https://open.spotify.com/episode/5TUJ0j575IHXMYpFv3U6SI?si=62f58122ff4c4bbb
Tag Archives: Richard Manuel
Cinematic music 4/11 [2022)
https://share.stationhead.com/C9RoRNgOn1y
“Wonderful”–The Beach Boys
“Don’t Just Do Something”–Spiritualized
“Us and Them”–Pink Floyd
“A New Career in a New Town”–David Bowie
“Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 16: II Adagio”–Edvard Grieg
“Heroes”–David Bowie
“Here Come The Warm Jets”–Brian Eno
“Thirty-Five Thousand Feet of Despair”–The Flaming Lips
“Country Boy”–The Band
“High Coin”–Harpers Bizarre
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WMAxv394ul9NnhlUuTC3c?si=d0467807c99a4c4a
drugs [2021)
We are finally catching up with Pauly Deathwish.
Here on his sixth album, drugs.
Good psychedelic surf start.
The romance must have seemed possible.
Christian trappings.
A great opening track.
Psychedelic Christianity.
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.
Wasted innocence.
After the party.
The party at the end of the world.
Certainly song lyrics reminiscent of Wayne Coyne.
Sonic Youth.
Yummy Yummy Yummy.
Pop psych.
Monkees.
Maybe the romance has faded.
Tabloid.
Even Dire Straits.
Walk of life.
Track 2 with acrobatic chord changes.
Music school.
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.
The bends.
Lift.
Leonard Cohen.
John Cale.
Anthemic.
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.
Ezra Pound!
But this dude is all about ‘merica.
And i got no problem with it.
Climax.
Constitution of the USA.
Time’s up.
“memes at the ready”.
Information warfare taken into the realm of head music.
Songwriting.
This guy is a danger…to the lame liberal establishment.
THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAS RELEASED 7 ALBUMS THIS SUMMER!!!!!!!
Kraftwerk.
Jon Spencer.
Martin Rev dipping Copenhagen.
Ministry?
Butthole Surfers?
Dabbling.
“Latinas for Trump”.
Wow.
Track 3 is a trucker song.
Set in Switzerland.
With production like Nigel Godrich.
It’s a long track.
But enjoyable.
Drum machine and acoustic guitar.
And funky clavinet.
Jerry Reed.
Amos Moses.
Yodeling!
FUcking hell.
Haven’t heard this since Jerry Lee.
Dwight Yoakam.
Chris Isaak.
But this is the kinda shit cognizant about There’s a Riot Goin’ On.
Spaced cowboy.
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.
Variety.
French/German.
No Italian.
Except Cortina d’Ampezzo.
No Romansch.
Motorik.
NEU! meets Gram Parsons.
Who is/was this “Swiss Alps Truck-Driving Gal”?
Cosmic funk.
Like French band Air.
Great bassline.
Dancy filler track of highest quality.
Mike Lindell needs to hear this shit.
mark_packet.
recieve_good.
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.
Cornelius.
Stereolab.
And WHAT THE FUCK?!?
Delta blues?
Country blues???
Yes, indeed.
“COVID-19 Blues”.
Like late-period Dylan.
Seriously.
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.
Muscle Shoals.
Atlantic.
Booker T.
But with that San Antonio twist.
Pauly Deathwish from the Alamo city.
Augie Meyers.
Flaco Jimenez.
Is Trump still the President? 😉
When was this written?
Why that move to Bedminster?
Cabinet meeting.
A unifying song.
Like “Dixie”.
Ask Abraham Lincoln about “Dixie”.
Masked and anonymous.
QAnon line as money shot.
Sweet harmonica.
Linn drums.
Beck.
Loop.
It don’t matter.
This record rocks the Walmart parking lot.
GUITAR SOLO!
Jimmy Vaughn.
B.B. King.
Richard Manuel tickling the ivories.
Band brown album.
Call Q.
Call Mojo.
Call Uncut.
Side two for all you vinyl lovers.
