Cinematic Music with Pauly Deathwish
Season 1 Episode 2
Cinematic Music with Pauly Deathwish
Season 1 Episode 2
Recommended if you like Godspeed You! Black Emperor
So Pauly Deathwish comes out with a Sonic Youth cover.
Sounds like Sade and Yoshimi-era Lips.
Like mental illness is no big deal.
Almost bossa nova.
Like an elevator music rendition.
I dig it, though.
Bachelor pad music for hipsters.
Sounds like the chord progression is totally different.
This bloke gonna be locked up with Stravinsky in Boston.
Kinda Herbie Hancock doing Nirvana.
But then that fucking piano comes in.
Like “Time” from Aladdin Sane.
Beautiful and fucked up.
Ratchet up Conlon Nancarrow.
Something Charlie Parker about this.
Talking the Kim Gordon lines.
This is good shit.
Gets all ’80s.
Finally Thurston and Ranaldo drop in.
Shit gets real.
The harmonies on this song are insane.
Definitely fits the scordatura.
Something Brian Wilson about this progression too.
Like fuzzed-out Smile.
My fiancee dumped me 12 days ago without even telling me why.
Four year relationship gone.
Sounds a little Built to Spill.
Great harmonies again.
This dude didn’t cheat his Fux.
What will it do?
Some sad shit like Godspeed.
Silver Mt. Zion.
Hats get going.
In a Silent Way.
Bass drum drops in.
It is obvious Pauly loves “A New Career in a New Town”.
This vibe resurfaces in many of his songs.
But THIS song!
Very “Mayonaise” by Smashing Pumpkins.
Like Glenn Branca with a better childhood.
A long instrumental.
Slow, simmering fire.
Arpeggiator about to get wild again.
Fuzz bass drops in.
What a guitar tone!
Sounds like a fucking harmonica.
Great lo-fi…Devendra Banhart vibe.
But this is straight Velvet Underground.
An instrumental with ooohs and ahhhs.
Bottom drops out.
Drums chugging away like Primal Scream.
Interesting touch, there.
Little bit Mercury Rev.
See You on the Other Side.
Guitars enjoying themselves.
Ghost of Sterling Morrison.
Tune called “Catharsiss” [sic].
Must be some weird Godard reference.
And the last song of this maxi.
Similar start as track 2.
Strange flange/phase Shepard scale weirdness.
Truly chilled-out, mellow bathtub guitar.
Like Yo La Tengo.
Those fucking pricks.
Why did they block Pauly Deathwish on Twitter?
That’s uncalled for.
Bloke’s just a struggling musician.
But they are holier than thou.
Well, Pauly’s played Maxwell’s in Hoboken too.
YLT never hit a vibe this good except on “Pablo and Andrea”.
Fucking unblock Pauly Deathwish, you losers.
Cymbals Eat Guitars vibe.
Very chilled out.
A little “All Cats Are Grey” feel.
Good guitar noodling.
In a Verlaine/Lloyd way.
Why did my fiancee dump me?
She won’t even tell me why.
12 days ago.
The day before thanksgiving.
Drums kick in.
MBV would have gone for this.
Similar guitar underneath.
A little J. Mascis.
Living with my parents.
Are you in therapy?
Yes, I review my own albums.
Because no one else will review them.
And because I have put out 16 albums in one year.
I don’t have time for people to catch on.
I worked hard on this shit.
I’m the same age Alan Vega when he started.
About to be 45.
Old as fuck.
So, I have a lot in common with Pauly Deathwish.
I feel his pain.
His fiancee dumped him too.
12 days ago as well.
She also didn’t tell him why.
She just started ignoring him like he was some piece of shit.
So I feel totally justified in helping Pauly out with this review.
To help get his music a wider audience.
Young Heart Attack feedback.
Back to the Badalamenti synths.
She just turned off her heart.
Maybe she doesn’t realize how much she is hurting me.
But I think she’s just a vindictive bitch.
A silver mt. zion.
Arizona into the Rockies.
Music of wide open spaces.
Charles Mingus checks in.
Was QAnon bullshit?
