know the artist responsible. Fewer still know he was the original bassist for Black Flag; a band started by his older brother, guitarist/songwriter and SST label founder, Greg Ginn. Pettibon was responsible for suggesting the name Black Flag reasoning, "If a white flag means surrender, a black flag represents anarchy." He also created the four black bar logo that served as the band’s emblem.

His art conjures R. Crumb and Ralph Steadman, two other artists whose illustrative approach are often attached to a literary narrative. Crumb and Steadman partnered with writers Charles Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson respectively, while Pettibon borrows text and verse from a variety of sources, including those of his own creation. He cities Henry James, Ruskin, and Mickey Spillane as literary inspirations, whose prose, often inspire and accompany his drawings. The noir themes and world the characters in his art inhabit dovetails perfectly with the grit and naked aggression associated with hardcore. His art helped to inform the gutter poetry and paranoia inherent in the genre.

Pettibon has since gone on to earn the prestigious Bucksbaum award in 2004, given to artists every two years that have exhibited at the Whitney Biennial. His work is part of the permanent collection at the MoMA in New York, Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art, the MoMA in San Francisco, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, in addition to the Whitney Museum of American Art. Despite achieving some renown in art circles he is still relatively unknown beyond the underground subculture. Recently, he has begun recording and playing music again with his band the Niche Makers. The music is described as, “New Orleans on cheap wine and canned martini's” and a record is slated for an early 2009 release.

His art seems particularly timely today and worthy of exploring. On a recent trip to New York City, a visit to the Chelsea art galleries revealed several artists working in Pettibon’s graphic cartoon style. The violent themes, sexual content, and hard-boiled view of life on display were undeniably influenced by his uniquely American vision. Given the resurgence in hardcore, with bands like the Gallows and Fucked Up looking back to bands like Black Flag for inspiration, some of Pettibon’s imagery is sure to seep into the popular consciousness. God help us all.

Is It Art? Laurel Nakadate: Provocateur, Manipulator, Lolita...

Laurel Nakadate may be this decade’s most inspired, prescient, and provocative video artist and photographer. Or, she may be the most exploitive, manipulative, and narcissistic artist of her generation. She has been described as both by art critics. Although her art can be polarizing and controversial, it refuses to be easily dismissed.

Nakadate, based out of New York City, is perhaps best known for her videos and photographs, which depict the artist in constructed scenes of seduction with middle-aged lonely hearts. The men selected for these encounters with the stunningly attractive artist, are the types who go unnoticed by the female gaze in daily life. These works examine male self-delusion, loneliness, gender roles, and the predatory and dangerous nature of chance encounters, to often-unnerving effect.


Nakadate is as much the focus of her work as the men she interacts with. As a viewer, it is sometimes difficult to separate the artist from the hyper-sexualized participant. Like artists Cindy Sherman and Hannah Wilke-who also inject themselves physically into their work-this ability to transcend “self” while infusing so much of it into her art, is what makes Nakadate’s work so compelling. The erotic subtext of much of her films and photographs might be better understood as pretext.

These images seem to subvert conventional ideas of what constitutes "intimacy" between people. The artist seems to be commenting on the distance sexual needs and relationships can create. Many societal taboos concerning violence, death, and suicide are sexualized. Nakadate often casts herself in the role of "Lolita" in her work. Her art requires that you reconcile primal reactions to what you see with the intellectual genesis behind them.

Most recently, Nakadate has completed her first feature length film as director. The film, entitled “Stay The Same Never Change”, is due to debut at the Sundance Film Festival in 2009. This medium should prove an interesting canvas for the artist to expand and meld the inherent narratives and visual sensibilities of her art. The film was cast entirely with non-professional actors. Stills from the film convey the alienation and subjugation of life in small-town America. These themes are perfectly suited to the artist’s well-trained eyes and ears, as exampled by her body of work thus far.

Laurel Nakadate’s art is particularly relevant for a time when social networking, self-documenting, and reality based programming dominate our culture. The by-product of a people living an increasingly virtual existence, often removed from actual experience by camera lenses and computer screens, can be a profound loss of connectivity-the very thing these technologies are designed to enhance.

Nakadate often stares unflinchingly into the camera, as the men in her films fixate on her. This level of self-awareness would appear to mirror the virtual world so many prefer to inhabit. Laurel Nakadate is at the fore of asking uncomfortable questions that elicit equally uncomfortable answers.

