https://open.spotify.com/episode/5b8nYWCsk98DWKiexEf5Tp?si=a32d519c8c334ae3
Cinematic Music with Pauly Deathwish
Season 1 Episode 2
Tag Archives: Yo La Tengo
Cinematic music 3/28 [2022)
https://share.stationhead.com/EfsvX7iV94J
“Tema d’amore”–Ennio Morricone
“13 Angels Standing Guard ‘Round the Side of Your Bed”–Silver Mt. Zion
“Let’s Get Lost”–Chet Baker
“Pablo and Andrea”–Yo La Tengo
“I’m a Fool to Want You”–Billie Holiday
“Purple Rain”–Prince
“Moonlight Mile”–The Rolling Stones
“Expecting to Fly”–Buffalo Springfield
“Holes”–Mercury Rev
“The Light Before We Land”–The Delgados
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TkK9YTwAjFgEg0sBv5qd3?si=f7ac3a85d5044581
chthonic [2021)
So Pauly Deathwish comes out with a Sonic Youth cover.
“Schizophrenia”.
Sounds like Sade and Yoshimi-era Lips.
Like mental illness is no big deal.
Strange.
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.
William Shatner.
But then that fucking piano comes in.
Like “Time” from Aladdin Sane.
Fucking hell.
Beautiful and fucked up.
Ratchet up Conlon Nancarrow.
Something Charlie Parker about this.
Impossible arpeggiator.
Talking the Kim Gordon lines.
Muted.
Lou Reed.
Leonard Cohen.
This is good shit.
Gets all ’80s.
Public Image.
Finally Thurston and Ranaldo drop in.
Shit gets real.
The harmonies on this song are insane.
Like Messiaen.
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.
NEXT SONG!
Suzanne Ciani.
Real guitar?
Sounds a little Built to Spill.
Very circumspect.
Great harmonies again.
This dude didn’t cheat his Fux.
Creeping automation.
Ambient.
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.
Anger.
Sadness.
Mixed together.
Catharsis.
SLOW-LY building.
Arpeggiator about to get wild again.
Mothersbaugh.
Fuzz bass drops in.
Soft Bulletin.
Wow.
What a guitar tone!
Sounds like a fucking harmonica.
Great lo-fi…Devendra Banhart vibe.
But this is straight Velvet Underground.
BRMC.
An instrumental with ooohs and ahhhs.
Bottom drops out.
Drums chugging away like Primal Scream.
Fucking glockenspiel!
A’ight, mate.
Interesting touch, there.
Little bit Mercury Rev.
See You on the Other Side.
Chugging away.
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.
Twitter.
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.
Good beat.
MBV would have gone for this.
Similar guitar underneath.
A little J. Mascis.
Living with my parents.
Are you in therapy?
Haha.
FUCK THAT.
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.
Radiohead clank.
“Creep”.
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.
-PD
zenith [2021)
Jesus and Mary Chain.
Black tar.
Caramelized sugar.
A dangerous confection.
Hit to Death in the Future Head.
Summer is here.
I hear.
Vacuum cleaner solo.
Theremin.
Race cars.
Boys peel out.
High-speed boats.
And again with the UPC scan.
Breaking up on reentry.
Serious audio fuckery.
