Patti Smith

Patti Smith began her national tour tonight at the Troc. She skews, um, older. I guess that’s not shocking news. She’s 60 years old! I sat up in the balcony, where the fans seemed to be even older. I haven’t felt that young since I saw Steve and Eydie at the Stardust Casino in Vegas last year. Kidding! Well, not really.

I also haven’t felt that normal in, well, my entire life. Kidding! Well, not really. She has “interesting” fans. Note the quotation marks.

Smith got a lot of flak for her recent album of covers. But some of the biggest reactions tonight were for her renditions of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” and “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

Great concert. Smith whipped us into a frenzy. I was afraid I was too tired to go, but—on impulse—I headed over from work and snagged a ticket. I’m glad I did.

Great, great concert.

Backhand

I love tennis. I spend a lot of my evenings and weekends in front of the Tennis Channel. I mark the seasons by reference to the French Open and Wimbledon. I know the ad court from the deuce court, and I have strong feelings about whether Andy Roddick or Novak Djokovic is hotter.

But for some reason, I don’t blog much about tennis. I guess I’m afraid that I’d do nothing but tennis blogging if I started. Blogging about one tournament would lead to blogging about the next tournament, and soon I’d be blogging about James Blake’s blisters or Venus Williams’s nail polish. It’s a slippery slope, I tell you.

It’s probably safe to say this much, though. If you’re a tennis fan, you absolutely must be reading Jon Wertheim’s weekly Mailbag column for SI.com. Each week, Wertheim answers readers’ questions, which are themselves a hoot. For his part, Wertheim is knowledgeable and witty. The Mailbag column never fails to make me smile. Usually more than once.

Take, for instance, this Q&A from a recent Mailbag:

I can’t be the only one who was put off by Rafael Nadal’s constant pulling of his shorts out of his butt crack during the game? Is it forbidden to mention these things?
— Claudia Fletcher, Baltimore, MD

• Forbidden? My spellcheck now recognizes the word “wedgie” thanks to the heavy coverage we’ve given this issue. Also, is this the single worst endorsement for Nike of all-time? “Gee, I’m racing out to buy a pair of those pantaloons now that I see that the guy getting PAID to wear them can’t stop tugging at them in discomfort.” It’s like Suzie Chapstick constantly walking around with an oozing cold sore.

That’s classic Wertheim. It’s like Suzie Chapstick constantly walking around with an oozing cold sore. Brilliant! I hope Nike heard that.

P.S. I just remembered that I’ve mentioned Wertheim once before—in one of my 10-Not-So-Famous-People Meme entries. Hmm, it’s probably time to do another of those….

Teddy Thompson

I don’t understand why Teddy Thompson isn’t a big star. He has the right pedigree (son of folk-rock royalty Linda and Richard Thompson), a beautiful voice (listen here), and three charming albums. He performed on the Brokeback Mountain soundtrack. He tours with Emmylou Harris and Rosanne Cash, and Rufus Wainwright is his friend and occasional collaborator. Everyone should be noticing.

Yet there he was tonight, by himself, on the tiny stage at the Tin Angel in Philadelphia, with maybe only 60 or 70 100 people there to listen.

There is no justice.

Thompson was at the Tin Angel in support of his new album of country standards, Upfront and Down Low. I’ve been a fan of most of these songs for a long time, and I was pretty skeptical at first about this project. Did we really need new versions of songs like George Jones’s “She Thinks I Still Care” or Ernest Tubb’s “Walking the Floor over You”? Apparently we did, because Thompson makes these songs his. Thompson has a real knack for songs of heartbreak, and, of course, country music knows heartbreak.

Thompson was in good form tonight. He did most of the songs from Upfront, and he did several from the folk-rock Separate Ways—which was on my Top 10 list for 2006. I just love that album, particularly the title track and “I Wish It Was Over,” two strikingly candid songs about relationships that aren’t going well. Thompson wrote most of the lyrics on Separate Ways, and they’re just about downright brilliant. Check out this bit of lyrics from “I Wish It Was Over”:

I wish it was over
I wish we were through
I wish when my phone rang
It wasn’t always you

I don’t even like you
Or can’t you tell
Whenever I’m sober
I treat you like hell

When he sang that tonight, some people laughed and some people nodded their heads. I got goosebumps. One way or another, the audience responded to Teddy Thompson.

