I have been trying like an evil fiend to learn the last five songs off Pearl Jam’s 1998 album Yield on the bass guitar. Mind you, I have not yet learned the first eight but there is something so incredibly magical about the sequence of those final five and I would love to be able to play those songs in order to a rabid group of 10,000 fans. Maybe I would just go around serenading people with my bass guitar, spreading love, joy and music to the emotionally impoverished citizens of the world. Yield is one of my favorite albums and it sounds particularly astounding while driving on snowy roads at night alone or with a loved one in the passenger seat. Playing the bass provides me with such unspeakable pleasures. Is there anything that feels better than the A string? Truth be told, I am a supremely incompetent bassist. Even that term – “bassist” – is a gross (disgusting even) misnomer when discussing yours truly. I frequently wonder why I am so inadequate at everything I do. PJ’s bassist Jeff Ament is a frequent inspiration on the instrument and he crafts some truly creative and tasty basslines. Should I ever meet the man I would love to compliment him on the tastiness of his bass licks. Just listen to “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town”: that is full, supple, beautiful support. Or the incandescent slides on “Sometimes” or the chunky rock of “Why Go” or the simple majesty of “Faithfull”. The song “In Hiding” has such perfect bass that it sends me into convulsions and leaves me writhing on the floor where I promptly a take large steaming dump right into my formerly white Hanes. Amen to Ament is what I say! Fuck, I’ll even say it again for all those hard of hearing and all the haters who stalk me on the message boards: Amen to Ament!
Lately, I’ve been
listening to the 2001 album Invincible
by Michael Jackson. Fans know this was his last album proper before
his death though I’m sure posthumous albums will continue to be released for
millions of years until the sun goes supernova and obliterates us all from this
humble universe. Final albums are a tricky thing indeed. Off the top of my cerebral cortex no artist
has ever knowingly released something which could definitively function as a
final work (though The Who at least came somewhat close as the song “Tea and
Theatre” from their as yet last album – 2006’s Endless Wire – serves as an amazing
final song and summation of the band’s music/history. Also Warren Zevon’s final album definitely
touches upon some heavy things as he knew the final curtain call was soon to
take place. I bet there are many more
but I’m too dumb to think of them). Due
to Invincible’s place in his
discography it is tempting to ascribe something deeper to the music contained
on the disc rather than listening to or examining it on its own terms. However,
even with that understanding the album still presents a unique set of problems
for the listener.
I should preface any further
commentary by saying I am perhaps that rare breed of Jackson fan who prefers
his nineties work to his more universally celebrated eighties output. Until
the end of my miserable days I will always prefer Dangerous and HIStory to Off the Wall, Thriller and Bad. I
don’t know that the reasons behind this preference are particularly important
or revelatory but suffice it to say I simply find the music – the propulsive
new jack swing of Dangerous and the sharp
angular funk of HIStory – and
lyricial sentiments behind those later albums to be more interesting and
impacting. HIStory in
particular is such a densely layered, paranoid and cutting album that it
demands repeated listens to dig deeper into Jackson’s anger and discover whatever
truths lay within.
It was easy to think Invincible would follow the lead of
those previous two releases but though it begins as a hard electronic urban
album it soon devolves into a frustrating series of ballads which grind the
flow of the record to a dead crawl. Oddly,
the dividing point is with the attempted comeback single “You Rock My World”. That song in itself represents what I feel is
the major overarching flaw of the album: far too reserved. Jackson seems to be holding back in the music,
lyrics and his singing. It does not come
across as laziness or even half-baked ideas but more like a man actually
frightened to make too bold a statement.
Perhaps it was a reaction to the continued controversy that followed him
so close through the nineties and until his death (but if that’s the case then
why did HIStory turn out so forceful
and compelling?). Or maybe he simply was
not sure where he would fit in the ever changing musical landscape after his extended
leave of absence and decided to play it safe.
Either way or any other way, so few of the songs here seem to come alive
and scale those majestic heights of his previous work.
Jackson’s ballads have
always been difficult for me as their careful craft often comes across more as
rigidity rather than feeling and the sentimentality more saccharine than
effectively heartstring tugging. I will
never pick “You Are Not Alone” over “They Don’t Care About Us”. One sounds more calculated and one more
genuine just as one has burning passion to spare and one only a careful rubric
to follow. This turn toward excessive
slow numbers and stilted dance tunes makes Invincible
a frequently difficult album to appreciate or even get through. However I plan to persevere a bit more as I
know how rewarding his music can be and maybe there was a plan and design for
all these ballads that I simply cannot see yet.
I will keep you posted dear readers.
I spent a shocking
amount of time over the weekend watching giallos and kung fu flicks. I
would sit or lay on my bourgeois sofa with a large bowl of Lucky Charms cereal
positively swimming in whole milk and delight in world cinema. In
between these installments I would pop in a movie like El Alacran Ataca or El Chacal
de la Frontera that I may witness once again the glory of actress Yamila
Herrera. I love her you must know. With all my
heart. Yet there is precious little information about her save the
films in which she stars. She’s a complete enigma and part of me
wonders if she truly exists at all. Her beauty is nigh
unparalleled. Yamila, I swear…I swear…. At any rate in
watching some of these giallos such as those directed by Lucio Fulci or Dario
Argento and some of those Shaw Brothers Martial Arts films I noticed the blood is
the same gleefully impossibly bright red in both genres. If I were a
character in a giallo I would no doubt die in a horrifically gruesome and
excruciatingly painful way and this makes me sad that it will likely never come
to pass. Along the lines of martial arts, I recently ordered from a
local conglomerate the Angela Mao Ying Collection which contains 6 of the
martial arts queen’s films. My hopes are that the item will arrive in time
for the holiday weekend that I may have time to place an order with my local
butcher (we’ve since patched things up after the St. Patrick’s Day fiasco) as
well as purchase a couple of nylon wearing prostitutes who will use my face for
a footrest in between the times when we are all watching martial arts cinema
and eating large chunks of undercooked meat.
All these smiling
faces I see, so unlike my own. I walk through the doors and I feel
the hateful stares on me. I no longer wish for anything.
Angels of finance (or are they financial angels?) dance before my eyes while
burning lamps are inserted into strange places in my body.
I think I'll bake a
cake tonight and eat it while going on a 27 mile hike through the woods!
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