WFMU seems to think so.
And all their hipster listeners.
Missing the Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
My Bloody Valentine.
Automatic for the people.
Rightly asking if this guy, Pauly Deathwish, is Borat.
Elvis working at the truck stop.
Into French philosophy at a Barnes & Noble.
The great philosophers.
Taking on Philip Glass.
Poor girl with grey teeth.
Addicted to Kardashians.
Smoking candy cigarettes.
Brutal, cold world.
No fall back.
Wanna lock me for blood pressure.
It ain’t no cakewalk.
Tech moves fast.
Better than nothing.
You have a printing press.
The Innocence Mission.
Porgy and Bess.
A thousand planes.
Two ambient instrumentals to start this album.
Setting an amber tone.
Time is a luxury.
And Miles comes in.
Like music from Big Pink.
Very much of the Deserter’s Songs type.
And Coltrane leaps in.
A little noodling.
And WHAT THE FUCK.
Now we are in Blue Hawaii.
On a jukebox in Nashville.
Sawdust on the floor.
Just spit that tabaccy anywheres.
It really is Elvis.
We’re in east Texas with George Jones.
Bona fide redneck interpolation.
“Daisies on Your Doorstep”.
And back to EXPANSIVE verb.
Phil Spector would have loved this.
The plandemic that killed Phil Spector.
Biggest celebrity to buy the farm.
Buy the farm?
Or sell the farm?
During this whole plandemic.
You have no publicity.
I block all reposts.
I wanna EARN it.
Dissolve into what?
More Mercury Rev homage.
Drums from “Desperado”.
Another lonely bloke ended by “Holes”.
Favorite song ever.
Back to regularly scheduled programming.
Knife in the Water.
John Cale droning away on the viola.
Definite Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci nod.
Again The Innocence Mission.
Neil Young big time.
Stooges meet Beach Boys meet Messiaen.
But the Bowie knife is orange.
Made in Germany.
Kanye West and Wayne Coyne drop in.
When you can sing, but you get raped by auto-tune.
Loosen that shit up.
Going all Arabic on me.
Clouds of sound on almost every track.
A very ambient album.
Peaches DJ Berlin.
Roger Waters again.
Straight into Bjork.
Does she umlaut?
Sounds of a Mac.
James Bond in Rio.
Spy guitar for reprise.
Rhythm of the saints.
Beethoven emperor concerto.
A masterful track.
NOW WE’RE TALKING.
Papa Trump back in the house.
For the apocalypse.
L.L. Cool J.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Vengeance is his.
Everyone given a chance.
A fair chance.
I hear a single.
Ramthun came through.
About fucking time.
There’s a riot goin’ on.
Tears of a motherfucking clown.
Having the French horns get groovy.
Sketches of Spain.
The Soft Bulletin.
Christ coming down from the clouds.
Like a ton of bricks.
Don’t call it a comeback.
Not all the way.
Rocket pans across stereo field.
AND ROSE AGAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS.
Jesus more space than NASA.
Really a masterpiece of sample placement.
This is like a fucking lost Roland Kirk album.
Concerto for Booty and Orchestra.
Can never spell.
No more spelling.
Adieu au langage.
Ties together album.
Last track coming on like Faust.
Built to Spill.
In memory of a bloke who bit it.
End of Night on Earth.
You will live forever, my friend.
I never knew you.
You aren’t forgotten.
Thought of you put in this track.
Yerself is steam.
Great album by Pauly Deathwish.
Sending under duress.
Fighting in the captain’s tower.
Two Sikh kids.
Real CIA asset?
Fake AFL-CIO advisor?
Golitsyn as Snowden.
Don’t know the Russian soul.
Death during questioning.
Montreal hotel room.
The Wohlstetters plotting 9/11.
Teaching false-flags to chickenshit Wolfowitz and others.
Focusing on Pearl Harbor.
Telegraphing “new Pearl Harbor”.
Colin Powell gone.
Alec Baldwin bizarre shooting.
Skull and Bones.
Physical surveillance of Brit Hume.
Reading Jane Fonda’s mail from the Soviet Union.
