EDITOR’S NOTE: This euology originally published in the wake of David Bowie’s death a year ago today.
BY JONATHAN VALANIA The year is 1980 and 14-year-old me drops the needle on Changesonebowie in my bedroom, with the door locked because this is serious business, while staring at the album cover, trying to figure out how all these startling and seemingly disconnected musics — space-age psych folk, white plastic soul, zooming Brechtian glam, bloozy garage-punk, coked-up funk, Teutonic trance-rock, proto-electronica — came out of this one delicate man with impeccable hair and immaculate cheekbones. Thirty-six years later I still don’t have a good answer beyond this: Clearly, he is from another planet. Clearly.
The year is 1983 and I am teetering on my seat, dizzy from the thin air — and perhaps an illicit beer or seven in the parking lot — way up in the nosebleed section of the Spectrum for the Philly stop of Bowie’s Serious Moonlight Tour. Though we seemed miles away from the stage, there was no missing that hot mustard yellow double breasted suit and the curly shock of electric blond hair or that voice — river deep, mountain high, smooth as crushed velvet and sharp as shattered glass, it contained multitudes. You could hear the whole 20th Century in that voice.
The year is 1984, I walk into the only edgy/cool fancy-pants hair salon in Allentown, PA, with the cover of Heroes under my arm. “This is what hair is supposed to look like,” I tell them. “Make me look like this.” When they get done, they insist I look just like the guy on the cover of Heroes, but looking in the mirror I can tell they are lying. A hard lesson was learned on that day: Being David Bowie is harder than it looks. Much harder.
The year is 2004, I am a journalist working on a magazine profile of the Polyphonic Spree who have been hand-picked by David Bowie to be the opening act for what will prove to be his final American tour. We are standing in the support act dressing room — me and 12 gangly, funky-smelling Texans wearing white Jesus robes and dirty Chuck Taylors — deep in the bowels of the Wachovia Center waiting for The Man Who Fell To Earth to pop in for one of those faux-spontaneous carefully-arranged candid shots for the Random Notes section of Rolling Stone. It’s noisy, hot and locker room-rific in here. When he finally arrives literally everyone gasps and the room falls pin-drop silent: It’s David Fucking Bowie. He is elegant and gracious and shorter than he looks on TV. I shake his hand just to prove to myself that this really happened.
The year is 2016. It’s the morning after I heard on the BBC somewhere around 2 AM that David Bowie died. I’m still having a hard time processing it. I feel like a part of me is gone. I’m driving around Philadelphia, the city where David Bowie recorded three albums (Young Americans, Live, Stage), going nowhere in particular. Philly is a big Bowie town. Back in the day, he would sell out the Tower six nights in a row and tickets were a whopping $5. WXPN is playing non-stop Bowie and I have the radio cranked up to 11. “Heroes” comes on and I crank it up to 12. It’s my favorite Bowie song. I lose it somewhere around the third verse, when he sings “I, I can remember…standing by the wall” and the back-up singers repeat his words back to him like horns. That’s when it hits me like a hammer: David Bowie is fucking dead. Tears roll down my cheeks like I’m watching the end of It’s A Wonderful Life. I flick on the windshield wipers even though it’s not raining.
But as the song fades out it occurs to me that that’s not true at all. David Bowie is not dead. Because David Bowie will never die. Oh sure, that guy born David Robert Jones is gone, and that’s a terrible loss for his friends and family. But people like you and me, we never knew that guy. We knew David Bowie, or more accurately we knew the idea of David Bowie. Because in the end David Bowie was, above all things, an idea, a brilliant idea, but an idea nonetheless and you cannot kill an idea. Not even cancer can kill an idea. And that idea is this: we are the imagination of ourselves. We control the illusion and we can change it any time we want. We can be black, white, striped, gay, straight, bi, trans, Martian, glam, goth, hot funk, cool punk, old junk, a bottle blonde, a ginger, a jazzer or even drums n’ bass. There is no right answer. But sooner or later, you become yourself. That is the idea of David Bowie. And that will never die.
FRESH AIR: As the child of two Hollywood actors, Jeff Bridges can’t remember the first time he was on a film set. He wasn’t yet 2 years old when he appeared in the 1951 film The Company She Keeps with his mother, Dorothy Dean Bridges. Later, he and his brother, Beau Bridges, sometimes appeared in the TV series Sea Hunt, which starred their father, Lloyd Bridges. But despite his early exposure to show business, Bridges tells Fresh Air‘s Dave Davies he wasn’t always sure he wanted to be an actor. “I had a lot of different interests,” Bridges says. “I wanted to get into music and painting. … And my father said, ‘Oh Jeff, don’t be ridiculous. That’s the wonderful thing about acting is you get to incorporate all of your interests in your parts.’ ” Looking back, Bridges is glad he listened to his dad. Over the course of his career, he has appeared in scores of films, including The Last Picture Show, The Big Lebowski and Crazy Heart, for which he won the Best Actor Oscar in 2010. In his latest film, Hell or High Water, Bridges plays an aging Texas ranger tracking two bank robbers. The actor says that no matter what the role, he tries to approach each film with the same spirit as his father. “That joy that he brought with him into the set was kind of contagious, and it would spread through the company,” Bridges says. “He really wanted all his kids to go into acting, because he loved it so much.” MORE
NPR: Embracing small heist-film cliches while cannily dodging big ones, Hell or High Water is a sort of present-day mashup of Bonnie and Clyde, No Country for Old Men, and Heat. It follows two thirty-something brothers on a campaign of small-time bank jobs across West Texas. Chris Pine, hungry to prove starship captaincy is not his only skill (it’s not), is the handsome and smart one. Ben Foster is the loud one, a hot-tempered ex-con whose impulsiveness seems destined to kill them both.
They’re desperate, as we’ll learn, but still cautious: They choose their targets strategically, and strike early in the morning, before those banks fill up with concealed-carrying customers. (This is the Lone Star State, after all, though the movie was shot in New Mexico). They take only the loose drawer money — no bill-bundles that could contain a dye pack, and they certainly aren’t going to hang around trying to open a vault. Crime flicks far more fetishistic and lurid than this one have attended to this sort of how-to; what these two know about robbing banks they probably learned from movies. But this one has something up its sleeve.
Hunting the brothers are a pair of Texas Rangers. Jeff Bridges stops just shy of reprising his phlegm-choked role as Sheriff Rooster Cogburn from the Coen brothers’ remake of True Grit, playing a slow-moving but conscientious lawman on what is — of course — his last case before retirement. He affectionately peppers his stoic partner, Gil Birmingham, with racial invective. “You know I’m part Mexican,” Birmingham says after one especially artful indictment of his Native-American heritage. “I’ll get to that,” Bridges croaks. MORE
BY JOSH PELTA-HELLER After an epic legislative struggle, the Affordable Care Act (ACA) — aka Obamacare — was made the law of the land on March 23rd, 2010. It would, as of this writing, provide health care for 20 million uninsured Americans. “This is a big fuckin’ deal!” as Joe Biden publicly congratulated the president upon officially signing his landmark healthcare bill into federal law. The triumphs of our healthcare system’s largest regulatory overhaul in 50 years are a signature part of Obama’s legacy, championed by the progressive left, by millions of beneficiaries, and by the supporters of a president who after eight years boasts a near-record-high approval rating.
Over the last seven years, disgruntled Republicans voted over sixty times to delay, defund, or repeal the legislation, their efforts rebuffed time and again by vote or veto. But after last November’s election left more power in the hands of the Republican party than it’s enjoyed for almost a century, the law will now face its greatest existential threat: the 115th Congress has vowed to put the ACA to death, as soon as this week.
