YouTube Clips That Live Up To My Expectations

What a wonderful tool today's bored rock historian has at his disposal! When unlimited access to mp3s simply isn't cutting it, there's unlimited access to old video clips. And not just videos, but concert footage, fan-made films, even the occasional interview excerpt. A small minority of these clips are a waste of time. The overall majority are interesting, but nothing you'd want to watch more than once or twice. But then there are those certain clips that perfectly manage to capture everything you love about that song, or that band, or that song coming from that band at that particular time and place. These are what I would call "YouTube clips that live up to my expectations."

Although the combination of music and video has been popular for a long time, I've generally felt that music videos are a let-down. They tend not to match the more interesting images in my head. Unlike my fellow blogger Zrbo, I did not grow up with MTV. In most cases I have spent at least a decade or two becoming intimately familiar with the recording of a song while having no knowledge of its video. Perhaps part of my lack of enthusiasm for the art of video is simply based on my previous lack of access to it, i.e. "Well, I can't watch the video, but it probably sucks anyway so hopefully I'm not missing out on anything too good."

Well those days are over. Now that I've started watching many of the videos I may have missed, though, I have to say I don't think I was too far off in my judgment. But every once in a while, there are exceptions. A great band treats a video as simply another extension of their art, the way that they treat album covers, liner notes, and interviews. It becomes part of their image. Sometimes a band really manages to just nail it. I will see a clip and think, "This is everything I hoped it would be and more."

For example: R.E.M.'s "Radio Free Europe" (embedding is disabled so I have to link it; it's also mislabeled as "Driver 8" but ignore that). For me this video perfectly encapsulates what makes early R.E.M. so unique and distinctive. College. The South. Jangly things. Like Murmur, it's brooding and moody and yet so indecipherable it retains an odd, humorous touch. I can really imagine some kid up late at night in his dorm room in 1983 catching this clip on TV and thinking, "Who the hell are these guys?," and yet wanting to know the answer. "It's not quite mainstream rock, but it's not quite underground punk. It's not Toto, and it's not Minor Threat. What is it?" In other words, I think, my friends, that they nailed it.

We Are The World, But Who The Hell Are These People?

Seriously folks, does anyone know who the hell these people are? And how the hell did they get Michael Jackson to appear?? (which coincidentally might be the only decent part of the whole song, too bad it was the part recorded 25 years ago) And they let Lil Wayne use Autotune? WTF is going on? All I know is that Jamie Foxx really wants you to care.

America Is Like The Raiders

A while back I came up with the greatest sports/politics metaphor ever constructed. If you are not familiar with the recent history of the Oakland Raiders, I'm sorry, you'll just have to do some research on Google. If I have to explain it, it's not as funny.

Obama is like Tom Cable. He can only do so much given the hand he's been dealt. He may have some skill and talent as a coach, but he's stuck under the weight of his own organization.

The American people are like Al Davis. Their once-great sense of what it takes to win is on the decline. Even when they're losing, they're too proud and stubborn to make the necessary changes, because that would mean admitting they were wrong. They pick a guy to coach their team, but they have completely unrealistic expectations and they get insulted when he actually tries to make some painful decisions that could probably give the team a better chance of winning.

The Republicans are like JaMarcus Russell. They're fat and lazy and they don't even know how to throw the damn ball. Tom Cable (Obama) is trying to build a winning team, but Al Davis (the American people) is forcing him to deal with the world's shittiest quarterback (Republicans) in order to do it, because Al Davis (the American people) has no idea what the hell he's doing anymore and he likes it that way.

And thus, the team keeps on losing.

Flaming Eels Out Of Your Butt

Excerpts from Pitchfork's interview with Flaming Lips frontman Wayne Coyne:

Pitchfork: What movie do you think Embryonic would go well with?

WC: The movies that triggered some of the imagery while we were actually making Embryonic were these two weird movies that are sort of about S&M and obsessive sexual freak-out behavior: The Night Porter, this Italian Nazi movie, and Last Tango in Paris. I must have been considering these elements of pleasure and pain and masochistic shit. Why not? I'm an adult, I can do that.