For further reading on Laurel Nakadate see links below:

http://www.believermag.com/issues/200610/?read=interview_nakadate

http://www.grandarts.com/exhibits/Laurel_Nakadate.html

http://www.formatmag.com/art/laurel-nakadate/

http://www.artnet.com/magazine/features/jsaltz/saltz5-6-05.asp

The Best Indie Releases of 2008...

We here at "What Duvet Said..." know what you need is another unsolicited "Best of" list! Our choices of albums most of you have never heard of, is not merely designed to make you feel horribly unhip, but hopefully, to inspire you into checking out a few of these releases we feel are special and deserving of acknowledgment. The titles below are in no particular order and reflect the tastes of a think tank of one.

Yours,
Bob Duvet

"I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies -- thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us. " D.H. Lawrence

The Dirtbombs "We Have You Surrounded" - This high-octane release from Detroit's Dirtbombs keeps the faith-following in the tradition of fellow Motor City natives The Stooges, White Stripes and MC5. "We Have You Surrounded" is a mix of gutter blues, Motown pep, and indie funk. Singer/guitarist Mick Collins soulful delivery conjures both Iggy Pop and Urge Overkill's Nash Kato. The twin drummer attack provides a thudding foundation, propelling these 12 tracks straight down the Rock and Roll highway! "Ever Lovin Man" will have you ready to break hearts and noses. "Wreck My Flow" sounds like a strut down Detroit's abandoned streets, past the burned-out buildings and straight up to the bar. Ko Melina, listed as playing the "fuzzy bass", gives these songs their stiff boogie and melodic hooks.

The Muslims "The Muslims" - The self-titled debut from San Diego's Muslims will soothe anyone lamenting the absence of the Strokes. In a nutshell, think Julian Casablancas-meets-Jonathan Richmond-meets-Lou Reed's disaffected vocal delivery with extremely catchy vocal and musical melodies, then, tan it under a hot Southern California sun. "Nightlife" and "Extinction" ooze cool and highlight the band's lyrical and musical economy. "Bright Side" is infectious with enough bite to make you want to go fuck shit up! This is simple, lo-fi, Pop-Punk done exceptionally well. There is a surf/western element in their primitive sound which seperates them apart from their influences. The name is great, the execution is great, and the record is fun, fun FUN!

Bon Iver "For Emma, Forever Ago" - Much ink has been devoted to the genesis and creation of Justin Vernon's amazing debut. While the thought of a sensitive singer-songwriter holed-up in a remote cabin in the dead of winter, processing through a host of inner demons is a romantic back story, the final product is what is really noteworthy. This record, born of a winter of discontent, sounds just as suited to a spring, summer and fall of discontent. The obvious comparisons will be made to Iron and Wine but there is so much more to this record than a neo-folk sensibility. The sparse yet intricately orchestrated compositions soar, guided by Vernon's falsetto infused vocals. Every song is necessary, making this a truly complete album from start to finish. The beauty at the core of this record may have been born of ugly truths but isn't that what makes for the best art?

Crystal Castles "Crystal Castles" - Alright people, get ready, electronic music is the future. I say this as a tried and true guitar, bass, and drums guy. But, over the last couple of years bands with a decidedly more electronic feel have been filling up my iPod. This Toronto, Canada duo released one of the best records of any genre in 08. Their remixes of Health, Klaxons, and Bloc Party were better than the originals. And, their originals were better than those! Multi-instrumentalist Ethan Kath and vocalist Alice Glass, create deep bass driven, vocally distorted, electronica, peppered with glitches and beeps seemingly inspired by Atari 2600 video game soundtracks. The sampling is akin to dropping a glass recording of the original on the cement then reconstructing the shards on a packed dance floor. The atmosphere can vary from club bangers "Crimewave" and "Untrust Us", to the serrated grate of "Alice Practice", to the more ethereal. Less is more and groove is king, with each track offering a different angle on an expansive prism. Makes me want to dance just writing this!

The Last Shadow Puppets "The Age of Understatement" - A collaboration between the Arctic Monkey’s Alex Turner and the Rascals’ Miles Kane really delivers on the promise of both of these songwriters. Many reviewers cite David Bowie as a key influence on “The Age of the Understatement” but I would offer Ennio Morricone, LA psychedelic band Love, Britain’s The Coral and the sounds coming out of swingin’ London in mid 1960’s, as the guiding lights for this recording. Vocally, these two front men sound perfect together. In fact, I hadn’t realized how good a voice Turner was in possession of, inflecting more melody into these songs than is evidenced in his work with the Arctic Monkeys. The acerbic wit both songwriters are known for is still there but some of the sting is masked by the ornate orchestrations and galloping tempos. “Standing Next To Me” would fit nicely on Love’s Forever Changes and “Calm Like You” might have Tom Jones considering another comeback attempt.

