2005-11 Vital Source Mag – November 2005
Beverly Hills On Three Dollars A Week
You wake up to the death knell of summer—a distinctive, plaintive cry recently thought extinct. It comes complete with a touch of dying light, a scent of burning leaves, and of course, a nasty hangover. Mere weeks ago you were drinking beer on an unknown girl’s porch and back-flipping into a swimming quarry with a mob of drunken madmen. Now you wake up and stumble around the city like a zombie, blinking at your summer friends dumbly as you try to process their bodies with extra layers, longer hair. You wake up to an already-fleeting autumn and an inevitable decade of winter. You wake up with blood on your hands. You also wake up stone-cold broke, the product of a small but obnoxious raise in your rent, a bevy of un-consolidated student loans, and a newly developed cigarette addiction. We’re talking hot dogs and bologna poor here, folks. And if you happen to be a writer for a local monthly who’s already days past his deadline, this utter and complete dearth of funds poses a curious question: what can one do in one’s mid-level Midwestern city with literally three dollars in one’s wallet? Sure, there’s a free local comedy showcase down the block, but come on, you’re not that crazy. A quarter-bottle of some pilfered vodka and a half-pack of stale menthol cigarettes later, and this is what you come up with. Beverly Hills 90210. Every Monday night at the Cactus Club. Brandon Walsh gets drunk and totals his car. David Silver becomes a meth addict. Dylan McKay checks into rehab. Steve Sanders shows up and says something dumb. Oh, dear readers, these are but a few of the many not-so-guilty, drug and alcohol-themed pleasures in store for you at the Cactus Club, every Monday night at 9. For those in the know, this glorious weekly event is known as the Peach Pit After Dark, and after a year of two episodes each Monday, I’ve seriously gotten to know my 90210. There’s no reason you shouldn’t make it a weekly cause for celebration as well. Thankfully, we’ve recently moved into the heady later seasons, where the series begins to move away from its initial “issue” episodes (Brandon has a gambling problem! Steve learns about AIDS! Kelly meets her very first homosexual!), and turns into the straight-up soap opera it was destined to become. In other words, it’s getting good. So come on out and get your fix of Beverly Hills drama, and support the Cactus Club while you’re at it. Really. Now you may be asking yourself “why?” Why spend two hours at a bar watching a show that’s been off the air for over five years? To explain, we should first kill off the easy nostalgia factor, the lame, desperately recycled pop culture, “Hey, it’s Corey Feldman!” peddled by VH1. No, we, the 90210 faithful, are not here because We Love the 90s. We’re here because damnit, we really do care about Brenda’s next breakdown, about Donna’s precious virginity, […]
Nov 1st, 2005 by Matt Wild
Sigur R’s
By Eric Lewin Geffenwww.sigur-ros.co.uk When Tortoise and Low first wrote the term “slow core” into the hipster dictionary, the proverbial jury was left to ask, “Is this where rock has lead itself, or are these droning songs little more than a cop-out for bands who don’t want to try?” After Sigur Rós’ additions to the formula and a recent surge of popularity among the indie proud, the verdict seems to be an acquittal. Compared to Rós’ back catalogue, particularly Ágætis byrjun (translated as “an alright start”) and the pretentiously titled ( ), Takk is considerably more subdued, but strange nonetheless. Songs like “Glosoli” and “Milano” build predictably, yet beautifully, leaving little room for argument about Rós’ predilection for the grandiose. “Gong” lets Rós’ Bends-era Radiohead influence show, an experiment held together by Jónsi Birgisson’s Thom Yorke-like wail. And speaking of vocal borrowing, check out the Chris Martin impression on “Anduari” and “Svo Hljott.” Coldplay really is everywhere these days! There’s no room for fence-straddling when it comes to Sigur Rós. With Takk, many are now heralding Rós as the best band in the world and ready to hand the championship belt over immediately. To others, Sigur Rós is about as exciting as a dream about mowing the lawn. Maybe the nay-sayers are confused or just bored. It’s also possible that they just liked Sigur Rós more the first time, when they were called My Bloody Valentine. VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Paul Weller