“Let’s Get Creative”.
Floyd delay.
Sexy song.
J. Spaceman.
Jeff Tweedy.
Kid A.
Really special production.
Which just goes to show that anything can be done with an iPhone.
Except privacy.
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.
No slouch.
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.
Sexy song.
T. Rex.
Bolan.
Jonny Greenwood.
Scott Pilgrim.
Edgar Wright needs to hear this shit.
No cap.
Dead ass.
Trans.
Neil Young.
Dead Man.
Thurston Moore needs to hear this shit.
Funny mention.
Watch the water.
August 20.
Rollerskate Skinny appreciation society.
St. Johnny.
Boo Radleys.
First Stereolab album.
Grandaddy.
Harvest drums.
Like it!
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.
“Midnight Rider”.
Paul Revere.
One if by…two…
Mercury Rev.
Suzanne Thorpe.
Applied memetics.
Oh shit.
First Eno record.
Desert island.
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.
PCAPs.
Obviously, Pauly Deathwish loves the instrumentals from Bowie’s Low.
This is a constant touchstone.
Trance.
Meditative techno.
Ugh.
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?
Roger Waters.
Hell to pay.
Criminal networks wiped off the face of the earth.
Peking opera.
Sue me.
LeBron James is a worthless cocksucker.
I think I would get along with this Pauly Deathwish guy.
8964.
We have it all…in Utah.
“Bluffdale” like Marquee Moon.
Meets chiptune.
Super Marquee Moon.
Even a bit of John Bonham.
Good drum sound.
Dubstep?
Riots worldwide.
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.
Black ark.
Meandering.
Oar.
Moby grape.
Hal Blaine back in the barn stoned on some world-class shit.
Nodding.
Space-age.
Astral weeks.
Nick Drake.
Ending album on serious note?
“Cotton Ball Soup”.
Will the masses win?
Against the vaccine passport bastards?
Montreal.
Where’s GYBE?
No heroes can be found.
Where’s Thom Yorke?
Radiohead?
Bob Dylan?
WWIII.
iTunes.
Spotify.
-PD
Salinger [2013)
I read every book J.D. Salinger ever wrote.
This was, of course, due to The Catcher in the Rye.
If my memory serves me, it was the first book I ever enjoyed reading.
The first book that ever made me laugh.
[what a concept!]
And so I made it through the other three books published during the author’s lifetime.
None of them made the same impression upon me as had Catcher, yet I knew this was a special, special writer.
One story did, however, stick with me for unrelated reasons.
That story was “A Perfect Day for Bananafish”.
And the connection was Richard Manuel (of The Band)…who died in a similar way (and in Florida, near enough in my mind…city notwithstanding) to the protagonist of that haunting little tale.
But I am not obsessed with J.D. Salinger.
Indeed, I had not given thought to him in quite some time.
His writing affected me deeply, but it was not the kind of stuff that I wished to revisit.
Once was enough.
But still…
Perhaps his greatest work…was his strange, mysterious life.
THAT is what fascinated me!
Long after the books ended.
In my literary pantheon, there is one very small category which holds but two authors: Salinger and Pynchon.
The recluses.
And so, in the final estimation, Salinger was the consummate artist.
A genius of public relations as much as a weaver of phrases.
Well, dear friends…if you relate to any of the above, then you absolutely must see the documentary Salinger.
What is particularly fascinating is that our author was in counterintelligence.
Yes, by this I mean to infer that Salinger’s self-imposed exile was very much a calculated move from the mind of a trained spook (for lack of a better word).
But there’s more to the story…
Salinger likewise was a soldier.
World War II.
Voluntary.
From D-Day through V-E Day.
299 days (as director Shane Salerno makes wonderfully clear).
But if this has not piqued your curiosity about this mammoth of 20th-century literature, consider the pithy, icy story of how Salinger was jilted, while at war (!), to the benefit of an Englishman [wait for it] living in America…
Yes, his girlfriend married Charlie Chaplin.