Titus Andronicus "The Airing of Grievances" - It's hard being a soothsayer when all your friends continue to dismiss your predictions. But I jumped on the Titus Andronicus bus before they left Glen Rock, New Jersey and began opening for higher profile buzz bands, only to steal thunder nationwide. Tapping into Bruce Springsteen's penchant for the grand anthem, existential malaise, and some off the rails Pogues meets Clash barn burning, this is an exciting release. Recently signed to indie label XL, "The Airing of Grievances" is a thrill to listen to. They create a carnival atmosphere while maintaining a surefooted focus. Secure in who they are as a band, Titus Andronicus mix lo-fi production with large scale songwriting ambition. Singer Patrick Stickles has a scratchy-throated charm, with a great sense of melody and a warm tone when he dials back the histrionics. There is a lot of wonderful interplay between the musicians that conjures the E Street Band on amphetamines. This is a band to watch in the future!

Girl Talk "Feed the Animals" - Aside from the fact that this record will undoubtly be a maelstrom for fair use and copyright law debates in the future, it is also one of the most pleasurable offerings from 08. And it was free to boot; take that record industry! Girl Talk is mashup musician Gregg Gillis from Pittsburgh, PA. He released one of the more controversial records of this past year, creating inventive dance music entirely from samples of a variety of artists, spanning many genres. Gillis pits Big Country butt up against Missy Elliot or Busta Rhymes with The Police providing the backing; part of the fun is trying to pick out all the different samples being used. This record is an instant party, in fact this might be too much party for some. You can still get this record on a "pay what you want" basis-a la Radiohead. Some might dismiss Girl Talk out of hand as nothing more than a musical carpetbagger but the art is in the creation of these musical collages.

Deerhunter "Microcastle" - Meditative, inventive, and sublime, Deerhunter's answer to last year's critical success "Crytograms" is the perfect headphone album. Sure singer/frontman Bradford Cox gets most of the attention, but it's the execution of his auteur vision that takes centerstage. "Microcastle" is a heterogeneous work that touches on ambient, pyschedelia, indie rock, and post punk. Even with such a diverse mix of influences, this recording sounds cohesive and visionary. Songs emerge out of the wreckage of the previous track and pop gems, like the brilliant "Nothing Ever Happens", dissolve into narco-wonderlands. Cox definitely has an ear for Brian Eno atmospherics but the production on "Microcastle" is of the moment while also sounding reminiscent-not an easy feat. Repeated listens reveal buried layers that keep this record interesting long after other lesser offerings have lost their mystery.

Vampire Weekend "Vampire Weekend" - Here's the problem with certain "Rock Critics", they tend to have a violent reaction to hype. With so many wanting to out "hip" one another and be the first to break a band noones ever heard of, they too often react rather than review. Vampire Weekend suffered the most this past year from critical backlash. Granted, the hype helped propell this band of Columbia grads into the indie spotlight, but it also clouded an honest appraisal of their music in many cases. There are the Paul Simon "Graceland" era comparisons- which are warranted. There is the a bratty, intellectual, and elitist quality to the songs; sure. But beyond all that, Vampire Weekend produced a engaging, giddy, and fresh sounding record. Vampire Weekend mix African, Caribean, and indie pop with the deft aplomb you might expect from a bunch of Ivy League cultural interlopers. You'll have "One (Blake's Got a New Face)", "Oxford Comma", and "A-Punk" burrowing into your sub-conscious like a trans-continental tick. That might sound like a back-handed compliment but I couldn't avoid liking this record. It turns any time of year into summer, and more importantly, makes you want that summer to never end.

TV On The Radio "Dear, Science" - This is truly a 21st century band and "Dear Science" (the fourth studio recording from the Brooklyn, NY five-piece), is a genuine realization of the potential TVOTR displayed on their previous offerings. By far their most accessible and crafted collection of songs, they sacrifice none of the edge and creativity fans have come to expect. TVOTR divines its strength from David Sitek's signature production wizardry. His mix of atmospherics, buried instrumentation, and layered vocals create a post-modern world for the band's soul infused songs to live in. Vocalist Tunde Adebimpe's energy leaps out of the speakers, especially on "DLZ". The trademark harmonies between Adebimpe and singer/guitarist Kyp Malone have never been more focused as on "Red Dress", "Golden Age", and "Dancing Choose". Another addition to the band's sound comes in the form of horns, which make this record crackle and pop with energy. TVOTR are worthy of the Radiohead comparisons and seem poised to inherit the mantle of top alternative band in the world. "Dear, Science is the most intelligent and thrilling record of 2008.

