Cabaret

I just saw Liza Minnelli in concert, fulfilling a longtime ambition. I’ve adored Liza ever since I first saw Cabaret at an age when nearly everything that movie is about went directly over my head. I loved the hair, loved the lashes, loved the spangles, and especially loved the vivaciousness of Sally Bowles. I wished really hard that I could be that way too, vivacious and charming, because I was quite the opposite. (Now I’ve learned that vivaciousness is usually deployed to disguise crushing insecurity.) I always admire people who live life with gusto. Of course, Sally was an extension of Liza, because Liza’s job is to be Liza. So, anyway, I went to her concert, and Liza was Liza, like a champ. She looked fantastic, and she’s a trooper. She’s had some severe health problems in recent years, including hip and knee replacements among other things, so she can’t hoof it like she used to. She was a tiny, sparkly, extremely dynamic figure. She coughed and wheezed a little between numbers, but she delivered the big songs, belting ’em like there’s no tomorrow. Poor Liza, as legendary as she is, gets a lot of flak, I’m not sure for what – being too campy, perhaps, or being an icon for gays-of-a-certain-age. Perhaps it that she’s less a singer or an actress than a delivery girl for her own persona. Because whatever she does, no matter how well she does it, she’s always Liza. That’s what makes her so appealing (or not). It’s almost impossible to separate the performance from the person underneath. She’s a larger-than-life personality, except that being larger-than-life is her life – she is, after all, born and bred for the spotlight. The emotional gymnastics of the theatre are second nature to her. For her, being a living legend is just, life. Only somebody who knows she’s a legend (and feels quite comfortable with it) can pull of a song about her own name. Say LIZA!!!

Eaten by the Monster of Love

I always took it for granted that Sparks have never made the slightest blip on the American radar. These guys were simply born on the wrong continent. Well, a while back my friend  Mikey announced that Eaten By the Monster of Love was one of her favorite 80’s songs. I figured it must be some random fluke, or a mistake – it’s not as if her knowledge of 80’s songs is unusually encyclopedic. Turns out the song was on the soundtrack of some 80’s teen movie called Valley Girl, from back in the days when Nicolas Cage was considered some kind of sex symbol. So it elicits reactions of “Omg, I love this song! ….what? No I don’t know what it is.” That’s some kind of cultural relevance, in however small a form.

Bright Eyes

The million dollar question is, was this the song Conor Oberst was listening to when he was choosing what to name his band? I have no idea. It would be delightful if it was, though. Because nothing could be more emo than taking your name from an Artie Garfunkel song, especially one about rabbits. Now, about the rabbits. The song was written by one Mike Batt, reportedly either in tribute to his dying father or on commission, or both. Garfunkel cut the song for the soundtrack of the movie of the book Watership Down, and later released it as a single, which was huge in the UK. I’d venture to guess most of us know it from the movie, which terrified us with its goriness when we where children. Or maybe that was just me. Anyhow, the song gives me simultaneous warm-and-fuzzies and heebie-jeebies, because I had a very close emotional attachment to Watership Down. It’s my favorite book, if you had to hold a gun to my head and make choose one. Of course I loved the movie too. To portray the lowly rabbit as a heroic creature was a stroke of genius on the part of Richard Adams. Be forewarned, there’s a lot of grittiness and violence in the book, and the cartoon adaptation doesn’t shy away from showing blood. Garfunkel’s beautiful theme song was just the perfect touch. Listening to it again takes me back, and I think I need to pick up the book again and refresh my memory.

Eat to the Beat

How cool is Debbie Harry? She’s got on a strapless shorty onesie, and a sweatband, and she looks adorable. No one above the age of five should be able to wear a onesie and get away with it. Obviously, this lady has superpowers. In addition, she’s singing about food. I’m always a sucker for songs about food. (Buildings, also.)

Born This Way

So, the Gaga has a new video out, and you’re doubtless holding your breath for my feedback. First, the most shocking thing about it is that it shows our Lady dancing barefoot. Wherefore no vertiginous shoes? As usual, it’s visually stunning. There’s more unforgettable images here than most movies provide. The song is pretty good too. Not as good as Bad Romance, but that’s an unfair expectation. There’s been some criticism that Born This Way bears suspicious resemblance to Madonna’s Express Yourself. There’s indeed some similarity, but Born This Way is way better. It’s catchier, faster and less repetitive. (I’ve always found  Madonna profoundly unappealing.) What bothers me now is Gaga’s increasing hubris. Humbleness and self-deprecation have never been her slice of pie, and she’s promoting her upcoming new album with boundless enthusiasm. To claim that Born This Way will be “this generation’s I Will Survive” is reaching. She may be right; it’s precisely the right kind of empowerment statement that could potentially be embraced as an anthem. But you can’t force these things. I’m afraid she might be jinxing herself.

