11.30.06
Mystery Film
Grey day. Not bad. Off to see Mystery Film. Shall report.
11.29.06
The Squeaky Wheel
Goodness, it’s great to discover that you have part of a cookie left.
Here’s a funny reponse from Merujo The Dolby Fan Also:
Every single time I hear the words “Anaheim House of Blues,” I think of They Might Be Giants and their bizarrely funny “venue song” about said location…
“So put away the crackpipe, the pornography, and the booze/ cuz’ tonight we’re goin’ to the Anaheim House of Blues!”
Ah yes…
Indeed. If that had been my only opportunity ever to see and hear Thomas Dolby play live, I probably would have compromised my well-ordered existence and dutifully attended — but, Friends, Neighbours & Concertgoers: The Venue Matters.
As for the new song, I know without any doubt whatsoever that I have written many songs with better titles than “Your Karma Hit My Dogma.” (This is not to judge the material, only its title.)
So missing it was okay.
The first and only time I have experienced a TMBG show was in 1988 (I think). It was a blisteringly hot afternoon performance (sponsored by KROQ, who used to be cool), and a British semi-punk band with mafia suits called The Godfathers opened the show (in support of their eternally amusingly-titled L.P.: Birth, School, Work, Death). I recall that we somehow made it to The John Anson Ford Amphitheatre by bus (tantamount to hitting “Hyperspace” back then), and that The Godfathers were okay. They Might Be Giants, thereafter, astounded me, as: A. Hardly anyone had heard of them yet, and thus they had that “Our Special Band” status going on; B. I had actually found their first, self-titled CD at the now bye-bye-cakes Penny Lane Records in pre-murder Westwood, and cheerfully waved it about like a treasure-map during the show (to the disgruntlement and sneering of an associate, whose specialty seemed to be disgruntlement and sneering); C. I was still high on “Don’t Let’s Start” (single and video), the lyrics to which my fave hometown band never got right but they otherwise rocked it; and D. John and John sang about the chemical properties of the sun and also wore very tall fezzes without seeming at all pretentious about it.
Afterward, I got a photo with Flansy (I think Linnell actually snapped it), and they both signed my CD, onstage, while they were packing up their gear. At the time, I had no idea where “Hoboken” or “Brooklyn” actually were, so this experience was somewhat like meeting a Yanomami tribe or Horshack.
As far as TMBG’s constant musical output, I used to be amused, but now I am disgusted. Not at them, but because there’s no way a mortal can keep up. (Although as I told my awesome nephew recently, their Dial-A-Song motto has always delighted me: “Free if you call from work.”) Thus the lyrical tidbit brings a smile, thanks.
And HOB — yeah, whatever. Years ago, during one of the times I saw Billy Bragg at the Sunset Strip House of Blues, he and I spoke afterward (I got to carry his prized Burns upstairs), and he mentioned (I don’t think this quite qualifies as a breach of confidence) that he enjoys playing L.A., but isn’t particularly fond of House of Blues, because “it’s like playin’ in Disneyland.”
Well, bingo. (And at the time, the Disneyland Branch of The World Famous House Of Blues Which Brings Together All Of The World’s Faiths In The Name Of Pop-Music Promotion And Sales, Help Ever Hurt Never, Amen did not actually exist yet.)
Hey, here are some more Not Really Old But The Kids Think They Are guys I like:
http://www.mikescottwaterboys.com
all of whom I have seen at House of Blues (even though I’d rather have a crummy view at the Troubadour).
Two of my favourite musical artists in the whole world I saw at the Troubadour, incidentally — with separate groups on different occasions and before they got married and had a son (congratulations!) — and before I even knew they knew each other. Someday I’ll tell you a bit about them. I kind of mention them peripherally anyway.
And while we’re on the subject of popular music (fancy that!), I must offer great thanks to my also-awesome niece, who recently sent me a package which I received today. Goodness gracious! Lemme count…
There are ten CDs in here! All new performers, all new music.
