glitch [2021)

Cobra and phases.

Emptying a sampler.

Pierre Henry.

Schaeffer.

Always Flaming Lips.

A twist on bass.

Fridmann.

The church of Michael Ivins’ hair.

Jazz odyssey.

He wrote this.

Straight up.

Bold start to Pauly Deathwish’s 5th album.

Stretching out.

Space jazz.

Squiggle.

Sonic Youth.

Watch for upcoming single.

Cleared.

Glenn Branca.

Bitches brew.

Live eviL.

Mercury Rev.

Grassy.

Hit to death.

John McLaughlin.

Tribute to Jack Johnson.

Steve Gadd slow nerve action.

Hendrix.

Chuckin’.

Television.

Tom and Richard.

Hippies cool at CBGB.

Makeover.

Bowery toughened.

Are you experienced?

Paul Simon never sounded this tough.

Or desperate.

Always too cool.

But the lyrics give him a run.

Into Radiohead.

Another COVID album.

The best.

Pauly Deathwish.

Headlines.

Zeitgeist.

Epstein.

McAfee didn’t uninstall himself.

Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Lady Godiva.

A dentist chair in Florida.

Soros’s scumbag Rubin.

Forgot a fuck.

Not for kids.

Not safe for work.

F-bomb Ferguson.

Plastic Ono.

Primal.

John Paul Jones keys.

Real.

Frustration key of E.

The pitched song.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

Remember this connection.

“Montreal Heartbreak”.

Pure perfection.

Repetition.

Bravery.

Transient random-noise.

Hal Blaine on Harvest.

Trying to make it pay.

Hotel to Tango.

Stopped in Oklahoma.

Back when concerts were played in Austins.

Tonight’s the night.

Neil in Ontario.

A Canadian pastiche.

Bowie low.

Cohen Quebec.

Visconti.

The cure.

Ivermectin.

Hydroxychloroquine.

Disintegration.

The only artist to review his own albums.

Because, you know, fuck it!

9/11 will come out.

Everything building to a head.

First Zeppelin album.

Black mountain side.

Jimmy’s eyes glowing magenta.

They tell me he’s evil.

Maybe.

But you gotta know the story of the blues.

I tried to sell my soul to the Devil.

But I am saved by the blood of Jesus Christ.

Jesus protected me.

Satan wasn’t buying.

Down in the basement of the Gunter Hotel.

I tried to sell my soul for the world.

But God didn’t let it happen.

Thinking it was bad enough.

Only through Jesus am I saved.

The worst among sinners.

Trying to gain the whole world.

Willing to forfeit my soul.

God is good.

And I can out-produce Jimmy Page.

Because God is my guide.

I have a dirty mouth.

Mary Magdalene.

Go and sin no more.

We’re in a fucking war.

We gotta put Jesus first.

On the battlefield.

Out greatest stealth.

Delta blues.

Emerald Mound.

Barbecue.

Poor.

Rural.

I don’t know how to make copies.

And my black neighbors don’t know how to use the internet.

Joe Biden can get fucked.

But me, I like women with big tits.

Alex Jones quote.

I relate.

I don’t wanna be a part of this sick cult.

We need God on the battlefield.

Mercy is waiting even for Jimmy Page.

Turn from the evil ways.

Recognize King Jesus.

The sky is crying.

Hound dog.

Muddy.

Wolf.

Flange.

Phase.

Straight Thelonious.

With Coltrane.

Miles.

Pre-electric.

Second jazz tune.

Straight off blues.

The Monk solo.

Dissonant as a motherfucker.

MTHRFCKR.

Acciaccatura.

Who, me?

Carnival.

Honing in.

Watery solo.

Buttholes.

Kuntz.

Is a joke?

Weird Al.

The Residents.

Don Cherry.

Malachi Thompson.

Soprano trombone.

Roland Kirk.

Reeded brass.

Klang.

Straight jazz.

Philly Jo.

Watch for first cover.

Unpredictable.

