Introversion [2021)

Teenage Fanclub.

That glow in The World’s End.

But a sadness.

THE sadness.

Emily Dickinson.

Unrequited.

Unattainable.

My Bloody Valentine.

Sloshy grunge hats.

Edge echo.

Chris Bell.

I Am the Cosmos.

Yerself Is Steam.

Slowdive.

Rutti.

Brian Eno.

The disappearance of Madeleine McCann.

Tom Petty.

You don’t know how it feels.

J. Spaceman.

Abbey Road.

Air.

George Martin.

Beck.

Badfinger suicides.

Loser.

Spiritualized.

Royal Albert.

I can only give you everything.

Rick Danko.

Loping.

The Delgados.

Dave Fridmann.

Black magic warded off by honesty.

Good timing.

Divine.

Sigur Rós.

Nigel Godrich.

Pocket symphonies.

Charlotte Gainsbourg.

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.

Gorecki.

Arvo Pärt.

Deserter’s Songs.

Absolutely.

The confusion of ridiculous counterpoint.

Aaron Copland.

Tonal, yet dissonant.

Thick Billy Corgan.

Siamese Dream.

Definitely a sadness here.

Dawn Upshaw.

Tabula rasa.

Death.

Immense Mellotron.

Tchaikovsky.

Abrupt modulation.

Sugar plum.

Lou Reed.

Ennio Morricone.

Cinema Paradiso.

All you need is hate.

Upstate.

Chaliapin.

Basso profundo.

Jussi Björling.

Dvořák.

Memorial day.

The Inflated Tear.

Columbus, Ohio with duct tape.

Debussy.

Posing with a bass clarinet.

Primal Scream.

Get Duffy.

Rock ferry.

Smokey Robinson.

Sad clown.

Dead clown.

Kinks.

Grasshopper.

Suzanne.

Woodwind quintet.

Did I ever write one?

Yes, I did.

César Franck.

Saint-Saëns.

Organ symphony.

Or is it contrabassoon?

Nadia Boulanger can tell you.

My teacher’s teacher (twice over).

The Left Banke.

LSD.

Herb Alpert?

Hummel.

Handel.

Strawberry fields.

Stereolab.

Unequivocally.

Transient Random-Noise Bursts with Announcements.

A little lo-fi.

Vocal doubled.

Vox continental.

Great hook.

Changes that pull at your heartstrings.

More melancholy.

A fucking marimba solo?!?

Are you kidding me???

Makes sense.

Pauly Deathwish collaboration with Gordon Gano of Violent Femmes.

Lost Bayou Ramblers.

Gordon knew him as Death.

I have become death.

96 Tears.

Farfisa.

Partials.

Tim Gane tone.

Faust IV.

Doogie Howser?

Scary.

Impending.

Suspense.

Rock bass.

Ozzy.

Black Sabbath.

Amazing Grace.

Pete Townshend.

Front.

Back to J. Spaceman.

Dirty ass rock and roll with pristine horns.

Expensive drugs.

Sophisticated changes.

Éminence grise?

Is this the artist we’ve been waiting for?

Rodriguez?

R. Stevie Moore?

Wesley Willis?

Sounds like Jack Nitzsche.

Major Velvet vibes.

Suck-ceed twice.

Dylan with P-bass.

Mick Taylor.

Too much attitude.

Keith Richards.

Let it Come Down.

Shakespeare.

Fucker kicked the bucket.

First to be vaxxed.

Maricopa.

First Suicide album.

Bossa nova.

The Soft Bulletin.

Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space.

Gimme some lovin’?

Steve Winwood?

How old?

La Monte Young.

Slow changes.

First rehearsal tapes.

Alan Vega.

Martin Rev.

New York City heroin.

Warhol Factory torn down.

Across from YMCA.

Trump dances.

Great throwaway lyrics.

George Harrison.

Sound of universe.

Spacemen 3.

Savage tone.

Revolution.

Direct into mixing console.

Fried signal.

White album.

Sonic Youth.

Derek Bailey.

Lou ecstacy.

Late Lou.

European son.

Blood pressure rising.

Brutal.

Frankie Teardrop.

I think I’m in love.

Dub bass.

Will the circle remain unbroken?

When I had dinner with Roky.

13th Floor.

First Velvets album.

Heroin.

Drug rush.