LE MINUIT FILM FESTIVAL

THREE PART SERIES ON THE BEST WHISKY DRINKING MOVIES
By David Becerra

PART TWO, “WHISKY GALORE!”
1948, Ealing Studios

The second film in our whisky drinking film series is a comedy called “Whisky Galore!” Does the title not say it all? The film is an unabashed celebration of whisky, drinking, getting drunk, drinking, the joy and demands of acquiring whisky, the Scotsmen who drink it and a silly Englishman who tries to stop them.

The movie begins with a few black and white shots of Scottish Island life, a narrator explains; “Northwest of Scotland, on the broad expanse of the Atlantic lie the lovely islands of the upper Hebrides, small scattered patches of sand and rock rising out of the ocean. To the west, there is nothing… except America.”

This is our setting, The Island of Todday, circa 1943. And the inhabitants, “they’re happy people, with few and simple pleasures”-said over a shot of nine little kids running out of a single hut.

The narrator continues to set-up the story; “But in 1943 disaster overwhelmed this little island. Not famine or pestilence, not Hitler’s bums or the hoards of an invading army, but something far far worse…"

Cut to an older man with a long face who exclaims, “There is no whisky!”

This is wartime Scotland, and their ration of whisky has run out. A massive, dark, gray cloud of gloom settles over the island. The islanders are depressed and the elders hold a “committee meeting” to find out what to do before people start committing mass suicide or worse, remain sober. Fortunately God intervenes and maroons a cargo ship full of cases and cases of whisky, right off the coast of Todday.

The islanders are able to extract 500 cases before the ship disappears into the sea. The rest of the film deals with the islanders drinking and celebrating while an Englishman tries to have them arrested for lifting the whisky.

This is basically it. All this movie is about is whisky. Please, please do not boast to your friends that you will take a shot every time you hear the word “whisky” or you will find yourself dead before you find out what happens at the end.

Really the best thing to do here is pick out a nice single malt scotch. I recommend something with a robust flavor: Oban, Lagavulin, Laphroaig or Macallan. If you are the kind of person who wrestles wild animals or if you have just finished chopping down a redwood tree with an ax, go ahead a open up a bottle of Talisker.

Flying Economy Sucks, Because We Make it Suck!

On a recent flight back to the East Coast for the Thanksgiving holiday, it suddenly dawned on me why flying economy is so miserable; we make it that way. Now I know we all love to blame the airlines and there is plenty of reason to. But some blame needs to be placed squarely on our own cramped shoulders. The problem with flying economy is that we behave as if we are flying economy. It is the mindset of the downtrodden. We assume our second-class citizen status as we lumber and lug our way past the first class section upon boarding.

It starts even before we enter the threshold of the plane, with the announcement of the rows that are “free to board”. Maybe it’s the indignity of watching the business and first-class breeze ahead, exchanging easy smiles with the ticket taker at the gate. Whatever imputes, it doesn’t excuse the crush at the gate when the first boarding group is called. Instantly, the scene starts to resemble the evacuation of Saigon, with everyone seemingly belonging to the same five rows. You have a ticket; you will board. Jostling, shoving, and sneering only confirms the impression that you don’t belong in first-class. Only plebeians or refugees travel in such a fashion.

After takeoff, when the plane has reached its cruising altitude, economy class truly earns its distinction. The second the captain signals that we are “free to move about the cabin”, half of economy-like some Pavlovian test group-feel compelled to file into the thin capillary between the seats. Do we really need to stretch our legs after 45 minutes of being seated? These are the same people who routinely drive hours on end, seated in a car, which is no more spacious than the seats they can’t wait to leap out of. I don’t see everyone in first-class hopping up like a bunch of spring-loaded spastics. Perhaps, time would be better spent while waiting to board, putting the items you are planning to access on the flight into the bag that will reside under your seat-not in the overhead compartment, which is seldom over your own head.

Further contributing to economy’s third-world aesthetic is the parade of toddlers careening down the aisle. They are usually followed by a smiling parent marveling at how refreshing and cute this must be for the rest of us. Trust me, it’s not. Any shift in expression from dour to congenial, owes more to decorum, than to any heartfelt longing to switch places with you. In fact, children running amuck on an airplane are akin to live, squawking chickens getting loose on a bus ride through the ghettos of South America.