Opening of PRC mail at JFK NYC.
Surveillance of dissident groups.
Surveillance in Detroit.
Approximately 10,000 US citizens under CIA surveillance for being antiwar.
Michael Gilday loyalty in question.
Frank Olson “jumped” out of a window.
Why did De Niro trash Trump for four years?
De Niro is CIA.
Why does Jolie push climate change bullshit?
Jolie is CIA.
Why was Alec Baldwin [real or simulated] made to assassinate his own director of photography?
Because he had mocked Trump for four years by way of impersonation.
Because he had become anti-American.
Because he repeatedly belittled half the country (the half that voted for Trump) on Twitter.
Because he was in The Hunt for Red October.
Because this was planned long ago.
Putin jails Navalny.
Xi launches a hypersonic, Earth-orbiting, nuclear-capable missile [space nuke].
U.S. military intelligence and special operations quietly take out Rumsfeld.
Then Colin Powell.
And then a masterfully-inscrutable humiliation PSYOP involving Alec Baldwin.
The message to Russia and China from Q group?
Don’t fuck with us.
A show of capability.
To message [signalling].
To rule the airwaves despite Chinese infiltration.
To operate and engineer.
To pull off a flawless mission.
Was Alec Baldwin given an offer he couldn’t refuse?
Perhaps Baldwin has been receiving money from the PRC?
In exchange for leniency, he was asked to do what he does best: act.
He was asked to pretend to shoot his director of photography.
Or one bullet was loaded and Baldwin was humiliated in a much darker way.
Perhaps Halyna Hutchins was fitted with blood packs.
Moving along a continuum, there are many possibilities.
But the purpose was to send a message to Russia and China.
All were told to keep quiet on the grounds of national security.
Six crew members leave.
Who do you think replaced them?
We are finally catching up with Pauly Deathwish.
Here on his sixth album, drugs.
Good psychedelic surf start.
The romance must have seemed possible.
A great opening track.
Think of those private press releases from the ’60s and ’70s.
I’m hearing the joy and gravity of Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.
The breakdown of this song “An Ocean of Cough Syrup” is where it’s at.
Maybe a bit of Kevin Ayers.
After the party.
The party at the end of the world.
Certainly song lyrics reminiscent of Wayne Coyne.
Yummy Yummy Yummy.
Maybe the romance has faded.
Even Dire Straits.
Walk of life.
Track 2 with acrobatic chord changes.
Straight-up Fort Leavenworth presentation.
A pop song about biological warfare, economic warfare, psychological warfare, and divide/conquer.
This is some serious shit.
Not sure whether to call Billy Bragg or Glenn Greenwald.
This is the kind of shit that wins Nobels.
So maybe we are hearing the new Dylan here.
Imagine if Thom Yorke actually had something to say.
This dude is definitely right-wing.
I guess you could say.
Imagine if Bob Dylan was actually in the John Birch Society.
That’s what you get here.
Hey, take it or leave it.
But this dude is all about ‘merica.
And i got no problem with it.
Constitution of the USA.
“memes at the ready”.
Information warfare taken into the realm of head music.
This guy is a danger…to the lame liberal establishment.
THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAS RELEASED 7 ALBUMS THIS SUMMER!!!!!!!
Martin Rev dipping Copenhagen.
“Latinas for Trump”.
Track 3 is a trucker song.
Set in Switzerland.
With production like Nigel Godrich.
It’s a long track.
Drum machine and acoustic guitar.
And funky clavinet.
Haven’t heard this since Jerry Lee.
But this is the kinda shit cognizant about There’s a Riot Goin’ On.
Travelogue of Swiss sites from cinema history.
I have a feeling this guy would drink Klaus Schwab’s blood.
This conspiracy platter is fine listening.
Except Cortina d’Ampezzo.
NEU! meets Gram Parsons.
Who is/was this “Swiss Alps Truck-Driving Gal”?
Like French band Air.
Dancy filler track of highest quality.
Mike Lindell needs to hear this shit.
What if Wayne Coyne and Dave Fridmann actually made songs that spoke to something larger?
