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Heathers: Special Edition

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As gum-snapping high school teen flicks get ever more self-consciously hip, their lingo and love of the finely honed putdown bordering on the Wildean, it's timely to recall the movies that went too far before such recklessness was de rigueur. Michael Lehmann's 1988 black comedy gives us the Heathers - three queen bitches (among them the very great Shannen Doherty) who rule Westerberg High (Stepford on steroids) with cruel cool, fashion fascism and arch one-liners. Veronica (Winona Ryder) wants to be like these harpies, until rebel-punk newcomer JD (Christian Slater) catches her eye. "Drool much?" deadpans a witness. Via a winning Jack Nicholson sneer, he enlists her help - she'll do anything for love - in murdering annoying Heather No 1. A rampage of slaughter, suicide, sarcasm and bombs in corridors ensues. Fun as it is to see again Slater and Ryder as bright young stars-to-be, generating the heat to commit arson, Heathers' durability is down to Dan Waters' deliciously mischievous script (Lehmann turned out to be a versatile hack - no more, no less). The treatment of teen suicide as a bit of a laugh drew flak at the time. With lines like, "Oh, I had at least 70 more people at my funeral," it exquisitely captures the power cliques and competitiveness of adolescence, easily becoming a metaphor for greedy, violent society at large. Without Heathers, there'd have been no Drop Dead Gorgeous, Bring It On, Mean Girls or even, gasp, Buffy. And what kind of Summer Holiday-meets-Grease world would we be living in then? By Chris Roberts

As gum-snapping high school teen flicks get ever more self-consciously hip, their lingo and love of the finely honed putdown bordering on the Wildean, it’s timely to recall the movies that went too far before such recklessness was de rigueur. Michael Lehmann’s 1988 black comedy gives us the Heathers – three queen bitches (among them the very great Shannen Doherty) who rule Westerberg High (Stepford on steroids) with cruel cool, fashion fascism and arch one-liners. Veronica (Winona Ryder) wants to be like these harpies, until rebel-punk newcomer JD (Christian Slater) catches her eye. “Drool much?” deadpans a witness. Via a winning Jack Nicholson sneer, he enlists her help – she’ll do anything for love – in murdering annoying Heather No 1. A rampage of slaughter, suicide, sarcasm and bombs in corridors ensues.

Fun as it is to see again Slater and Ryder as bright young stars-to-be, generating the heat to commit arson, Heathers’ durability is down to Dan Waters’ deliciously mischievous script (Lehmann turned out to be a versatile hack – no more, no less). The treatment of teen suicide as a bit of a laugh drew flak at the time. With lines like, “Oh, I had at least 70 more people at my funeral,” it exquisitely captures the power cliques and competitiveness of adolescence, easily becoming a metaphor for greedy, violent society at large.

Without Heathers, there’d have been no Drop Dead Gorgeous, Bring It On, Mean Girls or even, gasp, Buffy. And what kind of Summer Holiday-meets-Grease world would we be living in then?

By Chris Roberts

Todd Snider – East Nashville Skyline

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Counting Kris Kristofferson, Billy Joe Shaver and John Prine among his admirers, Snider is a fiery throwback to the dashing young Nashville breed that spawned the "Outlaw" movement of the early '70s. The credentials are impeccable, too. Signed to Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville label for 1994 debut Songs For The Daily Planet, Shaver himself - along with guitarist son Eddy - was on board for follow-up Step Right Up ('96), while Snider went on to record with Joe Ely and share stages with Steve Earle. By 2000, Prine had snapped him up for his own Oh Boy label, releasing Happy To Be Here, the Portland native's self-styled mess of "gospel songs, anarchy songs and drinking songs". Now, seven albums in, comes his masterpiece. What's immediately striking in Snider's acutely observed missives from the margins is a piercing playfulness, of tragedy leavened by farce, that's worthy of primetime Prine himself. "Age Like Wine" updates the CV ("I've been through seven managers, five labels, a thousand picks and patch cables/Can and cans and cans of beer, bottles of booze, bags of pot and a thousand other things I've forgot/I thought that I'd be dead by now, but I'm not"), throwing the fuzz-toned poignancy of "Play A Train Song", about dead-too-young running buddy Skip Litz, into sober relief. Musically, the album stomps around the whole ranch, from the sweetly picked country blues of "Tillamook County Jail" (where Snider briefly did time) and the bar-room boogie of "Good News Blues" to the Replacements-like clatter of "Incarcerated" and "Nashville"'s splintering rockabilly. But it's as a pithy social diarist where he really excels. "Conservative Christian, Right-Wing Republican, Straight, White American Males" is "Drug Store Truck Drivin' Man" for the Dubya generation. Music for the head, heart and soul. By Rob Hughes

Counting Kris Kristofferson, Billy Joe Shaver and John Prine among his admirers, Snider is a fiery throwback to the dashing young Nashville breed that spawned the “Outlaw” movement of the early ’70s.

The credentials are impeccable, too. Signed to Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville label for 1994 debut Songs For The Daily Planet, Shaver himself – along with guitarist son Eddy – was on board for follow-up Step Right Up (’96), while Snider went on to record with Joe Ely and share stages with Steve Earle. By 2000, Prine had snapped him up for his own Oh Boy label, releasing Happy To Be Here, the Portland native’s self-styled mess of “gospel songs, anarchy songs and drinking songs”. Now, seven albums in, comes his masterpiece.

What’s immediately striking in Snider’s acutely observed missives from the margins is a piercing playfulness, of tragedy leavened by farce, that’s worthy of primetime Prine himself. “Age Like Wine” updates the CV (“I’ve been through seven managers, five labels, a thousand picks and patch cables/Can and cans and cans of beer, bottles of booze, bags of pot and a thousand other things I’ve forgot/I thought that I’d be dead by now, but I’m not”), throwing the fuzz-toned poignancy of “Play A Train Song”, about dead-too-young running buddy Skip Litz, into sober relief.

Musically, the album stomps around the whole ranch, from the sweetly picked country blues of “Tillamook County Jail” (where Snider briefly did time) and the bar-room boogie of “Good News Blues” to the Replacements-like clatter of “Incarcerated” and “Nashville”‘s splintering rockabilly. But it’s as a pithy social diarist where he really excels. “Conservative Christian, Right-Wing Republican, Straight, White American Males” is “Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man” for the Dubya generation.

Music for the head, heart and soul.

By Rob Hughes

Sundance Film Festival 2005 Part 2

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Trying desperately to stay sober, Uncut catches a number of excellent docs, starting with Why We Fight, from Eugene Jarecki, whose brother Andrew directed Capturing The Friedmans. It’s a more serious Fahrenheit 9/11, with Jarecki putting together a robust and frequently fascinating film chronicling the build up of the US military industrial complex since 1961 and the rise of the American empire. Taking its title from Frank Capra’s World War 2 propaganda movies, Jarecki’s doc features contributions from numerous political analysts, senators, soldiers and ex-CIA operatives. The subject matter is gripping, and Jarecki’s handling of it is supremely confident. On a lighter note comes Inside Deep Throat, from the Party Monster team of Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. The story of the legendary 1972 porn movie, described by Bailey as “the original independent movie”, makes for fantastic viewing, driven by rare archive footage, plus talking head contributions from John Waters, Camille Paglia. Norman Mailer, Hugh Hefner, Wes Craven, director Garard Damiano and star Harry Reams. Despite this, the doc is frustrating for barely focussing on the Machiavellian part played by Chuck Trainor, the shady boyfriend of star Linda Lovelace, while the thorny issue of Mob involvement in the film’s financing and the whereabouts of the estimated $600 million profit barely seem to merit significant attention. We got another extraordinarily good music doc – The Devil And Daniel Johnston, a brilliant and moving look at the tragic life of the great American independent musician, whose suffered from severe mental illness for much of his adult life. Johnston, often described as an indie Brian Wilson, and who’s influenced the likes of Nirvana and Teenage Fanclub, has been a tragic figure since he developed depression after his college years. This has seen him in and out of mental hospitals, experiencing delusions, hypermanic and psychotic episodes. Director Jeff Feuerzeig – who shot Half Japanese: The Band That Would Be King on Johnston’s occasional collaborator, Jad Fair – handles the subject matter with great tact, and what emerges is a solid, if very sad, portrait of one of the great heroes of American underground music scene. The lives of dysfunctional high school kids seem to be one of the main themes of this year’s festival, from Brick to the wretched Pretty Persuasion. Thumbsucker, from promo director Mike Mills, is one of our favourites. Here’s why. Jacob (Lou Pucci) is a bright, but awkward teenager obsessed with sucking his thumb. Hypnotised by Keabu Reeves’ hippy dentist, Jacob goes into withdrawl, much to the concern of his parents (Tilda Swinton and Vincent D'Onofrio) and teachers. Put on medication, he soon begins to fulfil his academic potential – but at what cost? “You’re becoming a monster,” says teacher Vince Vaughn. Gentle and hip, with a handful of fine performances and a score featuring Elliot Smith and The Polyphonic Spree, this is sublime moviemaking. One of the most anticipated films of this year’s festival was The Squid and the Whale, from Wes Anderson collaborator, Noah Baumbach. Set in Brooklyn, 1986, it has much stylistically and thematically in common with The Royal Tenenbaums: Jeff Daniels (in a role originally intended for Bill Murray) is the head of a family of intellectuals which is gradually falling apart as his wife’s (Laura Linney) writing career takes off and his hits a slump; there’s infidelity, too, with Linney shacking up with tennis coach William Baldwin, and Daniels’ embarking on a relationship with student Anna Paquin. Inevitably, the children suffer; youngest boy Frank starts spreading semen on library books and eldest boy Walt complicates matters by falling in love with Paquin. Quietly quirky. By Michael Bonner Part 1: Greetings from snowy Utah. Still to come, Part 3: Behold the madness of Crispin Glover!

Trying desperately to stay sober, Uncut catches a number of excellent docs, starting with Why We Fight, from Eugene Jarecki, whose brother Andrew directed Capturing The Friedmans. It’s a more serious Fahrenheit 9/11, with Jarecki putting together a robust and frequently fascinating film chronicling the build up of the US military industrial complex since 1961 and the rise of the American empire. Taking its title from Frank Capra’s World War 2 propaganda movies, Jarecki’s doc features contributions from numerous political analysts, senators, soldiers and ex-CIA operatives. The subject matter is gripping, and Jarecki’s handling of it is supremely confident.

On a lighter note comes Inside Deep Throat, from the Party Monster team of Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. The story of the legendary 1972 porn movie, described by Bailey as “the original independent movie”, makes for fantastic viewing, driven by rare archive footage, plus talking head contributions from John Waters, Camille Paglia. Norman Mailer, Hugh Hefner, Wes Craven, director Garard Damiano and star Harry Reams. Despite this, the doc is frustrating for barely focussing on the Machiavellian part played by Chuck Trainor, the shady boyfriend of star Linda Lovelace, while the thorny issue of Mob involvement in the film’s financing and the whereabouts of the estimated $600 million profit barely seem to merit significant attention.

We got another extraordinarily good music doc – The Devil And Daniel Johnston, a brilliant and moving look at the tragic life of the great American independent musician, whose suffered from severe mental illness for much of his adult life. Johnston, often described as an indie Brian Wilson, and who’s influenced the likes of Nirvana and Teenage Fanclub, has been a tragic figure since he developed depression after his college years. This has seen him in and out of mental hospitals, experiencing delusions, hypermanic and psychotic episodes. Director Jeff Feuerzeig – who shot Half Japanese: The Band That Would Be King on Johnston’s occasional collaborator, Jad Fair – handles the subject matter with great tact, and what emerges is a solid, if very sad, portrait of one of the great heroes of American underground music scene.

The lives of dysfunctional high school kids seem to be one of the main themes of this year’s festival, from Brick to the wretched Pretty Persuasion. Thumbsucker, from promo director Mike Mills, is one of our favourites. Here’s why. Jacob (Lou Pucci) is a bright, but awkward teenager obsessed with sucking his thumb. Hypnotised by Keabu Reeves’ hippy dentist, Jacob goes into withdrawl, much to the concern of his parents (Tilda Swinton and Vincent D’Onofrio) and teachers. Put on medication, he soon begins to fulfil his academic potential – but at what cost? “You’re becoming a monster,” says teacher Vince Vaughn. Gentle and hip, with a handful of fine performances and a score featuring Elliot Smith and The Polyphonic Spree, this is sublime moviemaking.

One of the most anticipated films of this year’s festival was The Squid and the Whale, from Wes Anderson collaborator, Noah Baumbach. Set in Brooklyn, 1986, it has much stylistically and thematically in common with The Royal Tenenbaums: Jeff Daniels (in a role originally intended for Bill Murray) is the head of a family of intellectuals which is gradually falling apart as his wife’s (Laura Linney) writing career takes off and his hits a slump; there’s infidelity, too, with Linney shacking up with tennis coach William Baldwin, and Daniels’ embarking on a relationship with student Anna Paquin. Inevitably, the children suffer; youngest boy Frank starts spreading semen on library books and eldest boy Walt complicates matters by falling in love with Paquin. Quietly quirky.

By Michael Bonner

Part 1: Greetings from snowy Utah.

Still to come, Part 3: Behold the madness of Crispin Glover!