The scene above is often complimented by the sound of shrieking children and hacking coughs. The flight I recently took featured a baby wailing three rows behind me for the duration of the six-hour flight. This is not cool! I know that I am treading into unfamiliar territory, as I have no children of my own. And I know how challenging it must be for those of you that do. But guess what, it’s not my problem. None of the other passengers care to hear your screaming baby either. If you are operating under the impression that a bubble of empathy surrounds you, it doesn’t. Even those with children are just thankful it’s not their children shattering the solitude only being 40,000 feet above ground can supply. So unless you can amuse, intimidate, or sedate you children into silence, maybe they are not ready to travel in an airplane yet. When walking through the cabin note of the absence of children in first-class sometime.

I don’t want to limit my vitriol to babies and children; adults are plenty annoying when flying. For instance, if you want to talk with someone on a flight, then get a seat next to that person. Clogging the aisle and hovering over people who can care less about your conversation is selfish and unnecessary. You’re not as fascinating as you would like to think you are.

Why can’t we accept the fact that there is no space and we can’t afford to purchase more of it, if we could we’d be in first-class. Drawing attention to this by complaining, fidgeting, and behaving like boat people, only reinforces that fact that you’re not ready for the coveted first 5 rows. Just sit quiescent in your chair, pop a Valium, chase it with a cocktail and you’ll feel “first-class”. Act as if people!

Ride on the PATH Train Between WTC to Harrison, New Jersey

This may look familiar to fans of the "Sopranos" and at the very least, is a meditative ride through the New Jersey swampland just outside of Newark...

Positively 23rd Street or Chelsea Hotel: Dream Dungeons and the Habitual Nature of the Ordinary or Does New York City Really Need Another Writer?

At 23rd and 6th Avenue the F train comes grinding to a halt, a final shudder of steel coming to rest on the iron tracks below. A sluggish shuffle begins inside the car. Scarves are readied, books marked and closed, as a phalanx forms around the unopened subway doors.

I wait with the cultivated restraint that can only be learned in New York City, where any pause or halt to one’s progress seems unnatural and unnerving. When the doors separate a drip of adrenaline kicks me into gear. Living here you are in a perpetual state of fight or flight. As a result we have become neuro-chemically mutated, homeopathic junkies proudly displaying our symptoms.

As I exit my subterranean repose, the cold air pinches my cheeks. I mindlessly take my place in the flat-footed ballet grinding along above ground. Chelsea at mid-day is pure cinema verite, my eyes focusing on the oncoming stream of fixed stares. Some give away to peripheral glances, then, just as quickly, return to the gum-stained concrete canvass passing below.



“The loneliness of destiny guides us all”, the internal refrain I hear as I make my way down 23rd Street. I imagine myself Brendan Behan, traveling on well-worn boots, down this well-traveled street, following a well-dreamt dream. My pace remains constant. The metal grates that pass below my feet resemble prison cells; ventilating dungeons housing decades of literary souls, cough up the embers of forgotten prose.

The further West I travel, the more I feel the sting of the air whipping off the Hudson River. Restive feelings overtake me as I approach the doorway to the Chelsea Hotel. The soporific visions of an imagined life here in this very hotel, are also sure to be the same ones that will keep me up at night. A wrought iron façade of abandoned balconies stares down at me. Another young writer-within a lick’s distance of the mouth of the Chelsea Hotel-must be a quotidian sight on this street.

Here I stand with a duffel full of clothes and mementos in hand. The weight of the laptop, encased in the messenger bag slung over my shoulder, has increased exponentially since exiting the subway some blocks back. I'm feel like a marginalized ingrate, not content with assuming my humble slot in humanity. Admittedly, there is nothing worse than helping to perpetuate a tired cliche, but here I am anyway. One more borrowed Beat dreamer cast out of subterranea, looking to have his very own lost weekend...

Early Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Here is a film in which I was under the impression I didn't need to see as I had seen the whole thing in the trailer. If you don't already know, go watch the trailer and come back, because - spoiler alert! - I'm going to reveal a bit about the plot in this review. Not much, but the big hook, which is this: Benjamin Button is born old and throughout the film, grows young. He has one true love in his life, a girl named Daisy, and the question is, how can these two be lovers? Can a 7 year old girl love a 7 year old boy who looks like he's 77? Will they meet in the middle? Or will time and circumstance leave them star crossed forever? These are interesting enough questions, and an interesting plot device. And if you want to see how it plays out and how the movie ends, once again I recommend heading over and watching the trailer. You'll feel like you know.