Mercury Rev.

John Peel.

Straight into a QAnon song.

Reggae.

Durham.

CodemonkeyZ.

Flynn, in fact, did not go to jail.

Spy dub.

Bob Marley gets all conspiratorial.

Haiti.

Obama gets arrested at his own birthday party.

Strzok blocked on Twitter.

Army Counterintelligence.

A bunch of cunts?

Not Seth Keshel.

The real deal.

Tony Shaffer.

Counterterrorism.

Will the FBI be shut down?

Department of Justice is the very heart of the Deep State.

Rosenstein is linchpin.

Bill Barr was miss.

Cymbals Eat Guitars.

Each given a chance.

Lou Reed.

Rollerskate Skinny.

Music like this hasn’t been made in 30 years.

Bowie would be proud.

The debris from the Nirvana signing.

The truly good bands.

Some Boo Radleys here.

Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.

Beach Boys.

Good production.

Lee “Scratch”.

Black (Oak) Ark.

A disgusting record collection.

Mildew.

Lovingly preserved in filth.

Vinyl still good.

Cop shoot cop.

Strong statement against Antifa.

Dylan.

This guy is bold.

Deserter’s.

Amy Helm?

Rambo.

J. Spaceman.

Jack Fate.

Dylan tongue cheek.

Summer 2020.

BLM.

Only person to listen to this.

Pet Sounds.

Bellingham.

Fredonia.

SUNY.

Boces.

Wanker jazz.

Deep.

Boys peeling.

Give the anarchist a cigarette.

This is a fucked up record.

Calling David Lynch.

Gonna be hard for the Left to write off this guy.

Paradigm shift.

This dude troublemaker.

Name fits.

Trail of dead.

We know you, but do you know us?

Debord, eh?

Capitalism!

Soundgarden.

Chossudovsky.

Deep Pieczenik research.

9/11.

Space Force.

Satellites.

Leonardo.

NRO.

NGA.

And the beloved NSA.

More accurately: CYBERCOM.

Not yet split?

Nakasone double duty?

Architecture?

Who could bring down?

Two QAnon songs in a row.

Beatles.

White Album.

Magical Mystery.

Macca bass line.

Welcome to the revolution.

Sgt. Pepper.

Euros Childs.

Megan Childs.

Gorwel Owen.

Beautiful breakdown.

Bert Williams.

Good shit!

The jazz and blues build up into rock and roll.

Conspiracy songs.

Fort Meade on repeat.

780thC.

Army G2.

Cheyenne Mountain Alerts.

Air Force Cyber.

MARSOC.

Strobo.

Marquee Moon.

Big Pink.

Rhythm of the saints.

Tuatara.

Crime podcast.

Tettix Wave Accumulator?

The Supremes.

Berry Gordy trippin’ balls.

A Lisbeth Salander ballad.

Noomi Rapace.

FBI + CIA.

Both worthless.

But serves to delineate.

Interior and exterior.

Intel romance.

Smarter than Strzok and Page.

Richard Lloyd.

Too fucked up to catch Velvets.

I hear you.

It’s a bitch.

Rick Danko.

Thom Yorke knob twiddler.

Eno in Roxy.

Bogart.

The big sleep date.

Noir and chill.

Mulholland.

Breathless.

The harder they fall.

Shoot the piano player.

Doug Sahm.

We are here in San Antonio.

We are making the best of it.

Driving around.

Eating ZZ Top nachos.

Beer drinkers and hell raisers.

A real jalapeno.

Australia to steam like teapot.

Last song.

Spiritualized?

Joshua Tree.

Bono.

Epic.

Adam Clayton.

Comes with new iPhone.

An anthem like U2 ain’t written for a bit.

This is Dublin territory.

Sexy God believers.

Cigarette.

Irish whiskey.

A Guinness.

Cloves.

The wraparounds.

Luna.

My heroes.

Sterling Morrison.

And Jack Nitzsche.

But Bono can sing opera.

A good dude.