It’s a shame that audience isn’t bigger.

Session Beers

Last night, I attended a Tria Fermentation School session led by beer writer (and local beer, um, demi-god) Lew Bryson. Oh, and that’s also newbie beer blogger Lew Bryson. (See, it’s already in the blogroll.) Bryson’s topic was session beers, or relatively low-alcohol brews that can be enjoyed one after the other. That, of course, is an excellent topic for the middle of summer, when you’re probably not going to hole up, fireside, with a high-alcohol beverage to sip….

We sampled seven beers, and I’d have to say I enjoyed six of those.¹ (I’m easy, let’s face it.) Two, in particular, I can highly recommend. The first is actually one of my all-time favorites, Lindemans Gueuze. A gueuze is created by mixing young and, er, more mature Lambic-style beers. It’s a Belgian thing, of course. I’ve previously mentioned my passion for another Lambic, also by Lindemans. In fact, I’ve previously mentioned my passion for all things Belgian; I’d have to move to Brussels if Philly weren’t so strangely filled with Belgian restaurants and beers and waffles and chocolates.

Anyway….gosh, was that a digression or what?…the Lindemans Gueuze is un-fruited but somehow comes across as fruity. It’s sweet and, like a good Lambic, also lightly sour. It’s pure genius. If, like me, you don’t demand significant bitterness from your beer, you should check out a good gueuze. I’m a fan of Cantillon’s gueuze, too, but I’m an even bigger fan of the Lindemans, I think. (Side-by-side taste test, anyone?)

I also particularly enjoyed Legacy Brewing’s Midnight Wit. And, again, that’s a predictably Belgian-friendly preference: Although Legacy is brewed in Reading, Pa., it’s done in the style of a Belgian witbier. It was cloudy, like many wheat beers, and it offered a pleasant lemony taste. There was one off-putting note in its bouquet, an almost sulfuric smell, but the brew’s taste more than made up for that.

I can also say fairly nice things about four other beers: O’Hara’s Celtic Stout, a pleasant stout; Orlio’s Organic Common Ale, which was malty and sweet; Dr. Fritz Briem’s ‘1809’ Berliner Style Weisse, a fairly plain but lightly sour brew; and Stone’s Pale Ale, a light(!) pale ale. I probably didn’t enjoy any of these four enough to go out and buy a case or anything, but I wouldn’t turn any of them away.

Tria served us a really interesting sheep’s milk Gouda, Ewephoria (ha!), from the Netherlands. It offered a nutty, slightly sweet flavor, and it wasn’t at all sheep-y. It was firm and rather dry; I really enjoyed the feel of it in my mouth. It held up well against even the strong flavor of the Celtic Stout. I’m definitely keen to have some more.

So it was a good night. My only regret? That I absent-mindedly forgot to bring my copy of Pennsylvania Breweries for Bryson to sign.

¹The exception? Sadly, it was a local-ish beer: Tröegs Sunshine Pils, which always just leaves me flat. On my palate, it’s almost flavorless, just watery and bitter. I’m sure this is about me, though, because so many people seem to enjoy it.

Wiki Wednesday #17

I haven’t mentioned in awhile that this meme originally came from The Long Cut, one of my favorite blogs. (See, it’s right over there in the blogroll.)

1.) Go to Wikipedia.
2.) Click on “Random article.”
3.) Report on the outcome.

Here’s this week’s result:

Artifact (error)

An artifact is the error or misrepresentation introduced by a technique and/or technology. For example a week [sic] pseudo-random number generator would introduce artifacts into statistical research models.

This is really more of a dictionary definition than an encyclopedia entry. And aside from critiquing the prose (“week” for “weak”; how I yearn to put a comma after “example”; etc.), there just isn’t much for me to say. It’s an unobjectionable definition; the article just doesn’t discuss these kinds of artifacts. I don’t know what such a discussion would look like, but it sounds like it might be interesting. Are there several types of artifact errors? Are there famous artifacts? Gosh, I really want to know now.

La Vie en Rose

Wow. La Vie en Rose took my breath away.