While J.D. was seeing men die in France and Germany to push back and defeat the Nazis.
And the cherry on top of that bitter sundae?
His erstwhile girlfriend was the daughter of America’s only Nobel-prize-winning dramatist: Eugene O’Neill.
This is the kind of stuff any documentarian would drool over.
But likewise, portraying the delicate enigma of Salinger is a task which could have resulted in crumbling failure with any faux pas (in its literal sense).
Shane Salerno (any relation to Nadja…Sonnenberg?) crafted a thoroughly engrossing document of Salinger’s richly-fabriced life.
But the coup comes at the end (and it is not too much of a spoiler to reveal this).
Salinger appears to be the primary source (if Wikipedia is to be even marginally trusted) concerning the forthcoming publication of Salinger’s fruits of reclusion.
We have a timetable: 2015-2020.
40% has come and gone.
You know, I never thought I’d live to see the day when a “new” Salinger book hit the shelves.
And I won’t believe it till I see it.
But one thing is for sure: I’m buying.
Finally, I owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Salinger.
He passed away in 2010.
What a special gift he had!
What joy he shared with the world!!
It was the real thing.
The masses, after all, CAN (in the final estimation) tell the difference between shit and Shinola.
And to all the critics who ever panned J.D. out of jealousy, a big “Fuck you” is in order.
One more thing…
This review is dedicated to all those who travelled up to Cornish, New Hampshire hoping to catch a glimpse of the man…
All those who left a note…
All those whose pleas fell on deaf ears…
I know your dedication.
My hero is Jean-Luc Godard.
I know.
I know letters.
I know the long-distance call.
My Cornish, New Hampshire just happens to be Rolle, Switzerland.
But I know.
And I want to make this very clear.
You are not dupes.
You had the open hearts to dream.
And you let an author into your lives.
Perhaps J.D. Salinger was incapable of expressing his gratitude for all of you.
Perhaps out of some kind of self-hate.
But I’m bold enough to speak for the man.
He loves you.
Always did.
Always will.
Else, he never would have given you Holden in the first place.
-PD
Johnny English Reborn [2011)
With film reviews, a critic either reviews the film or reviews themselves. Selves? Self.
Continuing… There are two major modes of writing about art.
If I tell you that film was designated the seventh art by Ricciotto Canudo, am I telling you more about film or more about myself?
I would argue that I am trying to flaunt my intellect.
Every once in awhile my brain serves me well. At other times I am painfully aware of my shortcomings.
And so, Johnny English…not exactly King Lear by Godard.
Nay… ,,but a near piss-perfect spy spoof.
Piss-perfect?
Now there’s an odd turn of phrase. Can’t say I’ve thought of that one in awhile.
Really, it makes little sense…unless…drug test?
Who knows…
It’s certainly not timoxeline barbebutenol. No. I’m assured by my ever faithful companion Wikipedia that that (2) is a fictional drug.
It does, however, share a molecular formula with two actual drugs: amobarbital and pentobarbital (respectively).
C11H18N2O3
Yes…
Now<> If I followed this particular tangent I would be indirectly commenting on the film at hand.
The ostensible “meaning” would be that this film is so devoid of substance that I had been reduced to concocting literary small talk in its absence.
But that is not the case.
And so in the great literary tradition of the Choose Your Own Adventure books, I shall forego the pharmacological flourish and focus on what’s really important.
Johnny English Reborn, while not a masterpiece in the Palme d’Or sense, smashes both the first two Austin Powers films (and indeed its own predecessor) to infinitesimal bits.
[If I allowed myself the indulgence of an aside involving quantum computing and its version of bits (qubits) I would really be showing my arse.]
Because I don’t know quantum computing from linear regressions. [Figuratively speaking.]
And so I will be plain as day -> I identify with this film
I know. It’s sad in a certain way…
“The Great Pretender”…I sometimes think. I think of Richard Manuel crooning that song with such pain in his heart.
Yes, Levon Helm was right: the moments that Richard took the spotlight for ballads…those were the real highlights.
