Blurbing For The Weekend 5/24/24

If my schedule suddenly lost its enviable slack, keeping up on new music would be the first pastime to go. Seriously. There are phone games I would keep around before worrying I hadn't heard the latest album by…well, anybody. I believe there is always enjoyable music being made, and - cultural or literal apocalypse aside - there always will be. I also believe I have over a thousand albums on the shelf I know I enjoy. I also have once unfathomable access to unheard sounds from years past. The other night I heard Glenn Gould playing Bach on an organ, told it’s a logical leap from industrial/goth instrumental music. When a trio of twenty-somethings are getting press for tunesmithery, they’re not just competing with a massive memory-bank of songs guaranteed to reward revisits, but streaming technology that lets me belatedly experience what inspired the artists my memory-bank has already assimilated. And then there’s other art forms to ponder. And human interaction. Gotta get some of that! As there’s not much money to be found in hot takes on hot acts, ultra-contemporary music - though thoroughly worth experiencing - has to get in line with everything else worth experiencing.

That said, I’ve got the time to hear cool new music, I am trying to hear it, and I have to accept I’m unconscionably behind. There’s more than 26 hours of 2024 music I’ve bothered to click and drag into a playlist, and I’ve done some shuffles of it to see what is or isn’t particularly floating my boat. But so far, the only 2024 album I’ve not just heard, but been struck by enough to buy is…Jesus & Mary Chain. Womp friggin’ womp.

I generally enjoy the cool cacophony of Jim & William Reid’s band in a singles context, specifically the 2002 compilation 21 Singles, with only 1992’s full-length Honey’s Dead found songful enough to merit individual purchase beforehand. Or maybe I mean "found funny enough," as I primarily enjoy these stoic proto-shoegaze Scots at their most wry and boastful. Preening peaks include 1989’s “Blues From A Gun,” opening with a T. Rex riff over gated drums as 20th Century Boy William shout-sighs “I don’t care about the state of my hair!,” and Jim cooing he’s “Happy When It Rains” in 1987. Though their 1985 debut Psychocandy remains a many a feedback fanatic’s favorite, Honey’s Dead was the apex of them coming off like skinny twerps on oversized motorcycles, “Reverence” shamelessly announcing the most pompous death wish imaginable over distorted drone guitar and dance beats. J&MC played on Lollapalooza’s main stage the summer Honey’s Dead came out - considerable dry ice making up for a daylight spot. You can debate whether they or Lush got less out of the tour than every single American act they played with, as neither group survived the ‘90s.

I haven’t gotten around the Chain’s 2017 reunion album Damage & Joy, which came at the tail end of a decade where I didn’t claim to seek cool new music. But based on Glasgow Eyes, released in March, I bet it’s nice. The brothers are still fond of cheeky sneering and swearing over techno-Ramone drone, but with the self-awareness to admit they’re rock & roll survivors despite themselves. Opener “Venal Joy,” after asserting fucking on a table remains an option, advises “I’m on fire/ piss on fire/ don’t piss on fire.” “jamcod” (that’s j-a-m-c o-d, not jam-cod) recalls the band splitting when one brother became “House Of Blues blue,” canceling a show at that less than glamorous chain locale in 1999. It’s just the most straightforward example of the band staring a pathetic commercial/cultural/personal moment in the face without abandoning the ongoing pleasure of their minimalist rock. Whether looking back on looking back in “The Eagles And The Beatles,” or admitting the drugs were a crutch on “Chemical Animal,” the Reids never second-guess their sound, subtly celebrating how their brotherly camaraderie & artistic inspiration appear to have survived their vices. “Face the sky/ take cover before you die…Jesus & Mary Chain.” I’m a sucker for an unabashed AARP smirk like this.

I’m always down to watch a 21st century Steven Soderbergh genre flick. For all the people who valorize the Hollywood of yore, Soderbergh’s one of the few reputable directors today who isn’t above finding a fun yarn, figuring out the available budget for such an affair, casting the film with actors that delight him, and getting his jollies through artful composition and construction in service of the work. Not everything has to be a passion project or a big money payday with him. Regularly, it’s just work done well. 2021’s No Sudden Move is a perfect example. Written by Ed Solomon, the brain behind the Bill & Ted and Now You See Me movies, Move is about two aging hoods on a down streak, played by Don Cheadle and Benicio Del Toro, trying to not just stay alive after a kidnapping gone wrong, but see if they can turn their luck around for good. Jon Hamm, David Harbour, Ray Liotta, Brendan Fraser, Bill Duke and Kieran Culkin are among the men who may or may not be on their side, Julia Fox and Amy Seimetz among the ladies. It’s a story that could be treated with whimsical artifice or maximum melodrama, but Soderbergh - as he typically does - plays things cagey, not wanting to overplay his hand when seeking a laugh or a gasp. Assuming the goal is either.

Fans of tasteful but inspired camera-work that doesn’t demand attention can’t do better than Soderbergh on the Hollywood front: you have to step back and consider how most would stage a phone call compared to what you’re seeing in his movies, rather than yawn at the banality or giggle/awe at the transparent effort. And then you have the joy of watching Bill Duke project mellifluous menace behind sunglasses as a mob kingpin. You’ve likely seen and enjoyed Brendan Fraser rolling his eyes or Ray Liotta barely repressing the urge to beat the living shit out of someone, but Soderbergh gives them the space and material to make small roles into true delights. A Soderbergh “B”-movie like this, Kimi or Side Effects, doesn’t necessarily leave you hungry for more. Like many an underworld tale, Move keeps twisting after you’re likely satisfied. But they’re great meals, and reminders that cinema doesn’t have to aim for transcendent art or trash majesty to justify itself. Movies can just be signs of intelligent life. FIVE BAGS OF POPCORN.

My TV binge choices really do suggest that I should get into paperbacks. After all, I could be listening to new music and enjoying a pulpy thriller if I did. Season 1 of Mr. Mercedes, a David E. Kelley production from 2017 based on a Stephen King book and co-written by Dennis Lehane, is nothing special in terms of story or dialogue. But it’s great to watch Brendan Gleeson play a tired, quietly adrift bear of a divorced, retired cop who starts every day with the same T-Bone Burnett song. Holland Taylor is a nice counterpoint as a saucy, confident neighbor wishing he’d just be her pet project and fuckbuddy already. Harry Treadaway plays the techie serial killer taunting Gleeson with remarkably artful spam-links, and at least achieves the honor of Wow I Didn’t Realize The Actor Was British. Justine Lupe’s take on autistic aspiring P.I. Holly Gibney suffers from my having already seen Cynthia Erivo play the role in The Outsider (those amazing Brits!), but not too much. As it’s the actors that carry me through a familiar criminal narrative, would I miss them on paper, or would my imagination more than adequately handle the loss? Am I crankier about mediocre lines when I don’t get to see & hear the fantasy? If I decide to risk the paper cuts and find out, I promise to let you know.

My movie rating scale is explained here. All acclaim and aggravation can be sent Anthonyisright at gmail dot com, if it must.