Sundance Film Festival 2005 Part 1

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Greetings from snowy Utah! You join Uncut on day three of the Sundance Film Festival, founded by Robert Redford 21 years back and held in the remote mountain town of Park City. We've partied with Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson at a David Lachapelle do and watched topless go go dancers shake their considerable booty at a bash for the Inside Deep Throat doc. We've bumped into Maggie Gyllenhaal in the street and waited nearly two hours for poached eggs in a restaurant with our new best friend, Nathalie Press from My Summer Of Love. Oh, and we've also seen some movies too… The opening night movie was Happy Endings, a sprawling comedy from Opposite Of Sex writer/director Don Roos. It follows three loosely interlinked story strands, and stars Lisa Kudrow, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Tom Arnold, Steve Coogan and Laura Dern, whose lives are all thrown off kilter by sexual liasons past and present. Uneven and slightly too long to sustain the three separate storylines, it's saved by a stand-out performance from Gyllenhaal as a vampish, manipulative money-grabber, out to rip off Tom Arnold's widowed millionaire. The first full day of the festival opened with a cracking doc, Rock School. Set in, um, a rock school for 9 – 17 year-olds in Pennysylvania. Run by real-life David Brent, Paul Green, the doc follows the students as they prepare to play a Frank Zappa tribute festival, the Zappanale, in Germany. There's the nine-year-old Collins twins, 12-year-old guitar prodigy CJ, 17-year-old Quaker and coffee-shop singer Maddy, and brain damaged Will – who, despite his handicap, proves to be the most intelligent person here, identifying with unerring precision's Green's Peter Pan complex, vicariously living out his own adolescent fantasies through his students. A tactless, guileless egomaniac, prone to screaming at his students: "Doesn't she have a Chris Robinson, future heroin addict look about her?" he snipes about one student. Ouch. We were considerably disappointed with The Jacket, from Love Is The Devil director John Maybury. A poorly executed time travel thriller, with Adrien Brody as a brain damaged, amnesiac Gulf War veteran who may or may not have committed a murder. Incarcerated in an asylum, he's subjected to unconventional experiments by Kris Kristofferson's sinister doctor. But then he starts flipping into the future, where he falls in love with Keira Knightley. Is he dead? Is he mad? Is it all a dream? A messy mix of Seconds, Jacob's Ladder, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest and Donnie Darko. Day one finished with Mexican movie Matando Cabos. A comedy of errors that owes much to Tarantino and Amores Perros, it's a zingy, energetic thriller about two kidnappings which get fucked up when the inept kidnappers snatch the wrong men. Much confusion inevitably ensues and high farce turns to carnage. Despite wearing its influences large on its sleeve, there's some highly inventive touches – including one surreal sequence shot entirely as a 1950s alien invasion movie – which, along with the zippy pacing, keeps you on its side. Day two hits its stride with the fantastic Brick. It's The O.C. does The Big Sleep, a film noir set in an American high school with hard-bitten student Brendan (Third Rock From The Sun's Joseph Gordon Levitt) investigating the murder of his girlfriend. It's crammed full of fantastic, hard-boiled dialogue – "You still picking your teeth with freshmen?" – as Brendan follows a trail leading from the school clique to trailer trash dopers, all roads leading to local drug dealer The Pin (a superb performance from Lukas Haas), with Brendan playing all sides off against each other. We're also taken with Thomas Vinterberg's Dear Wendy, written by Lars Von Trier. A savage satire on the corrupting influence of guns, it's set in a small mining community in America, where the town misfits – led by Jamie Bell – form a gang called The Dandies, "pacifists with guns", fetishing their "secret passion" for their weapons in a disused mine and dressing in Regency garb. Echoes of Fight Club and The Wild Bunch abound, and you can't help but be impressed by Vinterberg and Von Trier's fearless dissection of the seductive power of American gun culture. More jewels, this time in the shape of Steve Buscemi latest directorial offering, Lonesome Jim, a moving and funny drama with Casey Affleck returning to the family home "to have a nervous breakdown". His mother is ferociously overprotective, his father, Cassavetes regular Seymour Cassell, a cold and distant figure. Even his elder brother is a dysfunctional mess – "If I'm a fuck up, you're a goddam tragedy," says Jim. When a suicide attempt leaves his brother in hospital, Jim is forced to help out at the family business and coach the local little league basketball team. Salvation arrives in the shape of Liv Tyler, a local nurse with whom he embarks on a clumsy affair. Tragedy cuts through the whip-smart comedy, with often painful results. "What did we do to make you so unhappy?" Asks his mother. "I guess some people shouldn't be parents," replies Jim. Ouch. Uncut's favourite film so far is the superb doc on Arthur 'Killer Kane, late bassist with the New York Dolls, from debuting helmer Greg Whiteley. Kane had been living in near-poverty since the Dolls split in 1975, recovering from alcoholism and finding stability in the Mormon church, working in LA in their Family History Centre. Whiteley is Kane's former home teacher, and when Kane decided to reunite the Dolls for Morrissey's Meltdown festival last year on London's South Bank, he hit upon the idea of filming this doc. There's extraordinary rehearsal footage shot in June, 2004 in New York as the Dolls prepare for their London date, and the dynamic between Kane and Dolls' vocalist David Johansen, with whom he fell out bitterly in the mid Seventies, is electric. Contributions from Morrissey, Bob Geldof, Chrissie Hynde, Mick Jones and others illustrate how much goodwill there was for Kane, whose own life was mired in tragedy. The ending, following on from stunning footage of the Dolls' Meltdown show, is incredibly poignant. By Michael Bonner Part 2: Keanu! Herzog! Porn!

Greetings from snowy Utah! You join Uncut on day three of the Sundance Film Festival, founded by Robert Redford 21 years back and held in the remote mountain town of Park City. We’ve partied with Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson at a David Lachapelle do and watched topless go go dancers shake their considerable booty at a bash for the Inside Deep Throat doc. We’ve bumped into Maggie Gyllenhaal in the street and waited nearly two hours for poached eggs in a restaurant with our new best friend, Nathalie Press from My Summer Of Love. Oh, and we’ve also seen some movies too…

The opening night movie was Happy Endings, a sprawling comedy from Opposite Of Sex writer/director Don Roos. It follows three loosely interlinked story strands, and stars Lisa Kudrow, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Tom Arnold, Steve Coogan and Laura Dern, whose lives are all thrown off kilter by sexual liasons past and present. Uneven and slightly too long to sustain the three separate storylines, it’s saved by a stand-out performance from Gyllenhaal as a vampish, manipulative money-grabber, out to rip off Tom Arnold’s widowed millionaire.

The first full day of the festival opened with a cracking doc, Rock School. Set in, um, a rock school for 9 – 17 year-olds in Pennysylvania. Run by real-life David Brent, Paul Green, the doc follows the students as they prepare to play a Frank Zappa tribute festival, the Zappanale, in Germany. There’s the nine-year-old Collins twins, 12-year-old guitar prodigy CJ, 17-year-old Quaker and coffee-shop singer Maddy, and brain damaged Will – who, despite his handicap, proves to be the most intelligent person here, identifying with unerring precision’s Green’s Peter Pan complex, vicariously living out his own adolescent fantasies through his students. A tactless, guileless egomaniac, prone to screaming at his students: “Doesn’t she have a Chris Robinson, future heroin addict look about her?” he snipes about one student. Ouch.

We were considerably disappointed with The Jacket, from Love Is The Devil director John Maybury. A poorly executed time travel thriller, with Adrien Brody as a brain damaged, amnesiac Gulf War veteran who may or may not have committed a murder. Incarcerated in an asylum, he’s subjected to unconventional experiments by Kris Kristofferson‘s sinister doctor. But then he starts flipping into the future, where he falls in love with Keira Knightley. Is he dead? Is he mad? Is it all a dream? A messy mix of Seconds, Jacob’s Ladder, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Donnie Darko.

Day one finished with Mexican movie Matando Cabos. A comedy of errors that owes much to Tarantino and Amores Perros, it’s a zingy, energetic thriller about two kidnappings which get fucked up when the inept kidnappers snatch the wrong men. Much confusion inevitably ensues and high farce turns to carnage. Despite wearing its influences large on its sleeve, there’s some highly inventive touches – including one surreal sequence shot entirely as a 1950s alien invasion movie – which, along with the zippy pacing, keeps you on its side.

Day two hits its stride with the fantastic Brick. It’s The O.C. does The Big Sleep, a film noir set in an American high school with hard-bitten student Brendan (Third Rock From The Sun‘s Joseph Gordon Levitt) investigating the murder of his girlfriend. It’s crammed full of fantastic, hard-boiled dialogue – “You still picking your teeth with freshmen?” – as Brendan follows a trail leading from the school clique to trailer trash dopers, all roads leading to local drug dealer The Pin (a superb performance from Lukas Haas), with Brendan playing all sides off against each other.

We’re also taken with Thomas Vinterberg‘s Dear Wendy, written by Lars Von Trier. A savage satire on the corrupting influence of guns, it’s set in a small mining community in America, where the town misfits – led by Jamie Bell – form a gang called The Dandies, “pacifists with guns”, fetishing their “secret passion” for their weapons in a disused mine and dressing in Regency garb. Echoes of Fight Club and The Wild Bunch abound, and you can’t help but be impressed by Vinterberg and Von Trier’s fearless dissection of the seductive power of American gun culture.

More jewels, this time in the shape of Steve Buscemi latest directorial offering, Lonesome Jim, a moving and funny drama with Casey Affleck returning to the family home “to have a nervous breakdown”. His mother is ferociously overprotective, his father, Cassavetes regular Seymour Cassell, a cold and distant figure. Even his elder brother is a dysfunctional mess – “If I’m a fuck up, you’re a goddam tragedy,” says Jim. When a suicide attempt leaves his brother in hospital, Jim is forced to help out at the family business and coach the local little league basketball team. Salvation arrives in the shape of Liv Tyler, a local nurse with whom he embarks on a clumsy affair. Tragedy cuts through the whip-smart comedy, with often painful results. “What did we do to make you so unhappy?” Asks his mother. “I guess some people shouldn’t be parents,” replies Jim.

Ouch.

Uncut‘s favourite film so far is the superb doc on Arthur ‘Killer Kane, late bassist with the New York Dolls, from debuting helmer Greg Whiteley. Kane had been living in near-poverty since the Dolls split in 1975, recovering from alcoholism and finding stability in the Mormon church, working in LA in their Family History Centre. Whiteley is Kane’s former home teacher, and when Kane decided to reunite the Dolls for Morrissey‘s Meltdown festival last year on London’s South Bank, he hit upon the idea of filming this doc. There’s extraordinary rehearsal footage shot in June, 2004 in New York as the Dolls prepare for their London date, and the dynamic between Kane and Dolls’ vocalist David Johansen, with whom he fell out bitterly in the mid Seventies, is electric. Contributions from Morrissey, Bob Geldof, Chrissie Hynde, Mick Jones and others illustrate how much goodwill there was for Kane, whose own life was mired in tragedy. The ending, following on from stunning footage of the Dolls’ Meltdown show, is incredibly poignant.

By Michael Bonner

Part 2: Keanu! Herzog! Porn!

Interview: Jimmy Webb

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The legendary writer of such all-time classics as "MacArthur Park", "Wichita Lineman" and "By The Time I Get To Phoenix", Jimmy Webb, talks exclusively to Uncut about the Rhino Handmade box set, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress. UNCUT: This is an exquisite, blindingly good body of work, and it's so great to have this stuff back in print. Why has it been unavailable for so long? What was the impetus for compiling the boxed set? JIMMY WEBB: Patrick Milligan at Rhino has been, from the very beginning, the instigator of this project, with my old friend Ben Edmonds cheering on the sidelines and being of inestimable assistance along with my manager Robin Siegel. All the guys in the old band got involved - Fred Tackett. Ray Rich, and Skip Moser - and sent in their antique posters and generous storehouse of sometimes flattering memories. As for why it has been unavailable for so long . . . Well, there was the Archive import which was clearly a stopgap measure, but seriously these records didn't sell when they were released! Who would expect them to sell now? I'm very grateful for the attention. When you started out as a solo artist, what difficulties did you encounter, given the public's perception of you as strictly a songwriter? JW: My most serious handicap when I first 'went artist' was a counterfeit "Webb solo LP" called Jimmy Webb sings Jimmy Webb, which was produced by a bunch of ruffians from some old demos of mine and tarted up to sound like "MacArthur Park." It was quite a piece of crap and was received with great anticipation and crushing disappointment at the radio level. Can't blame them really for sniffing carefully at what followed. Thank you, Hank Levine. P.F. Sloan, the artist, has long been a favorite, and your song remains a brilliant piece of work. It seems to get at the price paid for being a groundbreaker, an original: Do you think the heart of this song is even truer now than it was in 1970? JW: I've always been a little insecure about "P.F.Sloan" because it was such effrontery to write about someone living, so much in their face, and really I shouldn't have done it. But I was so impulsive and emotional with my work then, and I would even try to settle scores sometimes with a song. In this case I deigned to outline the legend in a living man. But Flip [Sloan] always bore the minor indignity of the exposure and familiarity with good grace and the lyric survives as iconic and so clearly late-'60s it just unrolls in your head as though the syllables were meant to be written. So be it. Where does "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress" fit in your canon? JW: “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” was a song that became a standard without ever becoming a hit and was symbiotic of that decade of my life, my struggle, my failure, my angst, my pride and even scorn.... and ultimately my crash - literally, as it turns out. I flew my Schweizer 2-32 flat into the side of Mt. Baden Powell with my buddy Henry Diltz in the rear cockpit snapping photos. How could I keep pounding my head into this wall? Every time I thought it would kill me! I remember crying tears because Gus Dudgeon wouldn't agree to produce a record for me. Gus who? And yet there is 'The Moon' recorded by Judy Collins, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez, Linda Ronstadt, Shawn Colvin, Pat Metheny, Glen Campbell. A list of people who got it. I began to rationalize my albums as expensive demos. Why not? To what do you credit your Catholicism and versatility regarding musical styles?--seems you're comfortable in virtually any milieu. JW: I tend to think of music in a universal since. From my days playing in church, and talking with Satchmo when I was a teenager I just never drew a line. It was all music to me. I took Jimi Hendrix literally on the subject: "One day there will be a Universal Music and it will bring mankind together. It will end hatred." Because I feel that way and think that way… I never closed any doors. I have been open to the Great Spirit to use me however he sees fit and have lived the most marvellous life. I wouldn't trade places with anyone and I stand by every damn cut on this album.] Interview: Luke Torn

The legendary writer of such all-time classics as “MacArthur Park”, “Wichita Lineman” and “By The Time I Get To Phoenix”, Jimmy Webb, talks exclusively to Uncut about the Rhino Handmade box set, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.