The song is already a monumental radio hit, deservedly enough. The video is twice longer than the audio single, thanks to a bizarre opening ‘manifesto’ about the birth of good and evil. Filling valuable record space with half-baked personal cosmologies is hardly unprecedented in pop. It’s just that intoning ominously about some vast cosmic mythology is usually a sign of an established artist finally losing touch with reality and disappearing up their own dope-lubricated wazoo. The next step is cultural irrelevance and rehab. Also, it smacks too much of the excesses 1970’s prog rock. Gaga has only one album and an EP under her belt. It’s way too soon for her to crumble under the weight of her own importance. Then again, the fame cycle moves conspicuously faster that it did just a few years ago. It takes a much shorter time now to go from rising star to chart dominating monster to trainwreck.  Yet hope remains. Gaga isn’t afraid to show her ego, but it seems she doesn’t take herself entirely seriously either. There’s plenty of winks in the video to signal that it’s all an exercise in camp. The unicorn, for example. And even if she has taken leave of reality, it may not be a bad thing. If I may take a precedent which I’m certain Gaga herself has thought about long and hard…When David Bowie introduced his Diamond Dogs album with an extended ‘future legend’ about a rotten apocalypse it was a sign that he was on a rapid downward spiral into cocaine dementia. A dementia that, for all the damage it did, also fueled the most creative and influential period of his life. Being pretentious, out of whack with real life, and willing to pursue every crazy wormhole of an idea could be the path to personal and professional destruction. Or it could be juice for the most powerful creative momentum of a lifetime. We’ll just see which path the Gaga juggernaut ends up rolling down.

Eat At Home

Nonsensical and brilliant – typical McCartney song. What’s he talking about, eating food? Well, I always assumed the song was about the joys of a home-cooked dinner, but the prurient amongst us suggest there’s some kind of sexual innuendo on top of that. Gawsh dern it, do you have to ruin every little thing? Am I the only one who isn’t twelve years old anymore? The phrase ‘eat in bed’ has no sexual connotations whatsoever! None at all. Yeesh…

Big Eyes

You gotta love these guys. If ever there was a band unencumbered by any sense of gravitas…We have here, a couple of clips of Cheap Trick playing their hit Big Eyes. First, in a nearly eight minute 1979 epic, Rick Nielsen in all his glory tries to rouse a wan Reading crowd. Evidently in ’79 triple-neckers hadn’t been invented. He hops about with remarkable vigor, for being weighed down with three guitars. And props be to the anonymous YouTube comment poster who said Nielsen was “the greatest hero to ever wear a cardigan”. Then there’s a slightly more enthusiastic 1988 performance. Everyone’s a few years older and some might be a stone or two heavier, but cardigans are forever.

Easy To Love

So easy to love, so easy to idolize…So easy to set the mood when it’s cloudy and warm, and there’s no place to go.

Fun fact: I once met this guy who had an exquisitely rendered tattoo of Billie Holiday on his forearm. He was also a hairdresser. He said he wasn’t gay, but he may have been lying.  It was a really nice tattoo. That’s  all.

Learn Your Supermodels: Daria Werbowy

First off, her name is Werbowy. Never has a name been so well suited to its bearer. She was born in Poland to Ukrainian parents and grew up in Canada, in and of itself an endearing lifestory. She looks like a green-eyed cat. Just look at her. She’s a transformer. Modeling is all about inhabiting roles, and this one’s so good at it. She looks like a nymph. Or a leopard. Some kind of slinky animal. And, uh, her little ears are cute. (I don’t like it when I see girls on the runway with ears like Dumbo – if a model has huge ears, don’t style her hair so they stick out [but runway styling has nothing to do with flattering the girl, sadly.]) Mystique, that’s what she’s got. That’s what a good model needs to have. Movie stars have not mystique anymore. When you see a picture of someone beautiful who makes who stop and stare, and then you’re forced to know what they had for breakfast, the name of their dog, and where the go to buy coffee – that’s the opposite of glamor. Something should be left to the imagination. A beautiful image should tantalize the mind. That’s what we have models for. We know them, a little, but not too much. That’s glamor. And Daria is going to be around a long time, unless she chooses not to.

BF Bass (Ode to Olympia)

More eye candy of the chic one… You fit me like a glove, can’t get enough, etc… Soigné music for photoshoots, cocktail parties, making out and various other pursuits of highly sophisticated people. You know, like me in my bug and cat hair infested apartment. Or you, eating cold pizza on the couch in your pajamas.