Invincible.

But you gotta buy it.

Dirty Baltimore.

Cop shoot cop.

Cheree.

On the jukebox.

Eat at the gas station.

On tour.

First time in Texas.

American Supreme.

Iceland.

13 Angels.

It’s definitely Bowie.

New career.

Same town.

New old.

Old is new again.

Mercury Rev.

Savvy programming.

Dynamics.

Break beat.

A fuck ton of flutes.

Flute loops literally.

Bowie sax.

Little fluffy clouds.

Every drop.

Gay glam chorus.

Tony Visconti.

Don’t underestimate.

Pere Ubu.

First album.

Méliès.

Boys peel out.

Boces.

Inspector Clouseau.

Phone.

French ambulance.

Pants.

Gives me pants.

Videogames.

Cutting hole.

Pink Panther.

Herbert Lom.

A Shot in the Dark.

Grandaddy.

Under the Western Freeway.

Weeping willow.

Under that.

With Sean Mackowiak.

Square waves.

WarGames.

Tympani.

Rollerskate Skinny.

Dublin.

Kevin Shields.

Comes back loud.

One song mastered soft.

Definitely Low.

The main influence of Pauly Deathwish’s debut album.

Honegger.

Pacific 231.

Chariots of fire.

Vangelis.

Such a groove.

Nancarrow.

Polyrhythm.

Immense sadness.

By the side of a freeway.

Under an underpass.

Not like RHCP.

Much darker.

Like Godspeed.

Philip Glass.

Eno.

Blackstar.

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.

Glitch Radiohead.

Trail of Dead.

Makes sense.

Because Pauly wrote the string arrangement on IX.

Dark.

Killers.

Disco compression.

Distressed.

These lyrics!

Johnny Rotten.

Trump 2021.

Snot on the crowd.

Arcade Fire.

Makes sense.

Lost Bayou Ramblers lost sessions.

Montreal studio.

This was all made on an iPhone?!?

Guy Debord.

Aladdin Sane.

Time.

Rick Wakeman?

Olivier Messiaen.

Major 7ths in uppermost range of piano.

Almost indistinguishable from octaves.

Eerie.

Slight.

Only for the sensuous ear.

The Wall.

Waters delayed bass.

No nonsense drums.

Humble Pie reference?!?

Ha!

Great lyrics!!

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.

Grinderman.

No pussy.

Early-’90s.

Nirvana’s wake.

Finnegans Wake.

Great debut album (if I do say so myself).

Usual suspects.

Spotify.

iTunes.

Pauly Deathwish.

-PD

Cuban Fury [2014)

“You got no fear of the underdog/

That’s why you will not survive.”

Britt Daniel wrote that lyric.

And it’s the only song by his band Spoon which has even the most remote bit of soul in it.

Such a soulless band, Spoon…

The ultimate plastic hipsters.

A male supermodel and his gang of H&M monkeys behind him.

It would almost be artistic…in sort of an Andy Warhol/Factory sort of way.

Except there is no humor in it.

Spoon are dead serious.

The irony is (ATTN:  hipsters) there’s no irony here.

All that being said, Britt Daniel wrote one of the best songs I’ve ever heard.

And it’s the one I quoted above.

“The Underdog”

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter that my path crossed Britt’s path.

It doesn’t matter that I was invited to audition for his band Spoon as a keyboard player.

It doesn’t matter that he probably saw me in an outfit that wasn’t quite svelte enough and promptly canceled my audition before it ever happened.

Because he underestimated the underdog.

And that’s why he will not survive.

Last I heard, Spoon (or at least their godhead, Britt) relocated to Portland.

I suppose Austin wasn’t hip enough anymore.

Either that, or his shitty personality had shit off everyone in Austin and he needed a new lot of cunts to shit on.

But I digress…

Because, as stated, Britt had a point.

Once.

In one song.

[whether he learned the lesson he sang about or not is a different story]

But it is very much germane to OUR story–to this fantastic film:

Cuban Fury.

You almost always see Nick Frost in tow behind his partner in comedy Simon Pegg.

But not this time.

And so here we start a new investigation.

The test was simple:  could Nick Frost carry a film by himself (without the great talents of Simon Pegg)?

And the answer is a resounding YES!

We start all Billy Elliott (that one thing upon which Admiral General Aladeen and his presumptive torturer could agree).

