Friday, January 20, 2006

Orange Alert (Saturday "Into My Arms" Edit)

Last night, Roxy Epoxy and her oddly named band-mates rolled into town for a show at The Victory Lounge New City. My profane friend J attended, apparently bringing with him something less than Mary-Poppins-benevolence. With drum rolls, then, here is his somewhat-censored take on The Epoxies w/ the Frosted Tipz:

"F**k that s**t. F**k that b**ch. We're not going back to Detroit, that's for damn sure." Such was L's and my battle cry as we pulled onto 102nd for the Epoxies show last night. Of course, by the Big D, we meant R, and we were both expecting the worst. Nobody was there for R's band, so I laughed, and went upstairs. The big man, the little man, and an assortment of girls ready to put R in the hospital, were all upstairs, so I felt warm and safe and cozy. Anyways, around 10:30, I heard that The Epoxies were starting up their set. I headed on downstairs, and, after an awkward exchange with R on the stairs, I arrived in front of a smoke-filled laser-blasted stage. Yeah, that's right, there were lasers. Green ones. The Epoxies ripped through their set in about 45 minutes, came back for an encore, and then bailed. The sound could have been a lot better, but it did make me dance, which is a rare and horrifying sight. And L and I met three dudes from Fort McMurray."

Um. Brilliant? Nice to see a shout-out to The Fort, btw, J. Alright, the book review (well, recommendation) and the mp3 will crammed into this post on Saturday evening. A big edit. I'm really excited about the mp3, actually. Maybe it will even be up Saturday morning. Oh, maybe not. Have a good week-end, then. Lucky bugs win prizes.

"Into My Arms" + David Fridlund This is what you write about a song like this. First, you don't write about a song like this. You let the lyrics speak for themselves, because they're hearts and bones and life, everybody sacred and bleeding: "I don't believe in an interventionist God / But I know, darling, that you do / But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him / Not to intervene when it came to you / Not to touch a hair on your head / To leave you as you are / And if He felt He had to direct you / Then direct you into my arms". A lovely timbered piano, something you would hear in church just as the last of the congregation washes into the chairs, washes over my chair as I listen to this song. "Into my arms, O Lord," sings Fridlund, over and over. This song is a departure for him. As he explains on his blog, the man doesn't usually cover other people's songs. But there's sentiment and memory and even comfort behind this piece and it bleeds (you can feel the warm blood) through the words and the notes and, most of all, the voice of the singer. He covered The Pixies a while back—I think it was "Wave Of Mutilation" (don't quote me). That cover didn't move me. This Nick Cave cover does. There is other music he's written and sung and it, also, is wonderful. If you don't listen to David Fridlund's music, you'll probably wish you were dead. But if you listen, his songs might save you.

I'm writing about this song, C, for you. I mean, this song belongs to everyone, that's a cliché and true, but I hear the music and think—what else—about you.

Sunday evening, this sentence will be replaced followed with some words about a certain book. I'm pretty interested in it, and, hopefully, I'll get you interested in it, too. BTW, just for the record, I am not a large black woman, nor at all succesful in television, and my name is not an ode to the Marx Brothers. Sunday, then.

King Kong + Lorenzo Semple Jr Okay, this is pretty late Sunday—actually, the clock is blinking 12:03, and it's not early afternoon—but who cares? Not me, that's who. Question asked, question answered! To the book, then. The book is garbage. I don't know why I own this book. This book is not even good garbage, like that in which I classified the latest Michael Crichton. But, even worse, it doesn't even have the guts to be bad garbage and will never win any This Is The Worst Of The Bad Garbage awards. Foo! What I like about this book, apart from the probably-meant-to-be-erotic cover (a reigned-in Frazetta must have scribbled the image of Kong and the python and the girl's improbable Serena-like buttocks in about half of a careless hour), is the introduction. Oh, wait a bit, I like the title, too, which is, properly, The Complete Script Of The Dino De Laurentiis Production Of King Kong (fantastically awkward!). But the introduction! The introduction to the script is so excellently enjoyable. The scriptwriter, who I've never heard of, details Dino de Laurentiis—hereafter referred to as Dino ("His last name isn't used much, even by total strangers, though some of his most immediate entourage tab him 'Mr. D'")—is a brilliant piece of puff-pulp like I've never read before. Dino plays King Kong to the scriptwriters' beautiful blonde, and it's a wonderful mix of humour and farce.

I enter Dino's office on North Canon Drive in Beverly Hills, an enclave so richly Italianate that one expects a Borgia Pope to be working the Xerox machine.

"Borgia Pope"? Note the shiny technology, too. Xerox! Anyways, writing and colour like this, the reader can't lose. The scriptwriter talks about men named Larry and John and Jerry ("Jerry . . . had a mental picture of a terrific scene. Kong in a supertanker . . . ."!) but it's Dino who repeatedly, and not unlike Kong, takes the stage.

Dino capered around his office, pantomiming an enormous monkey plucking off a girl's vestments, delicately, as one would pluck the petals off a flower
All [Dino] really had for a follow-up [to Barbarella] was a setting and a terrific title. The action was to be submarine, and the title Going Down.
[Dino speaks:] "Lorenzo, I give-a you jus' a title, two words, you tell-a me what you think." Dramatic pause. "King-a Kong!"

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