Having campaigned ardently against Obamacare, President-Elect Trump promised ad nauseam to “repeal and replace” the bill, offering no substantive substitute. Now, having managed to gaslight his way into the White House, Trump and his nascent administration seem to be actively working to forget about that whole “replace” thing, and to repeal the legislation as a matter of priority, in an apparent vacuum of policy, foresight, and empathy. As New Jersey Senator Cory Booker put it, “This is akin to shoving someone off a cliff and as they’re falling down saying, ‘Don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out before you get to the bottom.”
Kelley Deal — probably best known for her work with twin-sister Kim, in their seminal ‘90s band The Breeders — has joined the #CoverageMatters campaign to save the ACA. Today, she will appear at the National Press Club in Washington DC, alongside outgoing Secretary of Health and Human Services Sylvia M. Burwell, to give voice to the health care struggles of the creative class, a demographic she feels will be hit particularly hard by an abrupt loss of affordable access to coverage, as well as the average working person in the Rust Belt, of which she knows a few. A big part of the #CoverageMatters is to get the millions of Americans for whom it has been a lifeline to stand up and share their stories. Yesterday we got Kelley on the horn to tell us about what the ACA means to her and her friends and family and why she was moved to join the fight to save it from the death panelists of the GOP.
PHAWKER: It’s great that you’re doing this.
KELLEY DEAL: I’m a little nervous! [laughs] You know, I talk in like, word salads, and a lot of facial expressions — you know, to supplement — so for me to try to talk intelligently about some sort of issue, it’s not what I do. It’s odd, for me. I mean I can do it, but it’s just like, ahhhhh..
PHAWKER: It’s interesting, often when I talk to musicians, they’ll note a stage fright about having to speak publicly, or a social introversion, but by contrast say it’s much easier to get up and sing to a large audience.
KELLEY DEAL: Totally.
PHAWKER: Why do you think that is, speaking just for you?
KELLEY DEAL: [pauses] I think the manner of communication — like I said, word salads and usually phrases. I guess the expectation when I’m supposed to speak intelligently about something, that implies that I’m gonna speak in complete sentences and kind of have some paragraphs that make sense to each other. But for me — and maybe a lotta other musicians — they kind of talk with their hands, or use their face, or use inflections in their voice [illustrates] that right there! should speak way more than my actual words. My tone! You know, stuff like.. shit like that! Anyway. I guess a different way of communicating.
PHAWKER: I know that your music with The Breeders and your other bands hasn’t been overtly or pointedly political, but I wondered if you could put into context what in particular is driving you toward political activism for this issue, or sort of describe the dog you have in this fight?
KELLEY DEAL: You know it’s interesting, this idea of politicizing stuff. I remember Lollapalooza — back in the early 90s and all of that — I mean it was just a given that if you were out there doing that kind of music anymore, that everybody was political. I remember mean [Jane’s Addiction singer and festival founder] Perry Farrell was really good about that, especially at Lollapalooza. Whether it be a Rock For Choice booth, a Young Republicans booth, a Get Out The Vote booth — you know and they would register voters right there, and obviously it was more left-leaning — but the point was, awareness, action, involvement. And so, I kinda just assumed everybody thought that. And then as you get older, I think to myself, geez, there is this part of me — for chicks nowadays, for girls and stuff — like I can’t want Planned Parenthood or the right of choice, I can’t want that for them more than they want it for themselves. I can’t wait it for them more than they want it. It’s their time. I can tell you, motherfucker, I don’t need an abortion. I am so fuckin’ menopausal, I’m not gonna need that anymore, you know what I’m saying? And thank god, I got mine! I got mine already thank you very much. You know what I’m saying? And I get all twisted up, and I’m thinkin’ about Gloria Steinem, and it was such a big deal — Rock For Choice! All that stuff! And I have to think calm down, calm down, step back, because that’s not my fight. And you know what, to be fair, it may actually not be important to them. And I can’t make it important to them, if it’s not important to them. Either it matters to them, or it doesn’t! So, that’s about Planned Parenthood, which of course — NEWS FLASH! — it shouldn’t be a news flash, but they’re apparently wrapping Planned Parenthood funding up in this. [pauses] And it could be all about that. It could be all about just [legislating] healthcare for women, because that is what it’s about — Planned Parenthood uses no federal funds for abortions. So it must be personal, it must be because I’m a girl, that you wanna do that. Because it cannot possibly be about anything else! It has to be because you hate me, because you’re a misogynist, and you hate women, and that’s why you wanna take this kind of healthcare away. It has to be! Logically. Right?
PHAWKER: It would seem that way, another stab at gender control by old white men.
KELLEY DEAL: There you go, “gender control.” That’s nice.
PHAWKER: It’s funny that you mention that about politicizing music — when I was younger I’d tend to assume that my favorite music icons were by default..
KELLEY DEAL: …liberal. Yeah..
PHAWKER: …right. But then you find out more about people like Joey Ramone or Maureen Tucker from the Velvets, that they’re a little right-wing-nutty…
KELLEY DEAL: …and I just wanna cover my ears and go no no no don’t tell me that!… Yeah. I don’t know. I mean, was there a question there? [laughs]
PHAWKER: Tell me about the logistics for the event in DC — are you gonna eventually be testifying in front of Congress or what?
KELLEY DEAL: Oh god I wish! Oh my god, that would be so awesome. No, let me explain how it got started. Merge Records knows a friend of The Breeders, and Mac [McCaughan] and Laura [Ballance] said, hey, we’re trying to gather some interest about this, this affects musicians, artists, lots of people we know, doesn’t anybody wanna get involved! And I was like hello! This issue’s really important to me! Because I have my insurance through the Marketplace. And I started talking to them, and then they hooked me up with this idea of doing a video, so people came to my house and we did an interview, and I talked about how important it was to me, and what the issues were. And then after they left, I guess they’re planning a specific day for #coveragematters, and really trying to get that out. And they also did a blurb on a skateboarder — I don’t know what the guy’s name is — but the skateboarder’s [wondering] how the hell was he supposed to get covered [because] he’s a skateboarder, which is kinda funny. Anyway, so that’s how it started.
And then I was invited, I think because I’m a musician, self-employed, I’m 55, I’m single, and I have a previous condition. There was no way that I first of all would ever get covered, and second if I was gonna buy a private plan, there’s no way I could ever afford it. With the Affordable Care Act, once that was passed, everything changed for me. And that’s what the story was, that’s how I got involved.
I was invited out there, with Secretary Sylvia Burwell — it’s her final speech, before she leaves office. It’s at the National Press Club, and she’ll be talking about how important this is, and who this affects!
What I can’t get over is, I was ruminating about is it just me? Is it because goddammit I just wanna be a musician and I feel like somebody should pay for my insurance while I schlep about being a musician? You know, and you can look down on what I do for a living, you know… So the first thing I would do is call over to my mom and dad’s [and talk to Joanne] — she’s one of the careworkers for my mom. She voted for Trump. She works full-time at [her] company as a careworker for my mother, who has advanced Alzheimers. And we love her, and she’s so good with my mother — she just gets in her face and says I love you, how ya doin’ today Anne? And she wears what we call “bling,” and my mom looks at the shiny jewelry, you know, and it’s a really sweet relationship. Now, Joanna is not covered. She has no insurance. Her company does not provide it, even if she works 40 hours a week. And this such an important, nurturing job to the structure and thread of society! So like, even if you just think I’m a drunk, drug-addict musician rammin’ about — “you don’t have coverage? Too bad, get a job!” You know, you can’t say that about this beautiful woman, who’s doin’ the work of an angel. But no, she doesn’t have coverage, and she couldn’t afford it!