UNCUT: This is an exquisite, blindingly good body of work, and it’s so great to have this stuff back in print. Why has it been unavailable for so long? What was the impetus for compiling the boxed set?

JIMMY WEBB: Patrick Milligan at Rhino has been, from the very beginning, the instigator of this project, with my old friend Ben Edmonds cheering on the sidelines and being of inestimable assistance along with my manager Robin Siegel. All the guys in the old band got involved – Fred Tackett. Ray Rich, and Skip Moser – and sent in their antique posters and generous storehouse of sometimes flattering memories. As for why it has been unavailable for so long . . . Well, there was the Archive import which was clearly a stopgap measure, but seriously these records didn’t sell when they were released! Who would expect them to sell now? I’m very grateful for the attention.

When you started out as a solo artist, what difficulties did you encounter, given the public’s perception of you as strictly a songwriter?

JW: My most serious handicap when I first ‘went artist’ was a counterfeit “Webb solo LP” called Jimmy Webb sings Jimmy Webb, which was produced by a bunch of ruffians from some old demos of mine and tarted up to sound like “MacArthur Park.” It was quite a piece of crap and was received with great anticipation and crushing disappointment at the radio level. Can’t blame them really for sniffing carefully at what followed. Thank you, Hank Levine.

P.F. Sloan, the artist, has long been a favorite, and your song remains a brilliant piece of work. It seems to get at the price paid for being a groundbreaker, an original: Do you think the heart of this song is even truer now than it was in 1970?

JW: I’ve always been a little insecure about “P.F.Sloan” because it was such effrontery to write about someone living, so much in their face, and really I shouldn’t have done it. But I was so impulsive and emotional with my work then, and I would even try to settle scores sometimes with a song. In this case I deigned to outline the legend in a living man. But Flip [Sloan] always bore the minor indignity of the exposure and familiarity with good grace and the lyric survives as iconic and so clearly late-’60s it just unrolls in your head as though the syllables were meant to be written. So be it.

Where does “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” fit in your canon?

JW: “The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress” was a song that became a standard without ever becoming a hit and was symbiotic of that decade of my life, my struggle, my failure, my angst, my pride and even scorn…. and ultimately my crash – literally, as it turns out. I flew my Schweizer 2-32 flat into the side of Mt. Baden Powell with my buddy Henry Diltz in the rear cockpit snapping photos. How could I keep pounding my head into this wall? Every time I thought it would kill me! I remember crying tears because Gus Dudgeon wouldn’t agree to produce a record for me. Gus who? And yet there is ‘The Moon’ recorded by Judy Collins, Joe Cocker, Joan Baez, Linda Ronstadt, Shawn Colvin, Pat Metheny, Glen Campbell. A list of people who got it. I began to rationalize my albums as expensive demos. Why not?

To what do you credit your Catholicism and versatility regarding musical styles?–seems you’re comfortable in virtually any milieu.

JW: I tend to think of music in a universal since. From my days playing in church, and talking with Satchmo when I was a teenager I just never drew a line. It was all music to me. I took Jimi Hendrix literally on the subject: “One day there will be a Universal Music and it will bring mankind together. It will end hatred.” Because I feel that way and think that way… I never closed any doors. I have been open to the Great Spirit to use me however he sees fit and have lived the most marvellous life. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone and I stand by every damn cut on this album.]

Interview: Luke Torn

Brian Jones Special

0

Suddenly, Brian Jones, golden boy of the 1960s and founder member of The Rolling Stones, is back in the news. There are rumours that his death is to be reinvestigated. And there is a film about his life due to hit the screens this summer. Taking the working title of The Wild and Wycked World of Brian Jones, it's directed by Stephen Woolley and produced by Finola Dwyer. In this special feature, we speak to the actors and key figures behind this historic rock movie Cast of characters Leo Gregory (Brian Jones) Paddy Considine (Frank Thorogood - Brian's builder-in-residence) David Morrissey (Tom Keylock - Stones road manager, Brian's "supervisor" and an old friend of Thorogood) Monet Mazur (Anita Pallenberg) Amelia Warner (Janet Lawson - said to be Keylock's mistress) Tuva Novotny (Anna Wohlin, Brian's live-in girlfriend at the time he died) Lucas De Woolson (Mick Jagger) Ben Whishaw (Keith Richards) Click on the cast or crew member's name to read their Q&A.

Suddenly, Brian Jones, golden boy of the 1960s and founder member of The Rolling Stones, is back in the news. There are rumours that his death is to be reinvestigated. And there is a film about his life due to hit the screens this summer. Taking the working title of The Wild and Wycked World of Brian Jones, it’s directed by Stephen Woolley and produced by Finola Dwyer. In this special feature, we speak to the actors and key figures behind this historic rock movie

Cast of characters

Leo Gregory (Brian Jones)

Paddy Considine (Frank Thorogood – Brian’s builder-in-residence)

David Morrissey (Tom Keylock – Stones road manager, Brian’s “supervisor” and an old friend of Thorogood)

Monet Mazur (Anita Pallenberg)

Amelia Warner (Janet Lawson – said to be Keylock’s mistress)

Tuva Novotny (Anna Wohlin, Brian’s live-in girlfriend at the time he died)

Lucas De Woolson (Mick Jagger)

Ben Whishaw (Keith Richards)

Click on the cast or crew member’s name to read their Q&A.
















































Team America: World Police

0

How do you get your average multiplex-going Joe to consider the dangers of imperialism? By following a portly polemicist around with a camera? Bo-ring. To really rouse the rabble, you need explicit sex between puppets. You need to utterly destroy Paris in the first scene. You need to have a sequence where Sean Penn and Danny Glover are torn apart by panthers, and Hans Blix is eaten alive by sharks. You need to be Matt Stone and Trey Parker - indisputably the funniest film-makers currently working in the world today. In their first marionette-based feature, the South Park creators reduce America's War On Terror into an '80s-style high- concept action movie. Terrorists from Durkadurkastan, supplied with WMDs by Kim Jong-Il, will destroy civilisation unless stopped by Team America. New recruit Gary is a rising Broadway star whose skills are essential to infiltrating Kim Jong-Il's organisation, but his first mission, which sees the Sphinx, Great Pyramids and most of Cairo collaterally destroyed in a car chase, shocks him so much he leaves the Team. Sean Penn, Alec Baldwin and the rest of the Film Actor's Guild (FAGs) call for their disbandment, Michael Moore suicide-bombs their HQ, and they're captured by Kim. Can Gary save them? Only once he works out whether he's a pussy or a dick. That's the film's gung-ho message: pussies hate dicks because they fuck everything up, but it take s a dick to fuck an asshole. The surprise is, this is a proper film. Parker and Stone make you care who wins the fights - even when it's just two puppets flailing at each other - and bring things to a genuinely thrilling climax, albeit one that begins with a gay puppet blowjob and ends with Kim Jong Il impaled on a German helmet. Of course, in between the musical numbers and deliberately misguided speeches it's mainly gay jokes, Arab jokes, shit jokes, Korean jokes, murder and swearing, but if that offends you, by the film's logic, you're a pussy. If you unironically cheer on the towelhead-bashing, you're a dick. And if you write an open letter to the Drudge Report, you're an asshole. As Sean Penn wrote: "It's all well to joke. Not so well to encourage irresponsibility." You'll make your own mind up, while laughing. A lot. By Simon Lewis Watch the trailer here. Windows Media:Low/Med/High Real:Low/Med/High

How do you get your average multiplex-going Joe to consider the dangers of imperialism? By following a portly polemicist around with a camera? Bo-ring. To really rouse the rabble, you need explicit sex between puppets. You need to utterly destroy Paris in the first scene. You need to have a sequence where Sean Penn and Danny Glover are torn apart by panthers, and Hans Blix is eaten alive by sharks. You need to be Matt Stone and Trey Parker – indisputably the funniest film-makers currently working in the world today.

In their first marionette-based feature, the South Park creators reduce America’s War On Terror into an ’80s-style high- concept action movie. Terrorists from Durkadurkastan, supplied with WMDs by Kim Jong-Il, will destroy civilisation unless stopped by Team America. New recruit Gary is a rising Broadway star whose skills are essential to infiltrating Kim Jong-Il’s organisation, but his first mission, which sees the Sphinx, Great Pyramids and most of Cairo collaterally destroyed in a car chase, shocks him so much he leaves the Team. Sean Penn, Alec Baldwin and the rest of the Film Actor’s Guild (FAGs) call for their disbandment, Michael Moore suicide-bombs their HQ, and they’re captured by Kim. Can Gary save them? Only once he works out whether he’s a pussy or a dick. That’s the film’s gung-ho message: pussies hate dicks because they fuck everything up, but it take s a dick to fuck an asshole.

The surprise is, this is a proper film. Parker and Stone make you care who wins the fights – even when it’s just two puppets flailing at each other – and bring things to a genuinely thrilling climax, albeit one that begins with a gay puppet blowjob and ends with Kim Jong Il impaled on a German helmet. Of course, in between the musical numbers and deliberately misguided speeches it’s mainly gay jokes, Arab jokes, shit jokes, Korean jokes, murder and swearing, but if that offends you, by the film’s logic, you’re a pussy. If you unironically cheer on the towelhead-bashing, you’re a dick. And if you write an open letter to the Drudge Report, you’re an asshole. As Sean Penn wrote: “It’s all well to joke. Not so well to encourage irresponsibility.” You’ll make your own mind up, while laughing. A lot.

By Simon Lewis

Watch the trailer here.

Windows Media:Low/Med/High

Real:Low/Med/High

The Aviator

0

Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but Howard Hughes was never fully satisfied he'd attained either state. Scorsese's glittering-gloomy portrayal of the insecure megalomaniac's life (the earlier years) is at its best when examining the obsessive side of his nature, the alpha-male greed for dominance, the desire for money, women, expansion and world-firsts as symbols of this, and his conflicting paranoia concerning hygiene. Few directors ever captured the rush and rhythm of driven men like Scorsese, and if this is one of his solid not spectacular, vigorous rather than visceral films, he's interested, and it's intense, for the duration. Several set-pieces are anything-Spielberg-can-do breathtaking. It may be his Oscar-winner at last, if that matters. Is Raging Bull or GoodFellas any less a film for not having won one? He's certainly not shying away from grand undertakings here. John Logan's script attempts to cover the various aspects of Hughes' outer and inner lives, any one of which would make a compelling story. Arguably, he tries to juggle too many plates: is this about Hollywood's golden age, or the miracle of manned flight, or egomania? Is the ultimate theme that power corrupts or that those without strive to bring down those who possess it? Are we pondering why sensible, strong women still can't resist a playboy? Or is the intended focus on one man who took risks- albeit with family money - and changed the shape of the screen and of the skies forever? The bookends - with their warnings to the childhood Hughes of "quarantine - you are not safe" - even suggest this is Scorsese's Citizen Kane, with demented hand-washing as the Rosebud trope. We meet Hughes (DiCaprio) in the '20s, going for broke on two fronts. He's using his inheritance to build a private air force and shoot Hell's Angels, a hymn to the pilots of WWI pilots, his heroes. His reckless joy in ambitious film-making is surely an echo of Scorsese's own. Up among the dogfights and tailspins, the action and camerawork are sharper, faster, than any gung-ho blockbuster. The scenes around the Coconut Grove, too (Jude Law as Errol Flynn, Gwen Stefani as Jean Harlow), are a jazzy peacock-feathers riot. But Hughes' constant yen for double-or-quits earns him enemies in Hollywood and in government. As he builds new planes and boosts the TWA airline, rival Pan-Am head Juan Trippe (Baldwin) persuades a sinister senator (Alda, brilliant) to investigate Hughes' labyrinthine finances. "Wanna war with us?" snarls Alda, rattling Hughes' over-confidence. "We just beat Germany and Japan. Who the hell are you?" In court, Hughes defies his own demons to rally, giving as good as he gets. In his personal life, he's been struggling to keep the ghosts at bay. Despite romances with Katharine Hepburn (Blanchett) and Ava Gardner (Beckinsale), he has lapsed into reclusiveness, locking himself in his private screening room, growing beardy, pissing in empty milk bottles. A serious plane crash (a shocking, explosive blast of cinema) leaves him scarred on many levels. "Aren't we a fine pair of misfits?" barks Hepburn, adding: "There's too much Howard Hughes in Howard Hughes." It's hard to feel too sorry for a billionaire, and much will depend on your opinion of DiCaprio, who's at the centre of every moment, busting a gut to convey irrepressible optimism, then arrogant swagger, then neurotic crack-up, then a revival of pioneering spirit. For this reviewer, as in Gangs Of New York, he sucks the air from a scene, too narcissistic to really engage with subtle spitfires like Blanchett or Alda, too plainly thinking about what he's doing. For others, he's the most electric, promising actor alive. This being Marty, comparisons with the young De Niro are unavoidable, and inevitably unflattering. But come fly with Scorsese for a fine, forceful film that's always arresting, if oddly dispassionate. "Find me some goddamn clouds," rants the young Hughes as movie tyro. If it doesn't quite soar above those clouds, The Aviator finds rich, complex depths within them. By Chris Roberts

Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but Howard Hughes was never fully satisfied he’d attained either state. Scorsese’s glittering-gloomy portrayal of the insecure megalomaniac’s life (the earlier years) is at its best when examining the obsessive side of his nature, the alpha-male greed for dominance, the desire for money, women, expansion and world-firsts as symbols of this, and his conflicting paranoia concerning hygiene. Few directors ever captured the rush and rhythm of driven men like Scorsese, and if this is one of his solid not spectacular, vigorous rather than visceral films, he’s interested, and it’s intense, for the duration. Several set-pieces are anything-Spielberg-can-do breathtaking. It may be his Oscar-winner at last, if that matters. Is Raging Bull or GoodFellas any less a film for not having won one?

He’s certainly not shying away from grand undertakings here. John Logan’s script attempts to cover the various aspects of Hughes’ outer and inner lives, any one of which would make a compelling story. Arguably, he tries to juggle too many plates: is this about Hollywood’s golden age, or the miracle of manned flight, or egomania? Is the ultimate theme that power corrupts or that those without strive to bring down those who possess it? Are we pondering why sensible, strong women still can’t resist a playboy? Or is the intended focus on one man who took risks- albeit with family money – and changed the shape of the screen and of the skies forever? The bookends – with their warnings to the childhood Hughes of “quarantine – you are not safe” – even suggest this is Scorsese’s Citizen Kane, with demented hand-washing as the Rosebud trope.

We meet Hughes (DiCaprio) in the ’20s, going for broke on two fronts. He’s using his inheritance to build a private air force and shoot Hell’s Angels, a hymn to the pilots of WWI pilots, his heroes. His reckless joy in ambitious film-making is surely an echo of Scorsese’s own. Up among the dogfights and tailspins, the action and camerawork are sharper, faster, than any gung-ho blockbuster. The scenes around the Coconut Grove, too (Jude Law as Errol Flynn, Gwen Stefani as Jean Harlow), are a jazzy peacock-feathers riot. But Hughes’ constant yen for double-or-quits earns him enemies in Hollywood and in government. As he builds new planes and boosts the TWA airline, rival Pan-Am head Juan Trippe (Baldwin) persuades a sinister senator (Alda, brilliant) to investigate Hughes’ labyrinthine finances. “Wanna war with us?” snarls Alda, rattling Hughes’ over-confidence. “We just beat Germany and Japan. Who the hell are you?” In court, Hughes defies his own demons to rally, giving as good as he gets.

In his personal life, he’s been struggling to keep the ghosts at bay. Despite romances with Katharine Hepburn (Blanchett) and Ava Gardner (Beckinsale), he has lapsed into reclusiveness, locking himself in his private screening room, growing beardy, pissing in empty milk bottles. A serious plane crash (a shocking, explosive blast of cinema) leaves him scarred on many levels. “Aren’t we a fine pair of misfits?” barks Hepburn, adding: “There’s too much Howard Hughes in Howard Hughes.”

It’s hard to feel too sorry for a billionaire, and much will depend on your opinion of DiCaprio, who’s at the centre of every moment, busting a gut to convey irrepressible optimism, then arrogant swagger, then neurotic crack-up, then a revival of pioneering spirit. For this reviewer, as in Gangs Of New York, he sucks the air from a scene, too narcissistic to really engage with subtle spitfires like Blanchett or Alda, too plainly thinking about what he’s doing. For others, he’s the most electric, promising actor alive. This being Marty, comparisons with the young De Niro are unavoidable, and inevitably unflattering.

But come fly with Scorsese for a fine, forceful film that’s always arresting, if oddly dispassionate. “Find me some goddamn clouds,” rants the young Hughes as movie tyro. If it doesn’t quite soar above those clouds, The Aviator finds rich, complex depths within them.

By Chris Roberts

Alexander

0

At one stage, Oliver Stone, Baz Luhrmann and Martin Scorsese were all prepping movies about Alexander - the Macedonian leader who united Greece to overthrow the Persian Empire in 330BC, then conquered Egypt before lunchtime. Why the sudden interest? The success of Gladiator no doubt played a part - and you have to admit, the story of a Western leader subjugating what is now the Middle East and Afghanistan has a certain topical resonance. No slouch when it comes to war movies, Oliver Stone should have been the right man for the job - but something has gone badly wrong here. Framing the story as the memoir of Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins), Stone gives us the last thing anyone would have expected: an earnest, scrupulously even-handed $150 million history lesson, chock full of names, dates, facts, notes, cultural references and classical quotations. For a director whose movies are usually energetic, ambitious and exciting, Stone's biggest crime here is making a film so crushingly unengaging. The script - co-written by Stone - is long-winded, bogged down by misguided attempts to fathom Alexander's psychological motivations. Farrell - woefully miscast - is upstaged by a ludicrous blond hairdo which only gets longer as the movie goes on. One of the most charismatic leaders in history comes across as a vainglorious despot with unresolved childhood 'issues' - unavoidable, perhaps, if your scheming mother (Angelina Jolie) has a sub-Transylvanian accent and a fondness for sleeping with snakes, and your father (Val Kilmer) is a one-eyed drunk. Thankfully, the film's academic sensibility doesn't preclude such genre staples as crunchy battle scenes, dodgy symbolism, raunchy toga parties and hammy British thesps. Certainly, Stone can direct a battle sequence, and it's when he unleashes the elephants that the movie finally gets exciting. But Stone is weighed down by the gravity of all this history. When, against all advice, Alexander inexplicably marries an Afghan tribal princess (Rosario Dawson), Professor Ptolemy dutifully lists three theories as to what on earth was going on in the royal head. Since when did movie-makers do multiple choice? Discuss. By Tom Charity

At one stage, Oliver Stone, Baz Luhrmann and Martin Scorsese were all prepping movies about Alexander – the Macedonian leader who united Greece to overthrow the Persian Empire in 330BC, then conquered Egypt before lunchtime. Why the sudden interest? The success of Gladiator no doubt played a part – and you have to admit, the story of a Western leader subjugating what is now the Middle East and Afghanistan has a certain topical resonance.

No slouch when it comes to war movies, Oliver Stone should have been the right man for the job – but something has gone badly wrong here. Framing the story as the memoir of Ptolemy (Anthony Hopkins), Stone gives us the last thing anyone would have expected: an earnest, scrupulously even-handed $150 million history lesson, chock full of names, dates, facts, notes, cultural references and classical quotations. For a director whose movies are usually energetic, ambitious and exciting, Stone’s biggest crime here is making a film so crushingly unengaging.

The script – co-written by Stone – is long-winded, bogged down by misguided attempts to fathom Alexander’s psychological motivations. Farrell – woefully miscast – is upstaged by a ludicrous blond hairdo which only gets longer as the movie goes on. One of the most charismatic leaders in history comes across as a vainglorious despot with unresolved childhood ‘issues’ – unavoidable, perhaps, if your scheming mother (Angelina Jolie) has a sub-Transylvanian accent and a fondness for sleeping with snakes, and your father (Val Kilmer) is a one-eyed drunk.

Thankfully, the film’s academic sensibility doesn’t preclude such genre staples as crunchy battle scenes, dodgy symbolism, raunchy toga parties and hammy British thesps. Certainly, Stone can direct a battle sequence, and it’s when he unleashes the elephants that the movie finally gets exciting. But Stone is weighed down by the gravity of all this history. When, against all advice, Alexander inexplicably marries an Afghan tribal princess (Rosario Dawson), Professor Ptolemy dutifully lists three theories as to what on earth was going on in the royal head. Since when did movie-makers do multiple choice? Discuss.

By Tom Charity

Interview: Oliver Stone

0

So Oliver Stone’s epic Alexander has tanked in the States and arguably suffered more critical flak than any major film since Heaven’s Gate. That hasn’t stopped the great man coming out fighting. Calm but intensely defensive at London’s Dorchester Hotel, flanked and supported by stars Colin Farrell, Angelina Jolie and Val Kilmer, he tells us why he believes America hasn’t given the movie a fair chance and it’ll stand the test of time. UNCUT: Did you in any way anticipate the adverse reaction this film’s received? STONE: Not really, I operate on my passion, I move forward on that. Sometimes I’m naïve, I don’t think about consequences. I didn’t regarding the JFK murder, and I was very surprised by the reaction then because it’d been out of the news for many years, but it suddenly became a tsunami. I couldn’t see it coming. I thought Alexander would be a “safe” subject because it’s an ancient one, but I was taken aback by the fierceness of the controversy, given that this is a character we really don’t know that much about factually. I work on courage, or blindness - you be the judge. This was your dream, your “Great Epic“. How personally crushed are you by the criticism? It’s been a long process. A thousand people put their heart into this and created something that will last, in many forms. You take one genre at a time: I’ve tried to do political, war, a finance movie, a sports movie. This you could say is my costume epic. Every film student has those dreams in their mind. I’m very happy because I was able to choose the hero that I most admire for it, and I’m proud of the result. Colin’s work will be appreciated more through time. Angelina gave an extraordinary performance and Val was not properly watched, not listened to. The reaction to the film in the States has been quite extraordinary… This is another world to what America knows. The film is pre-Christian, the morals are different. Certainly the sexuality is a large issue in America right now. Having come from 20 foreign countries in the last two months I can tell you it was not an issue in those countries. In America there’s a raging fundamentalism. From day one, in spite of reviews - because they don’t read reviews in the south! - the Bible-belt people did not show up, because there was one phrase all over the media (and in Natural Born Killers I called the media the “man-made weather”, if you remember). It was the phrase “Alexander the Gay”. That was everywhere to be heard, and as a result you can bet your ass that Americans aren’t going to see a military leader who has got something “wrong” with him, in their head. General Schwarzkopf is not gay, Tommy Franks is not gay. At least not publicly! We took quite a beating in those states; there was just no audience to show up. Also, Americans don’t study ancient history the way Europeans and Asians do. They’re not as familiar with Alexander. But this is just one setback - a movie is a mountain and it goes on and on through time. That’s the beauty of it. Would you do anything differently now? There will be other versions of it, probably. There’s different ways to make the mountain. How to edit it, we have choices still. We can go in several directions without altering its fundamental soul. I think every movie, painting, book can work in different ways. The bond between Hephaistion and Alexander that’s so important can be suggested in various ways, and that’s the art of film making. If we’re skilful, then it’s not a retreat, it’s an exploration. It’s “how do we tell this great story in ways that a 10 year old can understand, in ways that an uneducated person can understand?”. I don’t mean to be condescending - I’m really challenged by it and will continue to work on the DVD forms as months go by, maybe years. It could perhaps have been a two-part movie. Movies are going towards home viewing, but they’ll need bigger screens. Anyway this could work as a theatrical version for everybody - it’s up to us to communicate. And the movie in its present form will communicate with some people. What originally drew you to Alexander The Great? Through the years, he was my hero. I read Robin Lane Fox’s book in the 1980s and began to admire and understand him more. He’s perhaps the most unique individual in history… more things happened to him of a strange, extraordinary nature than any other human being that I know of. He was involved in more events and battles than dozens of men. He’s a great dramatic figure. The story’s concept is that you destroy the dreamer, you kill what you love. Alexander’s the great instigator, the mover-shaker of the world. Ptolemy is a celebrated man, but his memory will never be that of Alexander, and he knows it, and knows that they cannot live with the dreamer… By Chris Roberts

So Oliver Stone’s epic Alexander has tanked in the States and arguably suffered more critical flak than any major film since Heaven’s Gate. That hasn’t stopped the great man coming out fighting. Calm but intensely defensive at London’s Dorchester Hotel, flanked and supported by stars Colin Farrell, Angelina Jolie and Val Kilmer, he tells us why he believes America hasn’t given the movie a fair chance and it’ll stand the test of time.