“Georgia On My Mind”…
A guy with a great big beard. As weird and wistful as Brian Wilson in a giant sandbox.
Uhhh…yes. Where were we?
Johnny English.
Reborn no less…
Indeed, a few things are different here.
First we must thank director Oliver Parker.
This film really holds together.
Lucky for him he had Rowan Atkinson in top form as the title character.
But there are two supporting players who deserve special mention.
The first is Daniel Kaluuya.
Mr. Kaluuya, himself of Ugandan ancestry, fills some very big shoes left vacant by his predecessor Ben Miller.
I really did Miller a disservice by failing to mention his fine performance in the first Johnny English film.
But Kaluuya takes a somewhat different tack.
I may be imagining things, but I get the feeling that Kaluuya was playing this role for all it’s worth (like an athlete or musician with a make-or-break chance).
Sure…films employ multiple takes. Drop a line? No problem. Let’s take it again.
And yet, Kaluuya adds a gentle urgency to this farce by way of truly accomplished thespian abilities.
I certainly hope someone in the film world was paying attention as his filmography does not reflect an appreciation for his immense talents.
And finally, I must mention the redemption of Rosamund Pike (reborn, if you will).
I last left her on my site as a rather tragic villain figure in the actual Bond film Die Another Day. Mercifully, she does not exit this film with a volume of Sun Tzu shishkababbed flush to bosom. [What?]
Quite the contrary…for here she is the good guy (girl)…and her acting is as impeccable as her true beauty.
But poor Johnny…poor Rowan Atkinson.
I’ve hardly mentioned him at all.
Must I tell you again what a genius this fellow is?
Perhaps so.
I haven’t been effusive enough regarding a man whose talents are of the most rare kind.
True, born-to-yuck talents. Born-to-ham. I would only put him in a race with Roberto Benigni.
Those two.
They are of another era.
Like Peter Sellers.
Like Jacques Tati.
And, of course, back to the fondateur Charlie Chaplin.
The modern world does not embrace this visual sort of humor.
Every once in awhile it reappears. Benigni wins Best Actor.
And then it’s gone again.
Atkinson, dear boy, if you’re out there on the brainwave wavelengths…
You’ve still got it, old chap!
-PD
Masculin feminin: 15 faits precis [1966)
I don’t write about the film, I write about me. I don’t write about the film, I write about the world. No. I write about the film the best I can. I am on a mission to start every sentence with I…from now to the end of eternity. Not quite.
I don’t know what pops up in your reader. You know about the reader? Tell me about the reader, Charles… Yes? And??? Right. The reader writes. Correct!
We are some macro-blogging mofos. Four times I wrote it and four times it autocorrected to micro. And so the stupid hyphen. Just like the titles. Diacritical marks are the first to go in totalitarian societies. Then the dollar words. Soon, all words which might express inefficient, ineffective concepts such as tenderness.
Now we are rolling. Give the anarchist a cigarette!
D’accord…
Allors…
Jean-Pierre Léaud was the Jason Schwartzman of the 60s…or vice versa. And while we might think primarily of Truffaut, here we see Léaud in a truly penetrating role.
Chantal Goya. She plays the ice-cold bitch pretty well…completely meretricious, vacuous, etc.
And then we run into red hypertext “links” for Catherine-Isabelle Duport and Michel Debord.
Yeah, we all know: the children of Marx and Coca-Cola. Could have been. Tarzan vs. IBM. Could have been. The ape and the onion. Mercury Rev.
Well, yes: it could have been. Today. Particularly dreary. All week. Usually I embrace it. Pretend like I’m Liam Gallagher in Manchester. But not today. Not this week. Only shadows in the night gets it right.
It’s a bummer. I’m too old to be young. Too perverted to be romantic. Too romantic to live. Etc. Etc. Etc.
And yes: I catch the aspect ratio. I yell Trotskyite. Not really, but parallel. I detest the cowardice…when I myself am a basket-case. It’s ok. We are human.