PHAWKER: She didn’t go through the Obamacare Marketplace for it?
KELLEY DEAL: Well, funnily enough, she is a Trump supporter. And I asked her, why don’t you get health insurance? And I think she might not want to be involved in it. Now she’s in her fifties. And I haven’t talked to her about this [recently], but what I would like to ask her is, why not? I don’t know. But there’s a couple other girls [at the company] who do — one girl works part-time, she goes to school full-time, she lives with her ninety-year-old grandfather — in his house, to help care for him — and she definitely signed up and is in the Marketplace. It’s just all these people that you meet. And then there was a guy over this week, he was helping me do a one-sheet, it was a design thing — it was so nice that he came down, it was a neighbor — and I asked him hey, where do you work? — I constantly wanna get in people’s business now, it’s crazy! He said he works a couple different part-time jobs, he works for a designer right now — a book designer, where they lay out books that get published — and he works another part-time job. Neither of those companies pay for his insurance. You know, I don’t know what people are supposed to do, I really don’t. (more…)
BY DAN BUSKIRKFILM CRITIC Another year ticks by and 2016 reinforces the idea that the creation of serious, non-blockbuster films is less and less of interest in the American movie industry. No less a voice of authority than Martin Scorsese professed this opinion in a recent Associated Press article proclaiming “Cinema is Gone,” and while film culture is still consistently flourishing in pockets around the world, only four of the dozen films listed here as 2016 favorites are by U.S. directors, surely an all-time personal low.
People carry with them a lot of myths about creativity being a human constant but supportive economics are what is necessary for a sustained culture of music and art. While nearly all Hollywood’s resources go into franchise pictures and comic book adaptations, the support for small-budgeted films where skills are sharpened and experiments are played out has all about died. It was heartbreaking to listen to director Sean Baker on Bret Easton Ellis’ podcast discuss his experience as a filmmaker last year. He said despite having two highly-praised, nationally distributed films (2012’s Starlet and 2015’s Tangerine) the process left him so broke he had to move back with his parents. He and other indie directors have stated that despite the ubiquity of their work, they can’t find a way to make modern filmmaking anything other than an expensive hobby. This is not a scenario in which “golden eras” arise.
It’s popular to state that TV is what movies once were, the place where we gather and share stories. But while TV has loosened up its long-censorious standards (yet not so much that Scorsese was not slapped down by HBO over sex, drug-use and violence in his series Vinyl) its funding and format brings its own limitations. Working minute-to-minute to please advertisers, TV can’t help but a cast wide net in regards to subject matter, politics and actors chosen for roles. Extreme edges are sanded, music skews poppier, and actors are measured for likeability because success is based on viewers returning again and again. The filmmaking itself short-changes atmosphere and mood-setting asides and instead pushes forward with endless narrative. With films, your support is given upfront, with a filmmaker knowing he has his audience’s undivided attention through whatever he unveils, until the credits role. The finality of the non franchise-driven feature film form still makes for bolder statements then the open-ended structure of episodic TV. (more…)
You Want It Darker
Everybody knows that 2016 was a cruel and unusual year. Intolerably cruel. Everybody knows that war is over and everybody knows the good guys lost. So I am only half-kidding when I ask: How can we possibly be expected to endure the abominable presidency of Donald Trump without David Bowie, Prince or Princess Leia? But I’m dead serious when I say we can’t do this without Leonard Cohen, who died at the ripe old age of 82 on the day before the election. As ever, his timing was impeccable. It goes without saying that he’d seen the future, baby, and it is spray-tanned murder. A few weeks prior to his departure, he’d released You Want It Darker, one part deathbed confessional, one part last will and testament, one part love letter to all he can’t leave behind.
This collection of prayers for the doomed is arguably the most perfect album-length statement in his sacred canon. Like all prime Cohen, it is marked by astonishing verbal acuity and a high-def philosophical clarity that coalesces into a kind of metaphysical calligraphy carved in stone by the Old Testament prophet gravitas of his voice, that patented sepulchral purr that has been getting liberal arts majors laid since at least 1967. He’s never sounded more certain or fearless, or closer to death, so near you can almost hear the Grim Reaper’s Vader-like breath on the back of his leathery neck as he croaks out lines like “I’m leaving the table, I’m out of the game,” “It’s au revoir,” and “I’m ready, Lord.”
Invariably spare and fleeting and surprisingly luminous, the music on You Want It Darker — a midnight jazz lowing in the moonlight, a monastic noir for the ears, and a quick stroll down Boogie Street for old time’s sake — is relentlessly faultless in arrangement, tonality and execution. The recording, overseen by his son Adam, ensures that everything is writ timeless and crystalline as befits the eternal verities he’s been tasked with preserving. History will rank the title track and “Treaty” next to “Bird On A Wire” and “Hallelujah,” a hundred floors above us in the Tower Of Song.
Because the thing about Leonard Cohen is that he was always right, always — even when he turned out to be wrong about, say, Rebecca DeMornay or trusting his manager with his money or his decade-long Zen hermitage atop Mt. Baldy. Because the incontrovertible koanic fact of the matter is that the way to always be right is always admit when you are wrong, acknowledge that was then but this is now. Or as he sings on “It Seemed The Better Way,” it “sounded like the truth, but it’s not the truth today.” Because today nothing is true, and when nothing is true everything is permitted. That is the crack in the center of everything, where the Putin gets in.
Look, nobody should be surprised that The Rapture came and only took Leonard Cohen but that doesn’t make it any less sad and lonesome. While I can’t blame an 82-year-old man with a splintering spine for getting on with the dirty business of dying, I can’t help but feel left behind on an abandoned ship in a darkening sea, still tending the flame of “a million candles burning for the help that never came.” In my prayers, I asked Leonard Cohen “How lonely does it get?” Leonard Cohen hasn’t answered me yet, but I can hear him coughing all night long, a million miles above us in The Great Beyond. – JONATHAN VALANIA
FRANK OCEAN Blonde (Boys Don’t Cry)
The weekend of Aug. 19-20-21 was a relatively dull one. Donald Trump was sliding in the polls, several campaign surprises were still ahead, and the Olympic glow belonged to Usain Bolt. Oh, and Frank Ocean released the heady Blonde and its carpentry-packed companion video, Endless. Months later, R&B music that dropped suddenly but sweetly during the dog days still has sensuous and summery resonance, despite the intervening collapse of reality. It’s a singular triumph, for sure. Ocean’s aesthetic is intentionally dodgy at times (e.g. the voicemail from his mom), but tracks like “Pink + White,” “White Ferrari” and “Nights” are eternally gorgeous — they make sense on sleepless nights and skating rinks, too. The stink of 2016 can’t cling to them, no way. — JOE WARMINSKY
FUMACA PRETA Impuros Fanáticos (Soundway)
I’ve had a large appetite for bands monkeying around in the deep psychedelic detritus left behind in Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland but nobody makes this terrain more their own like the Brazilian trio Fumaça Preta. While the band can lumber around in Sabbath’s dinosaur steps, without warning its drummer vocalist Alex Figuiera will bray like a goat and scream like a madman while breaking the music down to rural batucada beats and back again. Where many contemporary rock records are content to tickle my nostalgia and scratch my fuzz tone right where it itches, Fumaça Preta is a slap across the face that demands and deserves full attention.– DAN BUSKIRK
NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS Skeleton Tree (Bad Seed Ltd.)