And from this right into kung fu. Peter Sellers on Bowie’s Low. Trance. But really what we have here is excellent counterpoint. Lunatic Harness. Polyrhythms. Album breaks down soon. Fast. Abruptly. Mental block regarding Wuhan origin. Harmonic outline you would never find in China. Terry Riley. A Rainbow in Curved Air. Eno. Visconti. And the others involved. A beauty that inspired Philip Glass. This is what we have. Low and heroes. Symphonies. Glass. Riley. Minimalism. Album called zenith. Track two already hits “Nadir”. What’s the arc here? Arc-en-ciel? Arkansas? Immediately pensive. Very unnerving. Pop rock track. Into existential oblivion. Abrupt modulation. Uncomfortable. Eccentric. Was there a thought process behind this? Commerce ruins everything. Imperfect masterpieces. The rules of the game. Radiohead. Joseph Arthur? Sparklehorse. The Magnetic Fields. Gay baritone. Sad sack confessional poetry in the world of Berryman’s Dream Songs. Brian Jonestown Massacre. The Verve. Strung out in heaven. J. Spaceman shooting up while praying. Don’t knock it… Drug addiction is real. Mental problems are real. Here we are. 2020 fucked us up. And now we wait for the next shoe to drop. Smashing Pumpkins. “Silver Fuck”? Into Sonny Rollins? Epstein. Gene Ammons. Hard to tell it’s (not) real. Which parts? Yes. No. Fooling the ear with Dave Fridmann. A totally schizophrenic record so far. Here we go! “Belgian Lace, Pale Black Mascara…” This is more like it. Rollerskate Skinny. Martin Rev. Lots of counterpoint here. Fux me up. Disney xylophones. Internal rhyme-sanity. Dylan puking up brilliance. Always Roger Waters with the bass. Always The Wall. Pompeii. Hail to the Thief. Again and again. Trying to break new ground. And it does. Yerself is Steam. Album starts to make sense after five tracks. 1 & 5. This is not bullshit. I don’t know about the jazz. I don’t know about the monotonous instrumentals. Absolutely “Car Wash Hair”. Suzanne Thorpe would be proud. Seems to be talking about tits. A good ride. Drum machine chugging away. Can still have a good groove. Wild Acoustic Chamber Orchestra. W.A.C.O. Woodwinds and glockenspiel. Boces. What the fuck is this shit? O.K. computer. Sounds like some QAnon stuff. I feel Carlos Santana coming on. This is what Assange jams out to. Lots of plays at Fort Meade. Salsa. James Brown. Puerto Rican funk. As AOC goes to jail. Serious national security issues for lyrics. Fictional charges? Tracers everywhere. This theory involves an actual conspiracy. Criminal conspiracy outlined. By players. Event 201. Short circuit. Johnny 5 is alive. Legalistic funk. QAnon wet dream. FISAgate. “Spy Gate”. Somebody send this to Sean Hannity. Obamagate. Where is John Durham? Ryan Dark White knows the truth about Rosenstein. How many coup attempts by the Left? Back to Billy Corgan. Ok, so we have an Alex Jones connection. Early-’90s goodness. Butch Vig. Dream pop. James Iha. Bet this guy knows the real story about the Standard Hotel(s). Great lyrics! Must be some inside jokes here. But HOLY FUCK! He nailed the “Holes” trumpet solo. Deserter’s Songs. God damn it. How did they do this? The liner notes say Pauly Deathwish has also produced all four of these albums. Kind of a Jimmy Page thing going on. Great drum sound. Yo La Tengo. “Mayonnaise”. Siamese Dream. Benjamin Britten reference? Slick! So this guy basically had a music education on par with Jack Nitzsche. And then went for scumbag rockroll like Phil Spector. Gotta respect this weird marriage. This fascination with grunge. Dinge. And the facility to clean it up like a chandelier. Very fucking impressive. No record label. Kinda sounds like no funding. No budget. The Delgados. Hate. The Great Eastern. More Spiritualized telephony. The Wall. Which is to say, Bob Erzin. And as dark as Berlin. Which is to say, Bob Ezrin. Neil Young vibe. Tonight’s the Night. Some dark-ass shit. Nick Kent, where y@t? IV Thieves. Coulda done this. What if Chris “Frenchie” Smith had produced this? This kid like a protege. I hear the moniker (stage name) was bestowed by Frenchie Smith. Strings good. Eastern European orchestra. Must have cost a small fortune. Arcade Fire. French cinema. Romantic-era harmony. But pierced. Sophisticated. Absolutely Floyd. “In The Flesh”. Last track on Harvest. Words between the lines. The promise of the ’60s went to shit in the ’70s. Where’s QAnon? Where’s Nakasone? Where’s CYBERCOM? Keith Alexander on Amazon board. Velvet Underground feeding back. Les Rallizes Denudes. Primal Scream. “Swastika Eyes”. ADAT. DAT machine. Sampling. Stereolab. Back to another standout track. “Chaconne”. Will Smith in the summertime. Some slick shit. Messiaen. Jonny Greenwood. Lyrics world-class. All those sand paintings. Write and destroy. Suicide girls. Thom Yorke’s brain doesn’t have this facility. He’s a great stylist. Definitely an homage. And to Godard. Snow white and psycho. Heavy shit for Laetitia Sadier and Tim Gane to check out. Not far from Faust IV. So sweet. John Paul Jones. Ramble on. Charlotte Gainsbourg. Keren Ann. Last track noisy as fuck. Lo-fi. Tom Waits. Sticks together. Some sad shit. Music from Big Pink. Mournful trombone(s). John Simon. “Bird on a Wire”. They don’t make records like this anymore. David Bowie not dead. Great phrasing. Sinatra. Mark Linkous. It’s a Wonderful Life. Believable bass. Upright citizen. Bayou curious. Noise floor drops out. Some perverse humor here. An “album”. It is. Ten songs. Ten different directions. Some tracks stick together. Like a deck of cards shuffled. Lots of variety. Circus peanuts. The orange ones. Pure sugar. Chewy. Strange texture. Lots of melancholy here. What’s this bloke so sad about? Tell Thurston Moore. You gotta hear this shit. Pauly Deathwish’s 4th album (this summer!). Is this guy trying to set a Guinness record or something? And he already has a 5th one out. Christ!