When the film first came out, I read a couple of reviews that made it sound like one of the best of the year. In one of those, Steven Rea, a favorite of mine, wrote that La Vie en Rose “visits the usual benchmarks, juggles them around, emphasizes sharp detail over seismic events, and delivers the portrait of a life that is vividly, explosively real.” Other reviews weren’t so kind, however. A.O. Scott of the New York Times wrote that the film “has an intricate structure, which is a polite way of saying that it’s a complete mess.” And Metacritic, which compiles the reviews of many prominent reviewers, gave La Vie en Rose a sort of middling ranking. So I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Rea was right: La Vie en Rose is brilliant. As you may know, it’s a biopic of French singer (chansonnier?) Édith Piaf. Her life—beginning on the streets and in brothels, reaching the heights of fame, and ending much too soon in physical and emotional agony—is inherently fascinating. Director Olivier Dahan’s nonlinear, impressionistic telling manages to make Piaf’s story even more absorbing.

Dahan’s method is a big part of the dispute between critics like Rea (“vividly, explosively real”) and Scott (“complete mess”). Going into the film I didn’t know much about Piaf’s life, but I nevertheless found La Vie en Rose‘s version to be compelling. If you had to tell the story of your life, you probably wouldn’t tell it in a straightforward A-to-B-to-C fashion. You’d talk about themes, and you’d dance back and forth a little bit through time. La Vie en Rose does that.

This impressionistic style absolutely does not get in the way. In general, the movie gradually takes the viewer from Piaf’s childhood to her premature death. Sure, there’s some “juggling” of time here and there, but I was never confused; I always knew what part of Piaf’s life I was watching. For me, Dahan’s use of time added complexity to the film, causing me to focus on traits/themes; it made the film more involving, not more messy.

Marion Cotillard’s performance as the adult Piaf is startling. In his review, Rea said Cotillard’s lip-synching was “perfect.” That’s not quite true, but it’s nearly so. More importantly, Cotillard seems just to become Piaf. It was easy to forget I was watching an actor. Cotillard does more than an impersonation; she captures Piaf. I won’t be at all surprised if she’s remembered at Academy Awards time. She’s that good. The two child actors who played the young Piaf are quite good, too.

La Vie en Rose is highly recommended. On a four-star scale, I’d give it three or, probably, three-and-a-half stars.

Go see it.

Blogiversary!

A year ago today, my first post went up here at Rivers Are Damp. In that post, I introduced myself and wondered whether I’d ever find anything to say. I guess I did, because this is my 231st post. Gosh, I do go on and on.

On the occasion of my first blogiversary (hey, can a blog have a paper blogiversary?), I’d like to thank my four-and-a-half regular readers. It’s been awfully nice getting to know you through email, comments, messages, stink bombs, and otherwise. If you’ve been reading on the sly, at least once in awhile, I hope you’ll take this opportunity to introduce yourself.

One of the questions I get most frequently is about the blog’s name. It’s from my favorite poem, which—of course—I’ve already blogged about. (Will I actually run out of things to say in Year 2? Maybe.)

What are some of my favorite posts of the first year? Well, I recently blogged about that, too. I picked these three posts to highlight:

1.) “A Return to the Productive Life,” which detailed a strange assignment I received at work and conveyed—I hope—a little bit of the nuttiness we all feel when we’re not the boss. It might even be a little bit funny.

2.) “Dear Soulmate-Who-Got-Away,” which is, by far, the most private thing I’ve posted here. It’s a letter to the man who thoroughly broke my heart. I wrote it last September, before my (gulp) 40th birthday. And although I frequently link back to this post, I’m actually feeling quite a bit, well, less heartbroken these days. In fact, in my daily conversation, I no longer refer to the culprit as The Soulmate-Who-Got-Away; instead, he’s The Bastard. I think that’s progress, don’t you?

3.) “You were wearing a blue bow-tie on the 8:43 train….,” which combines two of my favorite subjects: Commuting and my passion for those strange Missed Connections ads on Craigslist.

I picked those favorites in April. Today, I might add two more posts to that list:

1.) “Happy Belated Bloomsday!,” mostly because it chronicled my conquering two things: Ulysses and, for at least one Saturday afternoon, my great fear of public speaking.

2.) “The Man Trap,” in which I detailed my next project. And used the phrase “Twisted Metal slut.”

And the busiest day here at Rivers Are Damp? That occurred last August when Jason Kottke, keeper of one of the best blogs in the business, linked to my post about the Five Quotes meme. I got an enormous amount of traffic here, over the course of two days, and then it was gone. Oh, how those abandonment issues flared! Well, not really. But it does feel a little bit weird to have, um, peaked in my second month.