Needs to drop the carbon bullshit.

Global warming is giant fucking hoax.

Just like COVID.

The Edge knows.

Grow some balls.

Stop kissing the Pope’s ass.

This commie Pope is a fucker.

Jesuit dipshit.

Epic lift.

Pauly can play guitar!

Fucking hell!!!

Album builds up to last song.

Even last song builds up.

Fucking brilliant.

Glitch.

iTunes.

Spotify.

-PD

Casablanca [1942)

Time goes by. Time goes by. Sitting in his own gin joint…stinking drunk. It’s like Pythagoras is hammering on Bogie’s heart…searching for a certain ratio. Left to die in Casablanca. The money is good, sure! But the heart is broken.

The heart that loves and the heart that fights…these are the same heart. If she can take it, so can I. And Dooley Wilson strides into the song. It was in the piano all along.

The piano…that musical typewriter…where Beethoven wrote novels as much as chiseled sonorities. Truth is, nobody is listening. There are those in this world we trust. At present we wait.

And then she arrives. And we blow it. All of that crestfallen love transformed into angst. She was the most beautiful woman we ever saw. When Belmondo and Seberg joyride around Paris, it is in tribute to them. And perhaps Héloïse and Abelard really are buried at Père Lachaise. Maybe, maybe not.

But when she hummed that tune in the noir shadows…then the piano started to play. It’s no use. She’ll never come. Oh, but she does come. And then she leaves again. We begin to wonder whether she ever existed at all…whether Pythagoras ever passed a blacksmith and heard an anvil chorus. Anytime’s a good time to be born…and anytime is a good time to die. Harry Partch said that. And Casablanca’s as good a place for it as any. Bogie said that.

Ten thousand dollars/at the drop of a hat/I’d give it all gladly/if our lives could be like that. Bob Dylan said that. There’s blood on the tracks…greasing the rails…from the concentration camps to North Africa. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world… And now Bogie has to think for all of us. And he does.

Laszlo had to go all Charles Ives and instead of the Fourth of July, it’s the 14th and “La Marseillaise” is drowning out “Die Wacht am Rhein”…tentatively at first, but ultimately in a rousing rout.

I lost my place…my train of thought. Rick lost his place…the train from Oran. It must have been that song…Herman Hupfeld. Humbert Humbert? No, that’s more Claude Rains’ department. Have you tried 22 tonight? Leave it there.

It’s more Schindler than Schindler…because it’s cinema. Mostly because it’s Bogart. The harder they fall…in love. And so now the piano is silent. Another proprietor has taken over. I was always on the side of the underdog…an expensive habit. Was never much of a business man.

And she flies away. He remembers the day…the last time. For me, it was Messiaen. Turangalîla. An airport in New Orleans. I’m not qualified to shine Faulkner’s shoes, but here I am…none the less.

Deep underground is the resistance. Love. Maybe. For now we have cinema…when we can allow ourselves to indulge in such. We burn in darkened halls…or simply darkened bedrooms on a laptop. Maybe she has come and gone. Ingrid, painted so lovingly by Curtiz as she first hears the song again…like the other Bergman…like the overture to The Magic Flute.

I coulda been someone. I coulda been a contenda. No, another film. We merely have our thoughts to cache until the library disappears like mandala sand. Back to the bottle. Scorsese gets it!

A lovely day and a lovely actress and Deserter’s Songs by Mercury Rev with the windows down. Honey. He did the right thing. The hard path. The road less-traveled. The true saint. The golden agitator. Some say the French invented love.

We’ll always have Paris. That hour in a van…stuck in traffic. How very Tati! There’s Sacré-Cœur…and the Arc de Triomphe from the side.

And then…getting on that plane. The hardest part. Like seeing the Eiffel Tower…only on departure.