By Paul Snyder Yep Rocwww.paulweller.com Yep Roc Records is hailing As Is Now as a return to form from the man who brought us Wild Wood and Stanley Road a decade ago. This is a puzzling statement, considering Weller’s never taken a drastic step away from the songwriting that anchored his 1990s classics. It’s just that his albums haven’t been as popular. And truth be told, it may be because Oasis isn’t that popular anymore, either. No one championed Weller more than Noel Gallagher in the mid 90s, and the slew of Britpop bands citing Weller as an influence (even Morrissey covered “That’s Entertainment”) put the man in the center of the movement, whether he liked it or not. Wild Wood and Stanley Road were fine albums. But so was Heavy Soul. And Heliocentric. And Illumination. And As Is Now is a great record, too. It follows Weller’s “it is what it is, take it or leave it” songwriting formula to a T, but it also shows the old man still has a lot of spunk. “From the Floorboards Up” recalls his aggressive Jam days, “Here’s the Good News” is a piano pounding foot-tapper and “Come On/Let’s Go” could be viewed as a three-minute distillation of Weller’s entire philosophy on life: “Come on, baby let’s go / And you say ‘Where to?’ / I say, ‘I don’t know – I just need to run / And you need it too.’” It has its rockers, its lullabies, and its mid-tempo meditations. It makes a defiant statement and then sighs a thought from the back recesses of the mind. It’s really not that far detached from the 24-year-old who wrote “Town Called Malice.” VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Ry Cooder
By Barry Wightman Nonesuchwww.ryland-cooder.com Ry Cooder, the guitarist widely known these days for Buena Vista Social Club, in which he showcased pre-Castro era Cuban musicians, now offers the world the melodic and jumpy Chavez Ravine. That’s CHA-vez. Just as he provided a venue for aging Cubans before they were gone and forgotten, Cooder, in 15 songs, shines a light on the unknown tale of how a dusty hillside Los Angeles Mexican neighborhood known as Chavez Ravine was razed in the 1950s in a “greasy handoff” to the newly arrived Dodgers baseball team. Think of the movie Chinatown. Crooked red-baiting right wing politicos, innocent citizens believing “it can’t happen here,” cool cats being beaten up by GIs, and a UFO-driving Space Vato (space guy) who recognizes the Ravine as the hip place to land; these are the players in Cooder’s loving 21st century concept album. The beautifully packaged Nonesuch CD includes a booklet worthy of a very small coffee table. The record has a handmade, non-digital feel with an airy sound that hints at L.A.’s El Hoyo Club in 1955. The record’s opening track, “Poor Man’s Paradise,” is driven by Cooder’s clean guitar and jazzy harmonies; “El UFO Cayo” is a slow, dreamy, late night swirl of guitars. “Muy Fifi” rocks with a thumping bass under L.A. legend Ersi Arvizu’s gutsy vocals. “3rd Base Dodger Stadium,” a lovely lament sung beautifully by Hawaiian singer Bla Pahinui, recounts how former residents of Chavez Ravine can pinpoint where their own home plate used to be. We should all be so lucky. VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
Rogue Wave
By Erin Wolf Sub Popwww.roguewavemusic.com When Rogue Wave appeared on the radar in 2003 with their barely recognized Out of the Shadow, they could have ridden the sizeable Kinks-revival waves that The Shins started churning. But that wasn’t quite in the cards for this California band when push came to shoving them into their next recording. After building from singer/guitarist Zach Schwartz’ material on the first go, the second time around sees Rogue Wave expanding their pigeonhole by recruiting more melodies from drummer Pat Spurgeon, guitarist Gram Lebron and bassist Evan Farrell, now all full-fledged contributors. In Descended Like Vultures, Schwartz’s marvelously mellow, warm voice is played up, shining like a sunbeam through the tangle of guitar hooks, keyboards and layered drumming, as well as the bells and whistles that are part and parcel of most Sub Pop releases. Yet this sonic wall is memorable mostly because of its drive. The songs have something to say, and if it takes assailing the ears with a madman one-two tempo march courtesy of a Casio keyboard, so be it. Schwartz’s lyrical insights are just as captivating as the music, as witty and charming as a David Sedaris book, like this line from “Love’s Lost Guarantee:” “Love comes like a Kennedy curse / The victim role is well-rehearsed.” Descended Like Vultures (receiving its title from former poli-sci major Shwartz’ one-liner on politics) comes off part smart-ass and cheeky in a Flaming Lips way (“10:1”), but also heartfelt in a well-versed, Nick-Drake-on-uppers way (“California”), complete with heartstring tug, cello groan and soaring soprano violin. Descended Like Vultures most certainly has a fuller sound than Out of the Shadow. It is the book to the short story Rogue Wave published two years ago, which was the prologue to a more footnoted, fulfilled manuscript. VS
Nov 1st, 2005 by Vital Archives