You'd be wrong, of course, as there is almost two hours and forty-five minutes of sumptuous film laid out to tell the story of Benjamin. There's a moment at the very beginning where hundreds of buttons fall from the sky and suddenly arrange themselves into the Paramount Pictures logo - followed immediately by more buttons which fall into the Warner Bros logo. This bit of CGI trickery is a good microcosm of the whole film. What starts as many different familiar pieces coming from a new place slowly fall into something we've seen many, many times before. The "a-ha" moment of recognizing the logo is a bit of a let down - if only the buttons had arranged to make something new.

The film is at its best in its early mysteries. Why is Benjamin aging backwards? (It's apparently tied to Teddy Roosevelt, WWI doughboys, a blind clock maker, and public transportation). And why are we learning this story from the New Orleans hospital bedside of a dying woman, who has insisted her visiting daughter (Julia Ormond) read aloud Button's diary as Hurricane Katrina comes ever closer? Director David Fincher (Se7en, Zodiac) and cinematographer Claudio Miranda contrast the realistic present day reality with the hyper-real, Caruso Properties style vision of the past, where we meet Benjamin, who is played by Brad Pitt almost immediately after infancy.

It's easy to forget and dismiss how fine a film actor Pitt is when his ability to perform is not first to come to mind for most - sexiest man alive, maybe, or Mr. Angelina Jolie. Pitt, in convincing age makeup and unsettling, Smeagolesque CGI work, disappears into the character of Button in his early life as an elder man with pathos, world weariness, and juvenile curiosity all at once. He is a delightful, cuddly creature who is easy to root for. The seed of his love with the girl Daisy (Cate Blanchett) is planted, and off we go to hope for their union. This tale carries us along through a wonderful interlude with the incomparable Tilda Swinton, playing a woman living in Russia married to a spy with more than steeped tea on her mind.

By the time the bombs drop on Pearl Harbor, however, and a shootout occurs at sea (you caught that in the trailer, right?), I found myself with the feeling that I was starting to see something I'd seen before - namely, Forrest Gump, a character who also stumbled with crutches in his childhood, had a loving mama who inspired him to break free and walk, and grew in the Great American History of war, women, and computer generated images, a film also penned by Button screenwriter Eric Roth.

Much has been written about the age makeup used for this film, and it does not disappoint. More impressive than the old age getup, though, is the young age wizardry. Blanchett, who not only ages in this film, is a stunning 19 year old ballerina, and the longer Button's life goes on, the younger Pitt becomes, for much longer than you would think the actor could continue playing the part.

That is part of the film's problem, however, as the early life-older Benjamin Button we follow for almost an hour and a half seems to vanish, replaced with Brad Pitt. The man painting his house in the 1960s doesn't appear to have grown from the man we saw earlier. In a line straight out of The Cool Surface, a staring woman says to Benjamin "You're perfect," and the audience giggles.

What started as an intriguing meditation on when life begins and ends, how one chooses to live it, and how we choose to spend the time we're given spins into a standard story of women in the 70s with straight hair, kissing naked on the beach, and being accepted for who you are. Why no one except a very fleeting few in all of Button's 80 years find it odd that he is growing younger is left to perhaps a few torn pages out of his diary.

The film is worth seeing, probably not worth seeing twice. It is beautiful to look at when it feels real - a solo ballet by Blanchett on a misty gazebo could be a Degas painting. There's a convenient man who is owner of a Button factory that shows up from time to time that may have had dramatic tension but seems to serve only to allow Benjamin some yacht time. And despite numerous returns to the present and desperate news announcers, the devastation of hurricane Katrina is as dangerous and real as a running gag of an old fellow repeating his same life story. The film does reach its inevitable conclusion, with some soul searching voiceover by Button about what it takes to live a life, but this is a Benjamin who has let go of the lives of others far too easily. What started as an extraordinary life winds up being just a curious case of Benjamin Button. For a guy with a most unique perspective, he sure has it good.

"ROCK BOTTOM: ROCK'S MOST OVERRATED ACTS" by Elvis Zimmerman Lennon Jr.

Every month I will present the readers of "What Duvet Said..." with my selections for the most overrated musical acts/performers. The rationale is laid out and the case made, as simply and obviously as possible. I challenge you, to challenge me. Make a case for taking somebody off the list. If it is a compelling enough argument-or even amusing-I'll remove them from the list. Arguments can be made by clicking on the "Comment" button below the post.