They’ve hit it occasionally.
You gotta have Jesus in your heart.
Brian Eno first four records spun out again and again.
And WHAT THE FUCK?!?
Like late-period Dylan.
If Dylan passes, this dude is next up.
I know it sounds implausible.
Communism used to be risqué.
Now the tables have turned.
Paul Joseph Watson needs to hear this shit.
The human condition.
Dr. Steve Pieczenik needs to hear this song, “COVID-19 Blues”.
This is Stax.
But with that San Antonio twist.
Pauly Deathwish from the Alamo city.
Is Trump still the President? 😉
When was this written?
Why that move to Bedminster?
A unifying song.
Ask Abraham Lincoln about “Dixie”.
Masked and anonymous.
QAnon line as money shot.
It don’t matter.
This record rocks the Walmart parking lot.
Richard Manuel tickling the ivories.
Band brown album.
Side two for all you vinyl lovers.
“Let’s Get Creative”.
Really special production.
Which just goes to show that anything can be done with an iPhone.
Tim Cook cocksucker.
In shitty record store.
Radiohead were our Beatles.
Or their Beatles.
Now many friends have left.
You can’t say White Lives Matter.
Can someone please tell Pauly Deathwish this?
Not that he SAID it.
Because he didn’t.
Trail of Dead.
Which makes sense.
Read this motherfucker’s bio on Spotify.
I happen to know some extra details which I may divulge at a later date.
Lots of training in music composition.
Multiple touches with Nadia Boulanger.
Edgar Wright needs to hear this shit.
Thurston Moore needs to hear this shit.
Watch the water.
Rollerskate Skinny appreciation society.
First Stereolab album.
Like a Sonic Youth country album.
Made in a barn.
Nothing Ween about this shit.
Except for the trucker song.
Which is funny as fuck.
This dude definitely a QAnon.
One if by…two…
First Eno record.
THIS is impressive.
Turns out to be motto of 4th Psychological Operations Group (4thPOG) at Fort Bragg.
The PSYWAR just got real.
Vietnamese ghosts amplified.
But this is Chinese.
China bio attack.
Fauci through China.
Focus on Peter Daszak and his absurd opera-singer brother.
There is going to be hell to pay.
Q-uantum of solace.
Obviously, Pauly Deathwish loves the instrumentals from Bowie’s Low.
This is a constant touchstone.
When the bass drops in on “Verbum Vincet ’72”.
Who was Q?
Who is Q?
Was Q a psychological operation?
From whence might it have emanated?
Hell to pay.
Criminal networks wiped off the face of the earth.
LeBron James is a worthless cocksucker.
I think I would get along with this Pauly Deathwish guy.
We have it all…in Utah.
“Bluffdale” like Marquee Moon.
Super Marquee Moon.
Even a bit of John Bonham.
Good drum sound.
No vaccine passports.
Here’s where BLM and MAGA come together.
Don’t vax us, man.
A unifying event.
The real racists are the totalitarian Democrats.
Am I doing this right?
Pepe Lives Matter needs to hear this shit.
Klaus Voorman bass.
Leave it in.
Smacked out of your gourd.
Phil Spector murdered by the Rona.
Lee “Scratch” producing The Clash.
People want to sleep forever.
Sleep through this global nightmare.
Gotta wake up.
But the reality is crushing.
So God gives us solace here and there.
Hal Blaine back in the barn stoned on some world-class shit.
Ending album on serious note?
“Cotton Ball Soup”.
Will the masses win?
Against the vaccine passport bastards?
No heroes can be found.
Where’s Thom Yorke?
Cobra and phases.
Emptying a sampler.
Always Flaming Lips.
A twist on bass.
The church of Michael Ivins’ hair.
He wrote this.
Bold start to Pauly Deathwish’s 5th album.
Watch for upcoming single.
Hit to death.
Tribute to Jack Johnson.
Steve Gadd slow nerve action.
Tom and Richard.
Hippies cool at CBGB.
Are you experienced?
Paul Simon never sounded this tough.
Always too cool.
But the lyrics give him a run.