UNCUT: Did you in any way anticipate the adverse reaction this film’s received?

STONE: Not really, I operate on my passion, I move forward on that. Sometimes I’m naïve, I don’t think about consequences. I didn’t regarding the JFK murder, and I was very surprised by the reaction then because it’d been out of the news for many years, but it suddenly became a tsunami. I couldn’t see it coming. I thought Alexander would be a “safe” subject because it’s an ancient one, but I was taken aback by the fierceness of the controversy, given that this is a character we really don’t know that much about factually. I work on courage, or blindness – you be the judge.

This was your dream, your “Great Epic“. How personally crushed are you by the criticism?

It’s been a long process. A thousand people put their heart into this and created something that will last, in many forms. You take one genre at a time: I’ve tried to do political, war, a finance movie, a sports movie. This you could say is my costume epic. Every film student has those dreams in their mind. I’m very happy because I was able to choose the hero that I most admire for it, and I’m proud of the result. Colin’s work will be appreciated more through time. Angelina gave an extraordinary performance and Val was not properly watched, not listened to.

The reaction to the film in the States has been quite extraordinary…

This is another world to what America knows. The film is pre-Christian, the morals are different. Certainly the sexuality is a large issue in America right now. Having come from 20 foreign countries in the last two months I can tell you it was not an issue in those countries. In America there’s a raging fundamentalism. From day one, in spite of reviews – because they don’t read reviews in the south! – the Bible-belt people did not show up, because there was one phrase all over the media (and in Natural Born Killers I called the media the “man-made weather”, if you remember). It was the phrase “Alexander the Gay”. That was everywhere to be heard, and as a result you can bet your ass that Americans aren’t going to see a military leader who has got something “wrong” with him, in their head. General Schwarzkopf is not gay, Tommy Franks is not gay. At least not publicly!

We took quite a beating in those states; there was just no audience to show up. Also, Americans don’t study ancient history the way Europeans and Asians do. They’re not as familiar with Alexander. But this is just one setback – a movie is a mountain and it goes on and on through time. That’s the beauty of it.

Would you do anything differently now?

There will be other versions of it, probably. There’s different ways to make the mountain. How to edit it, we have choices still. We can go in several directions without altering its fundamental soul. I think every movie, painting, book can work in different ways. The bond between Hephaistion and Alexander that’s so important can be suggested in various ways, and that’s the art of film making. If we’re skilful, then it’s not a retreat, it’s an exploration. It’s “how do we tell this great story in ways that a 10 year old can understand, in ways that an uneducated person can understand?”. I don’t mean to be condescending – I’m really challenged by it and will continue to work on the DVD forms as months go by, maybe years. It could perhaps have been a two-part movie. Movies are going towards home viewing, but they’ll need bigger screens. Anyway this could work as a theatrical version for everybody – it’s up to us to communicate. And the movie in its present form will communicate with some people.

What originally drew you to Alexander The Great?

Through the years, he was my hero. I read Robin Lane Fox’s book in the 1980s and began to admire and understand him more. He’s perhaps the most unique individual in history… more things happened to him of a strange, extraordinary nature than any other human being that I know of. He was involved in more events and battles than dozens of men. He’s a great dramatic figure.

The story’s concept is that you destroy the dreamer, you kill what you love. Alexander’s the great instigator, the mover-shaker of the world. Ptolemy is a celebrated man, but his memory will never be that of Alexander, and he knows it, and knows that they cannot live with the dreamer…

By Chris Roberts

Bright Eyes – I’m Wide Awake… / Digital Ash…

0

I'm Wide Awake It's Morning / Digital Ash In A Digital Urn It's appropriate that Conor Oberst, aka Bright Eyes, was the only youthful talent asked to join Springsteen, Young and co on the recent Vote For Change tour. In many ways he has inherited the New Dylan mantle: a prolific and precocious, politicised yet sensitive singer-songwriter, and a generational figurehead in waiting. As Winona Ryder's ex and Joaquin Phoenix's pal, even the gossip columns are his. But in the 21st century, mere talent and fame aren't enough to secure the longevity of his forebears. The new music business strips musicians of their mystique and power with a piranha-like efficiency even the old Dylan might not have endured. Oberst, with two startling, simultaneous new albums, may have found a fresh way to the summit. He's far from a virginally pure indie saint. His floppy-haired, frail good looks, self-consciously tremulous voice, sensitive lyrics and celebrity ex have made him an almost traditional heart-throb to thousands of teenage girls. He's been called an "emo" pin-up, his songs even slipping onto glossily hip teen soap The OC. And though it bears little relation to the prosaic self-pity of a Dashboard Confessional, Oberst's angst has its own allure. Springing first from self-disgust worsened when he lost his Jesuit faith at 16, his songs also pulse with an overwrought passion for life. He is like a cleaner-featured, cleverer, more huggable Cobain, offering a path out of adolescent darkness to a braver, freakier new world. The building fascination around him was shown when the new albums' singles hit No 1 and 2 in the same week's US sales chart. Even in a nation where singles sales are negligible, this Beatle-esque statistic from someone so deep underground astonished. The key to Oberst is his background in Omaha, Nebraska's music scene, where gigs in musicians' homes are common and, a world away from LA, local support networks grow necessarily deep. Oberst was nudged on stage aged 12 by the scene's first kings, Lullaby For The Working Class, and had quietly released 150 songs by the age of 20. The city's Saddle Creek label has grown around him and other local successes like The Faint, with ex-Lullabyer Mike Mogis as house producer. In sticking with them, despite drooling interest from the majors, he is one of the first current artists to deliberately turn his back on music's new mega-corporate monster. Instead, he's building a career of old-fashioned substance, releasing records at a steady pace, developing his art and audience in a way Columbia in 1962 might understand, but Sony-BMG in 2004 never could. Comparisons to Dylan, meanwhile, are most apt in Oberst's casual stretching of songs past their normal limits, often nearing 10 minutes without losing momentum. The last Bright Eyes LP, Lifted, or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground (2002), also seemed to tilt at Dylanesque greatness. Its twin follow-ups sometimes touch it. Unlike, say, Lambchop's double album in disguise from last year, these are genuinely separate records, more in the cavalier spirit of hip hoppers, like OutKast's Speakerboxxx/The Love Below. I'm Wide Awake It's Morning is the more immediate of the two, built on a classic country template, and frequently dropping to an intimate hush, where Oberst's voice, and the harmonies of guest Emmylou Harris, wait to lure you in. Strikingly, he's singing lyrics that realise an intention he first announced three years ago (and developed in his punk side-project Desaparecidos' 2002 LP Read Music/Speak Spanish) to go beyond confessional hand-wringing and wrestle with the wider world. This is an utterly engaged political album, with a backdrop of street demos and televised warfare. But the trap of literal hectoring that frequently hobbles protest singing is deftly avoided, as Oberst integrates mass feelings of outrage with the reality of our more atomised, self-obsessed daily lives. "Land Locked Blues" is typical, making current events and sex speak the same language, as the sound of a living-room tumble can't drown out tanks on TV. "Well, a woman will pick you apart," is its most cruelly violent phrase; Oberst's agonising over his fame also selfishly intrudes on its martial beat. It's a human, messy slide from political to personal, not a tight-arsed manifesto. Though there's a general air of thunder approaching, there is also room for "Lua"'s wine-and-love-fuelled wildness, its shameless romantic adoration and allusions to larger, more mysterious stories. As impressive as anything, though, is the way the album's trad-country soundscape is broken up into som ething unique by Oberst's unruliness. His voice is one factor, a pure instrument he shoves into yowling pain and quivering self-pity. Rather than hide the art of this, his sobbed "me-e-hee" in "First Day Of My Life" is part of a general self-consciousness that might leave some listeners cold. But the charismatic flow of his singing allows Mogis' delicate production to ebb and surge, sounds accruing and reducing like breathing. Where Ryan Adams replicates old records, this is something new. Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, by comparison, sounds more impenetrable at first, as doomy '80s synths are overloaded into crackling imperfection (helped along by guest guitars from My Morning Jacket's Jim James and Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Nick Zinner). But, if anything, it contains a deeper melancholy, one that war and love are only symptoms of. "Down In A Rabbit Hole" is especially haunted, warning that "you're farther gone than you might expect", a death sentence delivered over caged animal roars. This was perhaps inspired by Oberst's 2000 heart-scare after alcoholically ODing. That fits with other moments of deep alcoholic alienation, vomiting toilet-bowl self-disgust, and the nuclear dread he has harboured since childhood. But something more shadowy and metaphysical is at work elsewhere, as Oberst the ex-Jesuit dreams of digital reincarnation, dead friends piled like leaves, and corpses stepping free of crime-scene chalk. The underlying impression - crazed projection or not - is of the whole world ticking fast towards the apocalypse, with regeneration, perhaps, to follow. Yet the songs are neither dogmatic nor whacked out. Like fine pop writers before him, Oberst's simply wrestling with something troubling he feels thick in the air. He may not yet be plugged deep enough into his subconscious for irrefutable greatness. But after this remarkable, musically and lyrically disparate double-header - carried off with such organic confidence you hardly notice the achievement - greatness is in his grasp. By Nick Hasted

I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning / Digital Ash In A Digital Urn

It’s appropriate that Conor Oberst, aka Bright Eyes, was the only youthful talent asked to join Springsteen, Young and co on the recent Vote For Change tour. In many ways he has inherited the New Dylan mantle: a prolific and precocious, politicised yet sensitive singer-songwriter, and a generational figurehead in waiting. As Winona Ryder’s ex and Joaquin Phoenix’s pal, even the gossip columns are his. But in the 21st century, mere talent and fame aren’t enough to secure the longevity of his forebears. The new music business strips musicians of their mystique and power with a piranha-like efficiency even the old Dylan might not have endured. Oberst, with two startling, simultaneous new albums, may have found a fresh way to the summit.

He’s far from a virginally pure indie saint. His floppy-haired, frail good looks, self-consciously tremulous voice, sensitive lyrics and celebrity ex have made him an almost traditional heart-throb to thousands of teenage girls. He’s been called an “emo” pin-up, his songs even slipping onto glossily hip teen soap The OC. And though it bears little relation to the prosaic self-pity of a Dashboard Confessional, Oberst’s angst has its own allure. Springing first from self-disgust worsened when he lost his Jesuit faith at 16, his songs also pulse with an overwrought passion for life. He is like a cleaner-featured, cleverer, more huggable Cobain, offering a path out of adolescent darkness to a braver, freakier new world. The building fascination around him was shown when the new albums’ singles hit No 1 and 2 in the same week’s US sales chart. Even in a nation where singles sales are negligible, this Beatle-esque statistic from someone so deep underground astonished.

The key to Oberst is his background in Omaha, Nebraska’s music scene, where gigs in musicians’ homes are common and, a world away from LA, local support networks grow necessarily deep. Oberst was nudged on stage aged 12 by the scene’s first kings, Lullaby For The Working Class, and had quietly released 150 songs by the age of 20. The city’s Saddle Creek label has grown around him and other local successes like The Faint, with ex-Lullabyer Mike Mogis as house producer. In sticking with them, despite drooling interest from the majors, he is one of the first current artists to deliberately turn his back on music’s new mega-corporate monster. Instead, he’s building a career of old-fashioned substance, releasing records at a steady pace, developing his art and audience in a way Columbia in 1962 might understand, but Sony-BMG in 2004 never could.

Comparisons to Dylan, meanwhile, are most apt in Oberst’s casual stretching of songs past their normal limits, often nearing 10 minutes without losing momentum. The last Bright Eyes LP, Lifted, or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground (2002), also seemed to tilt at Dylanesque greatness. Its twin follow-ups sometimes touch it. Unlike, say, Lambchop’s double album in disguise from last year, these are genuinely separate records, more in the cavalier spirit of hip hoppers, like OutKast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below.

I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning is the more immediate of the two, built on a classic country template, and frequently dropping to an intimate hush, where Oberst’s voice, and the harmonies of guest Emmylou Harris, wait to lure you in. Strikingly, he’s singing lyrics that realise an intention he first announced three years ago (and developed in his punk side-project Desaparecidos’ 2002 LP Read Music/Speak Spanish) to go beyond confessional hand-wringing and wrestle with the wider world. This is an utterly engaged political album, with a backdrop of street demos and televised warfare. But the trap of literal hectoring that frequently hobbles protest singing is deftly avoided, as Oberst integrates mass feelings of outrage with the reality of our more atomised, self-obsessed daily lives. “Land Locked Blues” is typical, making current events and sex speak the same language, as the sound of a living-room tumble can’t drown out tanks on TV. “Well, a woman will pick you apart,” is its most cruelly violent phrase; Oberst’s agonising over his fame also selfishly intrudes on its martial beat. It’s a human, messy slide from political to personal, not a tight-arsed manifesto.

Though there’s a general air of thunder approaching, there is also room for “Lua”‘s wine-and-love-fuelled wildness, its shameless romantic adoration and allusions to larger, more mysterious stories. As impressive as anything, though, is the way the album’s trad-country soundscape is broken up into som ething unique by Oberst’s unruliness. His voice is one factor, a pure instrument he shoves into yowling pain and quivering self-pity. Rather than hide the art of this, his sobbed “me-e-hee” in “First Day Of My Life” is part of a general self-consciousness that might leave some listeners cold. But the charismatic flow of his singing allows Mogis’ delicate production to ebb and surge, sounds accruing and reducing like breathing. Where Ryan Adams replicates old records, this is something new.

Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, by comparison, sounds more impenetrable at first, as doomy ’80s synths are overloaded into crackling imperfection (helped along by guest guitars from My Morning Jacket’s Jim James and Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Nick Zinner). But, if anything, it contains a deeper melancholy, one that war and love are only symptoms of. “Down In A Rabbit Hole” is especially haunted, warning that “you’re farther gone than you might expect”, a death sentence delivered over caged animal roars. This was perhaps inspired by Oberst’s 2000 heart-scare after alcoholically ODing. That fits with other moments of deep alcoholic alienation, vomiting toilet-bowl self-disgust, and the nuclear dread he has harboured since childhood. But something more shadowy and metaphysical is at work elsewhere, as Oberst the ex-Jesuit dreams of digital reincarnation, dead friends piled like leaves, and corpses stepping free of crime-scene chalk. The underlying impression – crazed projection or not – is of the whole world ticking fast towards the apocalypse, with regeneration, perhaps, to follow. Yet the songs are neither dogmatic nor whacked out. Like fine pop writers before him, Oberst’s simply wrestling with something troubling he feels thick in the air.

He may not yet be plugged deep enough into his subconscious for irrefutable greatness. But after this remarkable, musically and lyrically disparate double-header – carried off with such organic confidence you hardly notice the achievement – greatness is in his grasp.

By Nick Hasted

Athlete – Tourist

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Whatever happened to Athlete? Their 2003 debut, Vehicles And Animals, was a likeable, lightweight oddity: sweet, shuffling songs about aimless afternoons picking pebbles in Dungeness, like Squeeze remixed for Jamie Oliver. But Tourist begins earnestly - "Take your chances while you can, you never know when they'll pass you by" - and continues through 11 torpid ballads, drained of all their earlier quirks, seemingly laboratory-designed for those who find Keane too edgy. "All I Need" attempts uplift, declaring that "the world has got to have soul" (complete with gospel choir, in case we miss the point), but overall Tourist is relentlessly unadventurous: a generic snapshot of current MOR Britrock. By Stephen Trousse

Whatever happened to Athlete? Their 2003 debut, Vehicles And Animals, was a likeable, lightweight oddity: sweet, shuffling songs about aimless afternoons picking pebbles in Dungeness, like Squeeze remixed for Jamie Oliver. But Tourist begins earnestly – “Take your chances while you can, you never know when they’ll pass you by” – and continues through 11 torpid ballads, drained of all their earlier quirks, seemingly laboratory-designed for those who find Keane too edgy. “All I Need” attempts uplift, declaring that “the world has got to have soul” (complete with gospel choir, in case we miss the point), but overall Tourist is relentlessly unadventurous: a generic snapshot of current MOR Britrock.

By Stephen Trousse

The Beatles – The Capitol Albums 1.

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As time recedes, how bizarrely indiscriminate the English invasion of the US seems to us now. Ringo was initially deemed the cutest Beatle and, for a while, America embraced The Dave Clark Five and Herman's Hermits as willingly as it shrieked at the Fab Four. This arbitrary Anglophilia endured well beyond the initial invasion. Never let it be forgotten that the Hermits' "'Enery The Eighth" and The New Vaudeville Band's "Winchester Cathedral" were both Billboard No 1s and spawned more novelty imitations than you can imagine. America couldn't get enough of our quaintness. Dissenting voices were, of course, all but drowned out by the screams. Those aggrieved older heads who didn't want their Arthur Alexander and their "Roll Over Beethoven" re-interpreted for the mewling puking masses could like it or lump it. For nearly three years, until the seismic aftershock of Shea Stadium died down, that ubiquitous twang was the only show in town. Kiss goodbye to the golden age of girl groups. Wave ta-ta to surf-pop. Thanks to eccentric licensing, America had an equally skewed encounter with the Fabs chronology. By the time Murray The K and co got to the party, The Beatles were already on their fourth UK hit. Previous US labels had let the cash cow slip from their grip like so much unpatented Epstein merchandise, so Capitol had to play a hasty game of catch-up with the release schedule. Thankfully, they took a less anally retentive approach to the inclusion of singles on albums than their British counterparts. For current collectors and completists, however, the haphazard chronology is slightly more problematic. Meet The Beatles is basically Parlophone's With The Beatles plus singles, the remainder of With The Beatles finding its way onto the imaginatively titled The Beatles Second Album alongside selective B-sides (the classic "You Can't Do That" and "I'll Get You") and EP tracks. Something New, the most incongruous mish-mash of all, is the Hard Day's Night soundtrack with - duh? - the title track and "Can't Buy Me Love" replaced by the German version of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and McCartney's lame take on Carl Perkins' "Matchbox". Beatles '65 lumps half of Beatles For Sale with whatever was left over. Chronologically, then, they make little sense. As an aural document of what made teen America moist, however, the collection is pretty hard to beat. Lyrically, that combination of Merseypool punning and codified smut was lethal. The amphetamine gulp and the exuberant energy unleashed the emotions of a generation. The screamers understood. And as for the wider musical influence, well, the future Mamas & Papas would have still been playing Hootenanny if they hadn't heard "I Call Your Name", while The Byrds' blueprint can be heard in every Rickenbacker chime. Approximately 10,000 other high-school hoppers and garage punks to be taken into account, m'lud. "Oh, I get it. You don't want to be the loveable moptops any more," Dylan allegedly remarked when The Beatles played him Revolver. The truth is, they never did. By Rob Chapman

As time recedes, how bizarrely indiscriminate the English invasion of the US seems to us now. Ringo was initially deemed the cutest Beatle and, for a while, America embraced The Dave Clark Five and Herman’s Hermits as willingly as it shrieked at the Fab Four. This arbitrary Anglophilia endured well beyond the initial invasion. Never let it be forgotten that the Hermits’ “‘Enery The Eighth” and The New Vaudeville Band’s “Winchester Cathedral” were both Billboard No 1s and spawned more novelty imitations than you can imagine. America couldn’t get enough of our quaintness.

Dissenting voices were, of course, all but drowned out by the screams. Those aggrieved older heads who didn’t want their Arthur Alexander and their “Roll Over Beethoven” re-interpreted for the mewling puking masses could like it or lump it. For nearly three years, until the seismic aftershock of Shea Stadium died down, that ubiquitous twang was the only show in town. Kiss goodbye to the golden age of girl groups. Wave ta-ta to surf-pop.

Thanks to eccentric licensing, America had an equally skewed encounter with the Fabs chronology. By the time Murray The K and co got to the party, The Beatles were already on their fourth UK hit. Previous US labels had let the cash cow slip from their grip like so much unpatented Epstein merchandise, so Capitol had to play a hasty game of catch-up with the release schedule. Thankfully, they took a less anally retentive approach to the inclusion of singles on albums than their British counterparts.

For current collectors and completists, however, the haphazard chronology is slightly more problematic. Meet The Beatles is basically Parlophone’s With The Beatles plus singles, the remainder of With The Beatles finding its way onto the imaginatively titled The Beatles Second Album alongside selective B-sides (the classic “You Can’t Do That” and “I’ll Get You”) and EP tracks. Something New, the most incongruous mish-mash of all, is the Hard Day’s Night soundtrack with – duh? – the title track and “Can’t Buy Me Love” replaced by the German version of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” and McCartney’s lame take on Carl Perkins’ “Matchbox”. Beatles ’65 lumps half of Beatles For Sale with whatever was left over.

Chronologically, then, they make little sense. As an aural document of what made teen America moist, however, the collection is pretty hard to beat. Lyrically, that combination of Merseypool punning and codified smut was lethal. The amphetamine gulp and the exuberant energy unleashed the emotions of a generation. The screamers understood. And as for the wider musical influence, well, the future Mamas & Papas would have still been playing Hootenanny if they hadn’t heard “I Call Your Name”, while The Byrds’ blueprint can be heard in every Rickenbacker chime. Approximately 10,000 other high-school hoppers and garage punks to be taken into account, m’lud.

“Oh, I get it. You don’t want to be the loveable moptops any more,” Dylan allegedly remarked when The Beatles played him Revolver. The truth is, they never did.

By Rob Chapman

Mercury Rev – The Secret Migration

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Follow-up to 2001’s All Is Dream, recorded in the band’s Kingston studio by the core Rev trio of Jonathan Donahue, Grasshopper and Jeff Mercel. What a long strange migration Mercury Rev’s has been. From the intemperate chaos of their early days to the dark power and elegance of their work since See You On The Other Side, few comparable cases of successful sonic metamorphosis exist in the past decade. “Ah, bands, those funny little plans…” that sometimes, just sometimes, work out right. Those of us who clung to Jonathan Donahue’s and Sean “Grasshopper” Mackiowiak’s coat-tails as they broke on through to the “other side” of Mercury Rev in 1995 could afford to be blasé about the beauties of 1998’s Deserter’s Songs. See You’s “Everlasting Arm” and “Racing the Tide” had already taught us that the two men were true musical alchemists of cosmic Americana. Along with the Flaming Lips’ Clouds Taste Metallic, Sparklehorse’s Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot and Grandaddy’s Under the Western Freeway, See You presaged a bold new dawn of swirling melody and faux-choirboy singing. Rescued from penury by V2’s Kate Hyman, the Butch Cassidy (Donahue) and Sundance Kid (Grasshopper) of the Catskills were all but forgotten entities when Deserter’s Songs stunned the world in ’98. But Donahue, a shaman among drab rock disciples, was always going to outpace the tide of Britpop bores and become the dark star he is. A lean magus resembling a kind of sexy Peter Stormare, Donahue’s blend of tenderness and menace was exactly what rock’s doctors ordered after the moribund mid-‘90s. Along with the Lips’ 1999 masterpiece Soft Bulletin – ex-Lip Donahue surely being the introvert Wayne Coyne – Songs was the irresistible antidote to crass Britpop: ethereal, exultant music for ears deadened by sex’n’drugs’n’guitars cliché. But Mercury Rev did it differently to the alt.country retro merchants. Rather than retreat into some back-porch banjo idyll, they created a para-psychedelic version of front-parlour Tin Pan Alley/Broadway fantasia. Inspired by the mountains around Kingston and Woodstock, Deserter’s Songs wasn’t country but it certainly wasn’t urban either. It was music out of time, music for ghosts played on defunct instruments before being hot-wired for indie-rock consumption. Influenced not by Dylan or the Byrds but by cult figures like Van Dyke Parks – check the Harper’s Bizarre of the Parks-arranged “High Coin” (1967) for the proto-Rev matrix – Deserter’s was at once quaint and mind-blowing. The quaintness was still there on 2001’s All Is Dream, but the mood this time was darker, more overtly steeped in Donahue’s occult obsessions. Here serpents lurked, monsters surfacing from the depths of bad dreams. “The Dark is Rising,” announced the opening track. A Rev show I saw at London’s Electric Ballroom was frighteningly powerful. Three years later Butch and the Kid have returned with yet another magnificent opus – a “dark country ride” in the company of a “dark country bride”. The Secret Migration is nothing less than a journey through Rev(erie) and a cycle through the seasons of upstate New York. More than anything, Migration is a hymn to nature – to mystery – at a time when materialist artifice threatens to destroy our planet. “Diamonds” is pastoral bling, with Donahue offering jewels of sun-reflecting raindrops and bracelets draped from spiders’ webs – “gifts that you won’t forget” and that all of us should treasure. “Black Forest (Lorelei)” plunges us into dark woods of ancient myth. The soaring “Vermillion” notes an “unseen force behind the turning leaves”; the heartbreaking “My Love” sees “someone behind the scenes” pulling the strings of seasonal change. To a melody worthy of vintage McCartney, “First-Time Mother’s Joy” exquisitely observes spring’s rebirth after harsh winter. On the Spector-esque “In a Funny Way” – an unconscious nod to Jack Nitzsche, intended producer of All Is Dream? – Donahue lists the everyday items of his back-of-beyond existence: fields and streams and lakes and “all my dogs”. Once again Donahue and Grasshopper, abetted by drummer/keyboardist Jeff Mercel, pull us into their unapologetically lush dreamworld. “On a wave of emotion, sending ships across yer ocean,” Jonathan warbles on the ecstatic second track, “I’ve lost all my reason(s)”. Melodically The Secret Migration is closer in feel to Deserter’s Songs than to All Is Dream: it’s less sinister and more glowingly radiant than that sometimes nightmarish record. If the album blasts off with the surging “Secret for a Song” – “The Funny Bird” revisited, or near enough – guitar power is thenceforth less paramount. There are newish textures here: electric piano on “Diamonds” and “The Climbing Rose”, rumbly new-wave bass on “Arise”. Keyboards of all kinds are ubiquitous. By their own admission, the band opted not to resort so much to the usual orchestral apparatus. For the moment the bowed saws are in storage. But Mercury Rev’s power is undiminished. While never resorting to crude hooks, they build melodies to peaks of graceful intensity. “Across Yer Ocean”, “Vermillion” and “My Love” are especially gorgeous. If there are any quibbles at all, they’re with the track sequencing: I’d have separated the slow “My Love” from the charmingly hopeful interlude that is “Moving On” and maybe used the latter to break up “The Climbing Rose” and “Arise” (the album’s least engaging song). But a quibble is all that is. By the time The Secret Migration concludes with the short, shimmering hymn that is “Down Poured the Heavens”, you feel you’ve undergone a mildly life-changing experience. After a year in which true musical magic has been thin on the ground – I’ll take the swishy Scissor Sisters over the arch Franz Ferdinand but I long for pop that transcends pastiche altogether – Mercury Rev return us to a realm of spirit we’ve all but lost touch with. Their songs celebrate the irrational, the domain of feelings beyond words. To cite Tolkien, The Secret Migration is a precious thing indeed. Barney Hoskyns

Follow-up to 2001’s All Is Dream, recorded in the band’s Kingston studio by the core Rev trio of Jonathan Donahue, Grasshopper and Jeff Mercel.