“You fell from the sky/Crash landed in a field/Near the river Adur,” Nick Cave narrates, his voice cold and stark against the mesmerizing pulse of “Jesus Alone,” the song that opens Skeleton Tree, the 16th album from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. In the wake of the tragic and sudden loss of his son Arthur in 2015, the expectation that Cave’s follow-up to 2013’s Push The Sky Away would be heartbreaking was confirmed with Skeleton Tree, itself rife with somber and cathartic poetry. Though compositionally minimal, the album’s emotional density is, at times, almost too much to bear. By the end of “Magneto,” one of the Skeleton Tree’s more beautifully rendered offerings, the album’s psychic weight becomes almost suffocating. In “Anthrocene,” a percussive loop and ghostly melody propelling Cave’s vocal, his lamentations are turned to the world, an acquaintance with personal loss qualifying his closing advice: “Close your eyes, little world/And brace yourself.” – SEAN CALDWELL
RADIOHEAD A Moon Shaped Pool (XL)
Maybe it seems too easy to put a Radiohead album on a best-of list, especially one composed, in part, of songs that have been in their live repertoire for years. But A Moon Shaped Pool, the band’s first in five years, is essential Radiohead, and Radiohead is still operating at a level of cerebral experimentalism and complex musicianship several degrees above most other bands. A Moon Shaped Pool is restrained—no cathartic guitar pyrotechnics, no electronic cacophony, few set-pieces for Thom Yorke’s unhinged dancing—but it’s deep with texture: stately rhythms offset by string arrangements (the orchestral strings are something new for a Radiohead album); plenty of shimmery acoustic guitar; Yorke’s melancholy and beautiful vocals. Songs unspool gently. Album closer “True Love Waits” has been around for over two decades: this perfect version, with its balance of sorrow and hope, was worth the wait, as was this album. – STEVE KLINGE
NINETEEN THIRTEEN Music For Time Travel The Dream (1913)
Closer to dream merchants than a band, NINETEEN THIRTEEN is comprised of ex-Violent Femmes drummer Victor DeLorenzo and classically trained cellist Janet Schiff, aided by a revolving cast of esteemed studio session players. Named after the year Schiff’s beloved cello was milled in Transylvania more than a century ago, NINETEEN THIRTEEN traffics in a kind of jazzy, retro-futuristic ambient noir of their own devising, mapping out a twilit sonic space where Brian Eno’s Music For Airports lays down with Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue. Think neon signs blinking ominously behind a semi-opaque curtain of manhole steam. The crisp slap of wingtips on wet sidewalks. The dull hum of underground trains and sirens in the distance. Everyone wears famous blue raincoats and fedoras. Everyone smokes. There are two extant recordings, an LP called Music For Time Travel, released late last summer, and an EP called The Dream, released earlier this month, that comes billed as a tribute to Eno. Music For Time Travel is a series of prismatic snippets that vibe like soundtracks for imaginary films about secret wars and spies in skinny suits and vampires with diamonds on the souls of their shoes. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the black turtlenecks and Ray Bans in the warm thrum of upright bass, the pristine shuffle of snare, and the lowing moan of the cello. The highlight is a mesmerizing version of Gershwin’s aria “Summertime,” featuring the Valkyrie-like vocals of Monia and the dancing skeleton bass of legendary sideman Rob Wasserman (Lou Reed, Van Morrison, Elvis Costello). Good as Music For Time Travel is, The Dream is a giant step forward. The music not only vividly evokes distinctive moods, but sustains them long after lesser combo’s would have abandoned ship.“Arco Pizzicato” — built upon a slap-back echo drumbeat, a shivering cello, and dark washes of keyboard that recede into the infinite — clocks in at nine minutes-plus. Likewise, the album closing “#1913 Dream” — a ghostly lullaby of sprawling pneumatic drones prodded along by a gorgeously muted pinging — also clocks in at nine minutes plus but never ceases to enchant the ear. The spectral murk of “Walk Light” sounds like a marching band playing the halftime festivities of doomsday. The otherwordly “A Dream You Can’t Remember” straddles the fulcrum of the sinister and the sublime, with DeLorenzo’s son Malachi vamping ominously on bass. Highly recommended, The Dream is bewitching beginning to end. — JONATHAN VALANIA
ANGEL OLSEN My Woman (Jagjaguwar)
All hail 2016’s Queen of Indie Rock, Angel Olsen. Her Majesty’s fourth full-length album proved to be the record that plunged the 29-year-old singer/songwriter into the mainstream. Coming off the heels of Burn Your Fire For No Witness, Olsen decided to top herself by writing some of not only the catchiest stuff she’s ever written, like “Shut Up Kiss Me,” but some of her most introspective and tempestuous music to boot, like “Sister” and “Heart Shaped Face.” Olsen touches on a variety of genres, including synthpop (“Intern”), Spanish guitar style music (“Never Be Mine”), and straight up feel good rock and roll (“Shut Up Kiss Me”) in her album’s quest to explain what she calls “the complicated mess of being a woman.” Now kneel before the Queen. – TOM BECK
FAT WHITE FAMILY Songs For Our Mothers (Fat Possum)
There is nothing going like Fat White Family. If Rock and Roll is dying, FWF may have managed to resuscitate it, if only briefly by pumping puke breath and tinfoil smoke directly into it’s rotten lungs. With say-nothing pitchfork bands like Porches currently enjoying a vogue by sitting around and writing songs about breath, or something, it’s nice to know there are genuine crazies still out there. Not since Captain Beefheart has anyone made pop-music so unsettling and brilliant. – JAMES DAVIS
HINDS Leave Me Alone (Lucky Number)
On the other end of the spectrum is Hinds, four young women from Spain writing music that is both sunny, catchy, but most of all startlingly authentic feeling. In my opinion authenticity is at a premium in this year of our lord, and any group that can effortlessly evoke something like real, actual life should be worth their weight in gold. If anything, the lesson to be learned from Hinds is that writing a good song is something very rare, but you know it when you hear it. How simple it might be hardly enters the equation. – JAMES DAVIS
SAVAGES Adore Life (Matador)
If love is a many splendored thing, one of those splendors is anger. That is the premise, and the joy, of Savages’ Adore Life. “This is what you get when you mess with love,” singer Jenny Beth proclaims, rapidly and accusingly, and she could be addressing either the giver or the receiver of love. The London quartet extends the lineage of punk feminists such as X-Ray Spex, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and Sleater-Kinney; they’re intellectuals with a penchant for manifestoes and complex ideas, but they also love the cathartic power of noisy, unvarnished post-punk guitar rock. When Beth sings, “I adore life,” it’s a reminder in the face of disappointment rather than a happy affirmation, although the song’s ominous intensity is itself life-affirming. Adore Life is messy, angry and altogether splendid. – STEVE KLINGE
LAKE STREET DIVE Side Pony (Nonesuch)
You know what you’re in for from the moment you first hear the bass riff in Side Pony’s opening track “Godawful Things”: A scrumptiously toe-tapping collection of vocal-driven, soul-pop jams from four schooled musicians. But Lake Street Dive, who met while attending Boston’s highly regarded New England Conservatory of Music, know more than just their scales; they know how to make you get up and dance. Labeling the band with a single genre is impossible, as the band incorporates soul, pop, blues, rock, jazz, folk, Motown, and more. You name the genre, and it’s probably in there somewhere. The album’s ballads (“So Long,” “How Good It Feels”) perfectly complement its high energy songs (“I Don’t Care About You,” “Spectacular Failure”), and everything in between is a bonus. – TOM BECK
A TRIBE CALLED QUEST We Got It From Here…Thank You 4 Your Service (Epic)
