86 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
(04/24/97 4:00am)
I knew that headline would get your attention. Well, kids, a long time ago, there was a band called King Missile. They were pretty wacky, singing songs like "Jesus Was Way Cool" and "I'm A Sensitive Artist." They had this completely deadpan singer. His name is John S. Hall. His lyrics were so good that they can be poetry. And what do you know-some of them have been compiled in a volume of poetry and published by Soft Skull Press as Jesus Was Way Cool. It's good. Don't believe me? It was good enough for a National Book Award nomination.
(04/24/97 4:00am)
Forget vibrators, forget washers and dryers-all a girl really needs is Morphine. The smooth grind of baritone saxophone and bass guitar rumbles voluptuously out of stereo speakers like your favorite vodka-based drink, and the ultra-low frequency is a minor earthquake for the nether regions. Coupled with Mark Sandman's hepcat vocals, the barebones instrumentation intoxicates a listener like a sophisticated cocktail: slowly, surely and with the knowing worldliness of a practiced seducer.
(04/17/97 4:00am)
You may not know who Anthony DeCurtis is, but you know the people he writes about. He's a consummate music critic, having written about musicians like Keith Richards, U2, and, in the latest issue of Rolling Stone, the Notorious B.I.G. He's most likely to write the profiles you read in entertainment publications-not have one written about him.
(04/03/97 5:00am)
When you say you're going to see a movie about Muhammad Ali, people go, "Cool!" When you say you're going to see a documentary about the legendary fighter, their eyes glaze over in anticipated boredom. Documentaries, for most of the mainstream moviegoing public, mean information, facts, authoritative voiceover, journalism on celluloid-it's a form that harkens back to the stilted "human development" reels we all watched in fifth grade.
(03/27/97 5:00am)
Oh, those lovely Oscars. It's hard to sit through three-and-a-half hours of clapping, stilted teleprompting, and then clapping some more. And all for what? A little gold statue that ends up on the fireplace mantle. The Academy Awards is a perfect opportunity for mass sadomasochism, and all of us sit glued in front of our televisions, mesmerized by the little electrons that are shooting out from our screens. (And probably by all that Hollywood cleavage, as well.)
(03/27/97 5:00am)
Amidst the basketball, the beach and the beer that all appear as mainfestations of springtime at Duke, the Blackburn Literary Festival stands out like the proverbial sore thumb. Yet the festival, founded in 1959, has been as much a University tradition as our more modern printemps diversions. For those who love words as much as they love basking in the sun, the festival offers plenty of moving, thought-provoking literature-in the form of free readings spread out over nine days-until April 2.
(03/13/97 5:00am)
I really don't have time to write this now-my thesis is due, my screenplay needs to be written, my reading isn't done, more papers need to be written, and, on top of everything, I'm trying to find a job. Sounds fun? It's not. If it wasn't any other band than U2, I would have blown this assignment off to the moon. But since it's everyone's favorite Irish rock band, I felt compelled to put in my proverbial two cents on U2's latest effort, Pop (Island).
(02/27/97 5:00am)
"I can smell Aeon now: leather, gunpowder, hazelnuts...sex."
(02/21/97 5:00am)
How does a dance artist's legacy live on?
(02/13/97 5:00am)
Independent film takes over the Oscar nominations! No Madonna! No Courtney! Those were the big headlines following the announcement of the 69th Annual Academy Awards in a pre-dawn ceremony. Indie films took the most prestigious spots; only one Hollywood studio film, Jerry Maguire (TriStar), garnered a position on the Best Picture list. The English Patient grabbed the most nominations, including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress and Actor and Best Adapted Screenplay. Evita got nods for cinematography, but was overlooked in the Best Picture, Director, and acting categories. Find out if indie flicks sweep the Oscars on March 24.
(02/06/97 9:00am)
Okay, so my list is really long. Really long. Eighteen albums is kind of silly, n'est-ce pas? But eighteen is the number that encompasses my admittedly eclectic, long musical history. I fell in love with music when I was five when I bought my first tape-The Smurfs' All-Star Show. I watched "Solid Gold," "Soul Train" and "American Bandstand" on a fanatical basis. And when high school hit, I spent every cent on music and dated only boys with cool music taste. So don't scoff at the number of selections on my list (which, by the way, are in no particular order)-there could've been at least twenty more, okay?