Ass kicked.

Sequins eaten.

A future star quits mid-stride.

What could have been…

Have you ever had such a moment in your life?

I have.

LIFE beat me up.

In the span of a couple of months.

And now, instead of laying down tracks on 2-inch tape, I’m making songs solely with an iPhone.

You can feel the excitement.

It had to have been at least 20 years for Bruce (Nick Frost).

He gave up his passion.

Thought he would never cross paths again with salsa dancing.

He had been on the precipice of the youth national title in Britain.

Then his life went humdrum.

Works an office job for a company specializing in lathes.

The most nondescript industry possible.

But he gets a new boss.

Rashida Jones.

She is excellent here.

She hits just the right notes in her performance.

She is Bruce’s new boss.

But, as fortune would have it, she (an American in Britain) loves salsa.

Bruce is gobsmacked.

Enough so to turn his life around.

To attempt to reel in the years.

Equally brilliant as the first two players I’ve mentioned (Frost and Jones) is Ian McShane.

You might remember him as the head of MI6 in The Brothers Grimsby.

But ironically, his role here (as Bruce’s former dance teacher) is far heavier.

Think Burgess Meredith with an occasional lisping Spanish one would expect to hear in Madrid.

And McShane injects some Keith Richards pirate couture for good measure.

This is a HARD man.

Drinking tequila the whole film.

And he’s a fucking dance teacher.

A TOUGH dance teacher.

He’s tough because he sees the potential in his student.

And he won’t let his student half-ass this endeavor.

Either you go “all in”, or you go home.

Passion.

El corazón.

This film is truly a joy to watch.

…to see Nick Frost regain what truly makes him happy.

To dance.

It’s the story of someone reclaiming themselves.

Rewinding life…just enough to relive ones happiest former version of being (and relocate oneself).

But here’s the other part.

The ladies.

Or lady, here.

They just see Nick as a fat schlub.

No way this guy could dance salsa, right?

Every day suffering insults from a particularly nasty coworker.

Let me illustrate.

For me, supporting President Trump brings me daily grief.

Every day I am made aware (by “liberals”) that they hate me.

I am treated badly.

In person.

At work.

Online.

Simply trying to start my romantic life over and date.

I am very upfront.

Listed front and center:  “I voted for Trump.”

Kind of like an, “Abandon hope, ye who enter”.

But more like:  Let the Buyer Beware.

I lay it all out there.

“I live with my parents.”

etc.

And I get some shitty shit.

Which is why, every once in awhile, I think God is looking out for me.

I think maybe that God sees what I go through.

I’m not mean.

I’m not rude.

I don’t proselytize in a political sense.

I try to show warmth to others.

I try to show God’s love with my actions.

And boy do I end up throwing my pearls before swine sometimes…

Often, perhaps.

Lots of swine.

And it gets me down.

But I thought today was gonna be better.

Since last night.

Things had been going really well for me.

And now, here at 4 in the morning, I find myself back in a similar spot.

But it’s ok.

Because God loves me.

And if a bunch of braindead bitches wanna ignore the underdog,

then we won’t be surprised why they didn’t find happiness.

So this is a love story.

Forbidden love.

Nick Frost is in love with his boss.

Because his boss is perfect…for him.

It’s FaTE.

God puts us in the position to win.

But true winning is not always capturing first place.

“You can’t always get what you want…

But if you try sometimes,

you might find,

you get what you need.”

Where have I heard that song these past four years?

Ah, yes.

She was never supposed to lose.

Hillary Clinton.

She underestimated the underdog.

That’s why she did not survive.

Before this goes totally off the rails.

Love is the greatest victory there is.

But love has to be reciprocated.

If you’re a superstar (and I know you are, my dear reader), then you deserve AT LEAST as much as you give.

When you give love, compliments, gifts, affection, etc.

If you find yourself always to be the giver…and never allowed to be the taker (because nothing is given to you), then you just might be in the wrong situation.

I know I was.

And, praise God, I am out of that for the time being.

Except for at least one catch.

The world, our world, is primarily composed of takers.

Ingrates.

People without manners.

Humans unfamiliar with common courtesy.

Unpracticed at recognizing fairness.

People who have very little conscience (if any whatsoever).

And they are either unaware that they are such assholes, or they are aware and they simply do not care.