There were two groundswells for We Got It from Here… Thank You 4 Your Service: One by the loyalists and nerds who dove in unconditionally, and then another by people whose Gen X skepticism eventually crumbled. The result is a rare case in which the hype (“Phife Dawg didn’t die in vain, yo”) and the word of mouth (“seriously, man, you should check it out”) were equally productive. As a comeback record, it’s a hoot, and as a stand-alone boom-bap opus, it’s elite. Think of it like an arty Western: Q-Tip and the original gang go looking for gunslinging allies (Busta Rhymes, Jack White), but the theme isn’t revenge or justice — it’s the question of relevance. The way to answer it, of course, is with love of oneself and one’s crew. For without that love, you’ll never greet the devil with a twinkle in your eye. — JOE WARMINSKY
DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS American Band (ATO)
The 11th album by these beloved sons of the Dirty South finds a great American band at their peak. The laser focus of principle singer-songwriters Mike Cooley and Patterson Hood on political issues like the Confederate flag, police killings, gun control, and racism gives American Band its mule-kick power. The record leads off with “Roman Casiano,” which is about a young immigrant who was murdered 75 years ago by Harlan Carter, who would one day lead the NRA. (Carter never served jail time for the murder.) “What It Means” is a simple yet powerful response to police shootings of unarmed African-Americans in 2014, events that both Hood and Cooley cite as the catalyst for the blunt approach on this release. “Surrender Under Protest” and “Darkened Flags On The Cusp of Dawn” finds Cooley and Hood addressing the confederate flag controversy. On “Once They Banned Imagine,” Cooley writes about Clear Channel’s head-scratching decision following 9/11 to put John Lennon’s Imagine on a list of banned songs. The musical style may be somewhat tamer on this release, less Alabama ass whuppin’ and more introspection and sadness, but the result is no less intense. As Mike Cooley says, “No bones about it…I wanted to piss off the assholes.” – MIKE WALSH
SWANS The Glowing Man (Young God Records)
The Glowing Man is the final installment of what has proven to be a stunningly prolific and creative stretch for Michael Gira’s latest iteration of Swans. Having revived Swans in 2010 with the excellent My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky after a lengthy period of inactivity, Gira’s vision grew exponentially in scope with every subsequent release, his soundscapes rich with layered repetition and terrifying crescendos. Over the course of its almost 2-hour runtime, The Glowing Man constantly challenge listeners, tempting accusations of pretension and self-indulgence with lengthy intros (“Cloud of Unknowing”) and a penchant for compositional ruts (“The World Looks Red/The World Looks Black”). But, for all its excesses, the album pulses with unbridled energy and a seemingly limitless imagination, ideas that result in something enormous and distinct. Yes, The Glowing Man is a heavy listen, but only if you mean heavy on reward. – SEAN CALDWELL
STURGILL SIMPSON A Sailor’s Guide To Earth (Atlantic)
A Sailor’s Guide to Earth retains all of the strengths of Sturgill Simpson’s 2014 breakout Metamodern Sounds in Country Music — the big Waylon Jennings baritone, the tearjerkers, and the relentless existential strife, but it also includes a few take-no-prisoners rockin’ raveups and some Memphis soul and funk. Throw in a couple concepts and a Nirvana cover, and you’ve got a stew that works surprisingly well within the country framework of his music. A Sailor’s Guide is a letter to Simpson’s newborn son. The first song, “Welcome to Earth (Pollywog),” is Simpson’s lullaby/apology to his son for not being at home with him more. Simspon’s heartache is wrenching on this and other songs to his newborn. He folds this concept around a nautical motif, his yearning for home wrapped up in the stress of a sailor’s life. Turns out that Simpson spent several years in the Navy traversing the seas, so he experienced the pitfalls of such a life. Somehow these two concepts make sense within Simpson’s music. This is Simpson’s first release on a major label, and he used the label backing to bring in the Dap-Kings, who appear on about half the songs. It was a wise decision. The up-tempo horns provide relief from Simpson’s downer inclinations and merge surprisingly well with Dan Dugmore’s ever-present and ass-kicking slide. The other charming surprise is Simpson’s cover of Nirvana’s “In Bloom.” Simpson’s gentle reading gives that classic a new perspective and power — a young boy seeking his place in the world. Imagine George Jones singing Kurt Cobain. Memories are made of this. – MIKE WALSH
CAR SEAT HEADREST Teens Of Denial (Matador)
Car Seat Headrest is the musical outlet of 24-year-old wunderkind Will Toledo. Working at a prolific Dylan-in-the-60’s pace, Toledo has released 13 albums in a short six year long career including this year’s Teens of Denial, which sounds like what would’ve resulted if a properly medicated Lou Reed had joined Television instead of the Velvets. Teens of Denial is a blast of indie rock perfection that coasts to an easy victory on thrashing waves of glorious guitar wankery, a bed of galloping drums and the occasional blast of a lonesome mariachi trumpet. Over 70 minutes Toledo laconically speak-sings and navigates his way through a maze of slackers, hippies, unforgiving girls and killer whales while creating one of those albums that makes you fall in love with a different song every time you listen to it. – PETE TROSHAK
SONIC LIBERATION 8 Bombogenic (High Two Recordings)
Philadelphia’s Kevin Diehl has morphed his percussion-driven Sonic Liberation group into numerous shapes and sizes over their fifteen year history. After a collaboration with free jazz drum innovator Sunny Murray and a set dedicated to Sun Ra’s Arkestra, Sonic Liberation’s latest brings in elder statesman Oliver Lake and his saxophone, joined by the experimental string group the Classical Revolution Trio. While the Afro-Cuban drum grooves still pulse beneath everything, the string trio bolsters a moving version of Satie’s “Gnossienne” and the second side sets the band loose on a trio of the great Lake’s memorable original compositions. The project is as smart, passionate and engaging as any jazz release out this year. – DAN BUSKIRK
LUCINDA WILLIAMS The Ghosts of Highway 20 (Universal Music)
The Ghosts Of Highway 20 is an 86-minute lonesome dustbowl meditation on love and mortality that finds Williams’ sounding weary and ghost-addled, looking back on the long jagged highway of life and trying to make some sense of it all. On her journey Williams is ably abetted by revered jazz guitarist Bill Frisell, who throughout the length of the album spins spidery cobwebs of his inimitable spectral echo-and-decay guitar lines around Williams beautifully cracked and weathered vocals to stunning effect. Among the highlights is the haunting “House of Earth” which features lyrics written by Woody Guthrie and used by Williams at the behest of Guthrie’s daughter and the nine minute biographical sound painting “Louisiana Story” which reads like a long lost classic poem by William Carlos Williams. The emotional centerpiece of the album is the title track, a seven-minute white line apocalyptic fever dream that finds Frisell delivering guitar lines straight from the astral plane and Williams referencing “the final days” and uttering lines like “every exit leaves a little death,” a fitting description of 2016’s fade to black. – PETE TROSHAK
KING BUFFALO Orion (Band Camp)
I have a tradition where every July my headphones and I take a midnight beach walk on the Redneck Riviera (aka the Florida panhandle) and debut some album that I have been eagerly anticipating. This year that album was Orion from King Buffalo, whose 2013 demo yielded the epic “Providence Eye.” This year, conditions were glorious with a heat-lightning storm over the water providing an orange-and-white light show to add to the feel of the water and the crash of the music. I started my walk, and the album, and then….not much. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t amazing. I was disappointed. And it took me several subsequent listens to figure out why: the first three songs are the appetizer. The main course starts with the fourth track, “Kerosene”, a hearty helping of wailing guitar served over a bed of Navajo sandstone with a side of awesome sauce. — MIKE WOLVERTON