The Smiths The Queen Is Dead (Rough Trade/Beggars Banquet) The band that made me love true alternative music (before the term became corrupted, mind you). The Smiths' very British outlook helped all gawky, nerdish adolescents deal with their budding hormones and bodies; they tracked the gap between what we long for our lives to be, and what they really are with impeccable lyrics and guitarwork. The penultimate track, "There Is A Light (That Never Goes Out)," puts me on the verge of wistful melancholy every time.
Velvet Underground and Nico (Verve) If you like alternative music, you like the Velvet Underground, who put the art in art-rock. Fecklessly glam, drugged-out and decadent, Lou Reed and company's minimalism stripped down rock excess to reveal its poetic core. Fine holiday fun.
Blondie Best Of (Chrysalis) Because I'm a girl. And "Atomic" is one of the best songs ever.
Howlin' Wolf Greatest Hits Vol. 1 (Chess) Of all the great blues musicians I could have put, this man, with his menacing growl and snapping piano, is my absolute favorite. Even on a rickety recording, the Wolf's sinister presence leaps out like a thief in the night.
Violent Femmes (Slash) Another adolescent handbook, this time coming out of my corner of the country, the Midwest. Doesn't everyone remember singing along to "Add It Up" during roadtrips and slumber parties? Gordon Gano and crew's particularly self-immolating quasi-folk rock gave shape to a teenage fear and loathing that Top 40 could never touch. Twitching singing and semi-sadistic lyrics grasped at helplessness and anger, and utterly naked emotion only revealed how very much we hated our teenage existence.
A Tribe Called Quest Low-End Theory (Jive) With the deepest bass and the most buttery raps, this album is the soundtrack to the best party you'll ever go to. Plus, its rhymes are super-intelligent and it has a good beat.
PJ Harvey Rid of Me (Island) This is my post-adolescent Bible, and oh, what a scary one it is. Miss Polly Jean Harvey, in my humble opinion, marks herself as utterly genieuse with hemorrhaging, violently possessed songs of sex, love and destruction. With gasoline-soaked guitar and a faux-operatic voice, the title track's mantra, "Lick my legs, I'm on fire," became the catchphrase of 1993. The soundtrack to female rage, lust and desire, and the best thing to listen to after a bad breakup.
The Pixies Surfer Rosa (4AD) Devin picked Doolittle but I pick this earlier work, with all its serrated edges and bloody seams showing. Uncompromisingly surreal and challenging, it may be less pop, but it's got more bite. Star song: "Gigantic," sung so charmingly by Kim Deal before she did that Breeders thing.
Joy Division Unknown Pleasures (Factory) This is a perennial high school (and one college) boyfriend band-nearly every boy I dated in high school worshipped at the altar of Ian Curtis, whose suicide ended the reign of this post-punk institution. Hollowly industrial, nihilistic clang with Curtis's impossibly deep baritone made the despairing lyrics come alive with artistry. While the 1987 compilation Substance is a good place for neophytes to start, this album is a masterpiece.
U2 The Joshua Tree (Island) The first album I passionately adored. Plus, the first rock musician I passionately adored-Larry Mullen, Jr.
Tom Waits Rain Dogs (Island) With a whiskey-soaked growl and rasp, Tom Waits is the midnight poet of the lyrically disenfranchised. Set to faux-cocktail clatter, the stories and fables which mask as songs on this album take the listener to a million little places, all of which sound like they should be in an arty, urban movie.
Public Enemy It Takes a Nation of Millions To Hold Us Back (Columbia) Fiercely political and rebelliously cacophonous-you can disagree with the politics but admire the urgency of the vision. Chuck D and Flavor Flav star in this document of discontent, which kicks off with brilliant "Bring the Noise."
Prince Purple Rain (Warner Bros/Paisley Park) If you can listen to it five times in a row without getting sick, it's good. And I've listened to this five times in a row.
Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band Safe As Milk (One Way) Barely anyone I know has even heard of Captain Beefheart, but trust me, this man is a genius, taking blues and turning it into art by some strange alchemy. Most people will cite Trout Mask Replica in a "best album" list, but since that album scared me when I was five, Safe As Milk will do with odd, bouncy blues.
Wire Pink Flag (Restless Retro) "Three Girl Rhumba" sounds exactly like Elastica's "Connection." That, in a nutshell, is how Wire sounds: taut, fierce pop-punk with wit so dry it crumbles like a cracker.