-PD

4 Comments

The African Queen [1951)

For people who try to do the right thing, the world is a cruel place. Ebola virus disease was named after the Ebola River in what is today the Democratic Republic of Congo. Near the start of this film we see a hurried burial of the Methodist minister Samuel Sayer (played by Robert Morley). That scene was filmed near the village of Biondo (DRC): about 450 miles from the Ebola River.

In 1951 (and ostensibly 1914) it was the Germans who came to burn huts and round up the villagers of Rev. Sayer (most likely forcing the natives to become soldiers). In 1976 it was a strange virus which came to the region near the Ebola River to inflict terrible and mysterious suffering.

This tangent serves the purpose of relating our subject (an amazing piece of cinema) to the present times. Our principal players (Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn) gradually made their way about 300 miles northeast to Lake Albert (actually further…to the Ugandan side), but not before many real and fictional travails.

Reality and fiction… The Ebola River is the headstream of the Mongala River. Fact. The Mongala River is a tributary of the Congo River. Fact. Scenes of the African Queen (the boat) going over the falls were filmed at Ubundu (formerly Ponthierville) on the Lualaba River in the DRC using a model with tiny Bogart and Hepburn figurines. Fact. The Lualaba River is the greatest headstream (by water volume) of the Congo River. Fact. Ebola virus disease is a naturally occurring phenomenon. Definitely maybe.

Everyone needs a little help from their friends. Hollywood makes no pretense to being anything but a pretense–except when the projector is rolling. The suspension of disbelief which is at the essence of fictional films requires audience participation. Rarely have directors taken a different approach to the process, but one notable exception was Roberto Rossellini. His version of Neorealism created a tributary in reverse (flooded by directors like Godard) which traced cinema’s roots back to the source: truth. Twenty-four times per second (historically) a frame was given its moment to shine. The shift was imperceptible. Through the phi phenomenon we perceive motion on the screen.

We see Charlie Allnut scratch his steamer beard. We see Rosie Sayer transform from a teetotaling harmonium pumper into a war strategist for improvised explosives. We laugh when Bogie monkeys around. We swoon with the romance and gravity of it all. We relate to Sisyphus as skipper–mired in mud and pulling his own ship with a rope. After the Spar torpedoes eventually serve their purpose, we believe that our heroes swim to safety in Kenya.

But what we really learn is to not drink the water. For director John Huston and Bogie it was whiskey all the way (while filming on location in Africa). They were the only two not to succumb to dysentery. Hepburn had to play the pump organ with a bucket nearby (in case she got sick).

Through immense struggle we learn not to drink the Kool-Aid. I bet Humphrey Bogart wouldn’t have dismissed Dr. Leonard G. Horowitz without giving Emerging Viruses (1996) a fair shake.

-PD

2 Comments

Passage to Marseille [1944)

The Maginot Line was the greatest “oops” in the history of military strategy. It’s not often we walk into a movie theater and hear about this relic, nor about the Siegfried Line on the other side. That is why we must look to classic cinema for these and other lessons. Make no mistake, this film is not primarily about that ill-fated Titanic of fortifications which was outflanked.

Sydney Greenstreet makes mention of both lines in the fictional build up to real war. Greenstreet is once again the slippery villain…this time a Major in the French army who would side with Petain and the Nazis. Peter Lorre, for once, is a good guy (though a pickpocket/safecracker by profession). Claude Rains is convincing and distinguished as Captain Freycinet, but it is Humphrey Bogart as Matrac who leads the show.

For Bogart’s character Jean Matrac we must look to another chapter of history: that of Jean-Paul Marat. Bogart plays a radical journalist who ends up being framed by the government of France and sent to the penal colony at Cayenne, French Guiana. Sound familiar? To Francophiles it certainly should. We must remember Lieutenant-colonel Alfred Dreyfus (another great “oops” of French history). Dreyfus was wrongly accused of being a spy and sent to (you guessed it) French Guiana [in fact, to the worst part: Devil’s Island].

And so…we have Bogart and Lorre and three other “convicts” (some legitimately guilty and others, like Bogart, there on dubious charges) escape in a canoe. I won’t go too much into plot detail in case you feel like actually watching this thing (what a concept!).