Another COVID album.
McAfee didn’t uninstall himself.
A dentist chair in Florida.
Soros’s scumbag Rubin.
Forgot a fuck.
Not for kids.
Not safe for work.
John Paul Jones keys.
Frustration key of E.
The pitched song.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
Remember this connection.
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.
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.
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.
Go and sin no more.
We’re in a fucking war.
We gotta put Jesus first.
On the battlefield.
Out greatest stealth.
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 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.
Second jazz tune.
Straight off blues.
The Monk solo.
Dissonant as a motherfucker.
Is a joke?
Watch for first cover.
Straight into a QAnon song.
Flynn, in fact, did not go to jail.
Bob Marley gets all conspiratorial.
Obama gets arrested at his own birthday party.
Strzok blocked on Twitter.
A bunch of cunts?
Not Seth Keshel.
The real deal.
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.
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.
Black (Oak) Ark.
A disgusting record collection.
Lovingly preserved in filth.
Vinyl still good.
Cop shoot cop.
Strong statement against Antifa.
This guy is bold.
Dylan tongue cheek.
Only person to listen to this.
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.
This dude troublemaker.
Trail of dead.
We know you, but do you know us?
Deep Pieczenik research.
And the beloved NSA.
More accurately: CYBERCOM.
Not yet split?
Nakasone double duty?
Who could bring down?
Two QAnon songs in a row.
Macca bass line.
Welcome to the revolution.
The jazz and blues build up into rock and roll.
Fort Meade on repeat.
Cheyenne Mountain Alerts.
Air Force Cyber.
Rhythm of the saints.
Tettix Wave Accumulator?
Berry Gordy trippin’ balls.
A Lisbeth Salander ballad.
FBI + CIA.
But serves to delineate.
Interior and exterior.
Smarter than Strzok and Page.
Too fucked up to catch Velvets.
I hear you.
It’s a bitch.
Thom Yorke knob twiddler.
Eno in Roxy.
The big sleep date.
Noir and chill.
The harder they fall.
Shoot the piano player.
We are here in San Antonio.
We are making the best of it.
Eating ZZ Top nachos.
Beer drinkers and hell raisers.
A real jalapeno.
Australia to steam like teapot.
Comes with new iPhone.
An anthem like U2 ain’t written for a bit.
This is Dublin territory.
Sexy God believers.
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.
Pauly can play guitar!
Album builds up to last song.
Even last song builds up.
That glow in The World’s End.
But a sadness.
My Bloody Valentine.
Sloshy grunge hats.
I Am the Cosmos.
Yerself Is Steam.
The disappearance of Madeleine McCann.
You don’t know how it feels.
I can only give you everything.
Black magic warded off by honesty.
Serge on the way.
Lenny Bruce, even.
Hit to Death in the Future Head.
Wait at least until track three to break it down.
Southern Harmony and Musical Companion.
The confusion of ridiculous counterpoint.
Tonal, yet dissonant.
Thick Billy Corgan.
Definitely a sadness here.
All you need is hate.
The Inflated Tear.
Columbus, Ohio with duct tape.
Posing with a bass clarinet.
Did I ever write one?
Yes, I did.
Or is it contrabassoon?
Nadia Boulanger can tell you.
My teacher’s teacher (twice over).
The Left Banke.
Transient Random-Noise Bursts with Announcements.
A little lo-fi.
Changes that pull at your heartstrings.
A fucking marimba solo?!?
Are you kidding me???
Pauly Deathwish collaboration with Gordon Gano of Violent Femmes.
Lost Bayou Ramblers.
Gordon knew him as Death.
I have become death.
Tim Gane tone.
Back to J. Spaceman.
Dirty ass rock and roll with pristine horns.
Is this the artist we’ve been waiting for?
R. Stevie Moore?
Sounds like Jack Nitzsche.
Major Velvet vibes.
Dylan with P-bass.
Too much attitude.
Let it Come Down.
Fucker kicked the bucket.
First to be vaxxed.
First Suicide album.
The Soft Bulletin.
Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space.
Gimme some lovin’?
La Monte Young.