So that’s what I get for grumbling non-stop about how much the radio and supermarket programmers suck!
Some of this appears to be from a groovy swag bag from a Def Jam party at the Mercury Lounge (including the swag bag itself) as I note the presence of a very nice promotional pen!
The musical acts include such names as Damone, Under The Influence of Giants, Girls Don’t Cry and Amelia’s Dream.
Hey, check it out! I’m cool!
Ha!
(Not that I’m going to be putting to rest the Big Country cassettes; Stuart Adamson, also, lives on with me.)
So this all balances out somewhat. Which is funny, because I’m pretty sure that my niece does not read these postings, nor even is aware of them, and yet she answered, as it were, my call.
(Perhaps this is what I get for giving her Little Earthquakes when she was about twelve. Good on ya, Niecey!)
Good to have these little circles of energy nearby as her uncle takes on a sick (yo!) amount of Cinema Criticism. Tonight was Breaking and Entering, which — despite a bombastic trailer that almost entirely turned me off to the project — ended up significantly exceeding my expectations. Plus there’s plenty more to say beyond that.
And that’s just my night job.
(P.S. I would like to thank my next-door neighbour — who was watching loud pornography an hour ago and loud football — much better than Le Football Americain, but still — up until about five minutes ago — for no longer doing either of these things, at least for the moment.)
Almost Cold but Definitely Windy
That’s the middle-of-the-night weather report.
The middle-of-the-night review report is that it took ninety minutes to travel a bit over twelve miles to see tonight’s movie.
It is always like this in this place at that time.
It occurs to me that I have done that trip hundreds of times.
A friend was driving tonight, but I still got a bit nervous from the hellishness of not being able to move! (Insert infinite cascade of profanities and obscenities here.)
(Yes, I know there are many ways to get across L.A.; but they all suck.)
The movie did not suck. The movie was The Nativity Story. It is somewhat modest and earnest in its approach, but it succeeds on the terms it sets for itself. I shall review asap.
“ASAP.” Heh! When I worked at various offices in Hollywood, that — and “Yer the man!” — were about the only things anybody knew how to say, as in:
“Hey, can you do this ASAP?”
(You nod.)
“Yer the man!”
(For further insight and much illumination into that world, check out Slaves of Hollywood by Terry Keefe and Michael Wechsler, and Swimming With Sharks by George Huang — good guys bearing astute views into a world few oblivious outsiders really comprehend!)
Jesus, those experiences sucked. But the Jesus movie doesn’t suck (Jesus — since you probably already know — only makes a brief cameo near the end; Brian, alas, does not appear.)
So yeah, Bobby and Nativity and Breaking and Entering and etc. etc., then next week The Holiday — which, frankly, I think should be spelt entirely with dollar signs. Wish I’d thought of that one!
As for traffic woes, I have long wanted a Batwing of my vewy own. For urban transport, I’m thinking now’s the time…
11.28.06
Thomas Dolby
A fellow Dolbyite responds (and quickly, too!)…
This is a person of unknown Zodiac from Bethesda, Maryland, USA:
He played a new song last night in San Francisco. 
He’s playing HOB Anaheim tonight, FYI.
He played a new song.
I found this entry via Technorati, fyi. And strangely, I’m listening to “I Live In A Suitcase” off “Sole Inhabitant” right now.
Cheers,
Merujo
Hey, thanks Merujo. Great to hear from you. I am indeed chuffed to have sussed that Dolby will be kinda nearby tonight…
…and in a perfect world…
…but, being a fan of both Whale Rider and Catherine Hardwicke (who eats cheap Chinese food near me sometimes), I am going to see The Nativity Story tonight.
Plus…Anaheim.
Egad.
HOB.
Egad.
No overt offence to these entities, but getting to see Mr. Dolby twice this year was already an enormous treat — even though he and “Lunesse” still owe me a t-shirt!
Thanks for being incalculably cool.
