He fought mental illness his entire life, and by my estimation was at best a serviceable guitarist, decent pianist and awful singer. One that wrote simple, often naive lyrics. But there is a reason even the most mainstream of alt-rock-kingpins (Cobain, Veddar and Cornell) loved him so dearly. In their simplicity, his songs were haunting and moving. His story and songs will always have a spot in my heart.
Last year, Built to Spill released a cover album of Johnston material and got a bit chided for playing it safe, but I enjoy listening to it and think it serves as a good introduction for those that might not be able to look past Johnston’s rudimentary skills and lo-fi recordings. It ignores some of the obvious choices (notably “Story of An Artist,” previously recorded by M. Ward and used in an Apple advert, and “True Love Will Find You in the End,” covered by both Beck and Wilco), but it’s a solid collection of some of Johnston’s more melancholy and beautiful songs, including “Bloody Rainbow,” “Fish” and “Heart, Mind & Soul,” the latter a retro doo-wop ballad that manages to break my heart every time I hear it.
Happy Birthday, and Rest In Peace, Daniel. Let it be said you killed the monster.
“The film-maker and documentarian was known for films such as Gorillas in the Mist and Coal Miner’s Daughter, as well as his long-running series of Up documentaries. His death has been confirmed by his agency to the Hollywood Reporter. No further details are yet known. Apted’s career started in the 1960s on the small screen, and in 1964, he assisted on the the show Seven Up! as part of the current affairs show World in Action. He helped the director Paul Almond interview 14 seven-year-old children, and continued to independently revisit them every seven years over the course of their lives. The most recent, 63 Up, was released in 2019 and the director referred to it as ‘the most important thing I have ever done.'”
In a piece from The Nation, writer Susan Pederson notes that while the first few installments are flawed, reducing the subjects to stereotypes, there was a profound change in the films, heightened in my opinion by the longevity of the project:
“28 Up (1984) was the tipping point. The first film of the series widely screened in the United States, it was the one Apted considered a breakthrough. Only then did he realize that he wasn’t making ‘a political film about Britain’s social classes,’ but something much more unusual: an ongoing inquiry into how individuals from a wide range of backgrounds sought out meaning and happiness amid the rapid social change of postwar Britain and all the random incidents and accidents that life threw at them.”
Each film is relatively simplistic in structure, short interviews with each subject cut with footage of what they’ve been up to recently. But with each new installment, we see entire lives unfolding. Their lives force us to examine our own. It seems impossible not to watch the Up Series and not think about where you were when you were 7 and 21 and 28, or where you think you will be, or who you want to be, in seven years, in fourteen years, in thirty-five years.
And with the passing of Apted, if you will be.
Profound words: “I want my life to have meant something.”
These words on the (likely) last in the series sum things up nicely:
“The latest installment, 63 Up, is one of the series’ best, in part because the subjects are aware they’re moving into their sunset years, and in part because they also know the 78-year-old Apted may never make another one of these films. He and the people he’s been tracking for more than half a century now interrogate each other in 63 Up, speaking with undisguised emotion about what they’ve all learned from stopping every now and then to publicly take stock of their lives and their desires.”
Pretty fucking funny. The Gods of Carnage turn a routine, man-made avalanche into something that at least looks scarier. Scary enough to knockout assumptions of security and a few gender stereotypes. Scary enough to forever scar some yuppie Swedes and ruin their bourgeois week on the slopes. Like I said, funny. You probably think you’re a better person than Tomas. Maybe you’re not.
Cutting a jazz record is usually done so either live or by “getting the band back together” in a little room and ripping it up. This album, named after the clause in contracts that allows events to be cancelled due to an “act of God,” speaks of that struggle. A compilation of weekly online performances recorded in their Harlem apartment on a single microphone, partners Brandee (harp) and Dezron (bass) make the most of the circumstances, inadvertently highlighting the versatility of the two instruments in the right set(s) of hands. They cover John Coltrane, Alice Coltrane, Pharaoh Sanders, The Jackson Five, Kate Bush and “Sing” from Sesame Street, improvising with their limited resources in very interesting ways. In between songs, they crack wise, seemingly a knee-jerk response to the situation they were in (that so many of us were in), and speak of the uneasiness of now in a very off-the-cuff, honest way. Fiona Apple’s Fetch The Bolt Cutters became the quarantine album, but this is a close second, a true representation of 2020.
Was on the road a lot for work the last week, and found myself on country roads in thick fog while listening to Michael C. Hall read Pet Semetary on Audible. Now it is late on this rainy autumn evening, just on the heels of Halloween, and I find myself home alone, as is Louis Creed. Even though I know what happens next, I am still terrified, for him as well as myself.
Atlanta (Seasons 1-2): I applaud the ambition, but it didn’t always grab me. Could have been funnier, or at least shown more heart. Stanfield was great, as always, but was most impressed by Brian Tyree Henry’s nuanced performance.
Better Things (Season 4): The small moments have always been the best part of this show. There are so many moments I can relate to, but those I don’t, like a scene when a new husband sings “Martha” to their partner, or when a child recreates a classic Hollywood slapstick routine; those are the ones that make want to live in this world. Other shows make me laugh more, but no other makes me smile, cry or feel as much as Better Things.