First rehearsal tapes.
New York City heroin.
Warhol Factory torn down.
Across from YMCA.
Great throwaway lyrics.
Sound of universe.
Direct into mixing console.
Blood pressure rising.
I think I’m in love.
Will the circle remain unbroken?
When I had dinner with Roky.
First Velvets album.
But you gotta buy it.
Cop shoot cop.
On the jukebox.
Eat at the gas station.
First time in Texas.
It’s definitely Bowie.
Old is new again.
A fuck ton of flutes.
Flute loops literally.
Little fluffy clouds.
Gay glam chorus.
Boys peel out.
Gives me pants.
A Shot in the Dark.
Under the Western Freeway.
With Sean Mackowiak.
Comes back loud.
One song mastered soft.
The main influence of Pauly Deathwish’s debut album.
Chariots of fire.
Such a groove.
By the side of a freeway.
Under an underpass.
Not like RHCP.
How did a Trump supporter make this album?!?
I thought all Trump supporters were redneck morons???
This is way fucking better than Ariel Pink’s dabblings.
This sounds like a debut album.
Songs saved up.
Like The Strokes.
Cinematic as fuck.
Trail of Dead.
Because Pauly wrote the string arrangement on IX.
Snot on the crowd.
Lost Bayou Ramblers lost sessions.
This was all made on an iPhone?!?
Major 7ths in uppermost range of piano.
Almost indistinguishable from octaves.
Only for the sensuous ear.
Waters delayed bass.
No nonsense drums.
Humble Pie reference?!?
Predating new Bob Dylan album.
Check SoundCloud timestamp.
This is definitely the QAnon anthem.
This hook should be on a million conspiracy videos.
“10 Days of Darkness”.
Tell ’em Large Marge sent ya!
My end is my beginning is my end.
Great debut album (if I do say so myself).
Symptomatic of the times. Now. Then.
Read the news and it’s just about enough to depress you. If you’re not already cynical.
But here comes a boy and a little girl…trying to change the whole wide world.
If you find this film, it likely won’t be under its original title Sweet Toronto.
My copy says John Lennon and the Plastic Ono Band: Live in Toronto.
Which shows you how much Shout! Factory thought of the director D.A. Pennebaker.
The changed the title of his fuckin’ film!
Sure, they tacked on a poignant interview with Yoko to the front end, but other than that it seems unchanged.
Reminds us of another director who got shafted making a music documentary: Jean-Luc Godard.
What is most widely available today as Sympathy for the Devil was originally to be called One Plus One.
The producers tacked on the title song to the end of the film (playing over largely inconsequential footage…at least initially) and retitled the sucker.
Godard allegedly punched the producer in the face after the premier…but I digress.
Why should you watch this film under consideration?
There’s a couple good reasons.
The first is Bo Diddley. Sure, it’s only one song, but it sets the stage (literally) for what follows.
Pennebaker uses Diddley’s music to usher in the motorcade of John Lennon and entourage.
And when we really get to watch Bo, he’s dancin’ and jivin’ and (by the way) doing a nice job of not stepping on his guitar cable.
It’s a long, jammy, droned-out piece: “Bo Diddley.” That’s right, the song is titled “Bo Diddley” by (who else?) Bo Diddley.
If you close your eyes you just might think you’re listening to The Velvet Underground. That won’t be the last time in the night for which those words are applicable.
Pennebaker keeps the train a’ rollin’ with a complete change of pace: Jerry Lee Lewis.
Again, it’s only one song, but the director builds the excitement of anticipation for the headliner.
Lewis…smoking his cigar…gold rings and jewelry on that pumpin’ right hand…up high on the piano…and occasionally a brown patent-leather ankle book (Beatle boot?) makes it’s way up to the top register to heel a little tone cluster of exclamation.
At this point, Shout! Factory (perhaps at the behest of Chuck Berry?) makes a decision to cut Chuck’s song.
And so we roll into Little Richard. Again, we can imagine…Prince, Michael Jackson…we are seeing the entire history of rock and roll compressed into 70 (?) minutes…from Jerry Lee singing a song made most famous by Elvis all the way to the headliner who will take us to far out, groovy places which may or may not still exist.