So again, it’s just me on this computer here.

Sitting in the dark.

Typing.

But that’s ok.

Because in this movie, a fat guy gets a beautiful girl.

And he gets her because he’s good at something.

Do you feel me?

But we must be righteous too.

Let us not underestimate OUR personal underdogs.

Let us not defile the name of God by letting superficiality reign.

God will show us the way.

Let us do what is just.

I ask that all who read this may be helped.

That each of them may know that God loves them.

And I ask this in the name of the Son of God.

I ask this by the power that is in the name Jesus.

God works in mysterious ways.

Our loving God will not be mocked.

God will not lose in the end.

We are entrusted with great responsibility.

But we know who wins.

And we know that the ending is magnificent.

And we know that all are welcome in the Kingdom of Heaven.

God only asks that we have humility.

The humility to ask forgiveness.

And God does not demand perfection.

The coin which God accepts, for eternal life, is faith.

And God charges no interest on this coin.

It is given freely, yet it is the most valuable thing in the universe.

Praise be to His holy name.

Indictments = start.

 

-PD

The Patsy [1964)

So this is the next in installment in the bellboy saga.

Stanley.

Now Stanley Belt.

Formerly The Bellboy.

Which was the first film Jerry Lewis directed.

But this picture is much more sophisticated.

A real masterpiece.

I knew it had potential, but I didn’t get it at first.

Took me awhile.

[as with most of Jerry’s movies]

The highpoint might be Stanley’s studio backing singers.

Like the mother from The Ladies Man.

Jerry in drag.

Thrice.

Kinda like when the Stones did this:

stones

Dut i bigress…

The real star of this film (other than the obvious one [Lewis]) is the wonderful Ina Balin.

Wow () ()

What a sweet gal.

Sad story.

Short life.

Big heart.

And she really shines here along with Jerry Lewis.

So there you have it.

This is another damn fine film from a true genius.

Really.

Watch and learn.

And don’t underestimate Lee Harvey Oswald’s comment from the year prior…

 

-PD

Riso Amaro [1949)

Robert Bresson said, “I believe in cinema.”

In English?  Like that?  I don’t know.

But it is truly the thought which counts here.

Because I believe in cinema.

Cinema.

Maybe it’s my favorite word.

My religion.

The great omnist hymn of all lands.

Of all the hands which have pitched in to turn the wheels of the mind.

And so this film, Bitter Rice, is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

Not because it is flowery and seductive. [It’s not flowery.]

Not because there are perfumed stars in diamonds. [There’s no perfume.]

But because it is real.

As real as cinema gets.

Not the hyperreal of Harmony Korine’s Gummo.

Not even the transparent real of documentary footage.

But a real which is uniquely Italian.

To say neorealism is to cheapen the whole creation.

This is a masterpiece by director Giuseppe De Santis.

You must live through the rain to understand it.

You must have had no hope to fathom the slop.

You must wade in de water.

Because you are seeing Italian opera.

There’s no speech in the field.

No talking.

Workers are in the prison of labor.

Same kinds of rules.

But if you sing, that’s tolerated.

And so it all must be sung.  In the fields.

Puccini famously bragged about his facility.

Give him a grocery list, he said.

And Willie Sutton had his hygiene and motivators covered.

Even if he never uttered the famous phrase.

He ENJOYED robbing banks.

And, yes, that was where the money was.

And so the field workers not only display humanism.

Not only embody feminism.

But engage in a little triage worthy of Sutton’s law.

Taking the poor girl to the embankment.

[They’re all poor.  This is 1949 Italy.]

It’s not psychotic fugue, but psychogenic fugue.

Fugue state.

Thuringia.

The Axis Powers played a very bad game of chess.

Stretto was the shit hitting the fan.

“Ride of the Valkyries” mixed with heavy artillery mixed with vocalizations of agony.

Ristretto is what you get at Starbucks.

But, dear friends, don’t stop after the first half.

Let it finish.

Let it bleed.

Shine a light.

For Silvana Mangano.

Sylvania.  Someone has etched the word “hope” into the light bulb’s socket.

In the Schwarzwald.

The deep eerie mystery of the woods.  And Hitler’s aerie.

[Godwin golden mean]

34 21 13 8

almost Fibonacci but ending

aND nothing more Italian that an actress named Doris Dowling.