Pitchfork: Wasn't Last Tango in Paris pretty controversial when it came out?

WC: Yeah, the most controversial scene is when Marlon Brando has that woman put butter on her fist and stick it up his ass. Even though you don't really get to see it, that's always kind of brutal. It's not like watching stuff on the internet now, where people actually do these things, which isn't really fun at all. But the way they do it-- with good lighting and nice-looking people and good music-- it's still disturbing. Context changes everything. You know, when you stick things up your ass, context takes precedent. [laughs]

Pitchfork: Do you watch those kind of videos online?

WC: No matter who you are, you'll run into somebody who'll be like, "Jesus, you gotta see this video!" and there'll be some woman squirting eels out of her ass or something. In some ways I think it's funny. We live in good times; we can watch something like that and get on with our day. I mean, I don't want to have a woman squirting eels out of her butt while I'm there, but I'll watch it on video for 20 seconds.

The "My Way" Killings

So I just read in the NYTimes that singing "My Way" can get you killed in the Philippines. Eat your heart out Sara Vowell*:

"The killings have produced urban legends about the song and left Filipinos groping for answers. Are the killings the natural byproduct of the country’s culture of violence, drinking and machismo? Or is there something inherently sinister in the song?"

Well I have my theory...but go read the article for some theories about why this song in particular evokes so much violence.

"Karaoke-related killings are not limited to the Philippines. In the past two years alone, a Malaysian man was fatally stabbed for hogging the microphone at a bar and a Thai man killed eight of his neighbors in a rage after they sang John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads.”"

Now this I can understand. "My Way" is one thing, but eight of your neighbors insisting on singing John Denver? Who amongst us wouldn't feel the urge to kill?

The article gets even weirder when sexual politics enters the mix:

"A subset of karaoke bars with G.R.O.’s — short for guest relations officers, a euphemism for female prostitutes — often employ gay men, who are seen as neutral, to defuse the undercurrent of tension among the male patrons. Since the gay men are not considered rivals for the women’s attention — or rivals in singing, which karaoke machines score and rank — they can use humor to forestall macho face-offs among the patrons."

So the gay men are neutral? Or they're exempt from the machismo pressure to be an asshole?

*If you don't get this reference you should listen to "This American Life" on public radio more often. Before Sinatra's death Sara Vowell begged media figures everywhere not to play "My Way" when the old guy finally went to that nightclub in the sky.

Herr Zrbo: Professional Reviewer?

Folks, I just might be famous now. How famous? Internet famous. In one of my classes we're currently learning some advanced Google commands. One Google command, [link:], shows all the other websites that link to that site. Naturally I wanted to see if anyone was following the ol' blog here, when I discovered just how famous I am. I stumbled across the site musicfolio.com where to my surprise they've quoted my review of VNV Nation's Reformation 01 as if I were some actual respected authority. Oh yes folks, as they say on the internet i am teh famous. Don't believe me? Check it out right here (about 3/4 down the page). Eat your heart out Erlewine.

Where The Wild Things Are (Jonze)

Things I liked about this movie:

1) It wasn't written by committee
2) It didn't sugarcoat the situations it presented
3) The monsters looked like real monsters and not like lazy CGI creations (even though apparently some CGI was used), i.e. I just plain enjoyed looking at the monsters
4) It didn't have an obvious target audience
5) It didn't throw in a bunch of cringe-inducing pop culture references destined to become dated in three years

Things I didn't like about this movie:

1) The story seems forced. The original book is only about nine sentences long. It seems like Dave Eggers wanted to write an "edgy" children's movie, but he didn't really generate enough of a plot for a full-length film. It's as though Eggers and Jonze thought of the challenge first, and then the story second. As a result the movie feels a little unnecessary.
2) Jonze does a little too much of that "shakey-cam" thing. What happened to keeping your camera still, people?
3) I didn't think the "indie-folk" soundtrack fit the visual look of the film and I don't think it will age well. But I'm not much of an indie-folk guy anyway.

In summary: I liked the idea of this movie more than the actual movie itself. Which seems to be happening a lot lately.