MARY HALVORSON Away with You (Firehouse 12)
Physically, Mary Halvorson’s prim librarian visage doesn’t summon past images of guitar gods but over the last few years axe-wielder Mary Halvorson has been the must-hear instrumentalist on the improvised music scene. Halvoson’s playing can be heard over dozens of releases over the last decade, playing with everyone from indie rockers Make A Rising to avant garde master Anthony Braxton, always finding new aural landscapes to flaunt her elastic, tone-bending sounds. She molds all those experiences into something unique on her own releases, particularly her latest, Away With You. Her octet, half male/half female (something increasingly common in modern jazz) brings two other unique string players into the mix, cellist Tomeka Reid and pedal steel player Susan Alcorn. Listening to Halvorson pitch-twisting runs dancing along Alcorn’s soaring steel summons textures never heard before while Halvorson’s melodic but restless compositions, filled with witty asides, make for the type of record that pulls you in deeper with each listen. – DAN BUSKIRK
AHKMED The Inland Sea (Elektrohasch Schallplatten)
This one is a grower. You can put it on in the background while working and after the scuzzy/fuzzy start it soons turns spacey and exploratory. Both sparse and lush. And pleasant. You may not notice the droney vocals much in your distracted state, as five tracks unspool over 70 minutes. But then it ends, leaving you forlorn and despondent. You didn’t realize how much you needed it until it was gone. Album closer “The Empty Quarter” may be my favorite song of 2016, an unhurried wash of spiraling sound bookended by a catchy melody; by the time it crashes back in late in the twelfth minute it’s like a helicopter ladder to a man drowning in an inland sea. – MIKE WOLVERTON
BY STEVE VOLK In the spring of 2014, an old man walked into 55 Bar, a small West Village club where a particularly hot jazz band was holding forth, less bop than modern experimentation, an outfit that churned and surged in exotic, ecstatic bursts. The old man stayed awhile, at a table near the stage, letting the music wash over him along with everyone else, anonymous except that he wasn’t. Only after he left did the whispers start. “Was that David Bowie?” We now know the answer was yes—the old codger spaceman was out, on a Sunday night no less, looking for a new lightning bolt to ride. The result is ★ (Bowie has gone full symbol on us now) or Blackstar, a work—it deserves that frame—that is by turns gripping, confounding and haunting: Dubbed a “rock star ghost” by Rolling Stone, this really is Bowie as shade, popping out of the ether to grab us by the lapels and say something deeply meaningful, even urgent, in language that veers from the plain to the downright runic, as if Marley himself arrived to tell us that Christ is risen and boy is he rarrrffgg!
Sonically, Blackstar is shockingly fresh within the Bowie canon. Previously, he’s incorporated tastes of jazz like a spice—flavoring tracks like “Aladdin Sane” and “Bring Me The Disco King.” But for close fans with knowledge of his biography the whole enterprise sounds like a sort of homecoming. Bowie’s older half-brother Terry first turned him on to jazz as a kid, introducing Bowie to his first musical instrument, the saxophone. For Bowie to not just return to the sax—which he has occasionally played himself on record, in a charming, wheezy style—but place it so relentlessly up front in the music, smacks then of elegy. Bowie’s half brother was mentally ill, and eventually committed suicide. And Blackstar is like that—a dynamic push into the new with a dramatic, theatrical sense that we are so very fragile, that sooner or later all of us performers will die.
Producer Tony Visconti, Bowie’s longest running musical foil, has said they incorporated jazz musicians to take the new album away from rock and roll. Perhaps contradicting himself a tad, or at least revealing the essential sonic contrast that makes Blackstar so engaging, he’s also told interviewers the trick is that they got jazz musicians to play rock and roll. The musicians involved, a quartet led by modern jazz saxophonist Donny McCaslin, are world class, and Bowie and Visconti give them room to do their thing, but only in service to tautly constructed songs, a concise seven of them, in 41 briskly paced minutes. All of the songs seem to live in this tension, between structure and brief runs of improvisation, order and chaos. The title track, released last November with an accompanying video of creepy sci-fi, is nearly 10 minutes long, and can properly be described as “sprawling” and “epic” yet tight as a drumhead. The opening and closing sections are all portent and murmur, with Bowie singing in the same gauzy register as a curtain unfurling. Underneath him a drum n bass rhythm skitters, like a spider, across the floor. “On the day of execution,” Bowie sings in the opening passage, “only women kneel and smile.” But the chill gives way to a center section that is a pure soul ballad, at once gorgeously melodic, unsettling and subversively funny. “I’m not a gang-ster… I’m not a pop star… I’m not a white star,” Bowie sings. “I’m a blackstar.” (more…)
BY WILLIAM C. HENRY Good God, the stench is overwhelming! It’s the damn swamp again, folks. Lordy, the stink is absolutely stomach-churning! I know, I know, — yes, he definitely said he would drain it, — but it looks like he’s changed his mind; says he’s weary of the expression and wants all talk of it halted. In fact, he just recently felt compelled to bitch-slap his close buddy and confidant, Newt “Lissotriton Vulgaris” Gingrich for having tweeted some questions regarding the lingering odor.
But WAIT! Apparently the swamp draining project is still on (methinks the noxious fumes gurgling up from the decaying hypocrisy, heinousness and incompetence he’s already dumped into it have finally overcome even the illegitimate President-elect himself). This just in: Trump has smacked Gingrich … again! This time for Newt having reported that the draining project was now OFF while his boss was telling everyone that he had, in fact, NEVER ABANDONED IT! I’m telling you, folks, it’s looking more and more like we won’t be able to keep tabs on the current state of “transition” putrefaction without ongoing live views of the swamp and its depth indicator.
Silly prattle? Hardly. We’re talking about a man who promised faithfully he would do things differently. A heretofore bankrupt character who gained and retained a loyal (albeit easily taken in) following by constantly assuring them that his administration, his “people,” his approach to governance, were going to be different from the ones they had grown to distrust and disdain so. He would be a President of and for the middle class and the used-to-be middle class, the job losers, the scrapers, the clawers, the barely-getting-byers, the overlooked and the forgotten, the always-played-by-the-rules-but-knew-there-was-a-separate-set-for-the-wealthy-and-politically-connected, and the never-failed-to-pay-their-fair-share-in-but-were-certain-they-got-short-changed-whenever-it-was-on-the-way-out.
Well, so far this so-called “covenant” of tRUMP’s has turned out to be every bit the spiteful, splenetic, shove-it-up-your-ass, bald-faced CONTRADICTION that it was all too expected to be. To begin with, you sure as hell don’t “drain the Washington swamp” of its tarnished antique silver soup-ladlers, its revolving door Goldman Sachsers and their fellow felonious Wall Streeters, and its all too established, entrenched and intransigent multi-term “safe” state and district panderers, by priming the pump with INCLUSION!
So, what about our illegitimate President-elect’s appointee competence and suitability? You know, it’s truly mind-boggling — and a whole lot of “stick this where the sun doesn’t shine” — that tRUMP could show such total disdain for America’s collective intelligence and welfare as to appoint such an assortment of low-lifes, imbeciles and altogether-ANTI-the-purpose-and-role-of-the-position-they’re-there-to-protect-and-fulfill to principal Cabinet-level and advisory posts.