#BlackAF (Season 1): I haven’t seen any of Kenya Barris’ other work so I can’t speak to it, but I thought this was funny, honest, insightful, and entirely too long. Read: Redundant. There’s a great movie in there somewhere. Love Rashida Jones, obviously.
Castle Rock (Season 2): I love Stephen King so much (probably too much) that I was intrigued from the start and then… wasn’t. I’ll give it to her though, as bad as this got, Lizzy Caplan was frickin’ committed.
Fleabag (Seasons 1-2): First season seemed kinda obvious. Sincerely don’t know how it could be described as groundbreaking. But I did laugh, a lot. Really liked the direction the second took. Hannah Jane Parkinson says it all a lot better than I can.
High Fidelity (Season 1): Since too many of my friends related a bit too much to Rob Gordon, I appreciated the female role reversal. Mighta been interesting to see future seasons not bound by source material.
Kim’s Convenience (Seasons 1-4): Just delightful. There isn’t a lot of social commentary, but sometimes that is O.K. It seems real. As a straight sitcom, it’s the best one I’ve seen in awhile. It’s that funny.
The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (Seasons 1-3): Very seldom (if ever?) do I care about the B/C stories, but boy am I in love with Midge and Susie. And the stand-up is solid, something I rarely, rarely say about stand-up within shows or film.
Schitt’s Creek (Seasons 1-6): The plot makes little sense, but it’s so funny and has so much heart it doesn’t matter. I bought the final season on Amazon because I couldn’t wait to finish. The finale was a mess, but I was too, a blubbering mess, after watching the documentary at the end. The cast reading the letter from the mothers of thousands of LGBTQ+ kids fucking wrecked me.
The Sopranos (Seasons 1-6): The great rewatch. The greatest rewatch.
Twilight Zone; (Season 1): Thought I was going to love this. At least like it more than I did. The cast is often great (which somehow makes things worse), and some of the plots are interesting, but the episodes usually fail to stick the landings. “The Blue Scorpion” was solid. “A Traveler” seemed the closest to the original series. “Not All Men” and “Replay” were intense and scary. Could have done without the rest, especially the Black Mirror parody, “The Wunderkind.”
The Wonder Years (Seasons 1-6): The great rewatch. The greatest rewatch.
If, by the virtue of charity or the circumstance of desperation, you ever chance to spend a little time around a Substance-recovery halfway facility like Enfield MA’s state-funded Ennet House, you will acquire many exotic new facts…
That certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do.
That you do not have to like a person in order to learn from [them]. That loneliness is not a function of solitude. That logical validity is not a guarantee of truth. That it takes effort to pay attention to any one stimulus for more than a few seconds. That boring activities become, perversely, much less boring if you concentrate intently on them. That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness.
I made a pledge to watch at least one female-directed film per week that I hadn’t seen prior in 2019. Here they are (roughly ranked, if you’re looking for recommendations).
Listened to 315,504 songs, spread over 10,147 artists, according to my (second) account.
The twenty I listened to the most: Belle & Sebastian, The Beatles, The Smiths, Pavement, Ramones, Why?, Broken Social Scene, Bob Dylan, The Microphones, Modest Mouse, Prince, The Blow, Radiohead, Devendra Banhart, Sonic Youth, Chet Baker, Talking Heads, The Kinks, Tom Waits and The Magnetic Fields.
If you were to ask if those were my favorite artists, I would say, “Close.”
Realized a day or two ago: 63 Up will be coming out this year and I am tearing up just thinking about it. This series tugs at every heart string. I could barely hold it together (read: could not hold it together) just watching the trailer for the previous installment.
We should also be what, four-five years away from seeing Celine and Jesse again? I hope so. Also hope Linklater has secretly been filming something else.
I made a pledge to watch at least one female-directed film per week that I hadn’t seen prior in 2019. I will log them as I go, and likely rank them in the same list when I am done. Did the same thing in 2016.
***
Speaking of movies. This is going to get discussed a lot this year, but 1999 was a watershed year for cinema. Probably tied to nostalgia, but seemingly one of my favorites.
I was very slowly working my way through Jude the Obscure, but I put that down for the Beastie Boys Book. I am aware I am the only person in the history of civilization that will ever say that.
I’ve been missing Bob lately. I was hoping to see his name in the photo credits.
When I was maybe five or six, I inherited my stepbrother’s bedroom at my father’s. With it, a few things he left behind, including a Beastie Boys photo pulled from a magazine taped to the wall.
Years later, when Bob and Brian J. Bowe were working on the CREEM anthology for HarperCollins, they let me pick and transcribe a few pieces for the book. One was an interview with the Beasties by Chuck Eddy. Bob pulled the art for the article from photos he’d taken, including the one taped to my wall all those years before.
If you ever find yourself looking for a Christmas movie involving a grown woman trapped in a magical snow globe, I’ve seentwo. Also, Holiday in Handcuffs, the Buffalo ’66 of the genre.
Last night ‘s episode had some fun moments. Really related to the bit in Matt Damon’s monologue about staying up late with his dad to watch the show as a child. And somehow related to the Weezer sketch even more. #TeamLeslie
Also, say what you will about Miley (I have), but I enjoyed her performance and singing it alongside Sean Ono Lennon kinda got to me.
I don’t know why I am writing about SNL. I must have mono.