Thanks, again. I hope you’ll keep reading.

Broken English

In Broken English, indie film star Parker Posey stars as Nora Wilder, an angry, closed-off, anxious New Yorker who can’t find love. To be honest, the rest of her life—except, possibly, best friend Audrey (Drea de Matteo) and Nora’s direct and motivated mother (Gena Rowlands)—is a mess. She has an unstimulating job at a hotel, she drinks too much, and she’s depressed. You can’t help but think she’s just not ready for love. She needs counseling, probably of the two- or three-sessions-per-week variety. She shouldn’t be dating.

But Zoe Cassavetes’s film has different ideas. At a party that she didn’t want to attend, Nora is forced to meet Julien, a young Frenchman played by Melvil Poupaud. Against the odds, Julien is taken with her. Despite Nora’s pessimism and moodiness, despite her over-the-top drinking, despite her full-fledged panic attack, Julien has a wonderful weekend with her. Frankly, it’s hard to see how Julien could possibly be enchanted by Nora, but apparently he is.

It won’t ruin any surprises if I tell you that there are still complications to be had, as the film is mostly about whether/how those complications are to be resolved. Nora redeems herself, somewhat, in the last third of the movie. She’s less self-pitying and more grown-up. In the end, though, it takes a literally unbelievable bit of plot development to usher in the closing credits. I wasn’t persuaded, and you likely won’t be, either.

The performances are much better than Cassavetes’s script. Posey—whom I last saw off-Broadway in Hurlyburly—provides Nora with the requisite world-weariness and edginess. De Matteo and Rowlands simply demand to be watched. But it’s Poupaud who’s the real revelation. He completely captures the honest, hangup-free Julien. In fact, he does his work so well that you can’t help but wonder what the hell Julien sees in Nora. I kept hoping he’d find a movie where he wasn’t the only stable, healthy character in sight….

I have a theory that one’s reaction to any movie about love is a product of two variables: how good the movie is and how it presses a viewer’s particular, er, love buttons. Broken English isn’t very good, but I did see that it moved a couple of my fellow movie-goers. If you’re a regular reader here, you know I have some fairly obvious love buttons. But Broken English couldn’t find them, and I’m betting it won’t find yours.

Broken English earns two-and-a-half stars.

P.S. For the second movie in a row, I found something puzzling in the New York Times review, this one by Matt Zoller Seitz. Seitz describes “a brief, awkward conversation in which Julien declares skepticism about monogamy and then reverses himself.” I don’t think that’s what happened in that conversation at all. If you see the movie, let me know what you think.

Golden Door

Last night, I saw Golden Door (Nuovomondo), an Italian film that tells the story of how a Sicilian family and, um, Charlotte Gainsbourg migrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century.

Ok, I made the plot sound a little dumb there. Gainsbourg plays Lucy Reed (A.O. Scott’s New York Times review inexplicably calls her Lucy Peters¹), a refined, redheaded Englishwoman who somehow finds herself needing to immigrate to America. How she got to this point in her life, and to Italy, is never really explained, and she’s so “foreign” to the rest of the film that I kept thinking things like, “hey, it’s that Charlotte Gainsbourg again!” But I suppose that was part of the point. Lucy doesn’t belong.

She attaches herself to the Mancuso family, a poor, Sicilian family led by Fortunata Mancuso (Aurora Quattrocchi) and her widower-son Salvatore, played wonderfully by Vincenzo Amato. The Mancusos are from humble surroundings, and they’re simple folk. But Salvatore, in particular, rises to the challenge of the adventure, and he eventually comes across as strong and brave. Lucy notices him, and, well, she needs a husband if she’s going to be admitted to the United States. That’s not really a spoiler, by the way, as the film is up front and frank about that. And about the unlikelihood that Lucy and Salvatore are in love. But might there be love someday? That’s something the film invites you to consider.

Actually, Golden Door is not particularly plot-driven. It’s so meditative that I occasionally found it plodding. When the camera lingers on the indignities of transAtlantic travel or the humiliations forced on the immigrants at Ellis Island, though, the quiet slowness works. At the beginning of the film, though, when Salvatore is contemplating his journey, I found the pace to be a little bit maddening. I wasn’t altogether sure what was happening, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Director Emanuele Crialese uses elements of fantasy in Golden Door. There’s a mammoth-sized carrot, symbolizing the prosperity of the New World, that pops up more than once. Lucy and Salvatore also find themselves swimming in a river of milk from time to time. I wasn’t particularly fond of these moments, finding them jarring, but I did come to grudgingly accept their place in Crialese’s vision.