For starters, how about appointing as your Chief Strategy Advisor — one of the persons CLOSEST and of most INFLUENCE to the President — a known racist, bigot, anti-Semite, misogynist, homophobe and all-around deplorable “hater”! This guy has never met a minority, female, “democratic” philosophy, or altruistic idea or movement that he didn’t want to tarnish or demolish. Hostility, division, and loathing are his stock-in-trade! Trust me, tRUMP found this fellow at the BOTTOM of the swamp!
How about appointing a man whose entire being has been devoted to accomplishing the DEMISE of a two-state solution to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict as Ambassador to Israel?! Rarely has there been a more stunning example of bigotry “tRUMPing” benevolence!
How about appointing a racist U.S. Senator to be Attorney General?! A guy who in previous years ranted and raged about and mercilessly harangued Presidential appointees for having provided “incomplete” background information about themselves for Senate confirmation review purposes when, in fact, this atrocious tRUMP AG appointee HIMSELF is currently in the process of being SEVERELY CHASTISED for having withheld literally DECADES of HIS OWN background information from the review process! I swear to God, you can’t make this sh*t up!
How about appointing a steadfast, proudly proclaiming climate change DENIER as Environmental PROTECTION Agency Administrator?! A man who’s spent a lifetime as head lapdog/lackey for the oil and gas industries! A man whose chief goal in life is to successfully SUE the EPA back to the Stone Age! Are you serious?! This isn’t just being spiteful, it’s being downright malignant!
Actually, all you need do is follow the money. Believe me, no amount of Dawn could get rid of the reek that must have permeated the stockings tRUMP used to stuff this oligarch-like herd of key appointees into. I mean, we’re talking about hosiery hefty enough to hold over 14 BILLION dollar$ (that’s Billion with a capital B) worth of top 1 percenters … and, God forbid, he’s still a got a drawerful yet to fill! So, why on earth would any person, and I mean ANY person, continue to believe that the tRUMPster, a man who since birth has never known ANY kind of life other than one immersed in unimaginable luxury, give a Lamborghini’s honk about the best interests of ANYONE other than himself and those of his ilk?! Come on, folks, you’d have to be delusional.
Indisputably, the vast majority of us could easily have been spared the results of this sham election. All that needed to happen was for a portion of the otherwise conned voters to have exercised a modicum of personal honesty, intelligence, social conscience … and, above all, integrity. They didn’t and America no doubt has been severely damaged, perhaps irreparably.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Fed up early stage septuagenarian who has actually been most of there and done most of that. Born and raised in the picturesque Pocono Mountains. Quite well educated. Very lucky to have been born into a well-schooled and somewhat prosperous family. Long divorced. One beautiful, brilliant daughter. Two far above average grandsons. Semi-retired (how does anyone manage to do it completely these days?) and fully-tired of bullshit. Uncle of the Editor-In-Chief.
THE GUARDIAN: Neoliberalism sees competition as the defining characteristic of human relations. It redefines citizens as consumers, whose democratic choices are best exercised by buying and selling, a process that rewards merit and punishes inefficiency. It maintains that “the market” delivers benefits that could never be achieved by planning.
Attempts to limit competition are treated as inimical to liberty. Tax and regulation should be minimised, public services should be privatised. The organisation of labour and collective bargaining by trade unions are portrayed as market distortions that impede the formation of a natural hierarchy of winners and losers. Inequality is recast as virtuous: a reward for utility and a generator of wealth, which trickles down to enrich everyone. Efforts to create a more equal society are both counterproductive and morally corrosive. The market ensures that everyone gets what they deserve.
We internalise and reproduce its creeds. The rich persuade themselves that they acquired their wealth through merit, ignoring the advantages – such as education, inheritance and class – that may have helped to secure it. The poor begin to blame themselves for their failures, even when they can do little to change their circumstances.
Never mind structural unemployment: if you don’t have a job it’s because you are unenterprising. Never mind the impossible costs of housing: if your credit card is maxed out, you’re feckless and improvident. Never mind that your children no longer have a school playing field: if they get fat, it’s your fault. In a world governed by competition, those who fall behind become defined and self-defined as losers. […]
Perhaps the most dangerous impact of neoliberalism is not the economic crises it has caused, but the political crisis. As the domain of the state is reduced, our ability to change the course of our lives through voting also contracts. Instead, neoliberal theory asserts, people can exercise choice through spending. But some have more to spend than others: in the great consumer or shareholder democracy, votes are not equally distributed. The result is a disempowerment of the poor and middle. As parties of the right and former left adopt similar neoliberal policies, disempowerment turns to disenfranchisement. Large numbers of people have been shed from politics.
Chris Hedges remarks that “fascist movements build their base not from the politically active but the politically inactive, the ‘losers’ who feel, often correctly, they have no voice or role to play in the political establishment”. When political debate no longer speaks to us, people become responsive instead to slogans, symbols and sensation. To the admirers of Trump, for example, facts and arguments appear irrelevant.
Judt explained that when the thick mesh of interactions between people and the state has been reduced to nothing but authority and obedience, the only remaining force that binds us is state power. The totalitarianism Hayek feared is more likely to emerge when governments, having lost the moral authority that arises from the delivery of public services, are reduced to “cajoling, threatening and ultimately coercing people to obey them”. Like communism, neoliberalism is the God that failed. MORE
NEW YORK TIMES: Ms. Fisher established Princess Leia as a damsel who could very much deal with her own distress, whether facing down the villainy of the dreaded Darth Vader or the romantic interests of the roguish smuggler Han Solo.
Wielding blaster pistols, piloting futuristic vehicles and, to her occasional chagrin, wearing strange hairdos and a revealing metal bikini, she reprised the role in three more films — “The Empire Strikes Back” in 1980, “Return of the Jedi” in 1983 and, 32 years later, “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” by which time Leia had become a hard-bitten general. Lucasfilm said on Tuesday that Ms. Fisher had completed her work in an as-yet-untitled eighth episode of the main “Star Wars” saga, which is scheduled to be released in December 2017.
Offscreen, Ms. Fisher was open about her diagnosis of bipolar disorder. She gave her dueling dispositions the nicknames Roy (“the wild ride of a mood,” she said) and Pam (“who stands on the shore and sobs”). She channeled her struggles with depression and substance abuse into fiercely comic works, including the semiautobiographical novel “Postcards From the Edge” and the one-woman show “Wishful Drinking,” which she turned into a memoir.