-PD
bucolic [2021)
It starts just like Charlotte Gainsbourg.
5:55.
Air.
Nigel Godrich.
But there is something different.
A shruti box?
A little distorto guitar.
Ah, yes.
Chuchotements.
Françoise Hardy.
A little Yo La Tengo.
Built to Spill.
Guitar carries it for a second.
Good lyrics.
All mood.
And then into an Amon Düül II warble.
Like Marc Bolan.
Jim Carrey.
Most annoying sound in the world.
Into Pink Floyd.
David Gilmour.
Circa The Wall.
Strange sadness.
Almost a premonition of impending doom.
Calm before the storm.
J. Spaceman telephony.
Floating with no highs and no lows.
All mids.
Strong opening track.
Very slow-moving.
Luxurious.
Immediate Delgados shift.
Paul Savage.
Pauly Deathwish.
Glasgow effect.
Great counterpoint for a pop musician.
But if you check this bloke’s CV…
You’ll know he went through Fux.
Gonna have to say Elliott Smith.
Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci.
Megan Childs violin.
Around the warm fire.
Welsh.
Expansive.
Strings open up.
Hate.
More Fridmann.
Pointillism.
Schoenberg.
Timbre.
Richard James.
GZM.
Beethoven.
Another Welshman.
John Cale.
Orchestral bass that Lou loved.
This guy’s a bastard.
Jaded.
Hurt.
Is this a breakup album?
I thought the last one was a breakup album?
Ahhh…
Into Gorwel Owen.
1968.
Floyd.
Atom.
Mad cow.
The last GZM album.
Rockfield.
Bohemian.
String band.
Money never runs out.
Cheap air organ.
Tubes?
Fan.
A very apropos album title.
Woody.
Tobacco.
Spring water Scotch.
And then the Great Reset arrives.
Like a fucking spaceship.
Dark shit.
What is this glitch business?
Thom Yorke blasts upon the scene.
Drums James Brown.
Good groove.
Savvy.
Whoa!
Marching band.
Drumline.
Snares.
Caught by Lee “Scratch”.
Guitar all mangled.
Melodies solid.
Mogwai?
Bert Jansch out of fucking nowhere.
Definitely Lips.
Pet Sounds.
Track rejected by Bond franchise.
Convincing.
Acoustic to electric.
Now it’s Serge.
Requiem.
Stereolab.
Break beat.
Absolutely boffo.
BOF.
More Brian Wilson.
Van Dyke Parks.
Phil Spector.
High Llamas.
Still a sadness.
That the old world is passing away.
FUCK!!!
Right into some Leonard Cohen shit!
Scott Walker.
How the FUCK was this recorded?
Sounds like 2″ tape.
Question:
how has this Pauly Deathwish released three albums in two months?
I can’t even keep up with this guy.
Mercury Rev.
Deserter’s Songs.
Levon Helm.
Chamberlin.
Mellotron?
Like a Christmas album.
See You on the Other Side.
David Fricke.
A review in the liner notes.
“Everlasting Arm”.
Definite vibe.
Record pillaging wizard.
Baritone.
Lots of fucking glockenspiel on this record.
But it’s nice.
Like Ennio Morricone.
Cinema Paradiso.
Mandolins.
Jackie Gleason.
Dean Martin.
Herb Alpert.
Tchaikovsky.
Again with sugar plum.
Slick!
Very light.
Chiaroscuro.
Fresher than the sweetness in water.
Hearing Dungen.
IV Thieves.