We remember Marx and Coca-Cola, but we forget James Bond and Vietnam. We forget the military-industrial complex.
Let me tell you how it happened. I lay down as always with my sea-foam-green (eau-de-nil) headphones ready to continue my reflection on the great oeuvre. And my computer doesn’t cooperate. It’s as if I have conjured the spirit of JLG. The sound outraces the picture. Chaplin-fast to Notre Musique-slow. The waves come crashing in. Ingmar is hijacked and ridiculized.
Translation: my computer won’t play the disc. After 15 minutes of relatively good play, it jerks and stops and pauses and reloads in an endless loop. It’s like as a kid with that De La Soul CD…I’d physically pick up the player an inch and let it drop down. Somehow it would catch. It was just that disc. No, not this time.
I have cared for this film like a child. It is one of many baby Jesuses in my Jodorowsky stable. Manger.
And so I traveled far to rewatch this. Fifteen paces maybe. 15. So what?
Et allors?
Pauvre Wikipedia. Lion-wannabe. Quick! Call Tim Rice and Elton John. Pathetic.
Yes, she keeps abreast of the pop charts. Cashbox. And he likes her type of breasts. Why not say it?
And isn’t there anything else you like about me? Well, Miss 19, there’s not much more to like. A Big Mac and a pair of Nikes and you’re happy.
Yes, Seymour Glass. I’m sure he just backed up too far on the balcony…trying to get all two of them in the picture…in Florida…like Richard Manuel.
Duport eats a bananafish. Marquis de Sade. Such a perfect day. Cassis and mineral water. And Orangina for Marlène Jobert. Perhaps. Who cares.
You can tell a redhead even in black and white. She should have been more famous. Eva Green’s mom.
yé-yé all day long
Mozart
the orchestra is fantastic
clarinet concerto
middle movement
Paul. Again with the Paul. It started tentatively in Vivre sa vie. And then Paul Javal. Contempt. In the name of the father. And now again without Christian name like Le Chiffre. James Bond and Vietnam. Same complex. Inferiority. Military-industrial.
With that I am at 666 words. Ed Sanders decides to consult Harry Smith on how to levitate the Pentagon. Exercise the demons. Nothing like a demon with love handles. Give ’em a good workout.
B-A-C-H. Psychotic fugue on the Mashed Potato. Dee Dee Sharp.
What other kind of fugue is there?!? Jonny Greenwood would surely tell you it’s reversible. Amnesiac.
ménage à quatre
bullshit
intellectual parlor games
Wikipedia
I know. I know. Hawaiian. Quick! Vite!
caméra-couteau
probing, probing
like Tony Parker
pass the goddamn ball
I’m not sure you want to know. I am a lip-reader. Baudelaire. Au lecteur. Samuel Fuller. Les Fleurs du mal. No one under 18 admitted. Strictly no admittance. 778 words and I haven’t gotten to the film.
-PD
to end the author
À bout the Au T EU Rrrrrr…
Age: 46
Residence: San Antonio, TX
Former occupation: musician
Education: BM music theory/composition, MBA management
Dream: direct films
Life soundtrack: Mercury Rev, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, The Delgados, Suicide, The Band, The Velvet Underground, Amon Düül II, The Homosexuals, Primal Scream, Teenage Fanclub, Rollerskate Skinny, Silver Apples, Kevin Ayers, My Bloody Valentine, Spiritualized, Stereolab, …and you will know us by the Trail of Dead, Hawkwind, The Magic Numbers, Comus, Magma, Roland Kirk, Grinderman/Nick Cave, Teenage Filmstars, The Flaming Lips, Les Rallizes Dénudés, Oasis, The Rolling Stones, AC/DC, Jandek, Kanye West, Syd Barrett, 13th Floor Elevators, Skip Spence…
Favorite author: Nick Tosches
Favorite musician: Bob Dylan
Favorite director/intellectual hero:
Jean-Luc Godard
paulydeathwish 