But that’s the way it went.

Direct descendent of opera verismo.

Our old favorites Mascagni and Leoncavallo.

But Netflix hasn’t gotten at the heart of what this means.

“Strong female lead” or some such rubbish.

Nice try…

But Riso Amaro blows all those venal pigeonholing strategies out of the water.

Cinema is not my God.

Cinema is my religion.

 

-PD

Les Visiteurs du soir [1942)

I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I’m happy.

For once.

Quarante-deux.

She could slow down time with her Aeolian harp.

Silk strings.  So tired.  Suddenly…

Arletty.  Femme fatale.

And Alain Cuny.  Homme fatal.

The first punk rock band.

A duo.

The Devil’s Envoys.

Yeah…look at us!  In chain…  With the dogs!

Like Alan Vega and Martin Rev.

Except Arletty’s in drag, see?

So she’s taping her breasts down like a fashion model.

Which is exactly what she was.

Reified.

But Marie Déa breaks my heart the most.

You want to know where Adèle Exarchopoulos comes from?

Well, here you go.

No doubt.  Kechiche.

Quarante-et-un.  Quarante-deux.

A perfect film from Marcel Carné.

Existentialism is a Humanism.

And Bob Marley.

But never a more convincing devil than Jules Berry.

No doubt.  Rolling Stones.

Master is a Margarita.

Same death-rattle laugh as Keith Richards.

As flaming a devil as Elmyr de Hory.

Raffinato!

Like Sergio Marchionne after 11 espressos.

And all while a love shines through which you might find in the quiet thoughts of Clayton Christensen.

As you might expect:  the devil is all business.

A harsh exterior.

Nay…merely forbidding.  Yes.

Only the highest level of French society.

True censorship would have forbidden a villain altogether.

In occupied France.

Glorious, glorious.  Never let on your form!

Complete your poésies.

From Peshawar to Prussia.

From Barvikha to Batman, Turkey.

 

-PD

Sympathy for the Devil [1968)

To reach a moment of genius.  The genius must rethink.  Through many blind alleys and breezy revolutions.  Rehabilitated.

To speak of clever things.  No.  It does not explain this moment in time.  Police vs. blacks.  Continuation crime.

To quote Juvenal or Sallust.  You have no recourse in the moment.  You will have your name dragged through the mud.

And so we apologize.  We are sorry that we weren’t more harsh.  A final gob of spit before being shot once and for all.

A film by Jean-Luc Godard which achieves genius just as it is diverted.

Punched the producer in the face.

The revolution of everyday life.  Vaneigem.

To speak of the actors would do injustice.

Anne Wiazemsky.  Red flag.  Black flag.  And the wind of god.  On the beach.  The paving stones.

We have got it backwards because we don’t speak English.

Keith Richard.  Sans s.

And my favorite drummer Charlie Watts.

And now we have let routine take over.  Just as we asserted a revolutionary principle.

Through our fingers like sand.  Run, run, run…little kitty.  Machine guns for all.

Makes sense to whom?  Makes no difference.  Sense.

A review.  A summary.  A dissection.

An affront.  An attack.  An absolute about-face.

And so in 2015 we can only speak of Snowden.

We can only speak of extraordinary rendition.

We can comb the news like Matt Drudge.

He knows where his Red Sea is parted.  Which side his bread is buttered.  On.

We can rattle the cages like Alex Jones.  Rattle rattle.  Police gone wild.

We can blame everything on the Jews like Wayne Madsen.  What a poor aspect of great criticism.

Mostly we can find the remnants of SMPTE for the devil at globalresearch.ca

Hot link.  A sausage of…something.  Upton Sinclair Lewis.

We can thank Michel Chossudovsky because we first knew him in print.

Like Webster Tarpley.

When books have disappeared, we will know that the technological age is upon us.

And so as something of an expert I admit that I know nothing.

It leaves me mystified.  No more bands.  No more groove.

Prisoners to click tracks.

The metronomic underground must assert like Radiohead hippies.

Godard would have preferred Beatles.

It’s ok.  History proves him not wrong.

And I would be doing you a disservice if I condescended.

I must regard you as one mind with myself.  Even if false, it leads to the path of truth.

We’re a humble website ready to lay down our arms…rather, our lives.

We are not revolutionary.  Merely students.  Research on globalization.

-PD