Beastie Boys Check Your Head (Capitol) Par-tay! Boo-tay! While any of the Beasties' albums could be on this list, this is the one that never fails to endure. Put it on endless repeat at a party, and watch your guests bump 'n grind till they drop. Combining party slams with hypnotic interludes, this is the fuel for your next soir*e.
Jane's Addiction Nothing's Shocking (Warner Bros.) When Perry Farrell shrieks, "3, 4!" at the beginning of "Ocean Size," the crowd comes down and the house shakes. The ultimate pinnacle of glam rock, L.A. funk and a good dose of heavy metal, Jane's Addiction are simply cool.
Aphex Twin Selected Ambient Sounds Volume II (Sire) The logical progression from classical to techno. Trust me.
(01/30/97 5:00am)
Remixes of songs are the ultimate filler on an album. We've all pondered records that have a thousand versions of some hit single to make your $15.99 CD "worthwhile." The only difference between each version, though, is that one might have more bass, another have no vocals, and yet another use that snake-charmer squeal that Snoop Doggy Dogg used to sample a lot. (I must give props, though, for the imaginative names that are given these mixes: my all-time favorite names of mixes are "Oh, No, Madonna's In My Jeep" and "Shaka'tha'azz.")
(01/28/97 5:00am)
It takes a certain verve and audacity for a dance troupe to add punctuation to their name.
(01/16/97 5:00am)
Something about Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals annoy me. Having been a veteran/victim of many mass excursions to his touring Broadway spectacles in high school, I always thought the whole event was nothing but an excuse to razzle-dazzle a captive audience with silly song and dance. Perhaps it was just the typical adolescent disaffection that made me dislike it so much? No, not really: compared with the elegant sophisticated Cole Porter or the intelligent Stephen Sondheim, Webber's material seemed to lack the magic that makes a musical staged on the cloistered void of a stage bearable, even enjoyable.
(12/12/96 5:00am)
Since I'm a neurotic, pessimistic elitist, I'm always inclined to say that every year sucked in terms of music. But that's just me. Alanis continued to irk with her constant misuse of the word "ironic." Rolling Stone -how many covers do they need with surgery-augmented blonds on them? The Real World blew. And when will we stop watching Friends? There's only so many lattes they can sip before I tire of their never-ending perkiness. But there were good moments, I allow. ER ruled. My man Tricky released not one, not two, but three albums. Madonna had a baby. I found an Aeon Flux video. And Elmo, that adorable toddler of a red Sesame Street character, rose to ascendancy (and now I can't find a Tickle Me Elmo doll.) So there are good things.
(12/05/96 5:00am)
Let's talk about sand. There's a lot of it in the recently released film The English Patient-after all, crucial parts of the story take place in the desert. It's the shade of a particularly blond gold, serenely heaped into majestic dunes, still as a statue but always threatening to fall over and bury those at the foot of its steep folds. There is a shot in the beginning of The English Patient that features an breathtaking aerial glide across a sea of sand, the curve and contours of its dunes and valleys resembling those of a woman's body. It was with this shot, barely two minutes into the film, that I knew The English Patient would be a fine, fine movie.
(11/14/96 5:00am)
Deee-Lite Sampladelic Relics and Dancefloor Oddities Deee-Remixes (Elektra)
(11/14/96 5:00am)
His Name is Alive Stars on ESP (4AD)
(11/14/96 5:00am)
The Wedding Present Saturnalia (Cooking Vinyl)
(11/07/96 5:00am)
Franco Zeffirelli's film, full of cute men in tights and wide-eyed girls with cleavage, is probably how most of us envision the Shakespeare classic, Romeo and Juliet. Ah, fair Verona, all balconies, mansions, big berets with feathers and funky dresses with high waists and low necklines-one can almost smell the historical reverence wafting off the celluloid. From the beginning of our formal introduction to Shakespeare in high school English, with the aid of a harried, underpaid English teacher, most of us have been taught at some time or another to supplicate reverently at the altar of old Bill and look at him through eyes that keep him at a distance from modern sensibilities. The "classic" status sometimes sees Shakespeare's works as representative of a frame of mind removed outside contemporary lives, as if the weight of history creates a gulf that keeps us at arms' length with Shakespeare's insights and storytelling.