Little Richard has the most cracker-jack band. A couple of sax players…really tight.
And so after three fantastic performers in a row–three originators of rock and roll, we get the rag-tag Plastic Ono Band.
John starts ’em off nice and slow…reverent…”Blue Suede Shoes,” “Money (That’s What I Want),” and “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy” before the curve ball of “Yer Blues”…
So lonely…wanna die…ain’t dead already…know reason why.
Klaus Voormann hits a steaming helping of wrong notes throughout the early part of the set as bass player, but that’s why we love him, right? Reminds me of those bum notes which they left in (didn’t edit out) on John’s first solo album titled (what else?) Plastic Ono Band. But we also love Klaus because he drew the cover to The Beatles Revolver album.
But what Klaus lacks in precision is made up for by Eric Clapton on lead guitar. Clapton with his beard…denim jacket…a generally pensive look on his face the whole time which seems to read, “What the fuck am I doing here? Can’t believe I’m doing this.” Clapton never glares at Ono (at least not in the shots we receive through the miracle of montage), but one can’t help thinking that a musician of Eric’s caliber might have been perplexed (to say the least) regarding Yoko’s musical contributions to the night’s proceedings.
[Alan White is, of course, great on drums.]
And so we slink into “Cold Turkey”…premiered this very night in 1969. The rendition is like Booker T. & the MGs…very cool and groovy…laid back.
But most of all…about this film…John Lennon in a white suit…huge beard…long hair…little circular glasses. His presence…
Remember, this concert was about four months after the Montreal bed-in.
And so the band launch into “Give Peace a Chance.”
And it’s still the most revolutionary statement possible.
Musicians are the only ones who have ever done anything worthwhile…
Truth be told, the rendition of “Give Peace a Chance” is a little lackluster.
“And now Yoko’s going to do her thing all over you”
With those words (or something close to that effect), John takes us into the final act of this opera.
And it is powerful.
Yes, these grungy musicians actually succeed in making time stop.
Yoko wails like a woman on the sea lamenting her lost child.
For all the naysayers, Ono actually did have a good sense of pitch. It’s just that pitch (as the Western ear defines it…narrowly) is not her predominant concern (apparently).
It’s like the Damo Suzuki years of the German band Can…including their two Krautrock masterpieces Tago Mago and Ege Bamyasi. The same criticism that Ono gets for her far-out howling is rarely leveled at Suzuki. Listeners of Can know that they are getting into an experimental vehicle when they plop a Can album on the turntable.
This, arguably, makes Ono even more revolutionary. To go from “Blue Suede Shoes” to “John, John (Let’s Hope for Peace)” is truly high art. The conceptual mind-fuck is equal to anything John or Alice Coltrane ever pulled-off.
And so it is that the night ends on a most bizarre note…a drone…three instruments perched against amplifiers feeding back…as if one is watching…and you will know us by the Trail of Dead.
You’ve gotta see it. Either it speaks to you or it doesn’t. For me, there are few more poignant ways to remember the radical genius that was John Lennon than watching a document like this.
Bloody fucking bollocks!
I’ve wanted to say that for a long time. I’ve said it before. But it looks better in writing.
It has a sort of permanence to it. Yet we never know.
Why the non sequitur expletive? Because this film is a brilliant expletive
Long ago…in a galaxy…in OUR galaxy, as a matter of fact,
there were some clever blokes (?) who called themselves the Dziga-Vertov Group.
Chief among them, of course, was Jean-Luc Godard.
But it is telling that he wanted his celebrity subsumed by something greater than himself.
Ach, Gott! Fuck this. I have caught myself slipping into a routine voice.
A routine voice will tell you nothing about this film.
And so we come to the crux of this experiment: struggle.
Film is a struggle between images and sounds.
In a Godard film, even images struggle amongst themselves in a feeding frenzy.
It is a manifestation of a mind trying to process the unfathomable complexity of the world.
In the film under review, it is especially the sounds which cannibalize one another.