-Beach Boys- Aside from "Be True To Your School" their lyrics are ridiculous. And in the adding-insult-to-injury column, ripping off Chuck Berry to write a song about surfing is just plain wrong.





-Nine Inch Nails - Nothing screams "Ohio" quite like a 40-year-old Goth. At his age he really shouldn't care how many people think he's cool.






-Dave Matthews (John Mayer, Jack Johnson)- Not a fan of dorm-rock. Hiked up acoustic guitar, funky-ish rhythms, and choked vocals can't make up for a lack of soul.





-Eric Clapton - Being the greatest blues guitarist from England is a dubious distinction at best. Kind of like being the greatest German rapper. Or the greatest Russian disco dancer.






-Red Hot Chili Peppers - The immenseness of any of their grooves is immediately neutralized the moment that dude starts "rapping". Case in point: "I know, I know for sho', ding-dang-dong-dong-ding-dang-dong-dong-ding-dang." What the fuck is that shit?





-Beastie Boys- Y'all. Seriously, can you name one of their rhymes that's really that good? Me neither. Further, I can't shake the creepy feeling that at least one of those dudes is a closet Republican..

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Weekly: Dengue Fever - Like a bad karaoke night at my sister's house. 2 parts indie rock, 1 part world music. That even looks bad on paper.

Status Update: Richard is grieving the loss of his childhood best friend and fears he might be a latent serial killer...

By R.L.Wilkinson

My childhood best friend died Sunday of a drug overdose. I got the news via Facebook. It was written on “my wall”, “did you hear that Tommy overdosed?” to which I replied, “by overdosed, do you mean he’s in the hospital or dead?” She replied, “Dead…wake Monday night…funeral Tuesday.” This exchange began on my laptop and finished up on my Blackberry while stepping out of my Prius. FYI you don’t need to put a key in the ignition to start the Prius. Oh and the car’s built in wireless feature connects automatically as I approach. It’s the darndest thing. Anyway, I’m trying to get someone to Twitter the funeral to me, since I can’t be there. I last saw Tommy when I was 25. He was as good looking and funny as ever. My girlfriend at the time was like, “Hey, your friends really cute.” We broke up shortly thereafter and last I heard she resides somewhere in the Pacific Northwest in a small farming community where she cuckolds some other hapless fucker. Anyway, I was bummed about not being able to attend the funeral until it was brought to my attention that I could sign an online “guest book” that the funeral home provides. So, I did. It was quick. I was clever. Mourners will be moved. Now, I was a little concerned because I wasn’t quite sure if this “guestbook” would manifest itself in the actual physical funeral or if it would be solely for the virtual internment. I was concerned about this stealing my grieving thunder, but then I realized how dumb that was because by signing this “virtual” guestbook my grief wouldn’t be limited to the 50 to 100 or so folks at the actual event but that I now had the ability to grieve on a global level. My grief had the potential to go viral.

After this news was socially networked to me I continued on with my day as usual, but then I started getting these pop-ups, “Hey, Rich, why isn’t this affecting you? Shouldn’t you be emotional?” This concerned me because when I assess myself, you know, a 35 year old Caucasian male, college grad, with an affinity for handling the meat snake AND I add “void of emotion” to that list, I get concerned that I might be a latent serial killer. Well, somehow I mange to get through the day without burying a drifter or two along the highway and make it home to my wife and son. I give my baby boy a bath, put him to bed and sit down with my wife for dinner. She asks, “How was your day?” “Well, my buddy, Tommy, died of a drug overdose.” “That’s awful.” “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” “You okay?” “Yeah, I’m just having a little trouble getting my head around it. All my memories of him are as a teenager. I have no reference for him as a man. You know? What he looked like as a man, what his life was like. I just wished I knew what hap…” And that was it. Crying and convulsing ensued and it just kept happening over and over again in that order. I think that’s why most people/families advocate not talking about things, because, boy, as soon as you start jabbering you run the risk of opening up a whole can of emotional worms which can then be used as bait to snare some very, very large emotional fish that lurk in the cold, dark depths of your soul and once you hook one of those porkers you only got two choices: 1) wrestle the fucker into the boat and take a bat to it, or 2) delivering Colonel Sanders down to Davy Jones locker. It was bat night at my house.