The best thing about Golden Door is the handsome Amato. You can’t help but watch him. As the Mancusos approach America, he visibly grows in stature—particularly as he becomes Lucy’s protector. In his review for the Philadelphia Inquirer, Steven Rea describes Amato as “alternately wide-eyed and wily, [having] the screen presence of a true star.” I couldn’t agree more. I want to see more.

I liked Golden Door. It didn’t change my world, and I doubt very much that it’ll change yours. But I can recommend it. On a four-star scale, I’d give it two-and-a-half or, more likely, three stars.

¹IMDb agrees with me. Scott’s review also describes Pietro as Salvatore’s brother. That was my understanding. My newspaper’s reviewer, Steven Rea, thinks Pietro was Salvatore’s son. I should obviously be someone’s, perhaps more than one someone’s, fact-checker.

Drive-By Truckers

On Tuesday night, I caught a show by one of my favorite bands, Drive-By Truckers. I hope you know DBT. Each of the band’s last four albums—Southern Rock Opera, Decoration Day, The Dirty South, and A Blessing and a Curse—has been on many Top 10 lists. DBT is a Southern rock band, and its music is heavy with guitars and drums. It’s a rock band, sure, but the band members (several from the Muscle Shoals, Alabama, area) are country. Make that capital-C Country.

What’s most impressive to me about DBT are its songs, which are often stories about small-town or rural Southern life. Take, for instance, “Loaded Gun in the Closet,” a song from Decoration Day about a stay-at-home wife. Her husband keeps a gun in the closet, and it becomes a symbol of how these two care for one another:

Most women today would say she was a disgrace.
Most men would say she wasn’t much to look at.
And they all would say she’d be a lot better off
if she cared a little more about what they all think.
She could have a life of her own if she had a little pride,
some silicone implants, and another man on the side.
But she’s got a loaded gun in the closet.
And it’s there anytime she wants it.
And her one and only man knows it and
that’s why he put it there in the first place.

Or consider these lines from “Puttin’ People on the Moon,” from The Dirty South, a song recounting the story of the narrator’s marriage to Mary Alice:

Mary Alice quit askin’ why I do the things I do
I ain’t sayin’ that she likes it, but what else I’m gonna do?
If I could solve the world’s problems I’d probably start with hers and mine
But they can put a man on the moon
And I’m stuck in Muscle Shoals just barely scraping by

“Puttin’ People on the Moon” was written by Patterson Hood, who provides most of DBT’s lead vocals. (Mike Cooley sings quite a bit, too.) Hood, by the way, released an accomplished solo album in 2004. I highly recommend it. He’s enormously charismatic and genuine. He seems good-natured and warm even when he’s cussing (cussin’?) and playing loudly. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him.

Speaking of noise, Tuesday night’s show was one of DBT’s so-called Dirt Underneath shows. These are more-acoustic, less-rock’n’roll shows. That’s not to say DBT wasn’t loud, though. I went to the concert with a buddy from work, and she spent much of the show covering her ears. And we were in the mezzanine. I didn’t think it was that loud, but she’ll probably still be able to hear when we’re 90….

What else will I remember about the show? Well, there were a lot of country-looking, bearded, muscular guys there. I kept wondering where they came from because they definitely seem at all Philly to me…. I’ll also remember the guy who didn’t want to get out of our seats. He did it about as nicely as he could (“The waitress said I could sit here, so I’m not moving.”), but there was this big production as the waitress—and then security—came over to mediate. It did get resolved, of course, but I could feel adrenaline coursing through my body for about the first 15 minutes of the show. And it was so needless: The guy’s seat, which I saw him in before he tried to commit seat-larceny, was directly behind mine. I can’t imagine why he thought my view was so much effin’ better.

Finally, I’ll remember all the Jack Daniel’s that DBT, and, in particular, bassist Shonna Tucker, polished off. My buddy thought the way the band members passed around a single bottle of Jack was a little too precious. But I like anyone with a fondness for Tennessee whiskey.

P.S. Here’s a set list of Tuesday night’s show.