Film critic rating: **1/2
Little Earl rating: **1/2

Now With Less Spam

Okay, I turned on "word verification" so we should have less spam. I sort of like the foreign spam. It's comforting in a strange way. How alone can any of us be if some spam program is trying to post advertisements to our blog at 2am?

But You Can't Dub A Red Stapler

I rarely watch movies on cable, and a couple of days ago I was reminded of why I do not. I was flipping through channels when I suddenly stumbled upon a bit of Office Space. Was it TNT? Comedy Central? E!? No matter. What does matter is that it made me realize how much a well-placed curse word can really add to the impact of a finely-honed comedic film. Or, by the same token, how much a poorly-dubbed curse word can really zap the appeal of a finely-honed comedic film. For example: take the classic scene in which wannabe frat boy co-worker Drew provides Peter with sudden doubts about his girlfriend. Here is how the scene plays in the theatrical release:

Drew: Hey, isn't that the girl that works over at Chotchkie's?
Peter Gibbons: Yeah.
Drew: Hmmm. Who's she here with?
Peter Gibbons: She's with me.
Drew: Really?
Peter Gibbons: Yeah.
Drew: All right, Peter! Ooh! Ooh! Right on... Make sure you wear a rubber, dude.
Peter Gibbons: Why is that, Drew?
Drew: Are you kidding me? She gets around. All right?
Peter Gibbons: She does, does she?
Drew: Oh, yeah. Like a record.
Peter Gibbons: Like, with who?
Drew: Oh, let's see, uh... Hell, Lumbergh fucked her.

Now here is the last part of that scene as it plays out on cable television:

Drew: Are you kidding me? She gets around. All right?
Peter Gibbons: She does, does she?
Drew: Oh, yeah. Like a record.
Peter Gibbons: Like, with who?
Drew: Oh, let's see, uh... Hell, Lumbergh had her.

"Had" her? "Had" her? I can't work with that. Now take the scene in which the three main protagonists are hatching their plan to install an embezzling virus into the computer system at Initech. The theatrical release version:

Peter Gibbons: [discussing the possibility of going to prison] This isn't Riyadh. You know they're not gonna saw your hands off here, alright? The worst they would ever do is they would put you for a couple of months into a white-collar, minimum-security resort! ... Do you know, they have conjugal visits there?
Samir: Really?
Peter Gibbons: Yes.
Michael Bolton: Shit. I'm a free man and I haven't had a conjugal visit in six months.

Now the cable TV version:

Peter Gibbons: Do you know, they have conjugal visits there?
Samir: Really?
Peter Gibbons: Yes.
Michael Bolton: Slime. I'm a free man and I haven't had a conjugal visit in six months.

"Slime"? "Slime"? Really now. I have the feeling that not even eight-year-olds use "slime" as an expletive anymore.

In some cases the dubbing is so creative it almost becomes an extra joke. Cable has turned Michael Bolton's "We get caught laundering money, we're not going to white-collar resort prison, no, no, no, we're going to federal pound me in the ass prison" into "We get caught laundering money, we're not going to white-collar resort prison, no, no, no, we're going to federal pound me into ash prison." Pound me into ash, eh? Sounds like a pretty rough prison. Sure wouldn't want to be pounded into ash.

I never realized how integral profanity was to a movie, even to a seemingly inoffensive, reasonably intellectual comedy such as Office Space, until I watched it on cable. Cable even ruins the poetic last scene in which Peter finds some redemptive solace in his new construction job. He declares, "This isn't so bad, huh? Makin' bucks, gettin' exercise, workin' outside." His delightfully uncouth neighbor (and new co-worker) Lawrence exclaims, "Fuckin' A." Peter takes a long, deep breath and replies, in a comically formal tone, "Fuckin' ... A." Cable turns this into:

Peter Gibbons: This isn't so bad, huh? Makin' bucks, gettin' exercise, workin' outside.
Lawrence: Freakin' A.
Peter Gibbons: [nods] Freakin' ... A.

They even massacred the ending. Freakin' A.

Plaque Build-Up

Q: When is a prank not a prank? A: When it's taken seriously for forty years.