The next day I arrived at work feeling pretty bright eyed and bushy tailed after my cathartic serial killer negating moment. Shortly after arriving, my partner came in and took a seat at her desk and asked, as she does every morning, “How was your night?” “It was a little sad”, I said. You know my friend di…” Fuck, again with the crying and convulsing! I decided that it would be best for me to take the day off and get myself together. Knock out the grieving process, which I Googled. They break it into 5 stages: 1) Denial & Isolation. 2) Anger. 3) Bargaining. 4) Depression. 5) Acceptance. I left work at noon to get the process in motion. I needed to return to work tomorrow at 8am. That gives me 20 hours of grieving time. That’s 4 hours per stage, but you know I have the ability to get a lot of stuff done when I get really focused. So, here goes. I can’t believe there are 5 stages to this grieving process! 5 stages!! By myself!!! Are you kidding me!!!! Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!! I’d give the guy who came up with these stages five hundred bucks to knock off just one or two of ‘em! Please! Okay, five-fifty. I’m so tired, but it’s cool. Done. Now, if I could just get started on Tommy.

My mother sent me a text stating that she “awoke this morning with a heavy heart, for it is as if our families were one”. My mom is very grand and very southern. So when she texts me it’s like I’m receiving Blanche Dubois rewrites from David Mamet.

Here’s the problem, all my technological advances can’t out pace my advancing sadness. I want to hit the “esc” button on my life and disappear into the wilderness. Find a cave where I can scream and cry, claw and punch, rip off my clothes and build a massive fire. Hurl myself around the flames and through them until I collapse. Then I could wake up stronger and walk out clean. Restart the system. The only glitch in this program is that I’d still have all this memory.

The First Black Quarterback to Win in Washington D.C. Since Doug Williams in 1987...

Now that the numbing shock of our country making good on the promise of its constitution and mythical legacy has given way to a pleasant post-election lethargy, I wanted to take a little time to reflect on how I first came to be introduced to our new President-Elect, Barack Obama. As with most things in life, and particularly with Obama's historic rise to the highest office in the land, "context" is everything.

It was August of 2004 and I had settled down at a table in the Marymount Manhattan dining hall. Marymount Manhattan College is a very small liberal arts college nestled safely in Manhattan's Upper East Side. The school is known predominantly for its performing arts programs but also served as a safety school for wealthy, budding sophisticates scattered across the country. Most were drawn to the prospect of living in New York City while in the sheltered hollow of higher education.

The hall was alive with the bustle of students shuffling in and out and congregating at the tables that surrounded me. I was in the second year of my belated quest to achieve my bachelors degree at the ripe age of thirty-three. As I sat down to a meal of chicken fingers and tater tots-made soft under the glare of heating lamps-I opened my recently arrived Atlantic Monthly and began mindlessly turning the pages.

I knew what an anomaly I was already in this context but I certainly wasn't helping matters by my choice of reading material. I'm sure Atlantic Monthly was a magazine that most buzzing about me had probably only seen on their father's desk at home or in doctor's offices. I was painfully self-aware both in and out of the classroom while on "campus"-which was really just two buildings connected by a basement hallway. I decided to embrace the affectation of a pendant in an effort to combat, what I was sure was the prevailing back story circulating around campus about me, that of a tenth year Senior or worse still the "weird old dude".

So while silently trying to quell the voices in my head and derive the nutritional benefits bereft in student cuisine, I came across a one page feature that would temporarily relieve me from my identity crisis. And, plant a seed of that over time, with much nurturing, would have me believe in the impossible again. In some ways this story inspired me on my path toward my degree, in coming to terms with the incredible debt that would accompany said degree, and in eventually re-establishing some tenuous connection with my fellow students.

What strikes me now as I reflect on this scene, burned indelibly by the triumph of Obama's candidacy, is how many of those students-as yet unaware of the "skinny man with a funny name"-would join in the cause to help elect him. How, by the virtue of reading one article, I would begin to monitor a politician who did not represent me directly (he was still a state senator in Illinois at the time of the article). How I was moved to go home and make my wife promise to register to vote if he ever ran for President (a feat, seemingly no less insuperable than Obama's improbable victory). How I vowed to participate once again as a member of the electorate and to work for his campaign if it ever came to pass. How, when I saw him deliver his now famous "Audacity of Hope" speech a month later at the Democratic National Convention-on behalf of nominating Senator John Kerry for President-real chills passed through my idealism depraved body.

This one article below was the the genesis of all that and the fuel for believing in not only a canidate, or my country, but myself...

http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200409/lizza