Makes sense.
“Frenchie” Smith.
Dig CV.
Light, British, airy.
Good hook.
Hooky.
Is this the single?
A little neo-psych Hendrix moment.
It’s definitely GZM.
Repetition until transcend.
Stereolab first album.
Not looped.
Manuel.
Carpenters.
Messiaen.
Definitely some breakup here.
Sonic Youth.
Sister.
Experimental.
Thurston.
Lots of drum machine.
Drum and bass.
Panning.
Definitely holds up with Radiohead.
How the fuck was this made?
PD tells us that it was all made on an iPhone with only a Telecaster.
That is some serious trickery.
Ear fooling.
This is COMPLEX music.
Mixes sound polished.
Clarity.
Some Chinese stuff.
Noise floor fucked for the first time ever.
Bacon?
Rollerskate Skinny.
It’s THAT good.
Shoulder Voices.
How was this made?
This heralds a new talent.
But this bloke is 44.
Tour sponsored by Ensure.
Not hearing a sophomore slump here.
Two albums in two months.
Review third forthcoming.
This dude is emo as fuck.
I dig it.
This guy is a mystery.
What is his deal?
This sounds more like a cohesive album that Introversion.
Introversion sounds like a debut album…in all the best ways.
Songs saved up.
A greatest hits.
Go big or go home.
This album deals much more in subtlety.
Not every song here is a home run.
This album breathes.
Ambiance.
Negative space.
More Beach Boys vibes.
70s.
Sad.
Bathrobe.
But mentally sharp.
A spark of genius.
A little bluegrass.
Bill Monroe.
Dock Boggs.
The old world is passing away.
Jonny Greenwood.
Georges Bizet.
Live forever.
Nonesuch.
Elektra.
Hoyt Ming.
Incredible String Band.
Wales, Scotland.
Back and forth.
And across to Ireland.
Oh, no.
There’s the single.
“Makes Me Wanna Stay in Bed”.
Emma Pollock.
Hate is all you need.
Coming in from the cold.
New Radicals.
Delayed bass from The Wall.
Pavement.
Spoon.
Good fucking song!
Eisteddfod.
All Is Dream.
Hard following up.
Unenviable.
Emma Pollock solo.
With Alun Woodward singing.
The Great Eastern.
New Spiritualized.
Banjo.
Let It Come Down.
Abbey Road.
Coldplay.
A Rush of Blood to the Head.
This bloke is serious as fuck.
Sad eyes.
I’m sensing a Jandek promotional strategy.
Final track Richter.
Ravel.
Emperor.
Philip Glass.
Conlon Nancarrow.
City/country dichotomy.
Urban/rural.
Urban encroaching.
Something felt.
Big symphony night.
Excitement of New York Phil.
The fucking french horns!
Automation.
A story in dynamics.
Lesson.
A folk album.
bucolic.
Pauly Deathwish.
iTunes.
Spotify.
-PD
Mr. Arkadin [1955)
I am a bad film critic.
A good, bad film critic.
Because this is one of those films which requires a certain attention to detail.
Get the damn title right.
So what is it?
I have just watched the British version…we’ll call it (adhering to common practice) Confidential Report.
I had seen this once before.
To me it was always Mr. Arkadin. I didn’t realize the level of controversy surrounding this film’s numerous versions.
But let me point something out. All of the versions are within a few minutes of each other. Sure, some are in Spanish. That makes a difference. But at a certain point it is splitting hairs. Either you’ve seen this thing or you haven’t.
I can understand the legalistic approach to film preservation when it comes to this picture.
If the whole thing isn’t presented as a flashback, I can see how the composition might be negatively affected.
But who cares? Bogdanovich? Sure…I care too.
And so let’s get around to why one should even care in the first place.
This is a magnificent movie!
I didn’t really think so the first time I saw it.
It’s possible to see this film and be caught in a The Big Sleep haze.
So maybe it does depend on the version.
Maybe the film isn’t supposed to be confusing.
Yet, there’s something nice (pleasant) about being confused.
If this was a universal maxim, I would walk around with a smile on my face perpetually.
But the confusion here is a rare sort.
When I first saw Mr. Arkadin I mainly “retained” (absorbed?) only its mood.
Something was happening. Orson Welles was a shadowy character.
There wasn’t a sense of continuity.
But here’s another possibility.
This film needs (deserves) to be seen more than once.