Continuing on with the theme of early North American exploration, allow me to discuss a Wikipedia article on Drake's Plate of Brass. I remember reading in 4th grade that, while sailing around the world, Sir Francis Drake landed somewhere along the Northern California coast, mostly likely in what is now called (get this) Drake's Bay out by Point Reyes National Seashore. My nine-year-old imagination was tickled pink by the vision of some sailor wearing Elizabethan tights (and those neckline ruffles you always see in pictures of Shakespeare) landing anywhere even within spitting distance of my seemingly ahistorical home region. The textbook mentioned that a Plate of Brass had been found on the beach sometime in the 1930s, and historians concluded that it was indeed a fabled artifact from Sir Francis Drake's voyage.

Except it wasn't. Wikipedia has just dashed my childhood dreams by explaining that, apparently sometime after my 4th Grade textbook was published, historians finally concluded that the plate was a hoax perpetrated by "a playful fraternity of California history enthusiasts, the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus ('ECV')." Oh, you know those ECV boys, always up to something. According to Wikipedia, "ECV describes itself as 'dedicated to the erection of historical plaques, the protection of widows and orphans, especially the widows, and having a grand time while accomplishing these purposes.' " So where can I sign? "G. Ezra Dane, an ECV leader, initiated the hoax as a joke intended for fellow 'Clamper' George Bolton to find." Ah, but the best laid plans of mice and men...

Von der Porten, Aker, and Allen surmise that the conspirators probably planted the plate in Marin in 1933, not far from the supposed location of Drake's landing. William Caldeira, a chauffeur, found the plate while his employer, Leon Bocqueraz, was hunting near the shores of Drake's Bay with a companion, Anson Stiles Blake. Bocqueraz was a banker, while Blake was a prominent and active Berkeley alumnus. Both were members of the California Historical Society. Caldeira showed the dirt-covered plate to Bocqueraz, then stowed the plate in the car to investigate later and then forgot about it. Some weeks later, he found it again while cleaning the car on the San Rafael Ferry and threw it away on the side of the road in San Rafael – several miles from its original location, but still in the Marin area. This was the first of a series of events that ultimately spun the joke out of the conspirators' control.

Hey, what's this big Elizabethan plate of brass doing in the backseat? Maybe I should just toss it on the side of the road?

The plate was found again three years later in 1936 by Beryle Shinn, a shop clerk. Shinn showed it to a friend, a Berkeley student, who suggested he take the plate to Bolton. In February 1937, Shinn brought it to Bolton, which to Bolton was fulfillment of a decades-old professional dream. Bolton compared it to Francis Pretty's contemporaneous description of the plate. He alerted Robert Gordon Sproul, the University of California president, and Allen L. Chickering, the president of the California Historical Society, to the possibility of a major find. Chickering and Bolton negotiated to buy the plate, offering to pay $2,500 and to assume all risk regarding the authenticity of the plate ... Bolton soon announced at a California Historical Society meeting on April 6, 1937, "One of the world's long-lost historical treasures apparently has been found! ... The authenticity of the tablet seems to me beyond all reasonable doubt."

Future historians, let this be a lesson to you: do not summon the words "beyond all reasonable doubt" lightly.

The conspirators found a number of ways of trying to tip off Bolton without actually coming forward themselves. V. L. VanderHoof, a fellow Clamper and Berkeley professor, actually created a spoof of the plate only a few weeks after the announcement of the find, hoping to show Bolton that modern tools could make a plate that looked remarkably like the "real" plate. Clamper Edwin Grabhorn, a Western history publisher, published a spoof letter from the "Consolidated Brasse and Novelty Company" offering a "special line of brass plates" guaranteed to "make your home-town famous." Finally, ECV produced a small press run of a book, Ye Preposterous Booke of Brasse, detailing problems with the metal content, wording and spelling. The book even instructed the reader to look for the "ECV" in fluorescent paint on the back and stated outright "we should now re-claim [the plate] as the rightful property of our ancient Order", meaning ECV.

Hint, hint, nudge, nudge. But alas, it took a group effort from Berkeley, Oxford, and MIT in the 1970s to finally declare the plate a fake. Bolton died in 1953 and never got the joke.

Lousy 4th Grade textbook. What did you know?