The theme, on the other hand, is worth elaboration. We are dealing with patriotism in spite of corrupt governance. As St. Thomas Aquinas said (and I paraphrase), “An unjust law is no law at all.” Another page from history. Here we see the principle of Natural Law which would attract none other than Martin Luther King, Jr. (who cited the same sentiment in his Letter From Birmingham Jail in 1963).

We now live in a time and (we in the United States) a country which is as dynamic with vile antagonists as was France during WWII. Knowing history becomes paramount. Knowledge (as James Madison pointed out) is essential for popular governance. Facts are weapons.

Bogart ends up worthy of being a subject for Jacques-Louis David by film’s conclusion (I’m being purposefully cryptic), but not before giving the Nazis a good lashing. Bogie’s character is similar to the one he played in Key Largo. Matrac’s disillusionment almost makes him become the complete opposite of his former self. In an instance fit for bystander law, Bogart intercedes on behalf of a young boy. The young boy revives the national pride in Bogart–that fire for justice.

We in America would do well to remember the Maginot Line when disillusioned with a government we feel no longer represents us. Even the Prophet Mohammed spoke of the scholar’s ink as superior to the martyr’s blood. Everyone with a mouse to click is fighting. Every blog, post, and tweet is a riposte. Every dollar a vote.

Vive la France! And long live the United States of America!

-PD

They Drive by Night [1940)

When most of us think about truck drivers we probably picture a redneck chewing Red Man and listening to Merle Haggard (or, to keep the motif going, Red Sovine). Our truck drivers do an unenviable job which requires great intestinal fortitude (figuratively and literally). It’s a hell of a thing to have a profession where the transport of goods (or people) requires driving at all hours of the day and night. If you’ve never slapped yourself or blasted the A/C to try and stay awake–never searched desperately on the dial for some music to spur you on, then you may not understand this cautionary film noir from Raoul Walsh.

It’s cautionary in at least two ways. Early in the film we see a couple of drivers go over a cliff and burn alive in their rig. Even our hero Bogart loses an arm in a particularly nasty crash. But the other half of the moral tale involves a theme common to film noir: crimes of passion. In this case, it is the jealous love of Ida Lupino which causes her to murder her husband in hopes of clearing the way for a romance with the straight-laced George Raft.

Raft can’t be tempted because, along with that intestinal fortitude of which I spoke, he has a salt-of-the-earth righteousness which keeps him from betraying his friend (the soon to be murdered husband of Lupino’s character). That and he’s in love with Ann Sheridan.

Laced throughout this gritty struggle is the thread of capitalism. We see Raft and Bogart appreciate the first fruits (pun intended) of their labor when they sell a truckload of lemons and are able to pay off the accrued debt on their truck. Just when it’s paid off, tragedy strikes in the form of a wreck and they are back to square one.

Raft is excellent if stiff as Joe Fabrini. Bogart plays his brother Paul. Though Bogie is not really the featured player here, he delivers his lines with such wry languor and cool that we recognize the true star on set. Sheridan looks lovely throughout as Cassie Hartley, but it is the overwrought Lupino who takes center stage as Lana Carlsen by throwing a wrench into Raft’s acquisition of the American Dream.

For me, the most beautiful aspect of this film is in its beginning sequences…when we see the brothers work and sweat and dream. They have nothing but debt, yet they persevere and put their street smarts to work. Film noir may have given us a heroic dose of scandals, but it also brought us the verismo of such as the Fabrini brothers. It’s nice to see this slice of life on the silver screen. As Alfredo instructs Toto in Cinema Paradiso (1988), “Life isn’t like in the movies. Life…is much harder.” Sometimes directors like Walsh bring life into our living rooms. We can thank Raoul…and Rossellini…even Leoncavallo and Mascagni. Throw in Zola too. It’s only natural!

-PD

paulydeathwish

musician and film critic

Tag Archives: Humphrey Bogart