What a long strange migration Mercury Rev’s has been. From the intemperate chaos of their early days to the dark power and elegance of their work since See You On The Other Side, few comparable cases of successful sonic metamorphosis exist in the past decade. “Ah, bands, those funny little plans…” that sometimes, just sometimes, work out right.

Those of us who clung to Jonathan Donahue’s and Sean “Grasshopper” Mackiowiak’s coat-tails as they broke on through to the “other side” of Mercury Rev in 1995 could afford to be blasé about the beauties of 1998’s Deserter’s Songs. See You’s “Everlasting Arm” and “Racing the Tide” had already taught us that the two men were true musical alchemists of cosmic Americana. Along with the Flaming Lips’ Clouds Taste Metallic, Sparklehorse’s Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot and Grandaddy’s Under the Western Freeway, See You presaged a bold new dawn of swirling melody and faux-choirboy singing.

Rescued from penury by V2’s Kate Hyman, the Butch Cassidy (Donahue) and Sundance Kid (Grasshopper) of the Catskills were all but forgotten entities when Deserter’s Songs stunned the world in ’98. But Donahue, a shaman among drab rock disciples, was always going to outpace the tide of Britpop bores and become the dark star he is.

A lean magus resembling a kind of sexy Peter Stormare, Donahue’s blend of tenderness and menace was exactly what rock’s doctors ordered after the moribund mid-‘90s. Along with the Lips’ 1999 masterpiece Soft Bulletin – ex-Lip Donahue surely being the introvert Wayne Coyne – Songs was the irresistible antidote to crass Britpop: ethereal, exultant music for ears deadened by sex’n’drugs’n’guitars cliché.

But Mercury Rev did it differently to the alt.country retro merchants. Rather than retreat into some back-porch banjo idyll, they created a para-psychedelic version of front-parlour Tin Pan Alley/Broadway fantasia. Inspired by the mountains around Kingston and Woodstock, Deserter’s Songs wasn’t country but it certainly wasn’t urban either. It was music out of time, music for ghosts played on defunct instruments before being hot-wired for indie-rock consumption. Influenced not by Dylan or the Byrds but by cult figures like Van Dyke Parks – check the Harper’s Bizarre of the Parks-arranged “High Coin” (1967) for the proto-Rev matrix – Deserter’s was at once quaint and mind-blowing.

The quaintness was still there on 2001’s All Is Dream, but the mood this time was darker, more overtly steeped in Donahue’s occult obsessions. Here serpents lurked, monsters surfacing from the depths of bad dreams. “The Dark is Rising,” announced the opening track. A Rev show I saw at London’s Electric Ballroom was frighteningly powerful.

Three years later Butch and the Kid have returned with yet another magnificent opus – a “dark country ride” in the company of a “dark country bride”. The Secret Migration is nothing less than a journey through Rev(erie) and a cycle through the seasons of upstate New York.

More than anything, Migration is a hymn to nature – to mystery – at a time when materialist artifice threatens to destroy our planet. “Diamonds” is pastoral bling, with Donahue offering jewels of sun-reflecting raindrops and bracelets draped from spiders’ webs – “gifts that you won’t forget” and that all of us should treasure. “Black Forest (Lorelei)” plunges us into dark woods of ancient myth. The soaring “Vermillion” notes an “unseen force behind the turning leaves”; the heartbreaking “My Love” sees “someone behind the scenes” pulling the strings of seasonal change.

To a melody worthy of vintage McCartney, “First-Time Mother’s Joy” exquisitely observes spring’s rebirth after harsh winter. On the Spector-esque “In a Funny Way” – an unconscious nod to Jack Nitzsche, intended producer of All Is Dream? – Donahue lists the everyday items of his back-of-beyond existence: fields and streams and lakes and “all my dogs”. Once again Donahue and Grasshopper, abetted by drummer/keyboardist Jeff Mercel, pull us into their unapologetically lush dreamworld. “On a wave of emotion, sending ships across yer ocean,” Jonathan warbles on the ecstatic second track, “I’ve lost all my reason(s)”.

Melodically The Secret Migration is closer in feel to Deserter’s Songs than to All Is Dream: it’s less sinister and more glowingly radiant than that sometimes nightmarish record. If the album blasts off with the surging “Secret for a Song” – “The Funny Bird” revisited, or near enough – guitar power is thenceforth less paramount. There are newish textures here: electric piano on “Diamonds” and “The Climbing Rose”, rumbly new-wave bass on “Arise”. Keyboards of all kinds are ubiquitous. By their own admission, the band opted not to resort so much to the usual orchestral apparatus. For the moment the bowed saws are in storage.

But Mercury Rev’s power is undiminished. While never resorting to crude hooks, they build melodies to peaks of graceful intensity. “Across Yer Ocean”, “Vermillion” and “My Love” are especially gorgeous. If there are any quibbles at all, they’re with the track sequencing: I’d have separated the slow “My Love” from the charmingly hopeful interlude that is “Moving On” and maybe used the latter to break up “The Climbing Rose” and “Arise” (the album’s least engaging song). But a quibble is all that is. By the time The Secret Migration concludes with the short, shimmering hymn that is “Down Poured the Heavens”, you feel you’ve undergone a mildly life-changing experience.

After a year in which true musical magic has been thin on the ground – I’ll take the swishy Scissor Sisters over the arch Franz Ferdinand but I long for pop that transcends pastiche altogether – Mercury Rev return us to a realm of spirit we’ve all but lost touch with. Their songs celebrate the irrational, the domain of feelings beyond words. To cite Tolkien, The Secret Migration is a precious thing indeed.

Barney Hoskyns

Grant Lee Philips – Ladies’ Love Oracle

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On quitting Grant Lee Buffalo in 1999, Phillips holed himself up in the basement of producer Jon Brion for three dark October days, finally emerging with a handful of witching-hour spirituals. Previously available only at gigs and online, Ladies’ Love Oracle is the result: a dimly-lit acoustic suite of minor chord subtlety, artful melodies and sparse backdrops. At times, he sounds eerily Lennonesque (“Heavenly”; “Don’t Look Down”), at others like a delicate Elliott Smith. The slide guitar of “Folding” and a couple of percussive numbers aside, the pace remains fixed (indeed, there’s no sign of his dynamic-shifting baritone amongst the whispers), but it’s an understated treat nonetheless. Rob Hughes

On quitting Grant Lee Buffalo in 1999, Phillips holed himself up in the basement of producer Jon Brion for three dark October days, finally emerging with a handful of witching-hour spirituals. Previously available only at gigs and online, Ladies’ Love Oracle is the result: a dimly-lit acoustic suite of minor chord subtlety, artful melodies and sparse backdrops. At times, he sounds eerily Lennonesque (“Heavenly”; “Don’t Look Down”), at others like a delicate Elliott Smith. The slide guitar of “Folding” and a couple of percussive numbers aside, the pace remains fixed (indeed, there’s no sign of his dynamic-shifting baritone amongst the whispers), but it’s an understated treat nonetheless.

Rob Hughes

Nora O’Connor – Til The Dawn

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Sometime bartender, midwife and reverend, O'Connor's true calling may lie as a remarkable interpreter of song. Though recent years have found her adding dewy vocal harmonies for Andrew Bird's Bowl Of Fire (and Mavis Staples), her solo debut is long overdue. A brace of impressive originals?"My Backyard", "Tonight"?are whispers of classic honky-tonk, but she truly shines on covers of James (Squirrel Nut Zippers) Mathus' "Bottoms" and "Nightingale", twisting each into the kind of lovelorn ballad Alison Krauss would kill for. The muted boom-chicka-boom of Matt Weber's "OK With Me" is equally gripping, as is Lori Carson closer "Down Here".

Sometime bartender, midwife and reverend, O’Connor’s true calling may lie as a remarkable interpreter of song. Though recent years have found her adding dewy vocal harmonies for Andrew Bird’s Bowl Of Fire (and Mavis Staples), her solo debut is long overdue. A brace of impressive originals?”My Backyard”, “Tonight”?are whispers of classic honky-tonk, but she truly shines on covers of James (Squirrel Nut Zippers) Mathus’ “Bottoms” and “Nightingale”, twisting each into the kind of lovelorn ballad Alison Krauss would kill for. The muted boom-chicka-boom of Matt Weber’s “OK With Me” is equally gripping, as is Lori Carson closer “Down Here”.

Death In Vegas – Satan’s Circus

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Goth techno, built for stadiums and sung by Liam Gallagher and lggy Pop, is evidently a thing of Death In Vegas' extravagant major-label past. Now on their own Drone imprint, Richard Fearless and Tim Holmes' ambitions are more modest, that rotten album title notwithstanding. A song called "Sons Of Rother" reveals more?that they've consciously restyled themselves in the image of '70s Krautrock, especially Michael Rother's Neu! and Harmonia. At times it's hard to see the point of such a meticulous homage to motorik; one suspects Kraftwerk themselves might have trouble differentiating the start of "Zugaga" from "Trans Europe Express". Nevertheless, DIV's most aesthetically satisfying album, and perhaps an explanation of why their production work for Oasis last year was so abruptly terminated. JOHN MULVEY

Goth techno, built for stadiums and sung by Liam Gallagher and lggy Pop, is evidently a thing of Death In Vegas’ extravagant major-label past. Now on their own Drone imprint, Richard Fearless and Tim Holmes’ ambitions are more modest, that rotten album title notwithstanding. A song called “Sons Of Rother” reveals more?that they’ve consciously restyled themselves in the image of ’70s Krautrock, especially Michael Rother’s Neu! and Harmonia. At times it’s hard to see the point of such a meticulous homage to motorik; one suspects Kraftwerk themselves might have trouble differentiating the start of “Zugaga” from “Trans Europe Express”. Nevertheless, DIV’s most aesthetically satisfying album, and perhaps an explanation of why their production work for Oasis last year was so abruptly terminated.

JOHN MULVEY

Clive Palmer – All Roads Lead To Land

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Clive Palmer distinguished himself as a founding member of The Incredible String Band together with Robin Williamson in 1965. This new album has little of the Incredible mystery about it. It's mostly Palmer alone in the studio, picking and plucking with a slow and stately gait. He sings with a quiet dignity, although his voice, at times uncertain, wavers over the notes. A valiant effort, but too much of this conventional chugging resembles work by another Englishman with the same first name: Clive Dunn.

Clive Palmer distinguished himself as a founding member of The Incredible String Band together with Robin Williamson in 1965. This new album has little of the Incredible mystery about it. It’s mostly Palmer alone in the studio, picking and plucking with a slow and stately gait.

He sings with a quiet dignity, although his voice, at times uncertain, wavers over the notes. A valiant effort, but too much of this conventional chugging resembles work by another Englishman with the same first name: Clive Dunn.