A battle for peace concludes:
Goodness, busy week ahead. First of all, I would like to thank the lovely people who have submitted names for my goldfish — these are under consideration and much appreciated!
http://ubercine.com/glogg/2006/11/26/contest-1/
More reviews en route. Went to Bobby again last night. Tonight The Nativity Story. Breaking and Entering on Wednesday. A Very Surprising Advance Screening Of A Movie That Won’t Be Released Until Next Summer on Thursday. Then, on Friday, I intend to have the site (and possibly even my existence) up to snuff for December.
This conclusion to the Really Stupid Conflict Over A Peace-Wreath makes me smile (and the fact that the boyfriend of the “culprit” appears to be a cyborg plugged into an outdoor power-jack brings a grin, too):
11.27.06
Quod Erat Demonstrandum, Baby
A Brief History of Thomas Dolby ‘n’ Me:
1981: Attend second-ever rock concert, with great friend D. Is Foreigner, supporting 4 album. Is not quite Van Halen, but is good. T-shirt is black and girls like. But never really think about who played those synth lines on the hit singles…
1982 or thereabouts: Mtv begins to break into various markets; become aware of very cool sci-fi-like music video called (wait for it!) “Radio Silence.” I like. Then it seems to vanish.
Later 1982: Gradually putting two and two together in world suddenly awash with what Mark Knopfler would soon enough call (in a character’s voice), “little faggots with the earring and the make-up,” I fall head-over-heels for song called (nope, not “Head Over Heels”, but:) “She Blinded Me With Science.” Video is astoundingly astounding. Begin discussing with friends what “come-uppance” may mean. Rush out and purchase album in newfangled (for me) cassette form. (Notably, still have; still plays!) Like the little dbx encoding tinkle at beginning and end. Listen to it on summer nights on sister’s walkman-type device. Never actually get walkman-type device of own. This is okay, as sister constantly steals albums and touches the grooves and doesn’t put them back properly, then lies about ever having taken them out. But I digress.
1983: In response to English class assignment: “Who Is A Person You Would Like to Meet and Why?” — I choose Thomas Dolby. In rare instance of adult forgetfulness (I do NOT subscribe to that new agey idiocy about “forgetting being a healthy thing to do”), I forget all about this. Friend M. reminds me, via email, in 2006. He also reminds me that he chose, for the subject of his essay (and longing), Bozo the Clown. This leads to Wikipedia and other research of Bozo the Clown, followed by email campaign among friends with shared Bozo memories. I still prefer Cookie — and I really don’t remember what my essay had to say about why I wanted to meet Dolby — but it does exist somewhere. I’m sure it’s brilliant.
1983 also: I attempt to dance with girls to “She Blinded Me With Science.” They do not even feign feigning interest. Within a year, I slow-dance with E.S. to entirety of “Stairway to Heaven.” Revenge.
Also 1983: Mtv airs concert video from Thomas Dolby, entitled LIVE WIRELESS. I love this so much it hurts. I tape it — but, alas, only on audio tape. Friends and I revel to it.
1984: Girls = fully incomprehensible now; it really seems that all any of the ones I find attractive want to do is “jam” (this apparently involves bouncing around to Thriller, which quickly grows annoying; you had to be there). Relinquishing hope becomes easier though, as Thomas Dolby releases The Flat Earth. My other great friend D. buys it on vinyl, and I buy it on cassette for a change (a girl had tried to shame me for my vinyl fetish, and I figured I may as well join The Future). This other D. and I sit in his room and discuss what a “semaphore” may be: We eventually suss that it may have something to do with trains.
(The word “suss” hadn’t yet entered my vocabulary, but it’s here now, and at this point you’d have an easier time extracting a surfer’s arm from a shark.)
But all of this is by the way, for The Flat Earth is the greatest thing I have ever heard. I listen to it constantly. I have moved on a bit now, but it still remains a top fave, and the most to-which-I-have-listened album in my world. Back then, I even review it for the school newspaper; I have virtually no idea what I’m talking about, and haven’t even heard of Robyn Hitchcock yet (apart from the credits; “Keith”?) — but the thing simply amazes me.