But this is not new in Godard films. Always, ALWAYS…there is a plethora of content.
Like a honey ant ready to explode.
[ ] Space left intentionally blank.
Analogous to paragraph.
If you are thinking poetry,
you are not far off.
We miss the mark daily. It is not a Christian confession.
There is not a way to look over the summary to this film on Wikipedia.
In that sense, I am offering a service.
Yet, I am giving you a very subjective, personal impression of this film.
I write film criticism which strives to harmonize with each individual film under consideration.
In other words, each film must be reviewed differently.
There really isn’t, despite a tendency to the contrary towards generalization, such thing as
a film like all the rest.
Yet I have my patois. My schtick.
Take it or leave it.
Only know that the message is under continually scrutiny.
Self-criticism of film criticism in a controlled system seeking to explain it all.
If you are looking for the answer to the question,
“Who’s in control?,”
the answer is,
“No one’s in control.”
I’m sure my friends at the CIA will agree with me on this.
To clarify, I have no friends at the CIA (that I know of).
Speaking sequentially and descriptively with deference to “plot” is useless here.
We have lost the plot. [Thank God!]
And so a guitar can change he world.
And some extremely-advanced students can change some Beatles lyrics (months after The White Album was released).
You must struggle in the mud. Mud and blood. Le sable et le sang. Rimbaud.
I failed miserably.
And she was hoisted into the air on a Panavision boom.
Nude ascending a staircase.
This just in…THREE LEVELLERS SHOT BY CROMWELL IN BURFORD…
ORIOLES DEFEAT WHITE SOX IN BOURGEOIS VACUUM
Ah,…now I am weeping for the revolution…or for the auteur.
But the auteur has given us a lasting oeuvre.
Was Truffaut’s only English-language film Fahrenheit 451?
It matters. Here. …et ailleurs.
I am weeping for the old auteur…before he’s even gone.
And next I will view but not review.
Solely my own experience. To remember where I started. (which is basically where I am at this very second)
I have not moved an inch.
It is essential to see British Sounds. To hear British Sounds.
As an English speaker. In April 2015. You won’t even need the Italian subtitles.
They are telling us we are losers. THEY they.
I have no message. “Too many messages.” –Harry Partch
I am just floating on the waves of free association.
Go on: call me an amateur.
A lover , not a fighter…who didn’t claw his way up to gargle in the rat-race choir.
He lives. Let me check.
And we have no way of communicating with our fellow man. The life sucked out of the 21st century.
This is by design.
“Separation is the alpha and the omega of the spectacle.” –Guy Debord
I present the conspiratorial view of history applied to cinema.
Paranoid nonfiction. I have never read Dick.
Quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. The difficulties.
Such a quintessentially British euphemism.
The Troubles. Northern Ireland.
We know nothing. It’s not as easy as shot/reverse/shot.
It’s like the Front de libération du Québec (FLQ).
KGB calling it a CIA false flag.
Need we remind the perceptive reader of world history that Dr. Ewen Cameron was being paid by the CIA to carry out hideous psychiatric experiments at the Allan Memorial Institute on the grounds of McGill University in Montreal as part of Project MKUltra over a period of time which overlapped with the activities of the FLQ? That is established fact and not a conjecture with which the KGB had any connection.
And so the question becomes, as Godard and co-director Jean-Henri Roger ask, [to paraphrase] “Is Marx the best weapon with which to confront the situation before us?”
Baltimore is haunted by the past (capitalism). China is haunted by the present (vestigial communism). In America there is no present moment (minus the times when reality erupts within the spectacle). In China there is no past. Not really. It is forbidden. Communism requires the primacy of the present moment. History is history. Gone. Capitalism requires the continuation of the past. Inheritance. Both suffer from the status quo. Capitalism is no longer capitalism…and communism is no longer communism. The great irony is that monopoly capitalism and totalitarian socialism are no longer easily distinguishable (if they ever were). Why more people don’t seek out the power elite of this two-sided conspiracy coin is beyond me.
Fear. Fear prevents us. Only the dispossessed have what is called courage. Rage. Courage.