The action moves fast.
Weird things are afoot.
The whole film is a sort of riddle.
And the symbolism is as stinky-strong as Roquefort.
Wikipedia might lead you to Basil Zaharoff, but my mind was wandering more towards George Soros and/or Rupert Murdoch.
Even Jeff Bezos…these guys who feel compelled to protect their corporate empires by buying the Wall Street Journal (or Washington Post).
We make fun of Kissinger because he got the Nobel Peace Prize.
We make fun of Obama for the same reason.
Neither deserved it. [the prize]
It is as repugnant as Orwell’s Ministry of Truth.
But really, we are dumb.
We Lumpenproletariat.
Lumpy Gravy.
We lump together Kissinger with Brzezinski. And then we throw Soros in for good measure.
And to top it all off, we place Murdoch like a cherry atop the mystère.
There is no mystery.
Bouvard and Pécuchet are aghast.
Maybe he was born in Muğla.
Perhaps he died in Monte Carlo.
Methods. Experiments.
This is the dossier on Mr. Arkadin.
You are paying to have yourself spied on.
Whether you like it or not.
Because, with all you have been through, you can’t even remember your real identity.
Oh yes…the tired trope of super-soldier pap and shows like Blindspot.
We almost buy it.
It goes a long way.
But it falls short.
Too few comma splices.
Yes, too few.
I will, be, here with Pynchon. Is not a comma splice.
This is approaching the time in which firemen SET fires. Bradbury. Truffaut.
And among the contraband is Tropic of Cancer.
Yes, my heart rends a bit. As I reach out.
Julie Christie…the rumors are true.
A shamus hired by a murderer.
Belgrade. Zürich.
Orson Welles is painting a portrait of Europe.
Corruption.
A song for Europe.
Mother of pearl.
They say Rothschild came in.
Always came in. But with a nice glass of Lafite.
ONI was sniffing around. They were the first. Good old chaps!
War profiteering runs all through the story of Basil Zaharoff.
And Orson Welles borrows this story artfully.
As when Patricia Medina is drunk on the yacht.
All through the film. Those expressionist camera angles. Vertov. Ruttman.
But with the wine…more sinister. As Arkadin is lucid. Listening. Gathering intelligence.
DYB.
We need a new generation of jet fighters. Though the last generation never saw action in a real war. Hasn’t been a real war since WWII. Profiteers are restricted in their movements.
The Spanish Empire finally collapsed because of this corruption. Will it happen in the exact same manner to the United States?
The parallels are more similar than Rome.
It is too much. The shoddiness of these machines. I must stop here.
-PD
SNL Season 1 Episode 11 [1976)
Just as Buck Henry had me stumped in the last episode (Buck Who?), Peter Cook threw me for a loop right off the bat here.
Dudley Moore I knew, but Cook? No idea. In terms of firsts, this appears to be the first SNL hosted by more than one person (simultaneously).
Cook met Moore while at Cambridge University as a student (Cook) of Radley and (later) Pembroke Colleges. Moore, on the other hand, was himself a student at Magdalene College (pronounced “maudlin”) of Oxford University. They started performing together in these school days.
But the act which Cook and Moore were essentially reviving on this night in 1976 was their comedy duo which powered the BBC’s Not Only…But Also (1965-1970). We can be fairly confident of this based on their throwback chestnut Sir Arthur Streeb-Greebling.
Sir Streeb-Greebling’s featured skit (Table Talk) is one of the highlights of this episode. In it, we learn of the knighted eccentric’s restaurant Frog & Peach (which serves, unsurprisingly, frog…and peaches [exclusively]). If I remember correctly, the two dishes on the menu are frog à la pêche and, conversely, pêche à la frog. This bit of absurd, excellent humor is indicative of the talents which Cook and Moore possessed as both writers and comedians.
Cook and Moore additionally did film work together such as Bedazzled (1967). For all of you Yo La Tengo fans out there, this gives me an opportunity to wax informative on the song “Tom Courtenay”. It is one of my favorite YLT songs (from the excellent Electr-O-Pura album). Perusing the lyric sheet of the above song, not only is English actor Courtenay mentioned in the title (the narrative is likely from his perspective) but Julie Christie makes an appearance (her name being the first words sung by Ira Kaplan). For our purposes, however, it is simply enough to point out that the real “star” of said lyrics (Eleanor Bron) played Margaret Spencer in Bedazzled.