I decide to become a Dissident.
For four years, I bounce around across North America, and nothing makes the slightest bit of sense – which is buffered considerably by a steady diet of Talking Heads — and then, finally…
1988: Thomas Dolby releases Aliens Ate My Buick.
I like it; I really do; but I begin to form a hypothesis that moving to L.A. makes people’s music suck a bit. For Flat Earth to have been the sophomore effort that beat the odds, Aliens, at the time, feels a little…off. Again, I like it; I really do; and I even send a letter to the absolutely horrendously terrible local “pop” radio station (endless Whitney Houston, and she’s probably the best thing they ever played) suggesting — wink-wink — that they add “Pulp Culture” to their playlist (no offense to Ms. Houston, but after one million plays, Elton John & Kiki Dee’s “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart” will kill the average human). A friend of a friend looks great in a swimsuit, and I frequently contemplate the notion of her grooving with me to “Pulp Culture” — but nothing ever comes of this, and I doubt very strongly that she’s ever even heard the song.
The phrase “short’n'curlies” should be in more pop songs, though. I would have loved an Andrews Sisters song called “Short’n'Curlies.”
But I digress again.
1988, a bit later: My friend C. (up until then often called “Bean,” “Beaner,” “Beandip” and even “Beanshit”) opines that he isn’t entirely impressed with Aliens. Nor am I. At the time, I concur with C. that “My Brain Is Like a Sieve” is a mildly embarrassing misstep. Mr. Dolby, rather than being himself (which is a rather luminous presence, particularly in the headphones) seems to be putting on goofy airs that aren’t fully working. I like Aliens; I really do (the grooves are impeccable, the hypnotic “Budapest By Blimp” truly involving) — but I feel that it is a minor fumble from the triumph of The Flat Earth. I’m still very much in the Dolby fold — but the last thing I wanted from this “exotic” performer was goofy American shit: I can walk down any street and get that!
And then…
I wander around the world a whole lot, get my heart broken constantly, and somehow succeed in Higher Education (I’m nowhere near as well-off as the star of this entry — if you own or lease-with-an-option-to-buy a cell-phone/mobile-thingy, you’re probably holding technology from Dolby’s company, Beatnik – but I do have the education and degree; we all need something).
For a while there I listen to Lou Reed a lot. Then, one day, I wake up and realise that Lou Reed is tone-deaf and really kind of irritating, and that all we really need from him is “Perfect Day,” thank you and goodnight.
1992: Somehow I have moved to Washington State, and am working in a record store owned by a ghastly, tyrannical Boomer (is there any other kind?). There is one extremely nerdy little Electronica-Goth slave-employee who puts The Golden Age of Wireless as one of his “Employee Picks” (I’m all about Jane Siberry and Mike Scott at the time.) His pick seems like ancient history — but much beloved ancient history. Otherwise, the “pop” music of that place and time sucks so bad it’s like constantly ingesting poison. Add to this that I have fallen in “love” with an idiotic graphic artist girl who will waste three years of my life amidst absolutely zero satisfaction, but with plenty of selfish tugs on the strings. Sigh. But, hey, Thomas Dolby releases a new album!
The new album is called Astronauts and Heretics. It has a “mysterious” cover. It has a vaguely “Gothic” photo of Dolby looking…wait…is he bald?
Of course I buy the thing — with discount, but new, on CD — and I listen to it a lot. I want to love it, but…
I can’t.
I like it, though.
I just don’t understand why the hell Thomas Dolby would ever want to be Bruce Hornsby!