For all the attention she received for playing Princess Leia, Ms. Fisher enjoyed poking wicked fun at the character, as well as at the fantastical “Star Wars” universe. “Who wears that much lip gloss into battle?” she asked in a recent memoir, “The Princess Diarist.” Having seen fame’s light and dark sides, Ms. Fisher did not take it too seriously, or consider it an enduring commodity. As she wrote in “The Princess Diarist”:
“Perpetual celebrity — the kind where any mention of you will interest a significant percentage of the public until the day you die, even if that day comes decades after your last real contribution to the culture — is exceedingly rare, reserved for the likes of Muhammad Ali.” MORE
FRESH AIR: Carrie Fisher was an insecure 19-year-old when she appeared as Princess Leia in the first Star Wars movie, a role that would come to define her career. She tells Fresh Air’s Terry Gross that despite becoming romantically involved with her older, married co-star, Harrison Ford, she often felt isolated on set. “I didn’t have anyone to confide in,” she says. “I had no friends, and I couldn’t talk about [the affair with Ford] because he was married.” Instead, Fisher began recording her thoughts and experiences in a journal. After the film wrapped, she put the diary away and forgot about it. Decades later, the diary resurfaced during a remodeling project. Now Fisher has turned that diary into a memoir called The Princess Diarist. The book revisits the making of the first Star Wars film, and includes excerpts from the journal she wrote at the time. The actress says she was determined to share her experiences with others, even if parts of the journal feel very personal.”I think I do overshare,” Fisher says. “It’s my way of trying to understand myself. … It creates community when you talk about private things.” On telling Harrison Ford she was going to go public with the affair: “I said, ‘I found the journals that I kept during the first movie and I’m probably going to publish them.’ And he just sort of raised his finger and said, ‘Lawyer!’ And then I said, ‘No, I won’t write anything that you don’t want. I mean, I’ll show it to you before and you can take anything out that you want taken out. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,’ which I, of course, have. Unduly uncomfortable…I sent it to him … [and] I never heard back, so I can’t imagine that he was comfortable with everything that was in it. But it’s not like it’s negative about him — it’s just a personal story that’s been a secret for a long time.” MORE
FRESH AIR: Today, we take a look back at the Man in Black, who spoke with Terry Gross in 1997.Cash began recording albums and performing in the 1950s. His long romance with wife June Carter Cash, celebrated in the 2005 biopic Walk the Line, spanned five decades — from their early touring days to their rise as one of America’s most popular country-music couples. Cash recorded over 1,500 songs in his career, including such classic hits as “I Walk the Line,” “Ring of Fire” and “A Boy Named Sue.” He played several of his most popular songs, including “Folsom Prison Blues,” at that maximum security facility in 1968. The album based on that performance hit the top slot on the country-music charts and revitalized Cash’s career.In the 1990s, Cash worked with rock producer Rick Rubin. The two collaborated on several critically acclaimed Grammy-winning albums — two of which have been released since Cash’s death in 2003. MORE
Folks, we’re hanging the GONE FISHIN’ sign on the door and heading home for Christmas. Expect it will look a lot like this picture of last year’s homecoming. We’ll be back to daily updates on December 27th. Stay tuned for our annual THE YEAR IN CINEMA, THE YEAR IN MUSIC, THE YEAR IN QUESTIONS & ANSWERS. Until then, Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to you and yours!
BY WILLIAM C. HENRY Even with seventy-some years of suspicion, skepticism and mistrust, I never imagined that at some point I would feel compelled to opine a President-elect of this great nation of ours as being an innately ignorant, silver-spooned, immature, thin-skinned, spiteful, deceitful, xenophobic, misogynistic, money-grubbing, two-faced, lying piece of shit. But sadly that time has come. How and why do I unapologetically loathe this President-elect and soon-to-be Presidential disaster so? Allow me to present seven unassailable examples of the kind of excremental rigid-middle-finger-to-character-principle-ethics-morality-intelligence-and-the-best-interests-of-all-but-the-top-two-percent behavior that really should come as no surprise whatsoever to those willing to be truly honest and accepting about the baseness and inanity of the source. Said examples are: Scott Pruitt, Stephen Bannon, Michael Flynn, Andrew Puzder, Rex Tillerson, Rick Perry and David Friedman.
SCOTT PRUITT, EPA CHIEF: Hard as it may be to believe, Scott Pruitt, Trump unconscionable pick for Environmental PROTECTION Agency administrator is a climate science DENIER! That’s right, folks. Unlike 97% of the world’s (both “free” and otherwise) premier climate scientists, Pruitt, in his inimitable ignorance — and recognizing that storage tanks full of campaign contributory “fuel” could be at stake — long ago decided to cast his nescience with the other 3%. So, using Scotty as his drill and shovel, an ignorant and spiteful President-elect hasn’t just inserted a stiff middle finger, he’s shoved his entire fist and forearm up the ass of the entire American populace, both the now living and the yet to become so! And, on top of that, Pruitt is proven to be a total toady shill, a boot licking lackey, a fawning lapdog, an ingratiating ass-kisser, an obsequious pawn, an eager accomplice/co-conspirator, and an owned-lock-stock-and-two-smoking-barrels by, for, to, and of the fossil fuel industry in its ongoing determination to partake in — and profit obscenely from — the destruction of the planet and its atmosphere as well as the death and/or defiling of every living thing thereon! How do you like him now?!
MICHAEL FLYNN, NATION SECURITY ADVISOR: The fact that a man who Trump appointed National Security Advisor has been taken in by — and perpetuated — FAKE news isn’t just jaw-dropping, it’s absolutely astonishing! Add to it that Flynn’s grown son who was acting in an advisory capacity to his father, and for whom a security clearance request had reportedly been submitted, remains a devoted conspiracy theorist whose own perpetuation of a faked news story lead to open gunfire inside a Washington pizza parlor, and you end up with (with sincere apologies to the Bard) proof of “a dullard President-elect’s harebrained appointment process strutting and fretting its hours upon the stage, an exercise the horrendous results of which will be suffered for years to come: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound, fury — and utter incompetence — signifying the worst fears and electoral errors of a nation having come to pass.” Any questions?
ANDREW PUZDER, SECRETARY OF LABOR: The really rotten news here is the job this total anti-worker has been appointed to fulfill: Secretary of Labor! Actually, if you already knew anything about our despicable President-elect, this appointment came as no surprise to you whatsoever. I mean, hell, why wouldn’t a two-faced, phony, illegitimate, mouthful of soup silver, want to shove his pick for “protector” of America’s labor force, you know, the folks who actually have to work eight-plus hour days to keep their families fed, sheltered and clothed, right down their overworked, underpaid gullets?! Why not?! Hell, it’s his modus operandi! Why wouldn’t he appoint a man who, a) wants the minimum wage to remain at current levels, b) wants to replace minimum wage earning Americans with machines, and c) hates overtime pay and paid sick leave?! What Puzder really IS is a very, very wealthy businessman (who just happens to employ mostly minimum wage earners) and mega contributor to the Trump presidential campaign. But I’m betting you already guessed that, right?
RICK PERRY, SECRETARY OF OOPS : Perhaps the most important thing to keep in mind about Trump’s pick to head up the Department of Energy is that when running for President, Perry stated publicly during a Presidential debate that Energy was one of the three federal departments he would abolish immediately upon assuming the Presidency — except that he couldn’t for the life of him not once, not twice, not even three times remember its name (the others were Education and Commerce)! Surely that gives you an inkling as to his competence — or enthusiasm — for holding the position. Perry gets the least press here simply because he deserves it!
DAVID FRIEDMAN, AMBASSADOR TO ISRAEL: Since we already know that Trump is a bigot and a racist, it probably should come as no surprise that he’d appoint a dedicated anti-Palestinian bigot as ambassador to Israel. I mean, what can you say about appointing a man, a) whose entire being has been dedicated to securing a ONE state solution to the Israeli/Palestinian crisis, b) wants to see the Jewish capitol moved to Jerusalem, c) thinks Israel should permanently annex all illegal Jewish settlements in the West Bank. In reality David Friedman is Trump’s in-bankruptcy-I’ll-always-stand-by-you good buddy and personal financial advisor (he’s his official bankruptcy attorney), and if he were any farther to the right with respect to Israel’s deplorable interests, he’d be openly advocating Palestinian genocide. On a scale of 1 to 10 where “utter disgust” ranks a solid 10, this appointment garners an 11.5. Did I mention that the guy has ZERO foreign service experience?! Duh!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Fed up early stage septuagenarian who has actually been most of there and done most of that. Born and raised in the picturesque Pocono Mountains. Quite well educated. Very lucky to have been born into a well-schooled and somewhat prosperous family. Long divorced. One beautiful, brilliant daughter. Two far above average grandsons. Semi-retired (how does anyone manage to do it completely these days?) and fully-tired of bullshit. Uncle of the Editor-In-Chief.