Moving on…
Now that I have spent an inordinate amount of time on Cook and Moore, I should point out something important. Saturday Night Live in its inaugural season was attracting what might be called B-list entertainers. To illustrate this point, I would direct readers to my piece on the previous episode. To have Bill Withers do but one song and have it be a tune from 1971 (on a 1976 broadcast) illustrates this point which has a parallel in Cook and Moore (who were ostensibly rehashing material from their show which ran 1965-1970).
But credit must be given to the comedic duo in question who persevered and relocated to New York City in 1973. They did, in fact, win a Tony and Grammy for their production Good Evening. This success was parlayed (partially) into a more risqué act where they assumed the personalities Derek and Clive. In total, this new incarnation was featured on three LPs (that would be, for the young’uns, VI-NYL/RE-CORDS).
Ok, so Cook and Moore weren’t totally washed up. That much is obvious when seeing this episode. In fact, I find their humor much more effective than most of the hacks which preceded them as hosts. The “One Legged Tarzan” skit near the top of the show exemplifies their shrewd method of laugh-getting.
It should also be mentioned that stars on one side of the pond aren’t necessarily stars on the other. And so, dear readers, you must forgive my ignorance regarding Cook. I have now done my research.
I should mention a further two bits. Cook himself went on to work with some of my favorite musical acts (Sparks and 10cc). That Ron Mael, Kevin Godley, and Lol Creme saw something in this chap is good enough for me.
Again, the separation between British and American entertainment really can’t be overemphasized. I know there is a Doctor Who craze in the States now, but (back to Peter Cook) this bloke had a bleeding planet named after him in 1999 [20468 Petercook].
Furthermore, I am ashamed to say that I needed Wikipedia to tell me that Mr. Cook gave the world “mayorwidge” as the clergyman in The Princess Bride (1987).
Ok, ok…enough about Cook. [I’ve hardly said a word about Moore, but we must press on.]
This is generally a great episode (with the notable exception of Neil Sedaka). I really don’t want to hate on this guy, but his repertoire…ugh. And his sartorial choices (burgundy velvet jacket). The jacket would have been great if he didn’t have Meathead’s haircut (Rob Reiner…Archie Bunker). [“And now I would like to impersonate the Archie Bunker. (…) Tank you veddy much.”]
To be fair, Sedaka had talent. Singing voice? Check. Piano chops? Check. But the schmaltz gluing it all together is what made it unpalatable. Not to mention, what was an MOR guy like this doing on such a counterculture show as SNL? Look to the corner office, my friend…the corner office.
On the whole, a great episode. Just bite the bullet when Neil starts crooning 🙂
-PD
City Lights [1931)
Just when you think you can’t go on anymore, and then something happens.
That is a miracle.
Little miracles.
Right place at the right time.
Preparation meets opportunity.
Luck.
If the horseshoe works…if the rabbit’s foot is effective, then you want some extra help going into the ring.
And if the luck is bad, you try to wipe off the effect as with an unwanted kiss.
It’s very hard saying anything enlightening right now.
I’ve trudged up a steep hill.
Today I hit a little plateau.
But it feels like I’m back at the bottom.
Because tomorrow is back to the salt mines.
Ah, but I am lucky.
Right?
I am not a pooper scooper in life’s parade…picking up after the animals.
At least, not literally.
But it all comes down to a rather simple concept.
We go back to where the flower girl was.
We went to jail for her.
And now is only absence.
Time has passed.
And so we wander the streets.
I am the laughing stock.
Easy to pick on.
Try to preserve some decorum.
Bring a laugh to the young people who have futures.
I will not tell you the rest.
Because it is coded in film language.
Why did Charlie act so nice?
Why did he do the right thing?
Why did he go above and beyond?
It was for love.
In real life we may fail, but we too are geniuses of love.
We have gone the extra miles.
And that lost love…as sad as Górecki’s ridiculously-dense counterpoint from his third Symphony.
Sorrowful songs.
Nothing can hurt that bad.
Driving. Alone. Empty.
It is all part of “life’s rich pageant,” as Peter Sellers so poignantly said.
It is the same with Chaplin, Sellers. We laugh, but we are crying.
And so “perchance to dream”…REM sleep.
Tomorrow the birds will sing.
We must keep telling ourselves that until it’s true.
-PD
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