The album confuses me. Its giggles are too cutesy (”Silk Pyjamas”), its ballads too sappy (”Cruel”), its “fun” songs too…borrowed (”Eastern Bloc” — the sequel to the out-of-this-world amazing “Europa and the Pirate Twins,” actually grabs the rhythm of Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy” and smooshes it with…an Eddie Van Halen guitar solo?). I hear “I Live In a Suitcase” and go, Well, Boo-hoo, Thomas — The Police already did this, and made it fun! I hear “I Love You Goodbye” (which should perhaps have a comma in it) and I wonder why the hell some Creole-sounding guy is yelling “Accordion!!!” in the background, as if it’s declaration of bayou passion or something. In short, it all sounds forced. I like it because I simply like Thomas Dolby and probably always will — but…whereas Golden Age and Flat Earth jumped up as timeless classics, and Aliens blended very confident kitsch with some leftovers from Gothic (one of the coolest movies, and soundtracks, of that decade) and moments of surprising sincerity…
I feel that with Astronauts and Heretics, Mr. Dolby has done the unthinkable: He has made an average album!
Honestly, I don’t think about it too much.
1994 or thereabouts: I’m very in “love” with the aforementioned idiot girl by this point, and when I tell her that I have just gone to a music trade-show and met Thomas Dolby, and he even gave me his card (he judiciously gave his card to several people), she is utterly unimpressed. I could put my own penis through both ears and she would be unimpressed. I have no idea what I’m doing up there. But at least I met Thomas Dolby.
(Psychologists and law-enforcement agents: Kindly note that I haven’t had, do not have, and will not have any interest in meeting Thomas Dolby outside of professional and public interaction.)
(”Hey! Hey! Thomas Dolby ovah heah!“)
The Rest of That Hideous Decade: Total suckfest. Notably, Thomas Dolby essentially retires from music. Thanks. I hear that the Kajagoogoo guy is working in a hat shop. Things are grim.
Oh yeah: Sometime around 1994, Thomas Dolby makes a Mind’s Eye soundtrack album. But I want The Flat Earth II.
Every Year Or Two: Somebody makes a joke about Howard the Duck. Usually, the somebody is me. But I kinda like it, too. I made a high school girlfriend sit through it until the end credits. Revenge.
A Decade Passes: Suddenly it is difficult to get through airport security, the “leader” of the free world is one of the most wretched things ever to exist, I toil ceaselessly for scumbags and then am fired by scumbags, I keep going to movies as if it’s going to save my life, most of my friends vanish and some actually turn into outrageous arseholes (Hi, Liz!), and still…nothing from the world of Dolby. At least, nothing hitting my radar.
2005: In a pinch for website filler, I put “WHY, MISS SAKAMOTO, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” in big red letters on my homepage. This causes me to wonder: Am I dead but only think I’m still alive? Why would I do such a thing?
(I enjoy a large, loud laugh at a girl-woman I dated briefly, who surmised that when Caucasian men turn their interest to Japanese women, it really means that they’re only one step away from becoming gay. This theory still astounds and entertains me.)
Later 2005: I am on a train bound for San Diego to see friend C. (non-Beanshit edition) and his post-divorce sweetheart (What the HELL is going on???) and I am writing in my notebook, and some bitch-boy sitting near me is blasting “Gangsta” through his very loud headphones, and suddenly I write:
THOMAS DOLBY,
PLEASE COME BACK!
Hm.
Early 2006: I start surfing to see what’s new with Dolby (if anything), and I discover that his website is basically an archive site — filled with little anecdotes about meeting Michael Jackson (and sleepover friends) on a rainy L.A. night, smallish non-bandwidth-snarfing versions of many of his videos, thoughts, reflections and the reason he probably won’t tour much anymore (it’s pricey and a pain).
Hm. I relegate Thomas Dolby to the past.
I still love The Flat Earth.
Then…
Something really weird happens.
Thomas Dolby defrosts himself and rejoins the world of popular music and personality.
It’s hard to believe what I’m seeing: The guy suddenly not only has a live website, he’s actually “blogging,” too.
He’s alive?
He cares about the fans who cared?
Hm!
Well, to make a lon