U2 – How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb

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One! Two! Three! Four! Bono began Boy, 24 years ago now, counting in the opening bars of "I Will Follow" just so. They sounded drilled and disciplined from the start, marshalling the righteous ire of The Clash with the rigour of Joy Division, like God's own post-punk marching band... UNOS! DOS! TRES! CATORCE! So when "Vertigo" wails into life with mangled Spanish, it feels like a timely nod to their garage-band hinterland. "Catorce" rather than the expected "cuatro" because this is, after all, U2's 14th album (including Wide Awake In America and Passengers). It had, by all accounts, a difficult gestation: a year's work with Chris Thomas, including sessions with a 50-piece orchestra, was shelved. There are actually seven people, including Eno, Flood and Nellee Hooper, credited with "additional production". Having spent a decade reinventing themselves as stadium ironists, the supreme irony may be that sincerity is the trickiest pose of all to maintain. If All That You Can't Leave Behind saw them reapplying for the job of Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band In The World, four years on, they might still be on probation. In which case recalling Steve Lillywhite, the producer of their debut trilogy of albums, to work with them seems like a back-to-basics statement of intent. But no one steps into the same garage twice. While the songs on HTDAAB revisit the wide-eyed, clanging vistas of October or War, some of that marching certainty has been lost, the compasses are reeling and all the clocks seem awry. Really, the cover of this record could have been an experienced update on the blankly innocent portrait of Boy. The title might simply have been Man. In retrospect, the key line on ATYCLB was from that affectionate quarrel with the ghost of Michael Hutchence, "Stuck In A Moment": "I'm not afraid of anything in this world". It may have been a record riddled with mortality, but it sounded oddly energised by the encounter. By contrast, HTDAAB most definitely has The Fear. Bono has said that he thinks of himself as the atomic bomb of that unwieldy title, that his father's death lit a self-destructive spark that took two years to defuse. And "Vertigo" may be the sound of that immediate tailspin of grief, the brutal disorientation of "everything I wish I didn't know". Before his death, Bono's father apparently struggled with and finally lost his faith. If HTDAAB feels much more intimately urgent than any U2 record of the past decade, it may be that, with their belief so jeopardised, their hopes so thoroughly jangled, there's so much more at stake. While in the past they may have hung with Johnny Cash, and even named a record after the experience of Hiroshima, HTDAAB feels like the first U2 record fully acquainted with Doom, touched by what the American novelist Steve Erickson once called "the nuclear imagination". The strongest songs on the record wrestle explicitly with these disconsolate intimations of mortality. "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" begins quietly with tough-guy bravado, the circling, half-articulated disputes and debts between father and son, and builds gradually to a keening, chiming, classical U2 crescendo that, crucially, feels dramatically earned. If the grief is operatic, well, as Bono acknowledges finally to the father who conducted along to the radio with knitting needles, "you're the reason why the opera's in me". "One Step Closer", meanwhile, is the centrepiece of the record. Inspired by a comment from, of all people, Noel Gallagher, it's the hushed aftermath to "Sometimes...". Half-sighed in elaborate reluctance, accompanied by a shining mist of guitar, it offers no consolation in the face of death other than the bruised knowledge that "a heart that hurts is a heart that beats". But, in its stark, awestruck honesty, it may be the bravest, most affecting song they've ever recorded. This may all make HTDAAB sound like an entirely morbid, maudlin affair—in fact, it's their most unabashedly strident record since The Unforgettable Fire. At times you suspect that they took the much-trumpeted post-9/11 Death of Irony as a personal relief. On the rampant, rumbustious "All Because Of You" and "City Of Blinding Lights" you get the sense of a band flexing muscles they haven't used in years. And though he sings, "I like the sound of my own voice/I didn't give anyone else a choice", the stadium rock statesman is most assuredly back. "Crumbs From Your Table" and "Miracle Drug", along with the lavish 50-page CD booklet, grow out of Bono's campaigning for Third World debt relief, fair trade and AIDS research, declaring baldly, "Where you live should not decide/Whether you live or whether you die". The stomping Jericho blues of "Love And Peace...Or Else", meanwhile, is U2's own tactful intervention in the Middle East crisis. But even at their most glibly bombastic, there's a melancholy undertow that they can't shake. Though the band rattle and strum with their old '80s vigour, the lines that stay with you speak of a creeping malaise: "I'm at the place I started out from and I want back inside"... "The more you see the less you know"..."What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?" So it feels like an overcompensation when the record builds to the inevitable, unequivocal prayer of "Yahweh"—the glinting skyscraping guitars of "Pride" or "Where The Streets Have No Name" reactivated and ringing as Bono pleads, "Take this heart... and make it brave". It's yearning, rousing and, frankly, it's U2 on autopilot. It feels like a rather pat conclusion to such a troubled record, a piece of deus ex machina uplift tacked on to a film noir by a studio determined not to send the audience out on a downer. And you suspect that someone in the band might feel this way, too. Because, for the UK release alone, the record actually concludes with "Fast Cars", an eerie, Arabic-flavoured sketch of a song recorded on their last day in the studio. Overloaded with "CCTV, pornography, CNBC", it feels like the dazed and hungover sequel to the reeling "Vertigo". The singer's "in detox and checking stocks" while "out in the desert they're dismantling an atomic bomb". But the song seems rueful about its rehab: "Don't you worry about your mind", sings Bono in a fade clouded in muezzin wails, "you should worry about your pain/and the day it goes away...". It's an appropriately unsettling ending to a record that, at its best, is honest in its doubts.

One! Two! Three! Four! Bono began Boy, 24 years ago now, counting in the opening bars of “I Will Follow” just so. They sounded drilled and disciplined from the start, marshalling the righteous ire of The Clash with the rigour of Joy Division, like God’s own post-punk marching band…

UNOS! DOS! TRES! CATORCE! So when “Vertigo” wails into life with mangled Spanish, it feels like a timely nod to their garage-band hinterland. “Catorce” rather than the expected “cuatro” because this is, after all, U2’s 14th album (including Wide Awake In America and Passengers). It had, by all accounts, a difficult gestation: a year’s work with Chris Thomas, including sessions with a 50-piece orchestra, was shelved. There are actually seven people, including Eno, Flood and Nellee Hooper, credited with “additional production”. Having spent a decade reinventing themselves as stadium ironists, the supreme irony may be that sincerity is the trickiest pose of all to maintain. If All That You Can’t Leave Behind saw them reapplying for the job of Greatest Rock ‘n’ Roll Band In The World, four years on, they might still be on probation.

In which case recalling Steve Lillywhite, the producer of their debut trilogy of albums, to work with them seems like a back-to-basics statement of intent. But no one steps into the same garage twice. While the songs on HTDAAB revisit the wide-eyed, clanging vistas of October or War, some of that marching certainty has been lost, the compasses are reeling and all the clocks seem awry. Really, the cover of this record could have been an experienced update on the blankly innocent portrait of Boy. The title might simply have been Man.

In retrospect, the key line on ATYCLB was from that affectionate quarrel with the ghost of Michael Hutchence, “Stuck In A Moment”: “I’m not afraid of anything in this world”. It may have been a record riddled with mortality, but it sounded oddly energised by the encounter. By contrast, HTDAAB most definitely has The Fear. Bono has said that he thinks of himself as the atomic bomb of that unwieldy title, that his father’s death lit a self-destructive spark that took two years to defuse. And “Vertigo” may be the sound of that immediate tailspin of grief, the brutal disorientation of “everything I wish I didn’t know”.

Before his death, Bono’s father apparently struggled with and finally lost his faith. If HTDAAB feels much more intimately urgent than any U2 record of the past decade, it may be that, with their belief so jeopardised, their hopes so thoroughly jangled, there’s so much more at stake. While in the past they may have hung with Johnny Cash, and even named a record after the experience of Hiroshima, HTDAAB feels like the first U2 record fully acquainted with Doom, touched by what the American novelist Steve Erickson once called “the nuclear imagination”.

The strongest songs on the record wrestle explicitly with these disconsolate intimations of mortality. “Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own” begins quietly with tough-guy bravado, the circling, half-articulated disputes and debts between father and son, and builds gradually to a keening, chiming, classical U2 crescendo that, crucially, feels dramatically earned. If the grief is operatic, well, as Bono acknowledges finally to the father who conducted along to the radio with knitting needles, “you’re the reason why the opera’s in me”.

“One Step Closer”, meanwhile, is the centrepiece of the record. Inspired by a comment from, of all people, Noel Gallagher, it’s the hushed aftermath to “Sometimes…”. Half-sighed in elaborate reluctance, accompanied by a shining mist of guitar, it offers no consolation in the face of death other than the bruised knowledge that “a heart that hurts is a heart that beats”. But, in its stark, awestruck honesty, it may be the bravest, most affecting song they’ve ever recorded.

This may all make HTDAAB sound like an entirely morbid, maudlin affair—in fact, it’s their most unabashedly strident record since The Unforgettable Fire. At times you suspect that they took the much-trumpeted post-9/11 Death of Irony as a personal relief. On the rampant, rumbustious “All Because Of You” and “City Of Blinding Lights” you get the sense of a band flexing muscles they haven’t used in years. And though he sings, “I like the sound of my own voice/I didn’t give anyone else a choice”, the stadium rock statesman is most assuredly back. “Crumbs From Your Table” and “Miracle Drug”, along with the lavish 50-page CD booklet, grow out of Bono’s campaigning for Third World debt relief, fair trade and AIDS research, declaring baldly, “Where you live should not decide/Whether you live or whether you die”. The stomping Jericho blues of “Love And Peace…Or Else”, meanwhile, is U2’s own tactful intervention in the Middle East crisis.

But even at their most glibly bombastic, there’s a melancholy undertow that they can’t shake. Though the band rattle and strum with their old ’80s vigour, the lines that stay with you speak of a creeping malaise: “I’m at the place I started out from and I want back inside”… “The more you see the less you know”…”What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?”

So it feels like an overcompensation when the record builds to the inevitable, unequivocal prayer of “Yahweh”—the glinting skyscraping guitars of “Pride” or “Where The Streets Have No Name” reactivated and ringing as Bono pleads, “Take this heart… and make it brave”. It’s yearning, rousing and, frankly, it’s U2 on autopilot. It feels like a rather pat conclusion to such a troubled record, a piece of deus ex machina uplift tacked on to a film noir by a studio determined not to send the audience out on a downer.

And you suspect that someone in the band might feel this way, too. Because, for the UK release alone, the record actually concludes with “Fast Cars”, an eerie, Arabic-flavoured sketch of a song recorded on their last day in the studio. Overloaded with “CCTV, pornography, CNBC”, it feels like the dazed and hungover sequel to the reeling “Vertigo”. The singer’s “in detox and checking stocks” while “out in the desert they’re dismantling an atomic bomb”. But the song seems rueful about its rehab: “Don’t you worry about your mind”, sings Bono in a fade clouded in muezzin wails, “you should worry about your pain/and the day it goes away…”. It’s an appropriately unsettling ending to a record that, at its best, is honest in its doubts.

House Of Flying Daggers

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To release one breath-taking, genre-defining Martial Arts epic in a year is an impressive achievement; to release two might be considered little more than a vulgar display of self-indulgence. But after the eye-popping dazzle and explosive spectacle of Hero, director Zhang Yimou returns with yet another beautifully-wrought incursion into classical Chinese folklore. And, incredibly, it's even better than its predecessor. Yimou is in a league of his own, and you get the sense that he knows it - such is the deftness and confidence with which he guides us through this sensuous, sweeping story. We're in 859AD, and rebel insurgents the House Of Flying Daggers are locked in a protracted and bloody internecine warfare with the corrupt Tang dynasty. Two local sheriffs - Leo (Lau) and Jin (Kaneshiro) - are charged with bringing in the rebels' new leader, and suspect a blind courtesan, Mei (Hero co-star Ziyi) is the daughter of the Daggers' old leader. Leo arrests Mei, but she stubbornly refuses to co-operate. So Jin, pretending to be a warrior sympathetic to her cause, effects her "rescue" and the two head off to join up with the Daggers, with Leo tailing them at a discreet distance. Leo and Mei make a handsome couple, and it's no surprise that - when not dodging bamboo spears - they start falling for each other. Which makes things very difficult with Mei is finally forced to reveal a very surprising secret. The debate over which of Zhang's two masterful pieces of cinema is the better is one that will run and run, but for my book House Of Flying Daggers just takes it. Hero has a stylised beauty and vivid colours that practically sing to you. But there's something austere and emotionally restrained about the film. Daggers, meanwhile, is all about passion - about crazy, reckless actions taken in the name of politics and love. It's sexy, kinetic and it flaunts its state of the art digital special effects (those daggers really fly and the camera skims along behind them). It also has one of the coolest titles in the history of cinema. The fight choreography is flawless, the set pieces make you want to stand up in your seat and cheer. It doesn't get much better than this, believe me. By Wendy Ide

To release one breath-taking, genre-defining Martial Arts epic in a year is an impressive achievement; to release two might be considered little more than a vulgar display of self-indulgence. But after the eye-popping dazzle and explosive spectacle of Hero, director Zhang Yimou returns with yet another beautifully-wrought incursion into classical Chinese folklore. And, incredibly, it’s even better than its predecessor. Yimou is in a league of his own, and you get the sense that he knows it – such is the deftness and confidence with which he guides us through this sensuous, sweeping story.

We’re in 859AD, and rebel insurgents the House Of Flying Daggers are locked in a protracted and bloody internecine warfare with the corrupt Tang dynasty. Two local sheriffs – Leo (Lau) and Jin (Kaneshiro) – are charged with bringing in the rebels’ new leader, and suspect a blind courtesan, Mei (Hero co-star Ziyi) is the daughter of the Daggers’ old leader. Leo arrests Mei, but she stubbornly refuses to co-operate. So Jin, pretending to be a warrior sympathetic to her cause, effects her “rescue” and the two head off to join up with the Daggers, with Leo tailing them at a discreet distance. Leo and Mei make a handsome couple, and it’s no surprise that – when not dodging bamboo spears – they start falling for each other. Which makes things very difficult with Mei is finally forced to reveal a very surprising secret.

The debate over which of Zhang’s two masterful pieces of cinema is the better is one that will run and run, but for my book House Of Flying Daggers just takes it. Hero has a stylised beauty and vivid colours that practically sing to you. But there’s something austere and emotionally restrained about the film. Daggers, meanwhile, is all about passion – about crazy, reckless actions taken in the name of politics and love. It’s sexy, kinetic and it flaunts its state of the art digital special effects (those daggers really fly and the camera skims along behind them). It also has one of the coolest titles in the history of cinema. The fight choreography is flawless, the set pieces make you want to stand up in your seat and cheer.

It doesn’t get much better than this, believe me.

By Wendy Ide